"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.

continental shift

Update: Well what do you know, the interwebs HAS made it to Morocco. I never should have doubted

Shortly we will be departing for the exotic lands of North Africa, where the air is blisteringly hot during the day and carries sweet spicy fragrances in the cool evenings. I'm mainly just dropping a line to let you know that we may be slightly difficult to reach over the next week or so and not to panic over the continued blog drought.

So if you will all excuse me... I have a plane to catch.

loving it

Read this as an answer to David’s post, or perhaps a compliment, I'm still deciding what I'm thinking and feeling as I write. Pretty much I love travel, I love all these places I see and I love all the people I get to meet. Even the shoddy locations like Modena and Hamburg have something to offer. It drives home a fundamental lesson of life. There will always be ups and downs. You have to face it, not every experience you have can be the best, and that’s just fine with me.

Having said this though, I am sick of living in a 65 litre bag. It really does get trying after a while. As David said, you really start to despise your wardrobe. Personally I see my backpack as the root of all my woes. Indeed, all of mankind’s misery. I even named him. Spite. Forever getting heavier, hiding socks from me and catching this one particular grey shirt of mine in his zips. And I mean proper stuck... it’s a two man job to extract the damn thing.

Six months is ambitious for this sort of undertaking. Logistically it is both too long and nowhere near enough time. I think we didn’t realise this until we got over here and saw how much we were missing in lots of place and how many places we have been told are fantastic but had to bypass for fiscal or time constraints. Conversely there have been weeks just wasted in a couple of locations. So here I am, over four months in and I wouldn’t be upset to discover I had miss booked my ticket for two weeks hence, just enough time to hit up my last three countries. I have to collect the set you understand...

It’s fantastic having all this knowledge and experience now about how to plan a trip, how much money you should budget, how much time and so on. But that specific information on Backpacking in Europe isn’t much use to me anymore because I don’t think I’ll be doing this trip again. Instead I’ll have to learn a whole new set of information for whatever destination I'm headed because lets faces it, there isn’t anywhere else on earth like Europe.

And I guess that brings me to the final point. There really isn’t any place where I can see so much art, history, culture, landscape or diversity of people as I can in Europe. I am mentally tired, ready to go home, I want my bed and solitude, I have a bag that is evil incarnate... but I'm loving it.

Paris, Take 3

And so we're back in Paris. Well, half of us are back, the other half are here for the first time. It says something about the city that personally, I've been keen to come back not just once, but twice.

So here I am, four and a half months away from home, and I must say, it's taxing. On a paper, six months doesn't seem such a long time. You look at your itinerary, and wonder how on earth you'll see all you want to, you fear that three days here, a week there, it just won't be enough. And in many ways it isn't enough, and there is so much more you want to see. But at the same time, there's only so much you can absorb, and all the while the desire to come back home grows.

I can only speak for myself, of course. I've met people for whom travel is a lifestyle, people who see 'home' as a docking port between expeditions, somewhere that can only be tolerated for a few weeks at a time. I might even be traveling with some such people. But if I've discovered anything, it's that I'm not built for that.

There's something incredibly wearying about being on the move, all the time. I've come to dread the days where we pack up our bags and shift towns. There's always the excitement of what the next destination will offer, but there's an awful routine to it as well.

I've left a trail of my belongings scattered across Europe. Thankfully most of it has been deliberate. As early as the second week, I was discarding bits and pieces that were weighing me down. The process has continued, yet of course my load seems heavier than ever. As predicted in one of my first posts, I've come to utterly resent the wardrobe that I brought along with me. It's impossible not to, when you've been stuck wearing the same pair of shorts for months, when the weather doesn't permit you to mix it up by putting on your only pair of pants.

