2.0 in Tangier

I've chased Ibn Battutah's ghost through Yemen, Syria, Turkey, Libya, Spain and even Cambodia. Each country has provided fleeting glimpses of the medieval wanderer, from his lions in Aleppo to castles in Fuengirola.

Have a read about a recent pilgrimage to this traveler's tomb in Tangier in the Sydney Morning Herald.

Caceres and Extremadura in 360º

I'm an avowed Couchsurfer. For those who aren't in the know, click and see. There are plenty of other similar sites, but for me, CSing is the most user-friendly.

By surfing, I have seen the insides of places like Moscow, Istanbul, Riga, and Aleppo that a tourist passing through simply wouldn't see ... or would have to stay months to even get a glimpse of.

But CSing isn't only about surfing, it's about hosting too. Maybe even more so because unless you've won the lottery, one can't be traveling all the time. It's a way to remind me that there are people out there, on the move, doing incredible things all the time. Much needed draughts of fresh air during the numbing monotony of your 9 to 5.

The other day we had the pleasure to host 2 such breezes blowing in from France and Switzerland. People who have either found happiness, or at least are on its track.

Not only have they been able to do this, but they create art as the go. Click over to these pictures to have a 360º look for yourself. (if your German's as rusty or non-existent as mine, just click on a pictures and wait for the program to load then use your mouse to move around)

...and while I'm at it, for some more conventional, but equally beautiful photos of the region, there are some lovely ones over here.

Caceres with an Irish Lilt

I do have to say that the Irish are some of my favourite people in the world. Whether it be in New Jersey, Baku, Vientiane or even Cork, they always seem to cheer things up.

It's been awhile since I've been to the greenest of places, but an Irish newspaper, The Irish World, has just published a new travel piece of mine that focuses on my adopted hometown of Caceres, Spain.

Maybe it's time for another visit?

I think the link above has gone bad. Here's the PDFs.

One Person's White is Another's Black

Years ago while living in the south-western corner of the Arabian peninsula, now unnameable, the sun shone almost everyday...almost.

At times the clear blue sky would darken with sand blowing in from the vast deserts that ring the mountains and then for about 2 weeks a year irregular monsoons would blow through and flood the streets.

Rushing torrents of suspiciously dark water would replace what had been dusty streets and the walk to work would become a challenge.

Wet teachers ended up at work and could easily be divided into two camps. Grumpy expats, unhappy that their continuous sunshine had been interrupted and smiling and cheery locals, thrilled that their water table would refill, if just a little.

Today, years later and a continent away, we were sitting in a bar drinking a beer and eating tapas when a friend jumped up and said, "It's snowing!"

3 Spaniards at the table smiling.

One foreigner, not.

It does depend on how you look at things.

Caceres covered in white.

Biblical Taxis

Every traveler has been there...jet-lagged and coming out of an airport or getting off an all-night train where the only wink you got was from the fellow across the aisle with the extremely dirty fingernails, stepping into a new country with no language or local currency and suddenly the mass descends on you. If not there, then standing in the driving rain trying to make a plane and every taxi seems to be full.

Sometimes it's enough to make you want to turn around and wonder why you didn't stay at home...

...but sometimes it isn't.

Click over here for a new piece on a taxi ride south from Damascus.

Goytisolo on Istanbul

"I am in one of the most beautiful places that I know and, rather than describe the panorama from the Karakoy Bridge - the graceful lines of the Ottoman mosques, the golden rays of dusk on the tower of Galata, the boats manoeuvring to moor and depart the quaysides on either shore - my attention focuses on the wild, rustic face of a ferocious devourer of sandwiches swaggering piratically towards me on the arm of a friend. My snapshot has caught his inquisitive grimace and roughly sketched smile as he looked at me, flattered."

Even More Medieval Caceres

Cold seems to be relative. The way you experience it depends on...well depends on more than your jacket. A relative you know is coming to stay, but can't seem to say no to.

I bloody hate the cold.

