There are at least three kinds of travellers in this world. The first bunch is less than exciting, preferring to traverse cultures, food and people in their deep and comfortable couches with a remote and a bag of popcorn. The next echelon of travel thirsty public prefers supplementing multicoloured media delights with actual travel, at a leisurely pace of course. Try a white sand beach at the bottom of Haleakala with occasional sorties to taste local delights of food and sights, or even embark on a backpacking expedition that is abound in time and gives plenty of opportunities to combine some physical unrest with idyll sprinkled by restful contemplation and copious journal keeping. This group is the most reasonable of all, as it tries to take in what it can without an overload – unhurried sandwiches with good beer on the banks of Spree, delightful cheese and wine lunches on Seine, slow coffee and ice cream routine somewhere on the Mediterranean. These folks enjoy life, they do not have to see everything and they usually arrive home well rested, physically and mentally.
And now, we have a third group that takes the notion of travel literally – if you are not physically exhausted and mentally frazzled by the end of your trip, you have not had a good trip. This colourful group, Grockels (British for clueless tourists), tends to do things in hard ways - they have regrets, phobias and disturbed sleep. Anything missed plunges them in an utter sense of despair, even if it has to do with an artefact or a ruin that closely resembles multitudes of others, already thoroughly inspected, documented and filed. You see Romans intended to build a vast of majority of their amphitheatres for one purpose only – entertainment. Being a very pragmatic bunch, they built them in a similar utilitarian style with only minor differences that have been surely erased by centuries of gusty winds and ruthless degradation. Having seen a couple, a sensible representative from the second touring echelon can safely conclude that seeing any more of these would only be interesting from, let’s say, a landscaping perspective. Not so with Grockels who perpetually feel compelled to touch, scrape and prod. They are short on visualisation and long on time management. Time cannot slip by, it has to be used and used in the most productive fashion that denies existence of contemporary contemplation and modern creativity. All that is noble can only be found in the dust of centuries, where even the most ordinary becomes magic worthy of enriching our present condition of thirsting for divine.
As one might have guessed, our little family and some friends are the firm members of the Grockel group. We always agree that a meaningful amount of contemplation mixed with right amount of travel is the sanest way to go. And yet whenever we embark on each new discovery, we inevitably get pulled in the tight ranks of pure frazzled sods. We do not like admitting it, we struggle and deny, but ultimately the pull is insurmountable – this vortex consumes us all. No more highlighted tour book pages and carefully researched routes, all is grabbed and thrown in – Rick Steves, Lonely Planet and myriad of many a colourful page are mixed, mashed and spat out in one continuous marathon of sites, people and food. Welcome to the quick and easy Spain (also featuring: Morocco, Gibraltar and Portugal) travel guide for the inadequate.
Lufthansa – the Friendly Skies
The outgoing travel did not promise to be anything unusual, especially since we were counting on the seasoned punctuality of Lufthansa, long renowned as anything German for its precision and timeliness. Not exactly as it turned out – swallowing communist bits of the East must not have been so easy for my beer drinking friends, consequently throwing much in the way of stout national pride out of the window to give way to a looser kind of discipline that bows to nature and gasoline prices, much like any other mortal product of the globalized economy. This time a blasted winter storm managed to blanket Frankfurt in snow that posed as the official reason for the delay of our flight from Portland to the Old World.
Not yet realising the full extent of impending difficulties we still managed to cheerfully suffer the stifling effects of airline seats, ones you hate even after a couple of hours let alone ten. Once closer to Frankfurt we realised that plague that beset many a traveler schedule passing through Frankfurt was really a dragon with numerous heads to slay. First there was snow followed by a traffic jam of a celestial kind with tens of planes, large and small, polluting the environment and cruising in the endless desperation of “holding patterns” trying to sneak into a tiny hole otherwise known as a landing strip. Then there was an “apron” arrival that, instead of seeing us walking right into the terminal with our heads high, strung our worn out nerves and numb limbs through an exercise of less than personal bus delivery that easily took another thirty minutes of our precious time. Once inside we encountered yet another less than personal and not very well coordinated hurdle in the huge maze of ant like humanity – passport control. It all would have not been so bad, had it not been for treacherous “Non EU Nationals” signs, the signs that promptly assigned us to the back seat of the bus. Rosa Parks, where are you?
Undeterred and feeling German, I collided at full speed with one true Teutonic institution that has so far survived vagaries of the markets – a German Customs Officer. Who cares about missed connections, kneeling obsequiousness and the state of national health care when rules are on the line? Our hopes were dashed into a myriad of invisible pieces when a proud and seemingly underemployed descendant of great Kaisers refused to grant an exception by uttering a simple and dreadful “Nein”, sending us back to the hopeless sea of stragglers – sighing, sweating and fidgeting – just like locusts in a tightly corked bottle.
At last, we burst through the border with renewed hope, much needed to supplement our energy in order to gallop through various terminals to our next flight. It is sometimes hard to believe what your body is capable of unless you put it to some obscure test. Nothing works better than a 2AM mad run in full dress and carry-on bags in tow. All you need is just ten minutes of this to truly assess one’s physical condition. We managed to get a comprehensive test, dashing, zigzagging, tackling and avoiding. Also, we had to navigate treacherous moving sidewalks replete with parked grandmas and young families with strollers. These were even more dangerous for fast moving public here since many were puzzlingly equipped with narrow metal entry gates – the enemy of many a belated consumer of affordable airline services.
All in vain, as it turned out – the market driven modern airline industry could not wait any longer for some of its last stragglers and shut the doors. Our frustration was flammable. Fortunately, the next flight to Madrid was promised in a mere two hours whence plus a 30 Euro food certificate, which was promptly consumed at the next cafeteria stand that featured bread oriented sandwiches, decent coffee and fantastic yogurt that can only be found in Germanic countries. Totally exhausted and sleep deprived, we struggled onto the plane for Madrid, one hour late of course. Alas, this was not the end of our troubles for the day. Since Madrid was not our final destination of the day, we had to plan forward in order to arrive in Seville early enough to rent a car. Otherwise we would be in a bit of trouble.
So once off the plane, we thanked the Lord for our luggage arriving intact and sleep-ran to the nearest taxi stand. In a couple of minutes we were on our way to Antocha Railway Station. The proximity of Latin culture, bright sunshine and tailgating at 130KMH sharpened our senses pretty quick. It was definitely a welcome transformation since we had only about half an hour to catch our train.
At the ticket office we were relieved to find out that our latest efforts paid off – three, presumably return, tickets known in Spanish as “Ida y Vuelta” at a price of 105E each happily delivered us into comfortable seats of the express train bound for Seville. Since the price paid corresponded to my previously obtained information regarding return tickets, I did not kick up any fuss, especially since the ticket office clerk assured me of their most affordable qualities. Luckily with our disappointment more than eleven days away, we blissfully settled in to partake in the very fast and soothing ride, outfitted with free newspapers, lunch, duty free offerings, a movie and fantastic scenery rushing by at close to 300 KMH.
Predictably, the train carried all sorts of folk, which made for an excellent opportunity to do some people watching. A number of hard travelling Japanese with their polite smiles, electronic gadgetry and clueless looks clung tightly to their Spanish speaking travel guide. A well-dressed young Spanish lawyer with sharp Andalucian and slightly tired looks was returning to his southern home after a hectic business trip to the capital. A couple of business folks, across the table, were thoroughly engaged into their business dealings accentuated by frequent cell communications and clicking off the computer keys with its screen stuck right into my face – my face felt slightly square.
An American pair from the strange state of Utah could hardly contain their excitement – he was returning after many years in the Mormon kingdom and she was hanging on for dear life trying to adjust to this strange culture of paella, Jerez and cigarette smoke. After a short exchange he actually turned out to have some Canadian roots and had even betrayed some Gretzky like squeaky vocal intonations, which reminded us of our sweet and unadulterated home… But we were juts 24 hours into our small adventure and did not need any of that home sickness – bring on the wine, cathedrals, cigarettes and galleries!
Haguar ( Spanish Jaguar)
The train ride surely lived up to its billing and arrived in Seville right on the dot. Luckily, finding our car rental agency in this surprisingly large city was a piece of cake. Crown Car rental did not seem to be anything great but managed to offer cheapest automatic rides around, beating those of Hertz and Alamo by a mile. Actually, I did not actually book with the locals directly; instead I resorted to the services of the Internet based broker – Car Jet. Initially, I was a little apprehensive about doing that but my troubles were quickly dissolved by prompt service and a nonchalant statement that the only automatic car on the lot that day was going to be none other than nearly brand new 2006 Jaguar 2.7 Diesel. We could hardly believe our luck, especially since we were getting it for the price of a Renault at 315 EURO for eleven days plus a full tank of gas. The latter, strangely enough, was charged in advance, as we were to return it empty contrary to typical North American standards - a small little quark that gave us some excitement eleven days later.
For now though, we settled in the sparkling cream colour beast that easily swallowed out luggage in its ample trunk and revved up in expectations for a fast ride. My first few minutes inside this technological marvel were spent in trying to adjust to the spaceship features of my new ride. Eventually, having managed to move the driver seat into a take-off position, we departed weaving through the double park maze of neighbouring streets. These signs forebode the sad reality - our car marvel was a tad too large for some of the locales we were to visit in the next few days. For now after a three hour drive to Seattle, one hour flight to Portland, three hour Pacific Northwest layover, ten hours to Frankfurt, three hours of additional wait in Frankfurt, two hour flight to Madrid, and three hour train ride to Seville all we wanted to do was to drive towards our eventual destination – city of Cadiz, some 120 kilometres away from Seville. With no knowledge of the native highway system, no detailed driving map and possessing just a brief Internet print-out of our route, we plunged into the madness of the carnival that is Latin driving. After few uncertain stops and starts, much to our joy we located directions to Cadiz due to a myriad of roadway signs, which were inevitably followed by many twists and turns through the narrow and congested streets on our way to the south. Cadiz turned out to be quite a popular destination here, as not only signs but even roadways themselves carried their share of its name in giant letters, forget about Rome, ALL ROADS LEAD TO CADIZ. Things were going great, and soon after putting a wide turn in a busy roundabout by the local football stadium, we entered the four lane highway that promised a soon delivery to Cadiz at mere 110 KM away. Things seemed to be going just great…
Beware of Road Signs
Suddenly, driving at nearly prohibitive 140KMH we noticed a curious sign that promised another route to Cadiz and was marked N-IV in red lettering. Remembering that my Internet directions mentioned this very road I suggested a turn.
“We’d better stick to the direction” blissfully led us to the presumed the “shortcut”. Before turning, the last distance sign to Cadiz we saw was 109 KM. Suspiciously, after driving for a couple of minutes along a windy two-lane road we ran into a very puzzling marker of 130 KM, had we been driving backwards? The two-lane highway kept promising more speed, less trucks and buses with distance to Cadiz falling at a rather uncertain and painfully slow pace. Falling darkness, windy conditions and huge bull statues (Bull-boards as per Rick Steves) that peppered the landscape like ghostly giant windmills were slowing us down even further. About 50 KM into this N-IV adventure we had to concede that a mistake had been made, the mistake we could hardly correct without a proper map. On one occasion we attempted a turn that nearly ended our drive on a dirt road to nowhere. Almost two hours into the ride we reached the famed wine town of Jerez de la Frontera. The goal was in sight. The city of Cadiz was only twenty minutes away – away from dingy apartment blocks and clogged streets of the booze capital. The hated marker of N-IV was becoming friendlier again, as it inexorably led us to Cadiz.
Inexplicably, we did not feel any particular joy entering the brightly lit streets of the city. Something was bothering and gnawing at me, as I kept mentally reverting to my e-mails from our host Javier who was still waiting for us at the apartment.
“Just pull and ask” usually disdainful of external assistance, Tracy was getting my vibes.
My stomach felt sharp and nefarious tinges of cold when I found my informants in the form of some friendly local youth. It took me only a moment to realise that we had overshot Cadiz-Puerto Santa Maria by about 30 KM. The less than descriptive tour guide maps of Spain we had did not do much justice, as a tiny dot on the Costa del Luz was turning into a disastrously large metropolitan headache.
“I just hope that Javier, our last hope for a night’s sleep is still waiting” the thought I did not dare to share with my companions.
Add another twenty five minutes and we were arriving at the newest part of Puerto Santa Maria – Valdegrama beach that turned out to be a nice wide sandy beach, approximately one mile in length that was beset by a plethora of non-descript white hi-rises that housed thousands of beach lovers in season and were pretty dead on this cool night of March the sixth. The main drag of the place featured just a handful of restaurants with more help than patrons and hardly anyone to direct me to the right building. After some tortured explanations at the local English pub and at a couple of more traditional venues, I eventually found my way to the seaside building that featured Javier patiently waiting in his diminutive red car. The hour of our royal arrival had finally arrived. In fact, I nearly missed his presence on the nearly deserted beach drive had it been not for his vigilance. 210 Euros were on the line for him after all.
Home Sweet Home
Javier turned out to be a tall man with a largish aquiline nose in his early fifties. He was very friendly and mostly unilingual, which we would have given me much pleasure in any other circumstances but these. Now I had to translate from one foreign language into another without knowing exactly which planet I was on. After going through with few dry runs at opening each new door in order to make sure that Javier would not be called back in the middle of the night for some trifling reason, we stepped into the place with the highest of hopes. Oh, horror! Instead of three bedrooms it sported only one, a tiny one at that plus an ample deck that seemed a little chilly to sleep on. For an average person, such setback could be just all it really was, a trifle, but for my insomniac habits on the top of torturous travel it was nearly a total disaster. I HATE CADIZ!
It turned out that somewhere in the thick of our communications Javier decided that since our party boasted only three participants, we would only need three BEDS instead of three BEDROOMS. In desperation I pulled out my copy of his Internet ad that featured precisely the latter. YES or SI to be exact, that one was still available, except it had not been cleaned since last vacated. Amazingly, the price of 210 E per week had not budged either. My hopes were surging back save for the very last obstacle – Tanya and Tracy. The key words for this fearless tandem were NOT CLEANED and not THREE BEDROOMS. Luckily, Javier was only too happy to drive us to this other place just a few hundred yards away for a midnight inspection. This went reasonably well, and being twice as large with three bedrooms it managed to outweigh the offering despite extra dust on the floor and counters. Thirty five hours later – home, sweet home at last!
Vasos Plasticos
Our first European sunrise found us slightly rested and certainly restless for an Iberian adventure. But first things first, especially in the middle of a bout with a nasty jetlag – coffee and pastries, with a twist of course. You see, while major metropolitan European centers have bowed down to the beast of globalisation and allowed adulteration of some key aspects of culture by convenience and large sizes. Consequently, Starbucks, MacDonald’s or Dunkin Donuts could be easily found in Paris, Madrid and London alike.
Luckily for some diggers of authenticity, smaller places such as Valdegrama had not yet entered the civilisation so to speak. Alas, this scenario came with its own drawbacks as we did not relish a chance to sit around a smoky bar, away from the brilliant morning sunshine, just to savour a really well made cup of coffee. So we had to improvise – still partaking in dainty cava while managing to do it on the go. Much to our delight and after a couple of minutes of my tortured Spanish syntax, a waiter produced a small stack of plastic juice cups that served the purpose without much offence to the locals. VASOS PLASTICOS instantly became the code word of our journey. In fact, my daily appearances at the bar were treated with familiar derisive smiles and an order of COFFEE CON LECHE EN VASOS PLASTICOS. This daily routine nearly managed to single-handedly exhaust the entire local supply of plastic cups and proved to be a nice conversation piece with our waiters. Luckily for me, my Spanish allowed me to simplify their befuddling inquiries with persistent references to exclusive follies of my better half. At least, years of Spanish study were paying off…Alternatively; bring your travel mugs – very convenient and even slightly threatening, as these can usually contain a weekly supply of coffee for an average Spaniard.
Windy Paradise
Armed with a newly acquired map of Andalucía we were off into the picturesque hills around its more southern parts in the direction of Algeciras. Our initial quick progress on the four-lane motorway was quickly squeezed to a one-lane affair due to one ubiquitous word that plagues all Spanish drivers, young and old alike, – OBRAS. This small, innocuously sounding, word if looked up in the dictionary would usually mean something like “deeds”, “actions” or “works”. Once in the open planes of the Spanish highway system, this word loses all of its innocence and marches directly into the hated pantheon of evils that already includes “fines”, “speed limits”, “tolls”, “levies” and “traffic police”. A mere introduction of this word into road signage could easily result in huge speed reductions. Throw a handful of slow moving semi-trucks and tourist buses and you are back down to the grim reality of 80 KMH. Bye, bye joy of driving a technological marvel capable of easily reaching mid 200s.
Fortunately, the flat landscape of eastern Andalucía was becoming more intriguing with every passing minute – hills were getting more numerous, rugged and employed. Many were occupied by medieval castles walls – much to the delight of lovers of all dramatic and picturesque. Surprisingly for us, the dry red dirt was not the only fixture, as hills sported lush greenery in addition to unending rows of vines, olive groves and young wheat. Any space in between served as a fertile pasture for thousands of goats, sheep and bulls. Since being the key aspect of Spanish reality, bulls were also plentifully featured on the already mentioned Bull-Boards capturing a very Picasso like perception of this strong and graceful animal slated for eventual slaughter just about anywhere regardless of geography – hamburgers in the USA, steaks in Texas and trophies here in Spain.
Being in the leisurely state of mind, we decided to take a small detour toward a delightful village of Zahara de los Atunes. Nestled between rocky hills from the north, it gracefully spreads its southern reaches all along the perimeter of a beautiful Atlantic beach, which really defines this picturesque community. The community that seemed to have preserved some of its old fishing culture despite proliferation of tourism and global canning industry. In fact, the place somehow manages to integrate the very local, authentic quiet village life with carloads of tourists that frequently descend on a number of hotels that feature cosy proximity to narrow streets lined with traditional white washed walls. To top it all, a medieval castle struts its ancient Phoenician roots with utterly deserved “Ces choses neuveaux” attitude. .
We could not help but to unleash our tired stinky feet on the cold and refreshing waters of the Atlantic. Little spa treatment of quietly leaping waves and soft silky sand was all that was needed to press on in our quest, but not before a short pit-stop at the local supermarket. This was a colourful picture of a typical small town store that lined its shelves with all sorts of wares in the most surprising proximity to one another – water battles, tooth brushes and ice cream – all claimed some space to satisfy obviously expanding local appetites. A local produce and fish market across the street unabashedly served local tastes as well – forget about pre-packaged foods and hordes of foreign travellers. We relished in the momentary pleasures of shopping for true God given provisions – vegetables, fruits and tuna, the locally canned version of course.
Refreshed, we proceeded toward the town of Tarifa, the place that boasts a number of distinctions – one of them being the southern most point of Spain. Its permanently windy conditions were another. The hilly approaches to the place were thickly peppered with signs of present and very utilitarian civilization – wind mills. Not of the Don Quixote fame of course – these ones instead of ghosts and adversaries produce much less mundane and yet indispensable electricity. Another outgrowth of the windy climate is a thriving wind and kite surfing community that claims many a picturesque spot to satisfy international thrill seekers that descend on this place around the year. In fact, as we approached the town, both sides of the road were lined up with surfing campgrounds, shops and VW minivans. The choppy seas were dotted with hundreds of sails despite rather chilly water – very youthful and invigorating, hardly “the end of the world” as it was known in the pre-Columbus times.
When driving into the center, we were instantly captivated by this coastal gem – old town partially surrounded by ancient walls, old Moorish castle “recently” remodelled after the re-conquest in the late 1200s, nice cheerful outdoor coffees, narrow streets and fresh wind all created a chance for an eventful outing. Coming during off-season proved to be a great boon, as hardly any tourist hordes were in sight to spoil our Spanish idyll. Here I also started my quest to experience all possible versions of European washrooms in use. Since these tend to be much more original as compared to their much heavier franchised and hence uniform North American counterparts. I took delight in remembering any originality on offer. The one in Tarifa was so small that it was capable of offering only a urinal of such prodigious size that it could have satisfied a bull had been able to enter through the doors designed for Zara regulars. Intriguing…
Apart from its charms, Tarifa is also very useful logistical point providing a direct ferry service to the port of Tangiers in Morocco. It is a piece of cake, as one does not need a visa (provided you carry a Canadian passport or something close to it) to sneak into the African Kingdom. The transfer is only around 1 hour long (do not believe “35 minute” claims) on comfortable fast ferries equipped with old modern conveniences – just do not forget to hold tight while in the bathroom. For more adventuring souls, Tangiers serves just as a simple spring board into the mysteries of Africa. For more timid and definitely time constrained Grockels, a one or two day excursion options might be exactly what the doctor ordered. Being experienced blitz tourists, we quickly settled for the 52E price tag of a one-day guided tour. At this time of the year no reservations were necessary and we bid Tarifa a short-term adieu to return in a couple of days for the Moroccan sortie.
El Pinon
The next curious spot actually required a border crossing, this time into the modern British Empire with its perennial claims to the small peninsula where most of liveable space is squeezed into the sea (I am not sure exactly which one) by a huge tilting rock. The Brits call it by its official name of Gibraltar; Spanish refer to it as “El Pinon”, a pine cone. A huge one at that, as even miles before arriving at the rock, we could see it scratching the sky’s underbelly with its craggy outcroppings. We were mesmerised by the breathtaking views and now even less inclined to visit the least recommended spot of the region – the port of Algeciras. Leaving it behind uninspected with hearts devoid of any regrets was a truly liberating experience of informed outsiders.
The entrance to Gibraltar is preceded by a nice sea promenade with tons of postcard opportunities in the shade of the much contested rock. Having succumbed to one of these, we proceeded to neglect all warnings about possible border tie-ups and turned into what turned out to be the easiest border crossing in the British Empire. Instead of prolonged and at times painful explanations suitable for overcrowded corridors of Heathrow, we were waived in without as much as a glance from imposing officials.
Right from the start Gibraltar promised to be a good spot for curiosities. A highway into town turned out to be posing as a part-time airstrip on at least two daily occasions, license plates magically became yellow and English, generous offerings of fish and chips filled the billboards and Union Jacks claimed the remainder of space, very small space at that. The roads, to our relief, did not switch directions unlike prices with their pound-inclinations. First, driving slowly and randomly we managed to inspect unsuspectingly at least half of the town within fifteen minutes of our less than conspicuous arrival. Feeling a little trapped in the metal beast, we found a pot under the competitive parking sun and encountered our tour guide Richard – all in a matter of minutes – very efficient and certainly British.
This guy turned out to be a true local who combined at least two jobs of a taxi driver and a tour guide. The first occupation appeared a little puzzling given the size of the place, especially since scores of local taxies incessantly traversed to and fro. Most of them, despite the narrowest of streets were mini-buses that threatened to obliterate anything in their paths, giving their colourful British drivers a bit of a Latin tinge. Turned out that the tiny town provided more employment that can be handled by its thirty something thousand citizens, creating a job sync that attracted guest workers from Morocco, Malta and, of course, Spain. Many have to commute to Gibraltar on a daily basis and in order to avoid frequently murderous traffic jams they avail themselves of taxi milk runs between the border and the town center. A great taxi franchise held in the brittle embrace of international politics and intrigue. When few years ago the locals held a referendum as to whether to join its neighbour to the North, 99% mailed in a vocal “NO”. I suspect that the taxi drivers’ vote was at least 101%.
Richard, being a seemingly industrious type did not relish much time off between the peak periods and gave himself to the art of tour giving. The main selling point proved to be of a prosaically economic nature: the main attraction of the place is obviously the rock that everybody wants to climb and explore, and only three ways to get to the top are walking, driving or taking a gondola.
Walkers usually represented by people who have more time than money did not seem to concern Richard one bit. Instead he honed onto the other tough and newly fangled competitor – the gondola, as for the first couple of minutes of the trip he enlightened us on the profound evils of this option – much higher costs and limited accessibility being the main culprits. Our limited time and cheapish appetite were profoundly soothed by such overtures that cost us only 7P each plus a park admission fee of another 8P each.
The very gradual and slow ride up was great, revealing more and more of natural beauty, magnificent upper views plus Richard’s pointers to boot. Rich history and strategic position kept just about everybody very interested – Phoenicians, Romans, Moors and English found it particularly captivating. The Brits finally triumphed pouncing on the weak and hated Spanish Empire, which finally succumbed to the treaty of Utrecht in the early 1700s. The Spaniards were not done however and attempted to reclaim the Rock on many occasions. Unsuccessfully so far, especially since the Brits managed to hold the fort with strongly allied populace that has always retained its claim to the foggy Albion despite the utter chaos in the blood mixing arena – Spanish, Moroccan, Maltese, Scottish and English being the prime suspects in this crucible of history and passions. And yet these folks manage to draw a very strong distinction between anything English and British including the language that is frequently bastardised into a Spanglish version. The diet is, you guessed it, a mixture of everything with a heavy emphasis on fish since bulls have found it difficult to graze on steep rocky escarpments. Wines are Spanish and monkeys are African, the only primates to freely occupy a piece of European soil. These curious, well protected and certainly badly spoiled creatures have long been a very valuable local tourist attraction. Consequently, the colonial fathers do not neglect their charges by providing ample daily offerings of bananas and other goodies – rain or shine. There is of course a self-serving caveat in their strife for animal well-being – to protect the densely packed humans from unnecessary garbage trouble. So far the unspoken agreement seems to be working – garbage is safe and monkeys are happy not to claim any of the low lying and traffic challenged streets.
