With a heavy heart I journeyed in one, long bus trip all the way from Essouaira to Tangiers (about fifteen house including stop offs). I skipped the tour of Tangiers again and headed straight for the port, taking the fast ferry back to Algeciras. There I had another two hours to wait for the bus to Malaga, from where the night trains left for Barcelona. I used the time to book a hostel in Malaga over the internet, which included my arrival time, before boarding yet another bus. I finally arrived at Malaga´s bus station at half past twelve, disheveled, sick and exhausted after twenty seven hours of mostly bus travel. I tried to find a taxi to take me to the hostel, but they kept looking at the address I´d gotten from the website and telling me it didn´t exist. Standing in the bus station, confused and tired, I called the hostel up and was informed by the receptionist that they were actually situated in Malaga´s province, not in Malaga city. He suggested I make another booking with him for the next night and take a bus there in the morning. At 1am, after twenty seven hours of bus travel with a fever, a chesty cough and still recovering from the food poisoning, I found myself standing on the edge of exhaustion with no where to sleep in a Malaga bus station. Not happy!
As I walked with all my bags to a nearby late night restaurant to ask for directions, the sky broke apart in a massive electrical storm. Thunder, lightning and sleeted rain crashed down around me as I scuttled for cover. In the restaurant, I chanced upon another girl from Australia who lent me her Malaga guide book and helped me find another hostel that was actually situated in the town. By 3am, I was settled in the first place that had a vacancy.
In the morning, I awoke at about 9am to find the storm still raging, but by 11am the sky had completely cleared and the day was heating up beautifully! Still feeling sick, I wandered into the town to find a chemist for some panadol, but when I arrived I discovered that, far from simply not speaking fluent enough Spanish, I could not talk at all! The chemist smiled at me standing there confused with my dictionary in hand and said, "I...speak...little...English. Please..." (translated: "I can speak a little bit of English. Go ahead and try asking me for what you need in English.") I pointed to my throat and squeaked. He giggled, ran off and returned with a packet of throat lozenges.
"This ... very good...larinhitis." (translated: "These lozenges are excellent for treating laryngitis."
I could only smile in gratitude for his understanding.
When I arrived at the train station that first afternoon, armed only with my throat lozenges and a dictionary, it was absolute chaos. I waited for over two hours in three lines before I was impatiently told "No es billettas para Barcelona ahoy." (translated: "There are no tickets for Barcelona today.") No argument.
I was confused, but went to try my luck at the bus station. "No more tickets to Barcelona for today or tomorrow. Try on Thursday. Next!"
It turns out, although I was not aware of it at the time, that the electrical storm that had hit Malaga overnight was a very rare event and had managed to block off all trains out of the city for about two days. On the other end, Barcelona had also suffered a massive, three day freak storm which had flooded the city and submerged the underground metro. This had blocked off the train lines into Barcelona for a further three days. Having found no reason for why there were no tickets, I booked myself into a hostel and took off the rest of the afternoon to explore Malaga a little.
I wandered around the georgeous, narrow streets of Malaga´s town centre and into a free photographic exhibit by Huburtus Hierl called "Picasso en la Plaza de Toros" (translated: "Picasso in the Bullring.") This was a collection of photographs of Picasso watching a bullfighting match, with all the horror and excitement of the event expressed transparently in his wide eyes. I soon discovered that in addition to being an absolutely stunning town with breathtaking vistas, exotic gardens, a wide variety of restaurants and bars and historical monuments around every corner, Malaga was completely devoted to it´s favourite son: Picasso. There are no less than three galleries permanently dedicated to Picaso´s works and numerous monuments and exhibits revealing his life. One of these exhibits was housed in an ornate, sixteenth century Andalusian mansion called "The Buenavista Palace" which sits atop of a Phoenecian, Roman and Moorish archeological excavation site. As a history student and a Picasso fan, I was in Heaven!
The next morning I tried again to book my ticket back to Barcelona and to my comfortable, warm flat on the Renfe (Spanish rail service) website or by phone, but all attempts failed. I wandered out of the train station still sick and confused, almost out of money and frustrated that, while Malaga is beautiful and interesting, I was nevertheless stranded there.
I went in search of a doctor, but still non-communicative from the laryngitis, the only directions I could manage to extract from anyone was to walk Westwards to the public hospital. This turned out to be an almost two hour walk under Malaga´s midday sun and when I arrived, exhausted and dehydrated, I spent another hour just registering with the reception nurse for the emergency queue. I couldn´t talk in English, let alone Spanish, but I could understand her remark to another nurse over my head that the hospital´s translator would not be in for a few days. What should she do with me? Tired and defeated, I left the hospital and discovered a bus stop right outside that took me almost directly to my hostel´s doorstep.
Over the next few days I took things easy: I rested a lot, ate really nutritious vegetarian food and explored the stunning city: the extensive gardens, the Monte Gibralfaro, the museums and galleries, the Great Cathedral and the excavation of an intact Roman ampitheatre. I didn´t go out much at night, mostly because I was still feeling so ill, but from what I saw, they can boast a roaring night life there in September.
By far the most rewarding surprise, though, was the Alcazaba. From the outside, the imposing facade of this Medieval Mudejar palace (some of the restorations date back to the eleventh century, while others date to more recent times; the fourteenth century) stares down formidably from the hilltops. Once inside, you walk up a curving path through six gates, each one more wondrous than the last (yes, exactly like a fairy tale!). The very footpaths are decorated with coloured stones set in intricate patterns, the walls are littered with ornate designs and the architecture is exquisite! In one nook there was a marble bath tub overhung with ivy creepers. Around another corner a vined terrace with doves and pidgeons feeding from its central fountain (Plaza de Armas). Throughout the palace there were water features everywhere, refreshing the air and providing the atmosphere with a cool tranquility. I took so many photos even my head spun! (see photo gallery). The next day, though, I went back without my camera and just enjoyed soaking in the atmosphere and fancying myself back in the thirteenth century.
By Friday the storm damage at both ends had been cleared and I booked a day train ticket to Barcelona with veritable ease, scheduled to leave Malaga on Saturday morning. By Saturday night I was back in Barcelona, greeted by chilly winds and the cleanup efforts after the recent floods. I hopped over a puddle in the underground metro and made my way ´home.´ I had only lived in my flat for about five days before I left Barcelona. I had expected to only be gone for one, perhaps a maximum of two weeks. That was over six weeks and many fantastic adventures earlier.
That night I finally collapsed into my very own warm, comfortable bed and - well, MY VERY OWN WARM, COMFORTABLE BED!
Next time on Tempest Trails:
- Doctors and diets.
- Barcelona´s Birthday!
- Clowns, fireworks and waterworks.
Some Tempest Time.
Some Tempest Channel.
