Is This The Way To Almeria?

[Sweder]

Only Fools and Guard Pigs

I'm in Mexico this week. Not the smog-bound megalopolis that is Mexico City, or the perpetual nocturnal thump of Cancun, but the hitherto unexplored (by me, anyway) southern reaches of the Baja peninsula.

My hotel is parked on a beach around fifteen minutes from the city. It's filled to the brim with American nationals who need to bellow every utterance into the back of the skull of their closest neighbour. There was no sign of this lot when I slunk out of the lobby, aided by vicious jet-lag, at the crack of Thursday's dawn. The ocean, dimly lit by light leaking into the eastern sky, crashed in on the small beach, roaming around the rocks before sucking a layer of skin off the the sand. 

I shuffled along the steep camber, peering into the gloom beyond the building. Craggy rocks rose from the shore-line like the arched spine of the Humpbacks that patrol the Sea of Cortez at this time of year. I scrambled up the escarpment, loose rock spilling beneath my feet, hands chaffed by the rough surface. Huffing and puffing, I heaved my already sweating carcass up onto a cactus-lined trail. This climbed towards what a distant roar told me must be the highway. I set off at a steady pace, waiting for my lungs to recover

After a couple of twists I spied a cab-less trailer, apparently abandoned on the left side of the path. As I approached, a light-brown blur shot out from the shadows. The blur had a gaping maw at the front end, from which a blood-curdling howl delivered an unambiguous invitation to fuck off. Even as my heart lodged in my throat the blur froze, an unseen rope running taught with an inaudible twang. Thank Christ for that! I uttered some meaningless Spanish words that might've been 'hello, hello old chap, just passing through, I'll be on my way' as I skirted the animal's well-worn circle. The dog, apparently well-fed, strained with all it's might to test the leash. It held, and I scuttled off up the slope feeling mightily relieved.

Two minutes later I was staring at a chain-locked gate topped with razor wire. A dead end. There were no obvious paths out and the surrounding bush, now lightly glazed in daylight, housed scores of large, spiny cacti. I had to go back. I started calling early. The hound appeared, snarling, not in the least bit surprised to see me.

'Ah, senior, you have been forced to return, no? Now, where we're we?'
Where we were, it turns out, was the dog howling for my blood and me scuttling by, offering prayers to the God of Ropes and Tethers. 

As the hell-hound's cries drifted away I looked about. Across a couple of creases in the landscape I spied a runner, chugging up a similar slope but on the other side of a rusty chainlink fence. Aha. I'd cut inland a little early. No matter, I'll simply traverse these two 'dips' in the hillside and ... bugger. The 'dips' turned out to be ravines, heavily camouflaged with more dense cacti and all manner of inhospitable flora, including a thing that looked uncannily like one of H R Giger's alien eggs, with added spikes. Dropping down into one fold I searched for a path. Sort of one, just over there ... 
I put my hand down to steady myself and withdrew a paw full of needles. 
'Yeeeooooowwww!' 

More mis-steps and I was wrapped in what I must assume were remarkably sticky spiders' webs. Christ. What kind of dumbass does this in an unknown land? Snakes, anyone? I glanced down. Hmm. A snake had not produced the impressive pile of excreta that lay before me. If it had it would have needed an aperture akin to a beer can to pass that. I didn't want to meet that snake. But what, pray, had left this? I couldn't worry about that now. I set off across another crevasse before finally joining the trail. This was more like it! A proper trail, coated in a thin layer of wind-swept sand over semi-hard mud. It must be a bike track, I thought, hoping I was out too early to be hunted down by a pack of rabid BMXers. 

It turned out this was quite the find. The trail was perfect; winding through the desert scrub, rolling up and down at regular intervals to offer just the right amount of elevation. There were cross-trails that I ignored until one obviously led towards the ocean. Sure enough, I was disgorged onto a beach where the footing became increasingly soft, inducing a slow-mo effect on my forward motion. I clambered back up, rejoined the bike track and, keeping the hotel in sight, navigated home. 4.8 kms and a decent amount of elevation, an ideal pre-breakfast work-out. I rewarded myself with a cool, salty dip, the rumbustious surf about as hospitable as Cujo. 