Could be an entire childhood faced with frozen hair on dark mornings that lasted forever and then ended so quickly when released from school. Nightmares of tongues stuck to enticingly frosted metal pipes with impatient fathers coming to the supposed rescue with burning bic lighters. Back spasms at the thought of shoveling the snow all evening only to wake up and do it again...and again and again. Pain, actual pain as you remember stepping outside and hearing the crispy crunch of very cold weather snow that is completely devoid of any noticeable humidity...knowing that the exposed skin on your face was silently making that same noise.

I complain about the cold.

Indignant Cacereños scoff as I grumble about the dipping thermometer as it travels towards zero. Instinct brings hidden memories back to the surface as the light gets weaker and the Christmas decorations get dusted off once again. OK - it's not as cold, but neither is my freezer and I only go in there for ice cubes.

A chilly night in Caceres, the Medieval Fair that wasn't suppose to be winds down and those that are left huddle closer to the roasting ovens and seek warmth in Galician hootch.

Relax I'm told...it only lasts 3 months, and even then the really bad days can be counted on one hand.

But my hands are covered in gloves and my bike ride tomorrow morning is going to bring back more 'fond' memories. At least my nose won't freeze shut.

At times I secretly hope that the climate change deniers are wrong, but my hope is for the wrong reasons.

Wake me up when it's spring.

España Profunda (with a bit of Portugal thrown in)

The good people over at Trazzler have given me even more reason to practice what I preach and travel deeper rather than further. I've been assigned a 10 piece series, exploring my adopted homeland of Extremadura, Spain and her sister region across the now non-existent border with Portugal.

First stop Alcantara!
Second Caceres
Moving on to the Garganta de los Infiernos
Cross the border to Monsanto
A personal favourite in San Martin de Trevejo
Natural swimming pools and free libraries in the Sierra de Gata
Cheese, Cheese, oh glorious Cheese in Trujillo
Cherry Blossoms without the Japanese crowds in the Valle del Jerte
Back to Caceres for the WOMAD festival
Back to Portugal, but not too far in Idanha a Vehla

And some more

Moor to Spain than Andalusia in Hornachos
Swaying with the Penitents over Easter in Caceres
Templar mysteries in Trevejo
Inaccessible castles (well almost), Spas and...Wine! in Alange

Incredible Adobe in Reina

Aculturalized : Definition

Aculturalized

Definition: When the sight of mummified pigs legs hanging on the wall not only doesn't make you do a double take, but makes your mouth water.

Few self-respecting bars in Spain would be found without at least one...in fact it just may be a requirement in the licensing process, Jamón, or Spanish Ham.

Sliced with a rapier-looking blade right off the bone, this deliciously nutty Ham makes Prosciutto seem like something from a wilted school lunch bag. At room temperature the oils start to liquefy making the wafer thin piece melt the moment it hits your tongue. The only way to accompany it is with a strong local red that can actually do battle with the intense flavors. Perfect simplicity, ham and wine, and there's no mustard in sight.

This is the Spanish version...do you have a different one?

First World Bus Travel

19.56, I made it!

2 Metro changes...dash through the palpable late August heat in Madrid, an anxious wait on a light rail platform only to find the next train is an express that doesn't stop where I do. Add to that the criminal removal of beer from the vending machines on the platforms, 3 broken escalators, then chatty pearled up women blocking the left-hand walking lane on the ones that do work and of course, a tip of the hat to Jimmy Buffet with a broken flip-flop...yet, the driver is still standing at the door of the bus smoking his last cigarette, eyeing up the girls as they bend down to load their luggage.

Summer in Madrid, you sweat without moving. My ticket literally wilted as I handed it to him, but again...I made it.

The Express bus, depending on your perspective, the lap of leather seated luxury or the last resort for the traveler wanting to get out to Extremadura in the late afternoon. By spending a bit more, you leave exploratory traffic-filled excursions for another day through the charming dormitory cities of Alcorcon and Mostoles. Just slide into the bigger, more comfortable reclinable leather seats and let the A/C slowly dry me off.

16..no, 17-18, no...Here we are, number 19. Numbered seats have been around here in Spain for a long time. Even still, you continue to get confused looks from people sitting in the wrong seat more often than you'd think. But today my seat was free, time to let the A/C do its work.

