|
Hey! Look at That!
In an attempt to make restitution for our night's free lodging (and still smarting from that author's diatribe on tourists), I collected a bagful of old bottles that previous visitors had chucked. If more tourists were conscientious, perhaps we wouldn't be maligned in tourist books. (But honestly, cans and bottles aside, they couldn't blame tourists for the multitudes of old washers, fridges, stoves, television sets, mattresses, and burned-out autos strewn along the roadside or dumped over cliffs, could they?) We cycled over to the burial site entrance. I was a little perturbed to find there were no garbage cans around. If they wanted tourists to not fling their trash out, why didn't they provide receptacles? "Perhaps the litter problem isn't entirely the tourists' fault," I grumbled. Unhappily, along with our own trash from the previous evening, I tied the heavy bag of bottles to my rear carrier, and wondered how far I would have to lug the burdensome sack. Being a conscientious traveller wasn't always easy. Ready to abandon the cliffside burial site and its serious lack of tourist facilities we wondered where we should go next. "Since we don't have anywhere to go in particular," I said, "why don't we ride in the direction the wind is blowing?" We had always fancied doing that but had never acted on the urge. I imagined it would be a sure way to have a fun, easy day of cycling, and, at the same time, satisfy our adventurous nature. Who knew where it would lead? I was half right. As we pedalled with the wind at our back, we had no idea where that breeze was taking us. But soon, instead of freewheeling gaily across the plain with wild grinning abandon, we found ourselves laboriously pumping up a mother of a mountain. "So much for easy!" Sharon grunted between clenched teeth. Riding with the wind had turned out to be hot, sweaty, gruelling work. But even with our screaming quads, the anticipation of not knowing what lay around the next corner spurred us on, and we slowly ascended to three thousand feet. Our reward was cool and shady Burgos forest with its mythical wild horses. We had just finished watching the playful antics of a small herd when, in the forest dimness, a dark spot lumbered towards us. It drew nearer, transforming into two ebony dots, one atop the other. The gap between us narrowed and the dark image became discernible. Resembling an aging Zorro minus the mask, an elderly Sardinian, swathed from head to foot in black garb, straddled a jet-black burro. They sashayed towards us, Old Zorro, brandishing not a sword, but, instead, holding aloft a wooden switch with which to encourage his beast. As we drew alongside, I studied him in rapt fascination. And he, in return, stared at me. After we passed, I looked in my rear-view mirror to continue my study, and saw that he had twisted around in his saddle and was continuing to gape at our receding forms. It was then I realized: it was us, with our shiny manufactured mounts and windmilling limbs, and not the burro riding man, who were the unusual sight in these parts. I didn't have long to dwell on my realization though, for looming from a slope ahead was another unusual sight. Wind and rain had eroded a rock into the shape of a fist with an outstretched digit. "It looks like a giant forefinger," Sharon said, "signifying there is only one thing important in life. And you alone have to figure out what that one thing is." "It reminds me more of a car driver extending a middle-finger salute," I countered perversely, remembering the many times I had seen it in North America. (They needed a bumper sticker: Horn broken. Watch for finger.) "Oh, really?" Sharon responded. "That proves I must be an optimist, and you, a pessimist," she thrust, conjecturing from our analogies. "You, my dear," I parried, "are an idealist, while I am a realist." We were still debating our respective viewpoints when we rounded a corner and were immediately silenced. Having exited the forest we found ourselves on the edge of a sharp escarpment. "Whew!" Sharon said, her breath leaving her in a whoosh as she stopped to survey the vast awe-inspiring expanse of the plain far below. "Look at that!" she said, pointing to a spectacular castle ruin, standing high atop a crumbling volcanic plug. "I wouldn't have wanted to be an invader trying to get in there," I said, noticing the near-vertical sides of the old volcano. In its heyday, the imposing fortress must have been a formidable sight indeed. We pushed off, heading down, down, down. "This is more like it!" we yelled, as we descended toward the valley floor, swooping around curves with the greatest of ease like a pair of synchronized trapeze artists. In scant minutes, we had to crane our necks to view the Castel of Goceano, already soaring high above us. We continued down into the town of Burgos, where, having lugged a garbage bag full of bottles and cans over a mountain, I was relieved to finally find a garbage can. "And they wonder why tourists toss bottles into the ditches?" I said disgustedly as I stuffed my unhelpful ballast into the bin. "I'll bet those beaches don't have a toilet around for miles, either." |
Book Info