The Ending

It took a few years, but this blog was indeed finished. Catch up on the rest of the story under Wild > Spain at https://cosmofalcon.wordpress.com/

Woof!

Mude aber Stark

Julius told me an amusing joke:

Why does a bear have red eyes?

So it can hide in cherry trees.

How does a bear get down from a cherry tree?

It floats down on a leaf.

A real thigh-slapper!

The rest of our stay in Tarifa was spent walking the beaches, wandering around the quaint old town looking for a decent place to eat, and trying to get coffee from shady dealers on street corners. No luck.

We did however manage to arrange our next farm. There's a place up in the mountains near Seville with lots of chestnuts to harvest. Let's do it.

Strollin'

Playa de los Lances is a satisfying beach. At the eastern end there is one of those outdoor gym areas which seem to be everywhere in Spain. Basic metal exercise frames painted in bright primary colours which spin or pivot. I think they're designed more for old people than anyone else.

Walking along the water's edge I lose myself in the retreating waves around my feet and the amazing shadows underneath. Amazing visuals as the sunlight reaches the ground, moving through the ripples and bubbles of the sea onto the miniature landscape of the sand beneath. Like cells through a microscope.

An old man came wandering along. He was clutching his cane behind his back, leaning forward with every step. He reminded me of that old man on the mountain in Legend of Zelda: Link to the Past. I had to nod to him as we passed. He placidly returned the gesture, but didn't show me a safe path up through the mountains.

Last night the four of us found a bench overlooking the Strait and the lights of Tangier in the distance. Darkness had fallen but there were still a handful of men fishing from the shore. We had a little wine and cheese as we watched the ferry coming in. "Glug, glug, glug. Die Piraten saufen wieder..."

If you're not into (or can't afford) wind/kite-surfing then prepare for a quiet time of it in Tarifa.

Here you can see Morocco. And a kitten.

Tourists in Tarifa

Thanks to Julius and Katja, I have a few delightful pictures to share. I've added some to previous posts Amongst Olives, Animal Bullies and Rockface.

We're now having a little break in Tarifa, staying in a beautiful Moroccan-style apartment. Buzzel's finca had its wonders - like the outdoor bathroom where you could gaze across to Africa - but this place is a welcome spell of hot-water, flushing-toilet luxury. It's also great to have some other (relatively) sane people to talk to.

Tarifa is a pleasant little town clearly focussed on being a wind and kite-surfing hotspot. Its other tourist attractions are clean sandy beaches, whale-watching tours, and the ferry to Tangier. The ferry crosses a time zone so, as it only takes an hour, you arrive in Morocco at the same time you left Spain.

The town's other claim to fame is supposedly being Europe's most southern point. Strolling along the seafront we came across a narrow land-bridge leading to Isla de Tarifa. Despite the tiny island being off-limits, the bridge is worth wandering along. As you walk south, you have the Mediterranean Sea on your left and the Atlantic Ocean on your right. You are between the Pillars of Hercules!

There was a striking difference between the two seas. The Med seemed calm and inviting, the Atlantic ferocious and formidable. Wind-surfers were sailing out into the Med's waters while kite-surfers flew all over the place in the Atlantic, seemingly at the mercy of the capricious Levante wind and the thrashing crush of the cold waves. I could taste the sea salt on my lips as I watched them, a touch baffled.

Barely

Buzzel seemed offended by our decision to leave and wouldn't give us a lift into town. So we had to wait around all day for one of the Swiss women. 

I was beginning to wonder if we would be allowed to go - maybe Buzzel was concocting some nefarious scheme to enslave us and force us to clean his infested barns and caravans for the rest of our lives. 

I was cleaning up cow dung when he appeared on the path in front of his house and stood laughing at me with hands on hips. 

He was completely naked. 

I mustered a horrified failure of a smile before quickly scurrying away, attempting not to look terrified. My mind was filled with nightmares.

Thankfully, none of them came true and to my immense relief, we escaped. The journey with the Swiss woman was a little edgy - she seemed guarded and mistrustful. As she was one of Buzzel's subjects, I answered her probing questions with careful, measured responses. She dropped us off in Tarifa and I revelled in an invigorating wave of relief.

