España

Spain, Spain, Spain, a breath of fresh air after Africa. Women are everywhere, wearing whatever and as little as they want. I didn’t realize how few women I saw in Morocco and Tunisia. Now that women fill half the street, I realize how many women are missing from the North African streets. With Spain I feel like I’m returning to an old friend, it’s so easy and familiar. It’s a culture I can understand and navigate with ease. Not wondering if I’m being ripped off at every transaction, small children don’t laugh and point, and no one stares!! Tajines and couscous were great but can’t hold a candle to the European gastronomic arts!

 

 The tapas here are phenomenal. Ali-oli sauce and eggs piled on potatoes taste great! Small plates heaped with delicious food cost two Euros and the sangria is only three. Our first night in Sevilla was spent experiencing the bustle of a Spanish tapas restaurant. The waiters served us in a no nonsense fashion and we stood at the bar while Spanish was shouted all around us; people jovially pushed and shoved to get from table to table. The melodic notes of Spanish soothingly washed our ears of Arabic’s harshness.

The next day we wandered down narrow Spanish streets, admiring the cobbled roads and quiet confidence of the Spanish people. The Sun beat down, adding to our tan and forcing us to take cover after lunch. We emerged again at night for a tapas tour presented by our hostel. Our kind host took us to fantastic little places and ordered exotic tapas, from shark, to pork secreto, to zucchini roasted in squid ink. They were all delicious. We met some Canadians from Montreal and the night was spent swapping travel stories.  Some Aussies also regaled us with tales about Australian “drop-bears.” An Aussie drop bear is a small version of a grizzly that drops from trees onto unsuspecting, sleeping campers. At least Aussies try and convince you they exist and once you bewilderedly admit they may exist, they burst out laughing informing you it’s an elaborate joke.

 

Our last night in Sevilla we attended a Flamenco show.  Forty people packed into a small dim room, the heat rising, while the dancers captured our attention. They slammed their feet down in rapid gunfire bursts, steps so quick that they blurred before our eyes. The guitarist flew up and down the scales while the vocalist sang with all his heart. As the dancers twirled in their finale, the sweat leapt from their brow and showered the audience. I was tired from just watching the show.

Onwards to Barcelona_-- a complete gong show after the quiet streets of Sevilla. People move like ocean currents, swirling this way and that. Old architectural apartments watch over streets crowded with expensive and over-priced restaurants.  Walking down to the beach, we find it packed; stretching as far as the eye can see. People jump about in the large salty waves while women recline topless, taking in the Mediterranean sun. After leaving the beach I drop my camera and “smash” break the lens from the body! A lady walking by visibly winces and shakes her head. Amanda and I spend the next day trying, to no avail, to get it fixed before we fly out to Palma. While trying out lenses to perhaps buy a new one, I discover that -lo and behold- the lens and camera still work if held together just so. With a damaged but working camera it’s time to head to the Island of Mallorca.

Mallorca is packed with Germans. Every sign is written in Spanish, English and German. We got off at the wrong bus stop and ended up trudging an hour and a half to our hostel, wearing large backpacks and cooking in the Mediterranean heat, while palm trees waved in the wind. The next day we planned to snorkel but a wind whipped up, and dashed the water, and our hopes against the rocks. We lucked out the next day with a car rental and reasonably sheltered bays. The underwater life swirled around us, fish darting here and there, while sunrays danced along the seabed floor. We saw grey “cow” fish along with exotic “rainbow” beauties. I even found an old Smartphone on the sea floor.

Cap de Formentor

Driving across the island we saw almond orchards and wheat fields all framed by the surrounding mountains. The grey mountains were peppered with green trees and in the Mediterranean light reminded me of Greece. We explored a beautiful market in the small town of Sineu, with its old cathedral standing watch over every sale and purchase. Amongst the salesmen and merchants there was a gentleman playing what appeared to be an old, round, briquette BBQ and making beautiful music with it. After the market we undertook a perilous winding journey up to the cap De Formentor- the northern most tip of the island. The road is barely big enough for two cars and on tight corners I had to reverse to let buses, coming the opposite way, pass by. The actual lookout was so crowded and a mess, Spanish folks had parked their cars in no parking zones, that I just u-turned and headed back down to the beach! Needless to say after Greece and Spain driving the flats of Saskatchewan are going to be extra boring.

