From the Boom festival in Portugal to a week in Morocco: boy, do plans have a habit of changing! My day bag was already packed of a weeklong camping festival in Portugal, so it was a small matter to swap a few items to be more suited to a week of hotels in Morocco: a longer skirt, a more modest T-shirt, double check my first aid kit and a few toys for entertainment: my practice poi, some contact balls, some pens, a sketch pad and a book. I left behind my bathers, my fire poi, my newly reunited fire staff, any one of my many jumpers, my sleeping bag, most of my toiletries, my laptop, tent, spare shoes and my ipod, in favour of my emergency first aid thermal blanket (folds up really small and light), a thermal singlet and a packet of baby wipes (never forget the baby wipes!).
Unfortunately, I also left behind a map of Spain and, ironically, while I was on the bus down to Valencia in the wee hours of Monday morning it suddenly occured to me that I didn´t know the layout of Spain very well. I had studies it once for a medieval history assignment, but that was one of many books amongst many maps many years ago. I recalled, for instance, that Barcelona was at the top right hand corner of Spain, that Madrid was approximately in the middle, and that Toledo and Seville, with their greater Mudejar influences, were stationed somewhere below. Somehow the rest of Spain eluded my memory. I suddenly realised I was travelling through Spain without a map! - breathe - Something only I could end up doing by accident!
We arrived in Valencia and hopped off the bus just before dawn on Monday morning. "Hmm," I yawned sleepily, "I wonder where I can get a Valencia orange?" We had some breakfast then found an internet cafe to alert relevant peoples that we were headed to Morocco that day (and not Portugal). Incidentally, while I was on the internet I had a really good look at the map of Spain: "Valencia is no where near Morocco!" I turned to my more "experienced" traveler friends confused. Turns out, their original plans was to bus halfway down Spain, to Valencia, where it would be easier to hitch a lift through the rest of Spain and down to Algeciras, where the ferry leaves for Morocco from. A little more skeptical, I was reassured by our numbers and by the fact that they had done this many times before.
I followed the others walking around Valencia all through the long, hot and humid day with our packs whilst looking for a place to hitch hike from. We incidentally took in the massive bull fighting ring, the Aquarium, the port, some other interesting sights I never discovered the names of (see photo gallery for an example), a shopping centre, a ring road around the West side of the city and a little broken Spanish with Valencian locals (almost no chance you will find someone who speaks English down there). Actually, even putting the exhaustive walk with backpacks aside, Valencia did not impress me that much. It seemed to be largely under construction, geared towards the America´s Cup Yoacht race and, especially compared to Barcelona, simply bare. I love the heat, though, and was feeling inspired at the prospect of a trip to ´Morocco,´ so I was happy to follow my Spanish speaking guides through central Valencia, across the entire port and back around the ring road as they ´tried´to recall the way to a good hitch hiking spot. Finally, after about six hours of walking in the hot sun, we were stopped by police and told that hitch hiking was illegal in Valencia. The police were fairly polite, but still didn´t take enough time to give us directions back into the city centre. About two hours later (at about 6pm), we eventually found directions to a cheap car hire place, which turned out to be about a block from the bus station we had walked out from at 6am! As I was the only person with an international licence I the group, I hired the car under my name (although my new friends were happy to do the talking and translate the essential for me) from the non-English speaking attendant and we were finally on our way to Algeciras. After a long, long day with sore feet in Valencia, things started looking up again.
We drove down the highway late into the night, through Albacete (on an unintended detour) and ended up with all three of us sleeping in the tiny hired hatchback somewhere off the roadside near Murcia (I later discovered that in most places in rural Spain, it is illegal to set up a tent in the National forests - something about building a structure without a council permit, but sleeping in a car is allowed). By lunchtime the next day we hit Granada; there were cars and buses everywhere running traffic lights, scooting around careless pedestrians, skimming roughly past a scooter or a pram ... I started to get nervous and uncertain driving around the town. We parked the car and went for some lunch, a small walk around the city and an internet cafe (locutorio) to check where to return the car to that evening in Algeciras: "What do you mean the car is late? I hired it for twenty four hours and it´s barely 2 o´clock in the afternoon!" I spluttered in disbelief at the only English speaking telephone receptionist at the car hire company. Turns out that my Spanish speaking friends´ ´necessary translations´didn´t include that the car was supposed to be returned by one o´clock, at a cost of 80 euros ciphered directly from my credit card. I was in shock - the car had originally only cost 16 euros (divided by three) to hire, and suddenly it cost 96! I got off the phone feeling mopey and defeated. We reasoned, though, that since we had already paid heavily for an extra day´s hire, we should push on towards Algeciras.
We arrived in Algeciras about two hours before sunset and headed towards the Playa de Guitares. This beach is really beautiful; it has a clean, gentle surf perfect for swimming in, countless large colourful shells and a small seaside clothes market. To one side lies Algeciras´extensive port. To the other, hillsides covered in green forests. Out to sea, the Rock of Gibraltor looms large across the horizon. As twilight fell that evening, the moon was large and red and shone down on a bay littered with twinkling lights from the cruise ships and ferries. I mentioned to one of my travel friends; "This view is so perfect it would look too fake if it was a painting!"
Next time on Tempest Trails: ¿Spain Without A Map? Part Two.
- Will Tempest return the hire car in time on Wednesday?
- Will Tempest and co make it to Morocco?
- Who was Gus?
Some Tempest Time.
Some Tempest Channel.
