Sunday, April 15, 2012

Morocco


Day One: Transit

Rising at 6am in Malaga I hiked it to the bus station and rode to Algeciras, then caught a ferry across the strait of Gibraltar. That right there was the extent of my amazing plan. Other than a recommendation from Kevin, an English guy from the hostel in Malaga, that I visit Chefchaouen I had no idea what to do in Morocco. And other than a discussion/slideshow with my cousin Karin and I had no idea what to expect.
On the ferry I started chatting with Bekka and Danny, two siblings from the States. We were soon joined by two young English lads Sam and Charlie on a charity hitch-hiking trip. They were all going to Fes. I’d never heard of it, but it sounded okay so I joined them.
The Moroccan countryside from the new port to Tangier is lush and green. Hang on, isn’t this Africa? Not what I expected, cruising along a motorway through green, rolling hills. Once in Tangier we ate something (a big plate of roasted chicken, chips, and salad with baguette for around two Euros) and climbed on a fairly normal looking bus to Fes.


It was dark when we arrived in Fes. It had been a long day and we were keen to find a place to crash. Bekka and Danny had pre-booked a hostel. The rest of us hadn’t, so we shared a cramped taxi ride to the hostel (the driver drew the curtains to conceal the three in the back seat and the one in with the packs). The hostel was full but the owner walked with us to two other places nearby. We settled into basic accommodation (sans hot water, power sockets or anything else) for fifty dirham (around five Euros).

Day Two: Fes

We rendezvoused at Bekka and Danny’s hostel. Their hostel was a big step up from ours (hot water twice a day from 8-9, a common chill-out area and complimentary hot chocolate croissants!) and they had space so we checked in to a room. A bunch of us from the hostel chipped together (three Euros each) and organised a guide for the day. Rasheet was a shrewd middle-aged gentleman, absolutely convinced of the amazing quality of Moroccan products (herbs, carpets, leather, etc) and a true believer of Islam (at one point he laid his hands on Sam and prayed to heal his as-yet-undiagnosed bronchitis). He was an excellent guide, and organised (for another 3 Euro each - whatever) a taxi to get us around. I say he was shrewd because of the way were lead from one factory to the next, each beginning with a tour and ending with a shop. Although there was no obligation to buy anything there was plenty of incentive and a healthy dose of encouragement. We were presented with ceramic ware, herbs, perfumes, oils, bags, jackets, souvenirs, carpets, blankets, clothes, scarves, and many, many more. All at 20% discount. Of course. To be honest though, as long as you’re aware that you’re being hustled it’s a lot of fun. The Medina (central market area) is a huge warren of little shops and bustle. Another advantage of having a guide is that you get left alone by the other hustlers. 

The Ceramic Factory (Being Sold Ceramics)

Ground bean soup with oil and bread / The Medina

I think he was born in there / Carpet Tunnel Syndrome

Being Sold Spices / The Tannery

Being Sold Bags / Being Sold Rugs

That evening Sam’s cough got worse and he thought he had a fever. I had my thermometer handy (the same 40 Baht mercury job which had saved my life in Thailand). His armpits read 39.5°C. Wow. I checked my own temperature as a control, which was accurate. We asked around and found there was a clinic just two hundred metres down the street. Charlie escorted him there.
They were gone for quite some time. Sam had perked up when he returned though. He recalled the tale of being poked and prodded, diagnosed with Bronchitis and given a prescription. And he meant poked and prodded quite literally. They took some ultrasound images and took his temperature. Anally. Yes that’s right. Needed to be accurate she said. Want to know what it read? 39.5°C. I laughed very hard.

Day Three: Chefchaouen

Actually seemed honest.
We rose, ate our chocolate croissants and parted ways. Sam and Charlie were headed southwards to Marakesh. Bekka and Danny were headed north to Tangier and then Spain. I went to see  Chefchaouen. I arrived in the afternoon and checked into the hotel that Kevin had recommended (which in case you’re ever there is the Pension Castellana near Plaza Ute Hammam). The town is beautiful, built on the side of a hill and all painted blue for whatever reason. I thought it looked like a scene straight out of the Neverhood. It’s becoming touristy with cafes and little shops everywhere. 

