10:17, 15th May, Barcelona, Spain
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No more dreams as of yet, although my
waking life still seems as such. My earlier prediction of my backpack
breaking was eerily accurate, the next day as I was walking along the
Passieg De Gracia, the stitching finally tore completely and my kit
bag dangled out of the bottom.Grimacing, I walked along, my hands
cupped behind me holding the contents of my bag at my thighs like
some military green prolapse.
Finding a bench to unload, ignoring
the masses of tourists walking past staring at me like a circus
sideshow act, I dump the bag that I have carried for years into a
waste bin, anger bubbling close to the surface.
I clutch my kit bag in both hands and
walk to the Supermercado, where the security guard tells me I can't
enter with my bag. It doesn't fit in any of the storage lockers
there, and when I ask where I should put it he shrugs, arms
outstretched wide, head tilted quizzically with a apologetic smile on
his face. I make a wall of shopping trolleys and place my bag behind
them, then search for some duct tape - perhaps the bag can be
repaired?
Up and down, weaving through slow
plodding shoppers, I soon discover that while there is an entire
aisle dedicated to different types of flavourless water, they do not
even sell sellotape. A Sideshow Bob-esque grumble emerges from my
throat and I make my way back to my kit bag. As I do, the security
guard physically stops me and starts to pat me down. My fists
clenched, I look down at his shining palate and tell him to place my
dick inside his mouth and choke on it. He stands up, we smile at each
other, and I walk out.
Walking back to where I sat before, I mentally apologise to the guard who, after all, was merely doing his job. A voice reminds me that concentration camp guards probably had the same attitude, and I laugh out loud, a small mercy from the stress of being surrounded by vapid stares as I think about what to do next. For while my back muscles have been built up slightly from this long march, my arms have not needed to be exercised as much, and after emptying all the side pockets of my burgen (Bergen?) into my kit bag, it's overflowing, and feels like it weighs more than I do. Weak, Martin. Very weak.
My right leg is jittering like it's playing the bass-line in a drum solo for Slayer. I've rolled a cigarette, but it's doing little to calm my nerves. I stare at the floor, still trying to think about what to do when I'm aware of an elderly gentleman sitting down to my left. I clench my teeth together quietly, and after ten seconds he gets up and leaves. I do the same, feeling something has transferred and plod slowly to the nearby plaza, aware of the dark clouds coalescing above and hobble down some stone steps to the Metro station.
I empty the bag and try to decide what to keep and what needs to go. Staring at my spare clothes, toiletries, and miscellany, a sudden realisation hits me - How much of this do I actually need? Very little, I decide. I fill a carrier bag with a stove, knife and fork, and the leftover French rations, another with my notebook and laptop charger, then put on my desert jacket, packing into the numerous pockets my USB cables, a toothbrush, waiter's friend, two pairs of socks/pants, my army hood and then stuff the laptop inside my jacket. I put on my ripped leather jacket over the top and walk down the corridor, leaving the rest behind. It was a weight off my mind, as well as my back. Time to leave the Passieg, the tourists are getting to me.
I feel like I am ten years younger, and realise the Metro is next door and I've walked into an access point for an underground garage. I decided to explore anyway, looking for a plug socket to listen to music (I left my MP3 player in Hereford). After a fruitless search I decide to make a record of my feelings at the moment, filming myself in the mirror for the first time. It was bizarre, but it suddenly felt like I could acceptably talk to myself.
After, I find the actual Metro station, and take great pleasure in using my new mobility to jump the barrier, rather than rush through as before, my backpack setting off alarms left, right and centre. I nearly clicked my heels together as I vaulted, the sense of euphoria was that strong. Thinking back, I wonder at the cause of this elation - was it my body compensating for the anger before, or perhaps the sense of no longer being attached to possessions that were literally and figuratively weighing me down?
I walk quickly towards the nearest train, no particular destination in mind (I still can't remember the area where the train stations are in Barcelona, the only place so far this has happened) and am stopped by two police. Well, I had a good run, managed to get this far dodging the price, time to pay the piper. I turn round, resigned and still happy, and say hola.
They ask for my passport, I ask them what the problem is and they ask me to unzip my jacket. I laugh, realising for the first time just how suspicious I look with a huge bulge under a British Army flak jacket, and show them the laptop. They cheerily tell me there are many theives about, subtly saying I look like one, wish me a bueno journey and I hop (not literally) on the Metro, and emerge after a series of changes in torrential rain.
I keep walking in random directions, looking for a street sign that might either provoke my interest or show me an exit route - city centres aren't the best places to hitch from. My carrier bags are soaked, and I'm worried that the charger will break, so I walk under a shop parasol and count my cash. Three Euros and thirty-two cents. I walk to the nearest café and order a espresso for 1.10, and sit down. The owner walks over with the coffee and tells me this table is reserved for 8pm, so I must leave in ten minutes. There are several other empty tables nearby, and so I use the opportunity to dry myself, my things, and then use their Wi-Fi.
