When people go to Europe, they go to Paris, Rome, London, Barcelona…Gibraltar is not usually on the list. And yet, two European trips in a row, I have ended up on the edge of the Iberian Peninsula, in the shadow of the famous rock. This time, I found myself there thanks to Kaitlyn’s friend Ollie, a British lad (yeah, I just used the word “lad”), living in Spain and crossing the border into the British territory every day for work.
It was quite the journey from Barcelona to the southernmost-tip of the continent. We had to catch two trains, one from Barcelona to Antequera, and one from Antequera to San Roque, from where Ollie would be picking us up and taking us back to his crib in La Línea de la Concepción. When we booked our train tickets during the marathon session in Barcelona, we were told that there were two train stations in Antequera and the one we arrived at was not the one we would be departing from. We were assured that they were “very close together”. Yeah, and Gemma Ward’s eyes are “very close together”. Spain, I am aware your country is quite large, but mine is several times bigger and, in Australia, 18 KILOMETRES IS A VERY LONG WAY. When we arrived at Antequera-Santa Ana train station, we sought directions to the “other” station, thinking it would be a case of turning left (or right), crossing a road, turning a corner…that kind of thing.
Despite having four-or-so hours until the next train left, we decided to head there immediately just in case something went wrong. We managed to find a taxi quite quickly and arrived at the Antequera station soon after. It was well into lunchtime by this point, and we had been told at Antequera-Santa Ana there was a café at this station. This was true, if one takes the concept of a café, knocks it down to the most basic variety, then changes it into a small, dirty room with a dirty table, a filthy floor and a grubby woman standing next to a grimy kettle, which looked more like a billy and more likely to produce a cup of gastro than a cup of coffee. We walked in and walked out without exchanging a single word, careful not to breathe lest we inhaled something fatal. There was nothing else around, the station itself more like a tin shed and lacking in any kind of facilities. Walking with all of our stuff wasn’t really an option, so we decided that Kaitlyn would stay there with everything, while I went in search of supplies. There was a lack of development in the immediate surrounding area, so I headed up the hill towards what looked to be fairly modern structures. It was all residential and then I found one corner-shop-like place. Of course, it was the middle of the day and, therefore, siesta time. I was starting to think I would have to leave empty-handed and come back later on, when I turned one last corner and saw a supermercado ahead.
Mercifully, the Mercadona (the Spanish equivalent of Coles or Woolies) didn’t adhere to the Spanish siesta-tradition, so I was able to walk straight in and start buying. And buy I did, everything from mozzarella and bread, to candied cashews and half the chocolate aisle. Although I did my shopping in the expeditious-manner only achievable by the woggiest of wogs, I then had to wait over twenty minutes in the queue. Despite what you might expect of me, I am a fairly patient queuer, so I wasn’t too perturbed by this…to begin with. You know that feeling of rage you get when you hear the Coles “Prices Are Down” jingle every three minutes in the shop? “Prices Are Down” has nothing on the “Mercadonnnna-Mercadona” jingle – in both irritation and frequency. Five minutes of standing in that line and I was ready to punch someone in the face. I made it back to Antequra Station without assaulting anyone, and we spent the next three hours eating our way through the food which, when it was all together in a bag, I concede was probably enough to feed all of the Antequeranos. Then again, have you met me?
The train ride to San Roque was only a couple of hours and Ollie was there to pick us up. About five minutes into our car journey he jokingly said, ‘I hope you’re not afraid of dogs.’ Now, in case you didn’t know, I have three fears: that Isaac Brock will accidently marry the woman he accidently proposed to before he met me, that Collingwood will win a Premiership before we do and leapfrog us on the overall table, and dogs. I am terrified of all dogs, be they Chihuahuas or Rottweilers. I am not going to delve into the childhood dog- trauma which is responsible for this fear, but you must understand my terror is real and it is devastating. So, when Ollie asked this question, which was more of a flippant aside, I froze. Kaitlyn responded for me. ‘Why? Claire is. Claire really is.’
‘Oh. Really?’ Yes, really! I Have been known to cross a busy road and risk being maimed by a truck in order to avoid walking past a dog...some would say “puppy”. ‘The guys have dogs.’ “The guys” were Ollie’s two housemates, but this wasn’t the issue. He said “dogs” – this is the plural form of dog. This meant there was more than one dog. ‘Dogs?’