Roadside Chow / This Is Africa?

I was greeted by several locals on my way in asking where I was staying and offering ‘help’ which I politely declined. One of them actually got angry at me for not stopping to talk to him. One of the guys stuck with me despite the absolute affirmation that I wasn’t going to pay him. He led me to my hostel. His family run a textiles co-op which he’d love to show me. Of course. But then I thought about it - actually, why not. I had nothing better to do. He was waiting for me after I’d checked in so I let him take me all the way through the windy streets to his family’s shop. There was a brief warm-up phase where they figured out my nationality and talked about their fondness for New Zealand and how they have good customers who order from there. They even knew a fair bit of Maori. Then, time for the show. Carpets and rugs were unfurled and spread all over the floor. I had maintained that I was, exactly as promised, just coming to look at the shop and had no intention of buying anything. I have no house and therefore no floor. No matter, the show went on. More rugs, more talk, and the increasingly frequent suggestion of ‘how much would you pay?’ Eventually it was narrowed down to one blanket which, were I to theoretically buy a blanket, it would be that one. I apologised for wasting their time. Don’t need it, can’t afford it, sorry. (I can lie too, whatever. My Mammut jacket and Geox shoes were probably giving me away though.) It was obvious I wasn’t going to buy and they started folding everything up. I helped a bit, just to feel better. But instead of giving up like any sane person would he invited me in for dinner with the family. So I shared couscous and stewed beef with the other family members watching Arabic TV. Cool. After another half hour I rose to leave and said my thanks and goodbyes. The guy caught me as I was trying to escape! My ‘favourite’ blanket was still rolled up on the chair. One full hour after I walked into the shop he starts actually talking price. ‘Come on. More than one hundred. Less than five hundred.’ I was being taken seriously. It felt good. 
‘Okay, two.’ 
‘Four.’ 
‘Look, two hundred fifty. My final offer.’ 
‘Fine, Three hundred dirham, that’s it.’
‘Make it thirty Euros.’
I couldn’t believe it. I was buying this stupid blanket for which I had neither space nor use. Screw it. The experience was just too cool not to. *sigh*…  ‘Okay. Thirty Euros.’ I open up my pouch and give him a fifty Euro note. According to my Converter+ app on my iPhone (recommended by the way) I figure out that he needs to pay me 220 dirham in change. I let him pay the conversion commission.

The Showroom / Dinner With The Family

The rest of the day was spent exploring the city. I met up with two guys I’d chatted with on the bus for mint tea on the rooftop terrace with views across the town. The hostel was amazing, with hot water and everything. My bedroom window had a spectacular view, as did the bathroom. There was a rooftop terrace where I sat after dark and played guitar. I was joined by a Basque guy who told me the about the troubles of his homeland. I had a sneaking suspicion that this guy had ties to ETA. 

