"MUSICAL CHAIRS ENGLISH STYLE, DAY TRIP TO GIBRALTAR"
Nov 16 '01 (Updated May 09 '05)
The Bottom Line Oh the hell with it, next time I'm renting a car.
I had four days to kill in the south of Spain before heading off to Morocco and was looking for some way to spend my days. Spending my nights of course was not a problem. Torremolinos has over 400 assorted bars, pubs, and other dens of ill repute and I hadn't even started exploring the neighbouring towns in the Costa del Sol.
One obvious choice was a few day trips of the surrounding area. That way I could get out experience a little local culture and still make it back in time for happy hour. One of the places I really wanted to see was Gibraltar, the British crown colony on the very tip of Europe. As luck would have it, "Gib" was only a couple of hours down the road.
When I'd checked in to my hotel in Torremolinos, the local Conquest Tours/Canada 3000 rep had a quick briefing for the half dozen or so Canadian guests. Included in this was a selection of day trip packages that were available and he would gladly arrange for us. One of course was Gibraltar.
It left early in the morning and cost the equivalent of $50.00 Unfortunately he pointed out it was only available one day a week, Wednesday. As it was now Wednesday evening, and the next Wednesday I'd be spending away from Canada would find me in Marrakech, I guess I was out of luck.
This particular individual was it turned out originally from Santiago de Cuba. How he had come to be working and living in Spain wasn't too hard to guess. I presume he had been one of those few trusted souls allowed to leave the island to study or attend some sort of conference. Once away he had declined to return to the bosom of socialism and simply forgot to get back on the plane home. Now from afar he was quite happy to flip old Fidel the middle finger.
After the briefing I slipped out of the hotel to drown my disappointment at one of the numerous two, or even three, for one happy hour establishments within a block of the hotel. On the street I soon discovered the one type of establishment in Torremolinos that could give the bars a run for their money in regards to sheer numbers. The street was literally covered with small travel agencies.
Naturally amongst the varied trips and tours each and every one offered was of course Gibraltar. A quick check of course revealed that day trips for Gibraltar were available each and every day. There were two packages available. The "shopping trip" which was just a bus there in the morning and back in the late afternoon ran about the equivalent of $20.00.
There was also the guided tour trip, which included a couple of hours mini bus tour of the main sites and a few hours free time. It was a whopping $35.00 or thereabouts. I booked the later for that Friday.
The next day I wanted to have a quick word with the rather enterprising Cubano regarding this. Specifically I wanted the details of how much of the $15.00 he was pocketing and how much was his buddy who ran the agency he was sending people to. However he never put in another appearance in at the hotel.
I even stayed there on my return from Morocco, and looked around, but still no sign of him. There was a sign at his desk which purported to list the hours he would be available almost each and every day, but I guess he never read it. Long time readers of my tales will understand why I think he may have a relative in the same line of work at a German run resort back in Santiago.
Friday morning bright eyed and bushy tailed, ok red eyed, unshaven and hung over, I was out front of my hotel waiting on the bus. Basically the tour buses started at one end of the "hotel strip" and stopped enroute picking up passengers from each place who'd made a booking. What of course they never mentioned was by "hotel strip" they meant almost each and every resort town in the Costa del Sol between Malaga and half way to Cadiz.
Of course each tour operator had his own bus too. There were a good dozen or so people out front of my hotel waiting for a bus and after a bit we all discovered we were all booked on the "Gibraltar trip." What we didn't realise was we were all on different trips, each with their own bus. As bus after bus after bus pulled up we approached it only to be told by some smiling/snarling perky moron with a clipboard it wasn't "ours." Mine was of course the last of a dozen odd buses to pull up.
I jumped aboard, eventually, and discovered it was only half full, as almost all the others had been. Mind the hotel was at about the mid point of the thirty mile long "strip." By the time we were close to Gibraltar all the seats were full. I quickly grabbed a window seat and stretched out to relax and enjoy the passing scenery.
Two of the last people to get aboard, somewhere aboard Fuengirola were an elderly British couple. To be honest as far as I could tell aside from me the whole bus were Brits, but more on that in a minute. There were only two seats left, and they weren't together. The wife actually stood there in the aisle and began whining and pleading with all the other passengers to let her and her husband sit together. This from a pair of "adults" on a couple of hours bus ride.
