Chapter 3

PARADISE LOST

I enquire about the local bus services to the border, and the lady offers to go out in a while, to find out more. Whilst she is out, Yolanda and I spend much of the time in idle conversation, sometimes glancing at a magazine and occasionally gazing out of the window. It is a change to sit in the quiet awhile and it is a long time before the car returns.

'No buses at all,' the lady announces, 'But don't worry I will take you to the border myself.'

As our benefactor drives us ever deeper into the Pyrennees she asks us of our hopes and plans, which she eagerly endorses - filling me with much needed reassurance. The castellated walls of the border post come into view and as we draw near the car slows and halts. Waving our lady friend goodbye we turn to meet the officials standing there in front of the road barrier.

We proffer our passports to the guards and patiently wait their return, but as it happens we are in for a shock, for the guards decide not to let us pass. Recognising the gravity of the situation I determine not to take their decision seriously but to treat it as a joke. Smilingly, I ask them to buck up and stamp our passports. But they are not won over that easily, so I think to mention that we do not wish to stay in Spain, that we are merely travelling through on our way to Morocco. Apparently I have found the magic words, the 'open sesame', for although it with very evident reluctance, they stamp our passports and raise the barrier for us.

I suppress my desire to dance a jig and instead take a British £5 note to the bureau de change and change it into Spanish currency. Setting off, we take off down the steep winding road and once safely out of earshot of the guards we fume and rant as we recall the incident back at the border, it seems so unfair of them to put us through all that. Met with this response some might have given up and turned back.

The sun is by now gently setting. Hurriedly we march on but find the distance to the next village to be a very long way. A laubergio (inn) comes into view and after a few moments hesitation we enter and order a cheese roll and coffee for each of us. When I come to pay, I reflect that if the cost of our snack is anything to go by, we are going to have trouble surviving our trip through Spain; I worry if we can afford a hotel for the night. But, after our snack, we press on in hope of finding modestly priced lodgings. The trees and hedgerows are alive with the sound of nature, in fact it is no exaggeration to say that, the sound of grasshoppers grass hopping is so loud that we struggle to made ourselves heard. We stop to watch as several lizards scuttle across the road, barely distinguishable from the trail of dust they stir. We decide not to stay in a hotel even if we find one, as it seems a better idea to sleep rough; after all it is a warm dry night so we might well soon find a suitable place to camp.The light is failing fast as we make our way along the road, hunting out somewhere to sleep.

'At last! I was beginning to think we wouldn't find anywhere,' I say to myself as I heave myself up and attempt to climb over an iron gate. With the aid of the glow from the sky I convince myself that we have found a good spot. It appears a large field, so to avoid any unwelcome attention we decide to sleep adjacent to the road where we will be screened by a vast clump of bushes. Mercifully the grasshoppers and lizards are not in evidence here - all is peaceful. As we prepare our bedding for the night, I bolster the flap of my sleeping bag with my jeans and a sweater, and then I take a leak in the bushes. Before getting into my sleeping bag I place our passports and cash reserve in my 'pillow', then I settle down to stare at the sky which although it is fairly cloudy I find I am still able to see the multitude of stars. I think of how far we have come. It is wonderful to have a place to stretch and relax. a chance for us to get over the strain and worries of the day. Winding my wristwatch I murmur goodnight to Yolanda.

'Have you got the passports and the money safely?' she asks.

'Safe and sound,' I reply. Making myself as comfortable as possible and closing my eyes I offer a quiet prayer for our welfare and for that of my mother.

* * *

Awakening I can't place where I am, nor more importantly who I am. But it only takes a quick shufti to confirm where we actually are. Suddenly a shot of pain disturbs my train of thought.

'Ah my face. Ow Ow Ow,' I yell.

'What is it?' comes a bleary voice.

'My face! It's really painful, take a look at it would you!'

'Oh! You've been bitten they look bad,' Yolanda solemnly announces.

