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
31 July 2009
26 July 2009
All New Summer Camp Adventure Fun Stories
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
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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