Looking Up / Looking Down

Bathroom View / Balcony View

Chefchaouen


From the Perspective of Klaymen

Day Four: Tangier

I took a stroll up to the mosque on the hill and took some pictures before picking up my things, marching down to the bus station. 
I had copied the names and addresses of three cheap Tangier hostels from Kevin’s Lonely Planet. Once in Tangier I went straight for a line of taxis and asked if they knew any of the places on my list. Nope. They didn’t recognise the addresses either. They even tried the phone number I had which didn’t work. Damn. Then one taxi driver comes over and says ‘Yeah yeah, I know where that is.’ Sweet. I followed him to his car and was careful to negotiate a price before getting in it. He wanted 50. That’s a night’s accommodation. I offered 30 and we settled on 40. It was too much but he was getting me to my hostel after all so I owed him that.
Once in the car he asks for the number of the hostel . Question marks form in my mind. He tries it and again, it fails. He looks puzzled and I start to feel pissed. He doesn’t have a bloody clue where it is – he just wanted to get me in the taxi. So he drops me in the Medina, the tourist warrens. It’s just in there but unfortunately it’s a pedestrian only zone so he can’t drive me the whole way in. Riiight. I grudgingly pay him and get out. I’m instantly joined by a friendly guy wanting to show me the way. I politely explain that I don’t want a guide and can’t pay him anything. He assures me that he’s not a guide and that I don’t have to pay him anything. Déjà vu. Well if that’s his M.O. I won’t stop him. We walk up the street a bit and surprise! He doesn’t know the way. I’m fairly convinced by now that none of the three hostels exist in the Medina. We stop at a random hotel and ask for directions. The guy doesn’t know, but why not stay there? I’m tired. ‘How much?’ He offers 100. ‘No, that’s twice the price that I’m used to paying.’ He offers 70. ‘No, 50 or I walk.’ He offers 50. I go and look at the room. It’s crap. I take it. I pay, drop off my bags and walk outside again. My guy is still there, waiting patiently for me. I get rid of him. He looks disappointed and gets zero sympathy.  I walk around the medina, check out the port, a park, find an internet cafe, post a postcard, then return to the hostel. I enquire about a shower. Ten dirham. Ah, you got me. I should have asked about that earlier when we were still haggling. ‘So does that include a towel?’ Negative. ‘For ten dirham it should include a towel.’ 
He thinks about it. ‘I can give you a used towel.’
I’m suspicious. ‘Just how used is this towel?’ He changes subject and suggests that I just use a t-shirt to dry off. I explain what happens to damp t-shirts which get packed into rucksacks for long periods of time. He offers a sheet. A sheet? That would work. I pay him ten dirham. It’s a done deal. He gives me a clean white sheet and lets me into a room with an en-suite bathroom. There are unpacked suitcases on the beds and I don’t know to whom they belong. I just lock the door and get on with it, trying not to imagine the looks on the hotel guests’ faces as they return to find a naked Kiwi guy in their bathroom. I shave, deliberately leaving some beard clippings around the sink to make them wonder.
So by the time I went to bed I was pretty sick of Tangier. Being at the mercy of hustlers isn’t my idea of fun. I was leaving on the first ferry.

Day Five: Gone

I rose at 6am, packed, woke the doorman to let me out and bought a yoghurt drink for breakfast. As I’m walking along a scabby, skinny ginger cat sees what I’m drinking (with his not-closed eye) and runs along beside me, meowing. I pity the poor thing and put the foil cap on the ground for him to lick. Instantly a bigger cat appears and challenges the skinny cat for licking rights of the foil. They meow at each other at increasingly haughty tones. And that’s what happened to my single act of kindness. I round the corner and walk downhill towards the Medina gates. Three guys are leaned up against a rail and see me coming. One jerks his thumb back towards his mouth and tilts his hand, indicating he’d like a drink of my yoghurt drink. The ginger cat springs to mind. I walk past, ignoring them completely. The last words I hear being called after me as I exit the Tangier Medina are “Fuck you man! Fuck you!” I raise my bottle in the air and smile. It pleases me to know the feeling is mutual. Damn, the yoghurt tastes good today.
My exit from Morocco was smooth. I walked to the free bus pickup point (you have to ask about these things or you get sold a taxi), rode to the ferry terminal and crossed back to Spain. An excellent yet intense adventure.

Spain!

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

To the South of Spain

It was time to continue my journey south. I sought a means of transport to Montpellier and Pédy showed me the French carpooling website covoiturage.fr. I found a ride with a French guy keen to practise his English who was going to visit his girlfriend in Montpellier. We split the fuel and I paid him €20, roughly half the price of the train. Thus:

Rideshare - Lyon to Montpellier: Win!

