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!