Hang on, can't quite squeeze in, even in my sweaty, slippery state. The passenger in front has already put his seat dangerously far back...good thing I speak the language.

"Uh, excuse me," in the politest of tones,"would you mind moving your seat forward a bit, just so that I can get in?"

My fellow traveler slowly turns around and I'm given a sudden start.

Holly Bejeezus! When did the start allowing gorillas onto buses!?

The lump in the seat in front turns into the churlish, molted face of what just might be the missing link draped in an oversized basketball jersey and a haircut that would embarrass a recent lobotomy patient.

"Pues...no! I paid for this seat and I'm sitting the way I want!"

Ok, Ok, perhaps gorilla was too strong, after all he can speak, if ever so gruffly.

"Quite right, as did I, but perhaps you could move it up just a bit in order for me to actually get my legs in?"

Wrong! Jumped to a conclusion too soon regarding his humanity. Feral grunts are the only response now. Maybe he's sore because I interrupted him from the obviously mesmerizing blinking lights emanating from the mobile phone wrapped in paws that sported suspiciously orange looking 'gold' rings on every finger.

Only option left is to somehow crawl over his seat and into mine and hope he doesn't bite me in the process.

Even the most ardent socialists should take public transport now and then to get in touch with their fellow countrymen; though I do realize that an Express bus can hardly be deemed public. However given the scant (and expensive) service on the supposedly public train service, the masses do tend to gather on the bus here on the Iberian peninsula. Backpackers, immigrants, pensioners, university students, wistful mothers, grumpy fathers, rambunctious kids, parolees and even the odd business man all meet in the equalizing space of two seats side by side.

Seat climbed and now in my crypt-like express seat and I feel like Houdini struggling to get out of a coffin, good thing that even on my best days I'm considered of medium height.

You can learn a lot about a country by riding its buses. Brave a Greyhound ride in North America and you'll quickly learn that everyone doesn't look like actors out of the High School Virgin movies that Hollywood seems to re-release every year under different names.

I can remember a particularly uncomfortable bus ride to Vientiane from the south of Laos. Every available inch of floor space, including where your feet were supposed to go, had been taken up by 50kg bags of rice. Terribly uncomfortable until a kind local showed me that they could be laid upon like giant beanbags.

No room to lie down here, much less inhale deeply as sunset over the Gredos mountains turned the countryside an orange much more beautiful than the orangutan's rings. But the most beautiful sunset in the world couldn't erase the growing cacophony of rival songs being played from mobile phones scattered around the bus.

Finally the bus stops, halfway resting point. All the passengers start to file out minus one...me. Trapped in my express tomb, I start to wonder if I'll be forgotten when an older women, akin to the chatty ones who had blocked the escalators, bends down, presses the button and releases me from my crypt.

"Leave it like that and he might not notice when he gets back," she pleasantly chimes...I immediately felt guilty for my murderous thoughts back on the escalators.

Rest stop over and we all file in. I purposely get on early in order to avoid the previous seat climbing episode. Settling in, I then see the primate board, stuffing chips into his maw as he lumbers towards his seat and plunks down.

"Fuck, these are uncomfortable," I hear him mutter under his breath while squirming around into the leather.

Fully expecting my knees to be slammed as he reaches for the button, I brace myself...

More chips crammed into his mouth, more muttering and finally....the mobile phone starts to dazzle him once again.

My guardian seat angel was right, the blinking phone proved too mesmerizing. While maybe not quite a sleep on a 50kg bag of rice, her words of wisdom saved my knees from further bruising the rest of the way home.

Lunch in Monsanto

Wild Boar with Greens

2009 has been a year of Deep Travel, delving further into places rather than just skipping on to the next. With this in mind, a Saturday road trip turned into a visit to another country.

Granted Portugal is just over 100kms from here, I don't seem to visit the country that doesn't exist on Spanish weather maps as often as I should. After Saturday's lunch at Restaurante Petiscos e Granitos in Monsanto, I hope to remedy this oversight and dive deep into the neighbouring area while enjoying a lovely glass of Beirao liqueur more often.

Oven Roasted Cod