5. Last Steps in Europe

(Day 28-39, 3.100km cycled)

Exchanges

1. Giant Ice Cream in Barcelona. Head for size comparison

While I was in Barcelona, I reunited with Freddy and Iago, the two German Boys I met in the early days of my France journey. As if we had it scheduled in advance, we arrived on the same day in Barcelona and later met for some Beers at a large warehouse-bar in one of Barcelona's party districts. We all brought our best stories to the table and while we could certainly all have a good laugh together, we sure all took some learnings with us too. Because the two are forced to wild camp every night (Campgrounds don't accept minors and they're both 17) they have all sorts of crazy overnight stories to tell. Some pleasant and some not so much.

For example, I could really do without a night spent sleeping on the beach just to be woken up by a fierce thunderstorm that drenches you, your sleeping bag and everything else laying around in water. This then forces you to spend the night hoping you fall asleep so you don't feel the cold sleeping inside that drenched sleeping bag.

Knowing there are like-minded, crazy people like me out there feels so good and makes me feel less insecure. Riding and camping alone has its advantages but it is also lonely at times.

Another exchange I had was back when I was in Cannes. I had a call with Carolin, an adventurer that cycled for 16 months together with her boyfriend from Alaska down to Chile. Crossing mountains at 4000 meters of altitude, deserts and properly dangerous countries. The two had a 10$/day budget back then and smartphones were not invented yet, so communication with friends and family was a whole different animal than it is today. It's inspiring and very helpful to hear her stories, get tips from her and to receive praise and admiration for my trip. You never stop learning and you never know it all. Being open minded, accepting one's own misconceptions and being able to change your plans makes it possible to conclude a trip like mine successfully.

Yet Another Hénri

I cycle alone and still, I have to find somebody that happens to go the same direction and is crazy enough to join my ride for a while. Just a stones throw outside of Tarragona, I met Hénri. Not the Henry from Germany that invited me to currywurst and french fries, no, it's a Belgian Henri who now lives in Spain and has rounded the world about 50 times by bike. At least from what I understood about his travels.

While I was waiting to cross a road, I saw a cycle tourer with big saddlebags slowly approaching in the distance. Traffic was busy and I still hadn't crossed as he reached me. With a shopping basket strapped on his rear-rack, and two sleeping mats sloppily attached, his bike looked messy, beaten up, worn out.

2. Henris bike viewd from behind

A couple missing teeth won't win him any beauty competition but none of that will change the fact that Henri will survive 5 times longer on any cycle tour than I would. We talked a bit and I told him about my plans. Turns out he already cycled the Sahara route 7 times. 7 TIMES. For fun. He has also done pretty much all of Europe, Africa, North and South America. And currently, it seemed like he was just on a summer-joyride back to his home in Andalucia. He was a very sympathetic man and we exchanged numbers as he wanted to follow my tour and I knew I could definitely learn a thing or two from him. To this day, he asks me daily where I am and sends me crooked pictures that he took from today's ride. In return, I have asked him about tips how and where to stay the night.

Knowing somebody who has such an extensive repertoire of cycletouring and stays stays so laid back really helps me remain calm and relaxed at times where I don't know what to do. I simply ask myself "What would Henry do now?" And then I imagine a round old calm face with missing teeth, smiling and saying "what is there to worry about?" and I immediately feel better. If you're reading this Henri, thank you for the advice so far and safe travels to you!

Summer holidays?

Having reached the Spanish coast gave the ride a pleasant flair. It just feels like summer holidays at the beach a lot more than it did on the French south coast. The rocky climbs followed by beautiful clean beaches invited me to dip my cheesy smelly feet into the refreshing ocean at lunch. A break just feels so much better when it's done on a beach.

3. Blue ocean blue sky in Ginestra

4. Finest German cheese feet

5. Sunset close to Tarragona

The ride from Barcelona to Valencia lead me through the Ebre Delta, which is a prominent rice cultivation region in Spain, and the Serra D'Irta national park. Overall, the views were pretty, the roads were calm and I was happy. It was a great stretch to cycle.

6. Ebre delta rice fields

7. Still Ebre Delta but with me in it

Suddenly and without announcement, I encountered Spanish mass beach tourism for the first time. Just before Oropesa, there is a town that consists exclusively of massive apartment buildings, all holiday apartments for mostly local Spanish tourists. The buildings are arranged uninspired stacked in rows like somebody fell asleep on the CTRL + V buttons.

The artificial feeling of holidays started creeping up on me. And it didn't leave me for a while. All the while, cycling into El Grao de Castellon, every building I saw seemed to be only a holiday home. I felt like I was in an amusement park for families. The beaches were pretty and beautiful and all but it just did not fit my camping-cycling-holiday idea. The same way, we know that skiing isn't a true nature holiday in the mountains, these beaches didn't feel natural and welcoming. Luckily, in a day's worth of cycling, I had reached the beautiful city of Valencia and I could take two days rest in the park-transformed riverbed of Valencia, indulging in Tinto de Verano drinks and authentic Spanish Paella.

8. Takeout salad and Paella

As my appetite for artificial beaches was saturated, I decided, that in order to cycle to Almería, I would choose a route that takes me more inwards into Spain and through the mountains for a bit.

