just call me mad

Catching up ...

2008-11-25T09:56:00.000-08:00

Phew! I’ve fallen a bit behind, so it’s time to do some catching up. This was for a couple of reasons, not my slackness I hope you realise. Well…

Anyway, posting in Scandinavia became problematic for a couple of reasons.

Firstly, time in an internet café was expensive. Secondly, they weren’t really conducive to blog-ing. Generally they were impersonal: unstaffed, put money in a slot, get a password, and use a PC with Internet Explorer and not much else. No Skype, no download of camera, no download of any applications. I think this is because everyone in techno savvy Scandinavia is mobile. They all use internet and Skype from their mobile phones. The staffed internet cafes had a few PCs tucked away in the corner, but acres of PCs all networked for computer games. Thirdly, I had better things to do!

Anyway, the next posting (below) has been re-titled by adding (Revisited). That’s because as part of my catch-up I’ve gone back to it, added some photos, a few more lines, and corrected typos and spelling errors that got included in the rush.

So, if you have read it without the (Revisited) you might want to have another look –maybe. And if it’s your first visit you’ll be none the wiser. And the way it happens, you’ve probably got to here through my catch up stories.

Watch out for the vikings! (Revisited)

2008-08-06T09:02:00.000-07:00

Suddenly, Spain is gone.

It makes me wonder about how easily this happens. But rather than think of some shiftless trait, I'd like to believe that it is due to having a broad comfort zone. Mind you, gone but not forgotten.

With Germanic efficiency we are whisked from Berlin to Hamburg. Fields of wheat, poppies and sunflowers - long gone in the Andalucian heat. The whole train rolls straight onto a super ferry for the crossing to Denmark.

København is to be our initial Denmark base. And a bloody nice place to wash up. A tourist office newspaper states: "Unfortunately many people criticise Copenhagen as being expensive. In reality, it is on a par with New York and London." Let me clarify. It's expensive. But quite a party town.

And what a language! Words seem extremely long with strings of repeated consonants, liberal doses of js and ys thrown mid word and then the vowels have little circles or double dots over them or slashes through os. But everyone speaks perfect English, and probably German, and French, and ... But the written word is nearly all Danish. And there's no correlation to English words. One word I have got the hang of though: Mad, which translates as food. That's important.

It's hard to tell if the name of this yacht is poetic, romantic, whimsical or something more powerful, But one thing for sure, it certainly doesn't roll off the tongue of an Anglophone.

I tried to understand some Danish TV news. I'm pretty sure the lead story was about a train being a minute and twenty seconds late. Everything is neat and tidy, everything works, everything is so organised, the people are polite - and handsome. And speaking of trains: international, domestic and commuter trains all have wi-fi hot spots in each carriage.

There's much acknowledgement to literary history. Hans Christian Andersen statues litter parks. Not to mention the poor, sad, little mermaid down by the tourist inundated harbour side.

But a really cool thing for us was completing another of those travel connections. As I've written about in the past, we visited the Karen Blixen house outside Nairobi, Kenya. Travelling, I read Out of Africa. Now we were able to visit her birthplace, and where she returned home to, Rungstedlund, and completed all her writings. And she features on the basic Danish banknote, the 50 kroner.

And my book for this trip: Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything (Doubleday, 2003). It's another from the stack that was at the side of the bed in Wilton. There's three or four more, now on their way to London. It's quite a read, but written with the characteristically Bryson readability and his beguiling narrative style. But already his layman's explanations mean I now understand what the theory of relativity is about - not the theory, just what it is about. And he gives the best explanation, making it quite simple really, of the Doppler Effect.

And here's something I didn't know, despite having visited. Dublin, Ireland, was founded by Danish Vikings as a ship building centre. (Live and learn, or travel and learn seems more appropriate.) Excitement was building as we visited a Viking museum in Roskilde. We will miss it by a few days, but the Havingsten fra Glendalough (The Sea Stallion of Glendalough), a replica of the Skuldelev 2 Viking ship built in Dublin in 1042AD returns from Dublin. It will be completing a 38 day trip around the south coast of England and back through the North Sea. This follows a 2007 trip from Denmark up to Norway, across to the islands of northern and western Scotland, down to the Isle of Man and then Dublin. It's a 30m long vessel, 4m wide, that took 7,000 iron rivets, 334 trees and 48,000 man hours between 2004-2007 to build. The video of the 62-man and women crew sailing it across the North Sea is pretty alarming.

On a Sunday afternoon we got to watch the finish of the Tour of Denmark cycle race. A six-stage event, contested by all the top teams, but by
'reserves' or 'apprentice' riders. The final 165km stage finished with seven laps in the inner city. There was a half dozen Aussies competing.

But the surprise was that they had a 'King of the Mountain' grade. I don't think I have seen a hill in Denmark. In fact the highest spot in the country is 172.5 metres - they need that 0.5.

But, CSC Saxo Bank riders took out first and second place in the big sprint to the finish. And for the record, Jakob Furgslag, a Danish local riding for Team Design Kokken won the tour.

We went across to an island the Danes call Hven, and the Swedes Ven. It's closest to Denmark, but is part of Sweden - handed over years ago as a settlement between the two warring neighbours. Ven was granted to one Tycho Brahe, a nobleman, and between 1576 and 1597 he created one of the first research institutes in the history of science, studying astronomy, meteorology, cartography and early medicines. It became a meeting place for scholars from all over Europe. Astronomy was his main interest, and today a series of planet information sculptures are placed around the island. There is also a statue of Tyco staring into the heavens.

Brahe was one of the believers that Earth was the centre of the universe, though conceded that the other planets did orbit the sun which, in turn, orbited Earth. He was at odds with Copernicus. However, one Johannes Kepler, well known to Kiwis and one of Brahe's first scholars on Ven, used all good old Tyco's collected data to in turn prove that Copernicus's theory was right - the sun was the centre of the universe. Again, live and learn or travel and ...

The island is a rural, low key place rather gorgeous on the eye. We experienced the most rain since Ethiopia a year ago, after three lovely days in Copenhagen. However, a climate with rain does make for green grass fields (with huge hares bounding about) and lush forests - something we have missed in Andalucia. But the farm cottage was a lovely place to hunker down.

The weather didn't stop us from getting out and about for some brisk walks. Our second day was much better, and we hired bikes and rode the network of cycle paths on sturdy, single speed bikes that felt like a steamroller after the Orbea. The cycle paths made great running tracks as well. There are power generating wind turbines all over Denmark (Europe it seems) but it was a surprise to see rows of them in the ocean on the way to the island.

Bikes and running remind me of events back in Copenhagen. I haven't seen so many bikes since Beijing. But man, you have to look out and take care as a pedestrian. Don't step off the footpaths without a good look for bikes. And running, oh boy, the lakes and canals make for some nice runs. But the tanned, blond chicks out running. Enough.

The label on the reverse side of a Tuborg stubby reads:

USER MANUAL:
1. Seize bottle
2. Remove cap
3. Indulge.

No nonsense those Danes.

Mad
aka Max

Time is up in Spain

2008-07-29T02:38:00.001-07:00

Ten and a half months is now up. It's time to move on from Antequera, and Spain.

