Almeria to The Rock…!!

The Plaza Flores in Almeria, from my hotel window, where locals sat until after midnight, enjoying food and spirit in equal quantities...

I expected Spain and Spaniards in general, to be in a state of euphoria after their World Cup win, but was surprised to find a very muted response to their victory… A few Spanish flags hung from windows and balconies and out on the streets, under the trees on the pedestrian avenues, people sat and chatted quietly… Perhaps there is just too much football in Spain…!! I had heard that on the evening before, millions of Spaniards had gathered in the streets through the country to celebrate, but just 24 hours later, all was business as usual…

I spent the day sorting out a Sim card and trying to change money… I discovered that banks close at 2.30pm in Almeria, so I would have to wait until the following day… Between about 1.00pm and 5.00pm, practically every business shuts its doors and its owners retire to eat their main meal of the day, and have a quiet siesta, before returning to work for another four hours… Restaurants stay open until after midnight, and the streets are filled with locals walking their dogs, or just strolling slowly down all the pedestrian walkways that dominate the area around my hotel…

A beautiful highway, made to ride at high speed until you find out how much petrols costs...

By the African standards that I had become used to, things are hellish expensive here! Late in the afternoon, I walked into a “Cafeteria” to have a light meal, and ordered a sandwich from the menu that had no listed prices printed on it… While I waited, I looked around me and noticed that the waiters were wearing ties and the maître was wearing a smart black suit…  I had been too tired to notice this little fact before I sat down, and began to take a few guesses as to how much the sandwich would cost… When the bill was brought, I nearly fell off my chair… A wallet-numbing R147.00 for a sandwich…!! The waiter seemed disappointed when I rejected his offer of a glass of wine… I could probably have bought a few bottles back home for the price he was asking for a glass of the stuff here…!

While walking the streets earlier that morning, I had made another startling discovery:

Girls in Spain have knees and ankles…!! No kidding…!! And they show them off by wearing short skirts too…!! Talk about a culture shock…!! This was in such a marked contrast to what I had experienced for the past two month since entering Ethiopia and Sudan, and riding through North Africa… I’m afraid that I could not help staring at acres of flesh on display, half expecting an angry Imam to come dashing down the road at any minute, ordering the shameful hussies to cover up…!! I also came to the conclusion that bra’s were either frightfully expensive, or in very short supply in these parts…

Tunnels have been blasted through the mountains to speed up travel along the Costa del Sol...

Back in the relatively inexpensive safety of my room, I Googled “BMW Motorrad Dealers in Spain” and discovered that there were two of them in the area I would be riding through the next day, but trying to make contact with them proved impossible… Maybe they were on Siesta… I needed to get the Big Fella serviced, as I had covered another 10 500 kms since his last service in Nairobi. There was also my rear light to get sorted out, and after riding through the Sahara, I was certain that my air filter contained more than just a sprinkling of sand…

In some areas the road runs alongside the dazzling blue of the Mediterranean...

Almeria lies in the province of Andalucía, and includes the Costa del Sol, all the way south and west to the Portuguese border. I planned to ride down this coast to Gibraltar, about 360 kms away and then head on to Tarifa, the most southern point of Continental Europe. I had made contact with an old family friend who lives in Gibraltar, and had been invited to make a stopover there on my way to Tarifa. John Loudon had lived in Gibraltar for the past 15 years and came from an area south of Johannesburg, where he had grown up, and his parents still lived. I had very gratefully accepted his invitation, and set about planning my route for the next morning…

Playground of the rich and famous, and home to many a wealthy foreigner...

Once again, I took an unintended short tour of the town, before finding my way onto the highway that led west for Malaga and Marbella. This little excursion caused me to remind myself that avoiding most of the major cities in Europe was the only way I would remain sane over the next few months. Once out on the highway, the signs were easy to follow, and I tore down the highway, trying to make up for lost time. I was not the only one doing the tearing… I was regularly overtaken by cars traveling at speeds in excess of my 140 km/h, and I began searching for radar guns and other ingenious forms of law enforcement that no doubt would be in evidence here in Europe… I needn’t have bothered… Apparently traffic officers tend to concentrate their efforts in and around the little towns where the speed limit come downs to 50 km/h… Out on the highway, the speed limit of 120 km/h is most ignored.

After Libya and Algeria, a shock awaited me at my very first fuel stop in Europe...

The Autovia del Mediterraneo runs down the coastline of Spain, avoiding most of the smaller towns completely, and skirting the major ones. This beautifully constructed highway is a series of viaducts that span deep ravines and wide valleys, and blasts through mountains using tunnels dug through them. The longest viaduct I crossed was almost 700 metres long, and the longest tunnel I rode through was carved over one and a half kms through a mountain. The Sierra Nevada Mountains form a buffer to the north of the highway, and with the dazzling blue Mediterranean to the south, I thundered over the viaducts and through the many tunnels and on to Malaga…

The Big Fella’s roar as we rode through the tunnels was a huge surprise the first time I heard it, and from then on, each time we entered one, I opened the throttle so that he could make as much noise as possible… It reminded me of a jet engine, so loud was the sound that bounced off the walls and enveloped us… It was the biggest “surround sound” experience that I had ever had!!