On our first brief stop near local stalactite and stalagmite caves we encountered some of these fury and fiercely independent creatures who claim any object, once on the mountain, as a place to seat and rest their banana weary jaws – this time the victims were a couple of motorcycles. Slightly intimidated by these scowling locals we plunged into the refreshing darkness of the cave complex that serves as a great example of God’s baroque inclinations with intricate, inimitable and inspiring columns thrusting from every possible angle in the underground realm. Some parts of the cave complex were cleverly lit thus creating an eerie atmosphere of supernatural. The latter aspect has not been lost on the local curators and they created a music auditorium in the largest cavern. The sounds of classical music are supposed to acquire a sort of divine quality when played here. Alas, out timetable and closing times at the British military tunnel museum up above called us back into the smouldering sunlight of yet another day that was enter the history annals.
Few more moments and we climbed on the outlook platform that allowed for a fantastic panorama of both sides of the Rock with the shadier part abruptly below us in its much more desolate state – rugged boulders, smashing waves and refreshing winds created an unforgettable feeling of importance that is never lost on tour guides. Some key points were quickly mentioned including the inexorable collision between the Atlantic and Mediterranean, African and European. The emblematic importance is further emphasised by the geographic proximity to the fateful battle of Trafalgar that took place back in the Napoleonic days. The battle that sealed the fate of so many, including its most famous participant – admiral Nelson, whose untimely death in the heat of the struggle did not interfere with routing of the French while sending its latest victim straight into a barrel of brandy. The strong northern propensity for stiff substances came in handy this time since it allowed a proper and very stately London burial for the famed soldier many months whence. Well, we were not done with the military exploits as the military tunnels were yet to be explored. After few more exotic monkeys pictures and upon surviving a small car assault by one of their rank, we were within a grasp of yet another little discovery. The pleasure was almost denied had it not been for Richard imploring for extra time in his fluid Spanish that somehow betrayed the same authentic accent as his British English - a true melding of cultures I tell you!
Once inside we quickly realised the importance of the structure for defensive purposes. Most of the tunnel embrasures faced in the direction of the enemy – Spain; with the entire narrow border range was under the murderous aim of now silent guns. Some of which actually happened to have a link to my motherland, as they had been captured from the Russian military during the Crimean conflict in the mid 1800s. In fact, the pure proliferation of conflicts, in which Brits found themselves in during their rather successful Empire building exercise put a strain on their soldiers, exerting them to numerous feats – large and small. For example, the tunnel works were completed in an unthinkably short amount of time on an incredibly meagre diet still displayed as one of the exhibits. The amounts of typical weekly rations turned out to be tiny by modern standards – just a few small fishes, a couple of bread loaves and a small sack of flour. Incredible, I would not survive on this for more than two days let alone week upon week. I even started feeling sick, my stomach was clinging to my spine and my eyes were losing their vision, the aspect quickly discovered by my fellow travellers when I tried to assess the northbound view from our privileged position. Seeing the highway posing as an airport and then quickly scanning closer to the mountain I discovered a whole new subdivision that boasted some private greenery, neat lawns and well planned gridlock of streets. I was captivated by the sight of the local ingenuity that used extremely tight space to create this true residential oasis, which definitely came at a price – I thought. The only disturbing point was that I had hard time accounting for house sizes when compared with surroundings featuring a local football stadium, a church and other buildings outside the carefully planted fence – “must be a retirement community”, I thought...
Well, the explanation did linger at coming and the price of membership to this private arrangement for pensioners happened to be a little heavier than previously thought – few dollars plus the very earthly demise of the participants. Of course, what I was looking at was the local Catholic cemetery adorned with myriads of ample family crypts, and you are talking 20-20 vision, right. No playing children on inviting grass lawns, no summer barbeques and bumper-to-bumper parking – only peace and quiet plus an urgently needed pair of glasses for yours truly.
Much tickled by the first rate tourist blunder, Richard indulged us in stories of how difficult it was to find a long-term resting spot here. It was imperative to identify not only with a particular religion (Catholic, Orthodox, Judaism etc) but also have a good lineage or a lot of money or both. Happy with his strong local roots, our insightful friend pointed with some well founded glee to a humble and already reserved personal corner in the busy subdivision. Very interesting…
Slightly embarrassed by my escapades and feeling pangs of hunger for the soldiers of long ago I desperately needed some local fish and chips. And that’s what we got shortly after returning to town. Upon devouring a simple local speciality, a walk through narrow shopping streets of the original settlement made more than enough sense. Equipped with many a Union Jack, red phone booths and other fitting accoutrements, the place was really more than it seemed at first with at least a dozen languages spoken at any time, anywhere, betraying a truly multinational nature of the locale. It revealed to be home to many, one of them, a rarity in Spain, is a vibrant Jewish community that has found some refuge from recurring bouts of persecution more frequently exhibited just three miles northward. Free to operate in the safe environment, they have resorted to what they have known for centuries – gold trade, a thriving art apparently as witnessed by well stocked and brightly lit beacons of luxury on many a corner.
The sun was loosing its last claims to our day with last flickers of natural light slowly ceding its way to the moon and the stars. Feeling a little too sprite for the hour, thanks jetlag, we took one last swing through the colony’s newly reclaimed chunks as well as some old quarters including the very southern tip, which apart from featuring a huge empty parking lot, also sported the “End of the World Shop” and a large freshly painted and very evocative mosque calling for the evening prayers – a fitting tribute to history and geography of this exotic spot.
More Road Signs
Our return journey promised to be much shorter due to a very useful tip doled out in the Tarifa travel office – take an inconspicuous but wide road with four lanes. The 160KMH tip worked its magic until we got within twenty kilometres of our home base. Unfortunately, here we made a slight mistake of taking a certain right versus left turn, plunging us right in the merry-go-round of Cadiz. Since Cadiz at large is a huge harbour, the only way to get around is to drive either clockwise or counter clockwise, otherwise swimming is the only options All signs, of course, inexorably point to Cadiz without telling you the shortest way. Happy and easy travel tourist maps hardly ever mention such pitfalls, which when coupled with slow moving rush hour traffic can really wreak havoc on one’s schedule. We were the latest victims of the day, winding up driving extra 30K and saying all along: WE HATE CADIZ!
To soothe the throbbing traffic pain we decided, under my guidance, to indulge in a more anglicized atmosphere of the neighbourhood bloke pub, partaking in pints, clouds of smoke and a huge TV screens playing the latest instalment of Barcelona – Chelsea drama. The first day was rather useful after all – having inhaled a year’s worth of second hand smoke my much brighter sojourners got busy devising plans of our next attack. Our target was going to be the ancient city of Granada, whose treasures and deceiving proximity of 300K were at clear odds with experience of one day round trip tow way more proximate places. Hence we decided to plan for a overnight stay in this, by all accounts, enchanting place.
Rounding Ronda
The first part of the next day took us along, with VASOS PLASTICOS of course, a slow and brightly marked road to the inspiring hilltop towns of central Andalucía. These ones started popping up as soon as we hit hillier country in 30K from the flat Cadiz harbour. Most of these, despite their scintillating white washed charms, were not really built to entertain tourist hordes in search of easy solace. Instead they were conceived in times immemorial as fortifications to protect the locals and repel any unwelcome visitors. These days, visitors are welcome, as tourism has become the second largest economic item of Andalucía. Many a place beacon to passing buses, cars and bikes with their old cathedrals, rich history, cute streets and sunlit restaurant patios. But none has done it better than the town of Ronda.
A little less accessible than made-believe by maps and TV guides, this willing accomplice on international tourist trail, is a magnificent little perch of a town. Situated on a striking hill and surrounded by picturesque and lush fertile valleys, the place also offers a great deal more, as it is split by a deep canyon right down the middle like a pig’s hoof. This canyon puts the town head and shoulders above other pretenders – after all, who can resist its vertigo inducing cliffs, high spanning bridges and buildings that just manage to cling to dear life on the verge of the precipice?
Driving is the best way to get there. What is the best way to park and stay remains to be a question, as we had to perform a handful of circus manoeuvres before safely fitting our English crème horse in a tight stall next to smaller and more sensible transportation options. The rest was just a bliss, as the weather together with charm and ambience were doing their best to win us over. The charming shops were obviously a target for my fun searching travellers with hardly anything left un-inspected – paintings, trinkets, bags and scarves had their share of consideration. But nothing could really compete with the canyon that gave so much to enjoy and contemplate. Best observed from a couple of jutting platforms, the canyon was deep, multi-terraced affair that culminated in the ferocious stream, digging through the ancient bottom on its way to its ultimate leap into thirsty valley fields. To top it all, the summit of the canyon is pulled together by a graceful a-la baroque bridge.
On the other side of the bridge we partook in inspecting one of the most famous and presumably oldest monuments to the ancient Iberian pastime of bullfighting – Plaza de los Torros. Some even claim that the whole notion of organized bullfighting originated here. While doubting these ardent claims, we could not help but enjoy the sunlit stadium, stables and horse training patch. The last was in use much to our delight and an opportunity to sneak a peak at the graceful caballeros capably taming their charges and providing for ample picture taking opportunities. Since they do not kill bulls until early May, my more squeamish friends were spared the gory spectacle hence leaving them in the best spirits about the whole concept. It is always easier to think in abstract while chewing on a hamburger or consuming a steak – the state that could be easily shattered by an appearance of a particular victim with hide and horns in tow. My own view is little more sanguinary and I would relish at a chance to witness a true bullfighting spectacle – alas, hot blooded Spaniards require summer temperatures to relish the slaughter of doomed bovines in full. There is a slight problem that I have – should the bulls at least have better odds at goring toreadors that 1 to 100? It just does not seem fair, especially since prideful owners of red capes are treated as pantheon worthy heroes whose trade accoutrements are revered as true religious relics. These, by the way, were plentifully displayed in the local bullfighting museum together with famous poetic odes, royal awards and convoluted genealogies. Great example of useless adulation! The next stop is a coffee on a precipice with an obligatory cigarillo.
Granada – Driver’s Curse
While some aficionados of deep cultural penetration such as Rick Steves demand more time in the hilltop wonder, our Grockel plans called us back into action toward the glorious sights of Granada. The deceptive distance grid once again played a slight trick on the unsuspecting by throwing a truck or two in our way hence slowing our progress to a crawl. I did not mind the lull in my duties when passing by yet another church spire or a ruined castle or a derelict old farmhouse. I was about to start nodding in sheer napping bliss…
“Vroom” we just connected with much faster route from Seville – a perfect time to grip the steering wheel. Our subsequent quick and persistent progress soon revealed the mesmerising snow capped tops of Sierra Nevada gracefully presiding over its charge of a town. Seeing so much snow in such close proximity under nearly summer like condition was a real treat. I could hardly contain the excitement and keep my eyes on the road despite rather strong and ever growing protestations from the back seat.
Once off into the city I had to take better charge of my escaping emotions, as treacherously narrow streets grew ever tighter and less inviting, the closer we got to Alhambra. Getting to the very top of the hill and bumping our noses right into the shut gates of the World Heritage Site did not resolve matters, as we had to track down toward the menacing old town streets below once again. Part way through our descent we had to navigate through a sudden crowd primarily consisting of men in suits and scores of police swarming around some five star digs perched on the edge of the hill. The importance of the event was further emphasised by many a foreign flag implying a certain international subtext. As I was about to enter the intriguing world of international politics a pre-emptive Tracy’s yank brought me right back to reality.
“Come back to us and pay attention”, I obeyed
This adjusted reality offered hardly anything more than one-way streets that made one feel completely lost and powerless, just gaping for enough air to survive sharp pointy street corners, darting pietons and perpetually honking fellow drivers. Travelling in this driving nightmare requires patience and calculation neither of which was left to consume in the opulent surrounding of our haplessly gigantic Jaguar. So instead of pleasurable driving experience, I got a nauseating feeling of being mercilessly caught in an avalanche. Fortunately, our avalanche spat us out on some square that by some miracle happened to contain a Tourist Information Office – breeze easier…
The folks inside were happy to inform us that Alhambra was going to be closed for most of the next day due to some international conference to be attended by the Prime Minister (Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero – I would like to know his full name) and the King (Carlos that was) – remember the men in suits? As such, our only shot at the beautiful palace had to be tonight when the palace was slotted to open for business at 10PM - just like any real insomniac Spaniard. Can one imagine opening anything in Vancouver at this time, even a night club – let alone frescoes, porticos and columns? The late start though was giving us a plenty of time to settle in one of the places noted by Rick in the surroundings of the historic Plaza Nueva (New?). Since the easy travelling Rick never supplies his victims with real maps we had to rely on the convoluted explanations of the mostly helpful Tourist Office staff. Alas, all their lukewarm efforts landed us right in the middle of heavy street traffic that promptly washed us up in the middle of nowhere – i.e. in the newer part of the city. After few clueless and fruitless inquiries, we came upon a policeman who knew what he was talking about and graciously directed us towards the desired destination. This time through the narrowest of streets that posed further dangers since it apparently contained many attractive shops and was in no want of customers. Timidly wading through blocks full of shopping bags, errant children and still intact limbs we rolled into the Plaza Nueva, the square that had hardly anything new about it - nowhere to stop let alone park.
Stopping that was kind of important in our hotel quest. Alas it proved impossible and we ended up hopelessly drifting past our target street. “No entry except buses” was a curious sign considering that one place there offered guest parking. Well, never mind we continued along in the deathly grips of uncertainty and despair. We could not find a place to stop for miles it seemed. Forced, we slowly toured the entire area including the Moorish Quarter under the constant barrage of self-inflicted wounds as Tracy and I lost our ability to communicate without an ear-muffling device. It was getting hairy. Granada was looking less and less inviting…Remember Cadiz?
Eventually our detour took us right back to where we had already declared our war on the local retail industry. This time our fortunes looked a little less certain when rounding some turns we nearly managed to get solidly wedged into the local roadwork with a rescue helicopter being the only way out. Finally, when all our hopes were precariously balanced on the top of a precipice we discovered a friendly beacon of a parking lot sign. The only problem seemed to be that it required a left turn that did not exist for blocks on end. This slight ray of hope was slipping once again. Once managing to squeeze our “bueno coche” into the first available left turn, we went through yet another series of very hateful and pulsating moments, one of which saw us landing at some empty lot posing as a daily paid parking. We were about to celebrate, instead I ended up nearly blowing my gasket when realizing that this spot only operated in the day hours. At the very least, one of the attendants did assure me that just around “few more corners” I should be able to arrive at the 24 hour underground parking, the very same that had already refused to grant us any left turns. His predictions did come true when we trudged into a cavern that existed under a local produce market. I was spent and only Alhambra with its eastern seductiveness could bring me back to life. WE HATE GRANADA.
Once on foot, our humanity started its slow but sure re-conquest. Astonishingly, without a car our host town did not seem to be nearly as menacing and confusing. It took no time at all to find a suitable accommodation among Rick’s recommendations. The off-season timing was great and prices were surprisingly low – we paid 41E total for two rooms with shared bathrooms. The mood further brightened by realisation that Alhambra was just on the top of our hill and required either a 10-minute walk or a short bus transfer. Now we desperately needed some food and soothing entertainment. None can be better than a super busy tapa bar mostly packed with locals, loud and vivacious.
TAPA BAR – Granada Style
Recommended by a friendly hotel manager, this one was right in the neighbourhood and turned out to a true gastronomic treat for anyone looking for variety, noise and fast service. Located just a block away from the Plaza Nueva, the place was packed to the brim. Luckily, we just got in time to squeeze out a few inches in the middle of the counter. The customarily hasty help was just all over us. All orders were filled in seconds with much gusto and incessant kitchen noise. Most of the décor consisted of numerous ham hocks hanging all over the place, many exhibited black hoofs (Patas Negras) – the sign of the highest quality. Since this is the most prevalent decorative pattern everywhere in Spain, one inevitably broods over the fate of all those pigs. Do they live in special facilities for handicapped? How do they procreate and whether they are allowed to participate in their own version of Paralympics?
The mostly foreign menu made sense rather quickly – especially prices that ranged anywhere from a single Euro for a small tapa to twelve Euro for a whole portion of jamon (ham). The latter here is entirely different from what we call ham at home. Here it is made up of thinly scraped pieces of cured leg meat that is preserved in salt and aged. Delicious! Being the timid sort, we first tried some house wine chased by few less suspicious portions of potatoes, bread, chorizo sausages and Spanish omelette. Jamon came next. I found it very difficult to stop even though we were getting full, no doubt buoyed by the delicious wine and very entertaining waiters who would shout out every order to the kitchen regardless of distance – sort of “CAN YOU HEAR ME! ONE! TWO! THREE!” At times it got deafening. Forget about IT, they vastly prefer shrills and paper shreds that covered the entire floor – sort of like the Wall Street minus the blood. Now everyone felt much better about Granada. The check of just 24E failed to disappoint either. Alhambra, bring it on!
Alhambra – Palace in the Dark
A special bus zipped us to the main entrance in just a couple of minutes. At first the place felt a little eerie, as ticket offices were plunged in the complete darkness and the count of any perspective visitors was scarce. Has the King conspired to drive us out of Granada just like his famous forefathers did it to Moors in 1492? Ooh, what a relief somebody just decided to show up and sell us some tickets – 10E each to be exact. I was kind of hoping for a discount given the absence of natural light but the locals did not seem to be sympathetic – no soup for you!
Once turning the corner into the gardens that together with the ancient citadel walls surround Alhambra, we plunged into nearly complete darkness without finding a single ticket checker – was this just another Spanish ruse for the unsuspecting?. I gave them a benefit of a doubt guessing that the actual palace was just around the corner with us groping in the maze of intricate walkways that snaked through, no doubt, a number of delectable tree and bush combinations. Using mostly our imagination we walked down a gravel path that led us right to the steps of (surprise!) a very exquisite hotel almost entirely lost in the shadowy paradise. It turned out that the very Alhambra, the one that required 10E tickets, was just a small part of the overall fort, which hid not only the hotel but also a couple of restaurants, an opulent Bourbon palace and other edifices of uncertain description.
Having enjoyed and inspected most of what was there to see we were still groping for ever allusive Alhambra. May be it did not exist and it was a trick to milk the unsuspecting tourists? Eventually, having bent yet another turn we found ourselves facing the cultural and architectural miracle wrought by one of the last Moorish rulers. Being rather wise and private people, the Moors did not seem to relish much in the way of frontal splash; instead they tended to hide the best inside – frescoes, pools and of course the harem itself.
The unique architectural and decorating Moorish style revealed itself as unrepeatable and complex as any I had ever seen. Its arched formations, cryptic Koran messaging and baroque like interspersion of details could not evoke anything less than complete awe. Wooden carved ceilings fit perfectly with the magic shadows and hew that slunk in only at night. Welcome to the Alhambra in the dark – one felt compelled to whisper. It must have been great during the day just as well, but the true majesty of the eastern art really came out to play with one’s imagination at nightfall. Every room was unique, while general style throughout remained the same - shapes, sizes and purposes varied. Arriving at the reflection pool in the open starlit court yard that could only be adequately described in truly poetic forms unattainable to mere mortals produced a truly meting effect. I could only manage to find a place to sit and wonder at the starry heavens, magnificent colonnade and people who used to live here long ago. The moment was truly moving, especially since my carnal self could not shift from the enticing topic of the harem politics. It seemed that despite being relegated to the backwater of every day life, many concubines and wives of Emirs did lead some semblance of normal existence behind the shutters with a magnificent view of the city right to boot.
The scintillating city lights gave a very unique and very celebratory tinge to the occasion. The views were competitive and numerous, I found it hard to find a spot to gaze at – everything was just breezing mystery and harmony of days long gone. The days when North African Moors ruled in a very multicultural and tolerant fashion that spurned on many a scientific, technological and cultural achievements. The achievements that counted this very palace among their distinguished ranks. A bit of a poignant mood washed over me for a minute – here we are on the top of unprecedented technological heights, and yet still struggling with basics of common understanding so brilliantly illuminated by ancient wisdom and tradition. It is like trading one for another is the only option for advancement. It is either one is able to appreciate all shades of grey or continually drive a stake between black and white turning ourselves in non-feeling machines.
To confirm my point, one particularly beautiful colonnade lined a courtyard that was implicitly dedicated to one group of the Moorish subjects – the Jews. Moors, despite their obvious doctrinal adherences, understood and appreciated usefulness and talents of Israel. In turn, Jewish merchants commissioned a smartly conceived court yard fountain that sees its main bowl resting on twelve lions presumably representing the twelve tribes of Israel. In the old days, the lions were capable of spewing water at exact hourly intervals marvelling its grateful masters. Upon Isabella’s re-conquest, some engineers tried to learn the trick by re-engineering. Alas, they failed not only to replicate the mechanism but also screwed one the original. So for centuries now, the indomitable lions fail to greet their admirers every new hour bestowed by God to all of us. It is as He is still waiting for us to fix our act. We shall see…
Morning in Granada
Somewhat re-invigorated by the fresh morning chill, I attempted a refreshing jog up the hill to test King’s resolve to shut down the palace for the day. Voila. Despite my best efforts at huffing and puffing up the hill, his stance had not wavered and I only managed to kiss the tightly shut door good bye. Never mind, fresh coffee and a croissant breathed new life into our sails even though the coffee place help had some trouble grasping our Canadian audacity of bringing in baked goodies from a competing establishment. Well, leaving a decent tip might have improved our standing after all. On this note and in much lighter mood, we started exploration of the city quarter that faces Alhambra from the river bottom and up with its numerous tiny streets and stairs of the old Moorish neighbourhood.
Walking up these streets was not only a great exercise but also a cleansing experience, the one that can only be had after a thorough inspection that leaves no touristy regrets. Following a local tip, we eventually reached a very dramatic, top of the hill, look-out starring at Alhambra that shone majestically, blazing with all sorts of tinges of clay and covered by the surreal snow capped phantom of the Sierra Nevada range on the background. A truly engulfing view, the one that is so hard to say good-bye to. We just sat, adolescent like, on the high stone parapet. Here we were completely immersed in the Alhambra contemplation, coffee and cigarillo in hand, no rush, unwanted noise or worldly worries. Everything seemed immovable and eternal.
Suddenly, just around the corner, we stepped into small, tightly packed square that was filled with life, shouts and mounds of wares – fruits, vegetables, socks and underwear seemed to top the agenda. The life had to go on, bye-bye majestic Moorish creation and welcome cheap socks, affordable underwear, small sized bras and delicious local strawberries to boot!
Brimming with morning colour and delights of sudden encounters, the day was not yet done unless we paid homage to the city’s two key personalities – Isabella and Ferdinand. The lives of the two, combined in one of the most famous historic matrimonies, paved the way for the creation of the modern Spanish state in the late 1400s, but not before the land underwent profound and numerous metamorphoses. First after serving as a trading feeder to Phoenicians and Carthaginians, it became one of the key Roman provinces sometime in the first century BC. It acquired even more importance when, bogged in imperialism and debauchery, Rome had to call on Spain to provide Rome’s first foreign Emperors, Hadrian and Trajan. These commanded respect of the troops and retained enough gubernatorial sense to run the vast far-flung Empire.
Their ascendancy was not without an expiry date and it turned out to be a lesson in all things temporal. This came to pass when Spain, especially Northern Spain, had to retreat into its primordial shell when overrun by northern tribes with Visigoths leading the way. Consequently, the country lay dormant for few centuries waiting for its re-birth that eventually came at the very capable and no less surprising hands of the Moors. These guys hailing from Northern Africa meant business after first showing up on the southern shores in 711AD. Under the banner of Islam they felt God-led. To prove the point they managed to essentially subdue the entire Iberian Peninsula within ten years of their arrival. This was done with speed and ability that could rival the prodigious expansion of Rome under Julius Cesar and his nephew, Cesar Augustus. It took over three hundred years for the former rulers of the country to get about the business of re-taking their possessions. Starting from the northern and central parts of the country, numerous Christian kings, counts and knights emerged from their isolated castles to re-conquer the country from Moorish control in the eleventh century. Toledo fell in 1089AD with many to follow in the years to come. Granada was to be last in 1492. The re-capture of Granada was not only remarkable because of its finality but also because it was undertaken under the aegis of the joint Spanish crown for the first time. This was made possible through the matrimony between Isabel of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon. Without these two characters the whole history of the country and the world could have turned out differently. But it did not…
Understandably, the attendance of the Cathedral Chapel that serves as a resting place for the royal bones was a must. After some minutes of contemplation in front of the huge and elaborate tomb ensemble that required a 3E fee, we proceeded to the Cathedral that required a separate payment. I guess the Spanish Crown has been a lousy manager since despite all that Mayan gold they still charge entrance fees at any opportunity they get. Well, other than that there was hardly anything to complain and the whole Cathedral to contemplate. Unusually far from being heavy on the ornaments this one is a very unique due to its brightness and size. The former while not original serves as a distinguishing marker. You see, two or three centuries ago when the city was under a siege by the plague, its wise fathers decided to paint many edifices in bleach white to deter proliferating infection. With infection gone many thought that white really brought out the best in the Cathedral interior. And so it stayed to this day to shine for the whole world to see.
Well, after paying our parking fee in a hurtful amount of 20 Euros, we managed to sneak out by all possible traffic problems with enough luck not to require a rescue helicopter. Granada proved to be much easier place to leave than to enter – just ask Isabel and Ferdinand, they might confirm.
Costa del Sol
Fresh helpful wind and revving engine, we pressed at 160 KMH - enjoying momentary sights and looking forward to seeing the azure of the Mediterranean. The first quick stop/cruise was the city of Malaga, which after years of mid-century decline was not really all that hot of a spot in any tour guide. All the more surprising it was to find a rather flourishing metropolis on the sun-lit shores – clean, wide, treed boulevards, freshly painted and newly constructed buildings, busy and very colourful commercial centres with nearly direct access to the seafront. Nearly direct because a chunk of the waterfront is taken up by port facilities that by and large are respectful of the residents by leaving them enough sandy space to play on. Lo and behold, mesmerised by the views of wide and nearly empty beaches we nearly missed our turn to proceed further down the coast.
