a week's worth of beautiful living, and the hydrogen of leg one

I´ll catch up from last Monday, little over a week ago...

We made it to Alacante Tuesday morning after probably the worst bus ride ever. My feet swelled to sausages and every time we stopped they squelched the destination name through the bus microphone. But we fell into the arms of a friend we met on the road in Morocco, sweet Melissa from up north-Canada way. She's going to university in Spain and offered a place to sleep, so with moon pie smiles we dropped our packs at her home.

Simply, the week was spectacular. I swam in the cool clear blue ocean every single day since we left Morocco. Chilly, but damn better than any Oregon beach water temprature. We played, danced and had quite a grand old time. Went to Melissa´s university and labeled things with chalk. We made a Mexican meal for them on Friday, then we danced wildly throughout her apartment and carried her around the city singing "She sleeps like a girl but wakes like a woman!" Wild. Relaxed for the last week Jeff and I were spending together in Spain. On Sunday we decided to skip town, and head to Madrid early to catch some Museo´s and such. We caught a bus to Elda, a town not too far north, then made our way to the local gas station and put up a sign saying "¿Madrid?," by our packs. We had a ride for the whole way within an hour! We were supified not only at the efficiency of the hitch, but also by the blasting Columbian Ranchero music for the duration of about three hours.

We spent the last three days in Madrid, staying the first night in a hip hostel downtown and then with a great English fellow I found on couch surfers for the next two. We caught the Reina Sofia, Prado and walked with ease and delight throughout the whole city. Madrid this time around was much more to our taste, for reasons I feel relate to being abroad for more than a month already. We could handle anything in the post-Morocco journey. The art was beyond anything I can put into words. Such truth. Hundreds of Picasso´s, the greatest Velasquez and Goya´s in collection, Brugel and Bosch´s "In the Garden of Delite," Miro and Dali. I discovered a Spanish sculptor whom I adore called Eduardo Chillida. It all has gotten me really excited to further my studies in art history, I crave more. Madrid was inspiring, a city I could easily find myself living in down the line if a city is where I´m going to live.

Right now as I write this, in the town of Vitoria, I just got done at a Modern Art museum which had really exciting work, full of Spanish and American photographers and scupltors. In a progressive and funny way you get to decide what you want to pay for admission on Wednesdays (lucky for my wallet). Similarly, there´s chalk and paper all over the walls asking for viewers to contribute, and one installation is comprised of objects left by the viewer. One can leave and object then take one at their own will, constantly changing the dynamic of the peice. I love it. Hog heaven. Something I really needed to hit me out of nowhere because I now travel the road alone.

Jeff split today. He´s heading back to America to get the good work done and hopefully figure out what the next chess move of life will be. I´m in such a weird place. Right now, 5:52 pm, Paris-time, we are in the same continent, but as far away as you all are to my eyes and hands. A partner in crime, someone to be accountable for and to, my fellow debater in life, my contrast and my reference to life back in Oregon, gone now. There are great elements to traveling alone, which are confusing now but are making the transition easy. "Do I want to walk here?" Well, no one to ask, so "Yes." But this month and a half was so incredible, meaningful, changing, and the greatest element I attribute that to is Jeff. The hydrogen of leg one.

The biggest contrast to now and before, or, traveling alone and traveling dutch, is silence. It´s presence, it´s use, it´s burden, all tools that can be powerful in the right use. I found myself in many moments in cafe chairs, stoops of buildings, cliff edge´s and balconies just in awe of creation and what life I have been dealt. To share that was amazing, but not in the commentary, but in the silence of the moment. Never needing to look over at Jeff, but just knowing that something similar was going on in his brain. I mean, one of us would cut a fart at this point, but all the same.

Who knows who reads this thing, I am going to get better with the updates, but most of you probably know or have heard of Jeff. He´s a different cup of coffee. Genuine in its definition. His humor along with his honesty sneaks up on you. Jeff makes people want to be better people by being real and sharing himself like most only dream. He can´t take care of his feet for crap, he´s a bit clumsy and shaggy only begins to describe how he carries himself. Jeff´s a Texan from the Northwest. Though he rarely comes to a conclusion or a statisfiable answer about life´s big-fish-questions, he´s always going to be a fisherman. He smokes a pipe and fills the walls of his room with his own art. Jeff plays guitar like the best of em´. I´d take a bat in the head for him any day of the week.

