Adrian Myers
This Man Will Die...
...without a wireless connection. So why is he stranded in a Spanish mountain wilderness?
I think it started as a bet, or maybe a dare, but I am thirsty, very cold and stuck halfway up a Spanish mountain, my only company being a tiny notebook computer – the Sony VAIO TZ.
Two days ago I was sitting outside a bar in Benidorm, with my Scottish friend John Sterling, the source of my present problems. As I sat there, trying to ease my post-fiesta hangover with a Veterano brandy (the favourite tipple of Spanish revolutionaries), John was baiting me that while Spain was way ahead of us on most things that really matter (food, family, climate, signposts, romantically named brandy etc), they were several centuries behind on computer technology.
“I will agree that prices for computers are no longer much different to those in the UK,” he said, “but price is not everything. Spain has not developed any real technical infrastructure as yet. Sure, down here you’ll be able to surf the web. But up there,” he pointed north towards the mountains, “forget about it.”
“Are you really saying that not one of those villages, lemon farmers or goat herders have internet connections?” I replied. “Are you saying these guys don’t do any business?”
“They do business alright,” said John, “but they do business with other goat farmers, and they’ve been doing it the same way for hundreds of years. They don’t require Google and they probably aren’t the sort to post witty, ironic films of themselves and their goats on YouTube.”
“Well, I’m willing to bet you’re wrong. Anything that can be done down here, can be done up there.”
“You’re on,” said John. “But let’s not call it a bet, let’s call it a dare, ’cos it’s a bloody wilderness up there. Snakes, geckos . . . the heat alone could kill you. So don’t come crying to me when you tear your suit. You go up there, just you and a laptop, and see how long you last.”
Angry wasps
That was around 18 hours ago and I’m beginning to think John had a point. Stuck more than 30 kilometres from – and several thousand feet above – the coast, my present objective is to find a vantage point from which I can see the Mediterranean. Once I’ve determined which way is south, I can simply pick my way down.
The problem is that last night it rained, which means that the local landscape – normally an arid yellow and white – has turned a verdant green, making the rocks slippery and the views a hazy, impressionistic mist. I can’t see more than about six feet in front of me and I keep falling over.
John dumped me here just before dawn – even taking his 4x4 off-road so he could leave me in the true wilderness. And I was blindfolded all the way. My hope now is to find a road, then a village and finally a wireless hotspot so I can use the VAIO TZ to communicate with my wife and friends, who, in theory, should be able to sort me out with food, water and a lift back to base.
It’s an hour before the mist clears and I can see Benidorm in the far distance. More importantly I spot a road, though ominously not a single car. The quickest route is to clamber down through the terraced lemon groves – but it’s also the most hazardous. The groves, once the carefully pruned source of economic life up here, have long been abandoned as farmers’ children forsook back-breaking agricultural labour for work in the cities. As a result, the terraces are crumbling, the trees are an unruly mess and each over-ripe, squashed lemon is being snacked on by a thousand angry-looking wasps.
The squashed lemons also make the rocks more slippery. In such circumstances the size of the VAIO TZ is proving to be a real boon. Weighing around the same as a medium-sized airport novel, it has little or no effect on my balance. In a city you could run for a bus with one of these in your hand. Out here you can slide on a lemon skin, fall on your backside and not drop the thing.
Terrible stench
When I finally step onto the tarmac, I am assailed by the most terrible stench – a cross between English Sunday roasts and three-day-old death. It gets worse as I turn a bend and am confronted by a vast brick structure, one side of which is covered in Bronx-style graffiti. The penny drops. It’s a chicken battery farm, no less, but it is eerily silent.
Still, battery farming – even a recently abandoned one like this – is a serious business, and serious industry requires serious communications. I open the VAIO TZ and flick the wireless switch. Nothing.
Trying hard not to breathe through my nose, I start walking toward the graffiti-strewn building. About five or six yards from its walls, Windows Vista announces that there are networks in range. I check the dialogue box. There is one network in range. Even more astonishingly, it is unsecured. Very careless, chicken farmers. First they allow all their chickens to die or escape, then they fail to set a password to protect their internet access.