As one of the two vacant seats was next to me, I tried to look as insignificant as possible. Eventually she shut up and took her seat. Her long suffering spouse sat down beside me and promptly went to sleep. He looked rather grateful to be apart from her if you ask me.
Like I said the bus was full of Brits. Actually all the buses tooling down the road were full of Brits. The Costa del Sol is of course a popular vacation destination for British as well as other northern European travellers. However it is also a popular retirement destination as well.
Someone told me that somewhere along the lines of 50,000 odd British retired and semi retired expats are now enjoying their sunset years in that part of southern Spain. I'm not sure how accurate that number is, but it sure seemed like almost that many were trying to get to Gibraltar that morning. I guess it's the warm climate and low cost of living that attracts so many retirees. Well warm climate and low cost of living in relation to the British Isles that is.
You might presume that the reason all those geriatric Englishmen and Englishwomen were heading to Gibraltar was that they were homesick for good old blighty. You could presume that, but you'd be wrong. Anyone who's ever been to Torremolinos, or any fan of Monty Python can assure you that it is in every respect a little bit of Old England.
The great majority of those 400 odd bars I noted earlier are "authentic" English, or Irish, pubs. They have authentic English bartenders, authentic English newspapers and TV, authentic English beer on tap, and even authentic English food. This included, if one was to believe the hundreds of sandwich boards cluttering the sidewalks, authentic English breakfast.
The hotel I was staying in (Sol Elite Aloha Puerto reviewed elsewhere here) included this lovely concoction each morning. That was an excellent reason to sleep in until noon every day. I'm convinced that the secret that allowed a tiny island nation like England to amass the largest empire on the globe lies in that breakfast.
Young men were more than willing to sail off to parts unknown and risk life and limb for their Sovereign for one reason. To help build and later maintain the mighty British Empire again for that reason. It got them away from that bloody mess on their plates every morning.
So then what was the lemming like daily attraction of Gibraltar to these thousand of geriatric anglo pilgrims? Simple, booze and smokes. Gibraltar in addition to being a crown colony of the motherland and therefore having the same goods on her shelves as back home, was also a duty free port. Most of the people on those buses were partaking of the "shopping tour" option to stock up on items necessary for a comfortable retirement.
That is of course those "residents" of Spain that were willing to cross the border and once more set foot on their native soil. There are more than a few British nationals enjoying the good life in Spain who for no reason ever want to do so. Lets just say that their retirement plans are a bit "unique." It seems more than a few minor British criminals have taken advantage of not just the climate, the touch of "home", but also the difficulty in being extradited, to make Spain their new home. Not for nothing is the Costa del Sol sometimes referred to as the Costa del Crime.
Just before we reached Gibraltar we had a brief pit stop at a local truck stop café. Of course every bus enroute also appeared to stop at this particular café, despite the highway having dozens if not hundreds of them every couple of miles. The parking lot was of course packed with tour buses. It looked like a desert compared to the crowds in the cafeteria. Don't even think about what the bathrooms looked like. Remember most of the passengers would have availed themselves of the authentic breakfast.
Inside the staff were steadily serving the hungry and thirsty throngs, and of course engaged in that universal game of screw the tourist. I grabbed a coffee, and a chocolate bar and received change back from the equivalent of $10.00 US, and I mean change literally, as in nickels and dimes. We of course also stopped here on our way back that afternoon.
I must admit I wonder what the cut of the drivers and tour operators is of that particular little bit of tourist gouging. Then again I'm sure it is just coincidence that every sight seeing bus on the route stops there every day, twice.
Eventually and with our wallets a tad lighter, we arrived at Gibraltar. We knew this not so much by the famous rock that rises out of nowhere on the horizon after you turn a corner on the highway, but by something else. Up to then it had been a wonderful fall day and the sun had been shining. Hey this was the Costa del Sol, the Sunshine coast after all.