It had to happen. It has been a fantastic experience. But new things await.

As much as I have written about the sights of Antequera, its the small things that count. The regular cafes and bars, favourite newsagent and stationery store, the supermarket, the neighbours, the sitting in the Plaza Portachuelo outside Shithole Arriba aka Cafe La Soccorrio, watching football at Cafe Diego's, I'll never get over the view form Plaza Coso Viejo, the bike club, the rides through Andalucían countryside, the Moors history, the Catholic Kings reconquest. The list goes on.

I never thought I'd write this after years of New Zealand weather, but the weather here is unrelenting. We get out just in time apparently. August is just way too hot. Already local businesses, they are nearly all family run affairs, are closing as they head to la playa, the beach, for the month.

But I've braced myself for this. Nothing too emotional. We have loved Antequera and to return would be very easy. But we think that maybe when we do come back, in a year or so, we should try somewhere else for a change. Probably somewhere where Castillian is spoken a bit more regularly, not like the crazy Andalucíans. That would help our language skills somewhat. We'll see.

We also have a small group of Brit ex-pats to say goodbye to. They have provided a bit of 'normality'.

Anyway. We're off, Thursday 31st. We fly to Berlin, then train overland via Hamburg and onto Denmark. A quick visit into Sweden on the way to Norway, and back to Sweden. Then its across to Finland, and then onto the Baltic States - Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania before heading into Poland. The original plan had been to go from Helsinki on the famous train route to St. Petersberg, Russia and onto Moscow. But, that was problematic. We would have had to send our passports home for visas. You can get them in London if you can prove you have lived 'legally' in the UK for three months, which we have not done. Or apply in Madrid, if you can prove you have lived 'legally' in Spain for three months - which creates one small problem.

But no worries. We will end up in London later in September, to find a flat, and find jobs!!! So that's another whole exciting prospect ahead. Earn some pounds. Head back to Spain, probably, and some more travelling.

The boxes and bags are packed - the computer is about the last thing. So I better get off and ...

Mad
aka Max

Last ride in Spain

2008-07-28T14:32:00.000-07:00

We returned from Menorca on Saturday night, straight back into real heat. In the past no matter how warm, I used always sleep under a sheet. Here it's on top of the bed and that's it.

Sunday morning and I joined my cycling club for my last ride. It was El Torcal de Antequera club's turn to host the get together of clubs from towns in the district. We rode out to meet other clubs as they rode to Antequera.

We all rode together and back to the Plaza de Castille for the traditional desayuno, breakfast, of mollete, aciete, jamon and now that it's hot refresco (cold softdrink) instead of cafe.

It's a real feeding frenzy.

With the club demon, 73-year old Pepe. He is all but a neighbour.

These three have played a big part in making me welcome in the club. Left to Right: Jorge, Manolo, y Roberto.

Then it's pay back time for when the other clubs take us out for a 'race' around one of their local circuits. Club Ciclista El Torcal takes them up to their naming source - the El Torcal National Park. It's only 12km from town, but after 8km it gets serious. This was my Caraterra de Montana ride when first here, but once we get to the top of that ride (which includes a stretch of 16% climb) we turn off for the last four kilometres to the top - never less than 9% , with a 14% section. A nasty little bugger. And to top it off , it was hot - like 40 degrees. Some of the jokers from other clubs actually turned up with their mountain bikes to help them make the climb.

It's solid going, as Juanjo, owner of the local cycle store - Ciclos 2000, shows.

It's a grinder alright.

Just about to crest the last of the climb. And yes, that is the Mad Max number plate.

I was having fun. Really.

I got to the top pretty well. So I should with the training I had recently done for the L'Étape. And it was my last chance to flex some muscle with my companeros. Deb rode one of the vans -Yep, the club has three vans all sponsored by local businesses -and a chance to get a few shots of some of my club mates.

A couple of important jokers here, all standing. On the left Juan, who took me under his wing on my very first ride with the club, he speaks no English. In the centre, Jose Antonio, a good bloke and club captain. He speaks no English. And, on the right, another Jose Antonio who became my real riding buddy, especially on Saturdays with the strong boys and on club Sundays. He speaks no English.

I admit, I felt a bit of aprehension on the ride down, but that quickly went when the brakes worked OK. On this stretch of downhill I hit 73.2 kph the first time I came down -when I didn´t know the road. I hadn´t gone close since. On this, the last time, I gave it a nudge but could only crack 70.06kph (yep my new computer, the old one was stolen on the bike, produces two decimal points). But my mate, Jose Antonio, and I both passed the club president who had done the trip on a scooter.

So that's it. I was lucky to find a good club which I really enjoyed. There is actually three clubs in Antequera, plus a triathlon club. But the time has come. Who knows, we might all meet again.

Mad
aka Max

Menorca

2008-07-28T07:10:00.000-07:00

Time for a 'holiday'.

We flew to Menorca, in the Balaeric Islands, to meet bro BOK, Sally, and the boys for a week of holiday break.

And yet another Spanish language.

Lovely spot. Great beaches, fantasic swimming bays, and a manageable and pleasantly cooler 30-33ͦC. Swimming, swimming, swimming.

We stayed at Sol de Este, from where we could watch the comings and goings of the yachts and pleasure launches of Europe's wealthy. Man, is there ever some money tied up in these craft.

Anyway, as has been the case many times for Deb and I during out time in Spain, we arrived for a fiesta week, this time that of Sant Juame.

It kicked off on the Sunday morning with an Urbana Milla race, which was in fact 1,950 meters long - so call it a 2km race. Anyway I scored a podium finish, photo with the mayor and the running club president, for my third place in the over 50s. Sister-in-law Sally scored second in the womens over 40. BOK and the boys all ran, Deb gave this one a miss.

The Spaniards have an inherent craziness. You know of the running the bulls. But Menorca is famous for horses. On the Thursday evening, the fiesta programme lists a jaleo. This begins with horses walking casa-a-casa, from house to house, collecting horses positioned around town. As each one joins the procession it does a stand on its hind quarters, rearing into the air.

They make their way to the Plaza Mayor where they are joined by a band. It really starts warming up now. All the bars in town have set up outside on the footpaths. Customers have started getting rather merry, having already started kicking off on Pomada - Menorcan gin and lemonade, which is consumed by the bucket loads.

The band marches around town, stopping at the bars, consuming Pomada.

The horses follow all doing hind leg stands at each bar, some ride into the bars to have a Pomada.

Everything is humming by now. They make their way back to the Plaza Mayor where the real jaleo begins, translated as 'uproar'. This is a real Rark Up.

Two by two the horses - all two year old stallions, fiesty beasts, canter straight into the crowd standing on the sawdust strewn plaza, then rear up and prance two legged through the thronging crowd. The crowd, mostly males, then all push in and attempt to hold the horse up in the rear standing position. The story, apparantly, is that if you can touch the horse near the heart, its strength will be passed onto you. The other version is that if you can touch near the heart, you will in turn become hung like a horse. For either reason, plenty of young men were keen to get in there and hold the horse up, pushing near its heart.

There were 30 horses that went 'around the block' many times to repeat the activity. It went well into the morning.

They repeated it Friday afternoon.

