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Marrakesh: An assault on the senses
Posted by Squiffy on March 18th, 2008
“Good morning. Just looking.” We must have heard this phrase a hundred times during our two day stay in Marrakesh, it’s the favourite saying of all the souq traders trying to tempt you into their shops. But be warned: there is no such thing as ‘just looking’. Once you show any glimmer of interest in their wares or pause for even a second, you will find yourself with a berber scarf on your head, a carpet in one hand and a lantern in the other, all of which you can purchase for ‘a very good price my friend’.
Despite the constant hassle from lantern sellers, henna painting ladies and snake charmers, Marrakesh is a wonderful place. Yes, it’s dusty, busy and unhygienic but it’s also exotic and exciting. Sitting in the square on our first evening it was clear we were on another continent, this was not like home: The smell of spices, the ‘call to prayer’ heard over the tannoy system, mules and carts in the main thoroughfare and stalls full of exotic goods.
We spent our couple of days in Marrakesh getting lost in the winding alleys of the souqs, drinking the prevalent mint tea (traditionally taken with heaps of sugar) and retreating in our riad style hotel which was an oasis in the madness.
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Yoko gets new owners
Posted by daveb on March 12th, 2008
Before setting-off towards Morocco, we wanted to sell Yoko, our VW camper van, to help us fund the next leg and because, frankly, we had nowhere to keep her! Far better that an old car like her goes on to do another roadtrip than sit to rot on a driveway anyway.
For our prospective buyers, I had put together a Web page with lots of text and photos of our Bus before leaving Spain. It turns out that there was quite a bit of interest in her and in fact we sold her without any fuss to the first viewers — a great result.
Bye bye Yoko — thanks for getting us around Europe with such panache!
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The last Yoko drive
Posted by daveb on March 10th, 2008
The time had come to leave the happy confines of our apartment in Los Alcazares and drive north to pick-up the thirty-hour Bilbao-to-Portsmouth ferry. We needed to get Yoko back into Britain to sell her before embarking on the next leg of our travels.
The drive didn’t take anywhere near as long as we had expected and there really wasn’t a lot to see along our way. As we approached Bilbao a day earlier than expected, we parked-up with the surfers in the nearby city of St. Sebastian and explored a bit — we even caught a train to France for lunch (although the food was so awful we really wished that we hadn’t!).
Nowadays, with the no-frills airlines carting folks around for next-to-nothing, it seems as though the ferry companies have reinvented themselves as “mini-cruises” in which they’ll put on stage-shows (and games of bingo) in an attempt to sell you much alcohol/food/duty-free. In all fairness, it’s all good clean family fun although how anyone can spend a total of sixty hours (thirty there, thirty back) on a boat to spend a morning in the port of Bilbao is quite beyond me!
We arrived back on UK soil at Portsmouth and quickly got ourselves on the road to Wales. It was cold and drizzling, but it felt good to be back.
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Sierra de Segura: Over the mountains and home
Posted by daveb on February 27th, 2008
To conclude our Andalucian road trip, we shunned the motorway in favour of the Sierra de Segura mountain pass. Whilst not on the scale of the roads in Switzerland — especially so as were we in a nippy Seat Leon [when compared with our camper van] — the drive was still very worthwhile, even if it took about three hours longer than I had anticipated. (Claire would disagree here: she felt travel-sick about thirty minutes in and just wanted the twists and turns to end.)
There’s not a lot going on in these mountains and we found ourselves trying to figure out what the locals do to fill their time. If our experience at the roadside cafe was anything to go by, it appears that open-mouthed staring at unwanted British tourists seems to be a popular choice.
Near the top of the range, right in the middle of nowhere we came across a farm shop proudly selling its Iberian ham, which is a delicacy over here. A handful of one inch squared carvings cost me five Euros, the whole leg can be had for about eight hundred; it’ll keep for at least a year.
After gobbing the posh ham sandwich, we eventually arrived back home to our apartment.
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Cordoba: A city in costumes
Posted by daveb on February 26th, 2008
After an unsuccessful couchsurfing attempt (i.e. nobody responded to our messages) we found ourselves in Cordoba without a place to stay. Rather than rough-up another hire car on the narrow streets of an old Spanish city whilst trying to find a hostel, we checked into a cheap (read: gnarly) hotel on the outskirts of the city.
It was already late afternoon by the time we walked into town and so we chose not to try and rush through the city’s main tourist site: The Mesquita. Instead, we wandered the little streets to suck in the ambience, stopping off for a herbal tea along the way.
