April 21st: Ronda and rains!

As the fireworks of the previous night put us to sleep, both of us just prayed for one thing.. please, please, let there be bright sunshine tomorrow! I think someone upstairs must have had a pretty bad sense of humor, because we woke up the next morning to thick, heavy, pouring rain! Each burst of thunder almost felt like a gleeful clap from the weather gods, as they reveled in our disappointment. 

Anyway, after a long breakfast and a very animated and interesting discussion with our fellow boarders on topics ranging from changing weather patterns in Andalusia (heavy rains in April were apparently unheard of a couple of years ago!) to global politics, we braved the elements and headed out to our target destination for the day, Ronda, armed with umbrellas and caps. We had driven through the town in glorious sunlight the previous day, and had been enamored by its pristine, white houses and narrow, steep lanes. In our eagerness to get to Cartajima, we had decided against stopping over then.. oh how we rued that decision today! 

Ronda is famous for its bullfighting history. Along with Pamplona, it claims to be one of the most celebrated venues for the sport. Bull fighting has its own share of skeptics who claim that the event is inhuman, cruel and glorifies violence. Before visiting Spain, I had hardly given the topic much thought.. and the splendor and magnificence of Ronda's famous Plaza de Toros, the world's oldest bullring, drove any misgivings about the sport out of my mind. As it stood glistening in the patchy sun who had chosen a perfect ten minute window to shine down upon us in the middle of the storm, it was a bit difficult to imagine bloodthirsty crowds booing and egging on a riled bull to attack its tormentor.   

Ronda's picturesque bull ring

The barracks and bull pen behind the ring had a different feel to it though.. the tiny quarters almost reeked of sweat, grime and primal rage running through the beasts as they must have been cooped here just before entering the arena. Is bullfighting inhuman? I am still not sure, but it definitely wasn't a very comfortable experience walking along the corridors that lead furious bulls to their ultimate fight for survival.    

Ceramic depiction of bull fights

Not wanting to waste precious sunlight indoors, we ditched the museum adjourning bull ring and walked out to the promenade surrounding Ronda's main bridge, the towering and imposing Puento Nuevo. It had started pouring again by the time we walked down the trail outside the city, but on a clear day, this would be the sight that defines Ronda and takes away the collective breath of its visitors. 

Puente Nuevo

Water took over the entire city soon after, with sheets of it pouring down from an increasingly irate sky and tiny rivulets, streams pouring down from its steep slopes and impromptu waterfalls from tall fort walls making roads almost impassable. Our umbrellas were no match for the deluge and soon we were completely drenched. Semana Santa parades were cancelled, the streets were almost deserted, all the museums and cafes were packed with people hastily adjusting their plans for the day and visibility was rapidly reducing.. I guess every trip needs to have at least one complete washout, this was ours!  

Lonely Nazareno making a dash for  it
during a short break from the rain

Deserted streets near Puento Viejo -- everyone decided to stay home today

Cold and wet, we were soon back in Cartajima, thawing ourselves out by the fireplace with hot cuppas of teas. The rain however stopped almost as soon as we had settled ourselves in (guess Mr. Murphy is always right!). Luckily for us, this meant that the village would be holding its own Semana Santa parade later in the evening.. the weather had so far prevented even a single procession during the holy week, and people were itching to get their beloved idols of Jesus and Mary out on the streets. The entire village was out when the parade started.. the small group of about a hundred odd devotees accompanying their deities could probably not match the scale and size of the parades in Seville, but in their fervor and excitement, they were second to none!

Jesus being carried out on to the streets of Cartajima

By the end of the evening, we were quite pleased with the day.. even though we were not really able to do much justice to Ronda, we were able to spend another interesting evening in Cartajima, getting another intimate peek into the lives of its inhabitants. Memories of bull rings and bridges will eventually fade away I guess, but I don't think we'll ever forget the warmth and simplicity of this small little village.. in many ways, it had come to symbolize all of Andalusia for us.  

April 20th: Seville to Cartajima

After a hiatus, resuming the series of our travels through Iceland and Andalusia. Hope to finish this off soon and get started on day to day events, quite a bit has been happening recently. :)

After a couple of days of relishing the splendors of Seville, today was our first day on the road. A compact Citroen Picasso was our wheels for the next few days, quite a contrast from the Nissan Pathfinder we had literally inhabited in Iceland. The drive didn't really begin on a very auspicious note, thanks to our navigation system misbehaving and getting us lost in the nondescript, suburban sprawl around Seville. There really should be a global standard in car navigation systems -- the last thing you want to do when dodging aggressive over-takers and trying to read obscure Spanish road signs is a GPS that suddenly thinks you are in the middle of Scotland! 

Soon, anyway, we found our way out and our patience was rewarded by rolling green fields, bright blue skies and a plethora of wildflowers -- Gireesh and I have always rued our luck when it came to catching seasonal splashes like fall colors, sakura blossoms or blooming flowers, but this time, without even planning to, we were in the middle of peak wildflower season in Andalusia! Yellow, red, pink, lilac, azure.. they were by our side through the entire road trip. 

