The bottom of Europe

My bus ride from Malaga was a harmless two and half hours bound for Tarifa, a ride along the coast. I purposely took a seat on the left side of the bus so that I’d have good views of the sea as we drove west. For the entire trip, the bus slithered and snaked its way up and around these huge mountains that plunge down to meet the shore, the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea below. The views were excellent but nothing new. I had seen similar views along the Cote d’Azur and around Malaga. But what we eventually drove by and what was very different than everything else I’ve seen was the very distinct and very tall rock of Gibraltar jutting up into the sky. We stopped in a small Spanish city called Algeciras to let off some passengers, some of them undoubtedly on their way to Gibraltar, the small British colony in the strait. But what I thought was even better than the rock was the view just beyond the rock, across the strait. It was a very clear and beautiful day and just beyond the strait lay very visibly the continent of Africa. I didn’t think it was possible at first, that Africa couldn’t have been that close. But later I confirmed that that huge landmass just across the sea was in fact Morocco and just 15 km (10 miles) from the shores of Spain. I was amazed. The shores of Morocco shoot into the sky just like they do in Spain, green and lush. In fact, Morocco, from my vantage point, looked like a mirror image of the Iberian shoreline that we were driving along. If you look at a map of the Strait of Gibraltar using Google maps, you’ll see that the point where the two continents are about to meet on either side are covered in shades of green, indicating their environmentally temperate similarities. But just south of the green shades of the Moroccan shore, Google maps indicates that the color turns a sandy tan quite quickly, breezing into the expanse of the Saharan Desert. It’s amazing to think about what lies beyond what I could see from shore, from the vastness of the Saharan Desert, to the political turmoil in North and West Africa, to the jungles of central Africa, and the safari and plains of the south. And I’m a bit of a geography nerd. Being in this place and realizing its significance was a goof moment for me. What had been a tough few days started to look better, even from the bus.

My first glimpse of Africa, from the bus ride

But the bus was just the beginning. Little did I know that my hopes in finding a good spot in Tarifa were more than met. Tarifa is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. And it’s a small town, so different than the city I had left, and surrounded by the majestic Atlantic Ocean, just a few short kilometers west of the strait, with broad, green mountains covered in wild flowers and an occasional horse. I had no trouble finding the single hostel in this town, there are few streets. And the hostel was a gem all on its own. A short three minute walk from the beach and with easy access to the town which had a grocery store and some pretty little streets in the tiny little old town that was full of restaurants and bars. The hostel was located in a building typical of the architectural style of southern Spain, at least in the older places. Low, white washed walls of cement with tiled roofs and open terraces on the roof and in the front yard. Tarifa isn’t dense like Barcelona or Malaga’s old town. Tarifa is a small town, maybe a few thousand people, so buildings have yards and gardens and terraces and views. In fact, from the open terrace on the upper floor you can look out across the strait to Africa. The hostel’s windows and shutters were opened to the warm air blowing in from the ocean nearby, and the place was super chill, its residents identifying with the theme of the town. There is a good size population of extreme sports enthusiasts here, from all over Europe and the world, that live in the town, kite surfing during the day and running bars or shops or kite repair places to get by. Tarifa is a very windy place, ideally located along the western edge of Spain and along the Atlantic coast so the beach here is a haven for kite surfers. Kite surfing was really big in the coastal town where I was living a few years ago in Japan, in a small city called Kurihama, but besides there I’ve never really seen kite surfing before. It’s sort of like strapping your feet to a shorter, broader surfboard and harnessing your body to a gigantic parachute. Operating the parachute, somehow, allows you to zip around the waves, flipping and diving over them before they crash and you reset and start over again. It’s pretty cool but it looks really challenging.

