I stopped for a second, but followed him in.
We passed next to the wooden shack I’d been in only recently and entered another house, twenty meters away. And inside there was, no more, no less, Manu.
I didn’t understand anything. Which movie was I in? In the past few hours I’d met several people in three different situation and they all appeared to be living in the same yard.
“Hello, my friend,” I greeted Manu who only managed to give me an empty look, smile shyly and reach for his lighter, aluminium foil and a plastic straw.
“Don’t hold it against him, Manu isn’t with us at the moment.” Roni tapped me on the shoulder. “Now you can see why he didn’t meet you in the bar.”
And I saw it. I knew that was where my ten Euros ended up. Still, I couldn’t bear a grudge against him.
“Until he’s back I can prepare us dinner.” He took five potatoes, a big onion, a clove of garlic and a bunch of cherry tomatoes.
He was cooking, I was observing and Manu, still in his own world, was sitting on the bed. Not long after that, just when the dinner was ready, he was awake and joined us at the table. Since we didn’t have enough plates we ate straight from the pan in which Roni prepared the food. Perhaps because I hadn’t eaten anything that day, or because of the whole atmosphere, it was one of the most delicious meals I’d ever had. We shared food, drink and stories. I spent most of the time listening to their life stories, both happy and unhappy memories, which had brought them to this village in the south of Spain.
Manu arrived in Castellar for the first time in ’77. For the past forty years he’d been using all sorts of drugs, and for the past twenty years he was on heroin. In the eighties he spent a lot of time on the Columbia–Germany route: he imported pure cocaine from there and sold it at skyrocketing prices. Once, he only managed to sell 28 grams from a kilo. He used the rest of it himself. But even that was enough to go back for another stash.
Soon, the word got out on the streets of Berlin that Manu was dealing the best coke in the city and the Russian mafia didn’t like it very much: they paid him a couple of visits, stole everything he had, threatened him with a knife at his throat, beat him up with baseball bats and left him in that condition to die alone like a dog. He was saved by German doctors, who had given him a medical discharge after months in hospital. He had twelve bolts and three metal plates in his head. It would cause him lifelong problems with metal detectors at airports.
Finally, he’d decided to come back to Castellar and stay there where he had old friends who, after all his escapades with cocaine and German hospitals, thought he was dead. All kinds of rumours circulated around the village. There were three versions of his death. And there he was now, pulling through, earning his living by selling weed to tourists while he spent most of his earning on the yellow powder that he got at his next-door neighbour’s.
“How does it feel smoking heroin?” I asked him in the morning, still sleepy, as I observed him preparing his morning dose. After our dinner they didn’t let me set up my tent, but, instead made an improvised bed, insisting that I spent the night inside.
“What can I say?” he replied, holding the kit in his hands, with the straw swaying in his half-opened mouth, “I cannot sleep without it, I cannot eat, I cannot walk, I cannot live. Heroin controls my life.”
I watched him, thinking about his life. What kind of situations must’ve happened to him to bring him to where he was now, in the middle of a village in the south of Spain with only one thing on his mind, how to get money for another shot that would help him forget.
If my life had played out differently, who knew where I’d be and what I’d be doing. It’s possible that I’d be in Paris selling my young body. All in all, only when confronted with situations like that did I realize how lucky I was and that, unlike many others, I’d grown up living in a fairy-tale.
He started the lighter only on the fourth attempt and put it closer to the foil. He stopped for a moment and turned it off. He looked up, gave me a sober look, possibly the only one for that day, and said, “please, remember only one thing. What I’m doing now... Don’t ever try it. There is no way out.”
I’d just witnessed the best anti-heroin ad ever made. If I ever wanted to try it now, I was sure that it’d never happen.
I went out into the yard and not long after I heard someone asking, “how’s business?”
I looked to the left and what scene there was. The Boss from yesterday was standing by a tree, in a T-shirt with his pants around his ankles. He was laughing, with his hands on his hips, and urinating.
“Still nothing,” I replied looking him directly in the eyes, “I’m headed for the streets right now to see the situation.
I got out on the street realizing that there was nothing in that village that could surprise me anymore.
The village was dead and there was nothing to do. Since I didn’t have any money, and I didn’t want to impose myself on the guys during their meals, or work as a drug dealer, it was time for action. I had to get to the civilization and head further east.
I took a walk to the castle, saw a couple of tourists and then I returned to Manu’s place. He was sitting in front of his house, playing with the dog.
“I think I’m going to move on today,” I told him, “if only I could find a job around here to earn some money to buy food, or if I had a guitar to play around the castle, for tourists...”
He looked at me, went into the house and brought me a guitar with five strings. I took it realizing, surprisingly, that it was well tuned. It sounded great, even without string number two. Manu made me a sign in Spanish to explain to the people that I was from Croatia, that I was travelling and that I needed money for food.
Soy Tommy de Croacia, necesito un poco dinero para comer.
Gracias.
