Tarifa, Spain: The Birth of Buca

Buca Windsurfing in Tarifa 

1. Buca. After an overnight train from superb Barcelona, we stepped out of the station in Algeciras, Spain and followed our e-mailed instructions from the next hostel:  Take the bus to Tarifa, once there call this number for car service back to your accommodations. We rode past hundreds of windmills, found the pay phone and after a few more minutes of waiting, our shuttle service had arrived. The driver stepped out of the van, dirty blonde surfer curls covering his eyes, "Hello," he said in a heavy Italian accent, "I am Buca."

2. OTB. We drove a couple of miles out of town, past what looked like hippie camping communes and to the gated building with the same ominous letters painted on the entrance, "Only The Brave." Inside, an empty bar and lounge, dirty faux zebra and leopard printed couches, small kitchen/storage room, and a gated weight room visible through the window. At least there is a pool. It appeared we had the hostel to ourselves, except for the random "workers" who came and went as they pleased. We observed the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album was playing. "I love this song," said L. Another observation, are we the only girls?

3. Tarifa. The windy city was meant to be a layover en route to Morocco, only a short ferry ride from the coast of Spain. The guide books made Tarifa sound infinitely better than port town Algeciras. Quiet, empty beaches, tons of kite-surfers. We convinced Buca to drive us to town for some groceries and to explore. Bored with the quiet town quickly, we went back to OTB and decided to check out the beach. Buca looked at us funny and the only advice from the hostel was to wear sunblock because even though the wind makes you feel cool, you are still very exposed to the sun. Thanks Buca.

4. Beach. We were told to walk up the road about a quarter mile past the communes and access the beach there. Easy enough. Though the sun was hot, the wind was cool. Buca was right. Now in our bikinis and towels in hand, we made it to the edge of the beach. Empty.
1st step: "Ouch"
2nd: "Ouch!"
3rd: "Ow that really hurts!"
The beaches are empty because any idiot knows that wind + sand = stinging unyielding pain over your entire body, face, eyes, and various other unmentionables. But we'd made it this far, dammit! We ran the 100 feet to the edge of the sea screaming like three crazy people, touched the water to prove a point, and then ran back to the road happy to be alive.

5. Lounge. "Back so soon?" quipped Buca from behind the empty bar. "Yes," we all mumbled. We took turns checking our email inside the leopard lounge, noticing RHCP's song "Hard To Concentrate" was still on repeat. "You like this song, huh?" L said. "I love RHCP. I am like Anthony Kiedis. We are like same person," sure Buca, sure. He retired RHCP and popped in his Creed CD. "I love Creed too." "Oh I hate Creed," - L probably didn't mean to say it with such disgust. "Well then," Buca leaned in close with a provocative smirk, "why don't you cut your vein?" motioning with a razor-blade he pulled out from under the bar. Time to go back outside.

6. Pool. It wasn't surprising to learn that the pool was empty and had old mattresses at the bottom. We sunbathed poolside anyway. A little wind doesn't hurt, as long as there is no sand nearby. I'm not sure where K was when L brought up the brilliant idea of leaving for Morocco 1 day early. The consensus was, do we really want to take two more days of this? I'm sure there are far worse hostels in the world and less desirable situations to be in, but this is our vacation and we don't have to stay if we don't want to! We agreed to pitch the idea to K. By now my flip flip had blown into the deep end of the empty pool. I tiptoed in from the shallow end to get it. Once back inside, without any wind, I felt a little dizzy.

7. Conference. K: "Guys, did you see the "do not flush toilet paper" sign?"
US: "K, we need to talk." She looked alarmed. We took her into our room and told her the plan of an early departure.  K breathed a sigh of relief.

8. Dinner. We cooked ourselves a cheap dinner of bread and jam, made our regrets of leaving early known to Buca and got to know Vincenzo from Italy and Marco from Brazil. They stay at OTB for free in exchange for some hard labor such as cleaning, building, dragging the mattresses into the pool. They were cute but as the only female guests at OTB, and party pictures on the wall, we felt as though this was a frat house party waiting to happen. We chatted a little longer, refused offers to sleep in their rooms, politely said good night and pushed the large cubby shelf in front of the door because we did not quite trust the locks.

9. Luca. Unsure of when and how often the ferries to Morocco depart, we woke up at 6:30 a.m. The flyer on the bulletin board gave a schedule of taxi services to Algeciras where we would board the ferry to our next destination. We looked for Buca so that he could take us there, he was no where to be found. The exterior doors were barred and locked so we couldn't exactly leave. Finally a new male was wandering around and we asked him, "Where is Buca??" He replied, "Who is Buca?" Beginning to worry if Buca actually worked there or if he was some homeless man who just wandered in and out of this frat shack, our new friend laughed wildly at us, "Oh, you mean Luca?" Luca must roll his L's very well.

10. Departure. Our new friend and Marco couldn't find Luca either. They checked his room, which is a hut on stilts outside, no sign of him there. A girl (a girl!) named Molly walked into the lounge. "Molly," they said teasingly, "Where is Luca?" Of course this was all in Spanish but we could still understand who Molly was and with whom she had spent the night. After an hour or so we finally found him. Well,  I'm not a morning person either. We asked for a ride to Algeciras. Buca replied that he does not drive to Algeciras. "But Buca, your flyer on the bulletin board boasts 15£ rides to Algeciras and the next one leaves in 15 minutes." He didn't believe us, walked over to the board, read the poster and said,
"That is an old sign."
"Oh. Can you take us anyway?"
"No. I don't drive to Algeciras."
Take us anywhere, Buca. Take us to someone that can take us to Algeciras. Teach us to kite surf and we will kite surf there.
"I will take you to town, you can take bus."

Locked in the OTB hostel

I wish I could say there was something more magical about the departure and our last goodbye with the man. We were so excited to leave and he was so excited to see us go, mostly so he could go back to sleep. It was where we first met Buca that we said goodbye.

If anyone ever asks where we were on 6/6/06, we can tell them we were locked in the OTB hostel. There is something tacit and unspoken about Luca Buca - he stayed with us for the rest of the summer and brought us closer together. The only arguments for the rest of Europe 2006 were who missed Buca more.  Flash forward almost 5 years later and Buca is still with us.

<3 kb

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