The whole coast seemed densely populated that the only way to tell that we had actually left Malaga, were the highway markers. The rest did not mutate at all – residential buildings, hotels, pensions, restaurants and amusement parks went in the never ending carousel of pleasure in nearly perpetual sun and awash in sparkling warm sea. We deliberately chose to take a slower road to get a better look at this magnet that had managed to pull in a good chunk of white and flabby northern Europe. I am sure that success and development did not necessarily come overnight and much has changed from the original Costa del Sol, the one that used to exist primarily for Spaniards. Now, however, most of we saw looked very opulent, clean, well-stocked and generic. At first, enthused by lavish palm trees, fresh breezes and slow pacing public we even doubted our sanity. But sobering truth did not have to wait long – this was not Spain, this was just another international trap like any other in Cancun or Maui. We desperately needed to escape back to Spain. It was not easy, as one strained to find a Spanish sign amid English and German offerings. But not before we stumbled over the most lavish locale of this very uniform region – welcome to Marbella.
By many tour books’ accounts, this town is considered to be a true gem of Costa del Sol. For us, already satiated with sights and wonders of modern tourism, this one felt like a good wallop of stale baroque after refreshing bits of Renaissance – more development, lush hotels, impressive villas, smart shopping malls and ever present Germanic signs. Truth be told however - that despite the sickly sweet taste of over-packaged tourism Marbella definitely had its charms. For once, it managed to hip check the slow moving, shore-snaking highway a bit further into the hills hence creating a quieter and more gentile beachy atmosphere that boasts coves of lavish private villas, dead-end roads and a plethora of first class sea view apartments. Being rather popular spot even during the low tide, the place proved to be pathetically difficult to park in, leaving only few high priced options in and around a glitzy shopping mall with a lot of post modern glass and glistening marble floors. It felt like being back in Metrotown to be exact, all with the exception of tight parking spaces so frequently celebrated by Europeans of all latitudes.
At last, we emerged on the waterfront facing refreshing evening breezes. I felt so alive and invigorated that I was ready to forgive German grandmas, English school girls and Duncan Donuts for their intrusion into my Spanish paradise. The gently rippling sea, soft sand and palm trees that lined the Marbella promenade could not be any less than heavenly. Enter few ice cream parlours and coffee shops, and the picture is complete – bare feet stuck up in the air, engulfed in soothing salty gusts of wind mingled with fresh aroma of coffee and cigars, aah…
The day’s discoveries were not done yet thanks to the attractive frozen section in the Marbella’s super market. We were feeling a little on the cheap side in full defiance to the recommended restaurants in the Lonely Planet, so some pan European pizza was just going to do the trick. Unforeseeably though our seemingly full kitchen back in Cadiz exhibited a complete lack of interest in anything resembling a stove. After vainly palpitating just about any kitchen surface, open and hidden, I had to call a retreat settling for some pasta and cheap wine. Pizza was shoved into the freezer to wait for better times. The reason behind the inconvenient omission was perhaps best explained by the fact that the apartment was really designed for extreme summer heat that marks a high season here. Cold tiles everywhere, white painted walls, excellent European shades and a complete absence of built-in heat gadgets of any sort pointed in that direction. Who would want hot soup in the heat of August? Since we were still somewhere in the doldrums of the low season the internal temperature consistently failed to reach to liveable levels – hence double blankets and heaters everywhere. Pizza anyone?
By the way, do not buy wine marked “vino nuevo” for 1.5E a bottle unless in habit of drinking vinegar straight up.
Morocco
Despite the absence of warm pizza, low season does have its advantages. One of them is the ability to just show up half an hour prior to departure and sign up for a Moroccan daily tour – 52E per and no fuss. Parking was just as breezy with ample space available right by the ferry terminal – I am starting to like this low season stuff again!
Just over an hour later and were fast approaching the magic shores of Africa. The shores that are so temptingly near that hardly any south Spanish adventure should say no to it. Only a 45 minute ride away in a comfortable and smoke free (do not seat by the back door to the balcony) fast ferries, with heavy presence of everything duty free - and you are in something radically different.
Port of Tangiers looked very promising despite receiving mostly failing grades at the hands of tour books’ editors with Rick calling it just a den of thieves hardly worth of a quick trip and useable only as a starting point for more authentic Moroccan experiences. So Tangiers still struggles for a place in the tourist sun. In fact, after reading these less than ravenous revues, I was not expecting much more than an ugly sandy hole with old dilapidated buildings and few attractions outside of frantic shopping, Moroccan style.
With my expectations so low, I was pleasantly surprised by the coastline that looked no less picturesque and green when compared to the best Spanish offerings. Good deal of sand but no shacks. Instead the port of Tangiers appeared to be much larger and cosmopolitan that described by our fearless guides. A huge beach extending from the port for miles eastward boasted rows upon rows of rather attractive and modern looking buildings that gave it rather western look. The rest of the town was spreading into all possible crevasses and hilltops that made it appear to be at least mildly interesting and full of accoutrements of good life. The port area was packed with all sorts of ferries some hailing as far as Canaries and Baleares. Clearly we were not the only ones visiting.
After a superficial passport control and backpack search, we, for the first time, laid our eyes on our indomitable tour guide – Hassan. His slight, paper-thin and yet rather toll frame was loosely wrapped up in a woollen jalaba, an extensive fully covering garb with a hood. The relaxed features of this standard dress style instantly reminded me of the liberation only bestowed by a jolly set of good sturdy pyjamas. I knew right away that I had to have my own personal jalaba. The shopping bug was already infesting my brain. But for now we had to follow our tour guide and not stray away from other timid fellow travellers. The only thing I managed to do was to sneak a peak at the local bathroom that smelled of politically correctness – apart from breathing with modern conveniences it also featured a special, for more traditionally inclined, cubicle with a squatter version – way more flexible than some other system, right?
Once in the bus and outside the port I was still looking for some dirty unpaved streets. Astonishingly, the roads were paved, donkeys deferred to cars and we were passing by more European buildings in the Spanish quarter. Sure, most of the edifices looked a little worn but no less attractive because of it – a little derelict is always good for a travelling eye. Much in European fashion, many a sidewalk was tensing under a load of tables and chairs, serving the long standing tradition of tea sipping. The only novelty for us was that every single customer in these establishments was male – women here clearly did not like sipping all that much. Instead they vastly preferred working at the nearby textile and fishing establishments prominently featured in the port vicinity.
As we made a turn into the city, our Hassan proceeded making his simultaneous commentary in three different languages no less – English, Spanish and German. He did that after a request for show of hands. He was lucky not to be inundated with requests for Chinese or, God forbid, Hungarian versions. He might have been in soup then. Otherwise, he cruised along his speaking points with prodigious ease giving many a run for their money in the linguistic department. Being rather intrigued by his incredible ability to fluently navigate between Romans and Visigoths, I was happy to receive each piece of information at least thrice. While very entertaining for yours truly, the rest of group was visibly relieved by the fact that Hassan was not going to employ his other three tongues – Arabic, Berber and French. “After twenty years of tour guiding I should be able to do this” was his humble reply, as he rumbled on about various neighbourhoods, religions and buildings.
As we proceeded along one of the major thoroughfares, I was intrigued to discover more of this untypical third world locale. Tangiers, being a fifth largest city of Morocco, counted no less than 1 million very busy inhabitants and presented a very palatable picture hardly different from what one can see at the outreaches of the first world. Multitudes of cars, new and ancient, competed for all important living space with irksome and fearless pedestrians who just weaved around bumpers, fenders and wheels. Every little inch of free space inadvertently left by carefree chauffeurs was instantly filled with waves of street daring and nimble crossers. No demographic was absent, young and old, male and wrapped up female, all went about their lives in one chaotic harmony. Sidewalks were orderly and clean, shops loaded with merchandise welcomed with many a price openly displayed thus disputing any tourist book notion of Tangier’s shopping. In other words, save for darker skin and less orderly traffic rules, we could have been in Central Europe for all that mattered. Overwhelmingly local, unobtrusive - my opinion of Tangiers was surging. Surely there were some distinguishing features – toll minarets, marble king’s palace hidden in lush gardens with machine gunned guards, and beautiful seaside villas. All, regardless of opulence, neighboured dusty sidewalks and a derelict local football pitch for about 20,000 spectators and stumbling old shacks with a great degree of equanimity – a sight that is impossible to find in gentile Britain or stolid German.
And then there was Kasbah – the old town also known as Medina. Here we learned what it meant to be a part of a captive tour group with some gruesome tour books’ predictions eventually coming true…The beginning was not all that foreboding as we were dumped at the doorsteps of the old town to start a walking part of our tour. Descending from the six feet height of the bus, I suddenly felt a little insecure amidst ready-to-tumble old walls, uneven cobblestone streets and numerous produce vendors lining our way. Only to increase my alert levels, we were also introduced to Mahmud, a young tall fellow wrapped in a latest jalaba fashion with smart Italian looking shoes featuring very long, almost medieval points. Mahmud’s task was to shield our backs from unwanted intruders and generally “bad people”. Hassan gave us stern instructions not to buy anything from errant hawkers of local merchandise until he told us it was save to do so. Most of us in the group already awed by Hassan’s multi-lingual abilities were not about to launch a dissenting opinion. Some of clarifications to the matter clearly had to wait, especially given corollary sense of piety, as it was Friday – the Muslim holy day.
The first few blocks took us along old and battered walls that, predating the Moors, were more of the same pleasant chain of grateful discoveries. Ancient stones mingled with phenomenal sweeping ocean views did not seem burdened by the life swirling around. Obviously, being in not the most prosperous part of town, we witnessed many an open door that led to rather humble furnishings, simple appliances and curious faces of the locals. Young children, many of them girls, were running circles around us – enjoying life like any children - playing, teasing and hardly paying attention to surrounding history and majestic views. We had hard time accounting for older girls who were likely to be at some less pleasant tasks of everyday life with some venturing outside only under impenetrable head coverings. Some clearly passed into more mature years accompanying kids of their own, some with husbands who inevitably marched in front of their flocks. The life went on however, and it surely did not entirely bow to the ghosts of tradition when we spotted very popular and certainly prolific cell phones with some carried by rather young children in ornate and colourful garb – definitely worth a look.
Once leaving the promenade we descended into the centre of Kasbah crossing through a courtyard adjacent to a neighbourhood mosque. The prayer time was upon us and a local muezzin was calling out to faithful. The evocative sounds of the ancient religion reverberated through the air, we pressed on and Hassan did not forget to lower his hood in a pious exhibition. The closer to the middle of town, the more derelict appeared it became. Windows and doors were rickety and worn out, our personal space just melted into ether – I was feeling slightly more agitated when first aggressive hawkers descended on their latest victims with numerous and very urgent offerings. Ornate plates, silver plaited daggers, precious shoals and intricate copper bracelets promptly invaded all five of our senses. The breathing was getting hard and I desperately tried clinging on to Hassan’ explanations of dainty historic details, all just to recover my escaping sanity. Somehow all this was slipping away just like in a bad dream - to be invaded with horrors of eternal shopping once again. You buy and it is never enough, you are loaded and cannot move and yet you buy. Finally you cannot take it any longer and collapse suffocating under the joys of your own purchasing power – a true hell.
“Mister, mister only ten Euro for a bracelet; Mister, mister two for ten; Mister, mister one for five” – already half-conscious but still alive I spurted “Two Euros” – “OK Mister three, the last offer” just fell on me like a brick. Where is this bloody Mahmud who is supposed to make our lives easier in this proverbial shopping Hades?
In the last gasp of conscientiousness I threw my last trump card – “I only have two Euros on me”. The latter was true since the rest consisted of large bills tightly held under my girth. Alas, my last bluff was easily called – “OK, mister. You pay me two now and I will collect the rest when you are back from lunch”. Entirely spent, I gave him my prised Euro coin in exchange for a copper bracelet of slightly more obscure value.
The transaction with an unauthorised person automatically raised the overall alert level, as only a few moments later I felt like a schoolboy in front of a stern teacher with Hassan reiterating his strong protective desire to keep us away from “bad people”. No matter the size of the transaction or a certain charitable value of the undertaking – Hassan had the last word. The memories of my distant communist past came flooding back – do as you are told!
I felt so sheepish and intimidated by Hassan’s protection services, that I even felt a tidal retreat of all charitable inclinations in the face of fear when passing by an apparently blind person selling postcards. Under any other circumstances, his postcards would have been snapped up but not now – since everybody around including my dear dictatorial half would not countenance any more attempts at insubordination.
Having obediently filed one by one, we entered a second floor restaurant that apparently catered exclusively to tour groups and occasional western “high” flyers. Feeling a little buoyed by the music accompaniment, courtesy of a local five man band, and colourful ambience imbued by the surrounding carpet extravaganza, I was determined to enjoy the meal whatever that might be. At that point I was ready to devour anything just not to offend Hassan and his business. Politely warned in advance that the only thing we needed to pay for were drinks, we proceeded to conserve precious water and its derivatives expecting a healthy bill regardless of the consumed paucity. The meal itself was actually very good and I can honestly say that Moroccan fares acquired new life on my repertoire. Lively conversation with fellow tourists from Connecticut, some local wine, a-la belly dancing with a sad absence of belles themselves, enigmatic and soulful musicians – all things contributed to my mental health. But all good things must come to an end – as after dolling out some modest tips to waiting staff and musical compliment we faced with yet another trip to less than tranquil streets.
Marching in goose step formation after intrepid Hassan and prodded in the rear by the faithful Mahmud, we filed past some truly local market scenes, the once that did not jump or demanded 900% mark-up of whatever on offer as an opening bid. Kasbah was just merely revealing more of its poverty stricken self by just pulling up a stage curtain just by a couple of inches. A rickety wooden horse driven cart filled to the brim with local oranges was treat as numerous balls of citrus crowded one another with leaves and branches intact; a bunch of old, well used and dirty nick knacks spread over plastic bags for quick sale; mounds of freshly minted sport shoes just piled in the middle of the street with the pavement serving as counter – everything was ripe for pictures, memories, compassion and pity. One could hardly stay emotionless, especially since not all of these surroundings were a part of elaborate sham wrought over by Hassan and his friends; this was real life with real people in it. Windows without glass, crumbling old walls, many a thin face and scores of small unschooled kids were all part of life here. I could not help but remember my home land that had managed to transform itself in the last fifteen years into a place much like this one, although with much of it hidden due to different cultural norms but just as dire as Kasbah.
Morocco - Flying Carpet Shop
Failing to fully appreciate various historical and cultural detail highlighted by Hassan mostly due to my reflective distractions and fresh troops of hawkers attacking us with a renewed sense of ferocity, we obediently entered the elaborate labyrinth of the local carpet shop slash AMWAY presentation centre. While the first floor of the establishment did not pose any ominous signs with habitual displays of artsy a-la Tourist shoes, swords, daggers and other gobbledygook, the second story presented a much less comfortable environment with uncovered white marble floors ridged with stacks, bunches and bundles of inescapable carpet creations behind less than tranquilising chairs that formed a perfect presentation circle for smooth salesmen of the East.
Before we could scream “help” our bodies were quickly arranged into two groups – Spanish and English all for some easy flailing. The glaring absence of German speaking help made me instantly think of Hassan. But he was nowhere to be found, he and Mahmud looked the other way – these people must be those “good people” Hassan had been talking about all this time. Oh well, let’s see what you have got…
The presentation was led by a very English-able man in his fifties, unseasonably dressed in a grey coat, suit and no tie – sort of Saddam style. He was lithe, quick and charming. His skills at describing the kaleidoscope of various carpet styles were unparalleled – Berber, Persian or Egyptian – I was getting my first full blown Carpet 101. I was masterfully learning incessant arrays of colours, patterns and most importantly knots – while some cheaper looking versions contained only a few thousand of these in each square meter, the best of the bunch got all the way to 200,000. Wow, my fingers were getting tired in compassion for tireless carpet makers. My nerves were getting tense at the prospect of taking one of this beauties home – VISA and DHL just stood by for our convenience. The effect was masterfully magnified by numerous and ready to pounce helpers with one of them playing a “whip the carpet” boy who just kept unfurling more and more samples at blitzing speed with necessary swooshes and bangs before letting its latest exemplar to settle on the clean white marble floor in a feather like descent.
I was feeling some heat under the collar with heat stroke becoming more of a possibility when at the close of presentation, my dear wife decided to take the extended invitation to ask questions seriously. At first standing in front of a middling rug with an initial price tag of $1,500 USD, she mercifully made a pronounced move to its lesser and smaller colleagues. It was not over yet though, especially when our sales-magician started flying his smaller and nimbler version in front of her. Luckily, they were miles apart on the price – she did not want to spend any more than $50 while his wares hardly ever dipped below $200. They parted like two ships in the ocean, each on its own course. The shop was emptying quickly with hardly anyone to show up on its doorstep until the next tour group – I even felt a little sad for Hassan, his carpet buddies and their dreams of a jackpot. At least they were stacked for every occasion – with the inventory to last for at least a couple of centuries. Given their likely mark-up, low rent and cheap help, “going out of business” sale was not just around the corner.
Having withstood the carpet charmers, I foolishly thought of a moment’s rest – instead we were to face our toughest challenge yet. You see, in the run up to the Amway carpet presentation, which promised perpetual bliss and solid value appreciation, Hassan needed to conserve our shopping juices to ensure a decent cut in case of a haul. Hence everything and everyone around was unworthy, uncouth and certainly very “bad”. Once through the presentation however, a magic transformation of character occurred in a blink of an eye – old “bad” people gathered like vultures around their prey, just waiting for the lions to finish their dinner. Once done with dessert Hassan/Mahmud combo had no objections and made no attempt to shield us from their pecks and scratches. Today with large felines going hungry, the open season on helpless tourists seemed to be especially promising.
An ornate plate of some bluish tinge and copper handiwork nearly smashed my forehead as soon as it cleared the door of the carpet establishment. Darting to the left my progress was arrested by a couple of ornamental daggers made out of some silvery compound. Doing a nifty pivot, I was about to escape only to be stuffed right in my face by a jalaba, some ornate shoes and armies of bangles. There was no escape in this very narrow alley of about six feet in width; it was time to let my shopping juices flow. And they did with the pavement thirsty for some good blood soaking.
“Mister, twenty five Euros for the plate”, “Mister, sixty five for nice woollen jalaba and thirty five for the other”, “Mister, this is a real deal”, Miss, what about these great shoes, just put them on, Berber handy work, only forty Euros – a real sacrifice”, “Look, look dagger, real silver, just fifty – no better deal around”.
The familiar feeling of dizziness was about to mount its attack when I heard “Mister, OK only ten Euros for the plate”. Ok, now we are talking as this shiny piece of undoubtedly suspect pottery suddenly felt comfortable on my mom’s shelf. I needed to buy her something anyway and this promised to be a possible solution. “Five Euros, final offer” I blurted. The next few seconds were a blur culminating with me holding the plate while my tireless seller was about to launch a renewed attack on my remaining finances. It looked as if once pierced, the vultures would just pour in. The deal surely demonstrated a chink in my armour, this in addition to the bracelet sale on the other side of the divide between “good” and “evil”. The rumours must have travelled fast and a podgy tourist in light shorts and “oh, Canada” shirt became the main target with some meat around the bones still left to peck.
Right in the middle of this vortex I heard a vaguely familiar voice “Mister, do you have my Euro?” This was my faithful bracelet seller who must have travelled blocks to collect his debt. Amazing! Credit works even here and now was my time to pay up. I sighed and let yet another Euro part…Voila.
Upon loud Tracy’s protestations regarding the apparent ugliness of the newly acquired plate, the selling pack made a quick deduction that she might be an even better target. Suddenly she got enveloped in a thick tornado cloud of shoes and scarves. Her apparent interest in ornate slippers revved up a little roar of frustration – nobody had needed slippers save for the lucky owner of the store across the alley. He had them in prodigious abundance and yet she managed to stand firm. Fortunately, he did not seem a bit perturbed quoting an amazingly audacious price of four Euros for a little white t-shirt with Morocco flag on it. It could not have cost him more than few cents and was “ugly” and “not to be worn by our child” type of ware, and yet he still wanted his mark-up. Interesting…
At the tail end of the shoe hunt one of the shopkeeper’s many cousins smelled a potential sale by barging in and offering a nice pair of slip-ons at a princely price of forty Euros. I was shooting for ten, which seemed too low for his “really traditional, hand made” wonders. Thirty was the lowest price he was willing to accede to. Much to our relief before I could start yet another round of exhausting bargains, Hassan indicated that now was the time to visit a traditional spice shop.
Spicy Funs and the rest of Kasbah
Again circling around the same tight streets, chased by the same hawkers and prodded from the rear by our old trusted Mahmud we piled into a nearly sterile coolness of a spice shop. The rest was just as predictable – white marble floors, stacks of wares along the walls and chairs ready for yet another sales presentation. Much like the flying carpet shop we were the only customers willing to subjugate themselves to traditional spices in this very “traditional” environment. The sales pitch was led a very funny scrawny little type probably in his early thirties who must have been Chris Rock’s little Moroccan cousin. He was phenomenally entertaining with his infectious smile, accent and artsy circular hand motions designed to assist in presentation of exotic spices. Teas, balms, creams, soaps – everything contained many magic powers over sleep, extra weight, tonus and, of course, male potency. Each product was passed around, touched, smelled and spread by his able-bodied assistant who also gave out regular shopping plastic bags for item pick up. If not careful one was bound to walk out of there loaded like a family after a $250 Save-On shop. This was easy since the price of each product was exactly four Euros save for some pungent soaps. Just like little cookies for health conscious – it is much easier to swallow in bits without looking at the total. Amazingly, they even offered discounts - three for two, four for three and so on.
I was thoroughly diverted by this rat-a-tat delivery and was ready for picking some grassy products once the cash register opened. Alas, unlike anybody outside, these guys did not bargain. I could hardly believe it, especially since nobody made any fuss about it. I guess paying four Euros at a time is much less painful than parting with $1,500 all at once. I suspected that the mark-up was still a generous one though. Trying to make some headway against the tide of the unnecessary expenses I could hardly take advantage of the usual three for two as these applied to like items only. My momentary captors must have felt little magnanimous and reduced their price by one happy Euro delivered in a stack of lesser coins bound together by scotch tape. I figure that locals did not like spending precious calories on carrying their coins around vastly preferring paper money.
Once again, back on the street we faced the same predictable results - more daggers, shoes and plates. The jalaba seller kept his tenuous pursuit with his price now hovering around the 20 Euro mark. Seeing my resolve to stay away at this level he made a last ditch attempt at 15, just as we were approaching a picturesque local mosque for an umpteenth time. I kept walking without paying a slightest attention to the elaborate arabesque carvings. The next thing I know is the ubiquitous jalaba literally flying in my face across the sidewalk with the word “ten” attached somewhere in its tail section. Unable to resist – I paid and departed for some momentary rest. Not to be, as the familiar “traditional” sleepers resurface once again, this time capturing its victim in its steely jaws at 20 Euros – “it is just a little charity” Tracy mused.
Precisely the charity I was running terribly short on. I figure that being 5’10’’, sort of overweight and greying is about as average as it gets. So when it came to Kasbah’s tolerance meter, the averages worked out just perfectly up to this point. Now the arrow was hitting the most extreme regions and I was about to get physical, as Hassan pulled us into the oasis of a local cliff hanging hotel with a view and ban on hawkers.
The place appeared like a magic ship in a middle of a stormy ocean. I loved everything – the view, great wide patio, coffee and a chance to find myself again. It took me at least fifteen minutes to slow down, at first words were coming out at about 200 per minute with no end in sight. Only after some soothing exchanges with fellow travellers and the hotel owner (who by the way turned out to be in Rick Steves’ book, which he duly signed for the Student) did I get a chance to feel slightly normal again. This was extremely welcome since about two hundred meters of Kasbah still separated us from our bus parked at the bottom of the street.
Imbued with renewed energy we managed to escape almost unscathed with only few minor purchases from predominantly under-aged sellers who should have been in school. The closer we got to the bus, the lower the prices. The last thing I heard was “Mister, crazy price – four for five Euros”. Now the call was for well-known bracelets and was a truly good deal but even this could not entice me to leave the bus one more time. Bye-bye Mahmud! Bye-bye Kasbah!
Now we started for the hills in search of a promised camel ride. Hassan rewound his trilingual tape and restarted his tour on life and habits of Tangier. The streets were teeming with local folk mightily increased by scores of school children on a break – prancing and dancing through the thick and chaotic traffic like pros. Being in school from 8AM to 5PM with a three hour break for six days a week is not a picnic and these kids knew how to use spare time – traffic or not, nothing could stop their progress.
Once outside the mayhem of the city centre we went along richer and hillier parts of town that boasted great mansions, ornate balconies and protective high fences with some featuring barbed wire and broken glass on top. Here amidst a lush green valley, we came upon the redoubts of ruling classes complete with private cricket and golf clubs, riding school and an English pet cemetery. Home is where your money is. Call it Tangiers, Delhi or Paris – only large enough amounts truly matter.
