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| camping on the beach in tarifa other photos in previous post |
We dragged ourselves out of Seville, saying teary goodbyes to all those we had come to love and set out with 2 Aussies named Matthew toward the sandy southern coast of Spain.
Fran and I had planned to leave much earlier that day, in fact, we had planned to leave days before but thankfully we waited and our timing aligned with the Matthews perfectly. We had all attempted to find accommodation with no luck. Sme hostels were booked for a month in advance and none of them had rooms for a couple days. We decided individually we'd be sleeping on the beach and stepped on the bus and away from our last Sevillian hangover. The bus sped down open desert roads, dust kicking up from the tires. Metal flowers spin into the distance, lined up one after another, facing this way and that with stems lost among rows of sunflower fields toasted, burnt and orange. The coast is invisible, hidden by strange and twisting savanna trees with a shimmering cobalt ocean behind. Peeking above the trees kites flutter and flap wildly in the wind. With a forever consistent breeze gusting across the flats, Tarifa is one of the great kiteboarding, windsurfing and wind power capitals of the world.
We arrived at the bus station, a lonely building closed by blinds on a corner with just enough room for a bus to turn around. The main road stretch seemed to run perfectly straight onto the horizon each way I looked. We crossed to road to sit for a lunch of quesadillas on the sidewalk. Tarifa is best described as an old western movie meeting new age surf film. Billabong and Quicksilver line the main street sprinkled between kitesurfing and wind surfing school. Probably the most intense competition I've seen anywhere. We drag our stuff down the long stretch toward a hostel we can store our bags at for the night while we make camp on the beach.
After gathering what we'll need from our bags we headed toward the beach just a 4 minute walk down the way. Being from Bermuda, we aren't used to expansive beaches that stretch for miles down a coast line. The vast expanse only comparable to what I was in Holland. I just wanted to walk and only stop when I felt my knees finally giving in. I think that's something I'd like to do one day. Set out with nothing but a back pack into the skim of the beach and only stop walking when a sheer cliff lie in front of me. And maybe even then, just find a way over it.
I had waited to get here for my whole trip, dying to be free of my clothes and in the salty ocean again. I imagined Spain to be more topless than it actually was, in fact we were on the beach for some time before I finally saw some girls topless and figured it was ok. Everyone thinks of Europe as the land of true freedom in that sense. Where TV does little to edit out sexual content and things are just more acceptable and less sexual. Unfortunately, it turns out that many places are just as uptight as the west. I don't understand it. Here we are in the height or gender equality thus far in our existence and it's acceptable for a man to walk around without a shirt but not for a woman. I've seen men with bigger boobs than me. I've seen men wear less than me. Yet, I must remain uncomfortable and struggling with tan lines because society deems my chest different than a mans, because society deems my breasts sexual. I am not a feminist. I am a gender equalitist, an egalitarian. I believe that no one should have the right in this day and age to tell me I deserve less rights than a man and that essentially is what that prohibitive law decrees. So yes, back to story. I saw some girls topless and immediately ripped my top off as I ran splashing into the ocean. Nothing feels better as far as I'm concerned. Nothing feels more free than a wave sliding over your skin. Nothing feels warmer than sun on your chest. Maybe all the men reading this have taken that for granted their whole life, but most women who've experienced it will tell you it's something we never stop longing for and often sit turning green of envy as men parade up and down the beach. The water was not what I expected. Coming from Bermuda I guess we always picture ocean as crystal clean and clear with visibility to the bottom. It's hard for us to close our eyes and imagine anything other than pristine perfection washing up over our toes. In my experience however, many of the worlds famous coastlines do not bleed of such beauty as Bermuda. In the Gibraltar straight sea kelp tangles in your hair and stains the water green and brown of its pulverized pieces. Spongey, slick branches of torn kelp brush past your feet invisible beneath you through the murky water. Anxiety over the darkened water makes my fingers numb and I return to the beach with thoughts of just how much larger and more frequent dangerous ocean prowlers are here in comparison to Bermuda. No, it's not likely that one will get attacked by a shark, but there is always a chance and that water certainly wasn't worth the risk. I sprawled out as the sun crept toward the horizon and fell asleep in the pause in discussion of our worldly ventures both past and future. Hours faded in a blink and I woke to my friends screaming 'wake up tarah! The police are here! Get up!' Startled by the rudest awakening of life and clutching my shoulders to cover my bare chest in concern of being arrested for indecent exposure (as if I were in Bermuda... Hahaha). When my eyelids peeled open enough and the snickering could no longer be contained, I realised it was all a cruel joke in order to wake me faster.