How dare I complain though? I'm on the trip of a lifetime, blissfully unhindered by work or any other such responsibilities. I must be seeing half the countries in Europe. There are probably people who would sell their souls for such an opportunity. Yet the grass is always greener, isn't it? Day to day, I'm having a fantastic time. Yet in the scheme of things, I can't wait to come home. To friends and family. To my own bedroom, where the only person allowed to snore is me. To a shower that I don't need to wear thongs in.

it's what you make of it

And so we're back in France, this time with a larger travel party. The first stop for the majority of us was the city of Lyon, which came highly recommended. As our train pulled in, the sky was that interesting shade of purple that precedes a storm. Of course, we had a substantial walk ahead of us to our accommodation, and of course, the rain came down.

No matter what someone else's experience of a place is, you can often arrive to find that it's drab, lifeless, an altogether unattractive place. I won't say this was our experience of Lyon, though we certainly didn't feel any magic as we shuffled our way through the rain to our 'budget hotel', in a district riddled with kebab shops and stores specialising in cheap bollywood-inspired fashion.

Yet in the days to come, Lyon would remind us of a vital point: travel is entirely what you make of it. When we actually ventured forth from our hotel room, crossed the river, and hunted out a restraunt to have lunch, we discovered a side to the city that we might never have, had we simply taken our first impression of the city and withdrawn from it.

Of course the best made plans often fall in a colossal heap, as they did with our lunch: we arrived in the restaurant district about twenty minutes after every restaurant stopped serving lunch. At two o'clock! What nonsense, there are places back home still serving breakfast at this hour! In any case, we were directed to one of the few places which might still feed us, 100 metres up the road. After a few more additional hundred metres, we found it, and enjoyed an enormous luncheon. Incapable of going far, we dragged ourselves to a nearby park and reclined on the grass, as Lyon opened up around us.

The weather had a lot to do with it, we were blessed with glorious sunshine. And we'd stumbled on quite a location. As the afternoon wore on, the park and paved plaza attracted all manner of youth with wheeled devices - bikes, skateboards, unicycles... the sort of riff-raff that often get such a bad rap for their disrespect of civic property.

Yet there was no sign of vandalism here. There was one statue with a sloping base that they often did ride up and down, yet it seemed to be enduring without any sign of wear. All in all it was quite a spectacle. Groups of people came and went, and Klaus went and got taught the fundamentals of doing backflips. Later, we'd walk home along the river, where it seemed the entire city had flocked to enjoy the afternoon.

We might not have seen this side of the city, and that would have been a real shame. So we'll have to remember that it's really up to us to seek out the good bits wherever we go.

Big (possibly gay) Al

In a dizzying contrast to Branco, Allan is a man of slight stature, reserved nature and a taste for the finer things in life. He is of an undeterminable age, German by birth but grew up in England and now works back in the fatherland. In his spare time he is a wine snob and this is how I met him. On the first night here in Strasbourg, Allan and I shared lodgings , and since I seemed to be his only company he decided to talk at me for a while until I was actually forced to engage. Now on this trip we have met a few odd balls, and Allan here was setting himself up to be a real doosey, but after a few false starts I managed to steer him in the direction of his purpose in the area. This is when I discovered he was a wine buff.

For those who don’t know me that well, I too dabble in the world of wine so this suddenly got my attention. He was telling me all about the soils in this particular area and how it differs greatly from the hill side vinyards and I had done my reading so I was able to hold my own in this conversation. All of a sudden I was invited for lunch with Allan to a winstub in town. Apparently one of the best in the region. On the end of my positive experience at the last local establishment I was keen for a second go and this time I would have a translator rather than my usual practice of likening French and German words to the closest sounding English then hoping for the best. After this Allan proclaimed that he had to “pretty” himself before bed. Maybe his grasp of English isn’t so comprehensive. Then the sound of “Dancing Queen” came softly from the shower. Maybe his tastes weren’t so impeccable.

