The Way Home; or, Don't Go to Alhaurín el Grande

As our week in Spain drew to a close, my brother and I felt quite accomplished on the cultural level. We'd examined the intricate designs of the Alhambra in Granada, wandered the winding streets of Mijas, explored the world's largest cathedral in Sevilla, and tasted tajine in Morocco. Notably missing from our accomplishments, however, was a tribute to Andalucía's natural beauty. For our final adventure, we decided to devote an entire day to exploring a little, known landmark mentioned briefly in our guidebook, a gorge called La Garganta del Chorro.

Over the course of the week, however, our concept of "an entire day" had deteriorated from a 9 am departure to something a little closer to four or five in the afternoon, given the sun's tendency to keep late hours (setting at 10 pm). In hindsight, we were pushing the envelope a bit, but we left the Costa del Cemento with only six hours of daylight to discover and explore the gorge, which boasted, according to the guidebook, one of the most spectacular walks in Spain.

We drove for nearly an hour and a half until we at last saw signs for El Chorro, which urged us to abandon the highway and follow a curvy, one-lane road to our left. Diligently we complied and soon found ourselves cramped into the small village of Álora, whose inhabitants had clearly placed those "El Chorro" signs to lure in unsuspecting tourists like ourselves (there was, we discovered later, a quicker route via the highway). We puttered through Álora's main street, and then quit town on an unmarked one-lane road, which curved back upon itself like snake on its own tail. This forty-five minute detour, if anything, cemented David's contempt for narrow, winding roads and quaint villages that stood like roadblocks between us and our destination.

Eventually the road descended into a river valley, and further ahead revealed an oblong reservoir, with a huge, hydroelectric dam that emitted a constant, unnerving whir. We stopped at a campground in El Chorro for information, and leaving the car behind, followed an unmarked trail to an overlook where we could see the gorge up close. Strangely, the river had cut a narrow passageway (desfiladero) through the towering, rock wall and three-quarters of the way up the gap crossed an old, wooden footbridge. Even more impossibly, we could see the Caminito del Rey, a path suspended halfway up the canyon wall, which appeared in all its rickety-ness like a something out of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. "Intransitible" (impassable) warned a sign on the edge of the cliff, in glorious understatement; a huge chunk of the trail's cement underpinning was completely gone. This was the "spectacular canyon walk" that my guidebook had promised; of course, being a 2000 edition it failed to note that the Caminito del Rey was closed that same year after four tourists died traversing it. After hiking down, we set out to see what was on the other side of the gorge. There, in the middle of the arid, Andalucían desert, was a giant lake; the perfect swimming hole.

David was overjoyed at our discovery, albeit at 8:45 pm with the sun hanging low in the sky. We joked about starting a Spanish version of swimmingholes.info, with this hidden jewel as our flagship location. We felt proud of our discovery -- no one, not even the reputable Lonely Planet, had intimated its existence -- and we celebrated by taking a dip. In the distance, we saw some "Cliffs of Insanity," but (mom's advice ringing in our ears) figured it was best not to chance a potentially-hazardous cliff jump. Still, we enjoyed our sunset swim and, with dusk now upon us, fired up the indomitable Opel Corsa for our return trip via Mijas (where we planned to have a late dinner).

At this point, the way home became the subject of heated debate -- we opted, at my insistence, to take a short cut directly toward Mijas, instead of the circuitous highway route via Málaga. First we had to pass through Cártama, during which David's smoldering contempt for intermediary towns resurfaced more intensely than ever, now that they stood between him and his dinner. Still, everything proceeded according to plan until we hit a neighboring town called Alhaurín el Grande, and immediately lost ourselves in the labyrinthine streets of its old city. When we emptied on to a one-way street heading in the wrong direction, we knew it was time to ask for directions.

On one of the narrow, cobblestone streets, we pulled up beside two middle-aged Spaniards loitering in front of an empty general store. In classic literary style (and I'm not making this up), the two men complemented each other exactly; one was skinny and balding, while the other was rotund with a full head of hair. In Spanish, I asked them which way to Mijas; this would turn out to be quite a bone of contention. Just as the skinny one started to run off a laundry-list of directions, the fat one interrupted and urged his friend to route us instead via the highway to Málaga; the mountain pass to Mijas would be too dangerous at night. The skinny man told him to shut up, and their bickering escalated until the fat man angrily conceded defeat by yelling "¡Coño!" (literally, "Cunt!") and walking away. I guess that's one way to end an argument.

Taking the skinny man's advice, we headed left, left again, then right, and another left, winding down a curvy street much better suited for pedestrians than Opels. Finally we saw a sign for Mijas, and collectively breathed a sigh of relief. We passed a deserted restaurant, where we contemplated stopping for dinner, but instead decided to stick it out to Mijas.

My AAA map shows Alhaurín el Grande and Mijas side-by-side; in fact, they are separated by an impassable no-man's-land of mountain peaks. Unknowingly, we had chosen a treacherous route that took us right over the sierra, and now we were completely in the dark. David sat with his hands glued to the steering wheel, and his eyes fixed on the road, saying nothing except "This is crazy, this is crazy," repeating those words like a mantra. It was the windiest, narrowest, and closest-to-the-edge road we had seen the entire trip; nighttime transformed the appearance of another car into an event which could inspire terror in our hearts. Traveling at minimal speed, David concentrated all his energies on conducting the complex orchestra of shifting gears, turning the wheel, and flicking the brights on and off.

At last we climbed up to a development called Alta Vista, which, I assured David, had to be the highest point on the road. From there we descended into the dark, and on our left I caught a glimpse of a path we had hiked up during our previous visit to Mijas. We were safe again in familiar territory; Mijas covered us like a warm, white blanket in the night.

After parking the car, we decided to play it safe at an Italian restaurant. We meditated on the day's adventures as we waited for our food to come, with David constantly reminding me that what we had just done was absolutely crazy. "Exhilarating, though, wasn't it?" I smiled.

"Yeah," he responded, still visibly shaken. "Maybe you should drive home."