The rain intensifies as I leave, and eventually I find an area with three vending machines - a welcome temporary refuge which I use to prepare some curry noodles a la leftover donated hamburger. I hear an angry East Asian female shouting, and as I eat I watch her push what I presume to be her boyfriend against a telephone box while she berates him angrily.
He stands, taciturn, hands clasped in front of his genitals, eyes downcast while she punches him in the chest and arms. After a few minutes of this, they walk off and once again assuming that he had cheated on her as the reason for the argument, I think to myself that perhaps this is a better way to argue with a loved one.
The woman expresses her anger clearly,
holding nothing back, while the man holds steady, accepting his
beratement and beating, knowing that the rage is justified, also
knowing that he is being hit out of love, therefore afterwards he is
the one who broods over his actions, while the woman is calm to think
of the way she wishes to progress.
Note, this example served to illustrate a different way of resolving hateful feelings, where instead of merely giving "the silent treatment" the anger is vented immediately. I walked on, ten to fifteen minutes later after a call from my parents, and saw the guy scratching his head with a friend outside some apartments. We exchanged knowing looks, and I shrugged in a "What are you gonna do?" sort of expression. He blinked acknowledgement and I walked on.
After passing a motorcycle accident, I approached the first open bar I had seen in what felt like forever, and decided that respite from the rain and access to the Internet for as long as the owner's hospitality would allow was worth my last two Euros Feeling thoroughly dejected and soaked to the bone, I check my Facebook account. Some friends had posted a picture of themselves with a sign reading "Good Luck Martin!" and I suddenly felt like I wasn't alone, even though hundreds of miles separated us physically.
They had read how I had lost my bag
and the negative mood I was in, and clubbed together to send me £55
with which to buy a new bag and for "goodies", my gratitude
could not be overstated. I was a rich man! Admittedly I was rich
tomorrow, but the sudden knowledge that I could have a hot meal
tomorrow caused unbelievable joy within me.
Within half an hour, the bar had emptied apart from the owner, his partner the barmaid, and myself. We started to communicate through the music, and with a smile he brought over a small glass of beer on the house.
The bar was Socialist in nature,
posters expressing similar sentiments to my own viewpoints, and after
a near orgasmic sing-along of "Hallowed Be Thy Name", they
closed up and offered to put me up in a nearby lock up/safe
house/bar/club/garage.
After a night of peace and quiet, sleeping on the top of a piece of wood that served as a table, I returned the keys, wandered for a compatible bank machine, went back to the bar for breakfast of coffee and a croissant, tried to interpret the morning paper then wandered back to a Metro station.
Getting off at a random stop in the afternoon I found myself back in the Passieg de Garcia, and suddenly, nay, mechanically felt an inclination to see if my kit bag was still there. Unbelievably, with all the desperate people in the city, it was untouched from the previous day. I emptied the bag, fitting everything on me easily into the bag, and swung it over my shoulder, leaving behind numerous items for a needing person, much as I have taken similar from the streets, hopefully rebalancing my karma slightly in the take/give ratio. .
As night fell I met some fellow crusties who took me back to their squat, offering me a roof for the night. When we got there I was introduced to everyone, and welcomed the chance to speak English with three Finnish guys. Something about the place seemed wrong though. I couldn't put my finger on why, but I did not feel welcome. They offered me some beer, and then one of them offered to get me some LSD from a neighbour. I agreed, and he came back saying it was ten Euros a tab. I asked to see it, and he unwrapped several pieces of card.
I sighed, and said I would take it here, and pay him afterwards. He tried to tell me how decent his neighbours were etcetera but I was steadfast. He refused, and my suspicion (at the least) was confirmed. I wandered off, met a guy in a long brown jacket who told me he was Russian, and also a hitch-hiker, that proceeded to follow me around for most of the night, silent when I tried to question him. I bought a falafel and started talking to some of the guys outside, who joined me as well and the streets felt alive, people turning their heads to look at us as we passed, the dude in front walking his mastiff on a silver chain clearing a route ahead.
This still didn't feel right. I ducked into a bar on the right and ordered a beer. One fella came in behind me and said they wanted to go to a different bar. I told them they were more than welcome to, and swigged my beer. He sighed and walked off, and I started talking with some Irish women.
After they left, I turned back round and the Russian(heh) guy stood there. "I watch you." he said, smiling. He returned my attempt at conversation with the same silent expression, so I faced the bar again, downed another and ran my hands through my hair in despair. The not-quite-right feeling had returned more than ever, I felt I was surrounded by actors, alone, helpless but to follow a film script where I was the fall guy.
As my mood dampened, couples started
to form next to me, kissing and embracing. I left the bar, found
another, drank more, and staggered to a nearby church where there was
a unfolded cardboard box waiting for me to sleep on. I mechanically
wrapped my frayed jacket around me, undid my boots and stacked them
next to my kit bag, and closed my eyes, restlessly turning in the
cold.
