Wandering through Worlds within Worlds

In my life, I’ve been acquainted with Dutch Pikies, Spanish Gypsies, Irish Travellers and English Gangsters and last but not least, affiliated Bikers.
Despite my own experiences, which are subjective, I have a clear opinion or at least a tale or two to share. I will keep the actual outcome and observation until the end of today’s Phaedra’s Fables.

In a Spanish town where I used to live, an encounter took place that for many years kept having an impact on my life; a sweet young gypsy mama, begging, sat down in the street with her little girl and baby. When I bent down to give her some money, she looked up and said, “Please, no money, food for my little girl and juice for me”.
So off I went in search of a “bocadillo” and zumo de Naranja; on my return, the answer came to my question; “Money my husband can take away, food in belly not.”

As it happened, Encarna was married out of love to a member of a lower cast and a tribe known as the “chabolas” (the ones who live on the edge of towns in self-made huts out of carton boxes and plastic). They usually earn their daily living by begging, selling flowers, and the “encounter” of copper.

Now, at that time, I was making a rather good living with sand sculptures, so I knew the other two tribes in town too and very well, mind you. The ones in the street outmanoeuvring idiotic tourists (warned in planes and autobuses not to engage) of their money with three half potatoes and a little ball, and emptying phone boots (told you it was a lifetime ago) apart, taking the piss out of social services.

The third, last, and upper echelon had leather stores. They also made sure not to mingle with the other two (at least not publicly), yet I have been privileged and protected by the three of them.

So remember Encarna, right? As it happened, I gave her my baby clothes, which went like a fire through their camp. Whenever they saw me, I was given flowers and even golden earrings! Still, years after I left, they would recognize me, surround me, and shower me with gifts whenever I was in town.

The potato ones went differently. I used to leave the sheet (aka money collector) where people would throw money unattended to get something to drink. Now, one day, two English ladies came hurrying up to me as soon as I jumped off the boulevard and told me about this kid who had taken a lot of coins.
Their explanation gave me an idea of who it could be, so I went to the cafeteria where they used to hang; I slapped the little bastard in front of his father, brothers and uncles.
Imagine their surprise (read anger). Luckily, one of the brothers was a “bouncer”, aka doorkeeper, at the elder’s clubhouse, where they did business and made music. No women were allowed, but my friend and the eldest of the leather clan did business with them and took me to enjoy their art (raw real Bulerias).
Unscathed, I left the cafeteria, and since then, there was always someone keeping watch over my sheet with money.

In that epoque, I attended more musical performances apart from sketchy Gypsy (although enjoyable) soirees; my love for American hard rock was answered in a Harley Bar where obviously some serious bikers would gather, parking their rumbling steel horses’ back end facing the bar. Apart from long blond hair decorated by a hat, my staple was a red tailored jacket and, of course, my baby girl; after all, I had to be coherent and give her musical knowledge, didn’t I? (it didn’t take, as proved years later, listening to misogynist crap, trap).

The bikers usually were renegades from their original chapter and clumping back together; after all, that was familiar to them. Drinking like there was no tomorrow, keeping to themselves, incomprehensibly stoic. Yeah, a nod was the highest acknowledgement possible. Until I interfered for one of them with the Guardia Civil. Those men didn’t fool around in those days (seen them with automatic rifles standing at the entrance of the town being alerted for a terrorist attack of the back then very active ETA).

So, back to that particular moment, coming out of a “Venta” (those old road houses, aka restaurants) and finding the scenario of these two Guardia Civils stepping out of their car having held up a biker. I quickly raised my hand and started to call him, “Ah, there you are; I have been waiting for over five minutes!).
In those days, I was illegal (despite Spain joining the E.U.) (the lady in charge of the foreign office had a terrible dislike for me) (so I didn’t have papers until a friend interfered, literally making come down the director to her office telling her of) (but that is another tale) but well-known; a couple close to me had about all their family in the town hall, and they were too happy with the attraction of the sand sculptures.

Now, politicians and local and national police were different from the Guardia Civil, yet I knew my appearance would throw them off. Luckily, my instinct was right, so I made a new friend and ally. That translated into transport for my daughter to school (helmet and cool t-shirt included) and, of course, a deafening silent respect.

Now I can go on, though I do not want to make it an endless memoire, so I will come to the point: all these clubs, clans, gangs, and so forth have their histories, beliefs, and rules, but overall, they HOLD THEIR OWN.

May harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra

P.S. On a more serious note; Despite their differences in origin, lifestyle, and social standing, all these groups – the Spanish Gypsies, the bikers, and even the English gangsters – share a fundamental trait: they fiercely protect their own. This loyalty, born out of necessity and shared experiences, creates a powerful bond within each community.

People naturally form tight-knit groups with their own rules and hierarchies, creating complete societies within the broader social fabric.
These aren’t just fringe phenomena or subcultures but expressions of a universal human tendency that manifests at every level of society.

Whether in a traveller community or a government office, the pattern remains consistent: groups form, establish their codes, and ultimately serve their interests.
The difference lies not in the basic structure or motivation but in the scale and facade of legitimacy.