Diary of an Anarchist Tourist -Episode One, by D.

Day 1 – ferry

The day I travel to Spain I’m not sure I will make it. My work as an organiser is busy and exciting and my family life is in crisis. I rush around worrying and am surprised when the knots disentangle themselves. In the last hour I visit comrades in Plymouth before realising I’ve not left enough time to catch the ferry. I run to the port, thumb a taxi en route and make it with 15 minutes to spare. I board and wait until I can watch Plymouth harbour disappear from view. On the top deck I stop to try and bum a cigarette and my passport falls from my pocket – I stamp on it before the wind can blow it overboard. Too close a call. I button it inside my jacket from now on.

On the ferry I meet a young farmer on his way to drive around Spain and we discuss politics. We agree on the major points but he cannot apply his analysis to his own actions; he’s scared for the future of climate change, like everyone, but is driving a 20 to the gallon Hilux on his travels and farming beef. The next morning he appears at my table in the cafe and proceeds to follow me around the ferry like a lost dog for the next couple of hours. A lonely loner, like I once was, but one who stinks of exploitation. I ditch him, buy baccy and proceed to smoke my way through the rest of the trip.

If I’m hoping to escape politics, I quickly realise I don’t have much of a chance – on the way off the ship I overhear three conversations about Brexit, Corbyn and the future of England. Bollocks. 

Day 2 – Santander

Arriving in Santander I head into a bar where I’m drawn into conversation with a man from Colombia. We discuss politics:

“is all shit” – with a finger pointed upwards. 

“Soy anarchista!”

“Ah anarchista, si – sex pistols!”

Turns out his politics doesn’t go much further than liking punk music and being unemployed but he buys me a beer and walks me to the hostel. 

An hour or so later I wander back out into the evening to look for a vegan place to eat. I find two, after some walking, which are both closed, contrary to the internet. No worries, I buy falafel at a kebab shop and collect some pictures of anarchist graffiti, which is everywhere. Wandering to a punky bar, I ask “donde esta espacio anarchista?” and am directed a few streets away. No sign there so I ask more locals, who take me back to a different bar around the corner. Introducing me as an anarchist I have a moment of apprehension as no one seems to know what to do with me. After a moment they take me inside and it turns out I’m in an anti-fascist bar. A woman with blue dyed tips says “anarchista?” “Si” “Ahhh anarchista! This is a safe space.” She introduces me to her boyfriend who high fives me and introduces me to others and we discuss Spanish and English politics…. politicians are just as useless and corrupt here as anywhere else apparently. I settle into chatting with three medical students and after a few drinks, a game of battleships I win by cheating and a game of connect four that I lose they drive me back to the hostel drunk. I hop out of the car. “Anarchist forever!” They shout. “Si! Anarchist forever!” I reply and instantly walk smack into a lamppost. Symbolic? Let’s hope not. 

 

Day 3: Santander

I start the day by leaving my phone in the hostel, the first of several stupidities. After coffee and croissant I make my way to La Libre, an anarchist social centre and library five minutes from the hostel. With the help of several customers and google translate I have a long conversation with the mujer behind the till. She seems damn sensible and gives me an overview of Anarchism in Santander – about ten active folks keep the space open and organise events. It seems very similar to the situation in Devon, but they’re very impressed at the progress we’ve made. One person had visited when she was in England and thought Devon was dead to the revolution. We end on good terms and she hugs me fiercely – I have yet to get used to the Spanish comfort with physical closeness between men and women. From there, I walk to an occupied social centre on the edge of town, which appears empty if well kept. Here I make my second stupid mistake, taking a small sip of water from a discarded cup on a table. I’m still feeling sick at time of writing, about two hours later. I remain surprised at my ability to completely disregard years of advice as to caution drinking water in hot countries. Oh well, let’s hope it kills me and I can forget. 

– later – 

Well, that was dehydration. About an hour and a half after I staggered to a nearby taberna and drank a bottle of water the nausea passed, along with the heat of the day, and I wondered back to the Centro Social Okupado (CSO). There I’m surprised to find the occupier, a lady called M, home with three dogs. I introduce myself and find she speaks very good English. She’s just cooking when I arrive and, after I blag – the sickness has suddenly left me very hungry – makes me several large thin pancakes that I eat with olive oil, feeling guiltily that I’m stealing her food. But she convinces me that she has already eaten and we proceed to discuss politics. 

It turns out the Centre was set up mostly by French folks who were staying in Santander, which, she explains, has a long history of being right wing. The graffiti I’ve seen, I now realise, is probably years old – she explains the council don’t bother to remove it. I ramble for about half an hour about our scene back home and realise as I do so that we’re very different in that there are few wanderers among us, no squats, and very few of us living the classic ‘anarchist lifestyle’. It occurs to me this might be why we get so much done. 

She shows me around the social centre, where for a moment I think I’ve finally found the mythical Anarchist Conservatives, the Black and Blues – but it turns out the blue was meant to be purple and the paint didn’t mix well. The place is beautifully made and I donate a few cents to the library before getting ready to leave. Before I go, M tells me she spent 66 euros getting to a meeting organised over Signal the week before which no one else attended – buses can be expensive here. 

 

Just as I’m leaving another occupier turns up, David, I introduce myself also as David. 

“Tu?” He says, 

“Si,” i reply, then remember a word the medical students had taught me; “Tocayo!” He laughs. 

Tocayo is someone who shares your name.

Before I leave this part of Santander I climb to the top of the hill and look out over the fields and thinning houses to where the cliffs meet the ocean. A donkey haws in the distance and I see horses tied in a backyard. It’s beautiful, but my legs are tired and I turn back towards the city. 

I catch a bus into town and end up eating out again, too tired to figure out what I want to cook. The place I find is a Chinese restaurant, apparently marooned from the mid ‘90s with that same dim fluorescent lighting that’s in Hong Kong thrillers and the largest computer monitor I’ve ever seen sat on the desk by the till. Once everyone but me has left, the family that runs it come out and have dinner at one of the tables. I eat as much as I want for once, and tip.