BomBAY JOURNAL (Tú eres de Gibraltar, ¿no?)

Day 421 I am currently in Delhi, accompanying Natalie on a work trip to the Indian capital. We are staying with M---- and his wife at their flat within the High Commission grounds. The entrance to the compound is guarded by a squadron of veteran Gurkhas – hard-bitten old boys who sit there with broad-brimmed felt hats and submachine guns and stand to attention every time a car with diplomatic plates drives past them. Earlier this evening the four of us traipsed down to the Green Parrot, the little English pub within the compound. With it being a Friday, the place was packed with sun-tanned Englishmen, most of them drinking beer and discussing how hungover they’d be when playing golf next morning. Someone, upon hearing that I was from Gibraltar, told me that a guy standing a few yards away had lived for many years on the Rock. Turning around, I saw a tall bloke, muscular and copiously tattooed, hardly conforming to the FCO stereotype. When I was introduced to the fellow a couple of minutes later, he told me that he had worked on the Rock with Amey Construction, the well-known construction firm, for over eighteen years. ‘So how did you get into all this FCO malarkey?’ I asked, not quite sure what to make of him.

‘It’s not me, mate,’ he replied, taking a swig of his beer. ‘It’s me wife who works for the old FCO, innit? We met in Gib, actually, we did. She was posted there at the Governor’s residence. Funny old world, like, innit?... By the way, you see that short guy over there,’ he said, pointing to a small, Asian-looking man having a beer. ‘He’s Gibraltarian.’

I thought, yeah right.

‘No, really,’ the ex-brickie, noticing the expression on my face, assured me. ‘He’s from Gibraltar. A proper Gibbo, like. Name’s Joe. Come, mate, I’ll introduce you to him.’

I followed the big guy through the Parrot’s smoky interior until we reached the so-called Gibraltarian. He looked even darker and more Asiatic at close quarters, a small, swarthy man with the haggard looks of a Sevillian gitano. For a second I remembered what Aleister Crowley had written in his Confessions about us Gibraltarians – ‘a detestable and despicable breed, which reminds one quite unreasonably of the Eurasian’ – but this was a bit too much: trying to pass one of the Gurkha guards for a Gibraltarian!

But I was wrong: the little guy was a Gibraltarian. It became apparent the moment he opened his mouth and those unmistakably syncopated tones floated in the air. Yes, he was a Gibbo all right. Joe X---- was his name. Had been living in India now for the last ten years. Owned a factory on the outskirts of Delhi. Was very happy there and had no desire to go back to Europe, thank you very much. Even more remarkable than all that, after exchanging names and details of our family backgrounds, I discovered that he was the brother of J---- X----, the husband of N---- X----, my father’s cousin on his mother’s side! Like the Spanish say, el mundo es un pañuelo!

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