Dag 78: Chefchaouen na Tangier

(English Translation Below)

Dag 78: Chefchaouen na Tangier
 
Die pas is nog glad van gister se reën. Ons ry op eiers. Wil vandag, van alle dae, nie gly nie. Dis twee ure tot in Tangier, ons laaste stukkie Afrika.
 
Toe die son bietjie hoër sit, en die pad droër is, kan ons die pas se draaie geniet. Dit voel soos die laaste stukkie van 'n waterglybaan wat mens links en regs gooi voordat hy jou in die swembad uitspoeg.
 
Skielik, oor 'n hoogtetjie, sien ons die see. Maar nog meer: ons sien die berge aan die ander kant. Europa en Afrika. Swemafstand van mekaar af. Tarifa wat wit teen die voet van die heuwel sit en wag.
 
Ons parkeer. Stap die strate in. Dis duidelik dat Europa oorgespoel het dié kant toe. De Witt sê as iemand jou oë toemaak en jou hier neersit sal jy dink jy's in Madrid of Parys.
 
Ons neem foto's van die laaste stukkie Afirka en Europa wat in die verte loer. Stuur dit vir ons mense. Hulle oe en a oor die wonder van wat ons vermag het. 17400km deur die kontinent! Maar ons voel nie die grootsheid daarvan nie. Het vandag maar net weer nog 'n kort entjie gery. Soos byna elke dag sedert middel September. Stukkie vir stukkie soos mens 'n olifant eet. Die anti-klimaks bevestig ons ervaring dat dit nie oor 'n wenpaal gegaan het nie, maar oor die reis hierheen.
 
Môre weer 'n grensoorgang. Gaan Spanje tevrede wees met ons versekeringspapiere vir die motorfietse? Of gaan ons verskering in die hawe moet koop? Altyd die opwinding en onsekerheid van grense oorsteek. Van minder mag hê as die amptenary.
 
Day 78: Chefchaouen to Tangier
 
The pass is still slippery from yesterday's rain. We ride cautiously, not wanting to slip today of all days. It's two hours to Tangier, our last piece of Africa.
 
As the sun rises a bit higher, and the road dries up, we can enjoy the twists and turns of the pass. It feels like the last part of a water slide, tossing you left and right before spitting you into the pool.
 
Suddenly, rising over a hill, we see the sea. But even more: we see the mountains on the other side. Europe and Africa. Within swimming distance of each other. Tarifa sitting white against the foot of a hill, waiting.
We park. Walk the streets. It's clear that Europe has overflowed this way. De Witt says if someone were to close your eyes and drop you off here, you'd think you were in Madrid or in Paris.
 
We take photos of the last piece of Africa and Europe peeking in the distance. Send it to our people. They reply in awe of what we've accomplished. 17,400km through the continent! But we don't feel the grandeur of it. Today we rode just another short stretch. Like almost every day since mid-September. Piece by piece, like eating an elephant. The anti-climax confirms our experience that it wasn't about reaching a destination, but about the journey itself.
 
Tomorrow, another border crossing. Will Spain be satisfied with our insurance papers for the motorcycles? Or will we have to buy insurance at the port? Always the excitement and uncertainty of crossing borders. Of having less power than the officials.

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