TO RISK
I walked on, keeping a lookout for a place to camp out where I'd feel safe enough from creeping nightweirdos to be able to relax into slumber. As night was settling in for a good ten-hour shift or so, a low-slung Citroen DS with German number plates slowed down as its headlights approached my outstretched thumb and stopped just ahead of my tired, aching feet. I peeked into the passenger side window. In the light cast by the dials on the dashboard I could make out a bearded, balding man with a pony tail at the wheel and piles of stuff all over the back seats. The man reached across and wound down the window.
'I'm going to Algeciras,' he said, looking directly into my eyes. A German accent.
'Great. Thanks.' I opened the door, slung my rucksack into the footwell of the passenger seat and jumped in.
The lights on the dash of the old Citroen glowed feebly; the sodium lighting casting spotlights of gold along the highway ran out and we rolled along into the darkness of Spain. I'd looked across at the man after getting into the car, to try and suss him out, suss out whether he might be a madman, a ghoul, after my soul. Hitching, and lone travel, tends to make you hone in on the character of those you meet along the way. It’s a matter of self-preservation. Alone and on the road you keep alert, analysing the actions and motivations of those around you. Is this situation safe? Is this person safe? Am I safe?
Before the last of the lights, as the blankets of orange light billowed intermittently through the car, I'd noticed that the man's nose was disfigured. Its tip looked as though it had been sliced off, then stitched back on. And a long bubbly scar ran diagonally across his right cheek. The man had history, but he seemed straightforward. Direct. Non-threatening. We talked about France, where the man had a house that he used in the summer. He was driving to his other house outside Algeciras, where he spent the winter months.
'I also own a bar down there,' he said. 'It brings in some money. But I made my fortune a long time ago.'
I spoke about the trip down from England. About always being one step away from being broke. About having no direction in life, not knowing what I wanted to be, to become. I wondered whether he was going to offer me a smoke.
'You have to do one big thing in life,' the man said, 'Take a chance. Do one big job. Take one big risk. Then, if it works, you will be set up for life.'
'What did you do?'
'Hashish.'
I nodded in the darkness. The scars, the self-possession. Spanish jails, I thought.
'And now I can take it easy. For all my life,' the man said.
I felt envious, but I knew I wasn't a gambler.
'And if it doesn't work out?' I said, 'If you lose?'
'Then you lose. But you might win. Many people win. As many, more perhaps, as who lose. It is always worth it. To risk.'
The man shrugged, reached an arm behind him and felt for something on the back seat. There was the rustling of a plastic bag. He pulled his arm back, a jar of olives in his fist. He handed me the jar.
'You can open this, please.' He began to wind his window down. The air was warm, and pine scented. The smell of the Mediterranean.
When I passed the opened jar back to the man he placed it between his thighs and began eating the contents, spitting the olive stones out into the night air.
'But what about prison?' I asked.
The man spat another olive stone out of the window. 'It's not so bad. You study. You learn.'
The night wore on. We drove through road tunnels bored through miles of rock. The man didn't offer me an olive, and either didn't smoke or didn't drive when stoned. After a few hours he began to quietly fart. Repeatedly. The aroma of garlic and olives and digested food began to insinuate itself around the front of the car.
At some point, in the early hours of the morning, the man said: 'I need to sleep for a few hours. You can wait or you can continue to hitch. As you like.'
He stopped the car and climbed into the back of the Citroen. I decided to get out my sleeping bag and try and get some sleep on the ground outside. It was a warm night, but I was wary and slept little. When I heard the man waking up and getting ready to move I packed up my things and we resumed our journey.
If I'd not agreed to meet Dominic in Alicante I'd have made Gibraltar that day. The German dropped me off on the slip road that led into Alicante. It was a long walk to the youth hostel.
'I'm going to Algeciras,' he said, looking directly into my eyes. A German accent.
'Great. Thanks.' I opened the door, slung my rucksack into the footwell of the passenger seat and jumped in.
The lights on the dash of the old Citroen glowed feebly; the sodium lighting casting spotlights of gold along the highway ran out and we rolled along into the darkness of Spain. I'd looked across at the man after getting into the car, to try and suss him out, suss out whether he might be a madman, a ghoul, after my soul. Hitching, and lone travel, tends to make you hone in on the character of those you meet along the way. It’s a matter of self-preservation. Alone and on the road you keep alert, analysing the actions and motivations of those around you. Is this situation safe? Is this person safe? Am I safe?
Before the last of the lights, as the blankets of orange light billowed intermittently through the car, I'd noticed that the man's nose was disfigured. Its tip looked as though it had been sliced off, then stitched back on. And a long bubbly scar ran diagonally across his right cheek. The man had history, but he seemed straightforward. Direct. Non-threatening. We talked about France, where the man had a house that he used in the summer. He was driving to his other house outside Algeciras, where he spent the winter months.
'I also own a bar down there,' he said. 'It brings in some money. But I made my fortune a long time ago.'
I spoke about the trip down from England. About always being one step away from being broke. About having no direction in life, not knowing what I wanted to be, to become. I wondered whether he was going to offer me a smoke.
'You have to do one big thing in life,' the man said, 'Take a chance. Do one big job. Take one big risk. Then, if it works, you will be set up for life.'
'What did you do?'
'Hashish.'
I nodded in the darkness. The scars, the self-possession. Spanish jails, I thought.
'And now I can take it easy. For all my life,' the man said.
I felt envious, but I knew I wasn't a gambler.
'And if it doesn't work out?' I said, 'If you lose?'
'Then you lose. But you might win. Many people win. As many, more perhaps, as who lose. It is always worth it. To risk.'
The man shrugged, reached an arm behind him and felt for something on the back seat. There was the rustling of a plastic bag. He pulled his arm back, a jar of olives in his fist. He handed me the jar.
'You can open this, please.' He began to wind his window down. The air was warm, and pine scented. The smell of the Mediterranean.
When I passed the opened jar back to the man he placed it between his thighs and began eating the contents, spitting the olive stones out into the night air.
'But what about prison?' I asked.
The man spat another olive stone out of the window. 'It's not so bad. You study. You learn.'
The night wore on. We drove through road tunnels bored through miles of rock. The man didn't offer me an olive, and either didn't smoke or didn't drive when stoned. After a few hours he began to quietly fart. Repeatedly. The aroma of garlic and olives and digested food began to insinuate itself around the front of the car.
At some point, in the early hours of the morning, the man said: 'I need to sleep for a few hours. You can wait or you can continue to hitch. As you like.'
He stopped the car and climbed into the back of the Citroen. I decided to get out my sleeping bag and try and get some sleep on the ground outside. It was a warm night, but I was wary and slept little. When I heard the man waking up and getting ready to move I packed up my things and we resumed our journey.
If I'd not agreed to meet Dominic in Alicante I'd have made Gibraltar that day. The German dropped me off on the slip road that led into Alicante. It was a long walk to the youth hostel.