I am posting my journals backdated to the day I wrote them, so read from bottom up if you have just arrived. Keep checking back, I have two weeks of journals to upload.

We woke late this morning and rode to the port. The ferry is scheduled to leave at 9 am local time, but once again we sit on the dock waiting. The ferry arrived at just after nine, unloaded and we were boarded by 9:30 am, but did not get underway for another hour.

It is a cloudy and cold day. It is odd that the coldest day of our trip is in Africa.

We immediately feel different riding into Tariffa. The vibe of the place is positive and it has a laid back, open energy about it. It is a sharp contrast to Morocco.

We rode up through the narrow streets of the old town, past artsy shops and people sitting outside at cafés. We were greeted at the Hostal Afrique by the owner, a Spanish doppelganger of Tim Chaput, right down to the mischievous glint in the eye.

The hostel is a rambling place with bright white walls, cobalt blue arches and marble pillars. Our room is on the top floor and leads out onto a rooftop patio with views of the straight.

After a short walk around town and lunch in the square, we got back on our bikes to ride to Algerciras to pick up the van. We rode 10 km up past countless wind turbines capturing the strong winds blowing through the straight from the Atlantic. To the South, across the straight, we could see the mountainous North coast of Morocco. As we crested the heights, Gibraltar stood imposingly across the water ahead of us. We then flew another 10 km down into the city.

We disassembled our bikes, packed the van and headed back to Tariffa for the remainder of the day. We walked the beach watching the many kite surfers, then followed Juliette and Mari through the shops on the main street.

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I am posting my journals backdated to the day I wrote them, so read from bottom up if you have just arrived. Keep checking back, I have two weeks of journals to upload.

We were early out of Gibraltar after a greasy pub breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs, blood pudding and fries. We worked our way back through the industrial wasteland to the West, then gave up and rode along the highway cutting about 15 km off our route.

We were heading for Tariffa to catch a ferry to Tangiers, but after stopping at a ticket vendor on the highway, we decided to catch the next fast ferry from Algeciras. We had some time to kill before the ferry, so we headed into the market for coffee.

As we sat drinking coffee, a tormented man walked up and down through the sidewalk cafés screaming his rage at the world and his personal demons, ignored by everyone. To the locals, this appeared to be a normal occurrence.

Getting into the port to the ferry was very confusing. We followed signs in circles around roundabouts and back on ourselves until we found our way through the ticket gates and passport control to sit at the dock surrounded by cars and vans. Roofracks were piled high with old bikes, chairs, beds and scaffolding. The backs of the vans were packed tight with fans and every imaginable type of merchandise.

Everything is confusing. There are several ferries docked and no signs telling us where to go or which ferry was heading where. We sat at the front of a line of cars by the dock waiting for any ferry that looked like a fast ferry and hoping we were at the right place.

Our tickets are for one o’clock and a fast ferry arrived at that time. By one-thirty, they started boarding. We attempted to board showing our tickets. Wrong ferry. We got on our bikes and rode down the line of docks searching and hoping we weren’t too late. At the far end, another fast ferry was just arriving. This was the one, already 45 minutes late.

We sat as truckloads of live snails disembarked, destined for tables around Europe. Finally, at about 2 pm, we boarded, stowed our bikes and headed upstairs for the journey. The ferry finally got underway at 2:45 pm and we are on our way to Africa!

A blonde American woman sat near us on the ferry. She had two enormous red suitcases, a red scarf over her head, bright red lipstick and a large stuffed Snoopy doll. Over the course of our voyage, we slowly learned her story as she talked to anyone around her who would listen.

She had married a Moroccan man and converted to Islam. She is on her way to Casablanca to meet her husband. She described her experiences in Tangiers; the male only coffee houses, the pensions where men could sleep and the mazes of streets in the Médina where you could get anything and do anything. She said that it was all too much and she preferred to hire a local guide while there.

Her stories were of dangers and differences, making her sound adventurous and worldly, but her demeanour told another story. She had trouble with her excessive luggage. She sat fidgeting and looking worried, glad for any company who would listen to her.

In Tangiers, we were waved off the ferry, through passport control and straight through customs. We rode past the touts trying to sell us tours and hotels. Leaving the port, we started heading East. I had Googled a hotel back in Canada and remembered that the name started with an S and that it was on the coast. So, we rode until we hit the Shéherazade Hotel, pulled in and booked a couple of rooms.

After showers, we headed out to explore the Médina, the old part of the city. As I got money out of the bank machine, a passing Moroccan man said laughing, “you get it out and we’ll just take it off you.”

The streets in the Médina are lined with shops selling leather bags, sandals, silver and gold. The men dress in a mix of Western clothing, some in Moroccan style with long robes, a fez and leather slippers and yet others wore Berber robes with long peaked hoods.

We wandered through the maze of streets, through jewellery markets and stalls with piles of olives, pyramids of colourful spices, bags of beans and hanging chickens. Men sold short rolls of thick wire by the side of the road. We found our way through the tailor district with made to order suits and shops with brightly coloured women’s robes on mannequins that looked like they were bought second hand from Macy’s back in the 50’s sporting beehives and bright makeup.    

We had a light dinner in a café, then eventually found our way out of Médina by following the roads downhill. We headed back down to the waterfront where we could get drinks at a row of bars overlooking the sand and the sea.

It seems that with alcohol, banned elsewhere, comes other vices and liberties. These clubs seem to be a haven for the Moroccan gay community. The bar was lined with men and an older gentleman, well dressed in an expensive suit, sat at a table beside us flanked closely by two young male ‘friends.’ All three shared a bottle of wine and a romantic meal.

