Iīm in an internet cafe in Madrid, sipping whiskey & coke. Itīs funny, they only serve alcohol here... well, whiskey and internet always go together donīt they? Itīs pretty hip--they have music videos going on a big screen too...
So itīs 7pm, but I just got up a couple hours ago. The jet-lag and staying out at a disco until 4am took its toll today. I met this Senegalese guy who is living here, and we went out with his girlfriend to an all-black disco on the outskirts of Madrid. They were playing African music. I think we are going out to a disco again tonight, but first I am going to go drinking with this Canadian girl from my hostel.
My hostel is a joke. Itīs on the second floor of an old apartment building, and itīs run by this old guy and his family... heīs really short, balding, but quite friendly. When I woke him up at 4 in the morning he just laughed. Apparently he has family in Gilroy(I told him it was the garlic capital), but he himself canīt speak a work of English. In general, Iīve been practicing my oh-so-poor Spanish. I donīt know if most people donīt speak English, but I always try to speak Spanish, and it ends up that thatīs what I (try to) communicate with.
Now "Celebrity Deathmatch" is on TV.
So Madrid is pretty much like any other Western European city. It might be a little cheaper than others, but it is pretty much similar. The main difference might be that the streets are crowded with people all throught the night. And every street corner has a bar/cafe where they serve sandwiches, tapas, coffee, and drinks. They say that these little cafes are the center of Spanish life, and it seems so. There are always some old guys sipping whiskey, some young girls with their coffee and textbooks, and some "seen-better-days," drinking beer.
Howard Stern just won the celebrity deathmatch.
I was actually kind of nervous on the plane for some reason. I guess itīs cuz I havenīt been in any foreign lands for two years now. (Canada donīt count, sorry) Then I had to figure out the metro system, then I got lost and wandered around for an hour. Then I had a hell of a time trying to communicate what I wanted to eat at a cafe. Then I wandered around aimlessly some more(on purpose this time), taking random streets. I somehow ended up at the Palacio Real(I think thatīs what itīs called)... a humongous building built in the 18th century... very impressive. Then I met Mr. Senegal, whose name is Youcada, which I cannot pronounce. Then we met this beautiful girl named Sandra from Columbia, and went to a cafe. I noticed that they were serving that Columbian coffe brand which has the guy in a sombrero and a donkey in its ads, and how we had it in the states. She said it was the best in the world... then she added, "Our coke is the best, too." Then she told me she was a dealer, and I thought that was pretty open of her to admit that.(Later I found out she was a card dealer in a casino...)
Now itīs Janis Joplin playing. J&B whiskey and Coca-Cola seems to be the drink of choice here. And all their ham is cured, not cooked. Pretty tasty, although sometimes a bit chewy. I think I will go on Monday or Tuesday to Segovia, and then maybe to Barcelona. I wouldnīt mind spending two weeks here though, getting to know the city, practising Spanish, meeting more of the locals...
There arenīt that many tourists around. Although the hostels seem relatively full, the sights are fairly empty. Maybe thatīs because it is too damned cold to spend any length of time outside. Iīm guessing that tourism will increase in a few days when the students are on their winter breaks.
Anyways, Iīve blabbed enough. Hope all is well. Hope everyone is enjoying their breaks... ciao.
So, Iīm going to try to whip up an update... I bought some paper and was trying to record what Iīve been up to, with the intention of typing it in and sending it off to you guys, but Iīve got at least ten pages there, so I wonīt even bother--my hands would cramp up.
Anyways, Iīm sitting in an internet cafe in Granada listening to a song about Barcelona which is done in Queenīs "Bohemian Rhapsody" style... Iīm spending the morning with two Japanese girls I met at the hostel. The one of them was having trouble understanding that the hostel was open 24 hours, so I explained this to her at the counter, then we went for dinner. She had peas and ham and eggs while I had stuffed eggplant with beef and ham. And the local brew... Cerveza Alhambra--comes in a green bottle and was actually quite good.