Kite surfers lounging on the beach, taking a rest

A look down the beach in Tarifa, to the north

My first real glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean, I've come a long way

I settled into my room at the hostel and set out. It was early evening and being this far south and this far west in the same time zone as the rest of Europe means the sun hangs into the sky until quite late. The very first thing I did was to follow my nose along the direction of the salty breeze coming from the beach. Walking along the small street from the hostel for just a few minutes brings you to the vast, white sandy shoreline. The beach stretches for miles and miles to the right, a northerly direction, and terminates to the left where the land hooks in and away towards the strait, Africa visible to the left. The sand is fine and pure white. And unlike Malaga where the beach was met quickly by a road and then the intruding city, the beach here met the open streets of the small town and then, walking further down the beach, quickly became nothing, no people, no buildings or roads, just the sand that met dunes that met wild flower meadows that slowly rose up to the foothills of grass covered mountains. And the town itself was picturesque as well. A moment of intense satisfaction came over me the minute I laid eyes on the Atlantic Ocean. I realized that in a way, I have completed my goal, here in Tarifa, by taking trains (at least as much as possible) from the Pacific coast, through the great Eurasian continental landmass, to the Atlantic coast. And here it was, right in front of me. I know I’m not quite finished with my trip but I couldn’t help feeling like I had made it and succeeded. I let that moment linger as long as I could.

It was a very windy day and the beach was rife with kite surfers, many of them zipping along the waves, and others hanging out in groups with beers on the sand in their wetsuits. It was a cool scene. I took a lot of photos and then eventually made my way to the left, around the hook where the beach ends and starts running from the south to the east, towards the little port where the ferry runs between here and Morocco. The town has a very small old district, walkable in a matter of minutes, and I explored the area a little. A few narrow alleyways are home to cafes and shops but this section of town doesn’t really come alive until the night as I would later find out. So I kept on walking through to the newer part of town, newer, but in the same architectural style as the old town, and this is where the locals live. I found a small grocery store, bought some late day baked goods for a cheap, one euro meal, and a naranjo schweppes, my new go to beverage of choice, and took it with me to find a good spot to sit and eat, somewhere outside with a view of the water. I wandered my way down to a local sports complex, and by sports complex I mean an area with a lot of small soccer fields (because that’s the only sport that matters here), where a youth league game was about to begin, parents watching from the stands. The Spaniards are well known for their superb soccer  abilities and the Spanish fill all the world’s best leagues, so I wasn’t shocked that these kids, maybe 12 years old, could play like little Iniestos. I watched and ate my cheap baked goods for a little while before heading back to the hostel to relax in the common room. 

There was a small castle in the town, built hundreds of years ago during the Muslim occupation

Africa from the port of Tarifa

Some beach rules

The wild flowers in Tarifa are very pretty and grow like weeds

I liked the way the shadow of a palm tree is plastered on the white washed walls of buildings in the old town

A glimpse of the old town in Tarifa

I was pretty wiped from my brief exposure to the sun, it had been awhile. I messed around on the computer a little, writing and checking emails, and before long I was too tired to continue and just passed out in the dorm room. The windows were open to the cool air of the evening sky, which was nice, but it also allowed some nasty little mosquitoes to make their way into the room as well, which is a positive sign that indicates that I’m in a place with warm weather but naturally I’m not a big fan of those buzzing pests.

Tomorrow was my day to chill. I had one full day in Tarifa, one day to explore the shore and relax in the sun. What made me so exhausted last night and what I was doing on the computer was mostly planning the end of my trip. I’m pretty close to the end now, I’m realizing. Basically, what I came up with is a plan to take the ferry the day after tomorrow to Tangier, across the strait to Morocco. I know it’s a bit of a novelty to say you’ve been to Africa and I would be lying if I said that wasn’t my main reason for going on such a short, trans continental voyage, but I really did want to see Tangier for a few days. Dreaming of the shores across the strait earlier made me want to take the very accessible ferry across for a quick, two day preview. So I planned to be in Morocco for two days and then take the ferry back to Tarifa, hop a bus to Seville for one night, and then hop another bus along the coast into Portugal and then up to Lisbon where I intend to complete this journey. Having a plan in place is sort of bringing me back to reality and the realization that this trip really does have an end.

But not yet, my friends, not yet!