Through Spain to the Sahara

by Matilda Betham-Edwards

CHAPTER VIII.

“A BOAT, A BOAT, MY KINGDOM FOR A BOAT!”—THE VICTIMS OF A TUNNY FISH.—SENOR BENSAKEN SPEAKS HIS MIND, AND WE ARE REPROVED.—RUNNING WATERS.—HOWLINGS OF TARSHISH.—PEPA’S FAMILY.

E had another amusing instance of Spanish nonchalance at Malaga. The original plan of our journey was this:—to see the galleries of Madrid, the Moorish antiquities of Cordova, Seville, and Granada, and from the south of Spain cross over to Oran, and visit the beautiful old city of Tclemcen, the Granada of the West. But to get to Oran it was necessary to obtain information about boats, and this seemed an undertaking simply impossible. We ran hither and thither to the different steam-boat offices; we telegraphed to head-quarters at Gibraltar; we wrote dozens of letters of inquiry; we spent time, money, and patience; all availed nothing. Sometimes a glimpse of something like hope was vouchsafed to us. There was a weekly boat to Algeciras. There was a fortnightly boat from Gibraltar to Oran; there was a surfeit of boats one day, the next none at all. We were by turns advised to trust to the Algeciras boat, the Gibraltar boat, the Cadiz boat, till we came to the disheartening conclusion that we must give up Tclemcen altogether. No two statements ever agreed, and in this state of uncertainty we went off to Granada.

At six o’clock in the afternoon the diligence was to start, a great cumbersome vehicle divided into three compartments—berlina, coupé, and rotunda, and drawn by nine splendid mules in gay harness. We had taken the precaution to engage the berlina to ourselves,—a precaution I should earnestly recommend to all travellers who visit Spain before the completion of the railways brings back another age of gold. The berlina is a small compartment containing three seats and numerous little bags and hooks for the stowage of small baggage; it is somewhat narrow, it is true, and an imprisonment of fifteen hours within such a compass, not a pleasant ordeal to go through. But what is that to the inconveniences of the rotunda, where you are crowded and cramped so that you cannot stir a limb, where you are stifled with smoke and deafened with the noise of voices, where you are poisoned by foul air and bad smells, and where you are subject to tyranny a thousand times worse than that of fleas? We had been forewarned of these things in time, and were thus enabled to perform the wearisome night-journey to Granada without too much fatigue.

The first part of it was amusing enough. We drove out of the town with a tremendous dash; and as we had a coachman, a postilion, and a runner to urge the mules on, no wonder that we got on very fast. The journey was all up-hill, and the diligence was heavily laden; but the mules seemed so anxious to go fast that one might have fancied a pack of wolves was at their heels. The runner had a very bad time of it. He seemed to know every mule by name, and made the most extraordinary noises to urge his beasts on. Every now and then he sprang on to the step and rested awhile; then, on a sudden, just as the mules were slackening their pace a little, he would jump to the ground, crack his whip, and utter the most diabolical sounds.

The night was starlight, and we were able to see something of the wild country through which we passed. At regular intervals we came upon a couple of guardia civile, or gendarmes, standing on each side of the road. They were motionless as statues and looked very brigand-like in their fierce sombreros, hanging cloaks, and tight-fitting gaiters. One of these guardia civile, well-armed, always accompanies the diligence, though the road is considered safe. Our escort was a thin, cadaverous-looking, but soldierly man, who alighted whenever we changed horses, to smoke a cigarette and drink a cup of chocolate, or glass of water. Spaniards seem to live on cigarettes and chocolate.

At five o’clock in the morning we stopped at a posada for nearly an hour, and very refreshing it was to stretch one’s limbs and breathe the cool mountain air. The posada was an enormous rambling old place, but quiet and clean. The landlord showed us, with other travellers, into a room with a little fire, and very civilly promised us chocolate. There were two Englishmen among the rest who bitterly complained of the coupé. “Think of it,” they said, “we took the coupé to ourselves, and have had such horrid company all the way—a big, strong-smelling, dried tunny-fish!”

“Perhaps it will be taken out here,” I said, consolingly.