I cycled up through "the city of a thousand fountains" Xativa, where apparently the first ever paper on European ground was printed and I could refill my bottles with natural fresh springwater.

9. Me "filling my bottles"

I spent the night on a farmers' field after asking, because in that region there were no campgrounds and wild camping in Spain is strictly forbidden and comes with a fine anywhere from 30 to 3000 Euro. The next day, after crossing the dry, dry, dry and hot hills over Yecla, I wild camped anyway. Just behind Cieza on an abandoned winery. Talking about wine, the wine-capital of the region, Jumilla, had just had it's wine festival a day prior to me passing through there. Much to my regret. The central fountain had a wine ornament installed and it ranked of wine so much, that I can only assume that the whole fountain was sprouting wine the prior day. What a shame I came late to the party.

10. Wine ornament

Camping in the wild, I was very paranoid to be spotted so I chose a spot in between bushes to pitch my inner tent. Unfortunately, the ground was extremely uneven so I had a very, very uncomfortable sleep. But what's discomfort if you can get fined 3000€ for illegally camping? So I'd rather be hidden and uncomfortable than comfy and a hefty fine poorer.

Waking up the next day, I followed a beautiful river through the mountains and a green and picturesque valley, until I eventually passed by Murcia and into Totana.

11. Wild figs I plucked from a tree

12. Almond trees

13. Almonds from a wild tree

15. Sunrise when wildcamping

Detour

Over these past days, the idea floated in my head that I should take a ferry from Almería to Melilla in Morocco and cycle through central Morocco rather than cycling to Gibraltar, taking a Ferry to Tangier and sticking to the touristic coast of Morocco. This, I hoped, would keep me away from the touristy Moroccan coast and give me a purer insight into Morocco and its culture.

Today, when I departed Totana, I had made up my mind that I would take the first route, through central Morocco. I wanted to experience the less treaded paths and not follow in the footsteps of the millions of sandal socks tourists that sprawl on Moroccan beaches. Mass tourism in Spain had oversaturated me.

I knew it was going to be hot in Morocco's center during the next weeks, reaching temperatures of up to 47°C during the day.

Even for Moroccans terms, this was extremely hot because the country was experiencing a heat wave. But I rather endure that hellish heat than feel like I had arrived with an organized TUI trip together with Sandra and Achim who were afraid to drink Coca Cola with ice cubes in it for the fear of getting the shits.

Trash.

With this impactful decision in my pocket, I departed Totana on a high note and was on my way to Almería. The route took me through the farming Valley of the region Lorca. In a matter of minutes from departing, the high note faded. Something that I had noticed about Spain but maybe hadn't had time to fully sink in, came crashing down on me. The realization that Spain is littered, filled, stuffed, pumped up, jammed, loaded, oversaturated, with trash.

It is everywhere. People seemingly do not give a shit. Plastic, furniture, beer bottles, building materials, toxic asbestos. It was everywhere where people didn't look. On every city outskirts, under and behind bridges, tossed over fences, hidden behind bushes, thrown into the ditch out of the car window. Everywhere was trash. That day, it crashed down on me as I passed the fields of Lorca. These fields were all, without a single exception, infested, injected and buried with black plastic foil. The foil that they use to cover sprouts just gets chopped up and worked into the ground after it's done its job. The farmers don't make the effort to collect the plastic and recycle it. It's just working in the field. Every plant I saw that day, literally grew in a pile of trash. Tomatoes, potatoes, onions, paprika, you name it. All of it comes from a giant European and probably legal junkyard.

16. Black plastic foil

17. Monoculture tent-farming

18. Trash randomly on the side of the road

19. A normal "clean" supermarket parking

I was disgusted. Absolutely outright disgusted.

This feeling lasted all the way into Almería because now everywhere I looked, I didn't see the beautiful mountains of Andalucia and the Cabo de Gata national park, I only saw the trash that people carelessly threw into their environment. I saw the glass that didn't get recycled and ate away at my tires, the slave workers that lived in appalling conditions on the tomato farms and the plastic brown monoculture-tomato-tent that blocked the landscape views, with a fitting touch of plastic trash everywhere you looked.

I have had enough of Spain. I didn't want to see it anymore. A relatively rich and well educated European country that was hailed for its nature and beauty where simultaneously, people gave so little care about their environment yet charged you 20€ for camping and fined 3000€ for wild camping "to protect nature". I couldn't help but feel like it is just a pile of trash that a lucky few exploit to siphon the cash out of tourists' wallets.

These words are probably hard, unjust and unreflected. It doesn't change the fact that Spain left this impression on me. I was ready to leave and seek a true adventure on the big African continent and my arrival in Almería meant, as soon as I received my package from home with diabetes supplies, I would book a ferry to Melilla and leave Spain, Europe, 20€ camping, mass tourism, and most importantly, I would leave behind the security of my trial-run that Europe had been in preparation for everything that Africa will throw at me.

Contrasting to the shocking state that most of Spain is in, regarding waste and trash, I experienced plenty of kindness and respect from drivers on the road. The food was delicious yet tapas sizes are just too small for me. It's the perfect place for every tourist seeking an overly average beach holiday for a week or two, easily accessible by plane. But it's not for me.

Adios España!