Final Journal entry
Day 7: Marbella to Tangier (19/03/05, Saturday)
I woke up a bit displaced, and then I realised I was in Marbella. At about 8:30am I believe. We headed for the beach to get some food, and more importantly, coffee. Dave is surprised by the quality of Spanish coffee, whether its in some sleazy bar or an up-market joint. Ah, coffee connoisseurs. We went back to the hostel, where Dave took a shower (I believe that was going to be our last shower in 3 or 4 days), we pack our bags, pay the hostel patron with many thanks and aimed for our last ride in that charity hitchhike.
We walked west to the outer part of town and try hitching by the roadside, with no luck. We take the opportunity to take a couple of photos, to actually prove we went on a hitchhike. At the time, a local told us to head 100 metres further down the road to the gas station we had actually been looking for during the past half hour. Despite the change of location our situation was the same. This being Marbella, for every shit Seat, Fiat, Polo, truck or van there would be 10 suave BMWs, Mercedes, Rovers or Audis. Marbella; a city for the rich and the corrupt. At this point I would never tire from people’s reactions to hitchhikers. Everywhere else we had been laughed at, smiled at, joked with or played with. Here, we were considered part of the Barbarian hordes. Most people would avoid eye contact, just in case Vandalism was caught by eye to eye infection. For jokes, we’d aim our efforts at 2 seater Porsches, you know “go on bruv, it will be tight, but we can all fit in”. There was an amazing amount of foreigners, so English was used quite a bit.
hitchhiking out of Marbella
Another sign was written, saying “AUTOSTOP DE CARIDAD” (“CHARITY HITCHIKE“), to pacify the rich snobs. Dave took the gas station exit, I took the traffic lights on the busy main road. I was in a good mood despite the overcast sky, and just took the opportunity to piss about on the road side. Young people laughed and pointed. Old couples looked bemused. Middle-aged couple looked away, especially those that were closest to me, the raving blond Barbarian with a sign for a weapon. This was especially the case when I decided to get on my knees and start praying at them. At one point I started jumping up and down and chasing after the cars, or getting into the middle of the road on a red light, which really got my crowd going; people started honking horns, laughing and shouting encouragement. It also got us a ride. The last ride of the hitchhike, the last leg of 1400 miles from the UK to Morocco, the ride given to us by the chief mechanic of Puerto Banus, Tedorino.
He stopped by saying he was en route to Algeciras, the reason why he was taking us being “Has estado pegando saltos como un canguro”, or translated, “You’ve been jumping about like a bloody kangaroo”. We piled into his van, throwing our stuff in the back and sit up front. As we were leaving we suddenly hear a rattle and a bang. Dave didn’t close the back door properly, and it flew open and the trolley in the back would have flown right out hadn’t it been caught on the door. We stopped quickly and let Teodorino assess the damage. Dave and I looked at each other a little sheepishly, and see each other thumbing it for another hour but thankfully there was no damage. We weren’t going to make the 3pm ferry anyway, so we had plenty of time to kill. Teodorino came back in, saying that damage control was fine, so we drove on. He told us he was going to Puerto Banus first to pick up his wife. We stepped down from the van and into the port, checking out the huge boats, speed boats and the occasional sailing boat. It was all quite impressive. Marbella, the city of luxury and mafia bosses. As we headed back to the van, we notice Teodorino, his wife and a common friend sitting in the front. We were relegated to the back of the van with no seat, seatbelts or comfort of any sort for the next 45 minutes. And since Teodorino didn’t understand the concept of using a brake, we flew around the back of the van a few times before realizing there were some dubious-looking handle bars on the sides, which I grabbed on to for dear life. It wasn’t very relaxing. Nor was the fact that I had a large, quickly revolving, rubber tire about 4 centimetres below my ass. What to do but buckle up… ah, I couldn’t do that either.
We drove down south. The Mediterranean facing my back, the mountains in front of me. Gibraltar loomed in the distance and before I knew it we arrived in Algeciras. Teodorino parked next to this decrepit old trawler or fishing vessel of some sort, about 70 metres long and 15 wide, rusty as hell, and apparently his. Newly his. He had just bought the floating heap of rust and was obviously proud of his purchase. We got off the van and clambered on to the ship, and realized that that was it. The end of the Hitch. No more thumbing it across Europe. To celebrate we take a couple of photos of us on the ship, and waited to take one with Teodorino. We waited quite a while, but he had taken his wife and some friends that had met up with him on the quay into the dark, dank bowels of that metal leviathan. T’was truly a monster of the deep. We took in a view of Algeciras which lay at our feet. To be honest, it was a carbon copy of Le Havre, but warmer and drier. We got off the ship, telling Teodorino’s friends to give him our thanks, since he was inmersed in a maze of iron and steel, and headed for the ferry.
Dave in Algeciras, on Teodorino´s love boat
As we walked to the ferry terminal, we noticed more Arab signs and Arab people conglomerating in the area. It was an appetizer of things to come. Whole families in cars were crammed on the road waiting to cross the straits and head home. We bought our ferry tickets and go to the waiting lounge (after being kicked out of the café because it has a costumers only policy), whereupon we ran into a couple more Warwick hitchhikers: a certain Joe and his female partner, who for the life of me, I cannot place a name on. We simply chilled. This was interrupted with the arrival of 3 more Warwick hitchhikers though: Chris, Liz and Lucy. Murphy, damn him, was certainly working overtime to make sure his precious law was observed. And despite trying to pass incognito, that Bitch, Irony was having a laugh. Of all the destinations, places and mishaps that could have occurred, we were stuck with them. Again. Hit 5pm we get on to the ferry and I get the Dutch passport stamped for the first time. We sit far away from the other Warwick hitchers, who nonetheless continue to pester us from time to time. We climbed on to the deck, and I bid my adieus to Spain and Gibraltar and greet the Moroccan coast, under a steel sky. As we walked down I was shat upon by a seagull. My guess is that it was from Gibraltar. And so much for that saying of being shat on by birds is a sign of good luck, we were stuck with 3 Warwick first years en route to Morocco. I passed the time by playing a bit on the Clié, which suffered an accident due to a faulty socket in our Marbella hostel. We also made economic amends, with Dave eventually owing me €100 as it turned out. After 2:30 hours of rocking to and fro, we arrived in Tangier. There was a big bustle to get out, and for some reason the Warwick hitchers stuck closer to us than warts would to an old hag’s ass.
But nevertheless, we walk the gangplank, in good pirate fashion, and touch African soil. Or cement. Anyhow, a new continent I have visited, a new culture to see. Night gently descends her inky veil across the grey dome of sky, and a minaret calls the faithful to prayer. And we walk down the port, into the Moroccan evening of uncertainty and pickpockets.