The next morning I walked around Barcelona, talked to a dog called Ziggy, had a glass of wine with a Moroccan guy who lived in an old fort, and had a brief siesta in his hammock on the roof with some rather beautiful cannabis plants growing happily.
I am writing this three days after
Reus, and have just woke up after my first night in Cartagena, and
feel the need to write down the dream I have just had.
I was at a house somewhere in the old town of Scarborough, none of the places were familiar to me, although I somehow knew it was there. The house was being used as a constant party, there was music being played that I didn't enjoy. I think the house belonged to a blonde kid with a crew-cut, can't have been older than about ten. I remember wondering where his parents were, and I felt as a surrogate father to him, although there was animosity between us.
The only person I recognised in the house was my girlfriend of three years. We were hardly speaking, although when we did she spoke quietly and dismissively to me. She was with another man, a guy with short black hair. Part of me wants to know who he is, part of me knows without having seen him, and part of me wants to forget this whole dream and stop writing, but I continue. I was very uncomfortable, and I think the kid was acting up, house to himself, surrounded himself with "friends", and he was cared for though I felt his house was being used, while he himself remained cut off from the enjoyment. We went to a nearby corner shop at the boy's request, and the scene suddenly changed to him picking random sweets up and me telling him we can't afford them. He tells me to steal them for him then, and I go and look at the shopkeeper while the boy fills his pockets instead.
The next scene I remember was returning to the house, where four people were sleeping naked on a pull-out sofa bed. My girlfriend was asleep in the crook of the guy's arm, and I noticed she had the start of two tattoos; one on her shoulder and one in a crescent above her left breast. As I watch them, they wake and the guy she is with asks for food and drink. The others mumble in agreement and she gets up naked and walks past me suggestively saying "You can have anything you want." She was looking at me as she said it, and that is the only sliver of hope I hold on to.
More happened, though writing this less than ten minutes after waking it has already faded. It's good to be open minded I guess.
I spent a few hours in Reus, and not long after arriving, I asked a man for directions to the nearest tobacco shop. He told me they would all be nearly closed now, although there was one around the corner. He asked me where I was going and what I was doing, I briefly told him of my plans to get to Morocco, and he invited me to go for a coffee with him. I accepted and we walked for a few minutes to a nearby café. We start talking, and he tells me how he has seven children, two boys and five girls, or was it the other way round? Then he tells me how he was a civil engineer and helped build bridges in Africa, and would have loved to be my age again to enjoy the sights all over again.
Having only two years to live from lung cancer, we talk of doctors and smoking, and while I sympathise with his sentiment that smoking kills, he had quit thirty years ago, and it was debatable whether it was that that caused the cancer. He only spoke a little English (as my Spanish), he told me he had not received a second opinion, although doctors in Madrid, London and New York all agreed on the diagnosis, treatment and prognosis, and that his main problem then was the ache in his bones and fatigue as a result of the medication he was on.
I tried to help, suggesting other doctors, saying that there are many other drugs that have had positive effects but are not yet being prescribed due to not receiving the correct patents, or not being tested thoroughly enough -though surely they were worth investigating, if not trying outright? Nothing to lose, as I am often told, much to my chagrin
He smiled and raised his glass and said Salut or Saluté, and I asked what the toast was to, and he said to Hell. I remember trying to decide whether or not to drink, with so many ideas conjured up by the word. It still seems unreal looking back, but I drank with him, my coffee to his beer, thinking that only part of us was there.
We said goodbye, and as everything had closed at about 22:45, I walked back to the station to see where else I could go. The only train that night was in an hour, to Madrid Chamartin, and I decide to wait for it. There is only one man in the station and he invites me to sit with him. He looks homeless, but tells me he is waiting in the station for the train to Barcelona, having missed the last train, and the station closes at midnight. He will sleep in the entrance of a bank, he tells me, asking me where I will sleep. I tell him of my plans, and we spend the next hour speaking of trivialities. He infuriates me with his body language, asking for the English word for many of my clothes, but I bear with him until the train arrives, and I share my sandwich with him.
The train arrives and we set off, due
to arrive in Madrid the next morning about seven AM.
I doubt I will get all the way to Madrid, but welcome the risk of being thrown off and exploring the Spanish countryside by night. I sit in the cafeteria, opposite two middle-aged Spanish women, and try to keep a low profile. Not my best quality while travelling sadly. They start playing a card game called Pieua Pieua I think, with the aim being to hatch three chicks before your opponent, after watching a few games I learn the rules, although I don't feel confident enough to ask to play with them, and they don't ask.
I doubt I will get all the way to Madrid, but welcome the risk of being thrown off and exploring the Spanish countryside by night. I sit in the cafeteria, opposite two middle-aged Spanish women, and try to keep a low profile. Not my best quality while travelling sadly. They start playing a card game called Pieua Pieua I think, with the aim being to hatch three chicks before your opponent, after watching a few games I learn the rules, although I don't feel confident enough to ask to play with them, and they don't ask.