My eyes light on some insects parading over her footwear. Yolanda's footwear, my face. 'Now that's hardly a fair deal'. I rub and massage my face which unfortunately only makes the pain worse. My attention switches to my sleeping bag which I now notice is damp, no doubt the effect of the morning dew. I peel off the bedding and get dressed, lace my boots and pack up my belongings.

Shaking the red insects off Yolanda's sandals I offered them to her, the sandals that is, not the insects. I brush my fingers over my cheeks and can feel the bites, swollen and very sore.

Back on the road we walk the distance to Port Bou, a picturesque little town of pleasant houses and shops with shuttered windows. In the cobbled market square we find a water point where discreetly we brush our teeth and freshen ourselves up. On brushing my hair I discover that it has become matted and totally unmanageable, but I do my best to make myself presentable before entering a local cafe to breakfast on orange juice and a roll at no great cost. Since neither of us knew a word of Spanish we barely limp by with the language. Yolanda seems surprised she does not understand for she somehow assumed that Spanish would be similar to Italian. As it happens, I am secretly glad about this since I haven't enjoyed being translated for, it is better for us both to be on a level.

In the town we catch sight of an officer of the guardia, who with his handgun and devilish black hat has Yolanda cowering in fear. Personally I can't relate to her fear but I let it guide me and keep myself from his view. I get the impression that Yolanda has heard something about these police from someone. But, I don't understand much about the administration here, my knowledge is limited to the name of the boss, General Franco, whose his face stamped on every coin

From Port Bou the Pyrenean views are most pleasant with verdant rounded peaks, slopes etched with paths roads and streams. I can easily understand someone wanting to explore them.

We find a good position to hitchhike from, by a signpost which reads 'Barcelona'. But the morning is still young and so the traffic is few and far between. Standing waiting, I scrutinise the house in front of us, its several storie, the large green painted shuttered windows. I ponder too the weathered faces of the adults, the dark eyed children that pass us and at the little houses on the cliff top looking out to sea. Being high above the level of the sea I can only just make out the shapes of vessels floating upon it. All the while I mechanically raise my thumb at the sound of any approaching car. Of a sudden I become aware of raised voices. A van has stopped, its occupants wave and shout to us.

'Come on hop in!' a voice calls.

The van is coming from Britain, they have fixed seats to the sides of the interior of the back of the vehicle. We soon bundle in and strike up conversation. They are curious about us and appear impressed with our plan to head for India. They are only coming to Spain and Majorca, an island off the mainland. There is an openness about these people that attracts me, I even feel a stirring in me to drop our plans and share a holiday with these young people with whom I have quickly developed a strong sense of friendship. They encourage us to join them. But Yolanda seems determined to be aloof and distant but I continue chatting, charmed by their camaraderie and enthusiasm. The penny drops that she is not drawn towards their company and for a moment I think I detect a faint air of jealousy. I am embarrassed when I realise that our companions have noticed her reactions. I notice Yolanda scowling.

After a few more miles the van pulls up, the doors are flung open and we all pile out. They want to stock up on provisions and also to find somewhere to perform their ablutions. Yolanda uses body language and facial expressions to tell me that she wants us to break company with them. Though I feel inclined to try and persuade her otherwise it is obvious that her attitude is deeply entrenched so I don't chance it. Having taken our leave of our friends, Yolanda and I walk away in an uncomfortable silence. It is quite some time before anything like normal relations are resumed.

We just keep trudging on, and by the time someone else stops to offer us a lift we are exhausted. The driver is a Spanish businessman who fortunately has quite a good command of English and proves pleasant company. For what seems like many hours we drive along the coastal road, I spend much of the time idly peering out through the windows. It seems the Spanish have a thing about fortifications, there appear to be turrets and castellated walls everywhere.

Eventually, our driver drops us near the beach of a major town.

