,
“The train is
broken” were the discouraging first words that greeted my travel buddy and I
when we approached the ticket counter at the train station in Algeciras. We
were scheduled to leave that afternoon on the Express train to Madrid and
embark upon a five and a half hour rail journey. Not
comprehending what the ticket agent was saying to us in his broken English
(obviously just as broken as the train) we couldn’t fathom that we were now
stranded in Algeciras. If we thought
that our arrival by rail was arduous and challenging, nothing could prepare us
for our impending departure from this Mediterranean port town.
Speaking
minimal Spanish, the only two words that rolled effortlessly off my tongue were
“vino tinto” (red wine) and “bolso” (handbag). Were there other words that I
should have also added to my two word vocabulary? Apparently so, as it would have been useful
to at least have memorized the phrases “when is the train leaving?” and “why is
the train broken?” A little bit of English, un peu de Français and some Espanol
spoken by the other passengers helped us understand the complexity of the issue.
There had been some type of industrial accident, resulting in the train tracks
needing to be repaired, halting all incoming and outgoing trains. No one seemed
to know exactly when the job would be completed, maybe sometime tomorrow or
perhaps the next day or maybe even the following week? Why hurry? Are you in a rush to get somewhere? Linger, stay a while, have a siesta, put your
feet up, relax, don’t worry, take it easy, and if all else fails, have some more
vino, in mass quantities, if need be.
Yikes!! I
clearly should have clued in when it took us more than 12 hours to get to
Algeciras on this old-fashioned now broken-down caboose that our departure
journey would prove to be equally as gruelling and difficult. Algeciras and train travel are two words that
don’t bode well in my books.
The ticket
counter had erupted into full-blown chaos, with disgruntled passengers
screaming, crying and threatening the helpless ticket agents, who were clearly
ill-prepared for a “catastrophe” of this magnitude.
On the bright
side, the sun had dared to peek through the sky and opted to do battle with the
rain gremlins and kicked the clouds to the curb. Was it mere coincidence that
the sun had once again chosen to re-claim this Moroccan inspired enclave and
give us a parting gift of a sunny send-off into a yet unknown abyss on the bus
ride from hell? It would have been an even more fitting farewell to have been
ushered out of town with gale force winds amidst a torrential downpour!!
Yup, you read
that correctly, as we were to be herded onto a bus to the town of Ronda, where
we would then catch the train to Madrid. Little did we know that Ronda sits precariously
on the precipice of the El Tajo gorge, nestled deep in the Serrania de Ronda
mountain range. We were also unaware that the ravine was an impressive 730 metre
drop straight down into a bottomless pit.
The two hour
journey to Ronda started out pleasantly enough. Feeling smug and content that I
had snagged the window seat, I drank in the spectacular views of the
magnificent lush tree-lined hills and ravines. Weaving and winding our way up the mountains,
our bus leaning perilously close to the edge of the curvaceous road, I
tentatively dared to peek through the window to gage our whereabouts and was
startled to see that the tree lined scenery had now been replaced by plunging
cliffs and steep escarpments. Yikes!!
Clutching my
bronze limited edition Carolina Herrera handbag, I prayed that my
pink-sneakered feet would not be the first to be hurled out of the window when
the bus lurched over the ledge, having mistakenly navigated the depth of one of
the numerous sharp hairpin curves.
Had I not spent the remainder of the journey
with my eyes squeezed tightly shut, bargaining for my life, I would have taken
some digital snapshots of the incredible views but alas, I needed to keep sane
and not see how perilously close to the edge of the world I was.
This explains
why my blog does not have any pictures of the bus ride to Ronda.
Perhaps you can look up Ronda in a picturesque
travel book and check out the spectacular cliff-hanging scenery for
yourself. I’m certain that you would
have done the same, huddling under a blanket, cradling your newly acquired
designer handbag, praying that you survive the bus ride from hell, anxiously
counting down the minutes until the bus screeches to a halt in Ronda.
Come experience a once
in a lifetime roller-coaster ride on the bus with me and discover the peaks and
valleys of Spanish bus travel with me...
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