A few hours later they leave, and I'm
invited to play a Spanish card game after watching three people
playing by a woman who introduces herself as Natalya.
"Would you like to be my partner? Come here." she says, patting the seat next to her. Inwardly sighing at the false flirtation while her boyfriend grinds his teeth, I nevertheless accept and he introduces himself as Jordan, and another guy whose name I have forgotten.
The game is Guiringa(sp) and it's a trump based game, with certain cards being worth certain points, very similar to a host of others. The Spanish name for trumps is triumphs, and I remember reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe as a child, the name of a chapter was The Witch Triumphs, and I remember reading it as trumps (English slang for farting) and giggling.
We play a practice game with cards face up on the table, and I'm aware that they are changing the rules slightly as we play, but I say nothing, simply enjoying the experience of making it to Madrid and I'm drinking a cheap carton of wine. They leave at about half two, and I finish off the wine, relishing the station stops to enjoy a rushed cigarette. Compared to British stations where it's against the rules to even smoke in the open air part of the station. I fall asleep at about four, sprawling along the two person seat in the cafeteria, and wake about half seven, the last person on the train in Madrid.
When I emerge from the station the city seems deserted, a layer of cloud permeating the skyscrapers that are dotted around the area. I stagger aimlessly, most of the capital as asleep as I am, and take a few photos of the landmarks nearby. My shoulders aching from the drawstring of the kit bag that rubs across my skin.
For most of the afternoon I am
thoroughly downtrodden.
Numerous ulcers had broken out in my mouth, my tooth was aching, my heels were swollen and my boots were falling apart. Worse than all this was the feeling that Madrid was identical to Paris, Berlin and London, with only a few areas that give the city it's identity. Nevertheless, I plod on, eventually finding a tapas café to sit and rest my weary legs.
Numerous ulcers had broken out in my mouth, my tooth was aching, my heels were swollen and my boots were falling apart. Worse than all this was the feeling that Madrid was identical to Paris, Berlin and London, with only a few areas that give the city it's identity. Nevertheless, I plod on, eventually finding a tapas café to sit and rest my weary legs.
I sit at the bar between two people, and the bartender approaches me. My Spanish is still rusty. "Um...un glass de naranja?" His expression doesn't falter.
"Que?"
"Un glass de naranja?"
"Oh, naranja!" He says,
exaggerating the accent correctly. I twitch but think it's good to
pronounce things correctly. He returns with a Fanta. "No,no."
I say. "NaraNja, fresh, squeezed." I mime preparing the
stuff and point to the mixer at the end of the bar.
"Ah, Zumo de NaraNja!" he
prepares the drink to a few titters from around the bar. If I wanted
Fanta I would have asked for it. Dick. I was in a foul mood.
Nevertheless, the juice is perfect, sweet energy coursing through my body. Looking for conversation, perhaps an idea of where to go in the city, I say "Hola!" to the guy to my right. He sniffs and sips his cerveza. Fair enough, thinks I. I repeat my greeting to the woman to my right. She stares at the mirror, unblinking, unmoving.
I stare at my glass and clench it. To entertain myself, I picture a scenario. I grab the hair of the guy to my right and pull him over to the beer tap, ramming his nostril on the spout, and turn the tap on. I put my hand on the shoulder of the woman to my left and when she looks at me in disgust I shape my index and middle fingers into a V and ram them into her eyes. The bartender shouts for the police and I stand on the bar, pissing over his tapas. "There's your fucking zumo!"
I laugh and come round, no-one has seemingly noticed or cared. Good. I down the juice, and mime for the bill. Two twenty five. Son of a schweinehund. Instant karma for negative thoughts.
Despondent, I wander further into the city, trying to get into several Metro stations, although they are all vigilantly manned. Eventually I get lucky (in one sense anyway) and manage to hop on a train. I look at the station names, and decide Sol seems the most appropriate for me, and emerge in a thriving Plaza.
Many street artists are performing,
and I walk over to a guy with dreads rolling pieces of paper and
placing them in a bronze vase of a 'typical' style. We get talking
and he tells me he is from Ecuador, and he levitates.
Talking within the circle, we exchange knowledge and I learn the secret. Although he is frowned upon in some places, I feel he is a good person, and I think positive thoughts for him. I sit by the fountain in the centre, and my gaze is caught by a man in a black suit with a curved, horned helmet and a samurai sword next to a Xenomorph (from the Alien films) who are inviting tourists to have their photo taken with them.
Talking within the circle, we exchange knowledge and I learn the secret. Although he is frowned upon in some places, I feel he is a good person, and I think positive thoughts for him. I sit by the fountain in the centre, and my gaze is caught by a man in a black suit with a curved, horned helmet and a samurai sword next to a Xenomorph (from the Alien films) who are inviting tourists to have their photo taken with them.
