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SPANISH PROTECTORATE



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OLIVE TREES



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GIBRALTAR TOURIST OFFICE



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FORWARD TO AFRICA

My Story

38

Gibraltar. It was afternoon and the looming giant rock was casting its long afternoon shadow into the Mediterranean. It stood there, waiting for us. Like it was giving us a final test or something before we passed over the water into another continent.
Rudi and I crossed over from Spain to enter the two and a half square mile place called Gibraltar. Stiff-spined uniformed middle-aged border officials greeted us in English. It was strange to hear everyone speaking a language I could perfectly understand. It was like coming out of a coma, where everyone understood what I wanted to say. Now that’s nice.
Jeeze! That was a good feeling. When I wanted to say something to someone -- no arm waving, raising my voice, drawing diagrams to get people to understand what I was trying to ask. When people look at you kinda dumb-faced all the time, it’s not a normal feeling. Here in Gibraltar, I felt like a person let out of confinement. It was good.
It reminded me what a task it was to communicate in a foreign language on this trip. Exhausting. I mean, especially talking with Rudi. If people spoke to us in French, I had to translate the French into German. Or if they spoke to us in Portuguese, I would recognize some of the words from Spanish and translate them into German or English, or sometimes back into French.
I was never cut out to be a linguist or something like that. It was a feeling of relief to be in a place where English was spoken. No longer will it demand great concentration on the sound of their language or inflections or gesticulations they might make to get their point across.
So here we were in this little piece of land, about 2 ½ square miles as I said. No need for much gasoline for our motor scooter at this place. If we drove 1 ½ straight miles we’d be out of the country.
Well I guess it’s not a country, it’s more what Americans call a protectorate. But who’s protecting who? It’s one of those places one country will capture and hold so they have a safe haven for their battleships or airplanes or troops. In other words, if they have these protectorates, it means they are an aggressive nation, looking around to protect their imports and exports as well as being prepared to invade some place. I never used to understand why one country would want to own a slice of another country a thousand miles away. I remember from my history class back at Mercersburg that Britain owned a lot of these “protectorates” around the world like Malta, Nigeria, Kuwait, Hong Kong, they even had Palestine up ‘til the end of WWII.
Even Portugal had them, Angola, and a place called Goa in India. France had them, like Algeria that started the Algiers war, which we will soon be traveling through. I don’t think Canada had any places like this but I remember I always thought it was funny that a place like New Zealand had one called Samoa.
I don’t know how long the British will be able to hold on to Gibraltar. These colonies have a long history of being a waiting time bomb and we felt a tension here in Gibraltar that wasn’t present in Portugal and the rest of Europe we traveled through.
The Germans are famous for having these long distant possessions, like East Prussia on the Baltic. I can remember during my CIC days in Wuerzburg interviewing refugees that wanted to come to the USA; one of them was from the German possession of the capital of East Prussia, Koenigsburg, the city where Richard Wagner, the composer lived and the philosopher Emmanuel Kant is from. The Russians, during WWII, kicked the Germans out. The citizens headed west on the only road out of town with horse and wagons and all their possessions they could carry. Russian fighter pilots strafed thousands of the mass of people with their Luftwaffe machine guns. Not many people survived and one of them was the German husband of an American friend of mine. He was a toddler back then, walking in the exodus along side his mother and little sister. His father was a German infantryman, fighting the Russians in the East. The guy doesn’t talk much about it. His father never returned. After a seventy-five mile march through Poland, his mother and he and his little sister got back to the German homeland in ’44 and got to live the war out in an apartment that the Germans had confiscated from a Jewish family who ended up in Auschwitz.
The USA has a history of these distant possessions or territories they sometimes call them. Alaska, Hawaii, Puerto Rico. If we’re not careful, they could become time bombs too.
So much for history and politics. We always stayed out of arguments about the ‘aggressive American’. But nevertheless, when people met us, a German and an American, they expected a couple of aggressive guys. They were always surprised we were not that way.
We got through the border just fine. The customs people everywhere are always the same type. They don’t smile. You could put a Russian guy in a French uniform, and visa versa, and unless he spoke, you couldn’t guess his nationality. It’s funny how an occupation can attract the same character in people no matter what their nationality.
Well, with the formalities at the border over, we drove into Gibraltar, doubtful that we would find any farms on the tiny province. But maybe since Gibraltar is a peninsula it must have some beaches where we could camp out.
The great rock loomed like an overlord as we wound through the tiny main street, the 1400-foot rock plunging down into everyone’s backyard, into everyone’s business. It would block away the stars, half of the night, and half of the day, the sun. That big rock was like someone looking over your shoulder all the time. But I could see why some country would want to own it. It was like a traffic cop sitting right there between Africa and Europe, looking at everything that was happening coming in and going out of the Mediterranean from all those countries in the Near East and Italy and France and Spain, plus all the North African countries like Egypt and all. What a powerful place!
As we were driving through the spotless, well-scrubbed main thoroughfare, wide enough for two English-sized cars, we halted to watch a parade of double file patrols of bagpipe-playing Scots, dressed in kilts.
“They’ve got skirts on!” was Rudi’s assessment of the solemn soldiers.
We stood motionless, like at a football game when they play the national anthem. You felt like saluting or something. The soldier\musicians were repeating an ancient ceremony that probably harks back to Scottish clans warring against one another back in the 18th century. It seemed fitting with this pre-historic rock behind them in the background. Sea gulls soaring overhead must’ve seen humor in it. Stern soldiers in colorful plaid skirts parading to squeaky music from bagpipes. Oh well, it’s like scotch whisky. You have to acquire a taste for it.