So that could put you where I´m at right now not even a day´s apart.

Folks, friends, family, Geographers, I gotta catch a train to somewhere (Is France is a good start?) and hopefully take the train from there to La Rochelle to rock the socks with a great friend and brief Tango partner of mind named Matilde. I´ll keep y´all posted and see you down the line.

No monkeys and freezing rain soaked cedar trees...

But it really wasn't that bad. The forests that surround Azrou run deep and thick and it reminded us of the mountains of our Northwest home. The environment was so familiar and un-Moroccan that we had to constantly voice such expressions aloud like "We're in Morocco right now," "This is North Africa" and simply "Africa, huh." It is important to note that less than five days before we were in the Saharan desert. So the contrast is Never the less profound comfort was found in our surroundings, getting away from the city heartbeat was a healing choice before moving north back to Europe via Tangier, the sharp end of Morocco. We luckily skirted the port when we first came upon this country with our road friend, Chelsea, almost a month ago.

Back in Algeciras, Spain our options were either Tangier, the hyper-scuzzy....

You know what? I'd rather do this:
I bought some stickers for the continuing and blooming decoration of my road-Ukulele, Cha-Cha Lorca Castinango or Cha-Cha for short, and wrote a found poem. Here's the first draft geographers, keep an open mind.

Moroccan Alphabet Stickers

Sheet One

Unidentifiable House Plant, Red Office Telephone
Rose, Baby Hand
Reading Glasses, Protractor, Horse
Present with Number Wrapping Paper, Leopard, Clock
Clipboard, Grey Whale, Beach Bucket
Longboat, African Elephant, Wood Chair
Assorted Sparkling Fruit

Sheet Two

Cucumbers, Training Wheeled Bicycle, Corn
Green Shovel, Five Multi-Racial Children playing on a Slide, Red Porsche
Sheep, Cruise Ship, one whole and quarter Watermelon
Teddy Bear, Triangle Teapot, Green coin sized Discs
Wolf, Tree Stump, Porcupine in a Frame
Feather, Bell, Mushrooms
Giraffe, Dear, Cherries
Butter knife, Belt Buckle, Trophy
Assorted Sparkling Vegetables


It's hilarious because it's true.

Well now that's out of my system I'll wrap up our cedar forest story. The days were introspective, reflective, and full of contemplation. Which is another way of saying that when you're in the outdoors all you do is build fires to look at them, nap in the sun when it's out, do some more sitting in front of the fire and wander around among bushes and brambles in the moon light. The only food we brought was a 2 kilo bag of popping corn, a loaf of bread and jar of nutella. It was monk-like and full of profound zen-thought between the fart jokes. I finished reading a copy of Ishmael that Jeff picked up in Essaoura, which seemed appropriate in the wilderness until we used it to A: Start a fire with some of the pages and B: Cover the pot when making popcorn. Then it was just ironic. Jeff made the point that we only used what we needed. I'm sorry, I guess, Mr. Quinn.

Saturday night was clear, with a practically full moon gleaming down on us. We slept soundly. That is of course until the unending and freezing rain began to pour on us at 5 in the morning. I sunk further into my cozy sleeping bag, trying to ignore Jeff's poking and mentions of rain. As soon as I gave up my selfish and pointless burrow in my bag, we quickly realized we needed to bolt, as our fingers became numb and the rain further soaked our bags. A dirt road showed us the way out of the howling wind swept cedars. 3 miles back to Azrou, no sign of motorists let alone human life for at least 1 mile of farmland. To our frozen march a sheep farmer came upon us in his truck. We yelled him down and sat on tires among the hay back to the Azrou bus station, still raining, still freezing. A bus station's dryness doesn't make up for it's chill and our bus to Tangier didn't leave until 1 am, so we have spent the day drying off and warming up between cafes of coffee and internet. We are so lucky, it was SO much fun. Seriously.

