The Monumental Rock

---

Today we’ve got a long and messy day of travelling to Tangier in Morocco, via Malaga, where we’ve got several hours to kill while we wait for our late evening flight. The bus that we came on to Nerja stopped at every pretty coastal settlement along the route, and we‘re looking forward to again enjoying the excellent coastal scenery on the way back … and as an added bonus the trip will again be a long one, soaking up some of those hours we need to kill. But it seems Mr Murphy has again decided to intervene in our lives. The bus back is an express; there are no stops, so so much for the time we were looking to kill … and it doesn’t follow the coast so there’s no scenery to look at. I’m sure the day can only improve from here.

We dump our luggage and set up shop on a park bench under a shady tree in the very pleasant Parque de Malaga. As we gaze out at the leafy scenery it’s a bit hard not to notice a monument in front of us … well a sort of monument … a large rock covered in bird droppings. It’s only recognisable as a monument and not just some random rock because it’s sitting on a pedestal with a small plaque attached to the side of it. The Google machine tells us that it’s there to commemorate members of the Orueta Family … good to know although we’ve still got no idea who they are, or more likely were. We Google some more. Of course, it should have been obvious, who else would you commemorate with a rock … other than a family of eminent geologists …. We’re going to have to be a lot more on the ball if we’re going to survive the day.

As we wander along the promenade we spot a very stern looking security guard severely berating a young man for having the temerity to parade around without his tee shirt on. That gets us reflecting on the seemingly broad diversity of acceptable dress standards here depending on your precise location. Only a hundred metres or so away is Malagueta Beach, where roughly thirty percent of the young ladies forgot to pack their bikini tops when they left home this morning. Perhaps unsurprisingly there’s no sign there of any stern looking security guards requesting any of them to cover up.

We decide to save a few pennies and catch the train to the airport. This should be easy; it’s the end of the line and there’s hardly anyone on the platform, so the train should be empty. But it seems all is not well with the train system today. Multiple cancellations and what feels like many hours later and the platform’s now packed. The train arrives and we struggle in with our luggage. It’s standing room only, but comfortably so, so we take up our positions in the doorway opposite the one we came in through. The train takes off and all is well with the world … well it is until we arrive at the next station. The doors open, and a seething screaming mass of youthful humanity surges into the carriage. We’re pressed up against the doors and the air is squeezed from our lungs. Where did all these people come from - it feels like half of Spain‘s here? We’ve got no hope of getting to the doors to get out when we get to our stop, and it’s probably a bit late now to be thinking we should have caught a cab. But it’s surprising what a bit of yelling and shoving can do - like Moses at the Red Sea, the crowd parts, and we stumble out onto the airport station platform. That was interesting.

We’ve often commented previously on the seemingly broad diversity of security screening procedures at airports. Do you have to take your shoes off - mostly no, well except in America ... not sure quite what’s special about American shoes. Do you have to take your camera out of your backpack - never … well except that one time they made me take it out … and then also take the lens off to see what plastic explosives I’d managed to stash inside. And my pet bugbear - do you have to take your iPad out of your bag - and that one seems to be about a fifty fifty. Today however the security guys have outdone themselves. Yes you do have to separate your iPad … would it possibly have been useful though if someone had thought to tell us that before it got screened? … so what happens now, well we both have to go back out and get our stuff screened again, and while they’re at it why not screen us both personally again as well. No problem for me, but Issy’s got a metal hip, so she always gets strip searched … well not quite but I suspect that’s what it feels like to her. So having frisked her once, the same person then decides she needs to be frisked again. Do they really think she managed to slip a few rocket launchers into her undies in the few milliseconds while no one was watching … except they were watching - it was all happening right under their noses.

It seems our flight’s quite short … and it’s in a smallish propeller plane. Hmmm. Issy’s looking more than a tad nervous. But it’s OK I assure here. We’re in row 18, which must be right up the back - we’re always told it’s safer back there. And we are indeed in row 18 …. the second row from the front. And what row number are you in if you are sitting right up the back? Well that would of course be row 1. It’s been a strange day.

We land in Tangier, where it’s noticeably cooler, and scramble into a cab. The traffic is utter chaos on an unprecedented scale. The two immutable rules of the road here would seem to be firstly that you must change lanes as often and unpredictably as possible. And secondly you must drive with your hand firmly on the horn at all times. We’re not quite sure what the rules are at roundabouts and intersections … seemingly none - edge your nose in front of your “opponent” and having done so, plant your foot and rely on the will of Allah. I casually suggest to Issy that perhaps we might hire a car here to get around … if looks could kill.

We crawl exhaustedly into the sanctuary of our hotel room …. overlooking the the chaotically busy main drag along the waterfront, which would seem to be “keep your hand on the horn at all times” central. And sound proofing? What sound proofing? My beloved is dead on her feet, but not too out of it to utter a continuous string of profanities at the passing traffic. Hmmm.

---

Comments

[barbie]

hiya
Lovely reading all about your adventures. Hope you enjoy Morocco. Also hope the heat in Italy doesn't stop your enjoying that too. Very much looking forward to meeting up. Xxxx

[DaveandIssy]

Hiya
Having a great time thx. Hope you’re well, and looking forward very much to catching up! Xxx