Into these richer city parts we discovered that this corner of Africa was labouring under the same property bubble that had taken real estate prices all around the world to new and unprecedented heights – new houses of various standards of luxury were constructed everywhere – solid brick construction, solid tile roofs and tons of marble. The only markers of the third world here was the pitiful state of sidewalks and landscaping of common property. Otherwise you could have been in San Diego or Santa Fe. Amid this newly found and certainly not cheap prosperity, that ran into hundreds of thousands of dollars, located the “ride the camel club” for less fortunate. Situated on some pre-boom derelict construction site with deformed bricks and bits of unclaimed concrete, the place certainly lacked an ambience. But for the price of one Euro per a Camel ride “what the hack I’ll take it”. Unfortunately, not all had the same train of thought since there was a price to pay even here – familiar bracelets, fez hats and other crap was ready for yet another kick at the can. Trying to shorten the experience to least possible amount of pain and after paying a whole Euro to some guy for clicking a picture with a shaggy young camel in focus we quickly jumped on a 20-second ride atop some fiercely exploited beasts. With pictures taken, we promptly rushed into the private confines of our bus - we felt a bit like Becks and Posh except they do it on a daily basis. Mostly intact minus a plush red fez we were ready to jump back on the ferry and head back to the peaceful and socialist paradise of the Spanish Kingdom. I like to have been here and I love not to have stayed.
Seville – Conception
There is no better way to recover from shopping excesses of Morocco than to step into a dreamy ambience of ancient Seville. Everything was just perfect about this place – relatively straightforward drive at times reaching 200 KMH, perfect spring weather, colourful people and Conception (pronounced Conthepthion). The latter was a highly recommended local tour guide if you can believe Rick Steves (easy driving through Andalucía hills my ass). This diminutive, pretty and expressive woman somewhere in her late thirties lived to her billing in spades. Her two-hour walking tour through the basics of Seville at ten Euro per was certainly a good start in our daily exploratory work here.
Connie, since nobody was brave enough to spell “Conthepthion” was very keen on local traditions and history, with music and dance being at the top of the hit parade. Sure, it is nice to mention obligatory Romans, Moors and Hapsburgs but when it really came to understanding the true soul of NODO (Knotted, Never too Far – Seville City Symbol) one had to plunge one level below the surface – Holy Week, Carnival and the mysterious art of flamenco. Visiting in the run-up to the Holy Week, the morning street mood seemed to be a little priggish with understated dress and pious church services in full swing. The celebration of the Holy Week is taken very seriously here, as sins are many and days are short – so full penitence is in order. Choirs, orchestras and well-built muscular people are in high demand. While the former seem prone to swapping a guitar for a trombone, the latter are much needed for carrying huge religious platforms that contain various Catholic symbols and weigh a tonne. Each parish and neighbourhood has its own platform, called “Paso”, to strut around for exculpation of sins. They all parade in a big city get-together for an ultimate try with God. While not sure of exact post-modern motivations, the tradition survives with much zest and sense of belonging much lacking in the free wheeling and individualistic North America. To witness the local ardour first hand, we even dropped on one local service in its last throes not only to encounter ancient local Madonnas but also smile at numerous young kids with some still in their carriages stuffed with obligatory bottles and soothers. These people still manage to preserve stuffy spirits of old despite being surrounded by new inventions. In fact some work for them very well, as witnessed first hand when we saw myriads of shiny CD disks hanging on the church façade – pigeons, the flying city rats, do not like them all that much apparently.
To counter a rare lack of indulgence in the course of the Holy Week, nothing works better than a full blown carnival. These folks do not even lay claims on frumpish pretensions, as with Pasos freshly stored for yet another year, they plunge off the precipice into the whirlwind of parties, dresses and wine. The carnival is a week-long feast, dance and reunion event that strides across all hours of the day for more than a whole week straight. Apparently, once the carnival ends many Spaniards prefer to embark on a real holiday to pamper their beat up and tighter suited bodies. The carnival is especially hard on a weaker sex as they are to wear the most elaborate, tightly fit and expensive dresses, shoes and other heavy artillery. Money is saved every year for yet another specially ordered flamenco dress pulling many hundreds of hard earned Euros. It does not end there with new shoes, head bands and jewellery. All this constitutes a healthy part of anybody’s budget. Repeating dresses from year to year is a balancing act of the first degree that cannot be replicated all too often. Fickle fashions keep everyone on their guard. Buying ready made dresses from the stores could be a major faux pas with many a double walking around. Moreover, a particular attention is paid to head coverings and fans, the art forms of their own that are sold in speciality boutiques along the Serpes Street (Snake Street), the shopping Mecca of the visitors and locals alike, with former preferring large brand name stores while the latter satisfy their needs at smaller and pricier personable establishments.
Where do these people really party? Apart from numerous and complex outdoor events put on by the city fathers, groups of friends usually hire a tent on the former fair grounds fully stocked with food and drinks to entertain, re-unite and re-acquaint. The number of such tents could run into hundreds posing little risk of boredom to anyone. Expectedly, most of waking hours are spent wandering, meeting, drinking and eating. Sleep is optional. This is a true tribute to human ability to endure. If you can do it in a truly Sevillian fashion, a Hawaiian Iron Man is just a piece of cake. To be honest, I was getting weary just hearing about it.
When my strength was about to expire, Connie switched into a second gear showing off culture, architecture and curiosities at rather fast clip. First, the city hall with its timely progression etched right into its façade. It was almost like a vertical version of archaeological excavations with the older side completely covered with almost incomprehensible baroque, while the opposite newer side aged only two hundred years revealed a hardly matching simple neo classical style. It seemed that nascence of neo classical style was as much due to changing taste as to changing economics since the best and brightest were seeking pleasure in devising things mechanical as opposed to doodling around exquisite artistic patterns. And voila – nobody to match the old façade while plenty to paint a blurry impressionist canvass or design a new shiny brass gadget…
Being a rather large modern European city, Seville is known for some things of surprising utility – enter the local garbage system. While most of us view garbage trucks as a part of life, nifty Sevillians did not share the same affinity. Their narrow streets and sheer volume of tourist traffic demanded a totally different solution that came packaged as grey and stout street disposal columns looking sort of business like and serious just as an English mail box. No wonder that many a tourist mistake this vacuum driven central collection system for a friendly reminder to drop a postcard. Alas, instead of fast post delivery these end up at the garbage dump – the ultimate Spanish revenge for the infamy of Armada at the hands of the indomitable Sir Drake.
Seville would never be what it is without its evocative, humongous and a little haphazard Cathedral. That’s where we spent much of our time. Inevitably, the ubiquitous Moors came back into the picture with their crafty hands and flexible minds designing still standing walls of a huge mosque that could have been the largest in the world at the time of its construction. Of course, as it is well known, the Moors did not survive and ceded possessions to the advancing Christian re-conquistadors, leaving the mosque to the mercy of the victors, plus a huge tower and a whole bunch of other valuables.
After destroying the mosque to build a huge cathedral in its place, the new rulers of Seville decided to keep the tower crowing it with additional stories and a bronze statue of Geraldine (turning kind of girl) well equipped with numerous Christian symbols. The tower certainly gives a shot in the arm to the already amazingly large Cathedral in its quest for notoriety – exactly fitting the original patterns, the ones set by its first builders who wanted to be known as Madmen for their audacity to erect anything this monumental. The Cathedral Square does not hurt either with its inordinate triangular shape resting its base at the lavish baroque edifice belonging to the local cardinal. The palace, that despite its obvious charms, still poses as a private residence unattainable for politically disconnected. The monastery on the opposite side of the Square does provide for some tourist relief however since it contains a peculiar pastry shop designed to raise funds for starving nuns. When walking into this realm of privacy and seclusion, we found a price list posted on the wall alongside a turnstile that precluded anyone from checking out personal charms of local inhabitants. You simply put money on the turnstile, it turns and spits out your order – I guess nuns try to avoid any notion of bad customer service rap – the service is super uniform – Wal-Mart should take a note. Availing ourselves of the most affordable on the their menu, we walked out with a bag full of bland offering cuts – much carbs and all for me since Tracy and Tanya would have none of it. I hope that their sombre diet mood was dispelled by majestic Mozart diffused by a full scale and yet portable grand piano on wheels with its owner mostly pressing the right keys thus imbuing the ancient walls with an artful spirit.
Further we went around the so called Jewish district that was no Jewish district at all since it was constructed for the Fair of 1929 in the “Faux Juifs” fashion to impress meagre visitors about to be hit with the stock market collapse and ensuing depression. Yes, Jews did live in this part of town but they were long gone in 1929. Well, not to worry, the architects of the brave 20th century decided to resurrect the quaint nature and names associated with charms of old Seville. These charms survive amazingly well to this day with tourists and locals mixing in one happy harmony of almost perpetual party save for frumpishness of the Holy Week. The place is so amazing that even the surrounding tourist hordes do not spoil it - all is acceptable in this cauldron of bliss!
Seville –Columbus and the Gold
Parting with Connie after a pleasant promenade along the walls of Alcazar (King’s Palace) was a bit sad and certainly useful as she hooked us up with one of the best and yet cheapest flamenco treats around plus a couple of other useful tips to boot. One of this was used after the conclusion of an exhaustive Cathedral visit – a delightful rooftop café looking out straight at the Cathedral, hidden and nearly denuded of customers despite unrivalled views. Coffee, sun and rooftop pool could not have come handier for a midday respite. But before it was attempted, the Cathedral entertained our senses for quite some time. Predictably dark, imposing and hollow, this huge skeleton of Gothic art presents a daunting task to any visitor. Innumerable chez d’ouvre of art stared from everywhere and anywhere, precious frescos and evocative biblical scenes were dime a dozen, intricate silver implements were cheaper than coke and gold was so plentiful that one was liable to leave the place irrevocably blind. However, nothing was as perilous as the centre altar that not even the imposing weight and marble of the Christopher Columbus grave could compete with.
The incredible golden masterpiece was so massive, and yet light and elusive with the most intricate details demand the opposite of concentration if one were to survive the experience. Contrary to Grockel logic, one needs to exhale, relax and lose all focus in order to really enjoy the moment. Just like playing golf. In fact, take few minutes and sit down on a pew, feel the weight of your heavy legs and just soak up the golden glare invading all five senses. Only in this fashion you can appreciate the altar experience without going exhausted and blind.
After the elevating experience of the golden paradise we moved to things yet even more elevated – the Cathedral tower. Despite its lofty heights swirling above the whole city, ascend did not seem to be tiring at all. Much of the ease was due to the originality of none other than the crafty Moors who with a great deal of foresight installed gently slopping ramps instead of stairs. The original recipients of this ingenuity were numerous muezzins that had to climb to the top of the tower for a prayer call on no less than five daily occasions. Our trip up took us around the perimeter of the structure at least ten times, each time showing ever more soaring views from four different perspectives. The cameras were going into overdrive, God bless digital technology! The view from the top was the most exhilarating with the sounds of Mozart flowing up from the square below.
Since Rick Steves puts the Cathedral at four stars on his attraction grid, the three stars allotted to the Alcazar did not seem all that attractive and yet we decided to give it a shot especially since it threatened to soon disappear for yet another day in the beautiful and unseasonably warm sunset.
The entrance into place did not really spell out the whole story neither did Rick’s rating. Once inside though, its sombre rooms were breathing with refreshing winds of history reviving old acquaintances with Isabella, Ferdinand, Phillip and Christopher – i.e. all that is important in medieval Spanish history. One particular room was of a particular interest since its heavily purple veiled walls still carried memories of the first audience between Columbus and his benefactress, Queen Isabella. The stories of new world, its riches and wonders were so powerful, consequential and yet private that even today the military guards mill about to protect this shroud of mystery with “No Flash” interdictions.
The deeper inside the palace we went, the more we marvelled at its first rate “Mudejar” art. What is it? Well, after the successful re-conquest Christian queens and kings were not all that adverse to appreciation of vanquished Moorish art. They liked it so much that for many years and centuries whence they persisted in hiring highly skilled Arab labourers for construction of their palaces, castles and even cathedrals. As a result, many a miracle of architectural art following the re-conquest is hard to distinguish from its earlier cousins. To an untrained eye it all looks exactly the same save for slight differences in imaginary, as Islam frowned on exposition of any living creature. Christians were not as fussy.
When walking around some parts of the Alcazar we couldn’t avoid thinking of Alhambra, which is considered the true apogee of late Moorish style. To me Alcazar looked just as inspiring, mysterious and thrilling. The echoes of years past were still lurking around here. Maybe they should keep it until late evening to get a bigger effect just like in Granada?
The pleasant surprises did not stop there when we stepped into the park behind. To our complete astonishment it was a huge, sprawling and very artistically landscaped with exotic plants, trees and stones resting around and along curvy paths, ancient fountains, pavilions and galleries. I just collapsed on a cold marble fountain slab to stare into the limitless sky framed by green baroque tops of encircling Lebanon cedars. All of this lusciousness hid behind the ancient walls making it difficult for a mere mortal to partake unless you pay a 7 Euro fee or something heavier if you happen to plan something more substantial such as a wedding reception. That Saturday was no exception as tables were being set for yet another celebratory soiree. We desperately wanted to join had it not been for an appointment with local flamenco pros.
Seville - Flamenco
On the way to the concert location, lost somewhere in the narrow and twisted alleys of the Jewish quarter, we got a chance to cool our hills at the Cathedral Square for few more moments to decide on the next tapa bar to hit. Watching the Cathedral Square in the course of one day is a great opportunity to appreciate different colours of this amazing city. Exceedingly touristy morning hours turned into a more local scene by early afternoon with a whole group of similarly dressed women welcoming a visit by their favourite singer with a serenade of their own. A very entertaining scene as even impromptu friendly curb art turned into a really well done performance at the hands of musically skilful Spaniards. We were elated to catch a glimpse of the star, especially since I was the one spotting a nearly lost pair of glasses that fell from the Diva herself. Now, at dusk the scene was turning decidedly traditional with one luxury car after another ushering yet another wedding procession complete with necessary “suegras” – mothers of the groom.
These are indispensable to any Spanish wedding that do not typically exhibit bridesmaids and groomsmen as main fixtures. Instead key roles are played by suegras and brides’ fathers with the former taking the front seat with their unmistakable “montons” on their heads. These crown-like head contraptions are taken extremely seriously and probably compete with brides’ dresses for attention of numerous guests and onlookers. The ageing suegras’ effect adds to the overall flavour. Instead of marrying for love and hope in the early twenties, modern Spaniards postpone their vows till their mid thirties to alleviate modern economic tides. Men stay with their mothers until at least their first grey hair or a bold spot. The Square scene was in total accord with the times, as limping and bent suegras were at last tearfully getting rid of their slightly overweight and more than ripe sons - away into the clutches of matrimony!
Eventually, we arrived to the pinnacle event of our Seville trip – the flamenco concert. This one took place in a traditional white painted two-story courtyard with plethora of ivy branches spilling over surrounding balconies like verdant waterfalls. The stage was set up right into the middle of the courtyard with three rows of chairs encircling it around from three sides. No beer, refreshments, black caviar or ties – only fiery explosion of flamenco.
Being the late birds due to our inability to quickly pass by yet another attractive tapa bar, whose waiters employed chalk on counters instead of paper and pens, was the culprit. You see, an amazing seafood tapa salad almost managed to capture my attention for the rest of the night had it not been for my more musically inclined companions. Consequently, we managed to get only a set of third row seats resulting in constant neck-craning in order to get a better view. Bucking the trend, I traded my padded seat for a cold stone of the staircase while Tracy and Tanya were left to consume creative charms on their own.
At first, a pair consisting of a guitarist and a singer ascended the stage for a warm-up act. Surprisingly Viking looking guitarist hardly spoiled authenticity of amazing flamenco vocals that seemed to arrive straight from the depth of the singer’s soul. Typically delivered sitting, this vocal art is truly mesmerising with the deepest cries of the heart connecting and penetrating anyone and anything around. The songs of unrequited love, broken homes and hardships of life reflect not only present but the past with its glory and infamy side by side.
While I thought that flamenco signing was a certain highlight, the real connoisseurs immensely preferred the dance. The first act up was so called Luna (Moon in Ingles) in her traditional striking black and red flowing frills with some modern tinge of denim, with a flawless tightly combed hairdo and amazingly attractive features that just breathed Andalucía. If I had ever tried to envision a perfect flamenco danseuse it would have been Luna. Perfectly timed and executed turns, expressive hand routine and echoes of tapped rhythms reverberated as anything timeless.
All men in the auditorium smitten, women were still waiting for their turn with Oscar, an all black dressed male specimen biding his time in passionate flamenco clapping. I personally doubted that a single male flamenco dance could be nearly as evocative as one performed by a representative of the weaker sex, especially so skilled and unforgettable as Luna. Well, Oscar came awfully close and according to some was even better, as he managed to captivate the entire female audience with his unswerving stare that penetrated deeply and irrevocably. The real trick was Oscar’s ability to frantically tap, swirl and twirl in a completely detached fashion vis-à-vis his upper body. In fact, it was almost like having two people dance at the same time. One showed only his legs and the other only the upper torso. Quite amazing actually! Women have one slight disadvantage here though, as dress frills conceal some of the same technique. For men though there is less room for a mistake, but much bigger upside with audiences going wild. Oscar used his advantage to a tee with his legs and feet in incessant barrage of moves, with completely still chest seemed chained in forces of gravity and passion. His hands occasionally moving in a vertical upward motion were tagging edges of his loosely hanging shirt a bit too sensually for Anglo-Saxon sensibilities as women spectators were going wild. This and his fiery stare caused the utmost stir and was an object of much discussion few days following. I am still working on a rebuttal. A diet might help…
WE LOVE CADIZ
The last day at the Costa del Luz was looking somewhat lazy and even relaxing – imagine that! A side trip to Cadiz did not seem all that exciting. Rick hardly mentioned it and even more inclusive Lonely Planet skipped on everything but some basic facts including its Roman origins, obligatory Moors and of course Columbus whose first trip had much to do with this place – fundraising, ship building etc. So not expecting all that much, we departed on a short 15 minute trip to the other side of the harbour. Located at the end of a narrow and long peninsula, the city reminds many of a huge ship just about to weigh anchor and plunge into the endless freedom of the ocean. By the way I stole this metaphor from yet another touristy pretence at writing…
Located on a narrow strip with the main street in the middle, anything in the city is hardly ever more than a couple of blocks from the water. For the first couple of kilometres there were just local shops, apartment blocks and other stalwarts of the mundane. The only relief, lulling in the endless and welcoming early spring sunrays were the profoundly blue waters of the Atlantic. We could not resist and turned into much slower but livelier ocean promenade. For a moment we thought that all that Cadiz was sun, ocean and modern non-descript apartment blocks. Pleasant but nothing too eccentric...
And here we happened upon first glimpses of the old Cadiz encircled by old Moorish walls. The apartment blocks suddenly blossomed into much more medieval edifices – cracked, peeled and leaning. Slightly derelict but brimming with tales of glorious past – ancient trade routes, New World expeditions and Roman every day life was passing right before our eyes. This medieval oasis seemed hardly touched by waves of modern tourism – the pleasant sunny day was being enjoyed exclusively by the locals. The local tourist office was far from overflowing with just one lady to provide basic advice. “See this”, “see that” – this park and that promenade – the whole story was dished out in about two minutes with a free map to boot – incredible efficiency!
The old town core was actually quite larger than one would expect, primarily reflecting the importance of its ancient trading harbour, commercial fishing traditions and other aspects of life that made Cadiz a big deal few centuries ago. A few steps from the tourist office and you are staring at the well preserved ruins of a Roman Amphitheatre. A great opportunity to do a bit of climbing, reading is mostly optional as it is exclusively in Spanish - another sign of relative safety from the international tourism. Right across the street a steep embankment wall - this was a great boon for local fishermen and strollers alike. We could not resist baking in the sun, mingling with locals enjoying life after edifications of the Sunday mass conducted in many city churches and Cathedral. To addition to numerous pious establishments, many cafes and restaurants were on stand-by to prey on sharpened appetites in weeks preceding harsh nutritional regiments of the Holy Week and Lent. One such establishment turned out to be a real jewel. A propos called “Bocadillos” (little bites or sandwiches) this lively vendor of a myriad of little sandwiches was in no want of customers. The most difficult decision to make was to choose one of at least forty varieties, the price, on the other hand was not an issue, as every sandwich was priced as in uniform fashion as Moroccan spices – one Euro each. Piling up on a few each did not completely extinguish our appetite after the delightful morsels just melted in our mouths leaving room for more. The plans for a new Vancouver franchise were being hatched as we chewed. We could not get out of the delicious loop of dreams, tastes and new orders. We wanted to move on but lingering around heavenly sandwiches felt so much more natural and rewarding. Finally we were able to tear ourselves back to reality of the Cathedral Square that was filling up with groups consisting mostly of dressed-up men heading in the same direction, peculiarly.
Not really giving much thought to the procession, we just followed along increasingly narrow and crowded streets. Suddenly, as the street we were on was just about to widen in yet another city square, the traffic jammed. A real pandemonium was taking place, as people were converging from all directions – dressed up as basketball players, housewives, fishermen and villains. They were of all imaginable ages, sizes and almost exclusively male. Most were proceeding in groups, while some were taking their jovial appearances in individual slices. One group, dressed as housewives stopped right at the edge of the square to entertain multitudes of much delighted onlookers with very humorous and sonorous vocal creations. The art was extremely well delivered with intricate interplay of voices, postures and costumes. The effect was mesmerising, and most of all unexpected, for us anyway. We surely were caught up in the moment, even forgetting our Vancouver Bocadillo franchise that was not an easy feat.
This was a local Sunday carnival that was not even mentioned in the tourist office and yet it was superb. It unquestionably became the most delightful impromptu of the whole trip. Teeming crowds of cheerful spectators, gifted performers and abundance of seafood offerings was just phenomenal. Some enterprising fishermen put up a stand right in the middle of the square to sell the fruits of their early morning labour – oysters, crabs and sea urchins. The latter seemed to be very popular and simple to consume – just hack it in half, squeeze some lemon and swallow. The key word is “swallow” as chewing will leave you with inexorable fish odour for the rest of the day. Predictably, I was the only of the group to yield my senses to this suspicious delicacy.
The signing and performing groups were just groups of friends getting together to entertain, be entertained and enjoy the season before the Holy Week. I guess unlike Sevillians these guys could not wait for another three weeks to start their carnival. The impetuous and freedom loving fishermen spirit neglected all necessary decorum imposed by more affluent customs of their northern counterparts. The joie-de-vivre reined here to the fullest. Our number one pick of the day was a group of teenage kids dressed up as a band of marauding ruffians, jolly chimney cleaners or cheerful farmhands – whatever one prefers. The ragged, torn jackets and pants, splintered straw hats and dirt smudged faces provided the perfect guise for their superb operetta performance. Cigarettes dangling, arms flailing, feet tapping and smiles all over made for an incredible background for their serenading voices dishing out the latest town love gossips. All seemed flawless and professional. And they probably were just a bunch of high school kids. Dazzling! Tracy was so taken up by the inspiringly light-hearted performance that instead of filming the precocious wunderkinds, she mostly managed to catch someone’s bottom giggling to the joys of newly found local talents. Instead of wasting his time in LA, Simon should find his idols here – it might be a first really useful thing he has ever done in his miserable British life.
After attending the carnival, the whole world seemed to be agreeable and tinged with blue and rose colours. All was delightful, full of life and extremely diverting – thickly attended beaches; kids playing soccer with skills matching those of Beckham and Ronaldo; old fort connected by a narrow stone walkway with the land; beer guzzling and urchin chewing families; meticulously landscaped local parks; and of course squares; these welcoming, warm and light hearted places always look for ways to party amidst old trees, cobblestones and medieval facades. The pleasures of life and travel appeared to be timeless and endless in this little known jewel of Andalucía. WE LOVE CADIZ!
Christopher’s Port
We decided to partake in our last dinner in the historic Puerto Santa Maria – the point of Columbus’s departure on his first voyage to “India”. As India did not materialise, Columbus had to settle for the New World just proving that things do not always turn out the way one expects. We followed the trend with failing to discover anything in Puerto Santa Maria that could even remotely match Cadiz. Surely, there was a nicely preserved fortress that bespoke of Christopher’s adventures and a plethora of winery looking establishments ready to dish our any type of Jerez one could ever want. But the overall feel of the place betrayed a certain degree of misery and difficult economic conditions that did not translate into a very memorable visit. Even an oversized Plaza del Toros with a statute of a bull with oversized testicles did not tickle. And an ancient twelfth century gothic marvel of a church failed to inspire. And this is despite a whole bevy of full sized storks actually occupying the whole roof as their living quarters. I do not usually feel all that comfortable even with the least threatening of bird species. The prospect to having fifty pound beasts swirling right overhead did not make for a very cuddly atmosphere. I was desperately longing to find shelter in the local instalment of “Romerijos”, a well-known seafood restaurant chain.
We were gearing up for a feast, as the befuddling restaurant set up slightly alerted our mood. The place was actually split into at least three parts – one for anything boiled, the other for anything fried and yet another for a bar service with seafood tapa creations. The rather suspect bright ambience resembling industrial assembly line of a large China town dim sum eatery did not imbue much confidence especially to Tanya, a well known fish “connoisseur” who loves all things fishy so much that had it been for her the whole fishing industry would been defunct long ago.
The ordering procedure here was a little discombobulating too. First, we had to choose from in at least twenty different sea creatures. Heck, squid and others were ready for a dunk in a cauldron of oil. Barely managing to make sense of some offerings we made a choice. Then picking up a table in the next room we ordered drinks in the very solemn surroundings of an early Sunday dinner. Not a single Spaniard was on hand to alleviate the sterile experience. The dinner arrival took a long time and not until I picked it up myself wrapped in the paper bags. Turned out that the deep fried section does not really communicate with the tapa bar help and customers are left to their own devices to improvise. Luckily my appetite made a quick decision; otherwise we would have been seeping wine for the rest of the night with our morsels of calamari sunbathing in the ceiling flood lights. While I felt pretty good about my picks Tanya had to settle for very little desperately wishing for a big juicy steak. Tracy fell, as always, somewhere in the middle between us two. Local stop in MacDonald’s was inevitable just to make it through the night. Sorry Andalucía for this disrespectful parting gesture! Hopefully see you again!