The minute we passed the border though it all changed. The sun went away and the clouds closed in. The temperature dropped several degrees, and a brisk damp wind was whipped up. Then of course it began to rain. Yup no doubt about we were on British soil.
Passport control was a farce. A bored looking customs officer jumped aboard the bus and asked everyone to hold their Passport up over their heads. Then he quickly checked to ensure that there were no empty hands waving, jumped off the bus and waved us through. I held up a brochure from the travel agent I'd booked the trip through. Hey it was blue, the same colour as my Passport.
Actually I was disappointed as I wanted a Gibraltar stamp in my Passport just to "prove" I'd been there. A week later in Morocco when I actually saw a Gibraltar stamp in another Passport I wanted one even more. Unlike the average stamp with simple letters and boring numbers, this one actually has a cool picture of the Rock of Gibraltar on it.
Leaving Gibraltar was of course a little more complicated. This time we actually had to get off the bus and troop into a Spanish Customs shed. Of course everyone, yours truly excepted, was festooned with bags upon bags of booze, smokes and cheap electronics by this time. Here you had to display your wares and the pathetic excuse as to what you claimed to have paid for it to a bored official who'd heard it all before and probably knew the real prices and couldn't care less anyway.
One neat thing about the border crossing is the location of the border post. Gibraltar is of course a very small place and every square inch is utilised. The control point is at the very frontier, which is also the narrowest part of the peninsula. Just beyond it is the airport and it's one runway built out into the harbour from landfill. To enter "Gib" you actually have to drive or walk across the runway. There is a cross walk and a red/green traffic light to help you in this.
There's a lot to see and do in Gibraltar but don't worry I won't bore you with it right now. I've already written two pieces here on the "Rock" ("Monkeying Around on the Rock, the Barbary Apes of Gibraltar"&"A Wee Drop of the Olde Country, Ye Olde Rock Pub Gibraltar") and should have at least one more coming. The official tour I'd booked is highly recommended for two reasons. One it ensures that you will see most of the main attractions and with a knowledgeable guide. More importantly it 's the easiest way to get around.
The colony is small, only six kilometres long and most of that is taken up by the mountain. There are 30,000 people living and working in that small place. Add to that thousands of visitors. The 30,000 per day that cross the border like I did, and more from cruise ships. By the way that adds up to 1000,000 cars and other vehicles. The bulk of these, 70,000 belong to residents including military and other Government vehicles. The rest cross over from Spain. Driving here is not for the impatient or faint of heart.
The tour included all the main spots. We went to Europa Point, the most southerly point in Europe. From here I got my first glimpse of Morocco across the straight. Next we drove up the side of the mountain for a spectacular view of the colony and surrounding countryside. We visited St.. Michael's Cave the largest of the natural caverns within the rock. During the Second World War it was used as a hospital. Now it is a concert hall.
Naturally we also visited the famous Barbary Apes in their home the Apes Dens. Here I had a little run in with an ape who tried to filch my Mars Bar. This was the one I'd paid so much for earlier, so there was no way he was getting it. After a brief tug of war we agreed to share it, and honour was satisfied on both sides.
I also got into a little sh*t with our driver/tour guide. On one of the narrow mountain rides I stood up in the mini van to better take a picture out of the window. He immediately scolded me for this.
He was probably within his right to do so, although I doubt I could have overbalanced it and sent us all tumbling down over the cliff face. I did take offence to his muttered comment about "bloody American tourists" though. I left him with no doubt to my nationality with a few choice comments in my best Quebecois French.
The tour dropped us off on Gibraltar's main street for lunch and the free time for shopping. My first concern was to get some money. Gibraltar being so close to Spain does accept Spanish Pesetas in addition to its own currency. Prices are usually posted in both prices as well as in Euros (although when I was there no Euro coins or bills existed yet).
Theoretically the price should be the same, but if you're aware of the exchange rate, you quickly notice that items priced in Pesetas in some places cost more one quick cup of tea earlier in the morning had convinced me to keep my Pesetas in my pocket for the day.
In addition Gibraltar has two currencies. The colony officially uses British Pounds Sterling and these are accepted at all establishments. They also mint their own Gibraltar Pounds, both coins and bills. The two Pounds are identical in value and interchangeable. However the Gibraltar Pound, unlike it's British counterpart, is not accepted outside of the colony. Even money exchange houses across the border in Spain are for the most part reluctant to take them.