The next day I was roused at 8 am by Allan and his immaculately trimmed goatee for breakfast. I begged off and he said he would come and get me for lunch around 12. I wandered around until I found coffee and cake, then went back and read, waiting for my guide. At 11:58 Allan minced into the room and told me he had made reservations. We hurried on down to the winstub and tucked into a 4 course meal, each with a wine picked out for me. This was all topped off with Allan insisting on getting the bill. I offered, my parents raised me well enough for that. I offered quiet firmly but in the end the impoverished traveller in me won out and I bowed to Allan’s will. Then Allan suggested we go to the library as he had heard that there was a hot air balloon exhibition on. Not really thinking that it was to my tastes I once again begged off but he insisted that we do dinner at another winstub. As we parted ways I reflected on how eager my guide seemed for my company. How well dressed and neat he was. How he held his hands. Wait, was he plucking his eyebrow last night?

Did I just go on a date?

I had forgotten, I couldn’t come to dinner Allan. I'm sick tonight.

When worlds collide

Strasbourg was a spur of the moment choice for me. My main criteria was proximity to Paris, cost of travel. And oh, wouldn’t you know. It just happens to be the capitol of Alsace, one of my favourite wine regions.

The journey to Strasbourg was painless really. It may have taken four hours but there was only one change, I was in a spacious carriage and I had a power point for the lap top. I'm a weak excuse for a traveller I know... So as I said, the main attraction of Strasbourg was its proximity to the Alsatian wine region and the train ride took me its entire length. Seeing as I had time to kill and an open ended ticket I decided to get off at Colmar and poke around. The only notable thing was my introduction to the winstub. Pretty much it’s a pub that sells good wine and fantastic local food. How could this be a bad way to spend a day?

All this food and wine is pretty unique to the region. Everything here seems to be an even blend between French and German and although I may have alluded to this being a potential abomination in my last post, I think it has come off pretty darn well. The food is mostly freshwater fish with potatoes and herbs. The wine is predominately Gwertstraminer and Pinot Blanc and the houses are Parisian terraces sharing walls with Germanic lath and plaster construction.

Now I may be wrong, but all this sharing of culture could be to do with the valley changing hand four times in less than one hundred years...

grass

I have developed somewhat of a reputation among certain circles as being a connoisseur of grass. I'm not talking the hallucinogenic herbs common in Amsterdam. No, I'm talking good old fashion turf. I can spot a good patch a mile off and have been known to base my day around finding such places. I may have mentioned something to that effect in how it should be done.

It all started some time shortly after discovering that Australia didn’t have a monopoly on sunlight. With the solid white roof throughout the UK I was in fact beginning to wonder. I think it may have been in Copenhagen of all places where this fetish took root (capitol pun!) with a German law student going by the name of Wolf and a girl I can barely recall. We had all gotten off the same 17 hour train, proceeded to get some beer and sleep in sunny park for 5 hours. Then I checked my bags in. And slept in bed for a couple. Some of the most pristine, dare I say virginal grass I have yet encountered is almost certainly in the High Tatras mountains (pictured above). Untouched by blade, this is truly natural grass, wholesome, clean and strewn with wild flowers. There was a good nap there too (notice the manish imprint i left behind). Germany was another good place for grass I decided. And not that horrendous Cooch grass we get in Australia. No I'm talking lush, proper lawn grass. I distinctly remember Crispy and David giving me hell all throughout Frankfurt... but guess which two people ended up lying in a expansive park with the master himself? That’s right... and if Crispy only knew what I got up to while he was at work...

But alas, the grass in Italy made me weep. Naught but dusty patches with rough brown patches. And Croatia, oh Croatia... I'm not sure that grass has even made it across the Agean Sea yet, so as you can imagine, these past few weeks have been trying to say the least. Once I thought I was in with a chance when I found a cosy little piazza in Rome but Stephen and I were moved along rather sharply by 'the Law'.