The rain has finally caught us, so much for being a "hare-otoko," sunny guy. I think one of the Japanese girls is renting a car so I will try to share with her... there are a couple sights which I want to see before trying to get a place to stay in Sevilla for the New Year. Hope the festivities are good; they always seem to be here in Spain.
Letīs see, since last I wrote, I skipped out of Madrid, visited Segovia, which was absolutely fabulous... when I stepped out of the hotel, the sun was shining on the plaza, lighting the gothic domes of the catedral, glinting off the wings of the birds as they circled the towers, mudéjar(Spanish Muslim) houses and apartments stepping down steep, crooked streets... old men coming up with their canes, hats, stubble, and pace which hasnīt changed since the 30s... cats sitting in shady doorways, clothes and vines above... lots of stone, blue and white mudéjar tiles... basically just like you imagine.
Anyways, then Toledo, which was also cool, but more touristy... then Barcelona, which is the greatest city in the world. From La Sagrada Familia to the beach to Gaudíīs Park Güell to the market to La Rambla to pickpockets, late-night clubs, and street gypsies... I stayed at the Hostel Kabul which was infested with Americans and Australians... we drank the nights away with cheap Voll Damm beer. At about 3am we would stumble out on to the streets in search of the hottest clubs and the hottest Spanish girls(neither of which often materialized... or maybe they would materialize but immediately head the other way). At 6am we would return and fall onto our bunks in various states of undress. The leader of the Aussies gave us names: he referred to himself as Dickhead; I was Knob-boy(ask me what that means later); then there was Fuckwit, a great guy; Shit-head; and finally Cock-sucker, who was reputed to have great skills despite his braces. It was real bonding the old way with a can of beer(and actually champagne for Christmas).
I managed to see a fair deal of Gaudíīs stuff(heīs a genius) including La Sagrada Familia(the church that is still in construction after 100 years and graces every single postcard made in Barcelona). We climbed its 300 foot towers in the evening and ended up staying too long and getting locked in... another interesting adventure.
So I finally broke the drinking cycle and got out of Barcelona, and here I am in Granada. Saw the Alhambra the day before yesterday(really impressive. Most sights are so-so, but Spainīs sights ARE really great.) Yesterday I went down to Las Alpujarras; a series of old farming valleys where Moroccan style stone houses cling to the side of terraced slopes. I hiked between the villages and stopped to have a picnic of dry salami, bread, and Fanta... simple, but it was so peaceful after the bustle of the city that I just enjoyed sitting there in the fields, chewing in silence. Luckily, I missed my bus back to Granada and ended up staying into the evening and witnessing an incredible sunset which lit up clouds on both sides of the sky.
Anyways, Iīve written enough crap, so I must go. Wish all well, and a belated merry X-mas and excellent millenium bash too. Ciao.
I remember discussing with other travellers, at some point in this trip, how to kill the most people with the least danger and expense to oneself. I trust none of them tested any of our theories. I havenīt watched the news for a while, but I assume nothing awful happened. I was thinking though, as New Yearīs approached, maybe all the city lights would go out, the clock tower would stick at 12:00, people would scream, and I would be trampled under the crowd.
Anyways, happy New Year.
So, on the 30th, Sayo(a Japanese girl I met in Granada) and I rented a little Renault Clio in Granada and drove through the rain towards El Chorro gorge. We reached this little middle of nowhere good for nothing town and thought weīd stop, but the only hotel in town was too pricey. So we drove on. Apparently they were doing construction on the highway, so it was unpaved, and every few miles a wall of dirt would appear in the middle of the highway and we would have to swerve onto the other side of the road to avoid it. Then we see a sign for El Chorro and turn off onto what turns out to be no more than a dirt bike trail. After driving over various bushes and other native flora, we realize that the sign was not indicating the dirt trail but the road which turns off about 100 meters farther ahead. Driving in Spain includes much back-tracking, swerving, and getting yelled at for driving the wrong way down one-way alleys. So we reach El Chorro and the place is incredible. To get to the gorge, you must hike along the railway, through several tunnels, over bridges, and then you come to a gorge which at places is 1200 feet high and only 30 feet wide. A walkway with no railing snakes along the side of the cliff; one slip and youīll take a good 500 foot plunge... but the place was amazing.
