Ronda, Gibraltar

We had thought about taking the short route to Gibraltar (due south from Ronda to the big coastal highway, then south on that highway), but we had heard so many horrible things about the coastal highway that we decided to take all back roads until just outside of Gibraltar.

We had a big climb outside of Ronda, a good descent, and then another huge climb. It was brutal but beautiful. It looked a lot like Nepal, without the waterfalls. The land was green, the roads were clinging to edges of cliffs, and every once in awhile, you could look way down on the red tile roofs of some white houses in a village perched on some mountain below.

We stopped at a little cafe for coffee and some sandwiches. It was very chilly that morning. A group of Brits on a day ride out of Ronda also stopped in the same cafe. The old man running the cafe was very nice and ended up giving us two free coffees.

It stayed cold, hilly and windy for a good bit longer. We knew we had a couple thousand feet of altitude to lose before Gibraltar but not sure when it would happen. Finally we reached a high pass then down we went. It took less than half an hour to lose all our altitude and get down almost to sea level. The temperature was considerably higher and soon the sun came out.

From the bottom of the hill we still had a long way to Gibraltar but the road followed a river almost all the way so we made excellent time.

About 15 km from Gibraltar we stopped at a little bar where a couple of excellent road bikes were parked out front. I thought we would talk to the other riders. Instead a rather strange man claiming to be a musician dominated the conversation. He was a skinny guy, unshaven, with an intense unnerving stare, sitting alone at the bar on a stool. I never even saw the female bartender talk to him. A creepy guy. He was intrigued at first with the French Horn so I brought it in and played a couple songs but otherwise I was downing my beer as fast as I could so we could get away from him. It was becoming apparent that he was gay and trying to pick me up. He wanted me to play my horn in his band.

While Joan was in the bathroom he gave me his phone number. We left as soon as Joan got back and I got rid of the phone number as soon as possible.

We intended to camp in Spain then go into Gibraltar in the morning. But we spent an hour or so of hell looking for a campground. There was one on our map but no locals seemed to know anything about it. Finally we decided the hell with it and rode on towards Gibraltar.

We had some great views of it as we approached the rock. It was more impressive looking than I expected. We spent our last pesatas in a little restaurant then crossed the border.

Gibraltar has a very strange status. It is part of Britain but NOT port of the EU. The money is Gibraltar pounds which are worth exactly one British pound but you can not spend Gibraltar pounds in Britain (though you can spend British pounds in Gibraltar). Spain also wants Gibraltar back so the two countries are always squabbling over it. The border crossing can have lines five or six hours long when the countries are arguing. You could not cross the border at all until the 1980s.

Spain has a point about Gibraltar being geographically Spanish. However, it has been British for about as long as the land between Canada and Mexico has been the U.S. Very very few people in Gibraltar want it to become Spanish. It feels British.

The people who suffer the most from this battle are Gibraltar's immigrants. British citizens do not need a visa to enter Spain. Moroccans and Indians, who have been working in Gibraltar for years, do need a visa. But they can't get such a visa in Gibraltar so they can't enter Spain. There are no boats anymore across the straits to Morocco. All flights out of Gibraltar's airport go to London.

Gibraltar is a big rock but it's only a rock. There's only so much to do. For them it must get to be a little like the other place known as the rock: Alcatraz.

We met an Indian guy who said he couldn't even go to England. The only place he could go was India, via the London airport. I suppose from India he could arrange a visa to other countries, but they only last so long.

We were there two nights and liked the rock just fine. We climbed as close to the tip top as we dared. I really enjoyed it. We also passed the apes (really monkeys) that are a Gibraltar tradition. In WWII they were worried the apes would die out so Churchill himself ordered more brought from Africa. Now there are about 30.  (Joan: One of them looked just like Eric does when he thinks about getting a job).
 

After months of stumbling through Spanish, I enjoyed speaking so easily. I talked everyone up. At every shop or restaurant I started conversations. I had okay pub and campground Spanish but it was always an effort on both my part and the listeners' to communicate. It was nice in Gibraltar to be able to make little jokes and understand other people's jokes. By the time we left, 48 hours after arriving, we were meeting friends on the street and calling them by their first names.

There's a very strange thing when you enter Gibraltar: you have to ride across the runway. The close the road when planes take off, which is only a few times a day.

We spent most of our time in Gibraltar changing our minds about where to go next. We flipped a coin to see if we should go to Morocco or Italy. Italy won the toss. But then we discovered that all flight from Gibraltar go to London. This meant that just about every place in Europe cost about the same no matter how far it was from Gibraltar. So we increased our possible list of countries to all include all of Europe.

First the Baltics came up. We figured we weren't feeling quite adventurous enough to go back to the third world, but the second world sounded good.

We bought a guide book to the Baltics (from our friend Jane). Joan didn't get past the food section. The food in France, Spain and Portugal had been fantastic. We totally loved it. But Estonia sounded just awful. I was up for it anyway. We still had the stove and they would still have pasta. But Joan couldn't stomach the stewed lard descriptions in the books. Jane was nice enough to exchange the guide book for us.

Then somewhere we got the idea of Budapest. The food was meat and potatoes there too but it sounded a thousand times better than Estonian food. Plus it was still a bit early to be going as far north as the Baltics.

All the travel agents quoted us astronomical prices for flights to Budapest (via London of course) but they also told us the best thing to do was go to London then find a cheap flight from there.

So a few hours later we road our bikes across the runway, put them on a plane and flew to London.

Next: Three days and one Night in London

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