13. That’s Africa.

05.02.24 — 09.02.24 : Sevilla — Tangier

It was a familiar feeling. Not too raw or heart-level… lower. Like the intimate awareness that bleeds up from your core when you cross a canal bridge, driving along an otherwise flat road. If I were feeling particularly self-indulgent I’d call it melancholy. If not, then simply the product of emotion no longer tempered by company. Either way, I pedaled out from the stretching suburbs of Seville with leaden legs. I’d left Doug standing beside his packed bike, by the side of one of the city’s arterial roads. Airport transfer buses had come and gone, pronouncing TOTALMENTE OCUPADO in digital ticker tape. Luckily, this is Western Europe. An Uber wasn’t out of the question. 

I packed my bike slowly – almost ceremonially – finally mounting at just past 5pm. There was a certain emptiness to the air that evening. My route followed a river in canal’s clothing, the Guadaíra; a brutish channel of water that carves a crude path through the low-lying marshland of La Marisma. It’s a river that suffers under the region’s diligent olive production. Contamination from the outflows of the industry’s processing gives the water a foul aroma. That night, the stench was punishing. Despite spotting a few eligible campsites along the bike path running parallel, I chose to push my luck for the sake of my senses. As I followed my route off the path and into agricultural no-man's-land, I settled for a secluded section of hard-shoulder and waited until dark settled to make camp. Picking broken glass from what would soon be my pitch, I felt the first shiver of apprehension puncture the void. 

I woke facing the prospect of my first full day of riding AD (After Doug). Spain made a pathetic attempt at pathetic fallacy. The best it could manage was a thick, wet mist that draped itself across the morning. Thick drops of the stuff settled on my clothes and, before long, it was running in rivulets down my face. 

This made a novel change. News of the Spanish drought has reached as far as the British broadsheets. In Catalunya, they’ve declared a state of emergency; in some areas, it hasn’t rained in three years. As we’ve traversed the South of Spain, it’s become routine to cross bridges spanning desiccated riverbeds, exhibiting redundant signs for a Rio, and enter towns draped in bedsheets touting El Agua Es Vida – Water Is Life. Not the place to fill your bottles. 

Extreme measures are in place; in Barcelona, there’s even been discussion of reducing the city’s water pressure in order to drive down consumption. Interestingly, this has been rejected until now on the grounds that it would place an unproportional burden on those living higher up. Despite Barcelona’s reputation as a horizontal city – the height of whose skyline is harmonised by the vertical limit of the Sagrada Familia – many of the residents still live on top of one another. As Doug and I discovered at Valencia’s Etno, the technological progression of lifts in Spain reversed the social hierarchy of mid and high-rise buildings. Traditionally, those of lower economic status – unable to afford to escape the hardship of stairs – occupied the top floors. But with the introduction of lifts, the top floor rose to the status of penthouse, and the lowest fell to the rank of basement. This just goes to say, if Barcelona wants to Eat the Rich (or just focus on some social redistribution; after all, it’s a drought, not a famine), perhaps water pressure is the place to start. 

Besides novelty, the mist set an excellent stage to cross the Doñana National Park. Never before have I seen such a gathering of waders. The poor visibility granted the birds the element of surprise. I’d ride to within a few feet of a flamboyance of flamingos, totally unaware of their presence, only to be flashed a deep fuchsia as they beat their wings, hauling themselves into the air with unlikely grace. Once I heard the unmistakable sound of a flotilla steam-powered toy chug boats; the kind you’d find at a nostalgic fairground (or Christian festival, in my case) painted in psychedelic arrays, and powered by a votive candle. I listened intently and eventually broke through into a pocket of clear air to discover a thousand storks (and one confused horse, shin-deep in water, clearly having an identity crisis). All but one were clacking their beaks in greeting. I’ve since discovered this is the noise made by Storks to greet a mate. It’s a wonder I was able to ward off the advances of such a colossal mustering. 

Some of my Stork friends making camp above what I assume is where they store all the outgoing babies. Although these days, I wouldn’t be surprised if Amazon has taken over their fulfilment… the building looked pretty abandoned to me.

Further along, I took my tapas in a tourist town, inadvertently perching at a table at the corner of what quickly became the most saturated square. I ordered a vermouth, but drank it begrudgingly, concluding that they’re more fun shared. I was charged for my complimentary crostini and left with a bitter taste in my mouth – probably a result of the harsher-than-usual coffee. By the time I was due to pitch camp, I’d become wrapped in a shroud of gloom. I’d stopped for the day by the sea, the only section of coastline before Cadiz not interrupted by concrete, or so the map showed. A tempting haven of green amidst the gray. Instead I found myself in a sterile colony of four-star resort hotels surrounding a golf course. I decided the beach was my best option; it’s the off-season, after all. The smell of salt filled my world as I sat staring through misty eyes at the still water, waiting for the sun to dip below the horizon. I was nearing the end of a continent, the holiday of Europe drawing to a close. Africa awaited.

