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I figured it would be silly to come as far south as La Costa del Sol and not duck across the water for a quick trip through Morocco.
I fell in with a bunch of Irish lads and lasses I met on camp and set off along the Spanish coast to the ferry terminal in Algeciras. That turned out to be a bit more complicated than we realised, and after changing trains and finally negotiating our tickets across the strait, we didn´t arrive in Tangiers until about half past nine at night, even after picking up and hour through the time change. We were quite worried about finding a hostel, but right at that moment a friendly Moroccan man appeared out of nowhere and offered to show us around. This basically consisted of him taking us to all his friends´ shops and trying to con us into buying ridiculous looking 'traditional' Moroccan outfits. Finally he escorted us to possibly the dingiest, most over-priced hostel in North Africa, and asked us to make sure we told all our friends about him.
So consider yourselves informed; if you meet a smoothe talking Moroccan man named Mohammad in the port of Tangiers, head the other way.
The second day was much nicer. We got up early and got the hell out of Tangiers, on a train bound for Fez. There, by way of karmic restitution for the previous night's debacle, we met a helpful tourism official who set us up with a nice hostel and a proper registered guide for the afternoon. The guide took us through Old Town Fez (Medina) and showed us the workshops where they made all the local handicrafts; pottery, bronzeworking, weaving and leathergoods. We finished up with an extremely satisfying traditional Moroccan cous cous.
The Medina of Fez was fascinating for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it was mind blowing to see people living and working in the same place and manner as their families had been since the 12th century. The Medina is heritage listed by UNESCO to preserve the crazy time-machine effect you get when you walk in there.
Secondly, it was bizarre to see the way the 21st century would occasionally sneak in through the cracks. The image of the day as far as I was concerned was a donkey carrying a load of vegetables up the narrow cobbled streets to the market, closely followed by its owner, who was carrying a laptop computer.
Our journey out of Africa was also a little more involved than we had planned. We had known from the outset that we were going to be pushed for time as we trained it back to a ferry stop in Melilla, which is a colonial town on the African mainland, but under Spanish sovereignty. We were quite pleased with ourselves as we arrived with fifteen minutes to spare, only to realise that we had reverted to Spanish time, and were therefore forty-five minutes late for the last ferry out. So we spent an extra night away and got the ferry back to Malaga the following afternoon.
So here we are then; back in Europe and ready to get moving again. Next stop: Granada!
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
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So I signed up back in June with a company called TECS to teach English to Spanish kids in a summer camp during July. I made my farewells to my friends in Madrid and set off for a town called El Puerto de Santa Maria, near Cadiz, for a week´s training. A slightly overgrown sleepy Spanish seaside village, El Puerto did seem like a rather obscure place to put the headquarters of an international language academy. But as it happened, I was only there for a few days before those of us who were assigned to the 'adventure camp' moved onsite to our new home for the next four weeks.
If El Puerto seemed obscure, nothing could have prepared me for El Chorro. While it did have that certain rustic charm that often goes with mountain campsites, the place, frankly, could have made Pine Creek look like a bustling metropolis. It basically consisted of a campsite (which we took over entirely for the four weeks), a train station, a large green lake, 3 bars (!?) and a hydro-electric power plant.
Apart from the green lake, the scenery was quite spectacular. During the winter when the site isn´t overrun by small children, El Chorro is a basecamp for mountain climbing enthusiasts who come to scale the large and impressive mountains that surround the lake.
As you might expect, the place was not without its share of colourful characters, many of whom seem to have used a GPS to locate the diametric middle of nowhere and headed straight there to open a bar. My favourite was the seventy-something year-old Isobel, who excused herself from serving us for a moment to take a swipe at a passing cockroach with her bare hand, and then went back to pouring beers. Or possibly Maribel, who ran possibly the most ironicly named convenience store in Western Europe. I think I saw it open for business twice in four weeks.
''And what of the camp itself?'' I imagine myself hearing you ask. Well, the thing about a camp like this is that it´s really only the very wealthy families who can afford to send their kids along. And Spanish families, especially well-to-do ones, really do like to dote on their children. So, basically we were taking about a hundred spoilt Spanish brats, stranding them in the mountains, forcing them to speak English and serving them camp food for two weeks. Then backing up and doing it all again.
Of course, the kids had a great time in the afternoons, doing all the usual camp stuff; archery, kayaking, high ropes and all that, but somehow being the guy teaching English classes for three hours in the morning didn´t endear me to the kids much.
Oh well, it´s all behind me now. Now I sit here in an internet cafe in Malaga with five weeks´pay in my pocket and figure out where I´m going to go next.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
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For the past week or so I’ve been positively overwhelmed by the number of questions I’ve received about what I’m getting up to over here in Europe. To satisfy your curiosity, I hereby present answers to the top ten questions put to me most recently. Please note: these questions are all genuine enquiries from the public (which flooded in an overwhelming manner), and were certainly not made up by me as I sat a flat that smelled of paint and went slowly mental.
How is Madrid going?
Honestly I’m getting over it. The chief attraction for staying in Madrid in the first place was that it was a good central location from which to hop around and see the other parts of Spain. Unfortunately my financial situation hasn’t played out like I hoped it would, which has meant I’ve been basically grounded, except for a couple of very ambitious excursions to certain areas of the east coast. So that’s it! I’m over it!
And the big news? I’ve got myself a month long contract at a summer camp in Malaga. It should sort me out with enough cash to furnish a moderate sized European jaunt before getting over the whole stupid continent and heading back to the real world. And that’s the good news.