'Multo gracias,' we call as he speeds away. We are hungry so we spend some fifty odd pesetas purchasing bread cheese, oranges and a carton of milk, convincing ourselves we are getting better value for money than by eating in a cafe. Then we make our way along the beach to find somewhere to sit down and eat and discover a beautiful hut constructed from palm branches and leaves. It is as though we have stumbled on some idyllic South Sea paradise, we wonder that no one else is about. Settling down we sit and ate our al fresco meal to tranquil sound of the gentle rippling waves gently lapping on the shore. No one comes to stake their claim over the hut and as the light starts to fade we decide to move our belongings inside. Then lighting up cigarettes, we sit ourselves down again and watch the splendour of the setting sun - gorgeous reds, orange and pinks shot the sky. For a while we sit and watch the fading afterglow and at the sparks from beach fires in the distance. At the standing pipe along the beach, we clean our teeth then return to our hut intent on an early night. Lighting a candle we lie for a few minutes, enjoying the coarse rustic charm so enhanced by the flickering light. We savour the situation to the full before contentedly wishing each other goodnight. We seem to be getting the hang of the travelling life; it really seems that our plans are working out. Perhaps we really will get to India. So far I haven't really believed it, but now it seems just remotely possible.

* * *

We sleep soundly and neither of us arises before eight o'clock. In the bright light of day our 'paradise' looks even better than before. After freshening up we finish the remainder of the milk and bread. As we bask in the beauty of our surroundings we plan to stay for a few days. The general feeling of well-being and the lazing about soon turns our thoughts to other things. We return to our hut, peel off our clothes and yield to our passions.

Having re-affirmed our feelings for each other, we lie in each others arms without a care in the world. Oddly, I suddenly feel a sudden urge to get up and put on my clothes; Yolanda gets up too and pulls on her dress.

As we re-emerge into the bright sunlight I see a sight that chills any ardour or passion. There past approaching us, walking at a pace along the beach is a figure pushing a bicycle, a policeman, a guardia! I avert my gaze and sit down pretending not to notice him. As he draws closer he halts and stares at us in tight-lipped muteness, all the while leaning on his bicycle.

Suddenly and harshly he snarls questions in broken English - questions as to our citizenship and of how long we have been here. Sensing danger in his manner I answer that we have only just arrived. His dark mood softens perceptibly, he looked less angry, less threatening. He stands a while, pondering the situation looking from one the other of us.

'Pass-e-Ports!' he suddenly demands, holding his hand rigidly out towards us. He studies them a long while before looking up again. 'Oooh kaay!' he says fixing me with his steely eyes, ' Now Go!' he spits out his command, gesturing back up the beach.

We stare at him defiantly, but instinctively I realise he not one to mess with. We retreat inside the hut to silently gather our baggage before obediently making our way back up the beach. All the while he stands, leaning on his bicycle, giving us the evil eye.

I reflect what would have befallen us if we hadn't been dressed, if he had come some minutes earlier? Yolanda often prattled on about 'listening to the small still voice within' a quote from her 'Isis' book. Perhaps the authors knew a thing or two after all. But I confess I am more than a little annoyed to be turfed out of our beach paradise in this way and when we are out of earshot of the policeman we shower him with abuse. But the over-riding emotion is not one of anger but one of relief, that we were out of his clutches and have thus avoided finding out what the inside of a Spanish jail looks like.

My facial sores still irritate me, wandering along the seafront I sense that everybody who passes us is staring at them. It is difficult for me not to think about them. We keep on walking and come to a railway station. We stop and gaze about and find myself studying the crowds, at the tourists milling around. I notice a middle aged gent in white short sleeved shirt, baggy trousers and sandals, who heads for a newspaper stand where a quantity of English newspapers are spread. By the intent expression of tourist I am watching, I figure the newspaper vendor is on his way to a quick sale. I note the headlines of the Daily Mirror and Daily Telegraph, there is a photograph of Alec Douglas-Home, another of the prime minister Harold Wilson. 'Oh who cares?' I muse. My schoolmasters had tried to give us the habit of reading newspapers though in my case they were unsuccessful. In this sun drenched holiday resort of the Costa Brava, who on earth needs to be kept up with the news, especially from out-of-date papers? 'Who wants yesterday's papers? Nobody in the world!' go the lyrics of the Rolling Stones' song. I remember the rest of the lyrics and hum and sing the song.