Next stop geographers: Alacante, Spain. Stay with some warm hearted Canadian girls we met in Marrakesh. Maybe they have cocoa for us. Until then, road awaits.

monkeys and cedar trees

We'll be camping in the outskirts of Azrou for the next four days, so for sure out of contact. Today we saw the King of Morocco. He drove by waving at his screaming onlookers in a speeding Range Rover. In the crowd a girl was wearing a yellow and green Oregon track suit top. It was surreal beyond words. Back soon geographers.

little names under little pictures of very little

I just added some discriptions to my photos on flickr to further the depth of feild. Feel free to click on the slide show to enjoy.

Updating? Well I'm not desperate but I'm thinking about trying it out soon

Just got back to ElRachidia this evening, after a long taxi ride from the desert where we were surrounded by screaming babies and our driver stopped to put a refrigerator on top of the roof of the car. This country works like this: As soon as you think that things couldn't be more surreal, everything is flipped on its head and gets weirder. I'm two days off the meds and I feel like a million bucks by comparison. I think the storm in my belly is over.
Merzouga was like being on a different planet. Super isolated and the dunes were more spectacular than I could have dreamed. Can't upload any photos yet, computers are a bit fossily. We were able to ride camels for three days, which was super amazing. My cowboy parts (inner legs and butt) aren't hurting as much as I thought they were going to, but morning of day three was kinda like torture. Now I realize why no Moroccans actually ride camels, because they aren't meant to be ridden. They sound like monster creatures and I couldn't help but make Star Wars jokes every five minutes ("Look sir, droids!" "And I thought they smelled bad...on the outside") Jeff just sighed and smacked his head. It was such a great choice to bring Cha-Cha (my Ukulele) out there, the berbers loved it and smiled with confusion when I played "I wanna be loved by you" and my other standards. Totally great experience.

Tomorrow we hop a bus to a little town called Arzou that was suggested to us by a couple from Scotland. There's apparently trout fishing, snow swept mountain monkeys, a giant cedar forest and whiskey.

Well geographers, I hope this find you all in elated spirits. More is always to come.

Dastardly Adventures of the Lack of Spanish Skills...

...in Carmona we arrived at sunset, a lovely town set upon a hill that jumps from the greener placid Spanish landscape surrounding it. We headed for the town square to find the loveliest of villagers enjoying the waining evening light. Just like Alcaudete, the older people were fantastically dressed and lively, one even engaging me in a whole conversation that eventually ended in "Well you should work on your Spanish so we can talk more!" This was of course in Spanish.

Carmona is amazingly sleepy, but has some first rate hotels that one can stay in peppered throughout it's edges. We couldn't afford a single one, but was nice to imagine taking a sweet somebody back there one day to at least sleep on a bed with. Jeff and I have abstained from such behavior thus far. So to say the least would be in the tune of stretched, burdened, dizzy with though about where to lay our heads. We asked a local shop owner if there was anyway to stash our bags in an empty back room, at least to search the city corners unburdened. To our astonishment he obliged in English and before we could grab a 1Euro cotton candy we were light as down feathers. The night's processions began down the city square way, enchanting us before we had any possibility to break away. Children of every age were dressed in the traditional Nazareños costumes, reminiscent of Klan's members. "So the Klan's in Spain...That sucks," was the frequent dwindling joke. The most special air came from sharing with families in the close intimate space, their children walking by and waving behind their pointed hoods. Or the younger children rushing around with baseball sized handfuls of wax, asking the hooded to drip their candle sized staff onto the ball adding to it another years worth of Semana Santa memory. Some as ambitiously sized liked softballs, while the more infant collected their first on a bit of rolled up foil. Magically fascinating.

When the second float passed holding a crying mother Mary encircled in probably hundreds of candles we decided it was probably a good idea to try and find quarters to stay. Every single economic establishment was full, the last being one nested between a withering 15th century gate and had two large touring motorcycles which we drooled over, fantasying about mounting and riding into the night. At that hour we retrieved our bags, with knee weakening and hand clasped thanks. Soliciting the shopkeeper regarding information on whereabouts for a cheap place to stay left us with nothing, but the space offered for our rucksacks the following day. "See you tomorrow then."

