Thursday, May 24, 2012
Esteiro to Outes

Francisco arrives at quarter of nine the next morning, ready to go. I have had a restless night, due to the failure of the hot water heater, which is powered by gas. It was turned on, alog with the gas, but the pilot light has gone on. In the middle of the night I decide to turn off the gas line, but never gt back to sleep. So in the morning, a cup of coffee is in order. I find that there is a cafe across the street that caters to fishermen going to work on the estuary early: it opens at 7:30 a.m. Carmina, the woman behind the bar, makes a great cup of coffee, and it is that I am carrying back when I see Francisco.

Francisco is a little deaf, so he does not hear me call.

"Someone passing by told me you were calling, but I didn't recognize you. I don't hear too well, so I didn't realize it was you."

Our plan is to go to the land records office and see what we can find under my father's name there. It takes about twenty minutes to get there, during which time I explain to Francisco that I have the original hijuela to return to him, but I also have two little gifts: a tiny reading light and a small head lamp, both of which I bought when for the Camino, beforfe I knew that sitting in your bunk reading at night was an unlikely possibility. Francisco's eyes have never been good --he has worn glasses since he was a child, and the head lamp might be useful to him if in the night he has to go out on account of his animals.

He tries to decline the gift, but in lieu of letting me pay for the gas for the trip to Outes (which is completely unacceptable), he finally accepts them.

We drive to Outes and park near the City Hall, a 19th century building which has been completely modernized inside, with glass everywhere and a winding central staircase. The first thing I do is obtain official copies of my father's birth record. The funcionario in the office takes out a book covering the first eleven months of the year 1917, finds my father and proceeds to make me a copy of the two pages of the record.

The book looks very small, so I ask him how many people's births are inscribed in the volume. About two hundred. I wonder how many more were born in December, and in all how many survived the pandemic. With such a small sampling, it would certainly be possible to find out, although my curiosity has to take a back seat to the immediate task of identifying, if possible any parcels listed under my father's name in the land office upstairs.

Francisco and I go up the stairs, past a small corridor of nicely laid out offices with glass walls and doors, and into the land records office, where two civil servants are working. I address myself to the first one I see, a dark-skinned young woman wearing a caramel leather jacket over a flowered blouse.

When I explain my purpose, she prints out a list of all parcels associated with Antonio Bouzas Bouzas. As in Muros, because there is no Carnet de Identidad, the question of whether those parcels are the property of the man of that name who is my father, or another. For a moment we think we might have the problem solved, because modern birth certificates bear the number of the identity card. I take out the birth certificate but there is no such number on it, or a line for it to be inserted. Possibly the identity card was introduced after 1945, when my father came to the United States. This is an issue, but not an insuperable one, in establishing my sister's and my right to my father's properties.

What is interesting is that there are thirty eight properties on the list, amounting to a total acreage of 24, 996 square meters. Along with the one property defeinitely identified in Muros that makes thirty-nine parcels to transfer into my sister's and my name, not counting the hypothetical property in front of Juan de Pachon's house in Estseiro.

There is one snag, though. When I ask whether I can have a copy of the survey maps for the properties and pull out the document the funcionaria in Muros gave me, this becomes an obstacle. Such an obstacle that the young woman's more senior colleague at the back of the light-filled office, asks me to come over to his desk to look at my documentation.

"We are not allowed to print out these except to the legal heirs who prove their heirship."

Discussion between the two civil servants follows, with the result that I cannot get copies of the survey maps from them.

"You have to go to La Coruna to get them. --And it will cost you, in addition to the trip, 16 Euros each. If you want to know who has the adjoining properties as shown on the second page, that is what you will pay," the young woman explains.

I explain my limited time in Galicia and the cost of doing so for perhaps forty properties, and she comes up with a great idea."


"If you don't need the document with the neighboring property owners' names, you can go to any library and print out the top page, which will cost you nothing." Then she shows me to the website for the Catastro, the land survey office and how to see the survey map for each of the parcels. She writes down the Catastro site internet address and the steps to obtaining a printed copy of each of the parcel maps. Relieved, I thank her for her time, and Francisco and I are off to the library across the street.

It is eleven a.m.: the library, a modest, but well-designed building, is only open for two hours, from eleven to one. Francisco and I find the librarian on the second floor, who explains to us how to use the computer. As I am not a Spanish citizen, we use the number on Francisco's Carnet de Identitdad to open an account. This will be helpful to him when he works on transferring his mother's property between himself and his three siblings.