Lunch was a sparse affair... A bread roll and a small cup of coffee. The left hand pannier finally gets to join in on the flag action...

There are many “Ultra City” type service stations along the highway, the biggest and best being that of Repsol, where not only can you stop for fuel, but you can also shop, and have a shower in their pristine bathrooms… Ferry tickets to Morocco are also sold at special stands, to alleviate queuing at the ports further down the coast. After a polite little cough from the Big Fella, to indicate that he was thirsty, I pulled off the highway and into a Shell service station, which was part of a huge shopping mall… On arrival, I noticed with mounting concern, that there was not a single pump jockey in sight… Could they be on strike…? Had I stumbled into the midst of some “Industrial Action” as we euphemistically call it back home…?

Hell no…!! This was one of those self-service “jobbies” and I had never used one before. I was not about to embarrass myself by blocking a pump while I stood scratching my head wondering what the heck I was supposed to do, so I sat the bike on the edge of the forecourt and watched the comings and goings of a few cars, sussing out the situation, and only when I was sure that I would not cause and “incident” did I ride forward and begin filling my tank… I noticed that folk would leave their cars in front of the pumps and stroll into the shop to pay for their fuel, buy a few odds and ends, and in as just a relaxed manner, stroll back to their cars. Other cars waiting patiently behind them for their turn… Try leaving your car in front of the pumps in Africa while you do a bit of shopping, and you’re likely to find it pushed out of the way, and a small crowd waiting to string you up on the nearest bit of suitable infrastructure…!!

After three hours of whizzing down the highway for three hours, Gibraltar was just down the road...

The price of petrol here is an eye-watering R11.80 a litre!! I pointed to the price on the digital readout, tapped the Big Fella on his tank, and in a voice as stern as I was able to muster, told him that he “would have to go further on less, in future, otherwise I would swap him for a bicycle…”

Back on the highway, we passed through Marbella, playground of the rich and famous, and while I was trying to catch glimpse of Kate Moss and Angelina Jolie, I missed the turnoff to the coastal road, and ended up on the main highway, littered with Toll Gates… (See how much trouble women can get you into…?) The first toll was R62.00; a few kilometres further was another one of R39.50, and then another of R26.00… At the last one, I asked the guy behind the plate glass window, how many more of the bloody things lay between me and Gibraltar, and was relieved when he told me that this was the last one…

I try out yet another new Fanta flavour while waiting for John in La Linea...

John's apartment overlooks the Marina, with the Spanish Coast in the background...

I turned off the highway and into a bewildering set of roundabouts, before I found the right road leading to “The Rock”… I had earlier been advised by John to wait for him in the town of La Linea de la Concepcion, which was only a few minutes’ drive from where he lived in Gibraltar, so that he could guide me through the heavy traffic that was blocking the border area. A large fair ground was being constructed very close to the border, and roads had been closed to accommodate it. John duly arrived on his beautiful black Triumph 955i and then explained what I would need to do to get through the border quickly…

Turns out that all I had to do was hold my passport between my teeth and ride through the gates and into Gibraltar…!! By far the quickest border crossing I had ever experienced… Had John not been there to show me how it was done, I no doubt would have sat in the 5 km queue of trucks and cars that were lined up to enter Gibraltar…

We rode a short distance and then stopped on the edge of the runaway of Gibraltar Airport, which crosses the road into town. When planes land, the road is closed, primarily to avoid “death by aero-plane”… Imagine tootling along and then out of the corner of your eye, you notice something a lot larger than a bus barreling towards you…!! Apparently an unpleasant experience…!!

After following John through the narrow streets of the town, with the massive Rock of Gibraltar dominating every view, we arrived at his apartment on the Queens Quay Marina, with its amazing views across the bay to the town of Algeciras in Spain, and the busy shipping lane that lies between it and Gibraltar… John insisted that I park the grubby Big Fella in his garage, while his shiny Tiger would stay out in the open parking under the apartment block… Up in number 107, I was introduced to his partner Loredana and their delightful two year old daughter, Jenny… We spent the afternoon getting to know each other, and John made arrangements for me to visit the local bike mechanic the next day to enquire about servicing the bike.

The Rock of Gibraltar dominates the skyline from miles around...

Later that evening, we retired to the little restaurant downstairs, where I met the owner Pepe, and over a few beers and Scotches, discussed my plans for the next leg of my trip, as well as the many interesting and little known facts about Gibraltar. John is a hive of information, and is as interested in the history of places as I am… I was left slack-jawed at some of the amazing things he had to tell me about the place where he had lived for the past 15 years…

The Gypsy Biker arrives at the Northern "Pillar of Hercules", Gibraltar...

Without fear of being contradicted, I can tell you that “Gibraltar Rocks!!!”….

©GBWT 2010