And now, we have a third group that takes the notion of travel literally – if you are not physically exhausted and mentally frazzled by the end of your trip, you have not had a good trip. This colourful group, Grockels (British for clueless tourists), tends to do things in hard ways - they have regrets, phobias and disturbed sleep. Anything missed plunges them in an utter sense of despair, even if it has to do with an artefact or a ruin that closely resembles multitudes of others, already thoroughly inspected, documented and filed. You see Romans intended to build a vast of majority of their amphitheatres for one purpose only – entertainment. Being a very pragmatic bunch, they built them in a similar utilitarian style with only minor differences that have been surely erased by centuries of gusty winds and ruthless degradation. Having seen a couple, a sensible representative from the second touring echelon can safely conclude that seeing any more of these would only be interesting from, let’s say, a landscaping perspective. Not so with Grockels who perpetually feel compelled to touch, scrape and prod. They are short on visualisation and long on time management. Time cannot slip by, it has to be used and used in the most productive fashion that denies existence of contemporary contemplation and modern creativity. All that is noble can only be found in the dust of centuries, where even the most ordinary becomes magic worthy of enriching our present condition of thirsting for divine.
As one might have guessed, our little family and some friends are the firm members of the Grockel group. We always agree that a meaningful amount of contemplation mixed with right amount of travel is the sanest way to go. And yet whenever we embark on each new discovery, we inevitably get pulled in the tight ranks of pure frazzled sods. We do not like admitting it, we struggle and deny, but ultimately the pull is insurmountable – this vortex consumes us all. No more highlighted tour book pages and carefully researched routes, all is grabbed and thrown in – Rick Steves, Lonely Planet and myriad of many a colourful page are mixed, mashed and spat out in one continuous marathon of sites, people and food. Welcome to the quick and easy Spain (also featuring: Morocco, Gibraltar and Portugal) travel guide for the inadequate.
Lufthansa – the Friendly Skies
The outgoing travel did not promise to be anything unusual, especially since we were counting on the seasoned punctuality of Lufthansa, long renowned as anything German for its precision and timeliness. Not exactly as it turned out – swallowing communist bits of the East must not have been so easy for my beer drinking friends, consequently throwing much in the way of stout national pride out of the window to give way to a looser kind of discipline that bows to nature and gasoline prices, much like any other mortal product of the globalized economy. This time a blasted winter storm managed to blanket Frankfurt in snow that posed as the official reason for the delay of our flight from Portland to the Old World.
Not yet realising the full extent of impending difficulties we still managed to cheerfully suffer the stifling effects of airline seats, ones you hate even after a couple of hours let alone ten. Once closer to Frankfurt we realised that plague that beset many a traveler schedule passing through Frankfurt was really a dragon with numerous heads to slay. First there was snow followed by a traffic jam of a celestial kind with tens of planes, large and small, polluting the environment and cruising in the endless desperation of “holding patterns” trying to sneak into a tiny hole otherwise known as a landing strip. Then there was an “apron” arrival that, instead of seeing us walking right into the terminal with our heads high, strung our worn out nerves and numb limbs through an exercise of less than personal bus delivery that easily took another thirty minutes of our precious time. Once inside we encountered yet another less than personal and not very well coordinated hurdle in the huge maze of ant like humanity – passport control. It all would have not been so bad, had it not been for treacherous “Non EU Nationals” signs, the signs that promptly assigned us to the back seat of the bus. Rosa Parks, where are you?
Undeterred and feeling German, I collided at full speed with one true Teutonic institution that has so far survived vagaries of the markets – a German Customs Officer. Who cares about missed connections, kneeling obsequiousness and the state of national health care when rules are on the line? Our hopes were dashed into a myriad of invisible pieces when a proud and seemingly underemployed descendant of great Kaisers refused to grant an exception by uttering a simple and dreadful “Nein”, sending us back to the hopeless sea of stragglers – sighing, sweating and fidgeting – just like locusts in a tightly corked bottle.
At last, we burst through the border with renewed hope, much needed to supplement our energy in order to gallop through various terminals to our next flight. It is sometimes hard to believe what your body is capable of unless you put it to some obscure test. Nothing works better than a 2AM mad run in full dress and carry-on bags in tow. All you need is just ten minutes of this to truly assess one’s physical condition. We managed to get a comprehensive test, dashing, zigzagging, tackling and avoiding. Also, we had to navigate treacherous moving sidewalks replete with parked grandmas and young families with strollers. These were even more dangerous for fast moving public here since many were puzzlingly equipped with narrow metal entry gates – the enemy of many a belated consumer of affordable airline services.
All in vain, as it turned out – the market driven modern airline industry could not wait any longer for some of its last stragglers and shut the doors. Our frustration was flammable. Fortunately, the next flight to Madrid was promised in a mere two hours whence plus a 30 Euro food certificate, which was promptly consumed at the next cafeteria stand that featured bread oriented sandwiches, decent coffee and fantastic yogurt that can only be found in Germanic countries. Totally exhausted and sleep deprived, we struggled onto the plane for Madrid, one hour late of course. Alas, this was not the end of our troubles for the day. Since Madrid was not our final destination of the day, we had to plan forward in order to arrive in Seville early enough to rent a car. Otherwise we would be in a bit of trouble.
So once off the plane, we thanked the Lord for our luggage arriving intact and sleep-ran to the nearest taxi stand. In a couple of minutes we were on our way to Antocha Railway Station. The proximity of Latin culture, bright sunshine and tailgating at 130KMH sharpened our senses pretty quick. It was definitely a welcome transformation since we had only about half an hour to catch our train.
At the ticket office we were relieved to find out that our latest efforts paid off – three, presumably return, tickets known in Spanish as “Ida y Vuelta” at a price of 105E each happily delivered us into comfortable seats of the express train bound for Seville. Since the price paid corresponded to my previously obtained information regarding return tickets, I did not kick up any fuss, especially since the ticket office clerk assured me of their most affordable qualities. Luckily with our disappointment more than eleven days away, we blissfully settled in to partake in the very fast and soothing ride, outfitted with free newspapers, lunch, duty free offerings, a movie and fantastic scenery rushing by at close to 300 KMH.
Predictably, the train carried all sorts of folk, which made for an excellent opportunity to do some people watching. A number of hard travelling Japanese with their polite smiles, electronic gadgetry and clueless looks clung tightly to their Spanish speaking travel guide. A well-dressed young Spanish lawyer with sharp Andalucian and slightly tired looks was returning to his southern home after a hectic business trip to the capital. A couple of business folks, across the table, were thoroughly engaged into their business dealings accentuated by frequent cell communications and clicking off the computer keys with its screen stuck right into my face – my face felt slightly square.
An American pair from the strange state of Utah could hardly contain their excitement – he was returning after many years in the Mormon kingdom and she was hanging on for dear life trying to adjust to this strange culture of paella, Jerez and cigarette smoke. After a short exchange he actually turned out to have some Canadian roots and had even betrayed some Gretzky like squeaky vocal intonations, which reminded us of our sweet and unadulterated home… But we were juts 24 hours into our small adventure and did not need any of that home sickness – bring on the wine, cathedrals, cigarettes and galleries!
Haguar ( Spanish Jaguar)
The train ride surely lived up to its billing and arrived in Seville right on the dot. Luckily, finding our car rental agency in this surprisingly large city was a piece of cake. Crown Car rental did not seem to be anything great but managed to offer cheapest automatic rides around, beating those of Hertz and Alamo by a mile. Actually, I did not actually book with the locals directly; instead I resorted to the services of the Internet based broker – Car Jet. Initially, I was a little apprehensive about doing that but my troubles were quickly dissolved by prompt service and a nonchalant statement that the only automatic car on the lot that day was going to be none other than nearly brand new 2006 Jaguar 2.7 Diesel. We could hardly believe our luck, especially since we were getting it for the price of a Renault at 315 EURO for eleven days plus a full tank of gas. The latter, strangely enough, was charged in advance, as we were to return it empty contrary to typical North American standards - a small little quark that gave us some excitement eleven days later.
For now though, we settled in the sparkling cream colour beast that easily swallowed out luggage in its ample trunk and revved up in expectations for a fast ride. My first few minutes inside this technological marvel were spent in trying to adjust to the spaceship features of my new ride. Eventually, having managed to move the driver seat into a take-off position, we departed weaving through the double park maze of neighbouring streets. These signs forebode the sad reality - our car marvel was a tad too large for some of the locales we were to visit in the next few days. For now after a three hour drive to Seattle, one hour flight to Portland, three hour Pacific Northwest layover, ten hours to Frankfurt, three hours of additional wait in Frankfurt, two hour flight to Madrid, and three hour train ride to Seville all we wanted to do was to drive towards our eventual destination – city of Cadiz, some 120 kilometres away from Seville. With no knowledge of the native highway system, no detailed driving map and possessing just a brief Internet print-out of our route, we plunged into the madness of the carnival that is Latin driving. After few uncertain stops and starts, much to our joy we located directions to Cadiz due to a myriad of roadway signs, which were inevitably followed by many twists and turns through the narrow and congested streets on our way to the south. Cadiz turned out to be quite a popular destination here, as not only signs but even roadways themselves carried their share of its name in giant letters, forget about Rome, ALL ROADS LEAD TO CADIZ. Things were going great, and soon after putting a wide turn in a busy roundabout by the local football stadium, we entered the four lane highway that promised a soon delivery to Cadiz at mere 110 KM away. Things seemed to be going just great…
Beware of Road Signs
Suddenly, driving at nearly prohibitive 140KMH we noticed a curious sign that promised another route to Cadiz and was marked N-IV in red lettering. Remembering that my Internet directions mentioned this very road I suggested a turn.
“We’d better stick to the direction” blissfully led us to the presumed the “shortcut”. Before turning, the last distance sign to Cadiz we saw was 109 KM. Suspiciously, after driving for a couple of minutes along a windy two-lane road we ran into a very puzzling marker of 130 KM, had we been driving backwards? The two-lane highway kept promising more speed, less trucks and buses with distance to Cadiz falling at a rather uncertain and painfully slow pace. Falling darkness, windy conditions and huge bull statues (Bull-boards as per Rick Steves) that peppered the landscape like ghostly giant windmills were slowing us down even further. About 50 KM into this N-IV adventure we had to concede that a mistake had been made, the mistake we could hardly correct without a proper map. On one occasion we attempted a turn that nearly ended our drive on a dirt road to nowhere. Almost two hours into the ride we reached the famed wine town of Jerez de la Frontera. The goal was in sight. The city of Cadiz was only twenty minutes away – away from dingy apartment blocks and clogged streets of the booze capital. The hated marker of N-IV was becoming friendlier again, as it inexorably led us to Cadiz.
Inexplicably, we did not feel any particular joy entering the brightly lit streets of the city. Something was bothering and gnawing at me, as I kept mentally reverting to my e-mails from our host Javier who was still waiting for us at the apartment.
“Just pull and ask” usually disdainful of external assistance, Tracy was getting my vibes.
My stomach felt sharp and nefarious tinges of cold when I found my informants in the form of some friendly local youth. It took me only a moment to realise that we had overshot Cadiz-Puerto Santa Maria by about 30 KM. The less than descriptive tour guide maps of Spain we had did not do much justice, as a tiny dot on the Costa del Luz was turning into a disastrously large metropolitan headache.
“I just hope that Javier, our last hope for a night’s sleep is still waiting” the thought I did not dare to share with my companions.
Add another twenty five minutes and we were arriving at the newest part of Puerto Santa Maria – Valdegrama beach that turned out to be a nice wide sandy beach, approximately one mile in length that was beset by a plethora of non-descript white hi-rises that housed thousands of beach lovers in season and were pretty dead on this cool night of March the sixth. The main drag of the place featured just a handful of restaurants with more help than patrons and hardly anyone to direct me to the right building. After some tortured explanations at the local English pub and at a couple of more traditional venues, I eventually found my way to the seaside building that featured Javier patiently waiting in his diminutive red car. The hour of our royal arrival had finally arrived. In fact, I nearly missed his presence on the nearly deserted beach drive had it been not for his vigilance. 210 Euros were on the line for him after all.
Home Sweet Home
Javier turned out to be a tall man with a largish aquiline nose in his early fifties. He was very friendly and mostly unilingual, which we would have given me much pleasure in any other circumstances but these. Now I had to translate from one foreign language into another without knowing exactly which planet I was on. After going through with few dry runs at opening each new door in order to make sure that Javier would not be called back in the middle of the night for some trifling reason, we stepped into the place with the highest of hopes. Oh, horror! Instead of three bedrooms it sported only one, a tiny one at that plus an ample deck that seemed a little chilly to sleep on. For an average person, such setback could be just all it really was, a trifle, but for my insomniac habits on the top of torturous travel it was nearly a total disaster. I HATE CADIZ!
It turned out that somewhere in the thick of our communications Javier decided that since our party boasted only three participants, we would only need three BEDS instead of three BEDROOMS. In desperation I pulled out my copy of his Internet ad that featured precisely the latter. YES or SI to be exact, that one was still available, except it had not been cleaned since last vacated. Amazingly, the price of 210 E per week had not budged either. My hopes were surging back save for the very last obstacle – Tanya and Tracy. The key words for this fearless tandem were NOT CLEANED and not THREE BEDROOMS. Luckily, Javier was only too happy to drive us to this other place just a few hundred yards away for a midnight inspection. This went reasonably well, and being twice as large with three bedrooms it managed to outweigh the offering despite extra dust on the floor and counters. Thirty five hours later – home, sweet home at last!
Vasos Plasticos
Our first European sunrise found us slightly rested and certainly restless for an Iberian adventure. But first things first, especially in the middle of a bout with a nasty jetlag – coffee and pastries, with a twist of course. You see, while major metropolitan European centers have bowed down to the beast of globalisation and allowed adulteration of some key aspects of culture by convenience and large sizes. Consequently, Starbucks, MacDonald’s or Dunkin Donuts could be easily found in Paris, Madrid and London alike.
Luckily for some diggers of authenticity, smaller places such as Valdegrama had not yet entered the civilisation so to speak. Alas, this scenario came with its own drawbacks as we did not relish a chance to sit around a smoky bar, away from the brilliant morning sunshine, just to savour a really well made cup of coffee. So we had to improvise – still partaking in dainty cava while managing to do it on the go. Much to our delight and after a couple of minutes of my tortured Spanish syntax, a waiter produced a small stack of plastic juice cups that served the purpose without much offence to the locals. VASOS PLASTICOS instantly became the code word of our journey. In fact, my daily appearances at the bar were treated with familiar derisive smiles and an order of COFFEE CON LECHE EN VASOS PLASTICOS. This daily routine nearly managed to single-handedly exhaust the entire local supply of plastic cups and proved to be a nice conversation piece with our waiters. Luckily for me, my Spanish allowed me to simplify their befuddling inquiries with persistent references to exclusive follies of my better half. At least, years of Spanish study were paying off…Alternatively; bring your travel mugs – very convenient and even slightly threatening, as these can usually contain a weekly supply of coffee for an average Spaniard.
Windy Paradise
Armed with a newly acquired map of Andalucía we were off into the picturesque hills around its more southern parts in the direction of Algeciras. Our initial quick progress on the four-lane motorway was quickly squeezed to a one-lane affair due to one ubiquitous word that plagues all Spanish drivers, young and old alike, – OBRAS. This small, innocuously sounding, word if looked up in the dictionary would usually mean something like “deeds”, “actions” or “works”. Once in the open planes of the Spanish highway system, this word loses all of its innocence and marches directly into the hated pantheon of evils that already includes “fines”, “speed limits”, “tolls”, “levies” and “traffic police”. A mere introduction of this word into road signage could easily result in huge speed reductions. Throw a handful of slow moving semi-trucks and tourist buses and you are back down to the grim reality of 80 KMH. Bye, bye joy of driving a technological marvel capable of easily reaching mid 200s.
Fortunately, the flat landscape of eastern Andalucía was becoming more intriguing with every passing minute – hills were getting more numerous, rugged and employed. Many were occupied by medieval castles walls – much to the delight of lovers of all dramatic and picturesque. Surprisingly for us, the dry red dirt was not the only fixture, as hills sported lush greenery in addition to unending rows of vines, olive groves and young wheat. Any space in between served as a fertile pasture for thousands of goats, sheep and bulls. Since being the key aspect of Spanish reality, bulls were also plentifully featured on the already mentioned Bull-Boards capturing a very Picasso like perception of this strong and graceful animal slated for eventual slaughter just about anywhere regardless of geography – hamburgers in the USA, steaks in Texas and trophies here in Spain.
Being in the leisurely state of mind, we decided to take a small detour toward a delightful village of Zahara de los Atunes. Nestled between rocky hills from the north, it gracefully spreads its southern reaches all along the perimeter of a beautiful Atlantic beach, which really defines this picturesque community. The community that seemed to have preserved some of its old fishing culture despite proliferation of tourism and global canning industry. In fact, the place somehow manages to integrate the very local, authentic quiet village life with carloads of tourists that frequently descend on a number of hotels that feature cosy proximity to narrow streets lined with traditional white washed walls. To top it all, a medieval castle struts its ancient Phoenician roots with utterly deserved “Ces choses neuveaux” attitude. .
We could not help but to unleash our tired stinky feet on the cold and refreshing waters of the Atlantic. Little spa treatment of quietly leaping waves and soft silky sand was all that was needed to press on in our quest, but not before a short pit-stop at the local supermarket. This was a colourful picture of a typical small town store that lined its shelves with all sorts of wares in the most surprising proximity to one another – water battles, tooth brushes and ice cream – all claimed some space to satisfy obviously expanding local appetites. A local produce and fish market across the street unabashedly served local tastes as well – forget about pre-packaged foods and hordes of foreign travellers. We relished in the momentary pleasures of shopping for true God given provisions – vegetables, fruits and tuna, the locally canned version of course.
Refreshed, we proceeded toward the town of Tarifa, the place that boasts a number of distinctions – one of them being the southern most point of Spain. Its permanently windy conditions were another. The hilly approaches to the place were thickly peppered with signs of present and very utilitarian civilization – wind mills. Not of the Don Quixote fame of course – these ones instead of ghosts and adversaries produce much less mundane and yet indispensable electricity. Another outgrowth of the windy climate is a thriving wind and kite surfing community that claims many a picturesque spot to satisfy international thrill seekers that descend on this place around the year. In fact, as we approached the town, both sides of the road were lined up with surfing campgrounds, shops and VW minivans. The choppy seas were dotted with hundreds of sails despite rather chilly water – very youthful and invigorating, hardly “the end of the world” as it was known in the pre-Columbus times.
When driving into the center, we were instantly captivated by this coastal gem – old town partially surrounded by ancient walls, old Moorish castle “recently” remodelled after the re-conquest in the late 1200s, nice cheerful outdoor coffees, narrow streets and fresh wind all created a chance for an eventful outing. Coming during off-season proved to be a great boon, as hardly any tourist hordes were in sight to spoil our Spanish idyll. Here I also started my quest to experience all possible versions of European washrooms in use. Since these tend to be much more original as compared to their much heavier franchised and hence uniform North American counterparts. I took delight in remembering any originality on offer. The one in Tarifa was so small that it was capable of offering only a urinal of such prodigious size that it could have satisfied a bull had been able to enter through the doors designed for Zara regulars. Intriguing…
Apart from its charms, Tarifa is also very useful logistical point providing a direct ferry service to the port of Tangiers in Morocco. It is a piece of cake, as one does not need a visa (provided you carry a Canadian passport or something close to it) to sneak into the African Kingdom. The transfer is only around 1 hour long (do not believe “35 minute” claims) on comfortable fast ferries equipped with old modern conveniences – just do not forget to hold tight while in the bathroom. For more adventuring souls, Tangiers serves just as a simple spring board into the mysteries of Africa. For more timid and definitely time constrained Grockels, a one or two day excursion options might be exactly what the doctor ordered. Being experienced blitz tourists, we quickly settled for the 52E price tag of a one-day guided tour. At this time of the year no reservations were necessary and we bid Tarifa a short-term adieu to return in a couple of days for the Moroccan sortie.
El Pinon
The next curious spot actually required a border crossing, this time into the modern British Empire with its perennial claims to the small peninsula where most of liveable space is squeezed into the sea (I am not sure exactly which one) by a huge tilting rock. The Brits call it by its official name of Gibraltar; Spanish refer to it as “El Pinon”, a pine cone. A huge one at that, as even miles before arriving at the rock, we could see it scratching the sky’s underbelly with its craggy outcroppings. We were mesmerised by the breathtaking views and now even less inclined to visit the least recommended spot of the region – the port of Algeciras. Leaving it behind uninspected with hearts devoid of any regrets was a truly liberating experience of informed outsiders.
The entrance to Gibraltar is preceded by a nice sea promenade with tons of postcard opportunities in the shade of the much contested rock. Having succumbed to one of these, we proceeded to neglect all warnings about possible border tie-ups and turned into what turned out to be the easiest border crossing in the British Empire. Instead of prolonged and at times painful explanations suitable for overcrowded corridors of Heathrow, we were waived in without as much as a glance from imposing officials.
Right from the start Gibraltar promised to be a good spot for curiosities. A highway into town turned out to be posing as a part-time airstrip on at least two daily occasions, license plates magically became yellow and English, generous offerings of fish and chips filled the billboards and Union Jacks claimed the remainder of space, very small space at that. The roads, to our relief, did not switch directions unlike prices with their pound-inclinations. First, driving slowly and randomly we managed to inspect unsuspectingly at least half of the town within fifteen minutes of our less than conspicuous arrival. Feeling a little trapped in the metal beast, we found a pot under the competitive parking sun and encountered our tour guide Richard – all in a matter of minutes – very efficient and certainly British.
This guy turned out to be a true local who combined at least two jobs of a taxi driver and a tour guide. The first occupation appeared a little puzzling given the size of the place, especially since scores of local taxies incessantly traversed to and fro. Most of them, despite the narrowest of streets were mini-buses that threatened to obliterate anything in their paths, giving their colourful British drivers a bit of a Latin tinge. Turned out that the tiny town provided more employment that can be handled by its thirty something thousand citizens, creating a job sync that attracted guest workers from Morocco, Malta and, of course, Spain. Many have to commute to Gibraltar on a daily basis and in order to avoid frequently murderous traffic jams they avail themselves of taxi milk runs between the border and the town center. A great taxi franchise held in the brittle embrace of international politics and intrigue. When few years ago the locals held a referendum as to whether to join its neighbour to the North, 99% mailed in a vocal “NO”. I suspect that the taxi drivers’ vote was at least 101%.
Richard, being a seemingly industrious type did not relish much time off between the peak periods and gave himself to the art of tour giving. The main selling point proved to be of a prosaically economic nature: the main attraction of the place is obviously the rock that everybody wants to climb and explore, and only three ways to get to the top are walking, driving or taking a gondola.
Walkers usually represented by people who have more time than money did not seem to concern Richard one bit. Instead he honed onto the other tough and newly fangled competitor – the gondola, as for the first couple of minutes of the trip he enlightened us on the profound evils of this option – much higher costs and limited accessibility being the main culprits. Our limited time and cheapish appetite were profoundly soothed by such overtures that cost us only 7P each plus a park admission fee of another 8P each.
The very gradual and slow ride up was great, revealing more and more of natural beauty, magnificent upper views plus Richard’s pointers to boot. Rich history and strategic position kept just about everybody very interested – Phoenicians, Romans, Moors and English found it particularly captivating. The Brits finally triumphed pouncing on the weak and hated Spanish Empire, which finally succumbed to the treaty of Utrecht in the early 1700s. The Spaniards were not done however and attempted to reclaim the Rock on many occasions. Unsuccessfully so far, especially since the Brits managed to hold the fort with strongly allied populace that has always retained its claim to the foggy Albion despite the utter chaos in the blood mixing arena – Spanish, Moroccan, Maltese, Scottish and English being the prime suspects in this crucible of history and passions. And yet these folks manage to draw a very strong distinction between anything English and British including the language that is frequently bastardised into a Spanglish version. The diet is, you guessed it, a mixture of everything with a heavy emphasis on fish since bulls have found it difficult to graze on steep rocky escarpments. Wines are Spanish and monkeys are African, the only primates to freely occupy a piece of European soil. These curious, well protected and certainly badly spoiled creatures have long been a very valuable local tourist attraction. Consequently, the colonial fathers do not neglect their charges by providing ample daily offerings of bananas and other goodies – rain or shine. There is of course a self-serving caveat in their strife for animal well-being – to protect the densely packed humans from unnecessary garbage trouble. So far the unspoken agreement seems to be working – garbage is safe and monkeys are happy not to claim any of the low lying and traffic challenged streets.
On our first brief stop near local stalactite and stalagmite caves we encountered some of these fury and fiercely independent creatures who claim any object, once on the mountain, as a place to seat and rest their banana weary jaws – this time the victims were a couple of motorcycles. Slightly intimidated by these scowling locals we plunged into the refreshing darkness of the cave complex that serves as a great example of God’s baroque inclinations with intricate, inimitable and inspiring columns thrusting from every possible angle in the underground realm. Some parts of the cave complex were cleverly lit thus creating an eerie atmosphere of supernatural. The latter aspect has not been lost on the local curators and they created a music auditorium in the largest cavern. The sounds of classical music are supposed to acquire a sort of divine quality when played here. Alas, out timetable and closing times at the British military tunnel museum up above called us back into the smouldering sunlight of yet another day that was enter the history annals.