Naturally some local merchants will try to give you all your change in Gibraltar pounds even if you paid in British ones. Be careful of this or you may end up with a fist full of worthless paper after you leave. Or you can do what I did as you'll see.
I used one of the several ATMs located in the town and soon had sufficient Sterling for my needs. There are also plenty of banks and money exchanges available. Several places will take the two universal currencies credit cards and US Dollars.
I loaded up on the obligatory tacky souvenirs for friends and family back home and a couple of boxes of fine Spanish cigars for moi. Then I set off for lunch. Naturally I found an authentic fish and chips joint. Thick hand cut greasy chips and batter fried haddock smothered in vinegar and served in greasy newsprint somehow seemed appropriate.
I still had a couple of hours to kill before the bus left for Torremolinos and a pocket full of Pounds and Pence, so there was only one thing to do. I found a pub. Ye Olde Rock is a wonderful place and I soon found myself at home there (please see my review of this place for a more detailed account). Of course I did that by elbowing my way through the lunch time crowd to the bar. There I tossed all my sterling onto the counter and told the bartender to keep bringing me pints of John Courage until that ran out, my bus left, or I passed out whichever came first.
I didn't pass out, and I even had some coins left over when I reluctantly left to head over the immense car park near the airport where all the tour buses were parked. It took minute to find mine amongst the dozens parked there. Also everyone had the same scene being enacted around it.
The shoppers had returned burdened with their bundle buggies loaded down with cartons of Rothmans and Players and crates of Gin and Scotch. This was being stuffed into ever nook and cranny on each bus. When it was time to leave we looked like a refugee column about to depart Kabul.
Feeling kind of left out I climbed aboard the bus clutching my two small plastic bags of T-shirts and cigars. Here I discovered that charming sense of British logic and fair play that makes me glad me ancestors were not Sassenachs.
The bus was less than a third full, but there was someone in my seat, guess who. No problem I grabbed the window seat in the row behind them. I'd just settled in when another geriatric ciggie smuggler stood over me and in a pompous accent advised me I was in his seat.
I started to explain that someone was in mine and pointed to the dozens of empty ones around. Besides no one had pointed out that the seats were reserved. It was a bus not an air plane for crying out loud.
No good. He stood there and screamed that everyone had to take the same seat that they had on the trip up. Soon he was joined by a chorus of other passengers including the person sitting in my seat. Of course I was the "cheeky colonial" or the "bloody wog" or even the "damn yank." That last two from someone who either hadn't seen, or didn't recognise the Canadian flag patch on my jacket.
I stood up and moved into the aisle while everyone else boarded. I was considering getting off and staying in Gibraltar. Hey the Olde Rock was probably still open and they liked me.
No, I knew hotel rooms in Gibraltar were hard to find and quite expensive. I had no idea how much a cab or regular bus back to Torremolinoes would cost or where to get one. besides it would soon be happy hour back at my hotel's bar.
I stood there muttering choice words under my breath in Gaelic, French, Spanish and German. Sure those are the only languages I speak but I can swear in several more. Mind I figured those particular four would have the best effect on a bus full of Englishmen.
Eventually everyone got aboard and the driver screamed at me to sit down so we could leave. Well at least he was yelling at me in Spanish. Slowly with my head down, I went in search of the one vacant seat.
It was an aisle seat at the back. I stowed my bags, again, and slumped into it. Then I noticed my new seat mate. He was an untidy older gentlemen and I use that term loosely. His most noticeable feature was his dental hygiene which was not quite up to the average standard of his countrymen.
The minute we pulled back into Spain the sun came out again. I missed happy hour at the hotel by five minutes. Not to worry it was just starting at the bar across the road.
Other Articles on Gibraltar
Gibraltar
http://www.epinions.com/content_2656477316
The Barbary Apes of Gibraltar
http://www.epinions.com/content_2094112900
Ye Olde Rock Pub
http://www.epinions.com/content_31584194180
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Member: James Smith
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