But Friday night is another crazy happening. The horses raced two at a time at full speed. It all starts off pretty orderly but gets a little out of control when crowds start pushing in from both sides of the street trying to give the horses a smack on the rump. Crazy stuff.

The lady mayor of the town is a keen horse woman, and she was there, full on, for both events. It's the sort of thing you just can't imagine being allowed at home, yet here it is just considered part of the fun, with the mayor taking part boots and all.

Friday night finished with a spectacular fireworks display over the harbour.

A great week, in which the Spanish got very excited when Carlos Sastre took over leadership, and went on to win, the Tour de France. Marca went to 10 pages of coverage. And Rafa won in Toronto, and looks a real threat to take over Roger Federer's number one spot. And Spain is going to win bucket loads of gold in Beijing - if you believe Marca.

Lying on the beach gave me a chance to read Eric Newby's, A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush (Secker & Warburg, 1958). I had this book shipped from NZ. My attention was first drawn to it when I was crewing in the Melbourne to Hobart Yacht Race, 1986. But that's another whole story, but did generate for me a term I have come to use called 'an Eric Newby experience'. I eventually tracked down my Picador, 1981 edition at Ferrits Bookshop, in Cuba, Wellington which oddly enough lead me to the Nambour Book Exchange, Nambour, Sunshine Coast, Queensland in December 2006, where I bought Paul Theroux's Dark Star Safari, which I told you all about sixteen months ago from South Africa. But that is all yet another story.

Anyway, Menorca was our chance to say our farewells to bro and family. They will stay on in Spain until mid 2009 before moving back to England with his job. Expect we'll spend more time with them again there.

Back to Antequera, and to say our farewells there. Not without a few pangs.

Mad
aka Max

Starting to wind down in Spain

2008-07-27T13:24:00.000-07:00

I took things pretty easy for the fortnight following the ride. I was pretty sore from the crash, though just scrapes and bruising. I was also plain tired for the first couple of days from a demanding weekend of travel arrangements.

But it gave me time to start slowly packing up our belongings for the imminent departure from Spain.

I was also able to watch quite a bit of the Tour live, in real time. Spain was in a state of vergüenza - disgrace or shame, following the two cyclists and the Spanish based team out of the tour on doping charges. The daily sports newspaper, Marca, which runs six full pages daily on the Tour, ran a Salvemos al ciclismo - save cycling campaign.

We also caught the bus to Malaga, and went to the beach. Such a treat in the heat, swimming in the Mediteranean.

And the British Olympic Triathlon team turned up in Antequera for some last peak training. There's a strong triathlon club in Antequera that uses the Aqua Slava training facilities, and they pull in some pretty good results in National championships. Two members, one woman and one man, are in the Spanish Olympic team. One of the Brits reckon the ride up the Torcal is the toughest he has ever done. I wonder.

Friday night is club night for the cycling club, and since the last Friday night in Antequera has come around Deb and I knocked up an invitation to members to join us for a few drinks and nibbles at the club rooms. It was a pleasant evening with a good group turning up to say goodbye to us.

What was somewhat overwhelming was being presented with a plaque which translated (from the usual poetic and flowery Spainish) read:

club logo.

El Club Ciclista El Torcal de Antequera

To Max and Deborah

"In acknowledgement of the friendship that we have been offered, and always for the memory for this group of cyclists and the many friends that you have made. Until always. Antequera July 2008."

It was nice to think that I had made a bit of a mark during my time with Club Ciclista El Torcal de Antequera. The plaque suggested as much.

We were heading to Menorca for a week next morning, and my last ride with the club would be the following Sunday, when it's Antequera's turn to host the regular get together of clubs from other towns in the district. That will be it for Spanish cycling, for now, as we will leave four days later.

Mad
aka Max

The Ride - a postscript

2008-07-15T23:50:00.000-07:00

As you might expect, we got to watch stage 10 live on Spanish TV.

An eye-opener. I got to see the countryside I had ridden through. Rain and low cloud meant I saw virtually nothing of it. No wonder it was cold at the top, there was snow up there on mountain tops!

Watching the Tourmalet downhill brought a shiver down my spine. I saw the track I shot off the road on, and some off the other driveways I used. And as they went up Hautacam, where I had my prang on the way back down. Man, it was so close to the bottom - they had only just started climbing up. When I cleaned up the bike, a few days later, my bike computer showed max speed of 83.47kph !!! Holy Shit! And, of course, now all cleaned up, the brakes work perfectly. I don't know. The bike is fine, though I have had to have handle bar tape replaced - it was pretty ragged. A few small scrapes on the brake hoods - badges of honour!

But it appears Caisse d'Epargne's Alejandro Valverde knew something, when after stage nine he said, "Let's hope that the weather will be as nice as today; otherwise the downhill of the Tourmalet could be more difficult than the climb." (http://www.cyclingnews.com/) Well, it was for them but ...

The highlights package didn't do justice to the climbs. It was good reliving them, being able to see what I rode up. Man they were tough. I was gobsmacked at the cadence those boys could turn over on those mountains. I see they were over an hour quicker than first in our event. But we did go 14 km further!! I realise afterwards also that because of my stop and slow downhill, I was probaly struggling up through slower guys on the Hautacam.

The 1520-metre Hautacam comes at the end of a 156-kilometre day, preceded by two category three climbs and the Col du Tourmalet. "I have never raced the Hautacam; I have only done it in training," Sastre [CSC team rider] said after stage nine. "It is a really hard mountain. The gradient stays the same all the way up – from eight to 10 percent – and you don't have any time to recover." (http://www.cyclingnews.com/)

But watching on TV reminded me of a couple of things. How even though you tucked in behind the man in front (there were a few women, not many, and some very good) you rode just a little wide to avoid his rooster-tail of road water flying into your face. Also, all the wet, slippery, white lines. Especially when you went around right angle corners, you rode over treacherous pedestrian crossings going into, and out of , the corners in vilages and usually painted atop speed bumps.

And, the big one. My Aussie boy Cadel Evans took the yellow jersey on my stage! And he came off the day before as well!

I am trying to put the prang aside. I feel really pleased with my efforts on the true ride of this stage, the mountains.

Mad
aka Max

The big bike ride

2008-07-11T08:19:00.001-07:00

"Every year, many cyclists are surprised with the difficulty of the itinerary of the ride. This year, once again, you will be attacking mountain passes with steep inclines." Le Guide - The Guide, 2008 Entrants program.

I soon discovered, averages are a statistical cover-up job.

I trained for this event across seasons. Starting off in winter, and despite glorious days, surprised at how cold it was setting off each day. Paddocks between the many olive groves had been ploughed, exposing red soil. On one of my long rides across the plains, I could ride for approx. 120 kms passing five pueblos, but nothing else except olives.

Then came primavera, spring. Rippling green wheat fields. Fields of blazing red poppies. Wildflowers in all colours lining the roadside. And in later spring, in a real Tour scene, masses of suflowers. All towns celebrate primavera with a feria, a fair. (Antequera had a big three day event, similiar to Brisbane's Ekka or a NZ A&P show.) On a number of occasions, I arrived in towns to wait behind women in polka-dotted, flamboyant dresses riding horses side-saddle behind men wearing Córdoban hats and leather breeches. They gathered along with others walking behind gypsy like caravans making their way to the town's paseo where guitars and castanets would be playing. I never came across that on rides up the Akatarawa Valley, I tell you.