Few more moments and we climbed on the outlook platform that allowed for a fantastic panorama of both sides of the Rock with the shadier part abruptly below us in its much more desolate state – rugged boulders, smashing waves and refreshing winds created an unforgettable feeling of importance that is never lost on tour guides. Some key points were quickly mentioned including the inexorable collision between the Atlantic and Mediterranean, African and European. The emblematic importance is further emphasised by the geographic proximity to the fateful battle of Trafalgar that took place back in the Napoleonic days. The battle that sealed the fate of so many, including its most famous participant – admiral Nelson, whose untimely death in the heat of the struggle did not interfere with routing of the French while sending its latest victim straight into a barrel of brandy. The strong northern propensity for stiff substances came in handy this time since it allowed a proper and very stately London burial for the famed soldier many months whence. Well, we were not done with the military exploits as the military tunnels were yet to be explored. After few more exotic monkeys pictures and upon surviving a small car assault by one of their rank, we were within a grasp of yet another little discovery. The pleasure was almost denied had it not been for Richard imploring for extra time in his fluid Spanish that somehow betrayed the same authentic accent as his British English - a true melding of cultures I tell you!
Once inside we quickly realised the importance of the structure for defensive purposes. Most of the tunnel embrasures faced in the direction of the enemy – Spain; with the entire narrow border range was under the murderous aim of now silent guns. Some of which actually happened to have a link to my motherland, as they had been captured from the Russian military during the Crimean conflict in the mid 1800s. In fact, the pure proliferation of conflicts, in which Brits found themselves in during their rather successful Empire building exercise put a strain on their soldiers, exerting them to numerous feats – large and small. For example, the tunnel works were completed in an unthinkably short amount of time on an incredibly meagre diet still displayed as one of the exhibits. The amounts of typical weekly rations turned out to be tiny by modern standards – just a few small fishes, a couple of bread loaves and a small sack of flour. Incredible, I would not survive on this for more than two days let alone week upon week. I even started feeling sick, my stomach was clinging to my spine and my eyes were losing their vision, the aspect quickly discovered by my fellow travellers when I tried to assess the northbound view from our privileged position. Seeing the highway posing as an airport and then quickly scanning closer to the mountain I discovered a whole new subdivision that boasted some private greenery, neat lawns and well planned gridlock of streets. I was captivated by the sight of the local ingenuity that used extremely tight space to create this true residential oasis, which definitely came at a price – I thought. The only disturbing point was that I had hard time accounting for house sizes when compared with surroundings featuring a local football stadium, a church and other buildings outside the carefully planted fence – “must be a retirement community”, I thought...
Well, the explanation did linger at coming and the price of membership to this private arrangement for pensioners happened to be a little heavier than previously thought – few dollars plus the very earthly demise of the participants. Of course, what I was looking at was the local Catholic cemetery adorned with myriads of ample family crypts, and you are talking 20-20 vision, right. No playing children on inviting grass lawns, no summer barbeques and bumper-to-bumper parking – only peace and quiet plus an urgently needed pair of glasses for yours truly.
Much tickled by the first rate tourist blunder, Richard indulged us in stories of how difficult it was to find a long-term resting spot here. It was imperative to identify not only with a particular religion (Catholic, Orthodox, Judaism etc) but also have a good lineage or a lot of money or both. Happy with his strong local roots, our insightful friend pointed with some well founded glee to a humble and already reserved personal corner in the busy subdivision. Very interesting…
Slightly embarrassed by my escapades and feeling pangs of hunger for the soldiers of long ago I desperately needed some local fish and chips. And that’s what we got shortly after returning to town. Upon devouring a simple local speciality, a walk through narrow shopping streets of the original settlement made more than enough sense. Equipped with many a Union Jack, red phone booths and other fitting accoutrements, the place was really more than it seemed at first with at least a dozen languages spoken at any time, anywhere, betraying a truly multinational nature of the locale. It revealed to be home to many, one of them, a rarity in Spain, is a vibrant Jewish community that has found some refuge from recurring bouts of persecution more frequently exhibited just three miles northward. Free to operate in the safe environment, they have resorted to what they have known for centuries – gold trade, a thriving art apparently as witnessed by well stocked and brightly lit beacons of luxury on many a corner.
The sun was loosing its last claims to our day with last flickers of natural light slowly ceding its way to the moon and the stars. Feeling a little too sprite for the hour, thanks jetlag, we took one last swing through the colony’s newly reclaimed chunks as well as some old quarters including the very southern tip, which apart from featuring a huge empty parking lot, also sported the “End of the World Shop” and a large freshly painted and very evocative mosque calling for the evening prayers – a fitting tribute to history and geography of this exotic spot.
More Road Signs
Our return journey promised to be much shorter due to a very useful tip doled out in the Tarifa travel office – take an inconspicuous but wide road with four lanes. The 160KMH tip worked its magic until we got within twenty kilometres of our home base. Unfortunately, here we made a slight mistake of taking a certain right versus left turn, plunging us right in the merry-go-round of Cadiz. Since Cadiz at large is a huge harbour, the only way to get around is to drive either clockwise or counter clockwise, otherwise swimming is the only options All signs, of course, inexorably point to Cadiz without telling you the shortest way. Happy and easy travel tourist maps hardly ever mention such pitfalls, which when coupled with slow moving rush hour traffic can really wreak havoc on one’s schedule. We were the latest victims of the day, winding up driving extra 30K and saying all along: WE HATE CADIZ!
To soothe the throbbing traffic pain we decided, under my guidance, to indulge in a more anglicized atmosphere of the neighbourhood bloke pub, partaking in pints, clouds of smoke and a huge TV screens playing the latest instalment of Barcelona – Chelsea drama. The first day was rather useful after all – having inhaled a year’s worth of second hand smoke my much brighter sojourners got busy devising plans of our next attack. Our target was going to be the ancient city of Granada, whose treasures and deceiving proximity of 300K were at clear odds with experience of one day round trip tow way more proximate places. Hence we decided to plan for a overnight stay in this, by all accounts, enchanting place.
Rounding Ronda
The first part of the next day took us along, with VASOS PLASTICOS of course, a slow and brightly marked road to the inspiring hilltop towns of central Andalucía. These ones started popping up as soon as we hit hillier country in 30K from the flat Cadiz harbour. Most of these, despite their scintillating white washed charms, were not really built to entertain tourist hordes in search of easy solace. Instead they were conceived in times immemorial as fortifications to protect the locals and repel any unwelcome visitors. These days, visitors are welcome, as tourism has become the second largest economic item of Andalucía. Many a place beacon to passing buses, cars and bikes with their old cathedrals, rich history, cute streets and sunlit restaurant patios. But none has done it better than the town of Ronda.
A little less accessible than made-believe by maps and TV guides, this willing accomplice on international tourist trail, is a magnificent little perch of a town. Situated on a striking hill and surrounded by picturesque and lush fertile valleys, the place also offers a great deal more, as it is split by a deep canyon right down the middle like a pig’s hoof. This canyon puts the town head and shoulders above other pretenders – after all, who can resist its vertigo inducing cliffs, high spanning bridges and buildings that just manage to cling to dear life on the verge of the precipice?
Driving is the best way to get there. What is the best way to park and stay remains to be a question, as we had to perform a handful of circus manoeuvres before safely fitting our English crème horse in a tight stall next to smaller and more sensible transportation options. The rest was just a bliss, as the weather together with charm and ambience were doing their best to win us over. The charming shops were obviously a target for my fun searching travellers with hardly anything left un-inspected – paintings, trinkets, bags and scarves had their share of consideration. But nothing could really compete with the canyon that gave so much to enjoy and contemplate. Best observed from a couple of jutting platforms, the canyon was deep, multi-terraced affair that culminated in the ferocious stream, digging through the ancient bottom on its way to its ultimate leap into thirsty valley fields. To top it all, the summit of the canyon is pulled together by a graceful a-la baroque bridge.
On the other side of the bridge we partook in inspecting one of the most famous and presumably oldest monuments to the ancient Iberian pastime of bullfighting – Plaza de los Torros. Some even claim that the whole notion of organized bullfighting originated here. While doubting these ardent claims, we could not help but enjoy the sunlit stadium, stables and horse training patch. The last was in use much to our delight and an opportunity to sneak a peak at the graceful caballeros capably taming their charges and providing for ample picture taking opportunities. Since they do not kill bulls until early May, my more squeamish friends were spared the gory spectacle hence leaving them in the best spirits about the whole concept. It is always easier to think in abstract while chewing on a hamburger or consuming a steak – the state that could be easily shattered by an appearance of a particular victim with hide and horns in tow. My own view is little more sanguinary and I would relish at a chance to witness a true bullfighting spectacle – alas, hot blooded Spaniards require summer temperatures to relish the slaughter of doomed bovines in full. There is a slight problem that I have – should the bulls at least have better odds at goring toreadors that 1 to 100? It just does not seem fair, especially since prideful owners of red capes are treated as pantheon worthy heroes whose trade accoutrements are revered as true religious relics. These, by the way, were plentifully displayed in the local bullfighting museum together with famous poetic odes, royal awards and convoluted genealogies. Great example of useless adulation! The next stop is a coffee on a precipice with an obligatory cigarillo.
Granada – Driver’s Curse
While some aficionados of deep cultural penetration such as Rick Steves demand more time in the hilltop wonder, our Grockel plans called us back into action toward the glorious sights of Granada. The deceptive distance grid once again played a slight trick on the unsuspecting by throwing a truck or two in our way hence slowing our progress to a crawl. I did not mind the lull in my duties when passing by yet another church spire or a ruined castle or a derelict old farmhouse. I was about to start nodding in sheer napping bliss…
“Vroom” we just connected with much faster route from Seville – a perfect time to grip the steering wheel. Our subsequent quick and persistent progress soon revealed the mesmerising snow capped tops of Sierra Nevada gracefully presiding over its charge of a town. Seeing so much snow in such close proximity under nearly summer like condition was a real treat. I could hardly contain the excitement and keep my eyes on the road despite rather strong and ever growing protestations from the back seat.
Once off into the city I had to take better charge of my escaping emotions, as treacherously narrow streets grew ever tighter and less inviting, the closer we got to Alhambra. Getting to the very top of the hill and bumping our noses right into the shut gates of the World Heritage Site did not resolve matters, as we had to track down toward the menacing old town streets below once again. Part way through our descent we had to navigate through a sudden crowd primarily consisting of men in suits and scores of police swarming around some five star digs perched on the edge of the hill. The importance of the event was further emphasised by many a foreign flag implying a certain international subtext. As I was about to enter the intriguing world of international politics a pre-emptive Tracy’s yank brought me right back to reality.
“Come back to us and pay attention”, I obeyed
This adjusted reality offered hardly anything more than one-way streets that made one feel completely lost and powerless, just gaping for enough air to survive sharp pointy street corners, darting pietons and perpetually honking fellow drivers. Travelling in this driving nightmare requires patience and calculation neither of which was left to consume in the opulent surrounding of our haplessly gigantic Jaguar. So instead of pleasurable driving experience, I got a nauseating feeling of being mercilessly caught in an avalanche. Fortunately, our avalanche spat us out on some square that by some miracle happened to contain a Tourist Information Office – breeze easier…
The folks inside were happy to inform us that Alhambra was going to be closed for most of the next day due to some international conference to be attended by the Prime Minister (Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero – I would like to know his full name) and the King (Carlos that was) – remember the men in suits? As such, our only shot at the beautiful palace had to be tonight when the palace was slotted to open for business at 10PM - just like any real insomniac Spaniard. Can one imagine opening anything in Vancouver at this time, even a night club – let alone frescoes, porticos and columns? The late start though was giving us a plenty of time to settle in one of the places noted by Rick in the surroundings of the historic Plaza Nueva (New?). Since the easy travelling Rick never supplies his victims with real maps we had to rely on the convoluted explanations of the mostly helpful Tourist Office staff. Alas, all their lukewarm efforts landed us right in the middle of heavy street traffic that promptly washed us up in the middle of nowhere – i.e. in the newer part of the city. After few clueless and fruitless inquiries, we came upon a policeman who knew what he was talking about and graciously directed us towards the desired destination. This time through the narrowest of streets that posed further dangers since it apparently contained many attractive shops and was in no want of customers. Timidly wading through blocks full of shopping bags, errant children and still intact limbs we rolled into the Plaza Nueva, the square that had hardly anything new about it - nowhere to stop let alone park.
Stopping that was kind of important in our hotel quest. Alas it proved impossible and we ended up hopelessly drifting past our target street. “No entry except buses” was a curious sign considering that one place there offered guest parking. Well, never mind we continued along in the deathly grips of uncertainty and despair. We could not find a place to stop for miles it seemed. Forced, we slowly toured the entire area including the Moorish Quarter under the constant barrage of self-inflicted wounds as Tracy and I lost our ability to communicate without an ear-muffling device. It was getting hairy. Granada was looking less and less inviting…Remember Cadiz?
Eventually our detour took us right back to where we had already declared our war on the local retail industry. This time our fortunes looked a little less certain when rounding some turns we nearly managed to get solidly wedged into the local roadwork with a rescue helicopter being the only way out. Finally, when all our hopes were precariously balanced on the top of a precipice we discovered a friendly beacon of a parking lot sign. The only problem seemed to be that it required a left turn that did not exist for blocks on end. This slight ray of hope was slipping once again. Once managing to squeeze our “bueno coche” into the first available left turn, we went through yet another series of very hateful and pulsating moments, one of which saw us landing at some empty lot posing as a daily paid parking. We were about to celebrate, instead I ended up nearly blowing my gasket when realizing that this spot only operated in the day hours. At the very least, one of the attendants did assure me that just around “few more corners” I should be able to arrive at the 24 hour underground parking, the very same that had already refused to grant us any left turns. His predictions did come true when we trudged into a cavern that existed under a local produce market. I was spent and only Alhambra with its eastern seductiveness could bring me back to life. WE HATE GRANADA.
Once on foot, our humanity started its slow but sure re-conquest. Astonishingly, without a car our host town did not seem to be nearly as menacing and confusing. It took no time at all to find a suitable accommodation among Rick’s recommendations. The off-season timing was great and prices were surprisingly low – we paid 41E total for two rooms with shared bathrooms. The mood further brightened by realisation that Alhambra was just on the top of our hill and required either a 10-minute walk or a short bus transfer. Now we desperately needed some food and soothing entertainment. None can be better than a super busy tapa bar mostly packed with locals, loud and vivacious.
TAPA BAR – Granada Style
Recommended by a friendly hotel manager, this one was right in the neighbourhood and turned out to a true gastronomic treat for anyone looking for variety, noise and fast service. Located just a block away from the Plaza Nueva, the place was packed to the brim. Luckily, we just got in time to squeeze out a few inches in the middle of the counter. The customarily hasty help was just all over us. All orders were filled in seconds with much gusto and incessant kitchen noise. Most of the décor consisted of numerous ham hocks hanging all over the place, many exhibited black hoofs (Patas Negras) – the sign of the highest quality. Since this is the most prevalent decorative pattern everywhere in Spain, one inevitably broods over the fate of all those pigs. Do they live in special facilities for handicapped? How do they procreate and whether they are allowed to participate in their own version of Paralympics?
The mostly foreign menu made sense rather quickly – especially prices that ranged anywhere from a single Euro for a small tapa to twelve Euro for a whole portion of jamon (ham). The latter here is entirely different from what we call ham at home. Here it is made up of thinly scraped pieces of cured leg meat that is preserved in salt and aged. Delicious! Being the timid sort, we first tried some house wine chased by few less suspicious portions of potatoes, bread, chorizo sausages and Spanish omelette. Jamon came next. I found it very difficult to stop even though we were getting full, no doubt buoyed by the delicious wine and very entertaining waiters who would shout out every order to the kitchen regardless of distance – sort of “CAN YOU HEAR ME! ONE! TWO! THREE!” At times it got deafening. Forget about IT, they vastly prefer shrills and paper shreds that covered the entire floor – sort of like the Wall Street minus the blood. Now everyone felt much better about Granada. The check of just 24E failed to disappoint either. Alhambra, bring it on!
Alhambra – Palace in the Dark
A special bus zipped us to the main entrance in just a couple of minutes. At first the place felt a little eerie, as ticket offices were plunged in the complete darkness and the count of any perspective visitors was scarce. Has the King conspired to drive us out of Granada just like his famous forefathers did it to Moors in 1492? Ooh, what a relief somebody just decided to show up and sell us some tickets – 10E each to be exact. I was kind of hoping for a discount given the absence of natural light but the locals did not seem to be sympathetic – no soup for you!
Once turning the corner into the gardens that together with the ancient citadel walls surround Alhambra, we plunged into nearly complete darkness without finding a single ticket checker – was this just another Spanish ruse for the unsuspecting?. I gave them a benefit of a doubt guessing that the actual palace was just around the corner with us groping in the maze of intricate walkways that snaked through, no doubt, a number of delectable tree and bush combinations. Using mostly our imagination we walked down a gravel path that led us right to the steps of (surprise!) a very exquisite hotel almost entirely lost in the shadowy paradise. It turned out that the very Alhambra, the one that required 10E tickets, was just a small part of the overall fort, which hid not only the hotel but also a couple of restaurants, an opulent Bourbon palace and other edifices of uncertain description.
Having enjoyed and inspected most of what was there to see we were still groping for ever allusive Alhambra. May be it did not exist and it was a trick to milk the unsuspecting tourists? Eventually, having bent yet another turn we found ourselves facing the cultural and architectural miracle wrought by one of the last Moorish rulers. Being rather wise and private people, the Moors did not seem to relish much in the way of frontal splash; instead they tended to hide the best inside – frescoes, pools and of course the harem itself.
The unique architectural and decorating Moorish style revealed itself as unrepeatable and complex as any I had ever seen. Its arched formations, cryptic Koran messaging and baroque like interspersion of details could not evoke anything less than complete awe. Wooden carved ceilings fit perfectly with the magic shadows and hew that slunk in only at night. Welcome to the Alhambra in the dark – one felt compelled to whisper. It must have been great during the day just as well, but the true majesty of the eastern art really came out to play with one’s imagination at nightfall. Every room was unique, while general style throughout remained the same - shapes, sizes and purposes varied. Arriving at the reflection pool in the open starlit court yard that could only be adequately described in truly poetic forms unattainable to mere mortals produced a truly meting effect. I could only manage to find a place to sit and wonder at the starry heavens, magnificent colonnade and people who used to live here long ago. The moment was truly moving, especially since my carnal self could not shift from the enticing topic of the harem politics. It seemed that despite being relegated to the backwater of every day life, many concubines and wives of Emirs did lead some semblance of normal existence behind the shutters with a magnificent view of the city right to boot.
The scintillating city lights gave a very unique and very celebratory tinge to the occasion. The views were competitive and numerous, I found it hard to find a spot to gaze at – everything was just breezing mystery and harmony of days long gone. The days when North African Moors ruled in a very multicultural and tolerant fashion that spurned on many a scientific, technological and cultural achievements. The achievements that counted this very palace among their distinguished ranks. A bit of a poignant mood washed over me for a minute – here we are on the top of unprecedented technological heights, and yet still struggling with basics of common understanding so brilliantly illuminated by ancient wisdom and tradition. It is like trading one for another is the only option for advancement. It is either one is able to appreciate all shades of grey or continually drive a stake between black and white turning ourselves in non-feeling machines.
To confirm my point, one particularly beautiful colonnade lined a courtyard that was implicitly dedicated to one group of the Moorish subjects – the Jews. Moors, despite their obvious doctrinal adherences, understood and appreciated usefulness and talents of Israel. In turn, Jewish merchants commissioned a smartly conceived court yard fountain that sees its main bowl resting on twelve lions presumably representing the twelve tribes of Israel. In the old days, the lions were capable of spewing water at exact hourly intervals marvelling its grateful masters. Upon Isabella’s re-conquest, some engineers tried to learn the trick by re-engineering. Alas, they failed not only to replicate the mechanism but also screwed one the original. So for centuries now, the indomitable lions fail to greet their admirers every new hour bestowed by God to all of us. It is as He is still waiting for us to fix our act. We shall see…
Morning in Granada
Somewhat re-invigorated by the fresh morning chill, I attempted a refreshing jog up the hill to test King’s resolve to shut down the palace for the day. Voila. Despite my best efforts at huffing and puffing up the hill, his stance had not wavered and I only managed to kiss the tightly shut door good bye. Never mind, fresh coffee and a croissant breathed new life into our sails even though the coffee place help had some trouble grasping our Canadian audacity of bringing in baked goodies from a competing establishment. Well, leaving a decent tip might have improved our standing after all. On this note and in much lighter mood, we started exploration of the city quarter that faces Alhambra from the river bottom and up with its numerous tiny streets and stairs of the old Moorish neighbourhood.
Walking up these streets was not only a great exercise but also a cleansing experience, the one that can only be had after a thorough inspection that leaves no touristy regrets. Following a local tip, we eventually reached a very dramatic, top of the hill, look-out starring at Alhambra that shone majestically, blazing with all sorts of tinges of clay and covered by the surreal snow capped phantom of the Sierra Nevada range on the background. A truly engulfing view, the one that is so hard to say good-bye to. We just sat, adolescent like, on the high stone parapet. Here we were completely immersed in the Alhambra contemplation, coffee and cigarillo in hand, no rush, unwanted noise or worldly worries. Everything seemed immovable and eternal.
Suddenly, just around the corner, we stepped into small, tightly packed square that was filled with life, shouts and mounds of wares – fruits, vegetables, socks and underwear seemed to top the agenda. The life had to go on, bye-bye majestic Moorish creation and welcome cheap socks, affordable underwear, small sized bras and delicious local strawberries to boot!
Brimming with morning colour and delights of sudden encounters, the day was not yet done unless we paid homage to the city’s two key personalities – Isabella and Ferdinand. The lives of the two, combined in one of the most famous historic matrimonies, paved the way for the creation of the modern Spanish state in the late 1400s, but not before the land underwent profound and numerous metamorphoses. First after serving as a trading feeder to Phoenicians and Carthaginians, it became one of the key Roman provinces sometime in the first century BC. It acquired even more importance when, bogged in imperialism and debauchery, Rome had to call on Spain to provide Rome’s first foreign Emperors, Hadrian and Trajan. These commanded respect of the troops and retained enough gubernatorial sense to run the vast far-flung Empire.
Their ascendancy was not without an expiry date and it turned out to be a lesson in all things temporal. This came to pass when Spain, especially Northern Spain, had to retreat into its primordial shell when overrun by northern tribes with Visigoths leading the way. Consequently, the country lay dormant for few centuries waiting for its re-birth that eventually came at the very capable and no less surprising hands of the Moors. These guys hailing from Northern Africa meant business after first showing up on the southern shores in 711AD. Under the banner of Islam they felt God-led. To prove the point they managed to essentially subdue the entire Iberian Peninsula within ten years of their arrival. This was done with speed and ability that could rival the prodigious expansion of Rome under Julius Cesar and his nephew, Cesar Augustus. It took over three hundred years for the former rulers of the country to get about the business of re-taking their possessions. Starting from the northern and central parts of the country, numerous Christian kings, counts and knights emerged from their isolated castles to re-conquer the country from Moorish control in the eleventh century. Toledo fell in 1089AD with many to follow in the years to come. Granada was to be last in 1492. The re-capture of Granada was not only remarkable because of its finality but also because it was undertaken under the aegis of the joint Spanish crown for the first time. This was made possible through the matrimony between Isabel of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon. Without these two characters the whole history of the country and the world could have turned out differently. But it did not…
Understandably, the attendance of the Cathedral Chapel that serves as a resting place for the royal bones was a must. After some minutes of contemplation in front of the huge and elaborate tomb ensemble that required a 3E fee, we proceeded to the Cathedral that required a separate payment. I guess the Spanish Crown has been a lousy manager since despite all that Mayan gold they still charge entrance fees at any opportunity they get. Well, other than that there was hardly anything to complain and the whole Cathedral to contemplate. Unusually far from being heavy on the ornaments this one is a very unique due to its brightness and size. The former while not original serves as a distinguishing marker. You see, two or three centuries ago when the city was under a siege by the plague, its wise fathers decided to paint many edifices in bleach white to deter proliferating infection. With infection gone many thought that white really brought out the best in the Cathedral interior. And so it stayed to this day to shine for the whole world to see.
Well, after paying our parking fee in a hurtful amount of 20 Euros, we managed to sneak out by all possible traffic problems with enough luck not to require a rescue helicopter. Granada proved to be much easier place to leave than to enter – just ask Isabel and Ferdinand, they might confirm.
Costa del Sol
Fresh helpful wind and revving engine, we pressed at 160 KMH - enjoying momentary sights and looking forward to seeing the azure of the Mediterranean. The first quick stop/cruise was the city of Malaga, which after years of mid-century decline was not really all that hot of a spot in any tour guide. All the more surprising it was to find a rather flourishing metropolis on the sun-lit shores – clean, wide, treed boulevards, freshly painted and newly constructed buildings, busy and very colourful commercial centres with nearly direct access to the seafront. Nearly direct because a chunk of the waterfront is taken up by port facilities that by and large are respectful of the residents by leaving them enough sandy space to play on. Lo and behold, mesmerised by the views of wide and nearly empty beaches we nearly missed our turn to proceed further down the coast.