Interspersed between all this resplendence were ruins of forts, castles and churches, harking back to a bloody yet eventful past, trying bravely to make their stand against the strong winds of time. We stopped off at one such fort, walked it ramparts, climbed its tower, admired it sweeping views.. i think if we had stayed there long enough, we might even have had a tryst with its resident ghost and heard its tale of romance and betrayal!

The fort with the ghost?

Soon we entered Sierra de Grazalema -- the hills got taller, fields made way to trees and we could just about start making out outlines of a few white villages clinging on to hill sides almost symbiotically. The route offered plenty of beautiful detours to get totally lost in. We did get lost, literally, quite a few times, thanks again to the aforementioned GPS, but I don't think we rued it.. every wrong road taken was well worth it. One of our favorite pit stops was on a slope overlooking a big lake.. I still see it sometimes in my dreams, mountain fresh wind in our hair, swaying, multi-hued wildflowers, bright green waters glinting up at us and a lovely little white village gleaming at a distance against blue, cloudless skies.. how I wish we could have a little casa of our own there. I felt sad as we drove off from the place, wishing and hoping we could make our way back there sometime in the future. (As it turns out, we did visit the area again a couple of days later, this time from the other side of the lake.. but more on that later!).

Sierra de Grazalema

There was one irritant that kept getting on our nerves even as we were getting mesmerized by the landscape, and that was litter. There were cigarette butts, discarded bottles and plastic bags almost everywhere we stopped along the road. And though the situation wasn't as bad as it can get in say, India, I still can't help but wonder why we can't respect the beauty nature has blessed our lands with, why do we want to malign it with our thoughtless acts of negligence. 

Anyway, moving back to our drive.. we were heading closer to the white villages, and soon we had our first glimpse of what we thought was Ronda (turned out to be another village altogether, as we found out on our return trip!). Glittering in the sun with it's whitewashed houses and vistas on to even more pueblos, it whetted our appetite and increased our anticipation of what was to come. 

We kept driving on through sun and shadows and unfortunately, straight into cloud cover. Our destination was a tiny little hamlet called Cartajima, one of seven villages in the Alto Genal area near Ronda. We would be spending two nights here, using it as the base to explore the surrounding mountains and pueblos. But the gathering, ominous clouds, which got even denser, darker and lower as we took the windy narrow lane towards Cartajima, seemed to have other plans for us. A loud clap of thunder greeted us shortly after we had our first glimpse of the village -- lovely and isolated, it stood shrouded in mist and holding on to a steep green slope, like a lonely bride looking out for her beloved who was out in the storm. 

Soon, we were in the heart of the village, trying to locate Los Costanos, the B&B which would be our home for the next two days. After a couple of hairy U-turns on narrow, steep streets, we finally found it -- a warm, friendly place run with a lot of heart by our hosts, Di and John. Our rooms were large and comfortable and beautifully decorated with lots of little artifacts and curios from various parts of Andalusia and Morocco. The rooms came equipped with large armchairs to snuggle into, with a collection of books, sketch pads and crayons for company. There was also a cute little rooftop patio for soaking up the sun.. oh for some sunlight!

Pretty little Cartajima

The silver lining to the dark clouds surrounding us was that we got a chance to spend a lot of time in the village itself. Instead of hiking up and down the trails around it, we walked up and down cobblestoned streets, running into friendly kids and their moms, spying on mountain goats, making our way through the mist to the highest point.. this tiny little pueblo was definitely worth the pause in our travels. 

More Cartajima

We had tapas in the local bar where we had to tear the bartender away from his game of cards to serve us. Over cups of steaming coffee, we chatted with a garrulous old man from France in broken sign language with smatterings of French and Spanish thrown in. He was an expat too, like us, having left his hometown in France to settle down in Spain. (I can totally imagine why one would leave behind their land and retire here, hope we can find our own little village someday too!) Everyone else in the bar seemed quite friendly and curious, but didn't approach us, maybe because of the language divide. On our part, we too felt quite disappointed that we hadn't spent time picking up Spanish.. we had so many questions and would have loved to have a good chat with everyone! Anyway, perhaps in an attempt to make us feel more comfortable, the bartender soon switched channels on the little wall mounted TV and guess who was featured in the movie he turned on? Kabir Bedi, playing an Indian prince in some fantasy European C-grade adventure movie! What an unexpected reminder that we Indians are everywhere. :) 

Dinner too was a very communal affair in the village's only restaurant, with a bunch of people noshing and enjoying a game of soccer between Real Madrid and Barcelona. I am not a big fan of the game, and don't even claim to understand it much, but there is something infectious and visceral about sport that transcends nationalities and languages. I couldn't help but cheer and jeer along with the crowd, and as fireworks lit up the skies after the Real victory, it reminded me a bit of the little colony in India where I grew up.. a different sport, a different country, a different language, but still felt a lot like home.