My brother and I have spent the last week chasing rock climbers around the South of Spain with a movie camera and a pup-tent, and now we are driving home, miserable. It was his idea--one of his "projects"--and as far as I'm concerned, it's finished. If we don't have enough rock climbers on film by now, we never will. I'm sick of it, and, more specifically, I'm sick of my brother. This latter feeling, no doubt, is mutual. He thinks I'm destructive and mean. I think he's a selfish fuck. We've been too close together for too long and are no longer capable of having a civilized conversation. In fact, we haven't spoken since we left Cadiz about two hours ago. If one of us were to suddenly vaporize, the other would probably be relieved. At least it would mean an end to this malicious silence. But no vaporizations are imminent-- just lots of driving. Something has to give, and when we see the battered "Castellar de la Frontera" sign on the highway, we both think the same thing: hashish.
Castellar de la Frontera (pronounced cas-te-yar, the name is derived from "castillo" meaning castle; "frontera" means frontier) is an abandoned Moorish castle-town in Andalucia in the South of Spain. It sits high in the mountains slightly north of Gibraltar, about 25 miles, as the crow flies, from the coast of Morocco. Looking down from the town, Morocco's Rif mountains are visible on the horizon, just across the sea. These mountains produce hash by the ton, and in the South of Spain, where tradition calls for "costo," "chocolate," "canuto," "petardo," "porro," "winfly," "mandanga," "join," or simply "wan for ju," as often, and as cheaply, as possible, Castellar is famous for its prices. "As you get close to castle, you'll see a bar--just ask there," are the frequently heard instructions.
