Back to the La Linea bus station and a bus to Tarifa was a very reasonable 3.80 Euros. The only problem was that I have become accustomed to big metro stations and so I missed my stop. The driver wouldn’t let me out nearby but insisted I go to the next stop in the middle of nowhere. Around me were cows,windmills, and the beauty of Andalusia.
With no bus in sight I pulled out my sharpie and wrote Tarifa on a slab of marble that looked like it had once been in some Moorish fortress. Tarifa, por favor and then I began to stick out my thumb. I had heard hitch hiking is pointless in Spain and this was shown to be true. Drivers would wave or gesture in the direction I was going but only continue to drive. Finally, a bus came and for another 1.5 Euros I made it back to Tarifa.
I had looked up a guesthouse online and determined to stay there and hopefully meet some fellow travelers bound for Morocco but the detailed directions I had written down led me to the landmarks mentioned but not to the guesthouse. It was nearing 4 o’clock in the afternoon, too late to go to Morocco, I thought, but when I came near the port, I saw a ticket agency open and got a ticket leaving at 5 pm for 37 Euros. I must be crazy.
The high speed ferry was nice and took just 35 minutes to bring me to Africa. On board, a customs agent stamped my passport and then we debarked with no real formality. As I walked off in my hat, dozens of taxi drivers and touts swarmed me. I didn’t have any money so I walked in the direction I thought the atms might be in and found one. I figured out that the exchange was about $11 per 100 and got 300 Dirhams. I didn’t know what that would get me.
A persistant taxi driver followed me and then took me to the train station. I didn’t understand the amount he requested and being tired and used to the ever so honest Spaniards who seem to never even consider cheating you, I handed him 100. He handed back 50. I knew I was being gouged, but I let it be. Having no idea of Morocco and realizing that the language is totally different, I didn’t want to start with an argument.
It’s funny I’m already homesick for Spain.
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About Vago Damitio
Vago Damitio (@vagodamitio) is the Editor-in-Chief for Vagobond. He jumped ship from a sinking dotcom in 2000 and decided to reclaim his most valuable commodity, time. He bought a VW bus for $100, moved into it and set out on a journey to show the world that it was possible to live life on your own terms. That journey took him from waking up under icy blankets in the Pacific Northwest to waking up under palm tress in Southeast Asia. Three years later, his first book, Rough Living: Tips and Tales of a Vagabond was published. After diving into the Anthropology of Tourism and Electronic Anthropology at the University of Hawaii (with undeclared minors in film and surf) he hit the road again in 2008. Since that time,he's lived primarily in Morocco and Turkey, married a Moroccan girl he couchsurfed with, and become a proud father. He's been to more than 40 countries, founded a successful online travel magazine (this one!), and still doesn't have a boss. Life is good. You can also find him on Google+ and at Facebook