I'm looking forward to this trip to Lyon however... I hear they have some marvellous lawns in the Rhône-Alpes region.

high seas and deep gorges

Leaving Split was a rough experience by anyone’s measure. I had a ferry to Ancona that left at 22:00, to make matters worse I am a scrooge at heart and I opted for the deck seat ticket. As far as I can tell, I don’t actually have a seat, instead I just bivouac where ever I see fit and settle in for the night. So with 11 hours of ferry ride ahead, no bed in site and flying solo once more, I did the only thing an entrepreneuring young man could. I unplugged the pay-per-use massage chair, plugged in the laptop and watched movies until I was beyond exhaustion then just passed out. The grey fingers of dawn found me curled up, contorting my body around the various apparatus embedding in the chair that when in use must be more comfortable. I unfurled in body only as I drifted in a zombie like state for the bar. A coffee and 3 hours of sleep would have to see me through the day to Modena.

There isn’t an awful lot to say about Modena. Its old looking, apparently deserted and capitol of the Italian car industry heartland. We went to the Ferrari factory, we got locked out of the hostel for 5 hours a day, there was some ok wine and pizza. But it didn’t matter, Interlaken was next.

For me the attraction to Interlaken was the impressive array of outdoor and adventure activities it boasts and needless to say I was not disappointed. Day one saw us complete a decent 8 hour day trip at 22:00 after Klaus and I shared a stein at 4500ft and a horrendous salami and cheese pizza pocket at 1000ft.

Day two was an 8 hour canyoning trip through one of the many Swiss gorges. After collecting our wet gear and a pre-named helmet (mine was FOOL) we were guided deftly by our South African experts as we slid, repelled and jumped our way through 3 solid hours of cliffs and rapids. One of the most memorable moments has got to be getting lowered over the edge of a waterfall and 50ft to the pool below while being showered by the surprisingly temperate river. Others include somersaulting from cliffs and jumping across a fall so you land just so on a cliff face parallel, enabling you to plummet into the pool below and avoid a “preetty nawsty ledge. That would just be pain, yeah?” I can safely say that I will be sacrificing a good many meals to afford that excursion, but I do so gladly!

this boat was real...

If one doesn't count the previous post that I've just, for want of a better word, posted... it has been far too long since I've updated you on our travels. There is, as always, a good reason for this. We've been at sea, you see.

From my last post, you may have gotten the impression that I wasn't a fan of nautical transport. In that particular case, it was in fact a rather negative experience. However, the last eight days have given me a somewhat different perspective of boating, and I must say that this new perspective is in contrast, wholly positive.

Leaving one member of our party on the shore (not out of any cruelty on our behalf, it was his own considered decision to remain landlocked) we set foot on the rocking deck of what would be our home for the next seven nights, the Novi Dan. This fine seagoing vessel would carry us on a one-way cruise from Dubrovnik to Split, the second largest city in Croatia. We would sail (and I use the term with an unashamed level of poetic license – there was no canvas to be seen) up the Dalmatian coast, stopping in at towns and islands along the way. Our boat carried about 25 people, plus the crew of 5. Of the 25 passengers, only two were unfortunate enough to be of a nationality other than Australian. The 23 of us compared states, cities and towns, and the engines fired up to carry us up the coast.

Our crew were quite a bunch of characters. There was the Captain, who remained fairly aloof for the duration of the trip. There was Jaques (or however one spells his name in Croatian) the bartender and waiter, who was by far the most friendly with the unruly mob who had invaded his boat. Then there was the first mate, who went by the name 'The General'. Why the General, we asked?

The answer: Because he was a General. In the war. Just over a decade ago.

In light of this slightly worrying bit of information, we all made mental notes: Don't, under any circumstances, upset the General. Indeed, for the duration of the trip, whenever the General caught us with non-boat-issue water bottles we would scurry in fear. It was an absurd rule, we were not allowed ANY liquids other than those they sold to us, even H2O. But when it came down to it, on the boat, the General's word was law.