Montpellier

I'd sent around eight couchsurfing requests and was invited to stay with a fifty-year-old guy for the weekend. After being surrounded by people around my own age for most of my travels, I thought I'd try something new. It ended up being a fairly quiet weekend. He showed me around the main attractions of the town and we went for a quiet beer on St. Paddy's day.


The highlight of the weekend was meeting up with a saxophonist via couchsurfing and jamming in the park. We were joined by a random trumpeter and made some noise. Good times.

Jamming / The trumpeter, the saxophonist and my host

Sunday morning rolled around and I felt the need to move on. I could have taken a bus, but decided on the more exciting option of hitch-hiking. hitchwiki.org gave me some good tips and a good location to start from, and I was off. It worked like a charm. I was picked up and set down four times, waiting a maximum of ten minutes at any given place. My hosts included: a dentist; a non-English speaking Brazilian monther/daughter who gave me sweets; an English guy in an English car (steering wheel on the right) and a van of environmental activists coming home from a demonstration. Therefore:

Hitch hiking - Montpellier to Barcelona: Win!

Barcelona

I spent all up around ten days in Barcelona. This was very much a different experience to my first visit, when I'd come with Moni over Easter a few years back. Back then I'd only seen the touristic side of the city and become frustrated with the place. This time I was staying with Jorge, an old friend I hadn't seen since high school around fourteen years ago, and his fiancée Anastasia. They welcomed me into their flat where I crashed on the couch. We shared meals and shopping, went out, and explored the city together. Anastasia didn't speak English and I didn't speak Spanish so it was a week of language exchange for both of us. I actually learned a fair bit of Spanish.

Cityscape / Anastasia (left), friends (middle), Jorge (right)

Also on my list of people to catch up with was Florenci and Pip who'd I'd met on the Sri Lanka trip. They were both living in Sitges, a small nearby coastal town. I managed to catch Florenci in the middle of his busy schedule when he came into Barcelona for a rehearsal/radio interview. I tagged along as their official photographer, and spent the day in a radio station recording studio.



There was a short interview which along with the recordings formed a show for the local cultural channel and aired later on that evening. The show was also put online, here. The music they made was weird, in a good sense. It doesn't really belong to any genre, but if I were trying to categorise it I would say it was a playful form of experimental electro dada. Here's what I mean. :)


Tired and exhausted, we went back to Florenci's place in Sitges for the evening. His flatmate cooked us a wonderful dinner. Croissants on the balcony for breakfast.

Plastic Lego thingies! Reunite! / Breakfast time

I managed to catch up with Pip for a coffee and a chat amidst her also busy schedule and spent a few hours exploring Sitges. Apparently I took a wrong turn and ended up down at the little beach where the nudists play. I parked up safely around the corner and played my guitar in the sun.

Since Jorge and Anastasia studied during the day I tended to have quite a bit of free time. Some of this I managed to spend with other couchsurfers in the area. I met a girl doing her thesis on the perceived image of Barcelona and peoples reasons for travelling there. I went to a language exchange in the park and a night out drinking. Good times all round.

Sagrada Familia. Just because.
Finally it was time to move on. Next stop: Valencia. Since the hitch-hiking had gone so well previously, I opted to try it again. I found the starting point on hitchwiki.org, rose early and set on my way. The result:

Hitch hiking - Barcelona to Valencia: Fail!


Sadly, things didn't quite go as swimmingly as I'd hoped. First, I got on the wrong train. Actually a fairly easy mistake. You see, I was to board the R4 (in the direction of Sant Vicenç de Calders) and get out mid-way. Unbeknownst to me, both the R2 and the R4 had an end destination of Sant Vicenç de Calders, and of course I got on the wrong one. That little mistake cost me around two hours of daylight.

My second problem was slightly more significant. In Spain, nobody stops. One hour after arriving at the gas station I was picked up by a French couple. French, not Spanish. They set me down at another gas station where I was not so lucky. I waited six hours with my thumb out, and caught nothing. It was astonishing. I felt invisible. If someone had space in their car they avoided eye contact and pretended I wasn't there. If their car was full they'd smile and shrug 'Sorry'.

