Granada – Órgiva – Almuñécar – Málaga: 189 km

Leaving Granada is hard. It’s one of the few cities, together with Rome, some places in Turkey and definitely Valencia, I could see myself living. But travelling is a dichotomy, not necessarily in search for something better, but always searching for something unknown. Leaving the good for the new, the great for the uncertain. Normally it doesn’t bother me all that much. It does however when I find a place as comfortable as Granada.

I’ve been told Órgiva is a special place. A happy hippie energy should characterise this town, apparently famous within its community. It’s not really on route westwards. But hey, it’s a short ride and not that much of a detour. The ride there is pretty as can be. It’s mountainous, the clouds hang low, hiding the highest peaks. Threatening black clouds accompany me, but never deliver on their promise. The camping I’m staying at is hard to find. I’m basically there but not quite when I ask a lady working in her garden for directions.

“You’re seriously staying there?”
“Yes?”
“You know they’re heroin addicts, right?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Well, see for yourself. They’ll won’t murder you, but hey might rob you at night. You know how they are… I’ve seen people leave in the middle of the night.”
“OK. Thanks for your advice!”

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I’ll keep her words in mind, but decide to check it out myself. They might be intwined in a neighbourly dispute. A lady, extremely thin, opens a rusty gate. She has no clue what’s going on. The manager I spoke to is hospitalized. Her boyfriend reluctantly tears himself away from television to greet me and thereby shows me his face covered in crusty wounds. I hear some other people cough uncontrollably in the room next door. The thin lady and wounded boyfriend take me to the garden. I can set up my tent next to algae-green pool, in-between the rotting oranges – funnily almost the same colour as the pool – that cover the grass. I’m the only guest, the others live here long term. The lady’s words echo in my head as I stroll along the dirty pots and dust covered tins and bowls in the kitchen. The lady and her boyfriend went back to bed. It’s midday. I hear multiple televisions blearing trough the walls. Fuck this, I’ll look around for another place.

After spending too much money on an actual camping I explore the town. I hate it. Nothing is authentic. This place is flooded with long haired, alpaca robe wearing, ukulele playing northerners, walking around barefoot with large leather wrapped stones and shells around their necks. They are either young looking old people, or the other way around. A man who’s age I can’t define preaches who knows what kind of gospel at a traffic light to cars with their windows up. Steel drum music and the smell of incense overwhelms me from the bars, pan flutes and djembes are sold from the windows in the shops. I pick up flares of conversations from the terraces and haphazard meetings on the squares; “…you have to expose yourself man…”, “…when I was in India…”, “…living with the universe…” I actually do love hippies. I’d almost consider myself one. The core message of love and peace over everything is one I can agree with. I think they’re right by denouncing the neo-liberal capitalist system that we’ve apparently accepted as the one and only way forward. But I do hate extremes, unoriginality, and the monoculture of this place does not inspire me in the slightest. It seems fake and unconstructive.

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Needless to say, I’m happy to leave Órgiva. But the night I spend there the Sahara dust viciously came back. This time too, it’s combined with heavy rain. I’d like to leave as soon as possible, but when I wake up at seven, the rain that has kept me up at night it still falling down. When it stops an hour later, my tent and bike are covered in a thick layer of deep brown, almost burgundy mud. Everything crunches, soaks and erodes as I pack it all to its smallest capacity. Any moment summer will start. I’ve seen the signs in the trees and bushes along the roads. Any moment now.

Moncho in Almuñécar has gracefully accepted to host me through Warm Showers. With the same ferocity I hated Órgiva, I love Almuñécar. It’s a nobody-knows-or-cares-about-town. But I feel extremely comfortable and welcome here. The streets are tiny, the people have all the time in the world, the shops and bars traditional. Nobody here pretends to be something they’re not. Moncho is working when I arrive. I stroll around, make friends at bars that I walk by, their arms waiving me in. When Moncho is done we play darts with his girlfriend, after which we eat tapas at a local café. He’s invited all of his English-speaking friends. We spend the night sharing tapas, ordering each other beers and greeting all that walk in. OK. Another town I could live, but maybe when I’m old. A place to know everyone, every corner, every bar, every event, every gossip and every weather change. And then talk about everyone, every corner, every bar, every event, every gossip and every weather change with everyone you already know anyways.

With a slight headache from the night before, too many drinks, to little tapas, I’m making my way towards Malaga. The people I’ve met from Andalucía don’t like it. Too financial, too fancy, too big, too touristy. I for one enjoy the city. That’s probably because I don’t get the full experience of living there. It’s also because of my great host Andres. He’s been bro-ing out on WhatsApp about all the girls we’re going to score. But when I meet him he’s a modest, sweet man. He takes time and care in showing me around the city. We sit on a terrace and enjoy watching people from all around the globe passing us by. But people watching is tiresome, and before 22h we’re back at his place, getting ready for bed. Tomorrow is a big day. Tomorrow starts my adventure with Marous.