Down and outs

I’ve often tried to explain what Melilla is like to others. It’s an enclave. It’s surrounded by Morocco, in Africa, but it’s Spanish territory. It’s got four different religions respectfully living together in harmony and peace. There are churches, synagogues, mosques, schools, markets, universities, a bull ring, a hospital, many bars and restaurants, a ferry port, a marina, a beach, an airport, very few launderettes(!) and a border. A very big border. Around the outside of the town. With a fence. No; three fences. 40 feet high. Each.

I never quite get across the significance, wonder, meaning and sadness of the valla (the fence) when I’m describing Melilla. I truly feel that it needs to be seen to be understood and I’m so glad I could share this with Tony and he felt the same way that I do.

The fence keeps the Africans out.

We’re all familiar with what is going on in Ukraine, and many of us are doing what we can to help the refugees. The media does a wonderful job of keeping us up-to-speed. The same has been going on for years much closer to home in Spain, but we seem to know a lot less about it.

From time to time (the last time being just two weeks ago), there are stormings. 1,000s of people head from the African side for the valla, seeking a better life. They run to the border at the same time, some possibly having spent miles travelling to north Africa, and they use hooks, spikes and any other means, to climb and clamber over giant barricades. Some will get through, some won’t. The Africans, fleeing their home country (with no dog, bag or sewing machine) have just hope for good health and safety. Melilla has a temporary care refuge centre, where those that get across can stay for a short while. Once inside Europe, they’re in with a better chance of that better life.

We drove to the Moroccan border on the east side (near to where I used to live) and it was deserted. I explained to Tony that it used to be full of people milling about, women carrying bits and bobs on their heads (circumventing the import limitations by bringing things on foot). Very bizarre to see this so isolated. We drove along the fence until it rolled out in front of us.

We trawled the valla all the way around Melilla – I wanted Tony to get a feel for how big/small Melilla is – and when we got to the piney area at the top of the westside of town, we saw a dirt track that led down to the sea. There was a sign on the road saying something about a safety zone and the path became rugged and dropped down pretty steeply before climbing back up to a cliff edge. I was driving so Tony could see a little bit more of what was going on and I stopped at the top of the hill to suggest that we might ntw be able to get down/back out. We agreed Tony should drive from now on, in any case.

Down and out we went to the viewpoint. There were shoes caught in between the fences, a Moroccan military agent on the other side of the fence, a Spanish civil guard watching us from above and Tony spotted some cameras. He mentioned we were being watched. It was quiet. Gloomy. Eerie.

Having taken in the sombreness of the area (I explained to Tony that people also try and get into Europe’s gateway of Melilla via boat around the edges of the sea), we decided to go and grab a coffee.

We dropped down the hill and tried to climb the incline the other side but didn’t quite manage to get up. Uh oh…

We rolled back down the incline, backwards, into the valley of this hill (for those from Bristol, think Brislington’s Alison Road). We stopped for a moment at the bottom of the pit and thought. We’re not stuck, are we?! How can we get out of here?! Or will we be sleeping here in the van!? We half thought we kind of weren’t supposed to be there and had already attracted a fair amount of attention at the port with the van. Let’s try again.

Anf reversed up the hill behind us to get a mini run-up, giving us enough momentum to get up the other side. Clutch down, quick shift into first. Rev, rev, rev. Alas. No. The brow of the hill was within arm’s reach and then slowly disappeared out of reach as we slid backwards. Anf thinks on the spot, hoiks (ahuh) up the handbrake, presses his foot to the brake and stops to reflect again, suspending us at a 45 degree angle back down behind us. At this point, I’m concerned he’s concerned. And he rarely gets concerned, which makes it very concerning. I ask, concernedly, if he thinks we’re going to get out of here. He says yes, in a “I’m not worried” worried way (#stepawayfromthealliteration). Suspended, we talk about getting the winch out, what we could tie it to. I’m thinking about how I could get out, behind the van and push and the reality that I’d just be crushed by a big red transit (#notthewayiwanttogo).

We roll back down. One last try.

Anf seizes the backwards momentum to roll up the other side, clutch down, quick shift into reverse, rev, rev, up the back and quick shift into first, GO! Rev rev rev, he shifts into second(!!!!), the revs drop, we slow down but climb slowly, rev rev rev, we’re losing momentum, quick slip into first, rev rev, rev. Horizon in sight, rev rev rev. We’re UP and out!!

Lordy loo. That was touch and go.

I had visions of us emptying out the van to make it lighter, calling long lost friends from Melilla for help to come and tow us.

We come to the end of the dirt track, back to civilisation, where vehicles are more likely supposed to be.

Oh. Look, Anf. There’s the guardia civil. Oh. Hold on, Anf. Why are they flashing their lights at us? Anf. Why are they driving towards us? Oh. They’re blocking our way. Why do you think they’re doing that, Anf?

Two gents dressed in green guard get-up get out of the car, frowns furrowed on their firey faces. (#stopstace – oh, dang, I did it again! ;-)). I wind down the window (such pleasure from the simplest things – manually winding down the window at tolls has become one of my favourite things to do of late and I’m being very genuine!). We hear for the second time in a very short period from the mouth of a handsome Spanish official “esta prohibido” (it’s forbidden). We have to stop meeting like this!

I’ve not mentioned that Tony’s driving licence expired on 27^th February. We hit the road on 28^th…Tony’s attitude to this? “We’ll wing it!”. With Tony at the wheel, knowing his licence is out-of-date, my bum became a little twitchy. He pulls it out of his wallet pronto from under the dash and shoves it into a rubbish bag we have between our seats, just as the officer comes to my window.

“Documentos.” I hand over our passports.

I know he wants driving licence, vehicle ownership documents, insurance policy.

I chat nervously to the officer. Tony sits there, cool as a cucumber (they’re cooler than coconuts for those that may have been wondering).

The officer at my window looks at our passports, t’other is stood in front of the van (still frowning).

“Documentos de vehiculo.”, the guard barks.

I hand over Anf’s motor insurance policy and log book.

We sit, waiting for our fate.

I’ve not felt this naughty since I got caught smoking behind the shops by the headteacher, Mr Kent. The radios bleep and beep, Tango. Bravo. Whisky. (Yes, please!) The officer walks away from the van to speak into his radio, wandering back and speaking to us in English, whilst the other remains planted in front of the van (still frowning - do you think they’re trained to be menacing/grumpy?).

I’m a little scared, but exhilarated.

We wait. Five/ten minutes go by but it feels like forever.

The guard softens as he waits for his colleagues to check us out. He asks us if we’re terrorists (eh?! Do you think we’d say yes if we were, mate?!). I laugh hysterically. Tony sits there. Still chilling.

The guard tells us he saw us on the camera. He smiled and said we seemed to be having some trouble getting out. I giggle, nervously. Tone is not even melting, as cool as an ice cube (I’m running out of similes here!).

The guard tells us we shouldn’t go down that way again, that the sign says security zone, asks if we took any photos, Tone chirps in “no” (is my mouth a liability or something?!). The guard hands us back our passports, the vehicle log book, the motor policy and tells us to go careful and get gone. We get gone.

I can’t hack all this excitement. It’s coffee time!!