Then at the start of June, it started getting hot. Real hot. I had to finish rides by 1:30, and then I never got back at less than 36ͦC. I'd then siesta through the 40ͦ plus afternoons. By the time of the big ride it had become scorched earth. The wheat had been harvested leaving straw stubble, wild flowers were a dried up tangle, and sunflowers had been harvested leaving sad remains. A heat haze hung over the now drab grey olive trees.

I rode Sundays with my club. Saturdays were with five or six guys from the club - we were all over 40 drop outs from Paco's groupo fuerte - in what was my effort season of the week: 120 kms usually nuts out, plenty of big hills. The rest of the week, two or three rides were on my own, with a long ride thrown in, usually doing 430-470 km per week (I did do two weeks of over 500km), and 140-150km long rides (once I did 166km).

Every six weeks, there was a club ride that met clubs from all around the district. Up to 500 of us would doodle around, picking up clubs from towns as we went, usually breaking into an unproclaimed race during the 30km, or so, loop we would do around the host town. One club, fom Campillos, almost caused a riot when the molletes, aciete, jamon, y cafe (breadrolls, olive oil, ham and coffee) turned up 20 minutes late. Dangerous move keeping a Spaniard waiting for his food.

One Sunday at club, a joker turned up obviously well known by all - lots of handshaking, hugging, and two-cheek kissing. I got invited to a ride with him on the following Tuesday. As we went up some hills I noticed he was still in big ring with several gears left. Something was up here. Gregorio, as it turns out, is a 16 year professional, currently riding with Caisse d'Epargne. But his job is purely as a training partner for the big boys. He has never had a start in a major.

My own riding progressed well. I was getting fitter and stronger. I could now dance up the Carratera de Montana, my nemesis when I first arrived in Antequera (and which I have since learned has sections of 16% climbs). I'd get stuck in and mix it with the front boys of the club on the mountain climbs, and there were some beauties. I built a bit of a reputation for myself for being sort of strong on the hills.

I started to feel that I was as ready as I wanted to be, had to be, needed to be for the big ride.

But all this riding did not make Mad a dull boy. Life ticked along nicely. When I'd get home from a ride, and the next day was a rest day, we'd be off - bus or train - and overnight at towns or cities across Andalucía. Sometimes day trips. And at some of the most beautiful of small places. I also read the tome A Stranger in Spain by H. V. Morton (Methuen, 1955). A book written in a style of its time. But really informative, and one Deb and I started to use as a pre-trip planning guide.

It's now July and time for the race. It would be stage 10 of this year's Tour, except we'd do 169km but the boys on the tour would do 155km on this stage. To get 8,000 people out of Pau required a different ride than for 180 of the Tour race. All the pre-race talk was about the two 'hills', Tourmalet and Hautacam. But there are two category three climbs as warm up along the 103km to Pied du Col du Tourmalet. But in fact you are riding 19.6km of steady uphill before reaching the 'official' start of the Tourmalet climb. The Tourmalet climb is 23.4km long, and Hautacam is 15.2km.

I had no expectations. I had but one target: not to be caught by the 'grim reaper' - to be thrown into the bus by the sweep up wagon. Over 1,600 were caught this year. I just wanted to ride 'well'. To be honest, I am still but a cycling babe with one year of training for Ironman, a year and a half off, and now a very interrupted eight months (more like four months serious.)

Entries are limited to 5,500 French entrants, and 3,500 foreigners. I understand 7,800 picked up their race numbers.

I was staying in Lourdes (Man! What a tacky place. I've never seen so many cripples, people in wheelchairs, walking frames, hospital trolley-beds in one place. And, you can bulk buy 5 litre bottles of Holy Water!) which was only a 10km cycle path ride from the finish base camp. But it meant a 45km ride to Pau on Saturday morning where you registered, stored your bike, and visited the big Cycling Expo on display.

As I rode leisurely to Pau, in the lightest of drizzle, I came off while crossing, at very slow speed, a railway line. Not 100% sure, but I don't think I slipped on the line but the smooth concrete either side of the tracks. A bit of skin off the elbow, a bruise on the bum when I landed on top of my allen-key tool in my shirt back pocket, and a smashed helmet. That's why you wear them. But nothing really, I was fine. Talk for the rest of the day was about all the people that came off on the railway tracks. Picked up a new helmet at the Expo.

The big drama was all the people flying from England whose bikes hadn't turned up. All were sorted eventually, but some not until 1:00am race morning.

The weather forecast for Sunday race day was crap. After months of heat training, not a cloud for months, the race start in Pau was 15ͦ C and raining. It was going to be cold on the mountain tops.

We were started by race number, in blocks of 1,000. Apparently taking the best part of half an hour to get everyone rolling. I started in the third wave, the 2,000s.

It was the usual start to this type of event. Some take off like shit from a shanghai, others a bit more reserved. Almost straight way people started tripping over each other and going down, usually to restart. For me the 103km to the foot of Tourmalet went like a dream. I was really pleased with the way I handled food, dinks, and most importantly pace. I kept a nice clear space, just enough, in front of the front wheel the whole way. It was just as easy to drop a train and join a group being passed as it was to hook onto a passing train if some of the locomotives up front of your train were starting to look like puffing billys.

I generally knocked along at 38-42 kph, tucked in behind - a lesson I learnt from my good mate, Blimp, back in Noo Zillan. But often, an express train of neo-pros, pro aspirants, and good old wannabees would just woosh past. They looked great. Envy.

I was somewhat surprised to see people struggling a little on the cat 3s. A wet, cold day meant the course was lined with cyclists stopped taking a pee. People queued for ages at refreshment stops to get drink refills, whereas I just pulled into a petrol station used the tap, peed in their garden, and took off.

I was relaxed, it was going well. I saw a couple of prangs at traffic islands, but luckily the groups I found were well behaved and lots of good hand signalling.

Lots of crowd support, even for this the 'dreamers' event. Village strets were jammed with crowds leaning into your path, and in the countryside farmers rang cow bells and cheered. Wearing my RoostersRacing.com shirt drew applause, the Rooster being the national mascot. There was, in fact, much admiration of my large coq, as they say in France.

Tourmalet. Advertised as 7.5% average climb. What a joke. Each kilometre is signposted with forthcoming gradient. The first 4-5 km never got over 5.5%, that's got to affect the average. Later, some were 10% and 11%. Tourmalet, however, is a pretty constant climb, just up, up, up. As it turned out, I had ridden steeper climbs in Andalucía than I would this day. But these are way long! Tormalet really is a big climb. In training, I had found a 10km climb, of maybe 5-6%. Funny thing was, going into this event I had no idea what a 7% hill was, or if you showed me a hill I wouldn't have a clue as to its steepness.

But, without wishing to sound big headed, I rode up well. No grunting, no groaning. Passed by very few, and passed heaps. Lots were off and pushing. I never stopped, of course. With about 10 metres visibility because of fog it felt like you were always about to crest, but it just kept going ... going ... and going. It was quite massive.

