RICH'S NOTES-PARENTAL TOURISMMay 11, 1999
Balcon de Espana, Near Tarifa
The Top Of The Rock
My dad and I are going back for the passport. Our Mediterranean oasis, the Balcon de
Espana, is 50 km from Gibraltar and 200 km from Seville. With Dick's passport in Seville,
we’re going to drive 400 km and get back to the Oasis before my mother and Sara are
finished breakfast. Given Dick's appetite for books about Lord Nelson's naval escapades
and keeping the Germans out of the Mediterranean, we'd drive a thousand miles to get there
and back. It's o.k. We like to drive.
We’re on the road by 9 am. The roads are motorcycle-free and fresh with the early
sunshine. Dick accepts the driving responsibility for the first hour. I know where I
inherited my love of driving. After Golf, it’s where Dick likes to be – on the
open road in his 1970 Cougar Convertible. I'm glad I met Sara and discovered our mutual
desire to explore. Mosey is driving with serendipity.
Back at the Balcon, it's hot and the pool is too blue to pass up. We recover by the
edge and get hot enough to test its chilly waters. After a few revitalizing laps
we’re out and on the road to Gibraltar.
The southern tip of Andalusia is a stage to view the steep and atmospheric Moroccan
coastline. Windmills set on the Sierra de Ojén are a dedicated audience to the changing
light that falls on North Africa's mountainous edges.
We park on the Spanish side of the border at La Linea de la Concepcion, a lively
trading town. We park here because the Spanish maintain a protest of Gibraltar’s
British possession by creating an extensive delay for cars exiting the Rock. Car line-ups
are hours long. We walk through the airport and capture a sure to be treasured photo of
Dick with the rock of Gibraltar as a backdrop. "It really does look like the
Prudential Life Insurance Logo."
After browsing a few of the hundreds of duty free shops, we board "The Top of the
Rock" cable car which takes us up the middle of the massif to roughly 300 metres. As
the Iberian Peninsula unfolds before us, Dick's fear of heights keeps him firmly planted
on the last available seat in the cable car, peering over the edge only to study the
cruise ships and tankers in the Bay of Algiers. The view from the top is unbelievable and
unsettling. One can see how this vantage was so strategic, and the cause of so much
conflict.
Native Gibraltarians are descendants of the British, Genoese Jews, Portugese and
Spanish who remained after the Great Siege of 1779-83. Britain seized the Rock in the War
of the Spanish Succession in 1704, and was granted it "in perpetuity" by the
Treaty of Utrecht nine years later. As the gateway to the Mediterranean, Gibraltar was
essential to Britain in colonial times and assured naval dominance for British allies in
the Mediterranean during World War II. Along with an 8th century Moorish Castle
and the 80 kms of carved siege tunnels created in the 1770s to defend against a Spanish
assault, Gibraltar is home to a handful of Barbary apes that live on the Rock and
entertain tourists. Legend has it that the British will only maintain possession of
Gibraltar as long as the apes remain, but when numbers dwindle the British government
simply trucks in a few more from Morocco.
The wind is stiff and we walk along the summit passing ape stations and crawling taxis.
Although Gibraltar is riddled with man-made tunnels, St. Michael’s Cave is part of a
vast labyrinth of caverns and passages formed by nature. Known by prehistoric man and
mentioned in ancient texts, the cave was long thought to be bottomless. Some even believed
it to be an undersea link to Africa, and the means by which the first monkeys arrived
here. Rainwater seeping slowly through the limestone rock turned into a weak acid,
gradually dissolving the rock over thousands of years. Tiny cracks grew into long passages
and enormous caverns. Gibraltar itself was even thought to be one of the Pillars of
Hercules and the caverns were believed to be the gates of Hades – the entrance to the
underworld. During World War II the cave was turned into a bombproof military hospital,
and these days a cavern is used as an auditorium for orchestras and cranky, screaming
children.
It’s 15 minutes until the last cable car so we head off to the mid-way station a
little further down the hill. As we walk, we’re passed by minivans full of
air-conditioned tourists. They stop momentarily for the driver to roll down his window and
feed crackers to the apes. One ape tries to get the whole box of crackers and is
repeatedly hit with a stick from inside the van until he retreats. As the van leaves, the
ape returns to his post and waits for the next load of tourists.
The mid-way cable station is not so much a station as it is a cantilevered platform
that rocks 100 metres above the Rock's base. My dad’s shaking a little. "Uh, how
long do you think it would take to walk down?" "Maybe an hour." We wait on
the Rock and only venture out to the boarding platform when the cable car approaches. My
dad, deathly afraid, manages to look straight down long enough to step into a swinging
cable car. Below are a miniature city and a miniature port, with tiny ships and
restaurants. We oscillate in the wind as remaining passengers run up the platform to catch
the cable car. Now it’s shoulder to shoulder. With a groan, the car lurches
earthward.
After a few creamy Irish ales things are back to normal and we cross back into Spain,
on foot. Along the way we pick up an essential kilogram of English wine gums and a few
bags of toffee.
