Don’t Take off Your Helmet

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Today we finally get to go on our postponed tour to the Caminito del Rey, the Path of the King… well that’s assuming they’ve fixed the brakes on the bus. And if they haven’t, well our last post was probably just that. We get to the pickup point a few minutes early, but the bus is full, which probably means our pick up’s the last. We run the gauntlet of angry stares to the few spare seats up the back. Fortunately a couple of gents get in several minutes after us, so we’ve now been relegated to only third and fourth on the list of most despised passengers.

First stop is the impossibly cute village of Ardales perched on a hillside some sixty kilometres or so north-west of Malaga. The absolute number one rule here would seem to be that you must paint your house white, and it must have a red tiled roof, and absolutely no departures from this will be tolerated. I‘m half tempted to test this theory by heading into the local hardware store and asking for a can of purple house paint, but I’m sensing that that mightn’t end well. The streets are impossibly steep, and we suspect that if you live here you’re probably very fit, unless you’ve been confined to a wheelchair. And if you are unfortunate enough to have been confined to a wheelchair, whoever has to push you around is probably in line for Mr/Mrs/Miss Universe. The town square is well populated with mostly elderly residents sipping coffee and discussing the day’s events, in what looks like a centuries old ritual.

The bus drops us on the side of the road a few kilometres further on from Ardales, and we’re shepherded into a long narrow tunnel through the hillside, and then a kilometre or so down the side of a mountain to the formal start of the Caminito. The preparation is an exercise in military precision. We’re issued with hairnets and helmets. It seems that rockfalls are a real hazard here and we’re warned not to take the latter off under any circumstances. I’m not quite sure what you’re supposed to do with the hairnet if, like me, you haven’t got any hair, but I opt against asking and decide that just for today I can pretend.

Our guide introduces herself as Noelia and she gives us some background to the Caminito. It’s a walkway through the Gaitanes Gorge, much of it on suspended boardwalks up to 105 metres above the river. Its first iteration was built between 1901 and 1905 to provide access for construction of canals, tunnels and other infrastructure which would later form part of Spain’s first hydroelectric scheme. We’re told that we’ll be walking nearly eight kilometres in all.

What Noelia wasn’t telling us, probably quite wisely, is that the current iteration of the path was only opened in 2015. The previous version had deteriorated so badly - lack of handrails, whole collapsed sections - that several hikers lost their lives trying to get through. The ever-reliable’s Google translation of the original Spanish is a bit incoherent, but the phrase “black legend” gets a couple of mentions, which I think gets the message across clearly enough. If that wasn’t enough Noelia then casually drops in that we’ll see lots of vultures hovering above us along the way. We’re then reminded for the third time to keep our helmets on. I don’t think we’ll need to be told again. Hmmm.

And what about the reference to the king? It seems King Alphonso XIII did come here back in 1921 to open some of the engineering works, but apparently he only walked a hundred metres or so along the path. We’re not told why. Forgot his helmet perhaps?

We set off. The first section is absolutely spectacular - the boardwalk is indeed suspended on the side of a massive vertical cliff a hundred metres or so above the river, and the gorge is so narrow that in some sections it can’t be more than ten or so metres across to the opposite cliff face … and the river below us is a raging torrent. A kilometre or so in and the gorge transitions into a wider valley, with the cliffs now several hundred metres apart. Then it’s back into a narrow section again for the coup de gras, the gorge crossing via the apparently famous Balconcillo de Los Gaitanes suspension bridge.

As we walk onto the bridge, which looks like something straight out of Indiana Jones, it’s a bit hard not to notice a sign telling us that the load limit’s ten people. I’m sure there are at least fifteen brave souls in front of us, but it‘s a bit late to turn back now no matter how much the whole thing seems to be bouncing up and down. Nobody told us about this bit, just to make sure we kept our helmets on, and I somehow don’t think those are going to help us too much if the whole shooting match gives way and goes tumbling a hundred or so metres down into the gorge. We make it safely across, but we’re still not quite there yet. The final stage is a series of steep steps, again suspended from the side of a massive vertical cliff face, before we can finally claim victory. That was absolutely something else, right up there with anything we’ve ever seen or done before.