We met up with our German friends Julius and Katja, who were also wwoofing, and agreed to share an apartamento for a few days.

A Glimpse of Reality

We stayed for the best part of a week. For company there was the mad King Buzzel himself, his Swiss women, the simpleton neighbours and a Chinese Chi-healer who I never encountered. I wouldn't be surprised if he only existed on Planet Buzzel and was undetectable to the rest of us lowly humans.

It was like a breath of fresh air one day when a sane Englishman turned up. It was no coincidence that he chose to drop by on an afternoon when Buzzel was out and about somewhere. 

Philip was the man who built the yurts. The various carpentry equipment lying around was his. That explained why Buzzel had zero interest in working with it. It was also Philip who signed the place up to the wwoofing scheme. So it was his description we had read online. He was the host. Unfortunately, we were too late: had we come a year or so earlier we could have learnt some real skills and had the chance to see some cool places in the area. 

What a filthy old liar Buzzel is, keeping that out of date description online so he can attract free labourers.  

Even worse, when Philip decided to move on from Planet Buzzel, the evil emperor tried to claim Philip's yurts and equipment as his own property. What gratitude after years of free usage. Buzzel was obviously too comfortable making money from Philip's work. Sadly, a legal dispute is now underway.

After my experiences, I can't say I was terribly surprised to hear this. The crazed solitary "Buddhist" suddenly turned on a generous companion in order to further his own monetary welfare. His self-serving hypocrisy is repulsive.

My stay on Planet Buzzel had been a remarkable one. I was now more than ready to head back down to Earth.

Eagle-eyed

The weather has calmed and it's quiet now. I realise this is another isolated place. Three Swiss women come during the week and run a small aromatherapy business in one of the buildings here. Who knows what kind of arrangement they have with the dirty old despot. We don't see much of them. 

A couple who live on a neighbouring piece of land also come over now and again to do some cleaning. Cleaning what, I don't know. Maybe they follow Buzzel around his house, mopping up the hypocrisy as it accumulates in his wake. The guest house and other yurts are all empty. There is no one else around.

With fewer people about my attention moves onto nature and my surroundings. The light brown rolling mountains dotted with grey and green, and of course the white of the ubiquitous wind turbines. The trees and reeds by the lake, all facing away from the wind, permanently angled, lop-sided. The gentle ripples of the wind on the water. Tentative birdsong and grasshopper sounds, the occasional bell or chime on the wind. 

There are turtles in the lake and I've seen a few raptors soaring high above, seemingly motionless as they glide through the air. One eagle even floated down to perhaps fifteen metres, casting its eye around the lake here. I stood silently in awe of its majesty as it made a few slow circles then effortlessly glided away towards the mountainside. It took a while for the little swallows to return to their water-skimming.

Cleaning

This morning I woke in the dusty yurt to the sound of some strange snuffling outside. I thought maybe Buzzel was creeping around in the bushes. Fortunately it was only some leftover cows and a bull. They were mocking us with their presence. Still, it was better than having that crackpot lurking around while we slept.

The mornings here are cold, wet and very windy. Yesterday I was awoken by a dramatic thunder and lightning spectacle. It's no wonder there are so many wind turbines. I've never seen so many. In every direction the surrounding mountains are crowned with lines of the giant white machines. There are hundreds. The famous "Levante" wind is a force to be reckoned with and it often results in the weather changing instantaneously.

The rain is also remarkable. It seems the wind whips it up from the Strait of Gibraltar and then violently dumps it straight back down again when it reaches the higher ground. Step outside for a moment and you're immediately saturated. I can see the sense in creating that barn kitchen. At the moment, it's yet another task just trying to scramble some eggs without everything turning into rain soup.

Today we were kept busy checking the tyres and various levels of Buzzel's BMW, then cleaning the interior. Spraying air to loosen the dirt then vacuuming it up was moderately successful, but I think filth is permanently imprinted into everything here at a cellular level.

A power cut resulted in us having to fire up the gas-powered back-up generator. Eventually the rain stopped so we finished with the car and busied ourselves with the joyful task of cleaning up what the cows had left behind. The aftermath soiling the path.