I gave him a hug, being careful not to break any bones in his fragile body, took the guitar and headed towards the castle.
There wasn’t a living soul around. That was fine by me, it would give me some time to practice a bit and get attuned. I wasn’t much of a singer, and I also wasn’t much of a player. I put all my hopes in the sign where people could read something about me and by a small contribution, help a stranger on his Journey.
I placed myself next to the entrance to the castle, put the cardboard sign and a plastic bowl and in front of me and threw in the only coin I had, one Croatian Kuna, and played the first chord. A minor. That was my favourite one.
I had only ten songs in my wide repertoire, and most of them were in Croatian. It wasn’t much of a start, but I was hoping that people, if any people should appear, would appreciate my effort despite the language in which I was singing.
I bit my tongue in the awkward conversation,
I don’t know why, I don’t know why…
With my eyes closed I was playing my favourite song, one that reminded me of…
“Suerte.”[15] Just then a man passed by, rustling a plastic bag, throwing a one Euro coin into my bowl.
The feeling was amazing. My chords grew stronger and louder, just like my voice in which you could sense self-assurance. That first coin marked an official beginning to me becoming a street musician. I’d always been one of those people who would look at the street artist and secretly admire their music skills and the courage to stand on a street and give a tiny piece of themselves to passers-by.
One song after another, several tourists appeared, stopping at the entrance of the castle, taking a few photos and reading my sign. Nearly all of them threw a couple of coins into my bowl, either on their way in, or on their way out of the castle. Also, someone gave me a can of juice and a sandwich so I decided to take my first break.
That was it. I was happy and fulfilled. I was giving a piece of myself to passers-by, through the songs I sang, and they were giving me something in return, through their smiles and the coins. That was enough for me.
“Mummy, mummy, look. The man is singing in English.” A little girl ran to me,
she was perhaps seven or eight, with a cute English accent. She stood in front of me, looked me straight in the eyes for a few seconds, smiled at me, and sat next to me. Her parents simply smiled and went to explore the castle. The little one remained: she had a private concert to listen to.
I sang to her all the songs in English that I knew and enjoyed her presence; she was quiet, innocent and focused like only kids know how to be.
Just because she was the best audience, I took my one Kuna coin and gave it to her.
“This is my lucky coin. Guard it somewhere. If you ever happen to come in my country you can buy a chewing gum with it.”
She accepted the coin, looked at me with her dark and deep eyes and gave me the firmest hug in the world. It was a lot firmer than I’d imagined a seven-year-old could give.
The gorgeous little being’s name was Nikita. She was from New Zealand and she was travelling with her mum and dad across Spain. I played her another song, and in the meanwhile her parents came back. They took the photo of Nikita and me, threw in a couple of coins in my bowl and left, leaving me with one of my dearest photos and, definitely, one of my favourite experiences from the journey.
I played for an hour more throwing glances at the bowl. I’d made fifteen Euros in two or three hours of playing. Moreover, if you take into consideration that there weren’t many people, it was more than excellent. I decided to play for another half an hour and then call it a day.
As I was playing the final songs, slowly starting to feel the fatigue in my left hand, I noticed two girls who were looking around some houses nearby. Suddenly, they sat ten meters away from me listening carefully to my performance and taking a few photos.
They approached me, threw in a few coins in my bowl, introduced themselves and asked me who I was and what I was doing there. I told them that I was travelling, hitchhiking, sleeping in strangers’ apartments, and I also told them the story about how I ended up playing guitar in front of a castle in a village on top of a hill in Andalusia.
They were extremely interested in everything I had to say, more than they were interested in my singing.
“We travel across Spain, too,” they said, “soon we’ll be going home, so if you want to, you can come with us.”
“And where is this home of yours?” I wanted to know.
“Bilbao.”
“That’s on the other part of the country, right?”
“Yup, on the very north, it’s a thousand kilometres away from here.”
It took me a few minutes to weigh up the offer while the girls did a tour around the castle. Finally, no matter how much I loved saying ‘yes’ I had to turn them down. I nurtured a feeling that some other important things were waiting for me in Andalusia and, honestly, I didn’t feel like going north just because I could. Anyway, it’s not that warm in the north and it rains quite often. I thanked the girls for their wonderful offer, played them another song and gave them a hug goodbye.
After a successful day I treated my hosts to some freshly bought groceries and we prepared dinner. The following day I decided to repeat the previous successful day so I took the guitar and went to the same place. On my way to the castle I bumped into a middle-aged couple. They spoke German between them. I greeted them, they greeted me in return, and when I moved away a bit they said something incomprehensible.
“Sorry, what?” I said turning around.
“Would you play something for us?” they asked me politely.
I sat next to them and played two songs for them. They listened to me attentively, and, at the end, I was rewarded with my first applause.
“You’re a great singer,” they agreed unanimously, “come with us to have a cold beer.”