So…
When are you coming home?
The upshot of all this is that it yields a reasonable timeframe for planning my triumphant return to Australia. Look for me in the eventide, when summer’s shadows fall across a golden field and the full moon is alignment with the constellation of asparagus.
Alternatively: I’m planning on heading home some time in September. Just turn around and I’ll be there.
Have you found yourself a Spanish girlfriend?
No, nor do I have any intention of getting one. There are a number of reasons for this, not the least of which is that I can’t speak enough Spanish to be in with a shot even if I was after a girl. Also, most of the girls over here, while often quite attractive, smoke like chimneys. Automatic disqualification.
What are you going to do when you get back to Australia?
Now that is a good question. At this stage my gaze is still firmly set on Darwin (I have extremely good eyesight for someone 14545.7 kilometres away). Apart from that, the post-European jaunt future is looking a little blurry, particularly where employment and accommodation are concerned. If you are reading this in Darwin (I’m not actually sure if I have any readers there these days, but it can’t hurt to find out) feel free to drop me a line with any hot tips. Ah nepotism, thou art a fickle wench. No, I’m not sure what that means either. I just like to say wench.
How do you type with boxing gloves on your hands?
What? I think you might have sent this one to the wrong person. Um… DELETED!
How is your Spanish coming along?
Better than I thought. I can get by in most simple conversations as long as the other party doesn’t speak too fast or use any curly local expressions. It also helps if the person I’m talking to is from Spain, as opposed to South America (or China). Trying to speak Spanish with that lot is like having a Frenchman who learned English in Australia trying to speak with someone from Glasgow.
How the hell is it June already?
I know! I’m convinced that something has gone wrong with the space-time continuum. Or maybe time just goes faster in the Northern hemisphere? Not enough… Capricorns or something.
Are you eating properly?
Yes… yes totally. Yes. Food over here is much cheaper than in Australia. I’m living off a staple diet of “Chicken Casserole Surprise” which basically consists of pasta, tinned vegetables, salami and a local pre-mixed sauce, which is just called ‘meat sauce’. I don’t know what we would call it in English, but I choose to think of it as a possibility for merchandise 7X.
It probably isn’t though.
If you’ve lived in Madrid for five months, how come you still haven’t been to the Prado Gallery?
Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m getting around to it slowly. I’m really not that enthused by paintings, but if I go home without going there I’m just going to look silly. Maybe this weekend. Or maybe I’ll end up WENCH! lying in Retiro Park all afternoon again. Anything could happen. It’s cah-razy-lah!
Have you settled into a good church?
Nope. My religious observances in the form of regular service attendance has been fairly token (I’ve been three times in five months, and one of them was Easter Sunday, for which you get zero points). I should probably be feeling a bit more guilty about this than I am. Actually, taking a break from church with a little c has been pretty good. I’m still getting input via iTunes sermons from CBTB back in Sydney (How cool is ArchB. Jensen, by the way?) and getting something that vaguely resembles fellowship via various online social networks, so it wouldn’t really be right to say I’m slipping away from the Church with a big C. And if you don’t understand the distinction between a church and the Church, don’t panic. Once I hit Darwin there’s going to be a full explanation. Actually, you probably won’t be able to get me to shut up about it, and will get thoroughly sick of it and stop reading this blog and go read some daily update about pictures of native flora in Colorado.
And if that’s your attitude, then fine! I don’t need you anyway. I’m quite happy uploading a couple of pages of gunk to the intertron every couple of weeks for my own entertainment. Go on and get out of here, blog wench.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
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So the latest from FFH is that I’m leaving Madrid to go and work in a summer camp in Malaga on Monday. So I’ll be out of range of the blogosphere for a few weeks.
Never fear! Garry with 2 Rs will return in August with all new summer camp adventure fun stories. Please try not to slip into Far From Homeless despair in my absence.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
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It was inevitable that eventually I would spend a day in Toledo, because every visitor to Madrid does. Eventually the monotony of the Madrid lifestyle and cityscape gets oppresive and it's nice to try something a little different. Particularly since it was raining in Madrid all weekend.
Toledo was once a major city of the Spanish empire, famous for its steel production. But when the national capital was established in Madrid, Toledo, which is only forty kilometres away, became a little redundant and stopped developing. Consequently, the medieval style Moorish influenced city remains just as it was the day it became governmentally irrelevant.
Just as it was, that is, apart from the myriad of tourist shops selling Toledonian steel fencing rapiers, samurai swords (?) letter openers and figurines of Don Quixote. Some of the medieval themed chess sets looked amazing, but would have been a bit difficult to carry back to Australia in a back pack.
If you can see past the kitsch souvenir shops and around the noisy groups of American tourists, the city itself is still really nice. It’s propped on top of a hill, surrounded by stone walls which are still intact. Inside the walls is a labyrinth of narrow cobbled streets, dotted with bars, souvenir shops, historical plazas and the occasional McDonalds.
The Toledo cathedral is a really impressive building viewed from the outside. Supposedly it’s magnificent when viewed from the inside (I checked out some post cards which suggest this is probably true) but it cost seven euros just to get in the door, so we kept on moving.
Taken altogether, Toledo was a nice place to spend a day, but there wouldn’t be much to do there for any longer than that. It was a nice change to get out of Madrid, and I would look pretty stupid if I went home having spent six months in Madrid and never visited Toledo.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs