figures

Tonight is my last sleep in Europe, I hardly think forty thousand feet above Germany counts. If I manage to sleep that is. I am pretty happy to be going home though, six months is a long time to be a gypsy traipsing around Europe. As a round off, I thought some facts, figures and impressions about this trip might be interesting.

This trip has carried me a total distance of approximately 53,340 kilometres as the crow flies from Melbourne to Melbourne. In terms of actual distance travelled I am looking at something more in the range of 57,000 with all the walking around cities, the twists and turns in roads and train tracks... it adds up. This grand adventure has taken place over 165 days and had me sleeping in 44 cities across 17 countries, not to mention the various day trips and what not. I have also attempted to say “hello” and “thank you” in 15 languages (including Berber and Flemish). Note: “hello” in Czech is “Ajoy”, pronounce A-hoy...like a pirate...

In this time I think I have been mistaken for 7 nationalities other than Australian and had a local beer in every country other than Morocco. I know, I have failed, but it was Ramadan and that feather in my cap really wasn’t worth 12 to 18 months. I had added 57 facebook friends, lost 2 towels and 6 individual socks (only 2 of those were a pair and only 3 of those were my doing). I have travelled by bike, ferry, plane (13 flights in total I think with 5 carriers), car, train, taxi, bus, foot, row boat, tram, chair lift, cable car, camel, repelling, swimming (from island to boat to different island) and piggy-back. I guess roller-coasters aren’t a mode of transport since it’s from point A to point A, but I went on 10 different coasters an average of 3 times each. Also, my $16 pair of Dunlop Vollys have seen twice as much action than my fancy Merrell travel shoes and lasted about as well as Dave’s $120 Hally Hansen walking shoes. Which is to say poorly. I think I have managed a load of washing every 12.69 days (I can only count 13 loads for the entire trip) and not eaten a proper steak since leaving home.

I have been a busy boy as you can see and I really have enjoyed it all, regretting very little. It’s easy to see in retrospect places that you maybe shouldn’t have gone, but I have learnt than no amount of reading helps and the experience one person has will likely conflict dramatically with that of the next you meet, you just need to weigh all your options, stick with what you think is a reliable source and just make the best of it. Hopefully I can find somewhere else in life to apply some of this life experiences.

When asked “do you think it has been worth it?” I will no doubt respond with something obtuse and evasive like... “In what way do you mean?” Money wise? No, I don’t think so... it’s hard to justify spending this much and no doubt it could have been more sensibly spent on a house deposit, new cars or something else just as boring. Experience? Hell yes it’s been worth it. When else would I have this sort of opportunity to see so many places and meet so many people with such freedom and ease? But it’s all apples and oranges because you can’t put a monetary value on the sights, friends and experience, and really, that’s a good portion of what this trip was about.

I have met scores of people from dozens of countries in these six short months, and as my parents have always been fond of telling me. It’s who you know. See, I listen. So when I'm broke and unemployed, living off a shoe string budget (a skill I have picked up travelling) and can look back on all the money I spent over here as an investment in my future. That will make me feel much better. I’m sure it will...

R & R

Portugal marked the final new destination of the trip for me and also the last opportunity for me to unwind before getting back to the monotonous reality that is life. And I must say, Portugal was a great choice for this. We arrived in Lisbon (or Lisboa depending on where you read) to stay at the most highly rated hostel on all of Hostel World. That really set the tone for the four nights in town, we lay around, played cards, messed around on the computers and ate as many Portuguese Custard Tarts as was safe.

There was one brief attempt at sightseeing. Out of the city there is a world heritage listed castle and wild-life reserve called Sintra. Steve and Klaus decided they would like to go and see it and I figured I should go along and have a look. Steve was the expedition leader for the day and charted a course for one of the underground stations just to the south of us. Upon arriving we found out that the trip was as straight forward as we had hoped involving a couple of changes. Klaus and I shared a look that spoke volumes. “Can we really be bothered?” We went along thought and went the two stops for our first change. We get off, go above ground as instructed only to discover... our thirty minute journey thus far has bought a three minute walk from our hostel. Fail. Klaus and I mutiny and instead we go for a short walk, ending up at a coffee shop for some tarts and a morning brew.