We headed for the Arch of Cordoba at the town's true front, which lead to more rural settings that outlined the city. The Arch itself had a ledge cut out of it that we hoisted each other to and theorised a bivouac for the night but knew the passing cars would result in fear peppered sleep, it being a holiday and the Arch being one of the cities' historical monuments. A grassy hill curved the city limits and we found a trail by street light. Down the rabbit road, by Luna's grand three quarter full reach of light, I saw a sinking notch in the hill.

Now this is important, some would call it a profound indentation in the hill's strata. Some would call it a space where a whole number of ecological activities could have occurred in creating it. Some would see it as a gorge that was created in order to cache an assortment of creatures yet mostly moisture. And I guess some would call it a cave. In our desperate circumstances it was a suitable bivouac that was safe after thorough inspection. It was not deeply profound, the entrance wide enough for two prime young mens shoulder's length and a mouth that early-American cave dwelling populations would have been proud of. The only way anyone could get to it would be edging themselves around awkward curvaceous footholds leading to the bottom lip with a ten foot drop for the ill stepping. How Anasazian! We settled in with easy hearts regarding the lack of bad fellows in the sleepy town and enjoyed what beautiful night sky our fluttering heavy eye lids would let us before rest. The sunrise was galaxies more beautiful the picture even describes.

We gathered our things and stumbled back to town center and watched Carmona wake up. Our shopkeepers door's flew open and we greeted him with dusty smiles. He asked where we had ended up the previous night and I chuckled saying "Well you know the Arch? Just a little outside of that." He smiled a sideways smile with dinner plates behind his glasses. Before we could thank him again for the stash space our shopkeeper asked if we had any newly printed American bills. Only having unchanged twenties he sighed and explained that he collected paper currency from around the world and if were interested could show us his binder. We obliged and flipped through his binder full of legal tender as common as beautifully colored Swiss notes to the rare like his Gibraltar One Pound note. He had no South African Rands, which shocked me and I offered to send him some in the week I had in Europe, coming back from South Africa and before flying home. Our shopkeeper lit up and said it wasn't necessary but would love the gesture. We told him we'd be back in the afternoon waving goodbye.

We ate quiet Chinese food and immediately question our thrifty choice with full gargling bellies. We wandered the Carmona streets, found the bus station for the following day and afternoon came earlier then we had wanted, dreading the cave's calling for another night. I picked up a bottle of wine to ease our minds while Jeff grabbed some Spanish cookies. We sheepishly entered our shopkeepers storefront and pointed for the back room. We smiled, came to the counter, and began to offer us the gracious trophy for the trip. He was remodeling a house on the other side of town and we could spend the night in it's shell protected, warm and happy. Our faces must have been something because he started a chuckle and said it was nothing. We dove into his car and rolled to his bachelor pad of a catus nursery- another collecting habit of his. The night was simple, we play lots of Ukulele and drank the wine greedily with mirth cookies. We took possibly hundreds of jumping photos.


Well folks that took longer then I thought but the details felt juicy enough to go into. This catch-up is going to take a little while longer, seeing as Jeff and I are fixing to head desert-side in the next couple days (Zagora or Merzoga?...). I'll come back, and transcribe the Sevilla adventure at my best efforts and ability to capture internet cafe butterflies. Enjoy, geographers!

little tummy buddies

So, I'm simply guessing that there have been a couple of the above protozoas in my Gastrointestinal tract for the last week because yesterday was the first time I got out of bed for more than the standard few minutes in the bathroom. I'll spare the details other than to say I'm sure that I picked it up swimming in the lovely local waters of the Cascades last week, finishing up one of the "travel challenges" that some of you put me up to (Can you guess which one I accomplished Emily and Heather? Because I met two challenges in one!). Anyways, the big catch up Part 2 is right around the corner and I needed to share the reasons behind it's further delay. Many thanks geographers!

Catch Up - Part 1

Three weeks thick already. Desiring greater diligence in writing about travelling would only scratch the surface on what fills my mind. Only two nights ago, by fireside in a canyon down river of the Cascades d'Ouzoud, I finally decided that the attempt to catch up from journal entries as far back into Holy Week was fruitless and had far too many details to touch upon. So instead of getting an old tummy ache over unwritten words of description and feeling I will do my best to catch this blog up on the past three weeks. For only next Wednesday will Jeff and I have a month left together before leg one of my journey is over and I move even more southbound for my second home-coming, South Africa. So let's begin.