My colleague Hans – already of blog fame thanks to his generous lodging in Rotterdam (oh, and Hagel Slag of course, still the reigning champion of weird and wonderful European breakfast traditions) – said something to me when Joe and I stayed with him on our first night in Europe; something that’s stuck. You know, this is Europe, but that’s Africa. He was no doubt expressing his genuine concern for my safety on the more remote part of the trip ahead (and perhaps throwing in some geographical trivia to stress-test the thoroughness of my preparation). But he unwittingly served up a conversational corker. That’s Africa became somewhat of a catchphrase of Joe’s during our time riding together. Any mention of the trip ahead was invariably suffixed by Joe with that’s Africa. As throwaway as it might seem at first glance, Hans’ observation has become more profound for me as Africa has drawn closer. It’s more of a shift than I’d given it credit for. At least, that’s how it felt from the familiar turf of the continent. 

Africa arrived as I crested a devilish gravel climb above Bolonia. My heart was hammering and Madonna was at her limit. Ominous clouds were beginning to form overhead and the air was thick and very quiet. A storm was coming. There’s something about a steep climb that gets the adrenaline pumping. Often more than its descent. It invokes fight or flight. Unfortunately, in my case that’s often flight. Nearing the top of the climb and glancing back at the ground I’d covered, I caught my first glimpse of another continent. It hit me with a rod of emotion. I’m sure some part of me expected it, but what surprised me was the intensity of it. Fear. The threatening peaks of Morocco’s Rif Mountains stood in stark contrast to the placid plains of the Spanish coastline I’d been riding. I might’ve been able to attribute my knee-jerk emotional response to an unfortunate thow of the genetic dice, but what started as a basic flight instinct settled slowly into a much deeper sense of unease.

By the time I’d reached Tarifa – the official End of the Continent – the clouds had finished forming and rain began to fall in fat, sporadic droplets. My ferry was scheduled for 11am the following day – Tangier is a stone’s throw by boat – leaving time for a lengthy European farewell (that I imagined would take the form of no less than three vermouths; after all, I’m about to spend the best part of two months in a Muslim country). Frustratingly, my friends at Hostelworld had encouraged me to book somewhere that closes annually for the winter months. I was quickly able to find a replacement, but nonetheless resented the dent in the evening’s aperitif budget. My new hostel didn’t let man and beast (me and Madonna) share a room, so into the locked storeshed she went as I set off in search of lubrication. 

As my third vermouth arrived, I was deep in conversation with Ellie who I was set to meet in Tangier the following day. We were triple checking the array of spares that she’d agreed to courier; brake-pads: check; straight seatpost: check; slightly longer stem: check. You get the picture. Just as I put down the phone and prepared to take a fresh pull of my drink, a text from the ferry company pinged in. Sailing canceled. I immediately called the number to be greeted with a friendly voice and a cavernous language gap. Despite having spent extended time in the country, my Spanish still makes non-existent sound like a devotee describing their God. Thanks to the woman’s patience, after several minutes I’d discovered that (i) all ferries on Friday (tomorrow) were canceled; (ii) there wasn’t likely to be another until Sunday; and (iii) the final ferry was set to sail this evening at 9pm with a hard deadline of 8.45pm to board. It was 8:34pm. I slugged the vermouth and ran inside to pay. The proprietor was intensely occupied, wrapping thin slices of cheese around chunks of chorizo – a task he performed so fastidiously that you might think he’d apprenticed at Fabergé. This was peculiar considering my hostel had touted this as Tarifa’s cheapest bar. Clearly frustrated by the rude intrusion of my bill-badgering, he charged me double. The hostel’s recommendations may be in need of an update. 

I broke into a full sprint as I left the bar. The rain had got its act together and fell hard and fast. Arriving at the hostel, I found the reception deserted. 8:40pm. This spelled trouble: Madonna was locked in the storeroom and I didn’t have the key. I called the number at reception as my fellow guests crowded round, each wanting to make sure I was aware of the ferry’s hard deadline. A zero-tolerance policy, apparently. As the hostel scrambled to dispatch someone with a key, I threw my belongings into a bag and prayed I’d remembered everything important – sparing a moment to curse the indulgence of a third vermouth and the mental fog it bore. 8.43pm. In one swift arc, I swooped from the hostel, joined the bearer of the key in the storeroom and mounted Madonna, kicking off into a sprint. Luckily Tarifa is tiny, and its port very navigable. Within the minute I was at the ticket office begging the officials to accept me; commanding grand notions of love and lust in my plea. 8.45pm. Thankfully, this struck a chord with the Spanish heart and the gate was duly opened. As we set sail, I collapsed into a chair ready to bask in the glow of a gamble paid off. That was, until I realised I had to buy a new roaming package before we sailed beyond the last wisps of Spanish network coverage. I had no plan for accommodation that night, and was keen to avoid disembarking in a technological blackout. After all, that’s Africa.