Then we drove to Ronda, an Andalucian town which seems to hang on the edge of a cliff... also very dramatic. I guess the Spanish just love heights. Then we head to Córdoba for the night.
The next day is when our troubles start. We park the car to use an internet café, and when we return it is gone, towed by the police. We pay the $60 fine to get the car back, then park and go visit the Mezquita. When we come back, the passenger side door has been bashed in... maybe a motorcyclist out of control hit it? So we get in and drive to Sevilla, thankfuly it has stopped raining because the door wonīt close all the way, and we bring the car to the rental agency to return it. Somehow I had the sense to go against my cheap nature and pay an extra $20 when we rented the car to get the comprehensive-all-inclusive insurance. But the guy we are returning the car to says there are certain "holes" in the insurance plan so we will have to pay a $200 deductable. "No," I say. Turns out I was right... big relief.
So the next day was New Yearīs Eve. I am sleeping in the room until 11pm, then I get up and anounce that we must go out. So we wander around in search of a happening pub, but decide to follow the considerable crowds which lead us to Plaza Nueva where they are selling champagne and grapes. The story is that you are supposed to eat 1 grape for each toll of the bell(12 in all) or you will have a bad year. They are not seedless either. Tīwas okay because the clock every one was watching didnīt have a bell anyways, so our countdown was kind of vague with fireworks and champagne bottles shooting off at random intervals. After polishing off our bottle in a couple minutes, we joined a train and ran around shouting "olé" until out of breath. Then we hooked up with a varied band of European travellers and spent the rest of the night at an Irish pub. Great except Sayo drank too much and passed out in the back of the bar so I had to spend two hours taking care of her (Veronica, why does that always happen to me?)
The next day Sayo caught a train to Barcelona, and I wandered down the river and marvelled at all the ugly buildings on the other side. In the evening I went out with my German dorm-mate, ran into the Italians again, and someone from the hometown PalyAlty, and then we all went to a flamenco bar. It was pretty low-key, un-professional, un-traditional, but you could tell the musicians and dancers were really into it and it was really great to watch... I think I will head back there this evening.
Anyways, that is enough. Tommorrow, Morocco. But I still canīt decide whether to take the cheap and hassle-free route of Algeciras-Cuenta or the more historic route of Gibraltar-Tangier. Weīll see. Ciao.
Well, I'll make this short because this is a French/Arabic keyboard so I am actually typing in Arabic but translating as I go along. But all the punctuation is translated from the French. The numbers thank god they have in English. But becuase of the exchange rate I have to divide by 9.8 which incidentally is why the Muslim calender is only up to the 14th century. That's not as exciting as 2000, so I've been trying to get people to convert--like super-sizing your extra-value meal(so that's why the U.S. is mainly Protestant?). The internet is also really slow here because of the time difference... but the cool thing is that my messages are coming to you from 8 hours into the future.
Anyways... I have been spending my time getting lost and found in the medinas--following every little alley way pushing aside kids playing with deflated soccer balls and old men leading donkeys laden with sacks of flour(or maybe couscous?) The stink of rotting vegetables, animal feces, mixing with kebabs and fried pastries... Hooded men and covered women; guys in Nike jackets and women in jeans... blond haired Arabs, West Africans, Berbers, and tourists being chased by streams of begging kids and noisy hustlers.
Marrakesh, the red city. Us privileged sit on our top floor terrace sipping coffe and eating French pastry(tut-tut, it's Ramadan), glancing through tour books and reclining on pillowed sofas; faint wisps of the drone of motorbikes and the snake-charmer's incesant horn drift through the brown and blue sunshine.
I hope to head into the High Atlas in a couple days to visit the kasbahs, Todra gorge, and then all the way to the edge of the Sahara sand dunes. Then I'll unfortunately have to head back(unless I really DO join that Berber tribe...) Wish me luck.