Feeling a now familiar sensation, I flick my eyes between the levitator and, for want of a better word, the dark angel. I cross my legs and ruminate on the two sides of myself once more, trying to balance the two. They both seem right within me. I take a photo of them both, feeling like a betrayer of some pact, and glance down to my left. There is a sealed white plastic bag on top of a leaflet. I pocket the bag, and look at the leaflet.
There is a picture of Einstein with his tongue out, and the text reads something along the lines of "Do you know you are only using 10% of your mind?" with instructions on how to send away for more information on Dianetics. I chortle, and walk on.
I walk along a side street feeling out of place and poor in a world that weighs merit entirely too much on finances. Looking about the discarded coffee cups for something to drink, a fellow homeless man who is even more dirt-encrusted than I am finishes off a leftover coffee, while I settle for a little water.
I'm cheered slightly, thinking how we still survive. Then I feel an urge to mix with some wealthier types. I see a very splendid looking café called Valour, and drop my kit bag next to a table and browse the expensive menu. I hear some Americans mutter in disconcertment at my presence, and I smile, notice a café solo is only 1.30 and decide to take a seat at the bar.
Two English ladies sit to my left, and
order churros. We make small talk before they go, leaving half the
churros and a full cup of chocolate behind. Happily, I eat their
still warm leftovers, feeling like a King. Two Americans take their
place while I am eating, and order some slice of fruit for fifteen
Euros I watch them casually, angry at the way she waves a fifty Euro
note dismissively at the waitress, showing how used to her own way
she is. They don't tip on a twenty-two Euro bill, and I leave ten
cents. Thinking back I probably upset the barista more with the small
tip than none at all, but proportionately it was like leaving behind
the keys to a car.
Full of caffeine and sugar, I walk back to the plaza and the man from Ecuador is in full swing, a crowd around him. I drop a coin into his vase, and take a fortune:
"The man who can make his companions laugh is deserving of Paradise - Mohammed"
I had recently been weighed down by the laughter of others around me, and this helped greatly. He gestures to me a sign of peace, which I return bowing, and walk on.
I walk for another hour or so, and on a whim decide to enter a bar opposite a famous cinema, the name escapes me of them both. I order a beer and the hostess brings over a few sweets in a bowl. I try to talk but feel like a dog, kept on a tight leash. I go outside for a cigarette and hear two women talking next to me, I mishear one of the words they said as "Logos", and ask for clarification.
We start talking and one tells me how the cinema across the road is very famous in Madrid, and exceptionally cheap - two and a half Euros for a ticket, though you must buy in advance. They finish their cigarette and I walk over to see what's on. A Tim Burton week, showcasing many of his best films. I peer into the entrance, and see the azure tiling that takes me back to the Gate of Ishtar in the Pergamon, and I am reassured I am on the right path.
Returning to the bar, the hostess places her hand on my shoulder kindly, and tells me how she knew I had no money and places a savoury crêpe with side salad next to me, gratis. I am humbled, and feel close to tears of unworthiness. I cannot thank them enough, but they wave me away, smiling benevolently.
I walk through more side streets, and see a bar advertising a beat poetry/story telling evening. I enter and browse, and see a book entitled "Trippers from the Dark Side", with a cover reminiscent of the golden age of comics, Creepshow-esque. Full of references to Poe and Lovecraft, as well as exploitation material (which seems to go hand in hand for some reason, can't enjoy everything I suppose) and I jot down the names of a few authors to look up when I can, especially a piece on pain and it's resolvement by pleasure.
The few people in the bar are more
than happy to practice their English with me, though I still feel
unwelcome in my soul. The gorgeous young barmaid puts some music on
the laptop, catches my eye, and with a flick of her head makes me
look at the screen, where she circles the band's name with the mouse
pointer: "Bad Voodoo Daddy".
I shiver, once again hating the path I am walking down but seeing no exit, and laugh along with the others at my expense. They invite me back for the mañana to read some of my work, but as I would not be able to understand theirs and vice versa, I politely refuse. I leave, engaging in fleeting conversation with passers by, taking a drag of a joint from a man watching a game of chess which we both watch and discuss, before I try to sleep next to a museum. The ground is wet, and soaks through my jacket, and I cannot sleep.
Voices insult me in every way possible
as I toss and turn, until eventually I pick up my things and move to
some fairly close steps leading to an office, and unpack my things to
sleep under the stairs, like the monster of yore.
When I wake I notice the sign on the door partially reads Lecter and smirk, then walk back up stairs, emerging to bright sunshine that temporarily blinds me. I rub my eyes and my vision starts to clear, and I realise the stairs were next to an important municipal building of some sort, and there are about four manned police cars no less than fifty feet from me. I turn on my heels and cut quickly across the adjacent building before I get hassled for trespassing.