The sun was slipping along that fantastical arc of the atmosphere and hovered precariously above the ocean. I wanted nothing more but to watch the last of light disappear but we were all starving and had to leave the beach to eat. I still catch myself sometimes imagining how magnificent and transcendental that particular sunset might have been. It was lost to me though and maybe I will spend the rest of my life wondering why that pops into my head. In its place I had a strange and one of a kind toasties dinner. I can't remember anything but the goat cheese and deliciously crunchy bread but there were certainly other important elements that made up the most interesting toast I've every had.
Returning to the beach we scrummaged like vagabonds for bits of cardboard to sleep on and wood to burn, dragging them thru the sand to dunes in the distance we thought would offer us some protection from the prevailing winds. The fire lit with ease cuddled quickly cuddled in our sleeping bags and popped the wine open to be passed around amid stories of our already had adventures and the hopes for the ones to come. They dropped like flies, fading into slumber beneath a starry sky. With a half bottle of wine and an undeniable thirst for adventure, I snuck away from the dim fire and wandered aimlessly in the skim down the beach. The light of our camp disappeared immediately in the dunes and though I had barely walked anywhere yet, it was invisible to me. So I marked the spot, ripped my shirt off yet again and skipped on solid sand, spinning circles through the far reaching skim, under a floresest sky. I held tight the bottle of wine in one hand and lifting my skirt I ran, jumping into the rushing waves rolling in. There were moments I felt a rush of adrenaline, the same you feel at the moments you could loose your life, as if I was close enough to the wave to be swept out to sea. I pondered on how ridiculous it was for me to recognize how illogical that emotion was, but yet I could not stop feeling it and knowing that I was safe, I ran on. I'm not sure how far or how long I walked that night. I had no watch, there was no moon. The only measurement I could gauge accurately was the amount of wine consumed. I think I could have walked further, if I had been alone I know I would have walked past sunrise, and when I found myself to weak to continue, collapsing in soft sand, I would have slept just as soundly as I did earlier that day.
Unsure of just how far I had roamed, I decided to turn around when the lights toward the tip of the beach began to fade. I passed a couple caught in a romantic embrace. That scene is forever ingrained in my minds eye, vivid as a photo. They were perfect windblown silhouettes, her hair wildly dancing around the moment, her foot poised so properly and his hand holding her head and she weakened in his arms. I doubt they ever saw me, maybe if they did they thought the sight of me was also too beautiful to disturb. Then again, maybe most couples would view the sight of a topless girl wandering thru the surf with nothing but a bottle of wine and the flapper of a skirt like a sail in the wind as something sad. Not many could guess by mere appearance how content I was in that moment, that there was nothing else I wanted to be doing, no where else I'd rather be and no other person I wanted to be with more than myself.
I returned to camp and found everyone just as I had left them though around a fire more dim than what I had left. If that was any indication of how long I was gone, it was certainly a considerable length of time. I still couldn't sleep so I stacked the fire until I finally forced my eyes closed as I wrapped myself tightly in my sleeping bag. I woke a million times to drunken passerbys and it seemed light light was returning before I could actually sleep. So we woke to get breakfast which I would rather not discuss as it will likely anger me just as much now as it did then. Fran and I had decided to return to Seville for the night because rail passes were useless from Tarifa. So we said goodbye to the Matthews and lugged our bags back down that endless stretch, cursing ourselves for bringing them right back to where we just were the day before.