‘Yeah. Rhys has three dogs.’ Not even two, three.
‘What sort of dogs?’
‘Well….’ He trailed off nervously. I wet my self nervously. I then blocked out everything which was said because hyperventilation was present and thriving.
I went through all the motions of a canine-related panic attack: heart palpitations, trembling, nausea, sense of impending death. I hit de-realisation around the time we arrived in San Roque. We pulled into one of those complexes you see on A Place in the Sun and it was then I noticed that it was pitch black. I don’t mean pitch-black as in the-sun-has-set-it-is-night-time pitch-black, but where-are-the-lights-or-am-I-blind? pitch-black. With the aid of the headlights I was able to see bits and pieces around me. What I saw: cranes, skip bins, unfinished construction. What I didn’t see: electricity, people. The short version of the story is that the construction company responsible for this complex went broke during the GFC and only a handful of the places were built. As a result, Ollie, Rhys and Jonathan rented their amazingly nice place for a very nominal sum and had no neighbours. They also had no phone line, but otherwise they were living the high life. Well, as high a life as one can live when you share a place with three dogs.
When we walked in the door I didn’t actually notice the opulence of the place, or even Ollie’s housemates; all I saw was the thing running towards me. Let me make it clear, it was not a dog – it was a freaking horse. I could have ridden her…Henry VIII and his six wives could have ridden her at the same time. I’m pretty sure I cried a little bit. Rhys picked up on my abject terror immediately, offering to put all three dogs outside. Even though I was very nearly about to die, I declined. It was a ridiculously nice offer, but there was no way I was going to come into their house and start dictating terms. When the other two appeared from
nowhere I nearly wet myself again. We sat outside on the balcony, four people and an obstacle-course of outdoor furniture separating me from the dogs. I was plied with alcohol in the hopes it would help. It didn’t. Especially when Jonathan took his turn at reassuring me. ‘She’ll only hurt you if she doesn’t like you.’
How reassuring.
‘She’s actually very gentle unless she’s threatened. Then it’s a different story. If she grabs a hold of your neck, her jaw is so strong she can snap it in less than five seconds.’ Apparently I wasn’t the only one who failed to see how this tidbit was supposed to comfort me. ‘Don’t worry! That won’t happen. She’ll like you. What Jonathan meant was that she looks tough, but really she’s 43 kilos of cuddly dog.’
‘43 kilos?!’ The dog weighed more than me. I wasn’t kidding about being able to ride her. When we went to bed that night, I contemplated putting a chair under the door handle to keep it safely locked. Although, given she could snap a human’s neck in less than five seconds, she probably could have employed her killer fangs and ripped through the wood in three seconds.
The next day we headed down to Tarifa. It was memorable for two reasons: a dog on a surfboard, and Kaitlyn’s sunburn. I’ll address the dog first. To begin with, it was a safe enough distance away for me to not be completely freaked out, so that was fortunate. He sat on the beach for at least an hour, patiently watching his owners windsurf, wandering up and down so he was always parallel with them. Even I will admit it was super cute. But it got cuter. When they were done windsurfing, they came and got him – and took him for a ride!!!! I should have been upset about it because it opened my eyes to the possibility that dogs can do this, thus making me aware of the fact that I’m not even safe from dogs when I go surfing. Not that I have ever been surfing, but I felt safe in the knowledge that, if I wanted to, I could do it without being mauled by a dog. Despite this revelation, I thought the whole thing was great. Less great was Kaitlyn’s sunburn.
After spending the morning on the beach, watching the surfing dog, we went to a beachside bar for lunch. It was a surprisingly hot and sunny day, something we hadn’t really anticipated. Because I am wog-white and not Anglo-white, I don’t burn in the sun, I just go black and, therefore, I wasn’t concerned. Kaitlyn, on the other hand, was concerned and found the only seat in the shade. This should have been problem-solved, but someone didn’t see a problem with sticking one arm out into the sun. I explained to her that the sun is a bit like Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak: if a limb or appendage is sticking out of the garment, it isn’t invisible by-proxy. If all of your body is in the shade but one limb is exposed to the sun, it isn’t protected because the rest of your body is. Oh, logic – for some people, it is completely elusive.