I shan't give a day by day account, for most days were fairly similar, and can be easily summarised. A typical day, at least for myself, would consist of waking up to the gentle rocking of the boat as we powered up the coast. Most distance was covered in the mornings. I'm told by the lighter sleepers that they fired up the engines around 7 am most days. Around mid morning, the engines would be cut, and you'd hear the anchor being dropped. This was the signal for one of the daily highlights – the 'swim stop'. The boat would stop just off the shore, where the water was still so deep that none of us stood any chance of touching the bottom, even with the most ambitious dive. This allowed us to leap off the deck (or roof) of the boat into the water, a fantastic way to properly wake up for the day. The water off the Dalmatian coast is the clearest that I've ever seen, and for the most part incredibly warm. After a good paddle about, we'd all clamber back on board, and await the ringing of the lunch bell. After lunch, the boat would move again, bringing us to the day's port. We stopped at some amazing little towns, and almost without fail had an enjoyable night. If one was inclined to party, the option was there. For those more keen on relaxation, this too was completely achievable... at least until the party-ers returned home.

By the end of the trip, we'd become quite a close knit group. Although there was another boatload, traveling along with us, for the most part we kept to the company of our own vessel, and came out of it each with a whole lot of new friends. As we pulled into Split on the final day, there was a palpable sense of regret. Our last swim stop had passed. Our last voyage was over, we had arrived at our final port.

In our minds, the journey was over – yet the final evening held a lot more for us that none of us expected. That, however, is a story for another time.

a night on the water

Our first real encounter with the Italian siesta came not in Cinque Terra, Florence or Rome, but in Bari, a coastal town which essentially is built around the ferry trade (or so it would seem). After avoiding this relaxed custom for over two weeks, we arrived by train, to find a strangely quiet town awaiting us. With only fast food stores and gelati vendors still apparently awake, we had the good part of the afternoon to kill, waiting for the Italians to wake up.

After camping out in the Port office for several hours, somebody finally deigned to re-open the ticket desk, and we were able to secure our passage out of Bari, bound for Dubrovnik, Croatia. Ticket in hand, we had only a trifling five hour wait for the ferry to depart. At least now, Bari was showing some signs of life, and after an exhaustive search of the town, we found what was apparently the sole supermarket in the region to secure provisions for our journey.

After a traditional backpacker's dinner of preserved meats, cheese and bread (eaten in the unlikely setting of a ticket office lobby), we cleared passport control and were allowed to walk the substantial distance to the ferry itself. As we boarded, there was a quiet but intense struggle to find a seat that might also double as a bed for evening. We thought that we'd been lucky, as we claimed a large leather couch in the darker 'bar' area, which did not look like it would be used for any kind of festive purposes on this particular evening. With everything seemingly taken care of, we relaxed and waited another couple of hours for the boat to start chugging its way across to Croatia.

It was to be one of the most mind-numbingly boring nights of our trip. Our chosen position turned out to be less than ideal, at the mercy of the most incredible air-conditioning that we've experienced over in Europe. It conditioned the air, and subsequently us, all night long. It has been some time since I've worn a jumper, but that night I was forced to pull out the polar-fleece that had been languishing in the bottom of my backpack.

It would be a lie to say that nobody managed to get any sleep, though those who did were for the most part chemically assisted. The remainder of us endured a restless night, soothed only by the chugging of the motors, and the enthusiastic banter of one small group who seemed to be enjoying the voyage... all night long.

Lest this post become yet another 'whinge blog', I must say that it was quite spectacular to see the sun coming up over the sea, revealing the Croatian coastline, wreathed in morning fog. As we entered the harbor of Dubrovnik, the morning light was just hitting the red roofs, giving us a spectacularly picturesque first impression of the town.

As we departed the boat and received the obligatory passport stamps, we were accosted by an army of eager locals, all of whom were eager to sell us accommodation. Though initially skeptical of these offers, the fact of the matter is that we had nothing arranged, and after some shrewd bargaining on Klaus' behalf, we secured a small apartment for just what we would have paid, had we gone to a standard hostel (which, our information indicated, may well already have been booked out). For this bargain price, we would get beds (some sharing involved), a kitchenette, air conditioning (an absolute blessing) and a view to die for out over Dubrovnik.

Thus ends the tale of our voyage. Having dropped our packs and taken off our shoes, we proceeded to make use of our new lodgings.

For the next two days, we'd do little more than sleep.