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On the way to the Hercules Caves. Chapter 2

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Crossing the border was complicated. Three Moroccan gendarmes opened my car and inspected it thoroughly. They made me unload everything in the trunk. Thankfully, the drone was hidden beneath a backpack under the passenger seat. One of the gendarmes almost lifted the bag of discord, but in the end, he decided to call off the inspection. I nearly had a heart attack.               Thousands of Sub-Saharan Africans live on the slopes of Mount Gurugú, where they await the opportunity to cross into Spain. The first thing I want to do in Morocco is inspect Mount Gurugú, facing Melilla, to look for the makeshift camps where undocumented immigrants live on its slopes. These sub-Saharan migrants spend all their savings trying to get to the other side of the fence, patiently waiting for an opportunity to jump over and start living their European dream. With a bit of luck, "they'll become famous footballers and get rich." Reality is usually much harsher....
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Melilla and Its Fence. Chapter 1

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I begin my African journey in the Alboran Sea, in the western Mediterranean. I cross the 95 nautical miles separating Almeria from Melilla by ferry with my car. Melilla is one of the two strategic enclaves that Spain still mysteriously holds in Africa.  A Moroccan family prepares to cross the Alboran Sea by ferry. I am a bit nervous because I am leaving behind my girlfriend, my friends, and my family. During the seven-hour journey, I concluded that the world of Journalism is deteriorating. Instant office news seems to serve the interests of a single person and their convenient friends. The utopian ideals of helping the needy or keeping those in power in check have vanished. As if that weren’t enough, office sycophants backstab for personal gain. Power drives the cynics -those who likely had a difficult childhood- to madness. A dark outlook looms over the journalistic savannah. Amid frothy musings, the time has come to uncover other realities and to observe the small cre...
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