('On-line' text of)
'VIA RISHIKESH
- A HITCH-HIKER'S TALE'
An account of hitch-hiking from England to Europe,
North Africa, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan & India in 1970
by Paul Mason
© Paul Mason 2006
Chapter 3
PARADISE LOST
Eventually we get another lift, which happily takes away from the police checkpoint and a good distance onwards towards Montpelier. As the new day breaks, we find ourselves further still, well on our way towards Spain in fact, with the scenery appearing increasingly rural, positively scenic, dotted with villas and grand residences that resemble castles. We are passing through the grape-growing region of Southern France and are within sight of the French Pyrennees. The vineyards with their low walls stretch out in all directions, are within sight of the French Pyrennees, on stepped terraces dusty pale green clusters of ripening grapes bask in the warmth of the sun. Birds hop and fly about peacefully in the tranquillity apparently unperturbed by the sound of the engine of our compact Citroen car as it noisily complains at the hilly terrain. When the road evens out, and we can hear ourselves speak, we recount our recent adventures to our driver, a middle-aged English woman who listens eagerly. Upward we rise, the countryside becoming ever more rugged and mountainous. When at last I glimpse a sprawling village just beyond I surmise that we are about to reach our driver's destination. Arriving at her imposing white villa, we are all soon sitting relaxed in the kitchen enjoying a hastily prepared snack and a cup of tea.
I enquire about the local bus services to the border, and the lady offers to go out in a while, to find out more. Whilst she is out, Yolanda and I spend much of the time in idle conversation, sometimes glancing at a magazine and occasionally gazing out of the window. It is a change to sit in the quiet awhile and it is a long time before the car returns.
'No buses at all,' the lady announces, 'But don't worry I will take you to the border myself.'
As our benefactor drives us ever deeper into the Pyrennees she asks us of our hopes and plans, which she eagerly endorses - filling me with much needed reassurance. The castellated walls of the border post come into view and as we draw near the car slows and halts. Waving our lady friend goodbye we turn to meet the officials standing there in front of the road barrier.
We proffer our passports to the guards and patiently wait their return, but as it happens we are in for a shock, for the guards decide not to let us pass. Recognising the gravity of the situation I determine not to take their decision seriously but to treat it as a joke. Smilingly, I ask them to buck up and stamp our passports. But they are not won over that easily, so I think to mention that we do not wish to stay in Spain, that we are merely travelling through on our way to Morocco. Apparently I have found the magic words, the 'open sesame', for although it with very evident reluctance, they stamp our passports and raise the barrier for us.
I suppress my desire to dance a jig and instead take a British £5 note to the bureau de change and change it into Spanish currency. Setting off, we take off down the steep winding road and once safely out of earshot of the guards we fume and rant as we recall the incident back at the border, it seems so unfair of them to put us through all that. Met with this response some might have given up and turned back.
The sun is by now gently setting. Hurriedly we march on but find the distance to the next village to be a very long way. A laubergio (inn) comes into view and after a few moments hesitation we enter and order a cheese roll and coffee for each of us. When I come to pay, I reflect that if the cost of our snack is anything to go by, we are going to have trouble surviving our trip through Spain; I worry if we can afford a hotel for the night. But, after our snack, we press on in hope of finding modestly priced lodgings. The trees and hedgerows are alive with the sound of nature, in fact it is no exaggeration to say that, the sound of grasshoppers grass hopping is so loud that we struggle to made ourselves heard. We stop to watch as several lizards scuttle across the road, barely distinguishable from the trail of dust they stir. We decide not to stay in a hotel even if we find one, as it seems a better idea to sleep rough; after all it is a warm dry night so we might well soon find a suitable place to camp.The light is failing fast as we make our way along the road, hunting out somewhere to sleep.
'At last! I was beginning to think we wouldn't find anywhere,' I say to myself as I heave myself up and attempt to climb over an iron gate. With the aid of the glow from the sky I convince myself that we have found a good spot. It appears a large field, so to avoid any unwelcome attention we decide to sleep adjacent to the road where we will be screened by a vast clump of bushes. Mercifully the grasshoppers and lizards are not in evidence here - all is peaceful. As we prepare our bedding for the night, I bolster the flap of my sleeping bag with my jeans and a sweater, and then I take a leak in the bushes. Before getting into my sleeping bag I place our passports and cash reserve in my 'pillow', then I settle down to stare at the sky which although it is fairly cloudy I find I am still able to see the multitude of stars. I think of how far we have come. It is wonderful to have a place to stretch and relax. a chance for us to get over the strain and worries of the day. Winding my wristwatch I murmur goodnight to Yolanda.
'Have you got the passports and the money safely?' she asks.
'Safe and sound,' I reply. Making myself as comfortable as possible and closing my eyes I offer a quiet prayer for our welfare and for that of my mother.
* * *
Awakening I can't place where I am, nor more importantly who I am. But it only takes a quick shufti to confirm where we actually are. Suddenly a shot of pain disturbs my train of thought.
'Ah my face. Ow Ow Ow,' I yell.
'What is it?' comes a bleary voice.
'My face! It's really painful, take a look at it would you!'
'Oh! You've been bitten they look bad,' Yolanda solemnly announces.
My eyes light on some insects parading over her footwear. Yolanda's footwear, my face. 'Now that's hardly a fair deal'. I rub and massage my face which unfortunately only makes the pain worse. My attention switches to my sleeping bag which I now notice is damp, no doubt the effect of the morning dew. I peel off the bedding and get dressed, lace my boots and pack up my belongings.