Francisco and I work for two hours on copying the survey maps for thirty-eight properties. Fortunately, the computer works smoothly, so we start production right away. However, the librarian becomes concerned that we are printing far too many documents. I offer to pay for the cost of any documents I print, I offer to pay for the printer's ink, but they are not equipped to contemplate that anyone might need more than a few pages printed from the computer. It is certainly possible that she will prohibit my copying any more survey maps --but somehow, she changes her mind, and although it is an enormous amount of printing, she lets Francisco and I work until we finish the task, just when the library is about to close for the day.

I offer to get the librarian a cup of coffee, I offer to give her my e-mail address and to help her with anything she might want to know about New York City, but nothing doing. "It's a public service", she says with a smile. I have been very lucky.

There is one more item on the agenda: trying to see Juan de Pachon to see whether he can tell us where the parcel by the road in Esteiro is. Francisco suggests that we visit him after lunch. Francisco has to go home to feed his two chickens, ewe, ram and three lambs, and have something to eat. I offer to take him to lunch, but he gently turns aside the thought as an extravagance. I would not like to go home to eat, but would like to have some empanada gallega for lunch.

"You know what you do: there is a good pastry shop here, and you can buy empanada and eat it at home. You take a nap, after, and I will come pick you up at four p.m. How about that?"

We now have a plan, and Francisco drops me at the apartment, where he will meet me in two hours.

***

The generosity of my father's relatives is extraordinary, but family ties run very deep here. My father and mother posted bond for Francisco when he was detained by immigration, Francisco mentions. He sees helping me as a way of discharging his obligation. We also have a problem in common: getting siblings to agree to cooperate in completing the transfer of property after a parent's death. Talking about this, leads to talking about his grandmother, Tia Maria.


"She couldn't read or write, so my mother, the eldest and the first to go to school, acted as the intermediary for anything that required reading or writing. Then Ramiro was born, and then Pepa, and all were educated. When Tia Maria died, her estate had to be divided among the three, and my mother, because she stayed with her, bot the best parcels, and my aunt and uncle got their statutory share.

"They were unhappy with those portions, so they filed a challenge to the apportionment, which was turned aside as the statutory minimum had been set aside for them. That was, however, the beginning of tensions between them, which are like the tensions between my sisters and brother.

"This is very common, here though. Do you remember the horreo I showed you, and the house for sale alongside? It took those children ten years to finally come to an agreement about selling the property. Parents don't settle these things before they die: even my mother, when my sister Maria told her to transfer the parcels during her lifetime to minimize the chance of disputes among us, became angry. She said 'It looks like you want me dead. --When I'm dead, you figure it out, but I get along in my way now.'"

So talking about a land inheritance is a taboo during the life of the parents, which it becomes an obligation of the children to work out when the last parent has died. Combined with the scattered distribution of small parcels, and the confused documentation of those, the properties become a bone of contention in many families.

***

Francisco meets me a little after 4 o'clock and we head for Jose del Pachon's.in Mayo, the village above Esteiro. The missing parcel supposedly large enough to build a house on is across the way from the builder's, so without phoning in advance, without sending an e-mail or a letter, Francisco takes me there. The large two story house with a second floor patio is the playground of a small boy with curly blond hair and his slightly older sister, who are amusing themselves picking up and putting down a litter of five kittens. An older lady comes out of the house. Francisco says hello and explains to me that this is Jose de Pachon's wife.

Francisco explains the purpose of our visit and Jose's wife indicates the parcel across the way.

"It is from where you see the unfarmed earth to between those trees with the northern and southern stone walls forming the other sides", she says. "Your father exchanged a parcel he had that was smaller but next to wear a family was bullding that house over there" --she points east-- "They wanted a garden attached to the house, so your father made the exchange. And we have been growing on it, but its yours, everyone knows."

At this point, Jose del Pachon, a short man with enormous brown eyes and sturdily built despite his sixty-eight years, comes out. He agrees with all that his wife said and asks us to come inside and whether we want something to drink.

First off, they are glad to know I am interested in settling the estate. Second, Jose del Pachon's real name is Jose Mayo Rama. As a builder he knows a lot about the regulations pertaining to building. He also knew both my mother and father, and tells me that at one point my father and mother approached him about whether it would be possible to build a house on the parcel in front of their house, news to me.


"At the time, it was, but now the authorities have prohibited building on parcels small than 400 square meters. If your land is in the mountains, they will demand that your building lot be as many as 2,000 square meters."