But that was Lisbon, and Porto wasn’t really any different. Just as comfortable, just as relaxing, and slightly sunnier.

That is Chefchaouen

For me Fes was a complete write off because I was amazingly sick for 48 hours. Never have my insides felt so knotted and distressed. So instead I shall pick up the tale on the second of September, the day we left for Chefchaouen. This is a medium sized town about three or so hours north of Fes in the Rif Mountains. Chosen mode of transport? Taxi. A large late ninety’s Mercedes saloon, seats four passengers under normal circumstances but when your local guide insists that you can sit two in the front passenger seat, you don’t argue. So here we were, cruising along the Moroccan highway, five sweaty passengers and one sweaty, silent driver at a cool 130km (road surface permitting) towards what is apparently known as the hashish capital of Morocco. None of us even smoke let alone do drugs. What is the point then you may ask?

Chefchaouen sprawls in a small basin at the foot of some moderately impressive mountains. Back in the day the Spaniard held sway here and for some reason started the tradition of painting their houses in a blue wash. This tradition has been carried at gun point. If you don’t comply you will get fined, if you attempt to get inventive and try a shade of yellow you will get heavily fined. Try it again and you may find yourself behind bars. Needless to say nearly everyone complies.

Our guide, Wajih had everything planned out for our two or so days in Chef. The night we got there we were treated to a Hammam, kind of like a Turkish bath where you lie on a tiled floor, get rinsed, rubbed down, brutalised with a loofer and finally massaged and rinsed once more. This was quite an experience and a good one to have after the aforementioned taxi ride. This kicked off at about 11pm after the ladies had finished and we finally got to bed at about 1:30.

Note: our bed in this particular hostel consisted of the thinnest mattress crafted by man, wrapped in a heavy blanket with an extra blanket for comfort in the cool mountain air. On the roof. It’s selling point is that it costs a mere six Aussie dollars.

Day two saw us lounging around a pool at the base of a small set of rapids in the Moroccan wilderness being served tagine and melon by our guide and his friends. It was a little awkward because of Ramadan. They cooked all this lovely food but couldn’t eat it, instead they hovered to make sure everything was just right. We finished up late in the afternoon and enjoyed a spectacular taxi ride back to town with the sun low in the sky, illuminating the pink and red cliffs, Celine Dion – The Power of Love blaring on the cheap speakers.

The final day we climbed a mountain and got offered copious volumes of hashish and marijuana by wild drug dealers. This is a phenomenon that I believe may be exclusive to Morocco. A gathering of men called a ‘Troupe’ (in homage to their relative, the Chimpanzee and a nod to French, a large portion of the local dialect ) linger in the trees off the side of the path then trickle down to passing travellers and peddle their wares. One inquisitive little fellow insisted on gathering us fallen branches so we could cook our lunch and then followed up the mountain. Jane Goodall, where are you when we need you? Once we got to the top, company in tow, we commanded a magnificent view of the town, valley and surrounding mountains. It also gave a good perspective on just how blue and white all the houses were. We trekked back into town, begging off both wild and domesticated dealers for our final night in this interesting little town.

The only other thing I need to mention that doesn’t fall into this chronology is ‘The Rocker’, latest member to the Menagerie of Travelling Strange. Every night we were privileged enough to endure a French version of Iggy Pop play some decent guitar and ruin it utterly by wailing his poorly written lyrics. One song contained the word ‘yeah’ 14 times. In a row. But other than that and his penchant for lycra bike shorts he was generally inoffensive.

That is Chefchaouen.

Fez

The tale of Marrakech, as James tells it, ends on a high note. Yet this isn't the whole story. Perhaps it was one of our dinners in the square, or perhaps a sip from the wrong bottle of water, but something disagreed with my longtime traveling companion, turning the seven hour train ride to Fez into something of a hellish journey for James. I've never seen the color drain quite so completely from a human being. When he wasn't curled in the corner of our compartment, he was stretched out in the corridor, confusing the locals as they squeezed past and stepped over him.

This left a void in our compartment, and as the stations and hours passed, it got to a point where we could no longer in good conscience keep the seat free. It certainly didn't seem that James would make any sudden comeback. Thus his seat went to a young man in a lavender shirt, who's name, we would discover, was Mohammed.

