SPAIN
BEYOND THE PILLARS OF HERCULES
This is how the story goes. Driven insane by the cruelty of his stepmother, Hera, Hercules slaughtered his wife and children. As penance for his crime, he was handed the task of completing twelve labours by King Eurystheus. By accomplishing them, not only could he earn forgiveness, he would attain immortality. It was no mean settlement, until you read what he had to do. Number ten of those twelve labours involved capturing all the cattle belonging to Geryon, a savage, three-bodied monster terrorising the western extremities of the known world, and herding the beasts safely back to Eurystheus.
The extremity of the western world, at least in the time of Greek mythology, existed in the region of the Rock of Gibraltar and various legends abound concerning the Pillars of Hercules, the promontories flanking the entrance to the Straits of Gibraltar. Diodorus Siculus, a Greek historian of the first Century BC, held that Hercules used his massive strength to narrow an already existing strait separating Spain and Africa, in order to prevent ferocious Atlantic sea-monsters from entering the Mediterranean and wreaking havoc. Others tell of him smashing through a mountain range that had once linked the continents of Europe and Africa. Whichever of the legends one chooses, the ocean beyond the Pillars of Hercules was truly feared. A large sign affixed to the Rock bore a message for all approaching sailors: ‘Non plus ultra’ – nothing further beyond. At which point, anybody in their right mind made a brisk about-turn.
Arriving at the southern Spanish port of Algeciras, across the bay from Gibraltar, Christine and I could have readily made a brisk about-turn ourselves. The foul autumn weather accompanying us the length of Europe steadfastly refused to budge. Snow had dogged us until Madrid. Along the Costa del Sol a cloudburst slashed the temperature to six degrees centigrade. Today, had those sailors of old wished to heed the ancient message pinned on the Rock, they wouldn’t even have been able to read it. Even gazing southwards provided us with no relief. The Straits of Gibraltar were the equivalent of a bar-room brawl. A true white-knuckled scrap between the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean was in full swing.
I’ve always considered this sea passage, leaving modern Europe for the exotic Maghreb, to be a milestone in previous journeys. The occasion should be savoured out on deck, enjoying the warm, saline breeze, watching Gib slowly shrink beyond the ferry’s wake, the Jebel Musa, supposedly the southern Pillar of Hercules, emerging steadily from out of the sea. But it was not to be. It seemed even Helios was in no mood to illuminate our departure from the shores of Europe; it was without question the washday of the gods. And if the unfolding drama at this port was any indication of things to come, then the lack of sight-seeing opportunities would be the least of our concerns.
We slowed to take it all in. Perhaps a clue lay in the raised voices, forlorn looks and abandoned luggage. Having already witnessed the white-tipped troughs out to sea, we feared the worst. Even the ticket touts were absent. Their forest of arms sprouting bewildering wads of paper had hitherto been the soft introduction to Morocco’s quayside mayhem. By contrast, nobody gave us a sideways glance when we stopped by the barrier opposite the terminal’s glass doors.
Alarmed, I leapt from the Hilux, hurrying towards an identically dressed Englishman dodging the luggage and the agitated crowd, an overlander twitching with nervous energy, intent on paying the ferryman and getting his African adventure underway. Seconds before we clashed, the automatic doors swished apart, dispelling my reflection. Inside, the ticketing hall was ominously still. And nothing of what unfolded featured in my painstakingly constructed list. Item number 510: Ferry to Tangier.
I marched to the line of ticket booths, working my way from one to the other, receiving nothing more than a chorus of ‘Mañana!’ and doubtful expressions. At each booth came the same reply: ‘The sea is too rough,señor. Today, sailing to Africa is not possible.’
‘Nonsense!’ I scoffed. One of them must have a boat going to Africa.
At the very last booth I came to, the fellow gave me a measured look. ‘You have one option,’ he divulged, his bushy right eyebrow arching. ‘The Tarifa to Tangier ferry sails in one hour. I can make you a ticket for this boat.’
‘Tarifa?’ I exclaimed.
Bushy eyebrows pushed up his glasses, confident of capitalising on the crazy glint in the eyes of this hombre loco. ‘Tarifa,’ he repeated.
