illegal, looking out for the police, is not a Sunday stroll, as I found myself explaining, a few days later, to Michael Jacobs. ‘Perhaps I’ll compromise the purity of the concept a little and abandon the flip-flops,’ I mused, dwelling on the detail. ‘Flip-flops are hell in the mountains.’
‘Well, I think we should… g-go for as much authenticity as possible. I wonder if it would help Granada Acoge if we each wrote a piece on the walk?’
‘You mean, you want to come too?’
‘W-well, if you d-didn’t mind. Y-yes, I’d love to come.’
I thought about it briefly. It would be nice to have company on this lengthy and gruelling trip, and Michael was a serious person, in agreement with me as to the objectives of the expedition and its underlying philosophies. ‘Of course. That would be great.’
And so our expedition was conceived. Two writers would set out in the footsteps of the Moroccans who had turned up at my farm, making their way through the hostile mountains of Andalucía to the promised land of El Ejido in the east. By this shift we would highlight the predicament of the illegal immigrant and air questions on the complacency of us denizens of Fortress Europe. It was a heady notion – at last, a form of activism I could act upon.
As is so often the case, Michael just happened to know exactly the person we should meet – a professor of Ecology called Manolo, who worked at the University of Seville and who was an expert on the Parque de los Alcornocales – Spain’s largest national park – a swathe of forest that cuts north from the strip of coastline where the Moroccan launches tend to land. We arranged to meet up at his house near Seville, where he kindly supplied us with a compass and maps and drove us into the mountains to Alcalá de los Gazules, the start of our walk.
At Alcalá the rain came down in sheets, the streets were ankle-deep in rushing waters. I bought an umbrella. ‘Vogue’, it said – ‘Vogue Windproof’. It seemed a somewhat inauspicious way to begin the journey.
A UTHENTICITY W ILL O UT
A S THE RAIN LASHED DOWN ON A LCALÁ , we ducked into a bar, but there were so many people in there sheltering from the downpour that there was no room to open our map. We went outside onto a terrace protected by a canvas awning so that Manolo could draw our route, but the air itself was so damp that within minutes the map was sodden, and wherever he so much as touched it with his pencil the point made a grubby hole.
Manolo knew the Alcornocales well, having grown up in the region and worked there as a park warden before joining the University of Seville. He explained to us in minute detail the route we should take. ‘Now at the first bifurcation of the path, by a big rock, don’t take it, but keep on until the main path turns left and starts to climb. The important thing is at all times to keep the peak of Aljibe onyour left and the radar dome of Pico de las Yeguas on your right – that way you can’t possibly go wrong.’ And he made a couple of big wet holes with his pencil in the remains of our map. ‘I must be getting home to my family now. Any problems, just give me a ring on my mobile.’ And he sloshed off into the wet, black night.
I couldn’t help but feel that we were already losing a certain amount of authenticity. Not many immigrants would have the benefit of a briefing from a former park warden. And none would have the luxury of spending a wet night, as we did, in the hostal above the bar. Not that it was exactly high life. In the room we were offered, water was dripping through the ceiling and down the wire to the dim bare bulb; the bathroom was soft and green with mould; the floor was awash; and there was an interesting design feature consisting of a window that opened directly onto a concrete wall. But the room next door looked even worse, from a glimpse through the open door, where a group of men in vests were sitting around coughing and watching TV. A good
‘Well, I think we should… g-go for as much authenticity as possible. I wonder if it would help Granada Acoge if we each wrote a piece on the walk?’
‘You mean, you want to come too?’
‘W-well, if you d-didn’t mind. Y-yes, I’d love to come.’
I thought about it briefly. It would be nice to have company on this lengthy and gruelling trip, and Michael was a serious person, in agreement with me as to the objectives of the expedition and its underlying philosophies. ‘Of course. That would be great.’
And so our expedition was conceived. Two writers would set out in the footsteps of the Moroccans who had turned up at my farm, making their way through the hostile mountains of Andalucía to the promised land of El Ejido in the east. By this shift we would highlight the predicament of the illegal immigrant and air questions on the complacency of us denizens of Fortress Europe. It was a heady notion – at last, a form of activism I could act upon.
As is so often the case, Michael just happened to know exactly the person we should meet – a professor of Ecology called Manolo, who worked at the University of Seville and who was an expert on the Parque de los Alcornocales – Spain’s largest national park – a swathe of forest that cuts north from the strip of coastline where the Moroccan launches tend to land. We arranged to meet up at his house near Seville, where he kindly supplied us with a compass and maps and drove us into the mountains to Alcalá de los Gazules, the start of our walk.
At Alcalá the rain came down in sheets, the streets were ankle-deep in rushing waters. I bought an umbrella. ‘Vogue’, it said – ‘Vogue Windproof’. It seemed a somewhat inauspicious way to begin the journey.
A UTHENTICITY W ILL O UT
A S THE RAIN LASHED DOWN ON A LCALÁ , we ducked into a bar, but there were so many people in there sheltering from the downpour that there was no room to open our map. We went outside onto a terrace protected by a canvas awning so that Manolo could draw our route, but the air itself was so damp that within minutes the map was sodden, and wherever he so much as touched it with his pencil the point made a grubby hole.
Manolo knew the Alcornocales well, having grown up in the region and worked there as a park warden before joining the University of Seville. He explained to us in minute detail the route we should take. ‘Now at the first bifurcation of the path, by a big rock, don’t take it, but keep on until the main path turns left and starts to climb. The important thing is at all times to keep the peak of Aljibe onyour left and the radar dome of Pico de las Yeguas on your right – that way you can’t possibly go wrong.’ And he made a couple of big wet holes with his pencil in the remains of our map. ‘I must be getting home to my family now. Any problems, just give me a ring on my mobile.’ And he sloshed off into the wet, black night.
I couldn’t help but feel that we were already losing a certain amount of authenticity. Not many immigrants would have the benefit of a briefing from a former park warden. And none would have the luxury of spending a wet night, as we did, in the hostal above the bar. Not that it was exactly high life. In the room we were offered, water was dripping through the ceiling and down the wire to the dim bare bulb; the bathroom was soft and green with mould; the floor was awash; and there was an interesting design feature consisting of a window that opened directly onto a concrete wall. But the room next door looked even worse, from a glimpse through the open door, where a group of men in vests were sitting around coughing and watching TV. A good
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