BBQ musician!

We finished the night by sharing a plate of clams and realizing that we have become the couple that we hate to serve: the ones who share mains and buy the cheapest wine on the menu. But why buy wine at the restaurant when we have a jug of Spanish sangria waiting at the hostel?  

 

We’re now on a plane, high above the Atlantic, watching Iceland’s never-ending dawn approaching. Adios Spain!

Morocco....very good price!

Crushed in! The train is fully packed with people in every nook and cranny. The rich smell of sweat fills the air and the AC chuffs away trying to keep the cabin hovering around +35°C. The train thunders along bringing us closer to our goal: Marrakech!

Out the window Morocco passes by in blur, it’s squat shabby buildings blending into one another. The laundry drying from windows flutters in the wind and changing colour with each new town. Outside the cities and towns fields dry and bare are littered with garbage and rubble. We passed a field with a donkey, standing stock still in its midst, its dull eyes surveying its kingdom: the perfect master to a field of refuse.

Every guidebook describes Morocco as a country of contradictions and it is. Massive luxury apartments flank shantytowns strewn with garbage. Below the apartments, on the street, old men wearing traditional garb are shoved aside by young boisterous boys wearing flip-flops and second-hand Nike T-shirts. Old men with yellowed teeth beg for change and when refused offer to sell joints. Donkeys trot along the shoulder while cars and trucks, weaving from lane to lane, race by! This all takes place under the edifice of the Hassan II mosque, towering tall in its ivory and olivine beauty; a huge symbol that no matter which religion it is -- the name of the game is always: big, imposing, and beautiful.

We booked a tour out to the desert with a seven-hour drive each way. Heading out of Marrakech the Moroccan dirt, red and barren, seems as forbidding as the yellow sand of Tunisia. Even so, among the rocks, pockets of life eek out a living and thrive. The plant life, striking and vividly green, accents the changing tones of earth that morph from red to green, purple to yellow. Small pockets of palms, cacti and brush hold the line against the unforgiving desert. From these pockets people cobble together lives and build cities, testament to the resourcefulness of people around the globe.

An hour into the trip an Australian 
demands to have his money back and be returned to Marrakech. He wants air conditioning, he says: “I was promised air conditioning by your people.” pointing accusingly at the driver. Once he leaves the group discusses his actions, wondering how he was planning to get AC on the camel or in the desert.  Inching closer to the Sahara, the mountains of faded green look like they have been carved from olive paste.  The dunes turn out to be much smaller than in the pictures we were shown but we make the best of it. The camel ride is amazing. The odd beasts, snort fart and poop the whole journey. They appear ungainly and dinosaur like, but perfectly suited to the strangeness of the desert. Even though the ride was only an hour I know my ass will be sore the next morning  The tent for sleeping is too hot so we sleep under the full moon. The warm desert wind quietly sings us to sleep while palm trees rustle above us.

 
Upon return to Marrackech we head out to the night markets with our new American friend from the tour, Dallas. She guides us to a stall for grilled eggplant and mini skewers of grilled meat. We finish the meal at a different stall: drinking spice tea and eating gingerbread paste! The market is smoky from late night barbeques and illuminated by the lights of countless stalls selling: juice, nuts, spices, tea, lamps, knives and any other imaginable good. Every merchant calls to you, guessing your nationality: "Spanish, Italian, French, English, Polish?" This is followed by: "My friend, my friend take a look! No buy, just look." They finish with the clincher, the same at every stall: "Very good price, very good price for you sir...only four hundred Dirham!" Which is about 300 dirham more than it's worth. In the background Arabic drums pound in 3/4 time reminding me that I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore.