I snatched a look at my watch. ‘I haven’t time to get there.’
‘Yes! Yes!’ he jabbered, bullying his keyboard with a rigid finger. ‘If you go quickly…you can make it...no problem.’
We were due to meet our friends, Jean-Pierre and Susie, at Agadir in six days. Not only did we need that time to traverse the Atlas Mountains, but I had a schedule designed to maintain order amongst the African chaos – and we hadn’t even left Europe.
I plucked a fold of Euros from my shirt pocket.
‘Go quickly!’ Bushy eyebrows urged, replacing my crisp money with a flaccid ticket.
I bolted from the terminal, still infused with that European folly of immediacy, expectation, intolerance. But who was to say if the ferries would be operating the next day, or the day after that? How quickly would they clear this backlog of passengers and vehicles?
‘We could be stuck here for days,’ I reasoned back in the car, tapping the ticket on the steering wheel. Nevertheless, neither of us relished a ferry crossing in this stormy weather.
‘We should go for it,’ Christine said.
‘We have to.’
I drove to Tarifa as rapidly as the regular squalls and the slick, hilly road permitted. It was going to be tight. On reaching the summit of the hill, the Mirador del Estrecho, we passed a field of wind turbines, their enormous white propellers thrashing the air for as far as the eye could see. Their frenetic movement added urgency to our flight. It was a perfect day for creating electricity, I reflected, not so great for catching a ferry.
We began our descent to the coast, the Atlantic Ocean an undulating patchwork of greens and greys and blacks, slashed with streaks of white. From one side of the windscreen to the other not a ship could be seen. My stomach churned.
At the bottom of the hill, with five minutes to go before the ferry’s departure, we took a wrong turn in the town, losing ourselves in a maze of alleys suitable only for a horse and cart.
On account of the constant winds blowing off the Atlantic the people of Tarifa are known to tolerate a level of insanity amongst their community. From October to May, when regular Atlantic storms ensure the swell is at its best, half the population of Tarifa are said to be migratory surf-dudes. Winter, then, is presumably when visitors are allowed the greatest degree of latitude where madness is concerned, which was good, considering we were trying to force our pickup down a series of right angles not much broader than a gutter. Between attempts at keeping our bull bar from unhooking wooden shutters, ripping off door handles, crushing potted plants and flattening downpipes, we caught glimpses of the November rollers thundering toward the coast, topped with crouching surfers skimming the emerald sea. On a day like today, unquestionably these guys are the maddest of the mad.
Eventually popping free from the backstreets of old Tarifa, we tore through the entrance to the port, a damp, flapping ticket thrust in the direction of the girl bending to the wind.
‘Adelante!’ she screeched, jabbing the air with an outstretched finger.
Beyond the mesh fence the ferry breathed gently on its mooring ropes, the rise and fall of the yellow light flooding from its cargo deck like a siren’s call in the gloom. We zigzagged round the kilometres of fencing, chased over the tarmac, bounced up the ramp and slid to a halt in front of a seaman frantically flapping his arms. The ramp slammed closed immediately behind us. Crewmen shouted, ropes were hauled, chains rattled, engines roared and propeller blades bit the water. We were off.
I sat back, allowing myself a tight grin. A small victory achieved.
‘Made it!’ I declared, looking at Christine. ‘We’re on our way to Timbuktu.’
Before we’d even left the harbour, the ferry made a gut-wrenching heave. We shared an anxious look between us as we made our way to the staircase and the upper deck. I checked myself on the way – if we’re going to Africa, we must be determined, resolute, tough. There was no way my hero explorers, Daniel Houghton, Mungo Park or Richard Lander would have sat this out at the local inn.
Three-quarters of the way up the stairway, in the time it took to grip the handrail, progress was held in check, our bodies weightless at the zenith of the ferryboat’s rise. Then gravity returned, falling...falling... My foot went down on the step with a thud, followed by a bang as the ship’s bow thumped the sea. The hull shuddered, the vibration passing through the deck, the rail, to my hands, to my shoulders, round my head.
I swore silently and rushed the last few steps to the top. ‘We’ll be on the other side in a jiffy,’ I mumbled to no one in particular.