We sat there watching the people around us for a long time. With every round of beer we bought, another plate of Tapas showed up on the table. We were stuffed from our earlier meals, but sampled everything to be polite. We listened to the mix of languages, tried to determine the hierarchy of the waiters serving us and watched the sky turn dark, all while listening to live music.

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See Dave & Mari’s Post about the past few days.

I am posting my journals backdated to the day I wrote them, so read from bottom up if you have just arrived. Keep checking back, I have two weeks of journals to upload.

Doing a short day yesterday has paid off and we are all feeling strong again. The rest of the week is still open, but we have decided to head for Gibraltar which is close enough that we will have enough time in the afternoon to explore the rock.

We sat in the bar this morning drinking coffee, planning our day and listening to Eva Cassidy. The first part of the ride went quickly. After so much time in the mountains, we are flying on the flat roads and even the small hills didn’t slow us down.

When we got near the coast, we mistakenly took a new road that wasn’t on the maps or the GPS. It led us down into an industrial hell that we were forced to weave through to avoid the highways. The traffic was horrid right into Gibraltar.

The Rock of Gibraltar is beautiful, but the city below is crazy with tourists and traffic, making it very stressful. We are staying in the dumpy Bristol Hotel which would give some of the worst in London a run for their money. The walls are fake wood panelling making it look like a 70s basement. All this, and it is one of the most expensive places we have stayed.

Touts below the cable car try to sell tours of the rock and with each person who passed them to take the cable car up, they would say, “fine the, make the rich men richer” and then grumble amongst themselves.

At the top of the rock, Barbary apes lounged around on the walls and on the rocks. One baby took a liking to Dave, playing with his shoes and trying to climb up on him. It must be his motherly disposition.

We spent the afternoon wandering back down the rock annoyed by the high cost of visiting all of the historic sites, refusing to pay £10 a pop to see tunnels, castles, or other attractions. The small details like the gun emplacements, the huge steel rings used to haul the cannons up the steeps, and of course, the views made the walk worthwhile. Back in town, the cruise ships had set sail and the crowds were more manageable, so we wandered through the duty free stores and shops that seem to be the backbone of the local economy. Locals flowed between Spanish and English in the same sentence, speaking with an indefinable accent.

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I am posting my journals backdated to the day I wrote them, so read from bottom up if you have just arrived. Keep checking back, I have two weeks of journals to upload.

Last night we went online and booked a van to drive back to Malaga on Saturday, and booked a hostel in Tarifa for Friday night. This gives us a lot more freedom in our schedule. Now to see what we do with that freedom…

We made breakfast and coffee in Dave & Mari’s apartment this morning, then reluctantly rolled out of town. Everyone is tired after yesterday’s struggle through the mountains, so we are taking it easy and riding slowly.

There was a long, easy climb out of town, then the road followed the ridge South, up and down, passing white towns clinging to the hillsides. At about 30 km, we crested a hill and in the distance we could see the Mediterranean, the Rock of Gibraltar and across into Africa.

We stopped just past here for elevenses in Gaucín, a cute little town that sees few tourists. We sit at a café by a small roundabout while the local cop hangs out talking to everyone who comes by. As we order our lunch, someone from the café runs out to the grocer to buy the food.

After lunch, we had a short climb out of town, then flew the 15 km down into Jimena de la Frontiera. As always, it was a short, hard climb into town, then steeply down to the Hostal. If you don’t climb into town in the evening, and out of town in the morning, it is not a town worth visiting!

The Hostal Anon is a rambling maze of stairs, patios, rooms and plants. We spent most of the afternoon sitting by the rooftop pool drinking beer and soaking up the sun before heading into town for snacks, then back to the bar at the hostal for dinner.

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I am posting my journals backdated to the day I wrote them, so read from bottom up if you have just arrived. Keep checking back, I have two weeks of journals to upload.

We woke this morning to a wonderful breakfast laid out for us on the huge wooden dinning room table and Marie-France had even packed us lunches for our trip over the mountains. Before we could leave, she insisted on taking pictures with all of us and waved us off.

On a hill, high above Tolox, there is a hotel. As we started climbing through town, we jokingly looked up and said, “I hope we don’t have to go up there” seriously believing that we didn’t. An hour later, we were past the hotel and looking down on it from an even higher mountain.

The road through the Parque Natural Sierra de las Nieves is barely a dirt road. It is rocky and rutted, in places washed out, and climbs to the high slopes below Mount Torrecilla, the highest peak in Western Andalucía.

At points, the road became so steep and unstable that we had to push our bikes up, slipping back with every step. In many places, the road dropped away dizzyingly on one side and I was afraid to ride to close to the edge.

At around eleven, we sat in the dirt and ate our lunch, grateful for the care that Marie-France had shown us. We then continued to push and struggle with our bikes.

Just as we were losing the will to go on, we hit the highest point and began a long, bumpy descent that threatened to shake us loose. 35 km and many hours after starting, we finally hit the main road and turned North towards Ronda into a gale force headwind.

We were exhausted, demoralized and hungry, so we stopped at a restaurant by the side of the road for a second lunch before facing the remainder of the ride and the winds. Luckily, it was a descent most of the way into town and the kilometres disappeared quickly.

Tonight, we are staying at an apartment in Ronda that Mari found. It is a gorgeous place with post and beam ceilings, heavy wooden doors and tasteful furnishings. It looks out over a cathedral and a plaza and is a great place to unwind after a hard day.

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