This chance meeting was to change the entire experience of Morocco for us. After some conversation, we were invited to dinner with Mohammed and his friends. With some skepticism, we took up this offer, and were massively rewarded. In the heart of the Medina, we were presented with a splendid dinner in a colorfully tiled room, along with seven or eight Moroccans around our age, and one New Zealander. Stacey, the girlfriend of Isham (one of the Moroccan lads) , became our link to the city of Fes. The two of them were incredibly hospitable, and offered to show us around the city the next day.

I cannot stress enough the value of such an offer. Navigating a Moroccan medina is an utter nightmare, with twisting streets, no signage, hundreds of people and twice that number of dead ends. Without guidance, you will never find anything... including your way home. Where we'd likely have spent the day blindly searching for a tourist office, instead we were shown to several mosques, a fantastic view out over the city, a carpet cooperative, a weaver's showroom, the city tanneries and the dyer's headquarters. And at night, we again were treated to an authentic home cooked meal, and a game of soccer in a nearby parking lot.

This was the sort of experience that you set out to capture when you leave home on a trip. The holy grail of travel. I really can't convey how fantastic it was to get this glimpse into real life in Fes, with people our age. We were visitors, but engaged visitors, not just spectators.

I've spent almost 180 days away from home, and if it was all just leading up to these few days in Fes, it's entirely worth it.

“What are you looking for?”

We were immersed in Moroccan culture swiftly after landing. Our host in Marrakech was Khamal, a Berber in his late twenties who had a touching amount of concern for his guests well being. He showed us everything we needed to know about Marrakech in a 1 hour power session then followed this up with “Berber Whiskey”, a sweet mint tea that is served everywhere in Morocco. This was all very civilised and tame and we crashed out early.

The next day we went and got to know Marrakech properly.

This place is just charged with energy that wears you down. It’s hot (though not oppressively), busy, touristy and the Souks (markets) are just a different world. Come nightfall, everything doubles with the obvious exception of the temperature. The reason for this was Ramadan. Unbeknownst to us, our trip landed squarely in the first week of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting. From sun rise to sun set no food or drink of any kind may be imbibed and no pleasures such cigarettes or the fairer sex may be indulged. But when the sun goes down... it’s a different world. The main square in Marrakech is fairly empty during the day, just a few orange juice vendors hawking their wares. After evening prayer though this square fills up with locals and tourists alike as people pack into the temporary eating stands to get pretty much anything from soups to whole lambs on a spit. It was a feast for all the senses with the smell of roasting meat, the guys spruiking their stands and the lights strung everywhere being defused in the haze from the fires.

The markets district was several blocks all undercover that you quickly get lost in. Any sort of handy craft you wanted was available if you knew where to look. If you didn’t know where to look anyone nearby would try and sell you something from their shop, or their neighbours shop, or their friends shop just the street over. You walk through the winding streets with a constant cacophony of offers, declarations and questions. “What you looking for?”, “you want something?”, “where you from?”, “How much you want to pay”, “I have best shirts!”. You really just tune it out after 5 minutes. But not always... I remember one exchange I had in the food stalls after I had eater. A gentleman wearing a filthy white apron and a Lakers cap at a jaunty angle shouted out to me and this was the exchange.

“You’re a yank!”
“No I’m not!”
“Ah! Aussie! Down-Under mate!”
“I hate Down-Under!”
“Pavlova!”
“Lamington!”

This was all done from about twenty paces and I never stopped walking. I'm pretty sure I won.

Espaná

Overdue as it is, I can’t let Spain fall by the wayside. It’s hard to sum up the experiences I had in the country of Bull fights, sultry dances and magnificent weather. For me it was on some form of mental pedestal in terms of culture, landscape and atmosphere, and in many respects it rose to the occasion yet I can’t really think of any time that it exceeded. The first stop on the Spanish leg of the trip was San Sebastian, former fishing/fort town, turned tourist Mecca of the north Spanish coast. We caught a train down from Bordeaux and arrived, slightly lost in this lovely little town. Armed with Klaus’ iPhone however we struck off and scored some free wifi that quickly set our feet on the right path. Our Hostel was one San Fermina, right in the heart of San Sebastien’s old town. The street we were on was pretty and reasonably busy during the day, but come night the place was an absolute riot. Literally dozens of Tapas bars were clustered along its surprisingly short length, all of them spilling merry-makers out on to the street to perch on high stools around little tables or to just find a nearby step to sit and talk on. A common practice was as wander from bar to bar, getting just one or two items and a beer before striking out into the balmy, light filled jovial evening once again to brave the press. This was the vibe that San Sebastian radiated during the night and kept thinly veiled during the day. Our last night was somewhat less tasteful however and resulted in four seedy gentlemen dashing for a 7:30am bus at what can only be described as a shuffle.

