65 days in

No Christmas Spirit in Tangier

We finally made it to Morocco after our stranding in Tarifa. In the end we discovered that ships would probably be leaving from Algeciras, so a day after our scheduled departure we took a bus and half an hour after arriving in the nearby port city, we were on the ferry to Tangier.

The boat, however, didn’t leave for another two hours.

That left us stranded with nothing to do but chat to our new travel friends, Susan and Akiwa while we waited for something, anything, to happen. Akiwa, a lovely Japanese woman travelling to Morocco for a few days sightseeing, and Susan, an American traveller of 20 years experience, met somewhere in Spain and where both headed for Morocco via Tarifa. But they bumped into us in Tarifa long enough to discover the boats were cancelled and so followed along to Algeciras in search of trees bearing fruit.

By the time the now overfull ferry got underway, an enormous line of people waiting to have their passports stamped had developed in front of us. And with the high seas half the queue began vomiting at regular intervals. Add to that the absolute debarcle trying to get our passports signed -the queue by this stage had disintegrated into little more than an unruly mob of angry men (of which I was a member) haranguing and arguing at one, that’s right one, customs official - and you’ve got one of the most interesting boat rides I’ve ever been on.

Eventually we made it off the boat an hour after landing in Tangier and wandered around with another traveller, Ely (the girls, having had the foresight to get passport stamps early, had left us ages ago), looking for a cheap hotel. Eventually we secured a damp and dingy little chamber with the help of a local tout, took a shower, grabbed a quick bight and crashed out, exhausted by the long day of travel and customs beaurocracy gone mad.

The next day, today, is Christmas. But it couldn’t feel less like it. Obviously no one here celebrates the birth of Santa, so we said a quick Merry Christmas to one another, opened the gifts we’d been saving and popped out for breakfast, where we were instantly accosted by Yousseff the tout from the night before. Today’s encounter ended badly: Yousseff started asking for money (despite promising the night before he didn’t want any) using the lame excuse his mother needed a trip to hospital, we refused flatly, he got upset and buggered off, we also got upset and buggered off, but not before telling Yousseff to bugger off.

Shortly after we parted ways with Ely and found our way to a nicer hotel. After a quick walk around we bumped into none other than Susan again and ended up spending the rest of the day hanging out with her, drinking tea and coffee while she waited for her bus to Essaouira. There was little else to do as it did nothing but rain torrentially the entire day.

Tomorrow we head for Chefchaouen and a more chilled out atmosphere. To me Tangier is a port city like most port cities: a bit of a seedy place filled with down-and-outs waiting for suckers or transients waiting for boats. Pretty cool place to though.

61 days in

Trapped in Tarifa

Four buses got us to the seaside town of Tarifa in the early evening yesterday. After the cold dry of Granadan foothills the day was lost to rain, so it was a good thing we got bus after bus with little more than a 15 minute wait between each. With barely time to spare for lunch we grabbed dirty looking, great tasting kebabs in the Malaga bus station and scoffed them faster than they took for the guy to make.

When we got to Tarifa, to the welcome of warm winds and cold rain, we learned of the weather forcing cancellations of boats destined for Morocco, boats we need to get on in two days. And the weather doesn’t look likely to improve any time soon.

Tarifa is a tiny place made famous for its wind. Before kitesurfing and windsurfing became the town’s lucrative meal ticket it was some backwater boot heal place. Behind the lines of surf shops adorned with neon bright posters and jagged, adventurous sounding text the impression of a fishing industry backwater is still tangible.

But I couldn’t care less either way to be honest. I’m tired of Spain. I’m tired of having everything handed to me on a plate, for an inflated price. I want to struggle and achieve each destination, dirt cheap and with all the frustration and grime that comes with the third world. Hopefully Morocco will start to feed my hunger for self-flagellating travel, but that place too is pretty well catered for these days. At least it won’t feel like Australia with Spanish accent.

I think my melancholy has something to do with Mauritania being off now. Before that, Mauri was the Wild West for me. Now that the Wild West has gotten too wild for us westerners, I’m again faced with watered-down versions of travel adventure. It all feels rather fucked.

Mali I’m certain will be challenging. But without going through Mauri Mali is hard to get to. A boat to Senegal may be the answer, but god only knows what that might entail. It could mess with going through the Western Sahara.

Things aren’t going according to plan. Maybe they shouldn't?