 
The girls have their bums constantly groped by old disgusting men. In retaliation, I grab one old man’s ass as he walks away from the shouting girls; he is so surprised, he gasps, and the cigarette drops from his mouth. Right back at ya Morocco! One man when confronted by Dallas raises his fist to strikes her and in heavily accented English exclaims: “fuck you.” Shortly after we stumble upon two Arab men fighting in the street, from the melee of twisting bodies and shouted Arabic, a rusty knife springs out and clangs at our feet.  Arab men flood around us attracted to the commotion. We decide to beat a hasty retreat and head back to the main square. Along the way a man tries to lead us in the opposite direction, claiming the square is the other way, we ignore him and end up safe in Djem El- Fna, the main square. After all the excitement we sleep exhausted and sweaty in our Spartan hotel room. 

The next day we headed out bright and early for Essouira. We didn’t account for Moroccan holiday season and have to wait for the last bus, the earlier ones already sold out. Essouira turned out to be damp, cold and windy so, we packed up again and headed for Taghazout. Taghazout is a small, laid back, surf town. On arrival dudes offering us rooms and deals swarmed around us. We managed to shake them off and had lunch. But two guys hung around and approached me after. I was charmed by their persistence and demeanor; and agreed to let them show me some places. These two surfers had long dark curly hair, bleached at the tips from salt water. Their dark countenances, tanned darker by the sun, clashed with their pale blue eyes. The one went barefoot and considering Moroccan towns have refuse and broken glass everywhere, it was pretty amazing to see. We ran all over town but every place was full. Each time a place was full they would say: “come… my friend… we find another.” During our journey they told me about life in Taghazout and themselves. They were both of Berber origin and had moved to the coast in search of surf and hash. They explained that the Arabic prayers broadcast five times a day over the loudspeakers were unintelligible to them and other Berbers. They speak a different dialect of Arabic and can’t understand “classic Arabic.”  They can however understand and speak English, French, and Spanish….Not bad!

The bed bug search

 The surfers couldn’t find us a place but two other Moroccans appeared, grinning, repeating the Moroccan mantra of: “very good price, very good price,” and found us an interesting apartment. These guys were friendly and helped Amanda procure some Argan oil from the feminine co-operative, which produces it by hand. They also invited us for “Moroccan whisky” which is mint tea. We sat in Mohammed’s tiny one room apartment and drank tea while Arab tunes pumped out of his radio. They told us stories of Moroccan life and Taghazout back in the sixties. Sitting in his tiny apartment I couldn’t help but feel privileged. So many  
Moroccans have so very little and Canadians have so much. That night falling asleep to the sound of shrieking Moroccan children and pounding waves; I dreamt of Canada.

Camel rida!

Tunisia update!

First hostel

Tunisia is hot! Man, when we arrived here the heat hit us like a semi-truck. Hauling our big bags around in the heat is brutal, add in the long stares of Tunisians and you start to wonder if maybe Africa was a bad call. We struggled around getting acquainted with the local transport system and managed to wind up at a youth hostel on the beach. The sheets hadn’t been cleaned in a long time but there was air conditioning; we also found a perfect lipstick kiss on the wall! We headed for the beach, to swim away our trepidation, but on arrival we were astounded to find it packed with only men; the ratio was thirty males to one female (Amanda says more like fifty to one). The girls who were in the water were covered head to foot; there were no bikinis in sight. Needless to say Amanda didn’t feel like being a show for four hundred dudes. We decided to hit up an all inclusive for two nights so we could do some tandem swimming.

Next we bussed up north to Tabarka for some stellar snorkeling. Once we found a secluded spot away from the sausage fest of the beach, it was beautiful. The waving fronds of plant life with fish darting in between were amazing to behold. The water was a great temperature and the craggy rocks held new surprises at every turn. The town of Tabarka is beautiful just like its surrounding waters. It is a little seaside town overlooked by an ancient castle, where the buildings are white with blue trim.

