There are many waves in the world that can be deemed perfect. Books have been written about them, like the recently published The Pilgrimage: 50 Waves You Have to Surf Before You Die, and there are articles and tomes written about “the Seven Wonders of the surfing world”, “the best waves in the whole world”, “the longest waves in the world” and “waves that will change your life forever”.
If you are a surfer and you read these pieces, the notion of searching for these waves starts to appear romantic. Thing is, when these waves, which are far away on another continent, start appearing ideal on paper, you know that reality is going to bite hard at some stage.
Regardless, I decided to exit my currently somewhat mundane existence in South Africa and head for the Basque country of Spain for a few weeks.
First off is the obligatory Durban to Oliver Tambo hop. Not too bad, except for the dreaded walk to international departures with my surfboards.
While trolleys do make it somewhat easier, the airport is full of important people looking down at you and your surfboards as they stride and bustle around, intent on making money, or setting up money-making plans, or whatever it is that people in Jozi do.
From Jozi it’s a great overnight flight to London where I meet my mate Roger. He’s a pommie who has been surfing for a long time, so he knows what we’re up to and takes over the mission.
We climb into his car and head out of Heathrow with a bunch of surfboards on the roof of his station wagon. Our destination: Dover for the ferry crossing to Calais.
‘The Green Fairy’
Our ultimate goal is a fabled destination called Mundaka in the Basque region of Spain, but first we have to get through France.
While it might be a lot more convenient to fly into Spain and drive to the coast to get to our fabulous destination, Roger and I are both taken by the journey, a slow, coastal meander through France, exploring the forests that were grown by Napoleon to supply shipbuilders and to replenish wood stock, and checking out the ancient World War 2 bunkers as they slowly slip into the sea.
As it so happens, we do all of our French travelling at night, surf one or two remote beaches during the day, and don’t see anything until our return.
Crossing from France into Spain is easy. I think we pay a toll and don’t even show our passports.
Europe has been liberated. Hooray!
The only difference these days is that there seems to be a plethora of toll booths along the road. It seems like every 20km there is a barrier with a bored person manning a booth and a huge cup for you to throw your payment into.
Still, we are in a foreign country, and I am soaking up the culture that is distant from the roads and driving etiquette of South Africa. We drive slowly and consistently, eating up the kilometres. We are in Basque country - home of tapas and vino tinto. We pull in at a few roadside stops along the way to get regular supplies of tapas and drinking water.
It would be unmistakable
We are also searching for a bottle of genuine absinthe, or “The Green Fairy” as it is commonly known. In recent years absinthe has come back into fashion around the world, resulting in a multitude of labels and brands, some of it the real deal, but most of it a poor relation to the real stuff.
The absinthe of legend is flavoured by artemisia absinthium, hence the name. It also has wormwood in it, and the genuine stuff has thujone, a toxic chemical that is present in the wormwood. Thujone has a similar molecular structure to THC, the addictive chemical in dagga.
It is this that made the drink an addictive hit, with people like Oscar Wilde, Vincent van Gogh and Ernest Hemingway all certified fans during their tenure on the planet.
A couple of big pulls of the real stuff is supposed to lead to full-blown hallucinations, the type of effect that usually only follows a hit of hallucinogenic drugs like LSD or Angel Dust (PCP).
We were keen on getting some either way, all in the name of research. We were told that we would recognise a bottle of the real stuff when we saw it. It would be unmistakable.
Our destination, Guernika, is the tiny village that is home to one of the best waves in the world. Although it hosts an international surfing event, the Billabong Pro Mundaka, it hasn’t jumped on to the commercial bandwagon that seems to destruct so many surf destinations, and it has retained its quaint and cute air.
The roads are tiny, cobble-stoned, one-ways. There is no parking anywhere. There is no grandstand viewing across the bay for spectators. Just a small promenade and a little harbour from which the surfers paddle to access the break.
We arrive in the village and slowly make our way down to the harbour to have a look at the waves. It takes an age. A few wrong turns in a one-way town can sometimes take forever to correct.
We eventually get there and the waves are nowhere to be seen. The ocean is small and windy. We are tired and hungry and there are no waves.
People say the destination is actually a very small part of travel, that getting there is really what it is all about.
That might be so, but our endeavour to hunt down one of the best waves in the world seems to have failed. Still, we are in Mundaka. We can go to our list of places to visit and surf before we die, and tick off another one. Also, we are in Spain, so it really isn’t that bad. Time to gorge ourselves on tapas and wash them down with copious amounts of vino tinto.
We head off back into the town and the first shop we walk into has an enormous tapas bar, as well as a few dusty bottles of wine and other stuff in the corner. We enquire, and strike gold. It is absinthe, and it has that unmistakable look about it. It’s the genuine stuff, the shop owner tells us in broken English. We might not have found waves, but our fun is just beginning.
The Spanish people seem intent on having fun, unlike their French neighbours. Guernika is a central hub for people enjoying life, and when the sun goes down it’s time to celebrate, not sleep.
The bars are full every night with travellers and locals, and the pace is fast and late. Our days consist of waking up late and going for a quick surf in small waves at the nearby beach of Sopelana, before getting ready for the evening’s revelry.
We never got to see the waves at Mundaka. Instead we met wonderful people, made good friends, drank wine and ate too many tapas. We also drank the absinthe, with quite a bit of gusto, but we didn’t hallucinate. Maybe it wasn’t the real stuff after all.
Places to stay
Travellers who arrive in vans and sleep in them usually park outside town, but if you’ve got a few bucks and like showering, stay in the Portuondo campground (www.campingportuondo.com) right by the cemetery on your way in. There are three hotels in town: Hotel Mundaka, Hotel El Puerto, Hotel Atalaya.
It’s also worth staying 15 minutes inland at one of Guernika’s many pensions. The Mundaka tourist office can help. Apartamentos Mundaka (www.apartamentosmundaka.com) is also a suitable place to stay and prepare your own meals.
Tips
Remember to keep loads of change with you for the toll gates. It’s much easier than paying with notes.
If you get your hands on some genuine absinthe, proceed with caution. It has a kick like a mule and hallucinogenic properties sometimes. Make sure you are in safe surroundings when drinking it.
The surfers at Mundaka are quite hostile to strangers at first, so be polite and wait your turn. There is a surf shop in Mundaka run by an Australian ex-pat, Craig Sage.
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