I walk up the avenue to the Plaza de Colon (don't laugh don't laugh don't laugh) and prepare my stove in an area with a sculpture commemorating a treaty for Catalonians, if my memory serves correctly, which it probably doesn't. I eat a pork bouillon from the tin, the last of my French rations, and wait for my sleep-head to drift back to the recesses of my mind.
Not long after, on the same avenue, I see an alcove containing a perfectly made mattress, bottles of water, bread, and other odds and ends. I decide I would still very much appreciate a little comfortable sleep, and start to unlace my boots.
A woman appears and tells me that a woman sleeps here. I explain I only want a siesta, and she tells me that it will be OK as long as I leave when she returns. I lie on the mattress, and an elderly gentleman approaches me and asks the now familiar question: "Donde eres?" I reply Inglaterra, and he gives me two Euros for a
coffee wishing me luck on my travels.
Nearly bursting into insane laughter for some unknown reason I thank him, and lie back on the bed which feels like it would be fit for a Sultan compared to last night's rest.
Staring up at the blue sky, my eyelids begin to droop, and the man returns with a jamon sandwich from a nearby restaurant. He waves away my thanks and walks off again. I place it in my kit bag and close my eyes again.
My eyes are closed but the bright sun is illuminating my eyelids, and I am too comfortable to roll to the side. Content, my body rests while my mind wanders. I am aware of people stopping next to me while I rest, murmuring to each other - some in concern, others in more...debatable tones.
I feel like an exhibit, put on display in a shop window for critical commentary by the upper classes of Madrid, like some Tracy Emin statement on modern day homelessness. With this feeling in mind, I decide that this engineered perspective is flawed at best, and at worst a subtle way to allay people's concerns about the vast numbers of people begging and sleeping rough on a day to day basis, the hostels and dormitories full to bursting point. I leave the woman's bed behind, taking nothing but my kit bag.
After a mixed experience, I decide to leave Madrid and head back south, risking taking a train to Cartagena. I manage to sneak aboard, and using some trade secrets I have learnt along the way, I manage to avoid a ticket check for the five hour train ride.
The scenery that flies past the train is astounding, with vast blue skies arcing overhead, framing the majestic mountains that pepper the landscape around fields and barren scrub-land. I am reminded of every good Western film I have seen, and doze imagining riding a trusty steed along dusty paths, in search of the next corral to take a drink and a smoke with bandits.
I wake when two mothers sit in front of me, talking with their children and watch them happily playing with and sharing their toys. After a few more hours, and a Spanish dubbed documentary on Geishas, I walk to the front of the train, and after the doors open at one of the stations, I keep it open, enjoying the thrill of the ground rushing past me, my feet inches from being swept away. I film for a few minutes, and have a cigarette before I spot the guard walking up the train towards me. I close the door and nonchalantly sit in first class and look out the window as he passes, and eventually sleep again until we pull into Cartagena as night fell.
Although I enjoyed Cartagena dearly, it could not possibly live up to my expectations of a frontier smuggler town, rife with cheap rum and unsavoury characters. The Cartagena of my dreams was replaced with a slightly more standard Spanish city, although both beer and food were reasonably priced.
I walked along the wide, straight roads and eventually found a park to sleep comfortably in for the night, after serendipitously finding a outside plug socket with which I could write and listen to music in the twilight.
My sleep was restless, with the dream of my girlfriend (see above) damaging my spirit and severely dampening my mood that dawn. I decide to walk to some old walls that must once have protected the city from invaders, and start the climb in the oppressive heat, the first real temperature I have endured since my departure. Half way through the climb I realise I have no water, and look for some shade to wait in to regain my breath and cool down.
I notice a hole in the eroded ancient wall, and climb up to investigate. I am looking down, watching my steps, my arms holding tightly to my kit bag, worried that if I drop it my laptop will break and my writing lost. When I reach the hole and look up, I am surprised to see a tiny kitten stood on the window sill/hole edge.
She mewls quietly, and I gently stroke her head. I look inside and see a makeshift home - a double mattress, a stove, cutlery, plates, but more importantly - big gallon jugs of water. The kitten springs down into the shade and licks at the dry stains on her food plate.
I try to weigh up my morals; I am in need of water, yet to enter this person's property and steal it would be ethically wrong for me. However, I have some chicken slices in my pack, and decided the owner wouldn't mind me feeding their cat in exchange for a refill of my small water bottle. I lean inside, throw a few strips of chicken meat on the cat's bowl and pick up one of the jugs, then start to fill my bottle.
As if on cue, I hear angry shouts behind me - the owner has returned and sees me stealing his water. "Pace!" I shout, flashing the sign for peace. "Agua solo! Comida en gat!"
He beckons me to get down and I do so, and after a brief explanation he smiles and we shake hands and introduce ourselves. His name is Abu, and he is from Ghana. He introduces his kitten as Mimi, and says he has had her for two and a half years. We walk together to a nearby makeshift car park, and he explains that his job is directing cars to parking places, in the hope that the drivers will give him a small tip for doing so. He says he will go and get us some wine to share, I offer food, but he refuses.