“They’ve just come from the changing of the guard ceremony at the Governor-General’s palace,” a tall, gray-haired Englishman standing on the sidewalk behind us said, seeing we were curious.
“I believe they’re from the Black Watch barracks,” he said. English people we had met on our trip seemed to always want to offer the history and background of places. “And where are you chaps coming from?” he asked.
“We’ve just come from Europe and we’re on our way to Africa,” Rudi answered. He was getting pretty good at answering in English the standard questions people would ask us, like. “Where are you from? Where are you going?”
“On that motor scooter?” The man asked, looking down at our scooter.
I didn’t answer. I let Rudi practice his English.
“Yes, don’t you think we’ll be able to make it?” Rudi asked.
“Well, and he paused, I’m sure you didn’t have any trouble in Europe. But when you blokes get to Africa, you’ll see a world of difference in the roads.”
I love the English people, but it irks me the way so many of them want to maneuver you into a debate or a ‘can you top this’ contest. I guess it’s their way of testing you. I usually play “dumb” with them, and then surprise them later on in the conversation with a remark that tops anything they’ve produced so far. But I didn’t think I could top this man.
We stood in the street with the gentleman for a while, talking about our trip in Europe, and hearing advice on what we were going to meet in Morocco. And listening to what we should avoid. He sounded like my mother.
“Have you chaps ever been to England?” he asked.
“No, we didn’t get there. We plan to hit it on the way back.” Rudi answered.
“Well, it’ll take more than just hitting. You could spend a year on the British Isles, and still never see enough. I suppose then you’ve never tasted stout?”
“What’s that? “ Rudi asked.
“Stout? Why it’s the best ale you ever tasted. Would you like to try some?” he said, pointing across the street to an open-air tavern.
“Sure!” I said, and we wheeled the scooter across the street.
On the way over, we introduced ourselves. His name was Everett Manchester. He was retired and lived in Gibraltar and was originally from London.
“How did the British ever get Gibraltar?” I asked him as we sat down to a metal table with a typical café umbrella over top.
He started, “Well there’s one thing you must know, the sun never sets on the British Empire. To make a long story short, we captured it from the Spanish two hundred and fifty years ago during the war of the Spanish Succession. The Spanish captured it from the Moors two hundred and fifty before that, the Moors had held it ever since the year 711.
“Why did you want to establish a fort here? It’s not near England.” Rudi asked.
“For its valuable position, of course, “ He quipped. In WWII we were able to effectively use it as an anti-submarine base against you. Well, not you, but the German war machine. He stopped short and changed the subject. “Well, I suppose you would like to try that stout, wouldn’t you?” and he snapped his finger a couple of times, attracting the attention of one the waiters.
“Where do most of these people come from, Mr. Manchester?” I asked, noticing the waiter didn’t look very English.
“A great majority of them are descendant from Genoese fishermen who immigrated here when the rock first became a colony back in the eighteenth century. Franco eventually closed the border and didn’t let any Spanish come in here during his reign. But now it’s open. Anyone can come in here. He was looking at Rudi.
“Now you take that man,” and he pointed to an olive-skinned guy out in the street driving a shaky horse-drawn carriage with a canvas top. “He’s of Spanish blood, typical of the lazy scalawags that spend their day sitting in one of those carts. We’re lucky that most of the tourist carts they use to drive the tourists around the island in migrate in here in the morning and go back across the border to Spain in the evening. Say, you chaps ought to take a ride in one of those things. Have you traveled around yet?”
“We drove around a bit when we first came in this afternoon,” I said
“Did you see our Barbary apes?” he asked
“Apes?” Rudi looked up.
“Sure, we have monkeys climbing all over the rock up there. No one seems to know where they came from, but they certainly have multiplied since I’ve been here. The tourists feed them. The army takes care of them, and makes sure they don’t harm anyone. They even have the job of burying them.”
“Are they dangerous?” Rudi asked.
“You wouldn’t be afraid of a monkey would you?” He asked Rudi.
Rudi didn’t give him the courtesy of an answer.
Mr. Manchester continued. “They’ll swoop down on a tourist’s car, steal ornaments and munch on them ‘till they find they’re not edible, or snatch food from picnic baskets. My sister-in-law visited us last year, and they snatched her purse. It was a half-hour before we could catch the little devil.”
The waiter brought the stout and we raised our glasses to him.
“Cheers!” he returned. “Well, how do you like it?”
I took another taste, to make sure I wasn’t wrong. It tasted almost like cough syrup. “It has a very interesting taste,” I said diplomatically.
“It’s a taste you’ve got to get used to,” he smiled
Rudi didn’t venture any opinion, and I’m glad he didn’t. He’s usually blunt about things like this.