Sun up / Sun set

The police stopped to checked my ID. It felt strange to be considered a public menace. The third time they drove by they waved and I waved back. The sun set and it became dark. I told my couchsurfing host I wasn't going to make it. I took a break and ate a pasta dinner at the autogrill. The trucks started pulling in for the night. One of the drivers said that he was going to sleep now but if I was still there when he woke (at 4:30am) he would give me a ride to Valencia. Nice guy.

Just-in-case hero / Overpass

After six hours waiting another French couple stopped. Thank god for the French. They only could drive me ten kilometres but hell, anywhere was better than here. The driver was a legend. We pulled into the destination gas station and he gets out and walks up to some random guy paying for his gas. He asks if the guy can give me a ride to Valencia. The guy looks me up and down, shrugs and says 'Okay'. I was in awe. The new driver is a professional volleyball player coming back from a meeting with his surgeon in Barcelona, about to have surgery on both his knees to sort out his 'jumper's knee' syndrome. I impart him with my knee surgery stories. He goes out of his way and drops me just off the motorway around forty kilometres out of Valencia. It's midnight. It's the eve of the 29th of March, a general strike across all of Spain. I considered my prospects of hitching another ride to be around nil and just started walking along the road to see what I could find. I found a hotel, drank a beer and checked in. Thirty Euros well spent.


My mission the next morning was to find Sagunto and from there a train to Valencia. I walked for about an hour along the road, over the motorway, through the orange plantations, across the train tracks and into the quiet sunny town of Sagunto. Trains were actually running, just not so frequently. I rolled it into Valencia and made it to my host's place around the same time as he finished work.

Valencia

What great times. I lucked out with my couchsurfing host, a flaminco playing cardiac surgeon who'd just recently started hosting people. He lent me a rusty old bike which (after a little oil) was simply the perfect thing to have for getting around Valencia. I think the coolest thing about Valencia is the big park running through the middle of the town which used to be a river, but in 1958 or so it flooded so badly that they decided to reroute the river around the city and convert the whole thing into a big park. So now there is a pedestrian and cycling highway running straight through the middle of the city. Combined with the number of cycle lanes and the lack of hills, Valencia is the perfect cycling city.

Balcony view

One of the first things I tried to do (as per usual) is to get in contact with the local couchsurfing scene. I was in luck, and what ensued was the most crazy and social time I've had so far on the road. My host finished work and I dragged him along too. Crazy memories include playing volleyball at the beach, guitars in the park after dark, crashing a random birthday party, visiting to local bars and clubs, jamming at 6am after a long night out, riding bikes everywhere.




I had originally planned to stay for two nights, but my host and I got on well and I ended up staying four. I eventually made contact with Rosie, a good friend from NZ who by pure chance was in Malaga on a field trip. I organised a night bus and went to say Hi.

Malaga

You definitely notice the difference in the architecture as you roll into Malaga. The buildings start being white and box-shaped. In hindsight you might say it was more Moroccan. Rosie was staying with some of her fellow students in a cheap little hostel so I joined them. After couchsurfing and staying with people for so long it was nice to have my own time and space. Evenings were spent drinking Bambus/Kalimotxo/Jote with the guitar on the rooftop balcony. We explored the castle on the hill and the beach, but I felt little inclination to do much else. It was a relaxing two days.


Also happening across Spain were the Easter parades. Was quite the eye-opener. No it's not a KKK procession, it's the Pentients paying for their sins. The 'hoods' belong to the Roman Catholic charitable fraternities and often include the notables of the town. There were also parades of purple costumes. The only mild irritation is the huge crowds shuffling slowly through the streets and the late night noise of drums and trumpets.

No black people were harmed in the making of this celebration. 
According to my grand plan I was to continue on to Portugal, the next logical stop being Porto. But after seeing the distance between Malaga and Porto I thought otherwise. Rosey piped up and suggested that I just skip across the gap to Morocco. Screw it... why not? :)