While I am waiting for him to return, I muse upon his lot in life. He is happy, and has most of his needs in the world, perhaps all, for he has a double bed, perhaps he has a partner too. Returning with a carton of white wine, he takes a swig and goes off to work. I watch him and the car owners, drinking slowly. To park in most places there is an extortionate charge, a fifty-cent tip to a kind-hearted man should not cause rancour for the drivers I think to myself.
Pleasantly surprised, about half of the people who he directs to a space give him a few coins, and I feel happy knowing that there is still care for others in this world. We drink some more, and I bid him farewell, with him telling me to call by if I am ever in the area again. I say I will, and walk off, refreshed.
I walk to a bridge and see mountains close by, and this time having some food and water, decide to climb and explore. There is a small barrio, and as I walk through the voices start again - "Go away."; "You aren't welcome."; "Don't belong."; etcetera. I'm ruffled, but used to hearing worse.
I sit on some steps and decide to have lunch before beginning the ascent. I had some garlic butter to go along with the chicken slices, and when I open the carrier bag within my kit bag the butter has emptied, soaking the chicken and dripping out of the carrier.
My fists clench and my jaws tremble in anger - I have no more money with which to buy any more food, and the tub has split, rendering my last possible legal purchase wasted. I sit with my head in my hands, teeth grinding together as I struggle not to shout curses and start kicking cars and smashing windows.
Eventually I get my temper back under control and I look up. A small dog is trotting happily around me, sniffing at the floor. I sigh, and throw it a small strip of garlic-soaked chicken. The dog sniffs it curiously then wanders off. I can't help but bark a laugh, as I now have even less food and my self-esteem takes a hit as I eat food that dogs turn their noses up at. Just to be clear, not the actual piece from the road.
I see a man up on a nearby balcony, he sees me then turns and walks back into his house. I shoulder my bag and walk further through the barrio, and a shutter closes on a nearby window, while I can hear the same sporadic voices telling me to leave in various ways, mostly unpleasant. I reply in my thoughts that I am leaving, just passing through, but nothing changes.
My anger still hasn't diminished and I start to think how the entire neighbourhood should be ashamed - a thirsty traveller in need enters your area and you respond with fear and petty threats. I walk into the courtyard of the local church, drop my bag and fold my arms, smiling in anger, and restrain myself from spitting on the building. I stay like this for a few minutes before moving on towards the region beyond.
A little while later I come to a crossroads, with some spray paint on a large boulder in front of me. On the left, in blue is a symbol slightly like infinity, with black words in Spanish underneath. I can make out the word "tortura". On the right, in white, is the same symbol although I can't comprehend what the words mean. I decide that picking the easy route would get me nowhere, and I feel like other people want me tortured, so I follow the blue path.
Before long I reach a large abandoned ruined building in the side of the hillside. There are three tunnels leading inside, all have been bricked off, all have been vandalised to allow entry. Feeling nostalgic for the days in my childhood when I used to explore derelict buildings with my school-friends, even going as far as trying to map them out, I decide to venture inside.
Leaving my pack hidden in a bush, I climb through a hole in the brickwork and peer about. I can barely make out my surroundings, though white graffiti is sprawled everywhere, and there is a large iron door at one end that has somehow been taken off the hinges, with scratch marks over the lock. The only way I can think that the door could be removed is by some explosive device, although there is no curve to the metalwork to suggest an explosion.
I squeeze through the gap behind the door and can see nothing except a few stone steps leading upwards. I take a few steps gingerly around, then remember I had a wind up torch - the same girlfriend from my dream reminded me to pack it before I left. I clamber back to my pack and retrieve it, then return through the iron door, and shine the torch around.
Next to the steps is a large hole, with a drop of about 10 feet onto some oil soaked machinery. I thank whomever is watching over me that I didn't go any further. There is some rungs at the other end to climb up and down, but I decide against this and climb the stone steps.
At the top I move into a huge chamber, with a suspension bridge running down the middle, held in place by rusting metal poles. Winding my torch while simultaneously filming and looking around, I shout out to test the dimensions of the room - the echo is tremendous, the chamber must go on for several hundred feet.
Taking a small stone from the floor, I throw it over the side of the bridge, about a second and a half before a dull plop. Putting my torch between the two slats in the floor of the bridge, the light shines against oily blackness below.
My over-active mind starts to wander why they abandoned all this oil behind, and I think back over old horror films where the initial person goes missing, prompting a rescue attempt where they all get picked off one by one. I decide to try my luck and walk across the bridge.
I take slow, faltering steps, talking to the camera like an imaginary friend so I don't betray my nervousness, stopping every so often to wind the torch more, after five minutes or so I can make out two pinpricks of light in the far distance, shining for all the world like eyes. I imagine a Balrog waiting, forbidding me to leave Moria.