“Well, I guess you boys are heading to Tangier tomorrow,” he continued.
“That’s the village on the other side?” Rudi asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a village,” Mr. Manchester smiled ruefully. “How long did you say you two have been traveling Europe?” It became apparent to him we were not a couple of veteran tourists loaded with travel guides and how-to information.
I interrupted; “We’ve got to get some information about the crossing in the morning. How many crossing do they have?’ I asked.
“I must warn you,” he said. “It’s another world over there…” He paused and then continued. “I believe they have two crossing now, one at 8:00 o’clock in the morning and the other at twelve noon.”
“And what would it cost for both of us and our motor scooter?”
He grinned.
Godammit it was disconcerting to talk with someone like this. So uppity. Looking down his nose at us. Always trying to win the next move. He made that disdainful smile again. He thought for a while and then answered, “About five pounds.”
“What would that be in U.S. dollars?” Rudi asked.
He looked at us with an expression as though he realized he was in the company of a couple of vagrants. “Almost fifteen dollars. You’ll also need a carnet du passage to get into Tangier.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A carnet du passage?” he scratched his temple with his index finger, like a kindergarten teacher searching for an answer for a child who asked why some children have blue eyes and others have brown. I felt like giving him a black eye at this moment.
In his condescending way he said, “It’s a kind of assurance that you won’t sell your vehicle in the country you’re traveling in. It protects the local automobile salesmen from people bringing vehicles into the country and selling them at good prices.”
Although I wish Rudi hadn’t asked him, Rudi asked, “Well what happens if a person happens to sell his vehicle anyway?”
Rudi’s misplaced question confirmed that we might be either gangsters or spies trying to get strategic answers from him.
He gave a standard explanation. “The automobile club that originally issued the carnet to you must pay a fine to the country in which you sold your vehicle.”
I asked, “An automobile club? Is that where we find out about the carnet?”
“Yes," He snapped back. "It shouldn’t cost you more than a hundred dollars.”
Rudi and I looked at each other. Fifteen dollars for the ferry! We hardly had a dollar left to our name after buying the camera and traveling from Lisbon to here.
“Have they ever let anyone in without one of those carnets?” Rudi asked.
“I’ve never heard of that case, and the Moroccans have become pretty strict since their recent independence in ‘54.”
“Well, maybe you’ll hear of a case. We don’t have that much money to put out!” Rudi laughed, finishing the last of his stout and banging his glass down on the metal table. I could see he was perturbed with this guy also.
“How about another one, fellows?” He asked in the tone of a butler or a doorman.
“Thanks, anyway.” I said, figuring we were the invited ones and he was going to pay the tab. I figured the cost to him of the stout was worth the price for the put-down he enjoyed with us.
“We’re looking for a place we might be able to set our tent for the night; can you suggest anything, Mr. Manchester?” Rudi said hoping he had a large yard. He said it so fast, I didn't get to kick Rudi under the table. But I guess Rudi didn’t catch the innuendos. I realized then that speaking English, and understandings every word, including the nuances, could actually be a disadvantage in your travels, at least the way we were traveling, depending on the generosity of the foreign people we met.
“ I wish I could help you chaps out, but my wife and I have only a small apartment. Why don’t you go down to Catalan Bay, they have beach over there, and I’m sure no one would object to you putting your tent up on it.” He slapped down a couple of coins on the table and we parted.
When we left him, it was getting dark. We followed the winding road out past the army barracks ‘til we saw a sign, “Catalan Bay.” We drove down a small grade, and the fresh sea air blew up from the tiny fishing village below to meet us. You knew by the scent it was a fishing village. You knew also the breeze was mixed with the clean, fresh air wafting over the Mediterranean from the south, from the continent of Africa.
We found a vacant beach area lined with palm trees on the outskirts of the village. By the time we set up camp on the deserted beach, the moon found its way behind the great hovering rock, its long shadow enveloped us for the night with the sound of distant seagulls looking for a midnight snack along the beach.
In the early morning, just about sun up, we heard some music. It wasn’t very far away. In fact, it was real close. It was outside our tent. It was odd-sounding music -somewhat like the bagpipes we had heard in the afternoon, except worse. Maybe it was someone practicing the bagpipes.
“I know what that is! It’s my harmonica!” Rudi threw open the tent flap and rushed out of the tent in his underwear and almost landed on a Barbary monkey who had stuck his hand in Rudi’s knapsack laying outside on the beach and pulled out Rudi’s harmonica and started eating it.