We happened upon a gathering crowd who, unbeknown to us, were waiting for the local carnival to kick-off. For an hour and a half, bright costumes, music and comedy paraded through the main street to their adoring fans (some of which, were also in costume).
Star of the show was the rather mature carnival queen who lead the floats wearing little more than a handful of sequins stitched together only to cover her most private of parts (see photo).
We finished a fabulous day with a Paella (which, by the way, was rubbish).
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Seville: Flamenco and Tapas
Posted by Squiffy on February 25th, 2008
“Only those with a heart of stone will not fall in love with Seville”, so our guide book says. On this basis, Dave has a heart of stone. I, on the other hand, really did get a good vibe from the home of flamenco.
During the day we made the most of the hot winter sunshine and picnicked by the river on food we bought from a local market. An afternoon stroll through the cobbled streets of the old town gave us a glimpse of the elaborate, Arabic inspired houses set around courtyards, and led us to Plaza de Espana, a grand square and fountain. Shunning the main tourist sites, we instead hired a four wheeled bicycle and pedalled around the park, where Dave thought it highly amusing to race the horse and carts and win :o)
In the evening, we joined our fellow travellers from the hostel for a beer and tapas tour, followed by a flamenco show. I didn’t really know what to expect from the latter and I’m not sure we saw the ‘real deal’, but what we did get was a foursome who played the guitar, flute and clapped loudly whilst a very angry lady twirled and stamped her feet. If the audience of about 200 people were not absolutely silent (bearing in mind the Spanish do not have that word in their vocabulary) then the lady refused to perform, and so we only got a few songs out of them, but it was definitely a good insight if nothing else.
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Cadiz: Spain’s Biggest Carnival
Posted by Squiffy on February 22nd, 2008
Lent is the time for carnivals in Spain, and we planned our trip to coincide with the carnaval in Cadiz, apparently the biggest in Spain and the third biggest in the world (after Rio and ??). Most of the budget accommodation was booked up so we treated ourselves to a 4 star hotel near the centre of town. I only tell you this so that I can note our car park experience which was like something out of Batman. To park our car under the hotel, we had to drive our car into a regular looking elevator, which we filled with our Ford Focus and left little room for the security guard who accompanied us. We then went down two levels and drove out into what I expected to be the Bat Cave. Unfortunately, nothing so exciting but it was a novel experience.
The carnival started to warm up at about 7pm, with African drum style bands playing music in the streets. Unlike British carnivals which are a procession of floats, here there where several stages around the city on which nominated acts performed in rotation. All the groups were in fancy dress and sang lyrics which must have been dittys, as the crowds were laughing along. My favourite act was a group of angry girls who appeared to be performing an ‘I will survive’ style song, with lots of arm motioning and scowling. Gloria Gaynor had nothing on them. All of the carnival costumes were weird and wacky, and it was clear a lot of effort had been put in to make them.
Dave and I enjoyed just wondering the old town, taking in the atmosphere and having pictures taken with the people in elaborate outfits. Definitely an experience to be recommended, as too is Cadiz, a Spanish city with long surfing beaches.
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Arcos de la Frontera: Ranch living at Cortijo Barranco
Posted by Squiffy on February 21st, 2008
After the caos that was Granada, we headed west to a cortijo, high in the hills near to Arcos, for some relaxation. The farm had it’s own 2km private road, ensuring a certain level of isolation and tranquility which I really appreciated. There was little to do but sit on the courtyard patio, reading and soaking up the sun whilst listening to the sound of the bees and admiring the plethora of orange trees. On the subject of wildlife, we were amazed to come across a 15m long line of caterpillars, all nose to tail and slithering across the ground in succession, as if doing the conga. I never knew caterpillars travelled in groups like that!
In the evening when the sun went down, we sat by the roaring log fire in the converted olive mill and drank tea with the Spanish owner. We did venture to Arcos, a pretty old town for dinner, but other than that we rested in preparation for our forthcoming night at the Cadiz carnival…
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Granada: Arabian nights
Posted by daveb on February 12th, 2008
In Granada, you’d be forgiven for thinking that you’re in another part of the world. Somewhere altogether more exotic. After getting our car unstuck we managed to find somewhere to park-up (a total non-bargain at €20/day…) and set about the city with our packs on our backs. Our hostel was slap-bang in the heart of the Arabian quarter: Cobbled streets, street-sellers pedalling handmade lanterns, bright and colourful textiles, jewellery, incense sticks and flavoured teas from far away places — albeit mostly of Moroccan origin — and scruffy new-age travellers lapping up the atmosphere, complete with pet dogs on bits of string, rolling another cigarette.
