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87

(1929) [MARC] Author: Martin Andersen Nexø Translator: Jacob Wittmer Hartmann
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GIBRALTAR 87
valley-dwellers worm their way into the train; im-
mediately they offer me their tobacco pouches; they
shout deafening commands to each other, which graze
my ear destructively, toss restlessly in their seats and
laugh loudly; their eyes are overflowing with benevo-
lence.
We have arrived in Algeciras, the terminal station.
The name sounds Arabic, and the city looks as if it
has been asleep for centuries, since the days when the
Moors were driven from Andalusia. Its color is
white, and the town has flat or slightly inclined roofs
of grayish green azulejos; the houses stand close to-
gether, like old nags blinking in the sunlight; their
shutters tightly closed. In the cool patios, women
babble away and spin on their hand-power spindles; the
men recline in the sunlight on the benches of the
Alameda, wrapped in their long cloaks. Their faces
are large, with a massive, open forehead, soft, black,
full beards, and nut-brown skins; the women have the
great rounded outlines of odalisques and their faces are
the color of raw cream.
The gutter dirt is in no danger of being washed
away; children and red pigs wallow in it to their heart’s
content. All are equally naked, natural and round;
there must be enough dropsy and pork and bacon and
rickets for a whole host of Raphael’s angels in this
place.
Twenty minutes across the bay, we find ourselves in
a scene entirely different.
Half way across, the water loses its deep blue color
and gathers a scum of coal dust, a gray, dry sheen in
the sunlight. Steamships and sailing ships are moving
about in all directions, cutting smooth furrows in the

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