Fran and I had planned to leave much earlier that day, in fact, we had planned to leave days before but thankfully we waited and our timing aligned with the Matthews perfectly. We had all attempted to find accommodation with no luck. Sme hostels were booked for a month in advance and none of them had rooms for a couple days. We decided individually we'd be sleeping on the beach and stepped on the bus and away from our last Sevillian hangover. The bus sped down open desert roads, dust kicking up from the tires. Metal flowers spin into the distance, lined up one after another, facing this way and that with stems lost among rows of sunflower fields toasted, burnt and orange. The coast is invisible, hidden by strange and twisting savanna trees with a shimmering cobalt ocean behind. Peeking above the trees kites flutter and flap wildly in the wind. With a forever consistent breeze gusting across the flats, Tarifa is one of the great kiteboarding, windsurfing and wind power capitals of the world.
We arrived at the bus station, a lonely building closed by blinds on a corner with just enough room for a bus to turn around. The main road stretch seemed to run perfectly straight onto the horizon each way I looked. We crossed to road to sit for a lunch of quesadillas on the sidewalk. Tarifa is best described as an old western movie meeting new age surf film. Billabong and Quicksilver line the main street sprinkled between kitesurfing and wind surfing school. Probably the most intense competition I've seen anywhere. We drag our stuff down the long stretch toward a hostel we can store our bags at for the night while we make camp on the beach.
After gathering what we'll need from our bags we headed toward the beach just a 4 minute walk down the way. Being from Bermuda, we aren't used to expansive beaches that stretch for miles down a coast line. The vast expanse only comparable to what I was in Holland. I just wanted to walk and only stop when I felt my knees finally giving in. I think that's something I'd like to do one day. Set out with nothing but a back pack into the skim of the beach and only stop walking when a sheer cliff lie in front of me. And maybe even then, just find a way over it.
I had waited to get here for my whole trip, dying to be free of my clothes and in the salty ocean again. I imagined Spain to be more topless than it actually was, in fact we were on the beach for some time before I finally saw some girls topless and figured it was ok. Everyone thinks of Europe as the land of true freedom in that sense. Where TV does little to edit out sexual content and things are just more acceptable and less sexual. Unfortunately, it turns out that many places are just as uptight as the west. I don't understand it. Here we are in the height or gender equality thus far in our existence and it's acceptable for a man to walk around without a shirt but not for a woman. I've seen men with bigger boobs than me. I've seen men wear less than me. Yet, I must remain uncomfortable and struggling with tan lines because society deems my chest different than a mans, because society deems my breasts sexual. I am not a feminist. I am a gender equalitist, an egalitarian. I believe that no one should have the right in this day and age to tell me I deserve less rights than a man and that essentially is what that prohibitive law decrees. So yes, back to story. I saw some girls topless and immediately ripped my top off as I ran splashing into the ocean. Nothing feels better as far as I'm concerned. Nothing feels more free than a wave sliding over your skin. Nothing feels warmer than sun on your chest. Maybe all the men reading this have taken that for granted their whole life, but most women who've experienced it will tell you it's something we never stop longing for and often sit turning green of envy as men parade up and down the beach. The water was not what I expected. Coming from Bermuda I guess we always picture ocean as crystal clean and clear with visibility to the bottom. It's hard for us to close our eyes and imagine anything other than pristine perfection washing up over our toes. In my experience however, many of the worlds famous coastlines do not bleed of such beauty as Bermuda. In the Gibraltar straight sea kelp tangles in your hair and stains the water green and brown of its pulverized pieces. Spongey, slick branches of torn kelp brush past your feet invisible beneath you through the murky water. Anxiety over the darkened water makes my fingers numb and I return to the beach with thoughts of just how much larger and more frequent dangerous ocean prowlers are here in comparison to Bermuda. No, it's not likely that one will get attacked by a shark, but there is always a chance and that water certainly wasn't worth the risk. I sprawled out as the sun crept toward the horizon and fell asleep in the pause in discussion of our worldly ventures both past and future. Hours faded in a blink and I woke to my friends screaming 'wake up tarah! The police are here! Get up!' Startled by the rudest awakening of life and clutching my shoulders to cover my bare chest in concern of being arrested for indecent exposure (as if I were in Bermuda... Hahaha). When my eyelids peeled open enough and the snickering could no longer be contained, I realised it was all a cruel joke in order to wake me faster.