The afternoon in Jaen was quite surreal due to it being our first time alone in the city, free to wander whatever direction or hop any bus. With backs to the scratched plastic chairs of the Municipal E'station de Autobus Jaen did our fingers dance through the topographical plastic coated countryside of Spain. The destination was the town of Alcaudete because the logic was "Well, it looks like there's a lake near there." The bus ride gave us no lake in site but olive groves far as the eye could see and a lovely Moorish castle crowning the city. Alcaudete was definitely a rhythm new to us in Spain considering only a minute after hopping off the bus we humbly yet royally were greeted with a "Buena’s Tardes," coming from a random stranger instead of a formal greeting. We climbed to the castle and watched the sunset, but before the cover of dark noticed the ruins of a church on the opposite hill. Hôtel de Church Ruins? For tonight, Yessir, Yesma'am! Enclosed, safely set upon a steep hill and star stroked we smiled half moons between chewing Big Hank candy bars and corn nuts still from the states. Here's the next morning:

With the castle in the background

We were right back to the bus stop after having spent the morning watching the townspeople mill about, chatting, it being a holiday and no real work to be done. Our only destined town was Cordoba, only after trying to convince the driver to take us to a pueblo outside of Cordoba called Santa Cruz (no surfers or banana slugs related with our west coast pueblo fashioned with the same name). In Cordoba we milled about ourselves, though being grandly excited to see paisanos or "countrymen", in the dirty form of other backpackers.

We learned from a lovely smiling French couple that within Cordoba's walls was a camping site for RVs and tenters. Though we wanted to consider our options because we had also heard word that the Cordoba Bombaderos, or firemen, we pitting a strike at the gates of the municipal offices with tents, a foosball table and Barbeques.

It was a lovely display of non-violent protest at it's highest, the gang hooping and laughing in their weathered overalls. The bombadero's signs of "12 men penniless and out of the job, and we call this a socialist country?" attracted the honks and cheers of passing cars. We had planned to ask the firemen if we could join their cause outside the gates, fight injustice and possibly get some Spanish BBQ but we ended up chickening out. Not without kicking ourselves all the way to the campsite questioning our timidity and repeating out loud the sage words of our fellow sister traveller Tessa; "If you're ready for any opportunity to be the perfect opportunity it's hard to be disappointed."

And what places it has taken us! We talked with the desk clerk girl about life in Cordoba, where to get a cheap bottle-o-vino, and her Semana Santa plans. Afterwards with a big sigh, rolling her eyes, she cut the campsite rate to ten Euro a person. Beautiful! The campsite was quaintly sectioned with knee high bushes and was filled mostly by caravaners, and though we weren't envious of their satellite televisions we swooned at the idea of waking the next morning, hopping in a VW Bus and letting open road be our poetry.

Instead we both had hot showers and ate the last of the bruised overripe fruit purchased market side all the way back in Jaen. Back in town we bought tickets for a blink of an eye town. The destination was Carmona and the logic was "I guess they have Roman ruins" "Really? Cool then."
We missed the Cathedral Mezquita, possibly a head-smacking miss of a site to see, but instead played Ukulele and Harmonica to the passer-byers in its square. We played only because we wanted to play, but earned a Coca-Cola from our neighborly family on the same stone steps. I bought a cheap watch at a Chinese-bazaar, then realized our bus was leaving in ten across town.
Hopping to it we made our stead of an Autobus and literally rode off into the sunset to meet what fate held for us in Carmona.

Part 2 will continue soon with "The Dastardly Adventures of the Lack of Spanish Skills... in CARMONA!"

If you caught on up at the top the reference to the Cascades d'Ouzoud and were wondering "Where in Cortez's name is that?" Well yes, geographers, it's in Morocco. Right now I am standing (literally, because there is no chair high enough for the computer upon this dresser. How Heminigwayian!) in Essaouira on the central coast of Morocco. Late is better than never! And sayings are excuses for apologetic.
All the best coming your way!