Day 73

Through earplugs, I can hear white noise, the ligaments in my neck crunching, my heartbeat quickening, and street dogs barking. I dreamt of being back in the hot Merzouga desert, my feet absorbing energy from the warm sand, and an expanse of golden dunes stretching out before me. 

However, today, reality is slightly less idyllic. Out of bed and the blood in my right temple pulsates, I take out my earplug and I’m back in our basic apartment with cold feet, a damp washroom floor and the smell of sick. I laughed at Wiggy for his desire to choose a base right next to the ferry port. What could possibly go wrong? But oh, how right he was.

This morning, I feel like I’ve been beaten up. Actually, we’re both achy and tender. We move ever so slowly and spend a lot of time resting and lounging. Wiggy lays on the couch not moving, while I sit on the floor and slowly pack. I consider eating the banana that lays on top of the kitchen counter, but then remember the fish tajine, and suddenly change my mind.

Last night, it began with a stomach ache and a lot of gas. Then, early in the night, Wiggy got up to use the toilet. He said he wasn’t sure which end it would come from. After being woken, the pain in my stomach got significantly worse. Half asleep, I set about looking for toilet paper, as it had been moved earlier in the day, but I quickly gave up and hurried to the toilet to sit down. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong end and had to pull the bin into place as I sweated and convulsed. And so, the yoyo loo dash sessions began, with Wiggy and myself taking turns to use the toilet throughout the night.

Instead of packing, it’s easier to stare out of the window and rest. In our apartment, a window fills most of the wall, the curtains are open and the windows are cracked to allow fresh air to circulate. I watch the ocean and a vague smudge that is the Spanish skyline. Closer to home, a line of huge granite rocks is stacked as a sea defence, men stand on top of them and cast out their lines. Pampus grass is planted next to the beach and a sleeping dog rests on the sand. The ocean is still today and makes the relaxing and continuous sound of friction and collision. 

I take one garment at a time, fold it up, and place it on a pile to be pushed into my compression sack. I give up and simply stare out of the window and breathe. Then, I notice the cats. There are three of them in the patio area of a neighbouring apartment. Two with calico coats and a third covering in patchy brown and white. They look towards the path and are seemingly waiting for something. My camera phone is produced and as I take a picture, the head of a man appears in the frame. He moves slowly, burdened by an old mattress and a thick purple blanket. He moves very slowly actually, barely lifting his feet and hunching over. A faded florescent yellow bib covers his torso and ripped trousers cover his legs.

The cats seem to know him but are cautious, one approaches but retreats when another cat paws at it. The man ignores the cats and sets down his mattress and blanket in a corner of the patio area. The sound of radio crackle begins and soon wobbly French voices travel over the airwaves, the voices stabilise, and a talk show is broadcasted. 

I feel I’m being nosy so focus on my packing again. The next time I look out, more cats have magnetised towards the old man. Slowly, he moves along the path, now a stick balances over his shoulder with a checkered bag tied to its end. 

We eventually pluck up the courage and eat a banana each. We slowly clear our bags from the apartment and I remove the vomit-filled bin bag and place it in a dustbin outside. It takes ten minutes to ride to the port. We collect our tickets, wait around a bit, contemplate the cafe, then feel ill after entering the cafe, and decide to ride over to customs.

On motorcycles, the officials fast-track us through the rows of cars and ask us to proceed to the x-ray machines. This is a problem for me. I rummage through my bags and show the guard my freestyle libra patches and paperwork that explains that they should not be scanned. He tells me that the machines are okay even for Tesla cars, but ignores me as I walk my bag past the machines.

Beyond customs, we find a group of motorcycles waiting to board the ship. There are two road bikes and around a dozen adventure and enduro bikes with 50/50 or knobbly tyres. But we have a long wait and I still feel naff, so I lay down on a bench and rest. According to Wiggy, I was asleep for a few hours, it felt like a few minutes to me.

Eventually, we board and after 5 hours our boat, the Excellent, sets sail. Excellent is a very big boat, as she moves you can’t feel the swell and her engines are very smooth. Through the smear of salt-sprayed windows, I watch the land depart us. 

We go down for dinner and sit with a pair of friendly German motorcyclists, whom we met during check-in. Wiggy’s appetite has returned and he consumes three dinners! The German gents have bought an unlimited food pass, I feel this would have been a better option for Wiggy. The gents are hitting retirement age. One was recently severed from his employment and paid off. So, he’s decided to retire early and travel. A month in Morocco, 6 months in South America with his wife, a month back home for an Eastern Europe tour, and then possibly the USA! In his youth, he spent a year travelling the Americas on a motorcycle and recommends the Post Boat as a way to see the Southern Islands and view the Artic without the astronomical cost. 

Back upstairs, again, I’m extremely grateful for Wiggy’s judgement. I was previously inclined to bypass a cabin and save money by camping in the corridors, but now I’m so thankful we decided to pay extra for our cabin. I sleep solidly for 12 hours!