So this is the missing parcel, its ownership by my father is open and notorious, even if there are no papers to demonstrate the exchange. However, it might be possible to find a survey map of the parcel by finding the parcel on which Jose Mayo Rama's house sits. Neither Jose or his wife would have any problem signing an affidavit attesting to their knowledge that the parcel they have been farming belongs to my father.

As Jose and his wife are willing to help, I ask whether they would be willing to look at the survey maps I have for the other thirty-eight properties and tell me whether any one is suitable for building. We go through every one. While several are more than large enough, the land is either in the woods, or pasturage, too far away from sources of electricity or water to build on.

Only the other parcel within Esteiro and under the jurisdiction of Outes might offer a possibility. It is 433 square meters and near Mayo. It is located in a section called Rego Da Lagos. Jose and his wife know the area as Sabila. Every group of parcels has a local name, some of which appear on the survey maps, some which do not, and are known only to locals.

Having gone through forty properties with only one last one offering any possibility of any construction, I ask Jose Mayo Ramo whether my situation is typical for the children of my father's generation.

He looks at me sadly. "Yes, that is the situation we are all in."

***

Francisco and I get in his car and drive up to Mayo. This is a very pretty area, with lots of houses, the ones highest up having a panoramic view over the hillsides and to the estuary and the mountains beyond, on the estuary's other side. Both my cousin Socorro and her daughter Rosa have houses there. Our next stop is the house of Francsco de Rogelia, who grew up in the vicinity of the land in Rego da Lagos, and might be able to point out my father's parcel.

We drive up to the house and encounter a man in blue work pants pushing a wheelbarrow. He is not Francisco, but he calls to his wife to ask whether she would come out. Out comes a woman in her seventies, a crone in pants and top, deeply tanned, speaking the dialect so thickly, I can barely understand her. No, her husband is not home, but about this land, she has the idea that it borders that of a man named Maravilla ("Marvel"), and that of another named Juan de Paris, but she is not sure. Couldn't we ask my cousin?

I say I have my cell phone with me and that we can try to reach her. We do, indeed, find Socorro at home, and I pass the phone over to Francisco de Rogelio's wife, and she and Socorro confer, with the woman making noises in agreement for much of the conversation, then hanging up.

"You have to go to see Lola de Candida at Maravilla's house. She can't walk very well, but if her daughter is there, she can show you. The parcel is next to theirs, by the road.


For the last parcel, 433 square meters, is in the woods. Francisco and I drive to Lola's house and knock on the door, which is open. Out comes a slender woman in her eighties about five feet six inches, walking slowly. Francisco explains that I am Antonio's daughter, and her face lights up.

"Oh, your father was a good person, a very good person. We came to New York when you were just little girls, and they could not have done more for us. --Your mother, too, she was a good person. How happy I am to see you. I heard about you, but I never saw you."

And with that, she kisses me on both cheeks.

As to going to see the parcel in the woods, at first Lola says that she limps and walks with a cane and that it would be better if her daughter showed us. --But of course, she is not there. So she will go and get her slippers and cane and take us at least as far as the road to the wood, if we will driver there.

Lola goes inside and returns wearing a rain hat with her cane, and we are off, driving up the last house in the Mayo, beyond which the road stops and there is only a path through the woods. Lola de Candida gets out and starts walking over the path, slowly, but surely. I am in front, and Francisco behind, looking out for Lola.

"Here is our property. There are markers here, stones in the ground to distinguish what is yours from what is ours. Yours is beyond ours, over where that tree is" --and here she lifts her cane and points-- "and over to the tree line there", she says, pointing across the way. It's good that you are coming to see about what is yours. It would make your father happy."

And that is that. We walk Lola back to the car and expect to drive her back to Casa Maravilla, but she demurs.

"I want to walk, you go ahead. I want to walk."

And so she starts out ahead of us, walking steadily, if slowly back out of the woods and on to the road, stopping by the last house in Mayo to look across from the height to the water and the mountains beyond.

"It's pretty, really pretty" she says, then kisses me good bye and tells me that she hopes to see me again when I come to finish the transferring the parcels and that she is glad she met me.

Only one last task remains, a formality, really. Trying to find the survey map for the parcel opposite Jose Mayo Rama's house that my father took in exchange. Francisco says he will pick me up at nine a.m. tomorrow and take me back to Muros. Perhaps Moncho, who gave me the original survey map, will be willing to find the map associated with Jose Mayo Rama. Jose has given me the number of his Carnet de Identidad, with which all of his properties will be associated. I have only to identify the property that is his home: opposite it will be the property they farm, which my father took in exchange for the house he and my mother never built.