I had always dreamed of diving to the edge of the world. But the world, of borders, has no more, so? I just had to dive to the edge of the old world. There, at the Pillars of Hercules. There, where the Mediterranean marries the ocean, where Africa and Europe love each other, where Andalusia and Morocco merge.
Arrival in Gibraltar by bus from Malaga, about 3 hours of travel at a little more? of 15 euros. I enjoy the landscape, I read a book, I write. I decided to take the trip alone, one of those trips in which you feel the need, they say, to find yourself. I believe that there is absolutely nothing to find, I rather believe that man, or at least I, needs to lose pieces. We are too full of armor, useless junk, heavy coatings, so? heavy that we froze. We have to lose pieces, to get to be that naked core of emotions, of inebriation again.
Gibraltar appears to me as a mestizo, an "interterra", met? spanish met? already? Moroccan. And I like that a lot. The colors and the air are far more distant? 3 hours from the rest of Andalusia. But here we are not n? in Spain, n? In Africa. Here we are in Gibraltar. What by the way,? territory of the United Kingdom, you see a little.
It's hot, I go ahead with sneakers, three-quarter pants, and a light shirt taken off and twisted around my head. I have to protect myself from the sun, and I also have to get into character.
I finish the morning in a tea? hot (yes, you can drink hot tea in the desert too) and two lines written in the diary, dazzling me from those mazes of streets and those intense perfumes that who knows? if they come already? carried by the winds of Africa.
I eat lightly, just a bocadillo. I go in the direction of Pe? On, the Rock of Gibraltar. A 200 million year old promontory. 200 million. The promontory that closed and dried up the Mediterranean 200 million years ago. Call it a simple promontory now.
It is strange, indeed it is not strange at all, if anything a little anger to those like me, that such a place, an unspoiled reserve inhabited by the Bertucce of Gibraltar, in a total wild state, was like this? "touristized". La Cueva de San Miguel now? for a fee, c '? a whole tourist route that includes this cave, that of Gorham, with the remains of Neanderthal Man, which climbs up to the Castillo Arabe de Gibraltar, all for a fee. What a great pity.
But anyhow, I lost some magic but I gained some knowledge. A good compromise after all.
You have to be very careful on Pe? On: here the masters are not the tourists. Here the masters are the monkeys. Who claim everything. Necklaces, bracelets, rings, glasses, cameras. With me, they claimed a Mars. I had a euro, I was hungry, I had monkeys close by. I lost. But I'm here to tell it, and therefore in my view, I won.
From the gates of Gibraltar, at La L? Nea de la Concepci? N, I took the bus to Tarifa, where several ferries and hydrofoils leave for Tangier every day. I leave early in the morning, in about an hour I'm in Tarifa, and the same is needed to cross the strait and find myself in another continent.
As soon as you set foot in Tangier, the scent of Africa blossoms. Strong, persistent, intoxicating. Palpable. We are on the Gateway to Africa, so? ? called Tangier. A lively town, with characteristic corners and alleys, with its beautiful Medina, with the Sultan's Palace and the Great Mosque. Yet does something sound a little out of tune? who tried to wear Western clothes? What? m '? parso, with the souks even more? tidy and clean of the markets of Sicily, with slightly gentler attitudes compared to the nearby Tetuan, Ceuta, or Fes. Sar? that Tangier absorbs well, how used to? to the dominations: Phoenician, Carthaginian, Roman, Vandala, Byzantine, Arab, Portuguese, Spanish and British. Maybe he lost a bit of Africa along the way. I do not know if it is Africa instead of having children around looking for a? Gift ?, tourist guides or pseudotals who perhaps a little too insistently offer you to accompany you around the city? I don't know if Africa is such a beach? dirty. It? perhaps the strong smell of tobacco, but who knows? if that was what inspired Delacroix and Borroughs. Maybe I was expecting to find a 20s Tangier, that of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, although the 2000 milestone has been past a decade and a half. I too was hoping to be inspired by a pilgrimage site, and instead I found rather too many yachts and little flavor of Africa. But? a feeling of my own. On the other hand, if you are looking for worms for fishing, even a gold nugget in the middle of the sand can? disappoint your expectations.
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