And, it started to pour raining with one kilometre to go.

At the summit of the Col, there was a bit of a tangle as everyone stopped to put on a vest for the cold downhill ride. I also lined the inside of my vest with a plastic garbage bag liner. I also took the opportunity to give my lower back a quick stretch. Good idea.

But then, horror.

As I rolled off and down the other side of Tourmalet I quickly discovered I had no brakes. Nothing. I am grabbing great handfuls of brake, squeezing like crazy, and getting quicker. I try to slow myself with my foot. Useless. I start whizzing around the first half dozen bends. I am shitting myself. Where will this end?

I just miss a couple of guys on one bend. I am starting to panic. There's cliff drop off one side, and a rock bank the other.

Then I spot one of those gravel uphill slopes for out-of-contol cars to use to kill speed. Itake it. Deep gravel road, lots of rocks, up I stay upright and after 20-30 metres uphill I come to a stop. I get offf, sit down, and take a breath.

Crickey!

Good sense would have said, that's it. But you get driven. Obsessed.

The options appear to be either pull out of the event, or try to fix my brakes. I didn't carry spare blocks, and it would be near impossible to replace them on the ride anyway. On the wet roads I had seen glistening diesel spill (so many cars use diesel now.) I guess I might have picked some up (?). I spent over half an hour taking out my wheels, rubbing the rims with my removable sleeves, and rubbing away at the brake blocks. A Mavic support motor bike stopped, but I pretty much got "Tough shit". It wasn't a tyre or tube problem.

I gave it another try. They were better, but a long way from being good. They allowed me to get along, clutching the brakes, at reduced speed. But should I let go, I couldn't stop again - resulting in me having to use a driveway to stop again. Steep bits of hill just build up speed again, requiring more emergency procedures.

I'm scared. Frustrated. Disappointed.

I have to inch down the mountain, crawling along. I think I'm in a bit of shock from the scare of the top couple of kms.

The steep downhill is for 19km, and that's a long way of being scared. The road levels off somewhat at Luz Saint Sauvuer, but still downhill. But actually now eased off enough to get back onto a train, a good idea as for the very first time there is a light headwind. I feel lucky to have survived getting to the foot of Hautacam. Some villages on the way down were outright frightening with turns and road furniture (islands, barriers etc).

But, 'great', I think. I don't need brakes to ride up Hautacam. An ascent of 15.2 km at an average 7.2% gradient. But it is not constant like the first climb. For instance one of the markers says average 11% (so much for the mountain 7.5% avareage!) but it is close to level for the first 400 metres. Man, was it steep over the last half km. Two and half km from the top, (after 166.5km of riding!)there is a 13% half kilometre. There was also a lot of zig zags on Hautacam.

Going up Hautacam, we only got to use one side of the road, the other half being closed for riders who had finished the event at the top to ride back down. This made the ride up a bit tricky, and frustrating, as you had to weave through slower riders not always so courteous at this stage of proceedings.

I continued to ride strongly (maybe I should have been dope tested - so I could find out what it was?!) It was my dream, and I was doing it. Heaps of people sat on the stone wall at the side of the road. Stacks, just pulled over, u-turned and rode back down the hill - pulling out of the event. Everyone I passed just made me feel good. And the weather was clearer on the bottom sections, but it didn't last.

Then there it was. The famous flamme rouge. The big cross-arched red marker of one kilometre left to go. Up on the pedals. I get excited and make a charge for the finish, through the fog (I've still not seen the Pyrenees).

Fan-bloody-tastic. Not a single uphill stop. All the riding stuff done well. Irony that the problems were downhill, the easy stuff.

It's freezing at the finish at the top.

From my bike computer, I thought I was heading for just under eight hours which kept me going. Even though it has Elapsed Time and Ride Time I think the extended stop probably meant some time out happened. My finish time was 8'19". No excuses, but the brakes repair stop and the crawl downhill did hold me back a bit. Ah well. It's done. I'm happy. And, I did get a gold medal at the finish, in the over 50s age group.

The results site is crap. But I know from the paper that the winning time was 5'38" Pretty impressive. Will be interesting to compare against the Tour time, on Monday 14 July (local time). Also, so you get a picture of who rides this, Laurent Brochard, world road champion in 1998 and stage winner of the Tour de France at Loudenvielle in 1997, also turned in a notable performance - fifth over the finish line.

But, there are photos. Go to:

http://www.maindruphoto.com/advanced_search_result.php?cPath=1352_1353&numbercompetitor=2110&submit2=Search&&language=en

(For the uninformed, that's a Rooster salute being given.)

But I have to get back down Hautacam, and still with no brakes to speak of. I get another scare and decide to walk down, I can always look at the jokers riding up. No shame. Besides I was tired and cold. I tried restarts a couple of times, quickly bailing out. With one kilometre to go to the finish base camp, I think I see the road leveling out, so hop back on and set off.

Bugger. Out of sight below was a steep drop with a half dozen zig-zags. My bike just picks up speed - I can't stop it. I fly arond some bends, surprising myself with my cornering ability. Again I panic - what next? (Make mental note to myself: If I survive this learn a bail out technique!) I fly around a corner, just miss some guys coming out of a bend, heading straight at a large traffic cone, swerve agin - too much. Down. I didn't look, but it's weird I just happen to notice my speed on the computer as I went down! - 67kph. I'm into a big slide down the road.

Yeah , more skin off the elbow, thigh, knuckles - caught up in the bike when I fell I think as I feel really bruised front and back of ribs. But I'm alive and nothing serious appears to have happened. People rush around me. First Aid is called. But I'm alright. But I'll need yet another helmet. I am OK, I can ride the 10km back to Lourdes.

But I'm sore that night and for the next few days. Stacks of bruising. But man I was lucky. This was probably about the best it could have ended up.

I've woken a couple of times since, nightmaring about what could have been.

So a two sided story. One of hugh satisfaction, one of frustration (not to mention a big fright!)

That's that. Tick.

Don't underestimate these rides through these mountains. They are big. You have to be prepared with lots of big, really big, hills in your training. But the Tour boys do this for another twenty days, let's not forget!

I took Ian McEwan's On Chesil Beach (Vintage, 2008) with me to fill in the flying hours getting to France. A powerful piece of wordsmithing. Quite sad by the end, a story of a couple trying to 'get it off' on their wedding night. But I finished it on the two legs up (including an hour and a half delay setting off in Malaga), which was fine because I fell asleep on the return trip!

What next?

Mad
aka max

Futbol

2008-07-03T09:24:00.000-07:00

The Spanish are futbol crazy.

Los Antequeranos are no different.

It's been a fantastic couple of weeks for them.

Firstly, the local team Antequera C.F. finished second in Tercera División (Third) and the right to a play off against Caravaca for promotion to Segunda División B. The first game, away, was a 0-0 draw. Everything hinged on the home return match at the fantastic 7,000 seat capacity Estadio El Maulí. A win, 2-0! Back into the second division for the first time in 27 years (they actually languished for a couple of years out of the national divisions, in local Andalucía leagues.) Much celebration. The local ayuntamiento (town council) sponsored a party the following Friday, starting, of course, at 12:30 at night!