60 Days in

Mauritanian Kidnappings, Sickness and Seville

I'm sick. The last few days have been pretty wild in Seville. We stayed in a good hostel with plenty of young people all geared for drinking. Plus there was a bar in the hostel, so I drank alot. That made me sick on our last day in Seville and now I have a full blown lung infection.

Hopefully my health improves before we head for Africa, and in an attempt to speed my recovery I've been holed up in a quiet Hostel in Granada, eating good food and resting.

Also we found out two Italians were kidnapped yesterday in Mauritania by a group linked to al Qaeda. This is on top of three Spaniards who were also kidnapped at the beginning of December. We were hoping the situation in the region would stabilise over time, but this latest kidnapping confirms it's only getting worse.

I was still keen to go the Mauritania, even after hearing about the Spanish victims. But after this most recent news the risk is too great.

We're now trying to organise a ship to take us from Morocco into Senegal and onto Mali from there. Mali is still risky, but so long as the north of the country is avoided there shouldn't be any problems.

A run-down of kidnappings in the region over the past five years can be found here: www.reliefweb.int

54 days in

central spanish incidents

Back on the road and we’ve hit a few places in quick succession.

Hearing it was a buzzing place, we took a 5 hour bus from Asturias to Salamanca and decided to spend a couple of nights in a decent hotel. The place was nice, but we didn’t meet anyone there - you never do in hotels. Salamanca was in full Christmas swing and full of swinging tourists. Had a nice vibe but I thought it was a little touristic.

Next we travelled by bus to Madrid. The hostel we tried for was “completo” so we trudged with our equipment for a while until we got to a nice hotel we’d heard about right near the central plaza. We stayed two days; cleaned our clothes, watched Surrealist art and even took in a movie one night. Apart from that Madrid was uneventful and really just a big city. But I like big cities.

We decide to make for Toledo next. My brother had told me it was pretty cool - historically known for its steel manufacturing - and man what a place! We stayed in this crazy old castle that’d been converted into a hostel. But the inside looked more like a hospital to me, all sterile and it had that bleached hospital smell to boot.

Day 2 of Toledo gave us a shock. I opened the windows to find snow coming down in great white chunks. What a sight to see in the semi-desert of central Spain! For me all the more as I’ve only ever once before seen snow, when I lived in London. Bewildered by the beauty we wandered into the little town and made a snowman in a central square. This caused a bit of a stir, I guess because people in the desert don’t often make snowmen. We even got a TV news crew stroll up and start asking us questions. They were disappointed when we couldn’t speak Spanish for them. At least they got a good backdrop for their story though.

The photography and writing is coming easier now too. I feel more in tune with the road and I think it must be helping my creativity somewhat. But the project isn’t going according to plan, so I’m just shooting what I feel like at the moment. Afterwards I’ll make sense of it all because everything is way too frenetic for me to conjure while I’m in it.

Next we’re to a place called Carceres. Kind of out of the way for tourists, which suits me fine – I hate being in places where everyone goes. I am starting to miss people though; I have the sort of mind that enjoys meeting people and it’s been just me and Sian for a week now. Cabin fever is setting in.

46 days in

northern spain: asturias

Six days in the Asturian Mountains with hippies has done weird things to my brain, I think. But it could just be all the dope I smoked.

After a couple of uneventful days in Zaragoza, we set of to visit my brother, Sean, in Northern Spain. What an experience.

The first night we stayed at his Spanish friend’s cabin outside the regional capital Oviedo… and smoked weed.

The second night we trekked a short distance up a track in the mountains to see another of Sean’s friends, this cool English guy named Zac… and smoked weed in his solar powered stone cabin.

Third night: same as the second, except we watched The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou on the laptop.

By this time, Sian was getting irritated by all the sitting around smoking weed and talking about weed, so we trekked a bit further onto Johnno’s place. No dope smoking this time, we got drunk instead.

Following our stay with Johnno and his lovely, heavily pregnant, Spanish wife Sandra, we trekked a further two hours across yet more mountains to Ian and Louise’s; a couple who’ve chosen to live a life isolated from civilisation and in tune with nature.

Sounds like a lovely idea, but they really are roughing it as they prepare their land for self-sufficiency. I had to admire their determination.

This all sounds a bit extreme - and in some regards it is. But all of Sean’s friends a wonderfully friendly, happy people who’ve simply chosen an alternative path in life, one different from the usual nine-to-five rat race most of us endure. A lifestyle aligned with simplicity, nature and low impact subsistence.

Who can blame them?