So I meet this French couple in Marrakesh who are going to rent a car and drive over the Atlas to visit the desert. He is a musician and she was teaching French in Morocco. I am invited along and will pay for petrol. So we load up the Fiat Uno and set off(she is driving). We are winding up into the mountains... the towns are made of stone and mud and sit on the side of terraced hillsides... there is snow on the peaks above... all really nice and pretty until we come around this bend and there is ice in the road and the car starts fish-tailing one way, then the other, and I am in the back seat holding on without a seat-belt and the French guy is saying something calmly over and over again but I forget what it was... then we spin sideways towards the side of the road where it drops off pretty steeply--not a cliff but not a hill either--and the rear wheels go over the edge and the bottom of the car digs into the dirt and we flip onto our side. All the villagers come out and help us out of the car. Thankfully, no one is hurt. I look at the car and one good shove could have sent it over the edge... the villagers all say it was Allah who saved us. It's kind of strange but I wasn't scared... I just sort of watched the car spin around and then saw the ground appear outside my window. Anyways, all the villagers right the car and we move it to the side of the road. Then we sit in this cafe and drink beer and eat omelettes and wait for a ride back to Marrakesh. The sun is out and we are on the terrace and it is really quite nice.
We go back to Marrakesh and lose the car and they decide to go somewhere else but I am determined to make it to the desert. The next day I catch a bus... not one of those plush rides with the tinted windows but the one with the mechanic underneath it until 5 minutes before departure and ripped seats and a satanic driver. We fly up the mountain, past where the accident was(no ice this time), farther, it starts raining, we stop for lunch--it is freezing--I sit there shivering, clutching my mint tea with both hands, we keep going, white stuff on the ground, can't be snow? it is, it starts snowing, the driver doesn't slow down, I am praying to Allah. It is not a direct "save me!" prayer but an indirect prayer... I ask Allah to save all the good Muslims in the bus, figuring that if they survive, chances are I will survive too. It works. But we are the last bus through before they close the pass.
I meet a Chilean and an Italian on the bus, who are travelling together, and we all take a room. I convince them to pitch in to help me rent a car, and the next day we set off in our little Puegeot 205(which already has one door bashed in). But it has a tape deck and they bust out this traditional music and a pipe and we are driving into the desert on this one lane highway, swerving off the road to avoid trucks headed the other way. I'm slightly high from second hand smoke; they're directly high; we come over this pass and the views are incredible, spectacular (I thought I was in the 'Sheltering Sky'). We drive down into the valley and there's the little Draa river trickling along, surrounded by thousands of palms; underneath them irrigated fields, behind them kasbahs(fortified towns of earth and stone), and above on the hillside, old abandoned forts. Really out of a movie set. We're driving through these towns on sandy roads, palms leaning over us, low earthen walls on either side, the men looking like they just got in from the Sahara, women draped completely in black, and the Chilean in back saying, "Que lugar," over and over.
We make it to M'Hamid which is advertised as "The Gateway to the Sahara." The two guys I am driving with are the cheapest two people on the face of the Earth. Sure it is solely for the tourists, but it is possible to do camel rides for a day(or more) or to go by Land Rover to the real Sahara (dunes 1000 feet high.) But they say it is a waste of money. So we explore in our little Puegeot and come across these tents with a bunch of camels outside, and the guy invites us in for tea, then busts out his photo album and brochure which tells how much the camel treks cost. We get out of there and try to head for the Sahara but get stuck in the sand after a couple km and have to head back.
A Japanese guy needs a ride, so he joins us, and we all head back to Ourzazate, where we rented the car. The rental girl is trying to pick up on me and asks me to visit her place. I say next time, and she says, "Promise?" Moroccan women... The bus ride back to Marrakesh is a lot calmer this time because the brakes on the bus are shot so the driver is forced to drive very slowly.