On the same weekend, Malaga C.F. won their last game of the season, securing third place in Segunda División and automatic promotion to La Liga, Spain's First Division. This means that La Rosaleda stadium down in Malaga will host the big boys: Real Madrid, Barcelona, Atlético Madrid et al.

Then the big one. España goes through the Eurocopa 2008 qualifiers undefeated.

The quarterfinal against Italy turned out to be a thriller, 0-0, extra time, then the penalty shoot-out. First victory over Italy in 88 years. Town went crazy afterwards, cars and scooters honking horns until all hours.

Then the semi-final against Russia and a 3-0 win. They're swimming in the fountain at Plaza San Sebastian as town goes crazy, celebrating the prospect of a Final.

And the Final. What tension. We flew our flag of support, of course. And it was the dreaded Germans. No problems. 1-0, a sweet Fernando Torres goal. Senna was my man of the match. Iker Casillas, the goalie, their man of the tournament. We watched the championships at our favourite football watching bar Casa de Diego. It went berserk. Everyone was just so happy. We went to Plaza San Sebastian, joined in festivities, where we were all hosed from a second floor balcony - it didn't matter, it was 30 degrees at 11:30 at night! Celebrations continued long into the night. The rest of Spain also went mental. What a fantastic thing to experience.

Campeones, Campeones, Campeones. ¡Ole, Ole, Ole!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MiwnC9XKB7Y&feature=related

First Championship title since 1964, when they then won another European Cup. Probably world football's great underachievers now handle that title squarely over to England.

Ah, life's good.

Mad
aka Max

El Chorro - a scarry challenge

2008-07-03T08:25:00.000-07:00

Bike rides often took me out to, and past, Garganta del Chorro (El Chorro George), about 40km from Antequera. It's an area pretty awe inspiring with four hundred metre high rock walls , world famous for rock climbing. The george is a 3km long cleft cut through the limestone.

But as you look up at the entrance, you are obviously drawn to the concrete catwalk that hugs the wall. It threads the length of the george, crossing from one side to the other. It is one metre wide, sits 200 metres vertically above the river, and is an access to one of the top climbing areas known as Makinodroma.)

It was originally built as an acess to a hydro-electric scheme, taking four years to complete, opened in 1905. It was walked by the King (Alfonso XIII) at the opening of Conde de Guadalhorce (The Guadalhorce dam). Hence its current name, El Camino del Rey (the King's Pathway) - some call it the caminito, little pathway.

Even though the entrance to it looks like it has been removed, the walk was officially closed when four people were killed in 1999 and 2000, I used wonder at the possibility of being able to access it. The Junta de Andalucía approved 7 million Euros for improvements in 2006, but no sign of any work appears yet. A climbing company's guides will take you along, I understand, but I don't know the cost (yet).

Coincidentally, a workmate from Wellington, Gordon, emailed me the following link (under the title 'Virtual Vertigo') which displays how tricky it is. Notice that there is a safety rope that this guy doesn't appear to use as he passes others. I started to have second thoughts about wanting to do it.

http://www.brightcove.tv/title.jsp?title=1438490562

But, this second site displays what I'd probably be like trying to get around some of the broken down corners. I'm not sure I'm up to it. What about some of those bridge crossings where there doesn't appear to be a safety line?

http://video.aol.com/video-detail/ben-on-el-caminito-del-rey/4240950092

Then to make you really nervous, take a lok at this young lady walking it, un-clipped, stopping to take photos, etc. That made me feel really queasy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aC4JWOGdrEE

On one trip past, sightseeing in a car, there were actually some people up on the bridge. I think I'd like to believe I could pluck up the courage. Not sure if I can. But it won't be this time, as time runs out. When we come back next time, perhaps. Maybe the Junta will have spent the 7 million Euro, and it will be much safer.

But what's life without a bit of excitement?

Mad
aka Max

How do you make a Maltese Cross?

2008-07-01T07:27:00.003-07:00

The advantage of this lifestyle is that when a budget airfare pops up on the internet, you can say 'Lets Go!' (yeah OK, a travel guide has already said that.)

This time: Malta. I had a rough idea where it was, just grab the atlas to confirm. I know absolutely nothing about it, or its reputation as a destination. Will soon learn. And it converted to the Euro earlier this year - better still.

So, eyes wide open, off we go. All the while trying to rid my mind of Deb's terrible attempt at humour with some people from Malta, at a hotel reception in Addis Abiba, Ethiopia, with her bad 'How do you make a Maltese Cross' joke: take their room, the last available one.

Well it was alright. Bit of a surprise. Dead easy for getting around. In some ways like a living museum. Not theme park-ish, but all very time time-warped. And somewhat sleepy, in a nice, relaxed, kind of way.

It's tiny, consisting of two islands, Malta and Gozo. Travel is built around ferries that run the harbours of Valletta, with others running to some costal towns. A larger car-carrying, inter-island ferry runs between the two main islands. I suppose in that way it's a bit like Noo Zillan, with a third smaller island (Comino) that hardly anyone lives on. (Actually, apart from the number of islands, and a ferry between two main islands, it's nothing like NZ.)

And really the main transport attraction is the collection of well-preserved, antique buses that make up the network. Fantastic travel. The drivers play their own selection of music CDs. It's a funny thing, the drivers reckon they became very popular with tourists when the Euro was introduced, and they realised how cheap they were.
Before that, apparently, the tourists sherked dealing with odd Maltese change.

The one outstanding feature was the complete lack of a service culture. With an attitude of 'if you tourists want to come here, fine. But don't expect us to get excited about it.'

Valletta, the capital, is interesting. We stayed in the Sliema district, across the Marsamxett harbour, and bounded by ocean coast on the other side. Streets, as in smaller towns, are narrow. There's many streets which are actually stairs. Like Spain, there's heavy Christian influence.

They specialise in unique light poles.

And rather special front door handles.

At every turn, it seemed, there was something quirky.

Being situated in the Mediterranean, its history is chequered with the comings and goings of many people. Quaint museums display the artefacts of Cathaginians, Romans and especially the Bronze Age.

St Paul was shipwrecked there, and is credited with introducing Christianity to Malta. There is a great catacombs you can visit. (The sign reads: 'Saint Paul street.') The Arabs did take over in 890 AD, and the Maltese language today is still heavily Arab influenced.

For several hundred years, Knights of St. John of Jerusalem (Knights Hospitallers) influenced Malta, initially running hospitals for sick pilgrims on the way to the Holy Land. And then they became fighters , and it became a base for the crusaders. This is a big part of the image of Malta presented today.

After the French revolution when the Knights sided with the Royalists, it became French controlled under Napoleon. But he had little interest in it. Locals attacked when Napoleon had gone off elsewhere. In 1814, it became a British crown colony, and in 1921 it established a self-overning constitution with the Maltese looking after their own domestic affairs. The Brits still maintain their interest, it was a great location for shipping heading off to the Suez Canal.

The island as a whole was awarded the George Cross for bravery for withstanding the Nazi bombings of World War II, thus strangling the supply routes to the German Afrika Korp.

In 1974 it became a republic, and in 2004 joined the EU. But there's still many a down-on-his-luck pom washed up in bars here.