And so to this morning. Forewarned is fore-armed, eh? I set off on a similar route, this time cutting inland a little later, avoiding the false trail and my four-legged fiend. I found what appeared to be the main drag, heading south west, roughly in parallel with the shore. I put some effort in and got going, mind drifting to other things as a couple of easy kilometres rolled by. The track took a long, sweeping turn to the left, oceanwards, I figured. I passed several out-buildings, all in various states of disrepair, before what appeared to be two horse corrals appeared, one closer, to the right, the other further down the track, to the left. They each had a small, solid-looking object tied to the outside of the railing. These things had legs, but they weren't canine. They looked like barrels ...

As I peered into the gloom I heard a familiar sound behind me. A dog, clearly incensed that some Gringo had slipped past him as he snoozed under one of the old shacks. I grinned, slowing down, and turned towards the din. There he was, a medium-sized bundle of muscle and teeth, head as big as his chest, hurtling down the slope, baying for blood. I rolled my eyes and waited for the telling snap of a restrain. I waited, but came there none. There was no rope. This dog was on the loose, and he was doing about 25 miles per hour, mouth wide open, straight at me.

I froze. Instantly, I realised I wasn't going to get away. I might make ten yards before a bear-trap flayed one of my calves. Bloody hell!
I turned to face the monster, now no more than 20 yards away. Still coming full-tilt.
 
'Hola! Amigo! Como estas? Hombre!' There was no way this was going to work. I was going to get mauled. 
'Hombre, est bueno, est bueeeenooooo ...'

He (I'm guessing) stopped, front legs digging into the sand as he pulled up, not twenty feet away. He wasn't best pleased, but appeared less certain. 
The barking continued, just as loud and angry. But instead of carrying on, he circled, showing me his impressively muscular flank.
I continued to babble, one arm extended, hand open. He held his ground, but appeared to be listening. His black eyes twinkled in the pale sunlight, muscles rippling as he paced. 

I started to walk backwards, slowly. He growled and shaped to come forward, teeth on show. I stopped. We talked, a parliament of the unimpressed and the shit scared. Me mumbling Spanish-sounding words at a soft, low volume, he growling and licking his chops, pacing left and right, as if undecided on what to do. I glanced left. There, not five yards away, was a medium sized, jet-black pig. It grunted softly, head moving as if to follow the conversation. I blinked, looked again. It was definitely a pig. It had on a collar and was tethered to the enclosure by a rope.

I looked back to the dog, who seemed to nod. 
'Yeah, that's right, amigo. We got Peeegs. Hahahahaha.'

I turned slowly to my right. Uh-huh. A little further down the trail, on the left side, another tethered pig. Off in the distance, just beneath the pounding surf, the banjo riff from Deliverance drifted up on the salty breeze.
I needed to get out of here. Now.

'Adios, amigos, hasta la visita!' 

I started moon-walking away from the dog. He did another circle, barked, then set off back up the trail, a slow swagger towards the shade of his shed. I walked faster, turning away from him as he had from me. Walking, we're walking ...

A snort. Horses on both sides were looking on, vaguely aware of this pantomime. The pigs remained impassive, each rooting around in the shade. I sped up. The dog was gone, and so, dear reader, was I. Away, around another long bend and hell bent, hell bent for leather, up and down a couple of humps and off towards the ocean. My shirt was soaked, my breathing returned to something approaching normal. Then the ground turned to quicksand and I was suddenly on some large elliptical trainer, treading water with increasingly long strides. Man, this is one tough start to the day! I heaved myself along the side of a series of dunes until I found a gulch, a hard-topped track emerging from the brush, leading up and onto the bike trail. 

I rode the trail back to 'my' beach and the sanctuary of the hotel. I sat, sweating, gasping, on the steps. Pool attendants setting out sun-beds eyed me suspiciously. I leered, an attempted friendly smile, and continued to suck air. 

Not the outing I'd hoped for, perhaps, but another 5k in the Bank of Almeria.
On, on ...