Fuerteventura
Some time ago, I went on a hiking trip to Fuerteventura. I landed at the airport around 7:30 p.m. and caught a transfer to my casa for the night in Morro Jable, right at the southern tip of the island.
The plan was simple: fly from London Stansted (thanks, Ryanair, for yet another £30 return), get to my accommodation, wake up in the morning, find a grocery store, buy water and food, and set off on a 12.7 km hike through the Fuerteventura hills.
It was late February, and I hadn’t expected it to be that hot. But it was. I found a little Dino supermarket and stocked up on canned calamari, a bread roll, olive oil crisps, iced tea, and some fruit. Then, after wrestling with my overpacked backpack and packing at least four litres of water, because I suffer from water anxiety, I finally set off.
What felt like an eternity later, I found myself dragging my dumb ass along a dusty uphill path. I love hiking, but right then I was questioning all of my life choices. The midday sun was unforgiving, my backpack felt like a boulder, and there was nothing but the hill, the sun, my stupid tent, and way too much water. Shit. Water. I should have been more mindful. What if I ran out?
Trying to distract myself, I started singing, “You belong with meeee-e,” only to be startled by a goat. Then a donkey. And then finally, after what felt like forever, I reached the top. I looked around and saw all the shades of blue below me. That kind of blue only the Atlantic Ocean can do.
When I finally reached the beach at the bottom of the hill, I was greeted by a small graveyard and an endlessly long wild beach with almost nobody there. My place for the night, I thought to myself. I walked around for a bit and then sat down to watch the ocean. Fifteen kilometres of nothing but sand, wind, and waves stretching into forever.
The wind was unforgiving. At some point along the way, I realised I’d lost my favourite fleece jumper. Well, that`s £70 down the drain. I realised soon enough that I was at a nudist beach. I took my phone out with one signal bar and texted my best friend, “Everybody is naked” Just 30 minutes later, he texted back “, What are you waiting for, girl? Get naked”. So, I did.
So, I walked farther down the endless stretch of sand until I found a spot far enough from everyone. I dropped my backpack, stripped off my clothes, and sat down with my book, just like the rest of the nudist population. And you know what? It was kind of liberating. Just the sun, the wind, the ocean.
Until I heard footsteps in the sand behind me. I turned. There he was.
He must have followed me. A completely naked man, very much excited to be there, standing a few feet away, staring directly at my now extremely aware-of-its-own-nudity body.
For a second, we just looked at each other. Then, calmly and with the speed of a traumatised snail, I pulled my dress over my head, giving him the angriest glare I could manage while fighting against the wind and the clothes. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there with his dignity, pointing at the sky, then slowly turned and walked away, still looking back every few steps, like some weird, sunburnt meerkat.
My heart was racing like a wild horse. Shit. What did he want? Is he going to come back?
Should I stay here until morning? Or leave now? Why do men always have to ruin everything? I thought bitterly as I started packing my stuff with shaky hands. No camping tonight – not here.
The anger hit me first. Hot, sharp, immediate. Then fear crept in behind it. That cold, sinking feeling in the stomach. I felt violated. Exposed. So, mad I could scream. The beach suddenly felt too open. Too vulnerable. Just me, the wind, the vastness of the ocean, and nowhere safe to go. I threw my things into my backpack, sand sticking to everything, and stood up without a plan. I had no idea where I was going to sleep. No one around but ghosts of naked strangers, and that man burned into my mind.
But I walked. Because standing still felt worse.
I walked back toward the cemetery, heart still pounding, sand stuck to my legs, angry as hell. That’s when I saw it, a faded bus timetable pinned to a rusty sign. A small bus was coming in twenty minutes – the last bus of the day back to Morro Jable.
I waited. Kept glancing around to make sure I was alone. When the bus finally arrived, I got in without looking back.
As we drove away from the empty beach and its shadows, I pulled out my phone and checked Booking.
Where do I sleep tonight?