The whole coast seemed densely populated that the only way to tell that we had actually left Malaga, were the highway markers. The rest did not mutate at all – residential buildings, hotels, pensions, restaurants and amusement parks went in the never ending carousel of pleasure in nearly perpetual sun and awash in sparkling warm sea. We deliberately chose to take a slower road to get a better look at this magnet that had managed to pull in a good chunk of white and flabby northern Europe. I am sure that success and development did not necessarily come overnight and much has changed from the original Costa del Sol, the one that used to exist primarily for Spaniards. Now, however, most of we saw looked very opulent, clean, well-stocked and generic. At first, enthused by lavish palm trees, fresh breezes and slow pacing public we even doubted our sanity. But sobering truth did not have to wait long – this was not Spain, this was just another international trap like any other in Cancun or Maui. We desperately needed to escape back to Spain. It was not easy, as one strained to find a Spanish sign amid English and German offerings. But not before we stumbled over the most lavish locale of this very uniform region – welcome to Marbella.
By many tour books’ accounts, this town is considered to be a true gem of Costa del Sol. For us, already satiated with sights and wonders of modern tourism, this one felt like a good wallop of stale baroque after refreshing bits of Renaissance – more development, lush hotels, impressive villas, smart shopping malls and ever present Germanic signs. Truth be told however - that despite the sickly sweet taste of over-packaged tourism Marbella definitely had its charms. For once, it managed to hip check the slow moving, shore-snaking highway a bit further into the hills hence creating a quieter and more gentile beachy atmosphere that boasts coves of lavish private villas, dead-end roads and a plethora of first class sea view apartments. Being rather popular spot even during the low tide, the place proved to be pathetically difficult to park in, leaving only few high priced options in and around a glitzy shopping mall with a lot of post modern glass and glistening marble floors. It felt like being back in Metrotown to be exact, all with the exception of tight parking spaces so frequently celebrated by Europeans of all latitudes.
At last, we emerged on the waterfront facing refreshing evening breezes. I felt so alive and invigorated that I was ready to forgive German grandmas, English school girls and Duncan Donuts for their intrusion into my Spanish paradise. The gently rippling sea, soft sand and palm trees that lined the Marbella promenade could not be any less than heavenly. Enter few ice cream parlours and coffee shops, and the picture is complete – bare feet stuck up in the air, engulfed in soothing salty gusts of wind mingled with fresh aroma of coffee and cigars, aah…
The day’s discoveries were not done yet thanks to the attractive frozen section in the Marbella’s super market. We were feeling a little on the cheap side in full defiance to the recommended restaurants in the Lonely Planet, so some pan European pizza was just going to do the trick. Unforeseeably though our seemingly full kitchen back in Cadiz exhibited a complete lack of interest in anything resembling a stove. After vainly palpitating just about any kitchen surface, open and hidden, I had to call a retreat settling for some pasta and cheap wine. Pizza was shoved into the freezer to wait for better times. The reason behind the inconvenient omission was perhaps best explained by the fact that the apartment was really designed for extreme summer heat that marks a high season here. Cold tiles everywhere, white painted walls, excellent European shades and a complete absence of built-in heat gadgets of any sort pointed in that direction. Who would want hot soup in the heat of August? Since we were still somewhere in the doldrums of the low season the internal temperature consistently failed to reach to liveable levels – hence double blankets and heaters everywhere. Pizza anyone?
By the way, do not buy wine marked “vino nuevo” for 1.5E a bottle unless in habit of drinking vinegar straight up.
Morocco
Despite the absence of warm pizza, low season does have its advantages. One of them is the ability to just show up half an hour prior to departure and sign up for a Moroccan daily tour – 52E per and no fuss. Parking was just as breezy with ample space available right by the ferry terminal – I am starting to like this low season stuff again!
Just over an hour later and were fast approaching the magic shores of Africa. The shores that are so temptingly near that hardly any south Spanish adventure should say no to it. Only a 45 minute ride away in a comfortable and smoke free (do not seat by the back door to the balcony) fast ferries, with heavy presence of everything duty free - and you are in something radically different.
Port of Tangiers looked very promising despite receiving mostly failing grades at the hands of tour books’ editors with Rick calling it just a den of thieves hardly worth of a quick trip and useable only as a starting point for more authentic Moroccan experiences. So Tangiers still struggles for a place in the tourist sun. In fact, after reading these less than ravenous revues, I was not expecting much more than an ugly sandy hole with old dilapidated buildings and few attractions outside of frantic shopping, Moroccan style.
With my expectations so low, I was pleasantly surprised by the coastline that looked no less picturesque and green when compared to the best Spanish offerings. Good deal of sand but no shacks. Instead the port of Tangiers appeared to be much larger and cosmopolitan that described by our fearless guides. A huge beach extending from the port for miles eastward boasted rows upon rows of rather attractive and modern looking buildings that gave it rather western look. The rest of the town was spreading into all possible crevasses and hilltops that made it appear to be at least mildly interesting and full of accoutrements of good life. The port area was packed with all sorts of ferries some hailing as far as Canaries and Baleares. Clearly we were not the only ones visiting.
After a superficial passport control and backpack search, we, for the first time, laid our eyes on our indomitable tour guide – Hassan. His slight, paper-thin and yet rather toll frame was loosely wrapped up in a woollen jalaba, an extensive fully covering garb with a hood. The relaxed features of this standard dress style instantly reminded me of the liberation only bestowed by a jolly set of good sturdy pyjamas. I knew right away that I had to have my own personal jalaba. The shopping bug was already infesting my brain. But for now we had to follow our tour guide and not stray away from other timid fellow travellers. The only thing I managed to do was to sneak a peak at the local bathroom that smelled of politically correctness – apart from breathing with modern conveniences it also featured a special, for more traditionally inclined, cubicle with a squatter version – way more flexible than some other system, right?
Once in the bus and outside the port I was still looking for some dirty unpaved streets. Astonishingly, the roads were paved, donkeys deferred to cars and we were passing by more European buildings in the Spanish quarter. Sure, most of the edifices looked a little worn but no less attractive because of it – a little derelict is always good for a travelling eye. Much in European fashion, many a sidewalk was tensing under a load of tables and chairs, serving the long standing tradition of tea sipping. The only novelty for us was that every single customer in these establishments was male – women here clearly did not like sipping all that much. Instead they vastly preferred working at the nearby textile and fishing establishments prominently featured in the port vicinity.
As we made a turn into the city, our Hassan proceeded making his simultaneous commentary in three different languages no less – English, Spanish and German. He did that after a request for show of hands. He was lucky not to be inundated with requests for Chinese or, God forbid, Hungarian versions. He might have been in soup then. Otherwise, he cruised along his speaking points with prodigious ease giving many a run for their money in the linguistic department. Being rather intrigued by his incredible ability to fluently navigate between Romans and Visigoths, I was happy to receive each piece of information at least thrice. While very entertaining for yours truly, the rest of group was visibly relieved by the fact that Hassan was not going to employ his other three tongues – Arabic, Berber and French. “After twenty years of tour guiding I should be able to do this” was his humble reply, as he rumbled on about various neighbourhoods, religions and buildings.
As we proceeded along one of the major thoroughfares, I was intrigued to discover more of this untypical third world locale. Tangiers, being a fifth largest city of Morocco, counted no less than 1 million very busy inhabitants and presented a very palatable picture hardly different from what one can see at the outreaches of the first world. Multitudes of cars, new and ancient, competed for all important living space with irksome and fearless pedestrians who just weaved around bumpers, fenders and wheels. Every little inch of free space inadvertently left by carefree chauffeurs was instantly filled with waves of street daring and nimble crossers. No demographic was absent, young and old, male and wrapped up female, all went about their lives in one chaotic harmony. Sidewalks were orderly and clean, shops loaded with merchandise welcomed with many a price openly displayed thus disputing any tourist book notion of Tangier’s shopping. In other words, save for darker skin and less orderly traffic rules, we could have been in Central Europe for all that mattered. Overwhelmingly local, unobtrusive - my opinion of Tangiers was surging. Surely there were some distinguishing features – toll minarets, marble king’s palace hidden in lush gardens with machine gunned guards, and beautiful seaside villas. All, regardless of opulence, neighboured dusty sidewalks and a derelict local football pitch for about 20,000 spectators and stumbling old shacks with a great degree of equanimity – a sight that is impossible to find in gentile Britain or stolid German.
And then there was Kasbah – the old town also known as Medina. Here we learned what it meant to be a part of a captive tour group with some gruesome tour books’ predictions eventually coming true…The beginning was not all that foreboding as we were dumped at the doorsteps of the old town to start a walking part of our tour. Descending from the six feet height of the bus, I suddenly felt a little insecure amidst ready-to-tumble old walls, uneven cobblestone streets and numerous produce vendors lining our way. Only to increase my alert levels, we were also introduced to Mahmud, a young tall fellow wrapped in a latest jalaba fashion with smart Italian looking shoes featuring very long, almost medieval points. Mahmud’s task was to shield our backs from unwanted intruders and generally “bad people”. Hassan gave us stern instructions not to buy anything from errant hawkers of local merchandise until he told us it was save to do so. Most of us in the group already awed by Hassan’s multi-lingual abilities were not about to launch a dissenting opinion. Some of clarifications to the matter clearly had to wait, especially given corollary sense of piety, as it was Friday – the Muslim holy day.
The first few blocks took us along old and battered walls that, predating the Moors, were more of the same pleasant chain of grateful discoveries. Ancient stones mingled with phenomenal sweeping ocean views did not seem burdened by the life swirling around. Obviously, being in not the most prosperous part of town, we witnessed many an open door that led to rather humble furnishings, simple appliances and curious faces of the locals. Young children, many of them girls, were running circles around us – enjoying life like any children - playing, teasing and hardly paying attention to surrounding history and majestic views. We had hard time accounting for older girls who were likely to be at some less pleasant tasks of everyday life with some venturing outside only under impenetrable head coverings. Some clearly passed into more mature years accompanying kids of their own, some with husbands who inevitably marched in front of their flocks. The life went on however, and it surely did not entirely bow to the ghosts of tradition when we spotted very popular and certainly prolific cell phones with some carried by rather young children in ornate and colourful garb – definitely worth a look.
Once leaving the promenade we descended into the centre of Kasbah crossing through a courtyard adjacent to a neighbourhood mosque. The prayer time was upon us and a local muezzin was calling out to faithful. The evocative sounds of the ancient religion reverberated through the air, we pressed on and Hassan did not forget to lower his hood in a pious exhibition. The closer to the middle of town, the more derelict appeared it became. Windows and doors were rickety and worn out, our personal space just melted into ether – I was feeling slightly more agitated when first aggressive hawkers descended on their latest victims with numerous and very urgent offerings. Ornate plates, silver plaited daggers, precious shoals and intricate copper bracelets promptly invaded all five of our senses. The breathing was getting hard and I desperately tried clinging on to Hassan’ explanations of dainty historic details, all just to recover my escaping sanity. Somehow all this was slipping away just like in a bad dream - to be invaded with horrors of eternal shopping once again. You buy and it is never enough, you are loaded and cannot move and yet you buy. Finally you cannot take it any longer and collapse suffocating under the joys of your own purchasing power – a true hell.
“Mister, mister only ten Euro for a bracelet; Mister, mister two for ten; Mister, mister one for five” – already half-conscious but still alive I spurted “Two Euros” – “OK Mister three, the last offer” just fell on me like a brick. Where is this bloody Mahmud who is supposed to make our lives easier in this proverbial shopping Hades?
In the last gasp of conscientiousness I threw my last trump card – “I only have two Euros on me”. The latter was true since the rest consisted of large bills tightly held under my girth. Alas, my last bluff was easily called – “OK, mister. You pay me two now and I will collect the rest when you are back from lunch”. Entirely spent, I gave him my prised Euro coin in exchange for a copper bracelet of slightly more obscure value.
The transaction with an unauthorised person automatically raised the overall alert level, as only a few moments later I felt like a schoolboy in front of a stern teacher with Hassan reiterating his strong protective desire to keep us away from “bad people”. No matter the size of the transaction or a certain charitable value of the undertaking – Hassan had the last word. The memories of my distant communist past came flooding back – do as you are told!
I felt so sheepish and intimidated by Hassan’s protection services, that I even felt a tidal retreat of all charitable inclinations in the face of fear when passing by an apparently blind person selling postcards. Under any other circumstances, his postcards would have been snapped up but not now – since everybody around including my dear dictatorial half would not countenance any more attempts at insubordination.
Having obediently filed one by one, we entered a second floor restaurant that apparently catered exclusively to tour groups and occasional western “high” flyers. Feeling a little buoyed by the music accompaniment, courtesy of a local five man band, and colourful ambience imbued by the surrounding carpet extravaganza, I was determined to enjoy the meal whatever that might be. At that point I was ready to devour anything just not to offend Hassan and his business. Politely warned in advance that the only thing we needed to pay for were drinks, we proceeded to conserve precious water and its derivatives expecting a healthy bill regardless of the consumed paucity. The meal itself was actually very good and I can honestly say that Moroccan fares acquired new life on my repertoire. Lively conversation with fellow tourists from Connecticut, some local wine, a-la belly dancing with a sad absence of belles themselves, enigmatic and soulful musicians – all things contributed to my mental health. But all good things must come to an end – as after dolling out some modest tips to waiting staff and musical compliment we faced with yet another trip to less than tranquil streets.
Marching in goose step formation after intrepid Hassan and prodded in the rear by the faithful Mahmud, we filed past some truly local market scenes, the once that did not jump or demanded 900% mark-up of whatever on offer as an opening bid. Kasbah was just merely revealing more of its poverty stricken self by just pulling up a stage curtain just by a couple of inches. A rickety wooden horse driven cart filled to the brim with local oranges was treat as numerous balls of citrus crowded one another with leaves and branches intact; a bunch of old, well used and dirty nick knacks spread over plastic bags for quick sale; mounds of freshly minted sport shoes just piled in the middle of the street with the pavement serving as counter – everything was ripe for pictures, memories, compassion and pity. One could hardly stay emotionless, especially since not all of these surroundings were a part of elaborate sham wrought over by Hassan and his friends; this was real life with real people in it. Windows without glass, crumbling old walls, many a thin face and scores of small unschooled kids were all part of life here. I could not help but remember my home land that had managed to transform itself in the last fifteen years into a place much like this one, although with much of it hidden due to different cultural norms but just as dire as Kasbah.
Morocco - Flying Carpet Shop
Failing to fully appreciate various historical and cultural detail highlighted by Hassan mostly due to my reflective distractions and fresh troops of hawkers attacking us with a renewed sense of ferocity, we obediently entered the elaborate labyrinth of the local carpet shop slash AMWAY presentation centre. While the first floor of the establishment did not pose any ominous signs with habitual displays of artsy a-la Tourist shoes, swords, daggers and other gobbledygook, the second story presented a much less comfortable environment with uncovered white marble floors ridged with stacks, bunches and bundles of inescapable carpet creations behind less than tranquilising chairs that formed a perfect presentation circle for smooth salesmen of the East.
Before we could scream “help” our bodies were quickly arranged into two groups – Spanish and English all for some easy flailing. The glaring absence of German speaking help made me instantly think of Hassan. But he was nowhere to be found, he and Mahmud looked the other way – these people must be those “good people” Hassan had been talking about all this time. Oh well, let’s see what you have got…
The presentation was led by a very English-able man in his fifties, unseasonably dressed in a grey coat, suit and no tie – sort of Saddam style. He was lithe, quick and charming. His skills at describing the kaleidoscope of various carpet styles were unparalleled – Berber, Persian or Egyptian – I was getting my first full blown Carpet 101. I was masterfully learning incessant arrays of colours, patterns and most importantly knots – while some cheaper looking versions contained only a few thousand of these in each square meter, the best of the bunch got all the way to 200,000. Wow, my fingers were getting tired in compassion for tireless carpet makers. My nerves were getting tense at the prospect of taking one of this beauties home – VISA and DHL just stood by for our convenience. The effect was masterfully magnified by numerous and ready to pounce helpers with one of them playing a “whip the carpet” boy who just kept unfurling more and more samples at blitzing speed with necessary swooshes and bangs before letting its latest exemplar to settle on the clean white marble floor in a feather like descent.
I was feeling some heat under the collar with heat stroke becoming more of a possibility when at the close of presentation, my dear wife decided to take the extended invitation to ask questions seriously. At first standing in front of a middling rug with an initial price tag of $1,500 USD, she mercifully made a pronounced move to its lesser and smaller colleagues. It was not over yet though, especially when our sales-magician started flying his smaller and nimbler version in front of her. Luckily, they were miles apart on the price – she did not want to spend any more than $50 while his wares hardly ever dipped below $200. They parted like two ships in the ocean, each on its own course. The shop was emptying quickly with hardly anyone to show up on its doorstep until the next tour group – I even felt a little sad for Hassan, his carpet buddies and their dreams of a jackpot. At least they were stacked for every occasion – with the inventory to last for at least a couple of centuries. Given their likely mark-up, low rent and cheap help, “going out of business” sale was not just around the corner.
Having withstood the carpet charmers, I foolishly thought of a moment’s rest – instead we were to face our toughest challenge yet. You see, in the run up to the Amway carpet presentation, which promised perpetual bliss and solid value appreciation, Hassan needed to conserve our shopping juices to ensure a decent cut in case of a haul. Hence everything and everyone around was unworthy, uncouth and certainly very “bad”. Once through the presentation however, a magic transformation of character occurred in a blink of an eye – old “bad” people gathered like vultures around their prey, just waiting for the lions to finish their dinner. Once done with dessert Hassan/Mahmud combo had no objections and made no attempt to shield us from their pecks and scratches. Today with large felines going hungry, the open season on helpless tourists seemed to be especially promising.
An ornate plate of some bluish tinge and copper handiwork nearly smashed my forehead as soon as it cleared the door of the carpet establishment. Darting to the left my progress was arrested by a couple of ornamental daggers made out of some silvery compound. Doing a nifty pivot, I was about to escape only to be stuffed right in my face by a jalaba, some ornate shoes and armies of bangles. There was no escape in this very narrow alley of about six feet in width; it was time to let my shopping juices flow. And they did with the pavement thirsty for some good blood soaking.
“Mister, twenty five Euros for the plate”, “Mister, sixty five for nice woollen jalaba and thirty five for the other”, “Mister, this is a real deal”, Miss, what about these great shoes, just put them on, Berber handy work, only forty Euros – a real sacrifice”, “Look, look dagger, real silver, just fifty – no better deal around”.
The familiar feeling of dizziness was about to mount its attack when I heard “Mister, OK only ten Euros for the plate”. Ok, now we are talking as this shiny piece of undoubtedly suspect pottery suddenly felt comfortable on my mom’s shelf. I needed to buy her something anyway and this promised to be a possible solution. “Five Euros, final offer” I blurted. The next few seconds were a blur culminating with me holding the plate while my tireless seller was about to launch a renewed attack on my remaining finances. It looked as if once pierced, the vultures would just pour in. The deal surely demonstrated a chink in my armour, this in addition to the bracelet sale on the other side of the divide between “good” and “evil”. The rumours must have travelled fast and a podgy tourist in light shorts and “oh, Canada” shirt became the main target with some meat around the bones still left to peck.
Right in the middle of this vortex I heard a vaguely familiar voice “Mister, do you have my Euro?” This was my faithful bracelet seller who must have travelled blocks to collect his debt. Amazing! Credit works even here and now was my time to pay up. I sighed and let yet another Euro part…Voila.
Upon loud Tracy’s protestations regarding the apparent ugliness of the newly acquired plate, the selling pack made a quick deduction that she might be an even better target. Suddenly she got enveloped in a thick tornado cloud of shoes and scarves. Her apparent interest in ornate slippers revved up a little roar of frustration – nobody had needed slippers save for the lucky owner of the store across the alley. He had them in prodigious abundance and yet she managed to stand firm. Fortunately, he did not seem a bit perturbed quoting an amazingly audacious price of four Euros for a little white t-shirt with Morocco flag on it. It could not have cost him more than few cents and was “ugly” and “not to be worn by our child” type of ware, and yet he still wanted his mark-up. Interesting…
At the tail end of the shoe hunt one of the shopkeeper’s many cousins smelled a potential sale by barging in and offering a nice pair of slip-ons at a princely price of forty Euros. I was shooting for ten, which seemed too low for his “really traditional, hand made” wonders. Thirty was the lowest price he was willing to accede to. Much to our relief before I could start yet another round of exhausting bargains, Hassan indicated that now was the time to visit a traditional spice shop.
Spicy Funs and the rest of Kasbah
Again circling around the same tight streets, chased by the same hawkers and prodded from the rear by our old trusted Mahmud we piled into a nearly sterile coolness of a spice shop. The rest was just as predictable – white marble floors, stacks of wares along the walls and chairs ready for yet another sales presentation. Much like the flying carpet shop we were the only customers willing to subjugate themselves to traditional spices in this very “traditional” environment. The sales pitch was led a very funny scrawny little type probably in his early thirties who must have been Chris Rock’s little Moroccan cousin. He was phenomenally entertaining with his infectious smile, accent and artsy circular hand motions designed to assist in presentation of exotic spices. Teas, balms, creams, soaps – everything contained many magic powers over sleep, extra weight, tonus and, of course, male potency. Each product was passed around, touched, smelled and spread by his able-bodied assistant who also gave out regular shopping plastic bags for item pick up. If not careful one was bound to walk out of there loaded like a family after a $250 Save-On shop. This was easy since the price of each product was exactly four Euros save for some pungent soaps. Just like little cookies for health conscious – it is much easier to swallow in bits without looking at the total. Amazingly, they even offered discounts - three for two, four for three and so on.
I was thoroughly diverted by this rat-a-tat delivery and was ready for picking some grassy products once the cash register opened. Alas, unlike anybody outside, these guys did not bargain. I could hardly believe it, especially since nobody made any fuss about it. I guess paying four Euros at a time is much less painful than parting with $1,500 all at once. I suspected that the mark-up was still a generous one though. Trying to make some headway against the tide of the unnecessary expenses I could hardly take advantage of the usual three for two as these applied to like items only. My momentary captors must have felt little magnanimous and reduced their price by one happy Euro delivered in a stack of lesser coins bound together by scotch tape. I figure that locals did not like spending precious calories on carrying their coins around vastly preferring paper money.
Once again, back on the street we faced the same predictable results - more daggers, shoes and plates. The jalaba seller kept his tenuous pursuit with his price now hovering around the 20 Euro mark. Seeing my resolve to stay away at this level he made a last ditch attempt at 15, just as we were approaching a picturesque local mosque for an umpteenth time. I kept walking without paying a slightest attention to the elaborate arabesque carvings. The next thing I know is the ubiquitous jalaba literally flying in my face across the sidewalk with the word “ten” attached somewhere in its tail section. Unable to resist – I paid and departed for some momentary rest. Not to be, as the familiar “traditional” sleepers resurface once again, this time capturing its victim in its steely jaws at 20 Euros – “it is just a little charity” Tracy mused.
Precisely the charity I was running terribly short on. I figure that being 5’10’’, sort of overweight and greying is about as average as it gets. So when it came to Kasbah’s tolerance meter, the averages worked out just perfectly up to this point. Now the arrow was hitting the most extreme regions and I was about to get physical, as Hassan pulled us into the oasis of a local cliff hanging hotel with a view and ban on hawkers.
The place appeared like a magic ship in a middle of a stormy ocean. I loved everything – the view, great wide patio, coffee and a chance to find myself again. It took me at least fifteen minutes to slow down, at first words were coming out at about 200 per minute with no end in sight. Only after some soothing exchanges with fellow travellers and the hotel owner (who by the way turned out to be in Rick Steves’ book, which he duly signed for the Student) did I get a chance to feel slightly normal again. This was extremely welcome since about two hundred meters of Kasbah still separated us from our bus parked at the bottom of the street.
Imbued with renewed energy we managed to escape almost unscathed with only few minor purchases from predominantly under-aged sellers who should have been in school. The closer we got to the bus, the lower the prices. The last thing I heard was “Mister, crazy price – four for five Euros”. Now the call was for well-known bracelets and was a truly good deal but even this could not entice me to leave the bus one more time. Bye-bye Mahmud! Bye-bye Kasbah!
Now we started for the hills in search of a promised camel ride. Hassan rewound his trilingual tape and restarted his tour on life and habits of Tangier. The streets were teeming with local folk mightily increased by scores of school children on a break – prancing and dancing through the thick and chaotic traffic like pros. Being in school from 8AM to 5PM with a three hour break for six days a week is not a picnic and these kids knew how to use spare time – traffic or not, nothing could stop their progress.
Once outside the mayhem of the city centre we went along richer and hillier parts of town that boasted great mansions, ornate balconies and protective high fences with some featuring barbed wire and broken glass on top. Here amidst a lush green valley, we came upon the redoubts of ruling classes complete with private cricket and golf clubs, riding school and an English pet cemetery. Home is where your money is. Call it Tangiers, Delhi or Paris – only large enough amounts truly matter.
Into these richer city parts we discovered that this corner of Africa was labouring under the same property bubble that had taken real estate prices all around the world to new and unprecedented heights – new houses of various standards of luxury were constructed everywhere – solid brick construction, solid tile roofs and tons of marble. The only markers of the third world here was the pitiful state of sidewalks and landscaping of common property. Otherwise you could have been in San Diego or Santa Fe. Amid this newly found and certainly not cheap prosperity, that ran into hundreds of thousands of dollars, located the “ride the camel club” for less fortunate. Situated on some pre-boom derelict construction site with deformed bricks and bits of unclaimed concrete, the place certainly lacked an ambience. But for the price of one Euro per a Camel ride “what the hack I’ll take it”. Unfortunately, not all had the same train of thought since there was a price to pay even here – familiar bracelets, fez hats and other crap was ready for yet another kick at the can. Trying to shorten the experience to least possible amount of pain and after paying a whole Euro to some guy for clicking a picture with a shaggy young camel in focus we quickly jumped on a 20-second ride atop some fiercely exploited beasts. With pictures taken, we promptly rushed into the private confines of our bus - we felt a bit like Becks and Posh except they do it on a daily basis. Mostly intact minus a plush red fez we were ready to jump back on the ferry and head back to the peaceful and socialist paradise of the Spanish Kingdom. I like to have been here and I love not to have stayed.