Tunisia was a former colony of France and one of the legacies this western colonial power left behind was bilingualism. Tunisians speak Arabic as a first language and French as a second; many can even speak English, Italian and Spanish as well. This has made it fairly simple to get information and move around. It’s a lot easier than Ukraine!

The bay in Tabarka

Couscous: food of the desert

That being said it has been a little hard to adjust. Tunisia is a man’s world. Every single guy we pass oggles Amanda and then eye me up. It bothered me at first but I’ve come to accept it. All the cafés are 98% men except in bigger cities where more couples have coffee together. I’m just unused to so much dudage all over the place. I have no idea how the guys stand it their whole lives.

While Tunisia is beautiful it is marred by the presence of garbage everywhere. Once you get accustomed to its prevalence you get past it. Tunisia has so much variety from Grassland steppes to Saharan oases and thriving coastlines. Its massive olive orchards take me back to Greece and the date palms everywhere make me excited for Morocco. 

I think the highlight of our trip was a three-day excursion into the Tunisian south. We were recommended to not backpack the south on our own; the southern border is prone to more radical interpretations of Islam and a little wishy-washy for foreigners. Even though it was a little less DIY than usual it was a blast! We had drivers and a guide and it felt a little like being in a movie. The four by fours took us out into the dessert dunes and over mountains into oases. 

Camel time!

  At one point our driver was ripping along a dessert road made of compact sand at 100km/h, a pretty bumpy ride but exhilarating nonetheless. On our first day I stepped out of the Toyota and found myself with a hawk on my head, one on my arm, and two Tunisian boys ordering Amanda to take pictures of me. I was informed after that their unwanted services would cost me ten Dinar. I gave them all the change I had, a Dinar and a half, but was informed that this was not enough, they harassed me until I said if they didn’t want my change they could give it back, at that point they left.

Berber woman in her House

Over the whole trip we got to see: camels, scorpions, goats, donkeys, foxes, toads and a host of other desert and oasis inhabitants.  The people themselves were interesting too; many live a more traditional desert life and wear traditional dress. Their faces are leathered and weary carrying the stamp of life. The modes of transport used in the desert can vary as much as the people. While the roads have trucks and motorbikes whizzing down them, often donkeys and horses pulling carts trundle down the shoulder.  We saw plenty of shepherds with sheep; watermelons being sold on the side of the road; and even viewed a Berber house carved from hardened sand! The south seemed a separate world from the northern metropolis. The pace was slower and people hung out in the shade, seeking shelter from the ever-present Saharan sun. The sale of gasoline on the side of the street, from large canisters and hand-cranked pumps, seemed to be common practice. The guide assured me that this had been the practice not too long ago in Canada as well, but I have my doubts?

I got a gastro-intestinal flu the night before the tour and had a feverish time until the doctor showed up. It ended up being a little painful for the car ride; I had to run to the restroom at each stop. On the positive side I have seen more Tunisian toilettes, in different exotic locales, than most visitors! 

 

Greek island hopping

I'm in Greece. Stranded on Syros and hoping that our ferry to Athens will arrive soon. Our ferry has been delayed due to poor weather; winds so strong they remind me of Saskatchewan! I'm trying to sort out how to use semi colons. Please post and remedy my grammatical errors. We have been placed into rush mode by our Tunisian friends canceling our flight and reassigning it to an earlier date. Not the best of news. So we're hoping this ferry doesn't get cancelled.  On the plus side Tunisia is supposed to be cheaper than Greece!

Rhodes

Enough complaining let me tell you about Greece! We started in Rhodes. Flying in we had a birds eye view of the Greek isles, spread out below us and glowing in the Mediterranean sun.  The flight was followed by a long, hot, standing, bus ride that ended with a nice hotel and dip in the ocean. The ocean was wonderful. It is warmer than in Italy and we had fun floating in its salty waves. We finished off our first day with some Gyros and cold beers/Bacardi breezers. The next day we explored the walled medieval city, with it's original stones crumbling and un-replaced (most castles we have visited have been up-kept and as such don't look or feel old).  Leave it to the Greeks to let something crumble. After a small jaunt around the island Amanda and I opted to leave the more crowded Rhodes and head for the unexploited isle of Tilos.