Next stop was actual Gibraltar. Gibraltar really is the strangest place. If nothing else, you would have at least heard of the Rock of Gibraltar. Hopefully, you will know of it as one of the Pillars of Hercules but, if nothing else, you will know it from Jay-Z’s rap in Kanye’s “Diamond’s Are Forever”: ‘How could you falter when you the Rock of Gibraltar?’ Clever use of rhyme compromised, in my opinion, by being grammatically incorrect. Seriously, Mr Carter, all you had to do was employ an “are” in there, or if that was too much trouble, make the “you” a “you’re”. English – not as difficult as some people make it. Speaking of English, specifically the English, their continued rule of Gibraltar is a major bone of contention for the Spanish, who continue to assert claim to the territory. In what I assume is a move to continuously rub it into the faces of the Spanish, they have taken every possible British stereotype, placed them on steroids and employed them in a way which makes walking around Gibraltar feel a little bit like walking around a British-equivalent of a Disney World replica “land” a-la Main Street, USA. For me, the best part of Gibraltar is its airport. The main road, Winston Churchill Avenue (see what I mean about Disney World?), intersects the airport runway. Subsequently, every time a plane arrives or departs, the road has to be temporarily closed; there are pedestrian lights on the damn runway. Significantly less amusing is the runway itself, which is amongst the most dangerous in the world. I didn’t think I would ever say this, but give me Hobart International Airport any day.
We headed back to the Ghost Town Compound after that. Two things I never thought would happen that evening did: I touched a dog which weighed more than me, and I rode on a motorcycle. When I say I “touched” the dog, I don’t mean I accidently brushed up against it resulting in inadvertent contact, but I actually patted it. From eyewitness reports and the photographic evidence, it appears my expression rapidly shifted back-and-forth between “Amy Eyes” and my half-horror-half-pained “I-have-to-go-to-Glenorchy-because-Norfgayte-Target-is-the-only-one-with-the-top-in-my-size” expression. Still, I patted it. I was experiencing so much personal growth, I was nearly big enough for the dog to ride me.
The next morning Ollie drove us to Algeciras from where we would catch the train to Granada. Although our time in La Línea and (with the dogs) was up, our time with Ollie was not, as he was also heading to Granada on the weekend to compete in a half-marathon. As he dropped us off before he started work, we arrived quite some time before our train. We attempted to go for a walk and seek-out food, but Kaitlyn’s tantrums were in full-swing, strengthened by her backpack rubbing on her sunburn. ‘F@#% THIS. I’M NOT WALKING ANY F@#%ING FURTHER. I’D RATHER SIT HER AND STARVE TO DEATH THAN WALK ANOTHER F@#%ING STEP. I MAY AS WELL BE DEAD ANYWAY, BECAUSE I’M PRACTICALLY A F@#%ING CRIPPLE FROM THIS F@#%ING PACK.’ There was some reference to sunburn rubbing the skin off the shoulder. This then led to the hyperbole of flesh rubbing off with it, leading to a suggestion of cannibalism, which lead to some snide remark about me being a “F@#%ing vegetarian who deserves to starve to death”. So we headed back to the train station, where we settled for coffee and toast from the cafeteria. My coffee was surprisingly quite good and, although Kaitlyn’s hot chocolate was presented as a deconstructed instant affair, it too was alright.
Eventually hunger won out, so Kaitlyn stayed back with the packs while I went in search of a Mercadonnnna-Mercadona. I found one about half-an-hour’s walk away, a walk on which I was followed by a creepy old guy. I was definitely not in a good part of town, that much was clear, but I figured if I could handle a giant demon dog, I could handle a creepy Spaniard. When I left the Mercadonnnna-Mercadona, the man was hanging around outside and proceeded to follow me all the way back to the train station. I was starting to think that maybe I was being scouted for trade into child sex slavery and began to feel appropriately concerned. When I found myself at a busy intersection, I seized the opportunity and lost him, leaving him standing on the other side of the traffic without any human traffic of his own. Don’t mess with a midget, garcon.
Giant dogs, sunburn and stalkers: hurdles managed without the slightest falter. Jay-Z, I see you your poor grammar, and raise you accurate syntax. India, Cheianne and the Alhambra await – Granada, here we come!
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