Shaking the red insects off Yolanda's sandals I offered them to her, the sandals that is, not the insects. I brush my fingers over my cheeks and can feel the bites, swollen and very sore.
Back on the road we walk the distance to Port Bou, a picturesque little town of pleasant houses and shops with shuttered windows. In the cobbled market square we find a water point where discreetly we brush our teeth and freshen ourselves up. On brushing my hair I discover that it has become matted and totally unmanageable, but I do my best to make myself presentable before entering a local cafe to breakfast on orange juice and a roll at no great cost. Since neither of us knew a word of Spanish we barely limp by with the language. Yolanda seems surprised she does not understand for she somehow assumed that Spanish would be similar to Italian. As it happens, I am secretly glad about this since I haven't enjoyed being translated for, it is better for us both to be on a level.
In the town we catch sight of an officer of the guardia, who with his handgun and devilish black hat has Yolanda cowering in fear. Personally I can't relate to her fear but I let it guide me and keep myself from his view. I get the impression that Yolanda has heard something about these police from someone. But, I don't understand much about the administration here, my knowledge is limited to the name of the boss, General Franco, whose his face stamped on every coin
From Port Bou the Pyrenean views are most pleasant with verdant rounded peaks, slopes etched with paths roads and streams. I can easily understand someone wanting to explore them.
We find a good position to hitchhike from, by a signpost which reads 'Barcelona'. But the morning is still young and so the traffic is few and far between. Standing waiting, I scrutinise the house in front of us, its several storie, the large green painted shuttered windows. I ponder too the weathered faces of the adults, the dark eyed children that pass us and at the little houses on the cliff top looking out to sea. Being high above the level of the sea I can only just make out the shapes of vessels floating upon it. All the while I mechanically raise my thumb at the sound of any approaching car. Of a sudden I become aware of raised voices. A van has stopped, its occupants wave and shout to us.
'Come on hop in!' a voice calls.
The van is coming from Britain, they have fixed seats to the sides of the interior of the back of the vehicle. We soon bundle in and strike up conversation. They are curious about us and appear impressed with our plan to head for India. They are only coming to Spain and Majorca, an island off the mainland. There is an openness about these people that attracts me, I even feel a stirring in me to drop our plans and share a holiday with these young people with whom I have quickly developed a strong sense of friendship. They encourage us to join them. But Yolanda seems determined to be aloof and distant but I continue chatting, charmed by their camaraderie and enthusiasm. The penny drops that she is not drawn towards their company and for a moment I think I detect a faint air of jealousy. I am embarrassed when I realise that our companions have noticed her reactions. I notice Yolanda scowling.
After a few more miles the van pulls up, the doors are flung open and we all pile out. They want to stock up on provisions and also to find somewhere to perform their ablutions. Yolanda uses body language and facial expressions to tell me that she wants us to break company with them. Though I feel inclined to try and persuade her otherwise it is obvious that her attitude is deeply entrenched so I don't chance it. Having taken our leave of our friends, Yolanda and I walk away in an uncomfortable silence. It is quite some time before anything like normal relations are resumed.
We just keep trudging on, and by the time someone else stops to offer us a lift we are exhausted. The driver is a Spanish businessman who fortunately has quite a good command of English and proves pleasant company. For what seems like many hours we drive along the coastal road, I spend much of the time idly peering out through the windows. It seems the Spanish have a thing about fortifications, there appear to be turrets and castellated walls everywhere.
Eventually, our driver drops us near the beach of a major town.
'Multo gracias,' we call as he speeds away. We are hungry so we spend some fifty odd pesetas purchasing bread cheese, oranges and a carton of milk, convincing ourselves we are getting better value for money than by eating in a cafe. Then we make our way along the beach to find somewhere to sit down and eat and discover a beautiful hut constructed from palm branches and leaves. It is as though we have stumbled on some idyllic South Sea paradise, we wonder that no one else is about. Settling down we sit and ate our al fresco meal to tranquil sound of the gentle rippling waves gently lapping on the shore. No one comes to stake their claim over the hut and as the light starts to fade we decide to move our belongings inside. Then lighting up cigarettes, we sit ourselves down again and watch the splendour of the setting sun - gorgeous reds, orange and pinks shot the sky. For a while we sit and watch the fading afterglow and at the sparks from beach fires in the distance. At the standing pipe along the beach, we clean our teeth then return to our hut intent on an early night. Lighting a candle we lie for a few minutes, enjoying the coarse rustic charm so enhanced by the flickering light. We savour the situation to the full before contentedly wishing each other goodnight. We seem to be getting the hang of the travelling life; it really seems that our plans are working out. Perhaps we really will get to India. So far I haven't really believed it, but now it seems just remotely possible.
* * *
We sleep soundly and neither of us arises before eight o'clock. In the bright light of day our 'paradise' looks even better than before. After freshening up we finish the remainder of the milk and bread. As we bask in the beauty of our surroundings we plan to stay for a few days. The general feeling of well-being and the lazing about soon turns our thoughts to other things. We return to our hut, peel off our clothes and yield to our passions.
Having re-affirmed our feelings for each other, we lie in each others arms without a care in the world. Oddly, I suddenly feel a sudden urge to get up and put on my clothes; Yolanda gets up too and pulls on her dress.
As we re-emerge into the bright sunlight I see a sight that chills any ardour or passion. There past approaching us, walking at a pace along the beach is a figure pushing a bicycle, a policeman, a guardia! I avert my gaze and sit down pretending not to notice him. As he draws closer he halts and stares at us in tight-lipped muteness, all the while leaning on his bicycle.