Back in Marrakesh the Moroccan girls are all out in their finest and giving us looks and saying, "Įa va?" as they pass... The Italian is sick so the Chilean and I eat, then he goes back, and I wander around checking out the musicians and the cute girls. I am looking at these cassettes in a little stand on the plaza and this group of girls surrounds me. I ask them to recommend music, and the one who speaks English turns out to be a blond with a twin (who is three inches shorter... I could not figure out why...) So these girls are leaning over my shoulder and looking at the tapes I choose and are very friendly, until this guy of about 40 comes up and starts interrogating me. The only language he speaks which I understand is German(perfect for interrogations, nein?), and he blurts, "Was wollen sie?" ("What will you?"). My reply is that I am just trying to make friends. Eventually he softens up and invites me to eat with them (he is the brother-in-law of the twins...) So we sit on the square shmoozing and eating chips and olives, then we exchange addresses, and I go home. The Japanese guy has a bottle of vodka stashed in his bag(along with a kitchen sink), and we drink a little before hitting the sack.
It's raining the next day. I go shopping in the souqs and get wet and mildly hassled. I catch the afternoon train to Casablanca and check in at the youth hostel there(surprised they have one). The people there are a bunch of Australians and Americans who are complaining about how they are continually harrased, and how Morocco is hell and why are they there? Casa is the only town in Morocco which has something you could call 'nightlife.' We hit a bar that evenilng and it's ALL men, then a disco where there are about six girls, half of them I suspect are ladies of the night. But we stay for a couple rounds there, and then a couple cute girls come in (accompanied by a couple guys). One of the guys approaches us and asks if we want a Moroccan girl. The American asks how much. $100. I tell him that you could get a hooker for $50 in the states (disclaimer: a friend told me that, don't get the wrong idea...) and he gives some bullshit answer. But the two girls are 'his' girls and I am chatting with one of them and she is really gorgeous. But we decide to leave and look for a more regular club; the pimp chases us out onto the street yelling "$50." The next place we hit is a really cheesy piano bar with a guy on a synth and a singer doing Arabian 'classics' which the Moroccans seem to love (I'm ready to shoot the guy myself). I chat with this old guy(I can't remember what about, though, but he was a great character), and this secretary who was there with her brother. They are all drinking too... quite liberal town.
Next day I skip out of the hostel because the vibe there was not too good. I decide to splurge and spend $15 on a room which has a shower and a real throne(not just a squat). But the money went to waste because the shower was only lukewarm.
One day left in my trip before I have to head up to Madrid. I will 'do' Casablanca in that day, or so I hope. The police don't let me explore the port, so I head to the great Hassan II mosque, which is one of the largest in the world and was built in 1993. Very impressive--the sea was rolling in the background, and there were storm clouds hovering above, but the sun was still poking through, lighting up the mosque. I find out I have to wait until 2pm to go inside the mosque because I am non-muslim, and non-muslims are not allowed in mosques(this mosque is an exception because they are so proud of it).
So I am waiting, and these two girls come sit near me. One is wearing a scarf over her head, the other is wearing makeup and Western (European--Morocco is pretty far west) dress. The covered one goes away, and I saunter over and ask the other one if it is possible to go inside the mosque(yeah, I already know the answer, but...) She says she will ask, and we walk to the door together, while I am trying to make small talk, but she just laughs and doesn't say much. Great, I think, I picked one who is not going to talk to me. But we meet her friend who speaks more English. We sit down and chat. The covered one is Bouchra, the other is Nadia. After a while, a guy who they identify as their teacher joins us. I suggest we eat, but they tell me that Nadia and I will go alone. Then as we eat, I learn from Nadia that the teacher is the fiance of Bouchra. Interesting. We rejoin them and I sense (even though my senses are weak) that there is a little tension. Finally, the fiance goes off to pray and Bouchra blurts out how she doesn't want to marry him because she doesn't love him and he is too bossy but her family is making her and that she had so many dreams of travelling and being free as a kid but she can't do any of that and the only thing for her to do is marry this guy and there are too many rules for women in Morocco and that it is every Moroccan girl's dream to leave the country and move to a 'Western' country. In other words... life sucks. Quite depressing... probably the single most 'enlightening' cultural experience I had this trip.