I get chatting with an English tourist of about my own age, togged out in shorts with a camera swinging from his neck, grasping in his hand a bulging holdall. He explains that he has the Spanish equivalent of a 'Rail Rover' which affords him cheap unlimited travel around Spain. I am musing on the possibility of catching a train down the coast and therefore consult the railway map and timetable, it might be a nice a change from hitching. Although a good idea, on the surface, it I know it is silly to fritter away our precious funds. I am tempted but I do not yield. As the train pulls away from the station I try to convince myself that we wouldn't have enjoyed the trip.

Our next lift whisks us off up the coast taking us further up the coast to a huge resort with numerous high rise hotels. Surveying the shops I notice a supermarket, something of a novelty back in England. Since we don't know the language it seems a good way for us to choose our groceries, we can just browse and shop at leisure. But as soon as we enter the store the mawkish looking woman in attendance gives us her total attention, babbling in her native tongue and shadowing our every movement. She proves herself to be an utter pest. Realising that there is to be no let up in her relentless attention we opt to buy nothing at all. Whether she just hasn't adjusted to the principles of supermarket shopping or that she is just suspicious of foreigners I am unsure.

Since the heat is making us very weary, it is not unreasonable that we decide to take a break from travelling and instead go and lie down on the gloriously sandy beach. There are already hordes of sunbathers stretching themselves out, lying in their costumed bodies browning their otherwise fair skins. Yolanda produces her one-piece bathing suit and my pair of swimming trunks from the rucksack. In time honoured tradition we shuffle about uncomfortably beneath our towels and after considerable exertions emerge all too conscious of our pale un-holidayed skin. We take to the blue waters but I am careful to keep an eye on our belongings. I wade in and cool myself down whilst Yolanda has a brief swim. Soon we are back on the beach, towelling ourselves down and getting on with the serious task of tanning ourselves. We apply suntan oil liberally over our faces, limbs and bodies, the sun is scorching hot, hotter than I have ever experienced it. Determined to make the most of this coveted opportunity to get a decent tan we long lie here, shifting about, rolling over, turning our faces this way and that. The severe overheating and the mind numbing boredom of lying here so long tests my patience.

'I'm going to get a drink, what about if I get some oranges as well?' Yolanda suggests.

'Good idea. I'll look after the stuff.'

Yolanda slips on her dress and is off.

As the time slips by, I begin to fret that something might have happened to her. All to often the mind does that, it seems to need to find something to agitate about.

Yolanda returns and the oranges taste really good. We settle down to browning ourselves for a good while longer, but eventually I have really had enough and am feeling woozy. It is time to get on.

Standing on the main coast road waiting for a lift I am feeling very de-hydrated. I figure it would be a really nice luxury to be able to pop back to a hotel room. I am feeling slightly faint and even a bit sick and actually we both start to feel somewhat desperate, so desperate in fact that we made a pact that we will go in any direction we can get a lift. Standing on opposite sides of the road, we raise our thumbs to any passing vehicle.

By good fortune the car that stops for us is pointing in the right direction, down the coast.The breeze through the open window, though warm is nonetheless refreshing. I become curious that the road appears to have vast pools of water gathered here and there on it. But I notice that I never hear a splash as we go through them - as we approach they disappear only to be replaced by others more distant - mirages nothing more. The glare of the sun is too much for Yolanda who dons her sunglasses. I have no choice but to squint. Dust is everywhere, on the road and in the air. From the other direction a steady stream of vehicles flow - oil tankers, lorries and cars belch forth exhaust, filling our nostrils with fumes. Telegraph poles, sign posts and houses flash by us. Horns resound in my head, as again and again, we overtake and are overtaken.

As the day wears on, the glare and the heat subsides and the draft from the window blows cooler. The neon advertisements glow in the twilight sky. I become aware that oncoming vehicles are now showing their lights. Relentlessly our driver drives on, stopping only for traffic signals.

