Black night...

We are driving to the mountains not far away. With every kilometer inland, the camping ban signs become fewer until they eventually disappear completely. We no longer encounter motorhomes either. Yellow-orange sandstones glow in the bright sun and date palms complete the illusion of North African desert oases. Even on the six to seven hundred meter high hills, it is downright hot in the bright sunlight and very practical: in the shade, the drinks stay refrigerator cold.

Zappa is cranking our trailer up to 1000 meters in the Sierra de los Filabres. Here, in the evening glow, we want to end the day with a gigantic view of the valley at our feet. In the last light, a very dark man with a huge herd of very dark goats climbs the rugged mountain cross-country. The Château stands in their way and in no time at all, we are surrounded by a dark sea of bleating figures, including the shepherd (or do they say Zieger here?) who constantly urges his animals with a nagging "Vamos, vamos".
By the time the entourage circles us, it is truly dark, a chilly breeze sweeps through our four walls and rattles the box again. The temperature has dropped below the 10°C mark in no time at all, so we decide to drive to the warmer valley after dinner to spend the night there.

When we are ready, a car stops in front of the caravan. In the headlights, we see that four figures "of color" get out and first enjoy a fat joint. This seems strange here in the deserted mountain wilderness, and we prepare ourselves for possible self-defense. Then objects are taken out of the trunk, three people put on safe helmets on their heads. Not exactly trustworthy, even if there is a woman present judging by the voice, but what does that mean? Maybe the goat herder has given his comrades a tip that there's something to steal up here at high altitude from careless Germans, a somewhat biased thought sneaks in! We are in position and observe the events through the kitchen window.

Now the joint is smoked and one of the men gets into the car and drives into the valley. Then, to our increasing amazement, we see that the objects are a kick scooter, a longboard, and another skateboard. It is pitch black, the young people position themselves on their respective vehicles, the woman sits on the board, and all three race down into the valley at breakneck speed in the light of their cell phones!
No risk, no fun: it's about 10km and at least 500 meters of altitude down, and we look at each other in wonder. Not that we have to collect knocked out teeth, broken arms, and rolling heads on the way!

Of course, we don't catch up with them, they're much faster again. We also don't have to administer first aid. The entire route goes in serpentine curves that are so narrow that hardly two cars can pass each other into the next village and further and further. Maybe this is the bob elite of the African premier league? And perhaps they are rolling all the way to Timbuktu because they find it racist to have to herd black goats in the Spanish mountains? Will we ever find out?
We would also like some of the stuff they're smoking!