But Bouchra feeds some lie to the 'teacher' and he buzzes off and I go with the two girls to the city center where we wander around, seeing a couple sites (although we never did get to go inside the mosque, which is what I REALLY wanted to do), shopping a bit, stopping in a cafe... Then in the evening we are walking to a restaurant, and Nadia decides to walk with her arm around mine. I am totally comfortable with that, but I don't know how the Moroccan's percieve that, or even what it is supposed to mean in the Moroccan cultural context. (On the one hand they said I was like their brother; on the other, Nadia said she, "prays that she will marry a guy like you." (a Westerner, or a guy like me?--I didn't ask...)) But anyways, we're walking along, Nadia is on my right, Bouchra is on her right, and my left hand is in my pocket. A young guy comes up and jerks my hand out of my pocket while saying something in Arabic. I am quite confused and look at the girls, who say that he is saying that he wants to speak to me, but can't, because I can't speak Arabic. I have no idea what he wants but worry that he is angry because I am walking with Nadia. But I cannot figure out what they hell pulling my hand out of my pocket is supposed to achieve or mean. I put my hand back in my pocket and he pulls it out again, and I am starting to get a little nervous because my wallet is in that pocket. Nadia is holding my right hand, I am pushing away this guy with my left, but his friend is standing right behind me, and all the pickpocket stories I heard in Barcelona are popping into my mind. But the guy eases off and then says, "Bslama,"(bye) shakes Bouchra's hand, shakes Nadia's, and then offers me his hand. I give him my right, which he shakes, then he offers his left, so I give him my left hand, and he shakes it and then takes off. Strange I think, and we all keep walking. Then a guy comes up and says, "your watch," and sure enough, it's gone. I turn around, but I know the bastard's already disappeared. Oh well, t'was nothing special.
I take the girls to dinner and then we walk to my hotel. They are going to take a cab home, but they have no money. Bouchra asks me to give her money(which I felt was a little weird), but she says that next time I come I can stay at her place for free and eat for free, etc. I pay for the cab, say goodbye, and go up to my room.
The next morning, lazy bastard that I am, (watchless too) I sleep in and miss my train to Tanger. I take the next one and get to Tanger late. The ferry to Spain is leaving as I walk towards the port. As I wait for the next ferry, it gradually dawns on me that I will not arrive in Spain until after midnight, when no busses, trains, or even plains are in service. I have to catch my flight in Madrid at 1:40 pm the next day and it is over 400 miles away. I'm screwed. I consider the possibilites: hitch-hiking in the dark, in the rain--not likely; paying a taxi to go to Malaga, from where there is a high-speed train to Madrid in the morning--expensive. But, as I head down the walkway to the ferry I see about a dozen cars waiting to board. My only hope. I ask around once we leave port and find a retired taxi driver who is driving to Belgium. He will take me to Madrid if I pay petrol. Fair enough. We clear customs and I soon realize that this guy cannot see. It is raining, at night, and he is flicking the high beam switch on and off trying to see out the windshield, swerving all over the place, but he never uses the wipers! Okay, he used them once or twice, but most of the time he just swerved and flicked the hi-beams. Then as the rain got worse, he started driving faster, passing everybody else on the road. Again, Allah saved us.
10km from the airport he drops me off, saying that he is going the other way. I have two hours until the plane takes off. There are no taxis around. I walk to a gas station and try to call a taxi service but the machine eats my money... I have no pesetas left. I am explaining my situation to the gas station attendant hoping that he will allow me to change money there. No luck. So I head out to the road figuring I will walk with my thumb out and hopefully I will either get a ride or walk the 10km in time. My luck is good though, and a guy in the gas station had overheard my plight and offers to drive me to the airport.
Add in the flight time...
Casablanca-San Francisco: 44 hours.
Bslama.