Next stop, Barcelona!

Feeling somewhat better that afternoon we arrived in Spain’s second largest and reputedly most exciting city, eventually rolling into our hostel mid afternoon. To be honest my first impression of Barcelona was one of indifference. It was warm, large, kind of pretty but not really Spanish. We headed out on the town a couple of nights, not overly Spanish. Most of the people we were around, not overly Spanish (read Australian). Most of the food we ate, not overly Spanish. Now I know I can’t blame a lot of this on Barcelona, but it was a lot harder to find some Spanish culture here than I was expecting. And certainly not for a reasonable price. Stephen and I went to the food markets just of La Rambla and guess what. Not overly Spanish. Also, our coffee that day was served by a forty year old Chinese man who spoke passable English, but judging by some exchanges with other customers, dismal Spanish. One thing that did feel Spanish across the board however was the weather. All day, every day was blue skies and mid thirties. Having said all this, I was a little dishearten by Barcelona. I was expecting this multicultural, over toured mess, but it’s a little heart breaking to have the romance stolen so brutally.

"La Tomatina"

Alternative title: "How I waited five hours for a black eye."

So here we are, headed to Spain. It's the height of summer (at least, it feels that way) and we've been asked again and again... "You're going to be in Spain right about the time of the tomato-festival... are you going?" We were unsure, the traveller's demon of cost vs. budget made it look like we'd be unable to participate. Indeed, for two members of our group, it was simply not an option. But two of us looked into our wallets and decided that we could spare a little more cash for an absolutely unique experience.

And thus we found ourselves on a train, headed to Valencia.

La Tomatina is just one of the hundreds of festivals that occur all around Spain. We've been told that there's a festival for every day of the year, that every village has their day of celebration. It just happens that the town of Bunol celebrates in a rather unique way. The origins of the festival

are a little unclear, with any number of urban legends claiming to be the true meaning for the day. Yet the reasons have clearly been lost in the sheer frivolity of the event:

Let's all get together in the streets, and hurl tomatoes at one another.

Indeed, La Tomatina is just one massive food fight, and this seems to draw an absurd number of foreigners to the town. Once you have a certain number of people throwing food, the very scale of the event attracts more people. This self-perpetuating phenomenon brings thousands apon thousands of people to the town, all intent on hurling some fruit (to be technical). And of course, most of them are Australian.

What is it about our national character that causes the youth of Australia to flock to a food fight in Spain? I can't explain it, but we make up the vast majority of the crowd. And this is some crowd. Upwards of 50,000 people come to the town, who's base population is something around nine thousand. The result is an absolute invasion.

The procedure for taking part in this event is very simple. There's no fee, the only costs involved are the train fare to get you to Bunol, which is just loose change. You get up nice and early, and catch the regional train to the town, along with thousands of other excited young people, mostly clad in white. Why white? Alas, there's no cultural motivation. White simply shows up tomato splatter more effectively. My companion for the trip, Klaus, took this to absolute extremes, purchasing a white suit and Panama hat, making him possibly the best dressed food fighter that has ever graced Bunol.

We got to the town, and joined the horde of participants, and waited for signal to begin. Having started our journey at 6am, the kickoff was not until 11, so we had five ours of transit and waiting before the first tomato was hurled. As soon as this happened... I can't really use words to describe it. Pictures are vital. I shall simply explain the environment: Thousands of excited people packed into narrow streets, eager to throw things at one another. A cannon fires, and then they drive trucks laden with tomatos through the crowd. It sounds crazy, and that's because it is utterly crazy.

Oh, and why the alternative title? About seven minutes into the fight I caught a tomato... with my face. All I can say was that it was unexpectedly painful, but that it ensures I will never forget my La Tomatina experience.