Spain

Ok. Here's the story. Outside Bolonia, very near to Tarifa on the Southern tip of Spain is a hill that translates as, "The Pope's chair." Its a good climb too. Through woods, alongside an extraordinary striated rock. On the top, once you've convinced the long horned cows not to jab you with their horns. You can get fantastic views of Morocco from here. The shore, way way below the hill, is a drop off point for what you might refer to as wetbacks. Fast boats speed across from N. Africa to here and chuck these guys over and they then race back again having dumped their human cargo. The guys have to swim the last stretch and then scramble up the beach and climb the hill to illegally enter into Spain. Clothing lies abandoned in small caves. Trainers, socks, sports bags, trousers etc. They change out of their soaking wet togs and into new ones.

We were there to see the Egyptian vultures wheeling and circling all around us. We had an excellent view over the bay to N. Africa. The sun was setting. Shaping up to be a good one too. To the West you could see the Roman ruins. "Look out Crisdean!" calls my partner. I thought I was just being warned not to go near the edge. Not being alerted about the low root which grew up about two feet from that edge. I of course stepped on it and er "nearly" tripped. If I had, I'd certainly have gone over. How close to a fool's death can one be? How close to an Evening meal for white wingtipped raptors?

We then decided rather stupidly to take a different "shortcut" down the hill. The light was fast fading and after forcing our way though bushes, spiny maquis type plants and sudden drops, there was soon so little left of it that it became impossible to see a clear way down. We managed to get back on the level by taking it very cautiously. I jammed my foot between rocks. The adrenaline dulled any sense of pain. Quite the scariest thing done since looking for cup and ring marks. Evening spent eating Pizza, drinking Cerveza, Rioja, anything and playing dice. Night spent being woken every fifteen minutes by annoying quarter of hour town hall clock chimes. Next morning Ramadan in Tangiers.

Pity this wasn't a goat sucker tale.

Chris was Anon.