Even though that would probably mean my work-day was over, I accepted their offer. They took me under the arm, and showed me the way to the yard in front of their house. I was surprised to see that their yard wasn’t the same one I kept ending up in for the past couple of days.
Cans of beer kept on coming, just like the stories. They told me about the history of the place, about Manu; they warned me about certain people who I should watch out for (one of them was, of course, my Boss) and explained the way they decided whether they liked someone or not.
“You know those machines in the hospital to which sick people are attached?” They asked. “Imagine healthy people attached to them. Those showing signs of life, who are sometimes happy, sometimes sad, who aren’t afraid of winning or losing, who give themselves completely to what they do; people whose life line on the screen goes up and down, we love those people. However, those whose line is always flat, we don’t love those. They never take chances, they don’t stand up to anyone, they’re indifferent to what’s happening around them, they don’t want to experience big failures, or big losses, yet they will never experience great and breath-taking victories.”
“Intensity,” I commented.
They nodded. We were on the same page. What truly mattered was the passion with which you approached and lived life: were you actually living it or were you just passing by, not having enough time for the details, the small things, the miracles. In that case, you were only a passive observer, instead of being the star of the movie.
After many hours spent together, they offered me a place to sleep, an old hippy van which was no longer in driving condition, although it could still work well as a sleeping cabin.
Two nights in the van and a couple more Euros earned playing the guitar later, I moved on. I arrived in Alhaurín el Grande, on my way there getting four Euros from a driver, and positioned myself in a huge house with a pool surrounded by greenery and luxury. I was planning on staying there for a few days, helping my host with the house chores in exchange for food and accommodation.
The first thing I did was something I had been thinking about over the past four days in the hippy village – I had a shower.
Day 565.
Hey Tom!
When are you coming home from Spain? It would be great if you could come to our agency once you’re back so we could see whether we could help each other somehow. You always hitchhike, you never buy plane tickets?
If you need, let’s say, travel insurance, we could be your sponsors and all you have to do is mention us every once and a while, wear our T-shirt, you know how it goes... I’m giving you food for thought, and when you come back we should definitely meet and have a talk!
Maja
Maja was a colleague from the university who was now working in a travel agency.
My new travel-writing project was finally starting to pay off. I replied that we’d definitely meet once I was back, grabbed my backpack and headed for the road.
After a few days in that magnificent house with a pool, I was back on the road heading east. I wanted to visit another place I’d heard amazing stories about, Beneficio, a hippy commune inside of the Alpujarra national park.
It was only one hundred and fifty kilometres away so I planned to get there the very same day, especially since I travelled the first hundred kilometres in two hours. However when, seven hours later, I was still waiting, standing in the same place with the Andalusian sun shining heavily, I started seriously doubting my decision.
“What could the Road have in store for me today, I wonder,” I asked, looking at another car passing by. I managed to make two girls in a car smile, which still wasn’t enough to make them pull over. Not one car pulled over, not even to ask me where I was headed. Not one. I must’ve broken some sort of a record.
A screeching of brakes. I looked to the left, a car with two girls in it pulled over just before the highway entrance, made a U-turn. My heart started beating. They were moving towards me, slowing down and rolling down the window.
“Hey,” a blond girl in a bathing suit greeted me.
“Hey,” I greeted her back, hopeful.
“What are you doing?” the other girl asked me, a brunette wearing the same outfit. “We saw you some five or six hours ago, when we were going to the beach.
Now we’re coming back. Where are you going?”
“To Beneficio, towards the east,” I crossed my fingers, “and you?”
“To Málaga, towards the west,” they replied together.
It was an awful feeling, the disappointment, when you were so close, yet so far away. I would’ve given everything if those two gorgeous ladies were going in my direction.
“Well, so it goes,” I said, “thanks for at least pulling over and asking me where I was headed.”
They smiled at me, rolled up the window, and went to the roundabout to get back on the highway.
Wait a minute, I thought to myself, it’s getting dark and you’ll have to spend the night on the beach. There’s nobody waiting for you in Beneficio. Maybe you could go with those two to Málaga, even though it’s not on your way? If you’re lucky, and you often are, they could be registered on the CouchSurfing site.
“Hey, wait!” I shouted, waving them to stop the car, which they did, “do you happen to know of any cheap accommodation in Málaga where I could stay if I went with you? It’s getting dark, and I don’t feel like sleeping on the beach.”
They looked at each other, had a brief talk in Spanish and said, “get in, you’re sleeping at our place.”
Once again, I was the luckiest man in the world.
I got in the back seat concluding that my face would wrinkle in no time from all the non-stop smiling I was doing at my life situations. I introduced myself to my new friends and they did the same thing.
“We are two students and we have an apartment in the centre of Málaga,” Amanda told me, taking something out of her backpack, “that’s all you need to know about us for now.”
They laughed out loud. Sandra cranked up the volume of the radio and started singing loudly, while, having taken out everything she needed, Amanda started rolling a joint.
1000 Days of Spring: Travelogue of a hitchhiker Page 12