Back in the bus, and I know I’m feeling a bit sleepy, but the route doesn’t look all that familiar. It seems we were last on this morning, so we’re also going to be last off. Now this wouldn’t normally be a big deal, but by the time we get to the first drop off we’re half way to Africa, and a good three hours away from our cosy Malaga apartment. At least that explains the angry stares from earlier in the day. And one of the first people to get off is our guide. I hope the driver knows where he’s going. The upside is that we get a closer look at the endless glitz of the Costa del Sol and some of its slightly familiar sounding towns such as Marbella and Torremolinos. It’s all seemingly endless kilometres of high rise resorts lined up along the beach and back to the foot of the mountains, and makes our humble Gold Coast look like total amateur hour.

”Look” says Issy, ‘there’s a naked man on the beach”. And so there is, and several others, most of them of more advanced years. Each to their own I guess, but I think the main question here is who thought it was a good idea to put a designated nudist beach right next to, and I mean right next to, a super busy main road. The nudists probably don’t care. If you’re happy to bare all in front of a bunch of fellow naturists you probably couldn’t care less how many of the “clothing preferred” among us also cop an eyeful. Some of the children in the bus are however looking just a tad on the traumatised side, or is that possibly just giggling I’m hearing.

Back finally in Malaga, and we head out in search of dinner. Issy says I should always comment on the restaurants and what we ate, but I can’t think of anything of note, so instead some random observations about the people who sat around us on the bus today … and clearly we had plenty of time to observe. First the Spanish lady in front of us and her teenage daughters on the opposite side of the aisle. In typical teenage fashion, the daughters looked like they’d rather stick pins in their eyes than have anything to do with poor mum, who’d probably spent years saving for the holiday. Very sad. It was a bit hard to tell where the thirtyish couple opposite was from because I’m not sure I ever heard them say a single word to each other. He had a massive beard, and they looked perfectly matched if the heavy tattoos on their arms and up onto their necks and parts of their heads were anything to go by. I am however now starting to wonder whether they were actually a couple. Hopefully they were and were just into total silence, and if not I hope the breakup’s amicable for both their sakes. Then there were the two middle aged guys in the very back row, the only people who got on the bus after us. We should be big fans because this meant we weren’t at the top of the most hated passenger list, so why did I have this day long urge to inflict violence on both of them. We’re still not quite sure what their relationship was, but we’ve ended up settling on business partners. While most of the bus was silent most of the time, these guys were constantly either yapping loudly on their phones, or talking loudly to each other …. in a language we were struggling to decipher … Portuguese or something Eastern European perhaps. How is it possible that two people, who presumably knew each other previously, could possibly have so much to say to each other, and why did the conversations seem to get loudest during the limited times the guide was trying to explain things to us in English. I’ve just had several large beers, so I should be super relaxed, so why is it that I‘ve still got this urge to want to kill them. Hopefully I’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep.

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Comments

[D MJ Binkley]

Wow, stunning beauty
This world really has some amazing places to visit.

[DaveandIssy]

Caminito de Rey
Real Indiana Jones stuff. A massive highlight for us.

[RENanDREW]

Too much or too little or just the right amount of conversation
We often wonder about the conversation levels of those around us too, especially when two people sit together and find they have absolutely nothing to say to each other. Although I travelled quite a lot with my parents as a teenager, and I can kind of understand the frustration/boredom of those two girls being dragged on probably yet another bus :) And I agree with Issy, more dinner descriptions please... and can I push the friendship by asking for food photos too? :D

[DaveandIssy]

Too much conversation
Now, a big shout out to you guys. We’d never heard of Chefchaouen until we read about it in your posts. So we put it on the itinerary, and went there today. Absolutely stunning. A real highlight. Thank you both so much!