Thinking about drums in the deep, I walk on, then test one of the wire cables - flakes of rust fall away in my hands, and the precariousness of my situation hits home. I giggle and continue, until the torch illuminates where the half of the cables have snapped, and the bridge hangs at an incline from one set of cables.
Deciding that those cables couldn't take my weight by themselves, I turn back, disappointed yet strangely relieved at the same time.
I climb back into daylight, and approach the middle tunnel. The initial area is the same, with childish scrawls of different names, who loves who, fairly standard small town writing. Beyond this iron door, there are only steps leading down. They are covered in oil, although there is a banister to hold on to. Peering over the edge I see similar machinery, and decide to take the steps slowly down. One foot over another, slowly but surely, only once sliding before regaining my footing. Suddenly my foot goes through the step and is submerged slightly in the oil and my heart leaps into my throat. The banister continues, showing no sign that the room was half flooded with oil. I retrace my steps back outside.
Even now I still cannot fathom why all this was left behind, an area this rich with oil must have brought millions to the city, and I spent ten minutes or so in the light pondering this before moving on to the final, left-hand entrance.
This layout is the same as the first area, complete with gaping hole to abandoned machinery and I waste no time climbing the stone steps to an identical suspension bridge. It's just as rickety and rusty as the first, and I move slowly along the centre. There is graffiti along a ventilation duct to my right, this time only names, I imagine someone writing there as proof they had ventured this far. I see the same dots of light in the distance, though the rational part of my brain tells me it is just the exit from the plant at the other side. I pass further than before, across the bridge, and step through the room into - another bridge.
Half way along this one, the graffiti stops, and I picture myself as the first person daring to cross this far. I hear an occasional ominous creak, and the acoustics trick my mind into hearing the noise from behind me, causing me to whirl round, especially with the commentary in my head telling me to turn round, give up, etcetera.
I move slower, trusting that the graffiti has stopped for a reason, putting all my weight on the foot in front before stepping forward completely, trying to ensure the bridge doesn't collapse after all this time laying dormant.
Eventually I make it through the second section of the bridge, and the third, and step into a small cavern, with a natural passageway to the right and glaring sunlight ahead. After taking my bearings, I follow the cave to the right, and find a abandoned dwelling in the cavern - a rotted mattress in one corner, a handmade cabinet made from string and sticks, holding notepads, pencils, some ear-buds, a carrier bag containing the long decayed remains of food save for a sealed cellophane packet of toast, and an empty satchel.
Light at the End of the Tunnel?
I film it all, then step back out of the cavern, seeing a stone pipeline, and plenty more graffiti I walk back over the top of the steep hillside, finding a path at the summit, and exhilarated, run down, my arms spiralling as I try and control my legs that seemingly have a mind of their own as they move faster than they have done in years. I reach the bottom and my pack and rest with a well earned orange before making my way back to the city centre.
I film it all, then step back out of the cavern, seeing a stone pipeline, and plenty more graffiti I walk back over the top of the steep hillside, finding a path at the summit, and exhilarated, run down, my arms spiralling as I try and control my legs that seemingly have a mind of their own as they move faster than they have done in years. I reach the bottom and my pack and rest with a well earned orange before making my way back to the city centre.
Making my way back towards the auto-route (dual carriageway) that leads South-West, I stand near a garage with my thumb extended, although the most interest I receive from passing drivers is either mild astonishment or the ever popular point-and-laugh-at-the-traveller. I swing my kit-bag from one shoulder to the other to try and balance the pain in the my shoulders, and walk back to the centre, thumb still extended despite having that sinking feeling that I will be staying in Cartagena another night.
I walk back to the University and they
generously let me use the Internet in their Bibliotecá, and I write
back to friends and family, updating them generally, trying to allay
their concerns about my state of mind. From there I find the same
jardin I slept in the night before, and sleep a little sounder than
before.
The next morning I am awoken by light
rain, that intensifies as I pack my things hurriedly. Deciding to
take Abu up on his offer of visiting him again the next morning, I
make my way back to the car park although he is nowhere to be found.
Though Abu is absent, two guys are sat under a natural rocky outcrop on an abandoned sofa, next to a makeshift table holding a few apples, some stale bread and a portable radio, blaring out cheery Spanish pop. They beckon me over, gesturing to a breeze block and I gladly take refuge from the rain. I remove my desert jacket and hood, and nod to them both while we sit in silence, watching the rain pour heavily.
I nod off, my eyelids drooping though I still hear the music, the sound of the rain the perfect accompaniment as I catch up on much needed mind rest. When I wake one of the men has gone and the rain has slowed to a trickle. I wave goodbye before noticing he is also sleeping, and make my way to the train station, deciding hitch-hiking from here is an exercise in futility. Looking at a regional map of Spain, I decide to head to Murcia, and plan further from there.
My luck continued to run low, and I get thrown off the train at a station little more than an outpost, and after another hour of unsuccessfully attempting to auto-stop, I get the next train that passes by, and this time disembark sleepily at Murcia.