Naturally, the water, the ocean, is a big part of Malta life. Cruise ships come and go, fortesses were built to defend against sea raiders, today there are small fishing boats tcked away in every corner of harbours, and the super yachts of the European wealthy are moored in marinas where locals fish in between them.

Relics of all the history are scattered across the islands. And it does make for an interesting enough distraction to your stay.

The weather wasn't bad, but was very breezy. We had hoped to use our Egyptian-gained diving certificates, but the boats couldn't get out. In fact, because of the wind, the harbour ferries were tied up for most of the time we were there. The Gozo ferry, being bigger and more sea worthy, had no problems.

So there you go. Pleased I've been there, pleased I've seen it. Again pleased to have shown my ignorance up. It really does have a place in history.

On the way home we had a one night stopover in Barcelona. Enough time to get down to the waterfront, and then up to Montjuic in the afternoon.

Found some nice back street bars for food and drinks that night. And next day, enough time to do a trip to La Sagrada Família, the amazing, contentious, Gaudi designed cathedral, still under contruction which adds to its appeal and a visit's worth.Getting there early, for the first lift up to the top of the tower and the incedible walk down - a four hundred step spiral staircase. A beaut 27 hours.

Mad
aka Max

Almuñécar

2008-06-28T08:16:00.000-07:00

As we travelled across northern Spain I read Laurie Lee´s Red Sky at Sunrise (Penguin, 1993). This is a trilogy omnibus of Cider With Rosie (Hogarth Press, 1959), As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning (André Deutsh, 1969) and A Moment of War (Viking, 1991). Each story was a recollection of events, as they we all set in the 1930s.

I struggled with Cider With Rosie. In fact, in a rare action for me, I didn't finish it. The story of his early life in the Cotswolds was all too flowery for me, too Darling Buds of May. However, As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning was where I wanted to be. It was the story of his leaving home at age 19 and walking to London, then on to walk the length of Spain. Spain was in a real state: it was the depression years, Spain was in not much more than a fuedal state and on the brink of Civil War, which breaks out when he is in Almuñécar. In fact he was rescued from the beach by a British navy destroyer sent from Gibraltar to pick up Brits along the coast, caught out by the war. Almuñécar was called the pseudonym Castillon in early editions published up to the death of Franco.

In the third book, A Moment of War it re-tells his return to Spain in 1937 to volunteer (like George Orwell and many of the Bloomsbury group types. Hemmingway wrote of the war but didn't go), in what I believe was a futile experience, for the International Brigade in the war against Franco. I understand fighting Franco, but the foreigners volunteering was a naive and idealistic notion.

He repays a visit to Almuñécar post civil war in a Rose for Winter, which I will catch up with at some point in the future.

We got back to Antequera after our northern Spain trip on a Friday evening, and I wasn't expecting delivery of the new bike until Tuesday. So we figured, why not a couple of days on the beach. And with Laurie Lee's exploits freshly in mind, why not Almuñécar? It's on the Costa Tropical, in Granada province. Easy to get to: bus to Málaga, another to Almuñecar.

For this part of Spain, it's rather laid back, much more so than the neighbouring Costa del Sol - coastal development is much more subdued. First development here was, believe it, in 8th century BC, by the Phoenicians who called it Sexi - giving today's crop of tourism marketers unlimited opportunities.

A pebbly, grey beach is still quite attractive. It's Spain so there is a castle, built on top of the Moor's alcazar, on top of the Roman's fort, on the Carthagenians' ... the Phoenicians' .... The town has a really neat little Museo Arqueológico.

Ironically, a Christian cross marks the rocky outcrop from which the last of the Moors, lead by the weeping - so they say - Boabdil, said farewell to Al Andalus as they sailed away having suffered defeat at the hands of the Christian reconquista.

There's quite a sad little plaque dedicated to Laurie Lee, acknowledging his visit and books, in a park on the beach front.

Nip into a casco viejo backstreet bar, speak Spanish, and you get dos cervezas y dos tapas for €2.20. A coffee in the tourist preferred plaza centro will set you back €2.50 each.

Caught Arsenal on the tele in a bar Saturday night. A hotel room off the rooftop garden. All pretty easy, but it's off season. Almuñecar is a very popular Spanish destination, not just the Brits and Germans. Back home Monday. Nice little mini-break.

Mad
aka Max

I Get a New Bike

2008-06-28T07:26:00.000-07:00

On the way home from northern Spain we stopped off in Madrid and caught up with bro y la familia

I thought I'd take the opportunity to look at some bike shops. BOK recommended a large store close to Atocha station, one from which he had bought bikes for the boys.

Straight away things looked good! They were having an end of model sale on Orbea bikes. A Spanish brand I had harboured a mild lust for (I think Deb suspects the theft was a set-up!).

Bike talk I know, but I could save 800 €uros on the 2007 price of an Opal by accepting Shimano Ultegra levers and rear derailleur instead of DuraAce as offered on the new 2008 models, which are more expensive again. My stolen Avanti had Ultegra throughout and it worked just fine. It also meant I had to take a black with blue trim bike, when I would have prefered the red trim. Ah well. 800 €uros plus is stack of Kiwi pesos.

This is a total carbon fibre construction, the frame made in Spain.

If interested, you can check it out (just click the Opal option) at:
http://www.orbea.com/en-gb/productos/bicicletas/Pages/bicicletas.aspx

One day the Orca perhaps????

I bought the bike Friday morning before going home and was promised delivery in Antequera next Tuesday. In that peculiar Spanish way, this turned out to be late Thursday. And then, the wrong size was delivered - one too small! Some interesesting Spanish telephone conversation followed. I made the decision to deal with the situation cara a cara, that is - face to face, and jumped the train back to Madrid on Monday. I switched the bike for one my size without any problems - and scored a red trim bike, don't ask me! - and caught a train back home same day. Fast trains, great,

And you have to say it matches the RoostersRacing cycling outfit fantasticaly. Yeah?

So with the trip north and bike replacement it was five weeks before I got back out on a bike. I could get stuck into training for the L'Etape. Except we were going on a trip to Malta in a week and a half time. But, I was able to squeeze in the club trip to Granada and the ride up to the ski fields of the Sierra Nevada. Only 40km in length, but climbing 1,700 meters once the hill kicked in out of town. Pehaps I was just fresh, but ripped up no problems.

I look forward to putting some kilometers away on this new baby.

Mad
aka Max

Northern Spain.

2008-06-23T13:11:00.001-07:00

It's nice to still be able to be surprised.

And northern Spain has done it.

It would have to be amongst the prettiest places there could be. Mountains, snow, coast, beaches, surf, green rolling hills, plenty of trees, ferns, castles, churches, slate-roofed cottages, stone bridges, and fantastic infrastructure - super highways and rail system.

And it felt good being back 'on the road'.

Our trip was to be from Santiago de Compostela, in the Spanish north west, across to San Sebastian, close to the French border, with a weekend at the end zipping across to Biarritz and sun, surf, and sand.

A second big surprise was to be our mode of transport. It was for most of the way on the quaint FEVE rail system. Pretty much a two carriage rail car. It wove its way around hills, over streams, through tunnels, brushed aginst cuttings, through the gorgeous counryside. Travel at its best.