The sun was slipping along that fantastical arc of the atmosphere and hovered precariously above the ocean. I wanted nothing more but to watch the last of light disappear but we were all starving and had to leave the beach to eat. I still catch myself sometimes imagining how magnificent and transcendental that particular sunset might have been. It was lost to me though and maybe I will spend the rest of my life wondering why that pops into my head. In its place I had a strange and one of a kind toasties dinner. I can't remember anything but the goat cheese and deliciously crunchy bread but there were certainly other important elements that made up the most interesting toast I've every had.
Returning to the beach we scrummaged like vagabonds for bits of cardboard to sleep on and wood to burn, dragging them thru the sand to dunes in the distance we thought would offer us some protection from the prevailing winds. The fire lit with ease cuddled quickly cuddled in our sleeping bags and popped the wine open to be passed around amid stories of our already had adventures and the hopes for the ones to come. They dropped like flies, fading into slumber beneath a starry sky. With a half bottle of wine and an undeniable thirst for adventure, I snuck away from the dim fire and wandered aimlessly in the skim down the beach. The light of our camp disappeared immediately in the dunes and though I had barely walked anywhere yet, it was invisible to me. So I marked the spot, ripped my shirt off yet again and skipped on solid sand, spinning circles through the far reaching skim, under a floresest sky. I held tight the bottle of wine in one hand and lifting my skirt I ran, jumping into the rushing waves rolling in. There were moments I felt a rush of adrenaline, the same you feel at the moments you could loose your life, as if I was close enough to the wave to be swept out to sea. I pondered on how ridiculous it was for me to recognize how illogical that emotion was, but yet I could not stop feeling it and knowing that I was safe, I ran on. I'm not sure how far or how long I walked that night. I had no watch, there was no moon. The only measurement I could gauge accurately was the amount of wine consumed. I think I could have walked further, if I had been alone I know I would have walked past sunrise, and when I found myself to weak to continue, collapsing in soft sand, I would have slept just as soundly as I did earlier that day.
Unsure of just how far I had roamed, I decided to turn around when the lights toward the tip of the beach began to fade. I passed a couple caught in a romantic embrace. That scene is forever ingrained in my minds eye, vivid as a photo. They were perfect windblown silhouettes, her hair wildly dancing around the moment, her foot poised so properly and his hand holding her head and she weakened in his arms. I doubt they ever saw me, maybe if they did they thought the sight of me was also too beautiful to disturb. Then again, maybe most couples would view the sight of a topless girl wandering thru the surf with nothing but a bottle of wine and the flapper of a skirt like a sail in the wind as something sad. Not many could guess by mere appearance how content I was in that moment, that there was nothing else I wanted to be doing, no where else I'd rather be and no other person I wanted to be with more than myself.
I returned to camp and found everyone just as I had left them though around a fire more dim than what I had left. If that was any indication of how long I was gone, it was certainly a considerable length of time. I still couldn't sleep so I stacked the fire until I finally forced my eyes closed as I wrapped myself tightly in my sleeping bag. I woke a million times to drunken passerbys and it seemed light light was returning before I could actually sleep. So we woke to get breakfast which I would rather not discuss as it will likely anger me just as much now as it did then. Fran and I had decided to return to Seville for the night because rail passes were useless from Tarifa. So we said goodbye to the Matthews and lugged our bags back down that endless stretch, cursing ourselves for bringing them right back to where we just were the day before.
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