It was around midday when we found Miguel. He was slouching on the steps beneath a human-sized stone cross on the edge of town. Slim, with tanned, leathery skin, thin lips, and dark, lank hair falling on his shoulders from beneath his leather cowboy hat, he looked every inch the Western outlaw. We knew right away he was our man.
We became engaged in conversation almost immediately. I say we—I left the talking to my travelling companion, Senor Tony, as his Spanish was far more fluent than mine. Within a couple of minutes, Miguel presented us with a small block of hashish. I could tell right away it was good stuff; dark and oily—the best we'd had all trip.
This was Ronda, the final stop on our tour of Andalusia. And this had been our customary approach in every town along the way—walk the streets until we found someone who looked like a good bet, then ask to score a smoke. First in Seville, then Cordoba and Granada, and now in this little southern town. Our method had a 100% success rate.
Miguel's price was reasonable, so we settled our bill in peseta notes, which he seemed disinterested in, and headed on our way. Having just arrived in town, we were hungry, so we bought bottles of beer and our staple lunch of ham, cheese, and bread from a small corner deli and went exploring.
We wandered the streets and lay on the grass banks surrounding the town, sharing stories and jokes the way friends do, laughing and enjoying the sun's warmth on our skin. At some point, a white horse dashed across the vista at the end of a steep cobbled road we were walking down before disappearing again, not fifty yards ahead of us. For a second, it seemed like a dream or a hallucination. But then a young boy and a man appeared, excitedly calling out to the horse while chasing after it.
The next day, we went in search of Miguel again. We tried our luck at the stone cross, but he was nowhere to be seen. To kill some time, we wandered along the promenade cut into the cliff face that overlooks the farmlands to the west of the town. It was Sunday, and the path was full of folk ambling in their church clothes. We watched a smartly dressed gent in his 50s with a respectable appearance sit down near us, roll and light a joint, and then resume his stroll. We considered approaching him but decided he wasn't the type to pass it around.
After enjoying the scenery, we headed back toward the stone cross and saw a familiar-looking figure. Sure enough, it was Miguel, this time with a companion in similarly smart attire to the man we'd just seen. They made for an odd couple—the outlaw and the businessman.
We walk over, and he recognises us. He asks if we enjoyed the smoke. We say yes and ask if he has any more. Not on him, he says, but it can be arranged. We give him some pesetas, which he seems even less interested in than last time, and, without looking at them, he hands the notes over to his compadre, who (also without looking at them) trousers them. They exchange a few words before the smartly dressed guy heads off past the promenade towards the edge of town, where nothing but farm fields await. "He'll be back soon," Miguel assures us and suggests we stick around.
We sit on the steps, talking in the early afternoon sun, and it turns out Miguel speaks good English. He tells us he is a travelling artisan. He lives in Ronda but spends a lot of time on the road, making handicrafts and doing odd jobs to make a living. He has a boat he occasionally sails to Morocco to buy hash, which he brings back to sell in Spain. With a chuckle, he tells us of a recent trip with a Swedish girl who showed him "a very good time on the dick." He also recommends a local bar owned by the manager of a band whose records are in my collection back home. "It's in the old town," he says. "You can smoke there." I make a mental note of his detailed directions for later.
After a while, we ask how long Miguel thinks his compadre will be. He just shrugs. We wait some more, growing increasingly impatient. Our man fails to materialise, and it dawns on us that he's probably not coming back. Miguel apologises and says the guy has done this before. "He may have left town on the back road. I probably won't see him again today."
We decide to move on. We leave Miguel, who appears to have all the time and not a care in the world, on the steps where we first found him. I'm unsure who we've been hustled by — Miguel or the well-dressed stranger. I'm not sore about the money—it would barely buy us lunch—but I wonder who they both are and how they know each other. And I can't help but laugh at how the guy who looked like a straight-up street hustler gave us the goods while the clean-cut gent in the sharp suit took our money and scarpered.
In the evening, we cross the stone bridge into the old town and find the bar Miguel recommended. It's more than just a bar; it's an internet hangout and swap shop for clothing and CDs (this being 1999 and all). The place is stylish and dimly lit, with a selection of unique, handmade chairs in various styles by local artists.
It's also empty, except for two staff members and us. We order a couple of beers and ask the serving girl if it's okay to go out on the patio to "Y'know, smoke." We don't explicitly state that we want to smoke dope, but we ask in a way that should be clear to anyone in the know while still giving them plausible deniability. She acknowledges our request equally implicitly and leads us down a dark flight of steps to an outdoor terrace.
Senor Tony and I sit alone on the patio's low wall, looking out across the dark plain below the town. The night air feels refreshing on my face. It's Sunday evening, and we plan to catch the last train back to Seville for our early morning flight home.
Just then, the patio door opens and a lone guy appears. He's tall, blonde, and about our age, with a friendly demeanour. He introduces himself as Jorge, and I immediately notice his wild eyes and manic grin.
He asks if he can share our joint. I pass it to him and we make some small talk in broken English. We tell Jorge about our travels around Andalusia, and he talks about himself in a rapid-fire monologue. This is the second thing I notice about him: he can't stop talking. He hits us with a barrage of questions, interrupting our answers to veer off on stream of conscious-like tangents while grinning maniacally.
The three of us hang out on the terrace for a while. At some point, Jorge places half a small white tablet in my hand and says, "A present for you."
I ask him what it is, and he says, "I don't know, but it's very fucking good."
I politely decline. I'm going to be sitting on a plane in a few hours, and the last thing I need is to be bouncing around the cabin amped up on unknown substances.
"You sure?" he asks.
I nod, and he immediately swallows it. His wild eyes, crazed grin, and non-stop talking suddenly make sense. I realise our relaxed evening has been sabotaged, our peace shattered by this wired stranger we later dub Talking Jorge.
His verbal assault continues, and I start to feel agitated, so I discreetly signal Tony to suggest we leave. He discreetly agrees. We say our goodbyes and leave Talking Jorge on the patio, smoking a cigarette and staring into the dark night. We climb the stairs to the empty bar. It feels like surfacing after a deep sea dive. Out on the street, we laugh about Talking Jorge's verbal sparring as we head to the station, collect our bags, and catch the late train to Seville.
Seville is north of Ronda, and the air is noticeably colder when we step outside after our three-hour train ride. We're not due to check in for a few hours, but it's midnight on Sunday and everywhere is closed, so we catch a cab to the airport, looking forward to the comforts that await us inside.
But, as we arrive at the departure terminal, things are eerily quiet. The lights are on, but the shutters are down. We creep around looking for an entrance but can't find one. Through the gaps in the metal shutters, we can see cleaning staff sitting atop orange machines, buffing the airport floor.
After about twenty minutes, we spot a security guard strolling across the car park. Senor Tony asks if we can go inside. Not for three hours, he says, when the airport opens. It's cold outside, and we plead our case, but the guard is unsympathetic. We shrug our shoulders, accept our fate, and decide there's only one way to handle the situation.
Senor Tony springs a bottle of rum from his case and digs out his Walkman. He passes one earpiece to me, which I place in my right ear, while he puts the other in his left. He tunes the FM radio to Radio Tres (our favourite Spanish station), and we end our vacation sitting on a cold metal bench, passing the rum back and forth and shivering as we joyously reflect on our travels until the airport shutters are finally raised as the sun comes up.
We go inside to get warm, and I imagine Talking Jorge still standing there on the patio—talking, talking, talking to whoever will listen in the black of the Andalusian night. And I allow myself to consider that maybe, just maybe, Miguel's well-dressed companion had finally returned with our hash.
-2022-