Heaven And Hell

We drive a good distance to Bolonia. At an over-celebrated pirate bar, I ask the last survivor. She points towards the beach. The only surf instructor points us away. 5 kilometres of beach, endless space, but we kiters are not allowed to fly. Frustrated, we turn back. It seems that there is only one free beach for kiters in Tarifa within a radius of 30 kilometres, and even there we have to make do with 100 metres of sole dominance.

For kiters, it’s either “forbidden under penalty” or Valdevaqueros / Spin-Out: swimming, surfing, kitesurfing – all together. Yes, it’s peak season. Yes, the wind is either chopping at 25 knots or, like today, it’s larking about with zero holes around 14, undecided whether it wants to be called Levante or Poniente. Either way, it’s crying out for safety.

But the almost German-like Spanish regulatory mania fails here across the board. I would advise a horny Spaniard: “I wouldn’t dare starting right now.”. But macho is a Spanish word. “Yes, we’re caught up in the trade winds, the trade winds of our town.” WTF? He goes out anyway. His kite smashes more than critically in the middle of hundreds of skin cancer disciples. He’s not the only one, and today is a mild day.

I don’t need a crystal ball to predict the future. Without strict separation into kiteboarding and swimming areas, blood will flow. As soon as the sea turns red, the masses will need someone to blame. The masses: are the skin crabs. There will be no room left for us with our 27m lines to heroism, even in a sky where Cerberus is sandblasted.

I can live with that. But I feel sorry for all the good people who have neither the money nor the time to kite in places where heaven and hell still coexist peacefully. Where angels easily wrap Beelzebuben around their little fingers and then happily lay a relaxed fuse. Where the world is still one.

After a sumptuous meal on the roof terrace, I sneak into the nearest bar in search of wifi. The wifi is working, but my precious new Samsung refuses to recognise it (or any other). The web designer without a web. Laugh! But I find such situations almost life-threatening. I miss money, a notice for customers on the AB: OFF DUTY! – but most of all the certainty: if it was REALLY necessary, then I COULD do some work. But I can’t do it like this.

I leave the laptop behind hundred-year-old gates. Set off on a wild weekend. Friday evening. Tarifa has a tenth of the population of Regensburg. But three times as many discos and pubs. A hundred times more visitors. Heaven and hell have come to a peaceful arrangement here. Back home, it’s all just “Dawn of the Dead” – if you’re not dead, then sneak off to the central cemetery – rich cities are only for dead bodies!

The mojito is definitely a Spanish drink. In the proportions served here, it is more than filling. After Dominik’s early exit, I visit seven more bars on my own. The hens cluck in the first one. In the second, the bartenders put on a better show sober than Harry Juhnke on the verge of delirium. In the third, there’s cool electro without a dance floor. In the fourth, I get my seventh free mojito for organising fresh limes. In the fifth, the mixed-gender crew of an ocean-going vessel were obviously celebrating without any need to say goodbye for a reason I could understand.

After two more bars, I head home. Tarifa’s alleyways are narrow. But even at five in the morning I can’t use their walls as crutches. I hear the words without understanding them. I listen to stories without understanding them. My words this evening? Seven times “Un mojito por favour”. And these here. The morning dawns. I set off again. I immediately find all the pubs again. They are closed. Me: alive.