After dumping bags in our lovely private room and scoffing a quick bite in one of the local cafes, we joined the hostel-arranged free tour of the Arabic quarter. Except it turned out to be not a tour, but rather a commentary-less march up the steep streets, led by an apparently disgruntled guide, to a view point from which we would experience a far-reaching view of the Alhambra Palace — apparently Spain’s most visited tourist spectacle. It would have been breath-taking, save the fact that the rushed hillclimb had removed us of our breath already.
“Can you tell uz somezing of da histary?” inquired our fellow German hostellee to our guide.
“What can I say. The view says it all, doesn’t it?” sighed our disaffected guide.
“So vos dat da tour, den?”
“Yeah… sorry… it was a bit shit wasn’t it. I’m going back now, I’m sure you can all find your way back to the hostel then.”
Give that man a pay-rise. Not! (As it happens, he claimed that he didn’t get paid to lead the tour. Rather, he was also a traveller that had run out of money and was being offered free accomodation and meals back at the ranch in exchange for changing bedsheets and leading paltry tours…)
The next day we once again turned our hand to culture and spent numerous hours at the Alhambra Palace and accompanying Generalife gardens (“Generalife”; sounds like it should be the name of a insurance company to me). On average, six thousand tourists pass through the Palace each day — didn’t we do well to exclude most of them from our photographs?
After much walking, we wriggled our way back to the Arabian quarter and settled into a Tetoria for a brew (mango for me, Squiffy had mint) and tucked into some vegetable Couscous. And if you were me, a takeaway Falafel kebap on the way home — I find Couscous filling right up until one gets up from his chair.
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Shatnav
Posted by daveb on February 11th, 2008
Build a mental image for me here: The Italian Job. Car chase. Small cobbled streets. Only one car, none chasing. Streets become thinner. Wing-mirrors folded-in. Cobbled street becomes cobbled steps. Downwards.
Well, grab me a chicken drumstick because that’s exactly the humiliation that we suffered in our Ford Focus hire-car whilst trying to locate our backpackers’ hostel in Granada. Due, in no small, part to what Sean Connery would call our “Shatnav” (satellite navigation). Ne’er again will this useless hunk of modern gadgetry find itself suckered onto a windscreen of mine.
Ok, I’m being a little harsh: The hostel was where the device said it was. What it didn’t think to mention however is that the ‘roads’ down which we were being directed were not actually roads, but pedestrian footpaths. The photo above doesn’t convey the situation adequately. I would have loved to have gotten a photo of the car in a much tighter spot, but alas I couldn’t actually open my door to get out and take the picture.
What you see is the car in a position just after the point of no return, from which we had to return; or face calling the car hire company to admit that I’d marooned their vehicle on a proverbial island. Fearing the road would get even thinner than we had just encountered, I pulled-over (i.e. stopped where I was) and took a wander down the street to see what lay ahead. Within 50 metres, the ‘road’ become steepish downward steps. Just prior however, and to the left, was another stretch of steps: this time wider, shallower and in an upwards direction leading to a church.
I had two choices: One, reverse 1.5km up the path that I had just driven, accepting the inevitable scrapes and smashed rear brake-light glass. Or two, drive on a little and perform a three-to-seventeen point turn on the steps to the church allowing us to exit forwards, all the while avoiding reversing/falling down the steeper steps behind.
With option two decided, I went about trying to drive a modern hatchback up a flight of steps on a footpath. I only needed to climb about three, which would give me enough of a trailing space in which to arc the car backwards. Could I get it up? Could I buggery. With tyres spinning aimlessly, clutch slipping horribly and the car smelling like only a dying car can, it was clear that I needed to try a different tack.
Thanks are due to the local builders who, unbeknown to them, donated a scaffold plank to our cause. Makeshift ramp in place; another attempt. Failed attempt at that.
“There’s no panic like the panic you momentarily feel when you’ve got your hand or head stuck in something.”
(Peter Kay)
“There’s no panic like the panic you momentarily feel when you’ve got your car stuck on a cobbled footpath in a Spanish city.”
(David Bartlett)
After about thirty minutes and all the neighbours had shut their windows to prevent their houses smelling like a Dunlop factory, Squiffy lost all confidence in our ability to recover the situation. Alas, she had underestimated the Bartlett stoicism and all that was required was to climb a little more slowly and, with a big Squiffy-shove from behind, we were up the steps!
The rest, as they say, is history.
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