The monkey was not about to give up the harmonica without a fight. It became a loud ruckus and a case of “finders- keepers”. He swatted back at Rudi and showed big incisors. There was a tussle. Rudi wasn’t about to lose a fight to a monkey. Finally the monkey realized this was no ordinary tourist, or the harmonica didn’t play very well. He dropped it and smugly walked away.

Next morning, the early July sun was above the horizon now and getting hot. We were slow in packing our scooter to go into town. At the ferryboat quay, we verified the price for us to cross over to Tangier. $14.05 was it, and there was no way we could get around it. “You fellows can swim across if you want to; it’s only a couple dozen miles,” a smart-ass official used his pat phrase for dead broke travelers like us.
In town we checked with the automobile club. There the news was even worse. “Yes, that’s correct, young men,” A red-faced, stoic official at the office told us, “The price is a hundred dollars.” But, even if you did have the money, we couldn’t issue you the Carnet. That should have been issued to you in the town where you bought the motor scooter. We can only issue Carnets to people who plan on bringing the vehicle back to Gibraltar. That is the only assurance we have that they won’t sell it abroad, and cost us a lot of money.”
“But we’re not going to sell the scooter, sir!” Rudi pleaded. “We’re on a world tour!”
“World tour? What assurance do I have that you might not end your world tour in Morocco, or that one of you might get killed in the Sahara Desert and the other one sells the scooter for capital? No. I’m sorry gentlemen, this office is in no position to help you. Besides, you don’t have the money in the first place, didn’t you say?”
“Yes,” Rudi said disgustedly, and we left.
We walked outside and aired our problems out as we sat on a bench near the Naval depot. “As I see it, all we need is that $14.00 to get across,” Rudi said
“How about the Carnet, though?” I said.
”We don’t have to worry about that ‘til we get to Morocco. I doubt if once we get over there, they’ll send us back. We’ll just tell them we don’t have the money to come back,” Rudi said, mustering up some enthusiasm. This isn’t the first time border officials wanted to stop me from traveling forward.
“Well, maybe you’re right. But, how about the fourteen dollars?” I asked.
“That’s for you to figure out, Engh.” He crossed his arms and leaned back on the bench.
I said, “They must have a radio station in this town let’s see what we can do there.”
“You and your radio stations!” Rudi said. “Radio stations are for a big country. Do you realize that this Gibraltar is only 2 ½ miles wide? I think we’ve seen the last of radio stations.

NEXT: To be continued.