Seville – Conception
There is no better way to recover from shopping excesses of Morocco than to step into a dreamy ambience of ancient Seville. Everything was just perfect about this place – relatively straightforward drive at times reaching 200 KMH, perfect spring weather, colourful people and Conception (pronounced Conthepthion). The latter was a highly recommended local tour guide if you can believe Rick Steves (easy driving through Andalucía hills my ass). This diminutive, pretty and expressive woman somewhere in her late thirties lived to her billing in spades. Her two-hour walking tour through the basics of Seville at ten Euro per was certainly a good start in our daily exploratory work here.
Connie, since nobody was brave enough to spell “Conthepthion” was very keen on local traditions and history, with music and dance being at the top of the hit parade. Sure, it is nice to mention obligatory Romans, Moors and Hapsburgs but when it really came to understanding the true soul of NODO (Knotted, Never too Far – Seville City Symbol) one had to plunge one level below the surface – Holy Week, Carnival and the mysterious art of flamenco. Visiting in the run-up to the Holy Week, the morning street mood seemed to be a little priggish with understated dress and pious church services in full swing. The celebration of the Holy Week is taken very seriously here, as sins are many and days are short – so full penitence is in order. Choirs, orchestras and well-built muscular people are in high demand. While the former seem prone to swapping a guitar for a trombone, the latter are much needed for carrying huge religious platforms that contain various Catholic symbols and weigh a tonne. Each parish and neighbourhood has its own platform, called “Paso”, to strut around for exculpation of sins. They all parade in a big city get-together for an ultimate try with God. While not sure of exact post-modern motivations, the tradition survives with much zest and sense of belonging much lacking in the free wheeling and individualistic North America. To witness the local ardour first hand, we even dropped on one local service in its last throes not only to encounter ancient local Madonnas but also smile at numerous young kids with some still in their carriages stuffed with obligatory bottles and soothers. These people still manage to preserve stuffy spirits of old despite being surrounded by new inventions. In fact some work for them very well, as witnessed first hand when we saw myriads of shiny CD disks hanging on the church façade – pigeons, the flying city rats, do not like them all that much apparently.
To counter a rare lack of indulgence in the course of the Holy Week, nothing works better than a full blown carnival. These folks do not even lay claims on frumpish pretensions, as with Pasos freshly stored for yet another year, they plunge off the precipice into the whirlwind of parties, dresses and wine. The carnival is a week-long feast, dance and reunion event that strides across all hours of the day for more than a whole week straight. Apparently, once the carnival ends many Spaniards prefer to embark on a real holiday to pamper their beat up and tighter suited bodies. The carnival is especially hard on a weaker sex as they are to wear the most elaborate, tightly fit and expensive dresses, shoes and other heavy artillery. Money is saved every year for yet another specially ordered flamenco dress pulling many hundreds of hard earned Euros. It does not end there with new shoes, head bands and jewellery. All this constitutes a healthy part of anybody’s budget. Repeating dresses from year to year is a balancing act of the first degree that cannot be replicated all too often. Fickle fashions keep everyone on their guard. Buying ready made dresses from the stores could be a major faux pas with many a double walking around. Moreover, a particular attention is paid to head coverings and fans, the art forms of their own that are sold in speciality boutiques along the Serpes Street (Snake Street), the shopping Mecca of the visitors and locals alike, with former preferring large brand name stores while the latter satisfy their needs at smaller and pricier personable establishments.
Where do these people really party? Apart from numerous and complex outdoor events put on by the city fathers, groups of friends usually hire a tent on the former fair grounds fully stocked with food and drinks to entertain, re-unite and re-acquaint. The number of such tents could run into hundreds posing little risk of boredom to anyone. Expectedly, most of waking hours are spent wandering, meeting, drinking and eating. Sleep is optional. This is a true tribute to human ability to endure. If you can do it in a truly Sevillian fashion, a Hawaiian Iron Man is just a piece of cake. To be honest, I was getting weary just hearing about it.
When my strength was about to expire, Connie switched into a second gear showing off culture, architecture and curiosities at rather fast clip. First, the city hall with its timely progression etched right into its façade. It was almost like a vertical version of archaeological excavations with the older side completely covered with almost incomprehensible baroque, while the opposite newer side aged only two hundred years revealed a hardly matching simple neo classical style. It seemed that nascence of neo classical style was as much due to changing taste as to changing economics since the best and brightest were seeking pleasure in devising things mechanical as opposed to doodling around exquisite artistic patterns. And voila – nobody to match the old façade while plenty to paint a blurry impressionist canvass or design a new shiny brass gadget…
Being a rather large modern European city, Seville is known for some things of surprising utility – enter the local garbage system. While most of us view garbage trucks as a part of life, nifty Sevillians did not share the same affinity. Their narrow streets and sheer volume of tourist traffic demanded a totally different solution that came packaged as grey and stout street disposal columns looking sort of business like and serious just as an English mail box. No wonder that many a tourist mistake this vacuum driven central collection system for a friendly reminder to drop a postcard. Alas, instead of fast post delivery these end up at the garbage dump – the ultimate Spanish revenge for the infamy of Armada at the hands of the indomitable Sir Drake.
Seville would never be what it is without its evocative, humongous and a little haphazard Cathedral. That’s where we spent much of our time. Inevitably, the ubiquitous Moors came back into the picture with their crafty hands and flexible minds designing still standing walls of a huge mosque that could have been the largest in the world at the time of its construction. Of course, as it is well known, the Moors did not survive and ceded possessions to the advancing Christian re-conquistadors, leaving the mosque to the mercy of the victors, plus a huge tower and a whole bunch of other valuables.
After destroying the mosque to build a huge cathedral in its place, the new rulers of Seville decided to keep the tower crowing it with additional stories and a bronze statue of Geraldine (turning kind of girl) well equipped with numerous Christian symbols. The tower certainly gives a shot in the arm to the already amazingly large Cathedral in its quest for notoriety – exactly fitting the original patterns, the ones set by its first builders who wanted to be known as Madmen for their audacity to erect anything this monumental. The Cathedral Square does not hurt either with its inordinate triangular shape resting its base at the lavish baroque edifice belonging to the local cardinal. The palace, that despite its obvious charms, still poses as a private residence unattainable for politically disconnected. The monastery on the opposite side of the Square does provide for some tourist relief however since it contains a peculiar pastry shop designed to raise funds for starving nuns. When walking into this realm of privacy and seclusion, we found a price list posted on the wall alongside a turnstile that precluded anyone from checking out personal charms of local inhabitants. You simply put money on the turnstile, it turns and spits out your order – I guess nuns try to avoid any notion of bad customer service rap – the service is super uniform – Wal-Mart should take a note. Availing ourselves of the most affordable on the their menu, we walked out with a bag full of bland offering cuts – much carbs and all for me since Tracy and Tanya would have none of it. I hope that their sombre diet mood was dispelled by majestic Mozart diffused by a full scale and yet portable grand piano on wheels with its owner mostly pressing the right keys thus imbuing the ancient walls with an artful spirit.
Further we went around the so called Jewish district that was no Jewish district at all since it was constructed for the Fair of 1929 in the “Faux Juifs” fashion to impress meagre visitors about to be hit with the stock market collapse and ensuing depression. Yes, Jews did live in this part of town but they were long gone in 1929. Well, not to worry, the architects of the brave 20th century decided to resurrect the quaint nature and names associated with charms of old Seville. These charms survive amazingly well to this day with tourists and locals mixing in one happy harmony of almost perpetual party save for frumpishness of the Holy Week. The place is so amazing that even the surrounding tourist hordes do not spoil it - all is acceptable in this cauldron of bliss!
Seville –Columbus and the Gold
Parting with Connie after a pleasant promenade along the walls of Alcazar (King’s Palace) was a bit sad and certainly useful as she hooked us up with one of the best and yet cheapest flamenco treats around plus a couple of other useful tips to boot. One of this was used after the conclusion of an exhaustive Cathedral visit – a delightful rooftop café looking out straight at the Cathedral, hidden and nearly denuded of customers despite unrivalled views. Coffee, sun and rooftop pool could not have come handier for a midday respite. But before it was attempted, the Cathedral entertained our senses for quite some time. Predictably dark, imposing and hollow, this huge skeleton of Gothic art presents a daunting task to any visitor. Innumerable chez d’ouvre of art stared from everywhere and anywhere, precious frescos and evocative biblical scenes were dime a dozen, intricate silver implements were cheaper than coke and gold was so plentiful that one was liable to leave the place irrevocably blind. However, nothing was as perilous as the centre altar that not even the imposing weight and marble of the Christopher Columbus grave could compete with.
The incredible golden masterpiece was so massive, and yet light and elusive with the most intricate details demand the opposite of concentration if one were to survive the experience. Contrary to Grockel logic, one needs to exhale, relax and lose all focus in order to really enjoy the moment. Just like playing golf. In fact, take few minutes and sit down on a pew, feel the weight of your heavy legs and just soak up the golden glare invading all five senses. Only in this fashion you can appreciate the altar experience without going exhausted and blind.
After the elevating experience of the golden paradise we moved to things yet even more elevated – the Cathedral tower. Despite its lofty heights swirling above the whole city, ascend did not seem to be tiring at all. Much of the ease was due to the originality of none other than the crafty Moors who with a great deal of foresight installed gently slopping ramps instead of stairs. The original recipients of this ingenuity were numerous muezzins that had to climb to the top of the tower for a prayer call on no less than five daily occasions. Our trip up took us around the perimeter of the structure at least ten times, each time showing ever more soaring views from four different perspectives. The cameras were going into overdrive, God bless digital technology! The view from the top was the most exhilarating with the sounds of Mozart flowing up from the square below.
Since Rick Steves puts the Cathedral at four stars on his attraction grid, the three stars allotted to the Alcazar did not seem all that attractive and yet we decided to give it a shot especially since it threatened to soon disappear for yet another day in the beautiful and unseasonably warm sunset.
The entrance into place did not really spell out the whole story neither did Rick’s rating. Once inside though, its sombre rooms were breathing with refreshing winds of history reviving old acquaintances with Isabella, Ferdinand, Phillip and Christopher – i.e. all that is important in medieval Spanish history. One particular room was of a particular interest since its heavily purple veiled walls still carried memories of the first audience between Columbus and his benefactress, Queen Isabella. The stories of new world, its riches and wonders were so powerful, consequential and yet private that even today the military guards mill about to protect this shroud of mystery with “No Flash” interdictions.
The deeper inside the palace we went, the more we marvelled at its first rate “Mudejar” art. What is it? Well, after the successful re-conquest Christian queens and kings were not all that adverse to appreciation of vanquished Moorish art. They liked it so much that for many years and centuries whence they persisted in hiring highly skilled Arab labourers for construction of their palaces, castles and even cathedrals. As a result, many a miracle of architectural art following the re-conquest is hard to distinguish from its earlier cousins. To an untrained eye it all looks exactly the same save for slight differences in imaginary, as Islam frowned on exposition of any living creature. Christians were not as fussy.
When walking around some parts of the Alcazar we couldn’t avoid thinking of Alhambra, which is considered the true apogee of late Moorish style. To me Alcazar looked just as inspiring, mysterious and thrilling. The echoes of years past were still lurking around here. Maybe they should keep it until late evening to get a bigger effect just like in Granada?
The pleasant surprises did not stop there when we stepped into the park behind. To our complete astonishment it was a huge, sprawling and very artistically landscaped with exotic plants, trees and stones resting around and along curvy paths, ancient fountains, pavilions and galleries. I just collapsed on a cold marble fountain slab to stare into the limitless sky framed by green baroque tops of encircling Lebanon cedars. All of this lusciousness hid behind the ancient walls making it difficult for a mere mortal to partake unless you pay a 7 Euro fee or something heavier if you happen to plan something more substantial such as a wedding reception. That Saturday was no exception as tables were being set for yet another celebratory soiree. We desperately wanted to join had it not been for an appointment with local flamenco pros.
Seville - Flamenco
On the way to the concert location, lost somewhere in the narrow and twisted alleys of the Jewish quarter, we got a chance to cool our hills at the Cathedral Square for few more moments to decide on the next tapa bar to hit. Watching the Cathedral Square in the course of one day is a great opportunity to appreciate different colours of this amazing city. Exceedingly touristy morning hours turned into a more local scene by early afternoon with a whole group of similarly dressed women welcoming a visit by their favourite singer with a serenade of their own. A very entertaining scene as even impromptu friendly curb art turned into a really well done performance at the hands of musically skilful Spaniards. We were elated to catch a glimpse of the star, especially since I was the one spotting a nearly lost pair of glasses that fell from the Diva herself. Now, at dusk the scene was turning decidedly traditional with one luxury car after another ushering yet another wedding procession complete with necessary “suegras” – mothers of the groom.
These are indispensable to any Spanish wedding that do not typically exhibit bridesmaids and groomsmen as main fixtures. Instead key roles are played by suegras and brides’ fathers with the former taking the front seat with their unmistakable “montons” on their heads. These crown-like head contraptions are taken extremely seriously and probably compete with brides’ dresses for attention of numerous guests and onlookers. The ageing suegras’ effect adds to the overall flavour. Instead of marrying for love and hope in the early twenties, modern Spaniards postpone their vows till their mid thirties to alleviate modern economic tides. Men stay with their mothers until at least their first grey hair or a bold spot. The Square scene was in total accord with the times, as limping and bent suegras were at last tearfully getting rid of their slightly overweight and more than ripe sons - away into the clutches of matrimony!
Eventually, we arrived to the pinnacle event of our Seville trip – the flamenco concert. This one took place in a traditional white painted two-story courtyard with plethora of ivy branches spilling over surrounding balconies like verdant waterfalls. The stage was set up right into the middle of the courtyard with three rows of chairs encircling it around from three sides. No beer, refreshments, black caviar or ties – only fiery explosion of flamenco.
Being the late birds due to our inability to quickly pass by yet another attractive tapa bar, whose waiters employed chalk on counters instead of paper and pens, was the culprit. You see, an amazing seafood tapa salad almost managed to capture my attention for the rest of the night had it not been for my more musically inclined companions. Consequently, we managed to get only a set of third row seats resulting in constant neck-craning in order to get a better view. Bucking the trend, I traded my padded seat for a cold stone of the staircase while Tracy and Tanya were left to consume creative charms on their own.
At first, a pair consisting of a guitarist and a singer ascended the stage for a warm-up act. Surprisingly Viking looking guitarist hardly spoiled authenticity of amazing flamenco vocals that seemed to arrive straight from the depth of the singer’s soul. Typically delivered sitting, this vocal art is truly mesmerising with the deepest cries of the heart connecting and penetrating anyone and anything around. The songs of unrequited love, broken homes and hardships of life reflect not only present but the past with its glory and infamy side by side.
While I thought that flamenco signing was a certain highlight, the real connoisseurs immensely preferred the dance. The first act up was so called Luna (Moon in Ingles) in her traditional striking black and red flowing frills with some modern tinge of denim, with a flawless tightly combed hairdo and amazingly attractive features that just breathed Andalucía. If I had ever tried to envision a perfect flamenco danseuse it would have been Luna. Perfectly timed and executed turns, expressive hand routine and echoes of tapped rhythms reverberated as anything timeless.
All men in the auditorium smitten, women were still waiting for their turn with Oscar, an all black dressed male specimen biding his time in passionate flamenco clapping. I personally doubted that a single male flamenco dance could be nearly as evocative as one performed by a representative of the weaker sex, especially so skilled and unforgettable as Luna. Well, Oscar came awfully close and according to some was even better, as he managed to captivate the entire female audience with his unswerving stare that penetrated deeply and irrevocably. The real trick was Oscar’s ability to frantically tap, swirl and twirl in a completely detached fashion vis-à-vis his upper body. In fact, it was almost like having two people dance at the same time. One showed only his legs and the other only the upper torso. Quite amazing actually! Women have one slight disadvantage here though, as dress frills conceal some of the same technique. For men though there is less room for a mistake, but much bigger upside with audiences going wild. Oscar used his advantage to a tee with his legs and feet in incessant barrage of moves, with completely still chest seemed chained in forces of gravity and passion. His hands occasionally moving in a vertical upward motion were tagging edges of his loosely hanging shirt a bit too sensually for Anglo-Saxon sensibilities as women spectators were going wild. This and his fiery stare caused the utmost stir and was an object of much discussion few days following. I am still working on a rebuttal. A diet might help…
WE LOVE CADIZ
The last day at the Costa del Luz was looking somewhat lazy and even relaxing – imagine that! A side trip to Cadiz did not seem all that exciting. Rick hardly mentioned it and even more inclusive Lonely Planet skipped on everything but some basic facts including its Roman origins, obligatory Moors and of course Columbus whose first trip had much to do with this place – fundraising, ship building etc. So not expecting all that much, we departed on a short 15 minute trip to the other side of the harbour. Located at the end of a narrow and long peninsula, the city reminds many of a huge ship just about to weigh anchor and plunge into the endless freedom of the ocean. By the way I stole this metaphor from yet another touristy pretence at writing…
Located on a narrow strip with the main street in the middle, anything in the city is hardly ever more than a couple of blocks from the water. For the first couple of kilometres there were just local shops, apartment blocks and other stalwarts of the mundane. The only relief, lulling in the endless and welcoming early spring sunrays were the profoundly blue waters of the Atlantic. We could not resist and turned into much slower but livelier ocean promenade. For a moment we thought that all that Cadiz was sun, ocean and modern non-descript apartment blocks. Pleasant but nothing too eccentric...
And here we happened upon first glimpses of the old Cadiz encircled by old Moorish walls. The apartment blocks suddenly blossomed into much more medieval edifices – cracked, peeled and leaning. Slightly derelict but brimming with tales of glorious past – ancient trade routes, New World expeditions and Roman every day life was passing right before our eyes. This medieval oasis seemed hardly touched by waves of modern tourism – the pleasant sunny day was being enjoyed exclusively by the locals. The local tourist office was far from overflowing with just one lady to provide basic advice. “See this”, “see that” – this park and that promenade – the whole story was dished out in about two minutes with a free map to boot – incredible efficiency!
The old town core was actually quite larger than one would expect, primarily reflecting the importance of its ancient trading harbour, commercial fishing traditions and other aspects of life that made Cadiz a big deal few centuries ago. A few steps from the tourist office and you are staring at the well preserved ruins of a Roman Amphitheatre. A great opportunity to do a bit of climbing, reading is mostly optional as it is exclusively in Spanish - another sign of relative safety from the international tourism. Right across the street a steep embankment wall - this was a great boon for local fishermen and strollers alike. We could not resist baking in the sun, mingling with locals enjoying life after edifications of the Sunday mass conducted in many city churches and Cathedral. To addition to numerous pious establishments, many cafes and restaurants were on stand-by to prey on sharpened appetites in weeks preceding harsh nutritional regiments of the Holy Week and Lent. One such establishment turned out to be a real jewel. A propos called “Bocadillos” (little bites or sandwiches) this lively vendor of a myriad of little sandwiches was in no want of customers. The most difficult decision to make was to choose one of at least forty varieties, the price, on the other hand was not an issue, as every sandwich was priced as in uniform fashion as Moroccan spices – one Euro each. Piling up on a few each did not completely extinguish our appetite after the delightful morsels just melted in our mouths leaving room for more. The plans for a new Vancouver franchise were being hatched as we chewed. We could not get out of the delicious loop of dreams, tastes and new orders. We wanted to move on but lingering around heavenly sandwiches felt so much more natural and rewarding. Finally we were able to tear ourselves back to reality of the Cathedral Square that was filling up with groups consisting mostly of dressed-up men heading in the same direction, peculiarly.
Not really giving much thought to the procession, we just followed along increasingly narrow and crowded streets. Suddenly, as the street we were on was just about to widen in yet another city square, the traffic jammed. A real pandemonium was taking place, as people were converging from all directions – dressed up as basketball players, housewives, fishermen and villains. They were of all imaginable ages, sizes and almost exclusively male. Most were proceeding in groups, while some were taking their jovial appearances in individual slices. One group, dressed as housewives stopped right at the edge of the square to entertain multitudes of much delighted onlookers with very humorous and sonorous vocal creations. The art was extremely well delivered with intricate interplay of voices, postures and costumes. The effect was mesmerising, and most of all unexpected, for us anyway. We surely were caught up in the moment, even forgetting our Vancouver Bocadillo franchise that was not an easy feat.
This was a local Sunday carnival that was not even mentioned in the tourist office and yet it was superb. It unquestionably became the most delightful impromptu of the whole trip. Teeming crowds of cheerful spectators, gifted performers and abundance of seafood offerings was just phenomenal. Some enterprising fishermen put up a stand right in the middle of the square to sell the fruits of their early morning labour – oysters, crabs and sea urchins. The latter seemed to be very popular and simple to consume – just hack it in half, squeeze some lemon and swallow. The key word is “swallow” as chewing will leave you with inexorable fish odour for the rest of the day. Predictably, I was the only of the group to yield my senses to this suspicious delicacy.
The signing and performing groups were just groups of friends getting together to entertain, be entertained and enjoy the season before the Holy Week. I guess unlike Sevillians these guys could not wait for another three weeks to start their carnival. The impetuous and freedom loving fishermen spirit neglected all necessary decorum imposed by more affluent customs of their northern counterparts. The joie-de-vivre reined here to the fullest. Our number one pick of the day was a group of teenage kids dressed up as a band of marauding ruffians, jolly chimney cleaners or cheerful farmhands – whatever one prefers. The ragged, torn jackets and pants, splintered straw hats and dirt smudged faces provided the perfect guise for their superb operetta performance. Cigarettes dangling, arms flailing, feet tapping and smiles all over made for an incredible background for their serenading voices dishing out the latest town love gossips. All seemed flawless and professional. And they probably were just a bunch of high school kids. Dazzling! Tracy was so taken up by the inspiringly light-hearted performance that instead of filming the precocious wunderkinds, she mostly managed to catch someone’s bottom giggling to the joys of newly found local talents. Instead of wasting his time in LA, Simon should find his idols here – it might be a first really useful thing he has ever done in his miserable British life.
After attending the carnival, the whole world seemed to be agreeable and tinged with blue and rose colours. All was delightful, full of life and extremely diverting – thickly attended beaches; kids playing soccer with skills matching those of Beckham and Ronaldo; old fort connected by a narrow stone walkway with the land; beer guzzling and urchin chewing families; meticulously landscaped local parks; and of course squares; these welcoming, warm and light hearted places always look for ways to party amidst old trees, cobblestones and medieval facades. The pleasures of life and travel appeared to be timeless and endless in this little known jewel of Andalucía. WE LOVE CADIZ!
Christopher’s Port
We decided to partake in our last dinner in the historic Puerto Santa Maria – the point of Columbus’s departure on his first voyage to “India”. As India did not materialise, Columbus had to settle for the New World just proving that things do not always turn out the way one expects. We followed the trend with failing to discover anything in Puerto Santa Maria that could even remotely match Cadiz. Surely, there was a nicely preserved fortress that bespoke of Christopher’s adventures and a plethora of winery looking establishments ready to dish our any type of Jerez one could ever want. But the overall feel of the place betrayed a certain degree of misery and difficult economic conditions that did not translate into a very memorable visit. Even an oversized Plaza del Toros with a statute of a bull with oversized testicles did not tickle. And an ancient twelfth century gothic marvel of a church failed to inspire. And this is despite a whole bevy of full sized storks actually occupying the whole roof as their living quarters. I do not usually feel all that comfortable even with the least threatening of bird species. The prospect to having fifty pound beasts swirling right overhead did not make for a very cuddly atmosphere. I was desperately longing to find shelter in the local instalment of “Romerijos”, a well-known seafood restaurant chain.
We were gearing up for a feast, as the befuddling restaurant set up slightly alerted our mood. The place was actually split into at least three parts – one for anything boiled, the other for anything fried and yet another for a bar service with seafood tapa creations. The rather suspect bright ambience resembling industrial assembly line of a large China town dim sum eatery did not imbue much confidence especially to Tanya, a well known fish “connoisseur” who loves all things fishy so much that had it been for her the whole fishing industry would been defunct long ago.
The ordering procedure here was a little discombobulating too. First, we had to choose from in at least twenty different sea creatures. Heck, squid and others were ready for a dunk in a cauldron of oil. Barely managing to make sense of some offerings we made a choice. Then picking up a table in the next room we ordered drinks in the very solemn surroundings of an early Sunday dinner. Not a single Spaniard was on hand to alleviate the sterile experience. The dinner arrival took a long time and not until I picked it up myself wrapped in the paper bags. Turned out that the deep fried section does not really communicate with the tapa bar help and customers are left to their own devices to improvise. Luckily my appetite made a quick decision; otherwise we would have been seeping wine for the rest of the night with our morsels of calamari sunbathing in the ceiling flood lights. While I felt pretty good about my picks Tanya had to settle for very little desperately wishing for a big juicy steak. Tracy fell, as always, somewhere in the middle between us two. Local stop in MacDonald’s was inevitable just to make it through the night. Sorry Andalucía for this disrespectful parting gesture! Hopefully see you again!
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