Tilos

Tilos was beautiful. The whole island was something out of a novel. Friendly Greek people and an immensely pleasing calm pervaded the island.  We arrived at dusk and were welcomed by Greek hotel owners vying for our attention, competing with the buzzing crickets in the background. The island is small. Only three hundred year round inhabitants spread between two towns, Livadia and Megalo Horio. We stayed in Livadia the port town in a studio overlooking the marina!

Red Beach

Our first day we hiked to a secluded beach known as red beach. Upon arrival we found a couple of  naked older ladies. Amanda and I decided to strip as well to avoid appearing as gawkers and to enjoy the simple pleasure swimming naked in the Ocean. We had to run naked from the ocean to our towels as the red sand was extremely hot  and roasted our pale feet in an instant. Hiking back to the town at one p.m., we came to understand why everything was closed in the village. Between noon and five its impossible to do anything but sit and sweat in the shade, as the sun bakes the earth. We finished the day at a charming Greek restaurant where I was able to try local baby goat cooked in lemon and Amanda's Greek salad came simple and unadorned, just veggies and feta.

 

The night brought with it an array of stars. I haven't been able to see stars for a while due to big city lights and it was nice to see the multitude twinkling away up there. Even at night its still hot. The only saving grace is a cool sea breeze that whisks away the    radiating heat from the day.

The hard work of Greek slaves

Our second day was spent on a boat. A captain had sold us on a boat ride with three beach visits and homemade lunch, plus all the Retsina (a type of local Greek white wine) you could drink! Retsina has an earthy flavour. I found out this is due to the wine making process where they add resin to simulate the flavour from when they sealed amphora's with pine resin to keep them from spoiling. This earthiness seems to be in all things Greek. It permeates their bread, coffee and snacks. Because Amanda is vegetarian the Captain had his mother-in-law make us special beans, cooked in tomato sauce and olive oil, that were absolutely fantastic! We were joined by a Swedish family, on vacation, who let us try their Snorkeling equipment. After the one dive we were hooked and shortly after bought our own masks. The day was beautiful and we watched the island pass by with the boat engine chuffing away in the background. The whole island is covered in striations, formed from the countless garden beds the ancient Greeks forced slaves to erect. The raised beds prevent the soil from eroding off the island when it rains. Tilos looks as though some Greek god came down from above and pasted topographic lines onto every surface of the island.

The Biggest Church in Greece

Sunset on Kos

We left the next day on a long ferry ride stopping in Kos and then heading to Syros.  Arriving at four a.m. we were pleasantly surprised to be greeted by the owner of our guesthouse. He was soft spoken and kind and gave us a small tour of Syros in broken English before showing us to our room. The next day turned out to be a painful adventure. Amanda kicked a sea-urchin on our first snorkeling dive and had to head to the hospital to get the spines removed. A very painful experience, one I hope doesn't happen to me. This necessitated us renting a car which ended up being very cool. We drove along winding Greek roads from beach to beach all the next day.  It was too windy to snorkel but we found an amazing beach for bodysurfing and joined the locals frolicking in the windy waters. Syros is so small it takes no more than two hours to circumnavigate the whole island, and great views are to be found everywhere.  For dinner we had cheap but tasty Greek food in a mountain top restaurant overlooking the sea. Enjoying our spanakopita and Rabbit we listened to the wind sigh and watched the sun set.

The most even paving ever

View of Kini Beach, Syros

I think one of the coolest parts of the trip is the ferrys. I watch these monstrous boats lumber into the port and then to my amazement they stop, spin a one eighty, and back up to the pier. There is a guy who's job it is to chuck a rope to another guy on the pier, then they crank the ropes tight and let down the gangway and voila you have arrived! Anyway that's all from Greece for now!!