Excuse me, do you know where you're going? "...Nope"

Wow. What a ride this is turning out to be! Yes, I know I’m playing catch up but Spain is just too exciting and busy to sit inside and blog. That and the last 4 nights have been spent partying into the wee hours of the morning, well beyond what anyone would consider a “respectable” hour. In the time between blogs I have made a multitude of decisions that would make my mother squirm, celebrated a birthday, met so many amazing new people and had the absolute time of my life. So, without further ado, I give you my journey to Spain, from the very beginning, Part Uno! Apologies for the lack of pictures, but I was more focused on just getting to my destination.


Let me explain.



 In the afternoon of Monday the 10^th April, I boarded the train to Tanger with trepidation. I felt that after a morning of finalising things such as mailing my souvenirs and numerous gifts home (and hoping that they actually get there) and saying my goodbyes I was ready to leave Morocco. That was, until I got to the train station accompanied. I received two phone calls in 10 minutes, one from Adil, a case support worker from Projects Abroad and then another from my dear friend Sofia. I had been so guarded about leaving before then, but I found the tears freely flowing after speaking to Sofia. Sunglasses went on and goodbyes were waved as the train pulled out of the station and I was on my way.

After pulling myself out of my tearful mood (with more than a little help from the full Jeff de Bruges chocolates that I had been given before departure) I settled in to my new adventure, sitting quietly next to my bag until a random station when a young Moroccan man who spoke not a word of English came and sat next to me. He was so grateful for the seat that he then bought me a drink and gave me gum, before welcoming me to his home city, Meknes if I ever came back to Morocco. When I arrived in Tanger I was lucky enough to meet a man from Tetouan who spoke reasonable English, and he arranged for a taxi to take us both to the port. However, he missed the point at which I said “Tanger MED”, so as I got out of the car I was greeted by a line of ticket offices for Tarifa and not my intended destination Algeciras.





I spoke to another random man (whose name I never actually found out) and he told me to take a taxi to the centre of town and then catch a bus to the new Port. When there were no taxis I decided to start walking. This would have been a good idea; however after exiting the Port gates, I found there were no taxis. I heard a car beep and this little black Honda Getz pulled up behind me. Lo and behold it was my friend from the Port who gave me directions. He told me that he got it wrong and there were no taxis, so I should hop in and he would take me to the bus stop. Obviously I accepted this invitation (as a solo female traveller without a Map in a foreign city) and I chucked my pack on the back seat and jumped up front. This was not my first experience with hitching, and is but one of the “Mum is going to squirm when she hears this” decisions that I made on the way to Spain.

He turned out to be quite lovely. We spoke in both English and Arabic and he explained to me how I could get to the Port by either bus or taxi, but that the taxi would be expensive. He dropped me right at the bus stop and told me to wait for the white bus and to “pay attention” (which I found strange but then realised that “attencion” in French means be careful. Idiot.) However, I decided (knowing the bus system as I do) to take a taxi as it was more reliable. Here arose a second problem. To take a taxi to Tanger Med, I would have to pay for the entire taxi (relatively expensive but quite comfortable) and it would take 40 minutes ("Inshallah", as the driver later explained to me). I made my second “mother would NOT approve…” decision and jumped into the taxi with the driver, a youngish man who had very good taste in music, but didn’t seem to see the risk in answering his phone and having a full conversation whilst going 90km/h downhill next to a cliff face.

However, after all this I arrived at the Port tired but safe and set about buying my ticket. 224 dirhams later I was on my way once again after befriending a twenty-something year old Moroccan man who spoke fluent English (after living in Manchester for a year) and who helped me get the exit card for Immigration.

I went to immigration and I freaked. The line was huge! However, this was not an issue. To put it in perspective; I bought my ticket at 6:30pm; it said the ferry left at 6:00pm,and the vendor said “ohhh around 7 maybe” when I asked about our departure. We didn’t end up leaving until well after 7:30. I found this very amusing and typically Moroccan. The ferry ride was very smooth, and I arrived even more exhausted in Algeciras, Spain at midnight local time.

Now, I had tried to plan it so that I wasn’t a lonely woman walking the streets of Spain without a map at midnight, but the delayed ferry meant that my personal safety situation was going to get interesting very quickly if I didn’t make some tricky decisions. Mum, I say sorry but I am marvelling in delight at the way these details (I previously skipped most of them) will make you squirm. I also understand how completely naive this makes me look. I'm really not; rather I'm was just under prepared. And it hasn't happened again *grins like the Cheshire cat*.

The ferry terminal emptied in two minutes flat, and armed with only a hostel address written down, I started walking. After scanning the street ahead and seeing a group of men standing around, I made the split decision to make friends with two young guys walking slightly ahead of me. They had been on the ferry and were loaded up with backpacking gear, and I had heard them speaking English as we exited the station, so I figured “lesser of two evils” and asked if they knew where they were going. As they smiled and answered “nope” (to which I heartily agreed), I for-went the normal “By the way, my name is Clementine” introductions (only asking them where they were from-Israel, it turned out) and asked if I could walk with them for a while. I told them I had the name of a hostel written down that I was aiming for, and that they would be welcome in joining me there for the night if they (as they did) needed a place to stay. We found the hostel alright after a small walk and with no booking took a triple room for 45 euros. The owner was incredibly nice, giving me a detailed map and directions to different places and at half past midnight helped me look up bus timetables for the next morning.

I got going at 7am, and after my incredibly healthy and tasty breakfast of more chocolate and water (the only thing I had eaten since leaving Morocco), I found my way to the bus station to take my final bus to Malaga to finally meet Eliza. Arriving in Malaga I found the bus station to be void of tourist information offices, but I had directions and the name of the hostel we had booked. After buying a map and going to an Internet cafe opposite the bus station to look up Spanish phrases I would need,  I spoke to a lovely old man (in Spanish-I win at language skills and absolutely love contextual understanding) who walked me to the bus stop I needed, told me which bus to take and how much it would cost, what stop to ask for and then finally how long it was until the bus arrived (FYI: bus line 4, 1.20€, Alameida Principle, 3 minutes). I felt as if I had just won a gold medal. My elation and surprise at my own skills was short lived however, as I quickly got lost in downtown Casa Mata, and made (what we later found to be a very short walk of just 20 minutes) last an hour and a half. There were two hostels on the street, and after asking the first hostel if it was the correct one, I was told no, it was the one about 30 metres away who sign was obscured from view. How awkward. However, my goal was clearly in sight and words cannot explain the feeling of relief and happiness when I rang the correct doorbell to be ushered inside and see Eliza sitting at the hostel computer (replying to my Facebook post asking “where are we going to meet?” Yes, we are that organised.)

Moral of the story: I am incredibly unorganised sometimes (I even managed to leave my leather jacket in Rabat. Once again-idiot.). I am also blessed with a brilliant “gut feeling” about strangers and risk management.

Also, for my mother's benefit, I will say that after reading Lonely Planet’s (yes Lexy, I finally have one-thanks Eliza!) guide to travelling through Europe, and the way that they “strongly discourage solo females to hitch” (apparently it’s a bigger risk than normal, who knew?) I am classifying it as an experience I should probably try not to repeat.  Probably.

I am now feeling slightly bus sick as I write this on my way to Zaragoza (that’s an entirely different story!), however it happens that this is the perfect place to end, as after meeting Eliza we begun the first chapter of our joint adventure in Spain. Apologies for the length of my ramblings; it just so happens that I’m having an epic adventure and I want people to know all about it *smiles sweetly*. So, I will leave you with a teaser of the next chapter: Fro-Yo. That is all.

Until next time,

Love love!

Clem xx