Cows

Today we were cleaning up a big metal barn full of every bit of wooden or metal junk you can imagine, the more potential for injury the better. One corner of it is supposed to become a kitchen. This would replace our existing "outdoor kitchen", which consists of a metal table, portable gas cooking stove, a few utensils and a hosepipe suspended above a ceramic bowl. The barn is pulsing with filth so it's going to be a hell of a job.

We were doing what we could - which unfortunately isn't the experienced handyman job Buzzel seems to expect - when we spied a stray cow in the yard. Mark went out to open the gate and let it join the rest of its herd outside in the neighbouring fields. 

I'm sweeping up rat droppings when I vaguely hear some noise. I step into the doorway to see what's going on. The image I'm presented with is of Mark walking slowly towards me, shaking his head dejectedly, while a blurred brown mass of about forty cows streaks past in the background - up the driveway and into the compound and gardens beyond. Blank incomprehension turns into astonishment, then into frustration, then incredulous wonder at how Mark could have messed up so colossally. Instead of one cow out, forty were in. I decide to take action, clueless as to the size of the task that lay ahead.

After perhaps half an hour of dashing about waving a stick, screaming obscenities and plunging knee-deep into a shitbog in a crazed attempt to herd the cows back towards the gates, my bitter distress at the lack of progress transforms into amused appreciation at the absurdity of the situation. This is reinforced all the more hilariously when Buzzel comes bursting out of nowhere onto the path in front of me, brandishing a staff in both hands above his head and ululating mad, foreign howls. Mangy old Fucker is of course at his heels, doing his part and barking his wizened lungs out at the huge brown beasts trotting around the lake in front.

If the compound is similar to a resistance refuge in Half-Life 2, this cinematic moment was like the old shotgun-wielding priest appearing out of the blue right at the moment when you're most in need of help.

He didn't make much difference though. We spent another short while roaming about in vain, chasing the surprisingly nimble animals. Eventually, we decided just to let them graze and relax for a bit. Then, later, it was easier to usher them out, calm and organised, using walkie-talkies like real handymen of the country.

Planet Buzzel: Refuge of the Swiss

I'm sleeping in a yurt by a small lake. It's located next to a scrap compound which is part of a small estate owned by an aging eccentric Buddhist hoarder called Buzzel. 

Swiss in origin, Buzzel is bald, lean, chicken-necked and has a pair of glassy eyes which look right through you. He's also nearly deaf and speaks as if he has false teeth. His mess of a dog, who Mark has named "Fucker", is grey, shaggy and filthy. He has a small patch of fur trimmed above his hind leg - Buzzel hasn't got around to doing the rest. Fucker's eyes are also like frosted glass. Worryingly, so are those of the semi-feral cats roaming about (including "Lisa Left-eye" who sits there squinting at us all day). I fear for my health around these creatures, Buzzel included.

When we arrived at his finca, I thought perhaps we had stumbled upon the lair of a madman. I've never seen a scrapyard like it: oil drums, wooden sleepers, bits of metal, huge transport containers, all sorts of old tools, equipment and machinery. Even a speedboat, tractor, caravans and some massive unidentifiable industrial machines just lying dormant around the place. And it's nearly all in filthy disrepair. It's a breathtakingly ridiculous place.

Things made a little more sense after Buzzel showed us the guest house on the hill. As our end of the territory is dirty, disused and dangerous, the guest house is clean, stylish and beautiful in a rustic farmhouse way. It also has the best views over the coastal mountains, the Strait of Gibraltar and the silhouette of Africa in the distance.

Once presented with this bigger picture of Buzzel's world, his motives and ideas became evident. He wants willing and able handymen to manage and maintain the behind the scenes work on the estate, enabling him to loosely supervise and thus enjoy his semi-retired Buddhist mechanic pastimes. Even better for him if they come as volunteers and all the compensation he needs to provide are groceries.

It's dishonest of him to lure wwoofers into a place which is obviously not an organic farm and which does not provide the advertised opportunity to learn green-woodworking. This is another pitfall to look out for when wwoofing: some listings are out of date or unverified.

Nevertheless, we decided to stick around on Planet Buzzel for at least a few days.