It is well into evening before our driver pulls the car over to the side of the road and stops. He tells us he needs to sleep. Grateful of the chance for a rest, I resolve however not to sleep. Instinctively I feel cautious. As I chew gum I watch first our driver and then Yolanda fall to their slumbers. The unearthly glow of the streetlights colours the air. I light a cigarette but find it difficult to ascertain how much remains unsmoked, so I take to feeling the length of the cigarette and as a consequence get rather sore fingers. My girlfriend surfaces first and we speak together in hushed whispers so as not to disturb the driver.

From out of the gloom comes sounds of life - yawns, grunts and a long sigh - before finally our driver's head bobs up. Opening the car door he then lets his feet fall to the ground outside and leans over to rub his legs. Turning to us he indicates that we should await his return and with no more ado he makes off, disappearing into a nearby building. Yolanda and I exchange questioning looks. I decide to open the packet of Spanish cigarettes I had bought earlier, and discover them to be even stronger than French ones, they tear at the back of my throat. Coughing savagely I realise I desperately need a drink (and even a decent meal maybe?) but certainly not another series of smoky gulps. Too much heat, too much smoking. I am feeling decidedly unreal and uncomfortable made all the worse by the effects of severe sunburn brought about by our stint on the beach.

Around the street lamps night moths dizzily fly. I tire of waiting. Where is our driver? What is he up to? As if by way of an answer I notice a figure emerging from the building behind us, it is a man carrying something and he is heading towards the car. I only recognise it is our driver as he knocks on the window with the back of his hand. Catching the gist I lower the window and take the bag he offers, opening it and finding it contains filled rolls, bottles of juice and cigarettes. Reseating himself he leaves his door open and the tiny light within the car stays alight which means we can now see each other properly. A smell of aftershave exudes from his beaming face and he now looks totally refreshed and wide-awake. I am pleased to find the refreshing juice and the food works wonders on my system. When we were almost done with our meal our driver takes to handing other fancies such as biscuits and sweet bars to us.

Now it is our turn to freshen up. We stumble out of the car for a much-needed walk about. It felt wonderful to stretch my legs again. Soon we are back in the car, now fully awake and ready for the road. The driver is now quite chatty which starts to make for a pleasanter, easier journey. Traversing kilometre after kilometre of road, with our headlights gamely warning us of the twists and turns of the way. Valencia and then it is Alicante and then onwards towards Almeria, keeping mainly to the coastal route. I begin to realise that any chances of seeing Madrid or Granada are slowly dissolving.

As the day progresses one lift gives way to another, our drivers always apparently taking companionship as fair exchange for their generosity.

We have already come a long way away from London in more ways than one. Along unfamiliar roads we have sped forth on our way crossing bridges and catching many sights along the way such as vineyards, mountains, tollhouses, windmills and watermills. We have even made a short trip through the desert, where, according to our driver, some cowboy films have been made - the ghost town of a movie set stands useless and surreal, the area now being deserted by all but wild animals.

The journey so falteringly begun is gradually gathering momentum. As the miles flash by my spirits rise, I am pleasantly surprised how well we are taking to life on the road. I enjoy observing, seeing how the people are living, looking all the time for some inspiration, something to show me how to live a better life.

We stop in a small village high in the hills and our driver disappears off to a bakers. Taking this opportunity we visit a nearby bar in search of a toilet. We try a variety of words that might convey our need - loo, toilet, toilette, cabinito, lavatorie - even mimes and gestures but to no avail. Had we waited for our driver things would have been easier for us, but I am growing desperate so I trespass into the back of the kitchen and locate the toilet myself. I wait with the nodding, grinning locals whilst Yolanda too disappears into the back. When our driver put in a rather belated appearance, the woman in charge of the bar explains the situation to him amidst explosions of laughter all round. He has brought with him some bread which he hands to me, to our surprise tasting sweet; not a crumb gets wasted.

Come eveningtime our current lift is at an end and we are left standing on the side of the road in the fading light. Since it is late and we have travelled far, it seems a good idea to find somewhere to sleep and so climb the verge to find a comfortable spot to lie down. Out of sight of the traffic we will most likely be safe for the night, so we arrange our coats and sleeping bags to settle down and with difficulty try shutting out the sound of the traffic that sweeps up from the busy nearby motorway.