Using Skype, the free voice-over-internet telephone service, I call John in Benidorm. He is not logged on, which I suspect to be deliberate, so I call my wife in England and get John’s mobile number. Now, using Skype’s pay service, I call John via the VAIO TZ. He picks up instantly.
“John,” I pant, painfully aware of just how grateful and desperate I sound.
“Jesus, where are you?”
“I was hoping you might be able to tell me. It’s some old chicken farm in the middle of the mountains.”
“I don’t believe you,” snorts John.
“John, I swear to you I am. Get to your computer and turn on Skype – but make it quick ’cos this is a genuinely unpleasant place.”
“You’d better not be lying,” he says.
I shut the VAIO TZ and am suddenly confronted by the sight of a donkey staring sullenly at me. Large metallic green flies are buzzing around its face and tail. I lean my VAIO TZ on its back and open it. As I wonder if the key to avoiding the smell of intensive farming is to stuff your nose with flies, Skype issues a piercing ring, which causes the donkey to canter off into the distance. Once again I am grateful for the lightness of the laptop; anything heavier would have slipped from my hands.
It’s John, his big beery face staring at me from a window on the computer.
“What the hell’s that noise?” he asks.
“Oh, er, that. It’s a traumatised donkey. Long story. Can you see me?”
John nods. “Crystal clear, sunshine. So where are you?”
I lift the VAIO TZ in the air and turn 360 degrees, allowing the built-in webcam to take in the views of endless nothingness.
“Christ,” says John, “it looks like the moon.”
“Indeed, so could you please come and rescue me? Pronto!”
“Love to, old son, but since you don’t appear to know where you are and I haven’t the remotest clue, you’ll have to get back to me on that. Over and out.”
And as suddenly as his face appeared it disappears, leaving an empty window.
Pure despair
For a moment I feel pure despair. However, the incentive to make my way down the mountain is now greater than ever. I switch the VAIO TZ off, noticing it has lost almost none of its power. Its promised seven hours looks likely to deliver, and if I carry on like this I shall need every minute.
A couple of kilometres down the road, I find a water fountain. It is probably intended for livestock, but water is water. By now it’s getting hot and my suit (which I wore at John’s insistence) feels itchy and my brogues are full of sand and pebbles. I also appear to have caught fleas from the donkey. I remove my jacket and shoes and soak my head beneath the fountain. It takes me a moment or two to realise someone is shouting at me.
“Hola! Hola!” On the side of the road, next to a parked Cherokee Jeep, stands a lad of about 19. He looks almost as puzzled as the donkey did.
“You lost?” he enquires, in only slightly accented English.
“No, well, yes, actually.”
He looks me up and down. “You know, it’s no good,” he says, solemnly shaking his head. “Go hiking dressed like that. Suit no good. And shoes, very bad. Lots of snakes. You need proper boot.” He pulls up his trouser legs to reveal a large pair of sturdy Timberlands. You need ride?” he asks cheerfully.
“I’ll pay you!” I shout.
“Sure,” he beams, pocketing the 20-euro note I am proffering. “My name is Miguel.”
About 30 minutes later we arrive in Tarbena, near the coast. It consists of about six streets and has a population of no more than 800, but it feels like New York, LA and London rolled into one. We go to the restaurant run by Miguel’s parents, where I order a celebratory Veterano. Miguel kindly supplies me with the password to his dad’s wireless network for another 20 euros. I open Skype and make a video conference call to John (in Benidorm) and my wife (in Brighton).
John looks staggered. He recognises the restaurant instantly. “How the hell did you get there so quickly?”
“Hardly important,” I say. “What is very important is that I am here, talking to you via Spain’s supposedly non-existent infrastructure. And even more important, I managed to do the very same thing halfway up a mountain.”
John nods. “I’ll concede you did that. I might even buy you a drink, although it looks like you’ve got two already. But what I really want to know is… what the hell did you do to that donkey?”
Story by Ben Marshall