And the third surprise was not that we would encounter two new languages: Gallego and Euskera, but how clearly, slowly, and perfectly the locals, and speakers of these other native tongues, spoke Castillian Spanish compared to our crazy andalus neighbours. I love it when you scratch the surface and open up some good old prejudices. The 'northern' Spanish believe that the southern andalus speak such terrible Spanish because, of course, they have Moor blood in them! However, I could understand, and speak and be understood with no problems. It seriously made us consider that when we come back for our second stint in Spain, we should look to live somewhere where Castilian is spoke like the King. But ... Antequera does have such appeal.

Santiago de Compostela is most famous for its cathedral which houses relics of the Apostle Saint James, and is the finishing point of the 800 km long pilgrimage known as 'Camino de Santiago' (the walk of Saint James).

The scallop shell is the symbol of the walk and tiles mark the route. Walkers most often carry a scallop shell on their packs, identifying themselves. The usual routine has been to walk to the Cathedral and touch a pillar inside. Hundreds of years of being touched has resulted in a hand print worn into the stone. Now, authorities have fenced off the pillar in an act of preservation. We witnessed a couple of pilgrims arrive (it was off season), and saw their bottom lips drop when they realised they could not complete their final act of their pilgrimage.

The walk takes about 30-33 days. Young backpackers turn up and do small sections of it, experiencing more of a 'Camino de Vino'. Mountain biking it has now become popular - and that's got me thinking.

The Alameda is a central town park, great for a run, with a real Wellington Botanical Gardens feel. You need to run narrow, crooked, Baroque streets to get there. Wonderful.

A standard Spanish RENFE train takes us to A Coruña. What a fantastic place. Built on a narrow isthmus which links a very large headland to the mainland, it has an ocean front and a harbour behind. The city on the lovely, sandy, surfing beach reminds you a little of Bondi, Sydney. Its geography makes the place a runners dream.

On the headland, laced with kilometres of walkways, and some Stonehenge-like sculptures is the Torre de Hércules lighthouse. This is the site of the world's oldest lighthouse. The current version was a 1790 renovation, by Italians. Legend has it that Hercules erected a fire tower here, on the site where he slayed his enemy, Geryon.

The city is a picture with sun reflecting off tightly packed, glass windowed, fronts of buildings, shimmering across harbour water.

A bus takes us to Ferrol. It is known for being the birthplace of El Caudillo, Francisco Paulino Hermenegildo Teódulo Franco y Bahamonde, more commonly known as General Franco, the dictator leader of Spain 1936-1975, but not much else.

We walk the 150 meters to the train station and take the first of our lovely FEVE trips to Luarca. A drop dead gorgeous fishing port, locked between towering cliffs that border the river that opens to the sea. The weather was stunning, but you sensed that potentially wild looking Atlantic Ocean beaches, reminescent of many Noo Zillan coastlines. Travelling off season, means the locals don't mind talking to us in bars and cafes. And speaking Spanish goes a long way! And we stay at some charming places at off-season rates.

We skip through Oviedo, missing the larger city, and onto Cangas de Onis. There is no shortage of these lovely places, with a lovely feel. It is a bit of an adventure playground centre. It serves as a base for the Parque Nacional de Covadonga, and the Picos de Europa mountain range. Mileage is marked out on a road bordering a lovely stream, indicated the local half marathon distances. A nice run. There is a beaut Roman built bridge in town.

Cangas is in Asturia province which is well known for its cidra (cider). But partaking of cider in these parts is an art form. Holding your glass in your left hand, as low as you can by your side, you then pour to your glass from the bottle held in your right hand held as high as possible outstretched to the right. Barmen do it everywhere, people at tables serve themselves this way. Nobody gets at all excited about the spills onto the tiles. And, you drink your glass in one hit, any cidar losing it's effervescence is tossed to the floor.

A bus took us to Covadonga, in the Picos, from where we hitch-hiked up to Lagos de Covadonga (The Lakes). We spent most of the day walking trails. Simply superb. We had it pretty much to ourselves. The Spaniards stop at the lakes, and partake in some vino y tapas at a delightful little cafe in a slate-roofed stone cottage. The pictures tell the story.

A stop off at Covadonga on the way back down was a treat. It has history: "This mountain will be the salvation of Spain", Don Pelayo, first King of Asturias, prophesised to his Christian army in AD 718, gesturing at the rocky promontory above what is now Covadonga. The mountain soon became the site of the first successful battle in the Reconquista. (Let's Go: Spain & Portugal 2007).
But there is, of course, a good old Spanish Catholic legend that claims it was not the geography but the intervention of the Virgin Mary that made victory over the Moors possible. Now in a grotto is a 16th century image of the Virgin and remains of the King. Nearby, stands a statue of Don Pelayo.

FEVE dropped us at Pesués. A roadside bar in the middle of nowhere is all there was. A quick cafe, followed by a slower cerveza and the owner calls a cab
from the 10km away San Vincente de la Barquera. When we arrive it is right in the middle of festivities of fiesta de la flota (fishing fleet). All of the port's fishing boats are flag emblazoned, and down town there is drinking, eating, musica y bailando (music and dancing) all on. A bus to Comillas doesn't leave for three and a half hours, so there is nothing else to do but get stuck in. Rude not to really.

Comillas, with a nearby lovely sweep of beach has great views from a bordering headland. A sunflower decorated Gaudi designed house is a feature of Comillas.

Casco viejo (old town centre) is a maze of narrow higgledy-piggledy streets. In one, is Mister Kiwi Bar, but was closed so we don't know what that was about.

Bilbao, is the end of FEVE line, and as you are aware, home of the Guggenheim where we spent a day. This is the territory of País Vasco (the Castillian for Basque Country) but Euskadi to the locals who call themselves Euskaldinuak: 'speakers of Euskera', and the heartland of Basque separatism. A bomb rocked a police station only two days after we left.

The Bilbo (as called in Euskera) City Hall was ticked off a week or two before we arrived for not flying the Spanish national flag atop town hall. They have responded, and continued the fracas, by flying a red and yellow striped flag with no centre royal crest. Then, on the flagpole in the centre of the roundabout in front of town hall they have hoisted the largest Bilbao city flag you are ever likely to see.
One night, when there, streets became jammed as a large separationist movement protest march took place. Many houses in Euskadi carry protest banners.

If you have a large scale map you might find Mundaka. I was just entertaining one of my fancies. This dead quiet, small and quaint fishing village is also home to one of the rounds of the World Surfing Championships.

It has a famous, world's longest breaking, left hander point break, on which surfers pass two magnificent stone churches on the sea edge. They were still abuzz about the storm that passed through only weeks earlier, at Easter, causing havoc along the whole north coast. Mundaka waves broke 10 metres for a week.

Check this out (there is more at the site):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jkgwJNhaDmU&feature=related

It's funny. There is one surf shop, and one bar has photos on the wall, but apart from that there is none of the usual surf culture associated with such big surf spots. Locals just get on with life in their narrow little streets, and go fishing. Our hotel, the smaller three storey white building, is centre pictured. Tough spot.The surf breaks past the wall where I have taken the photo, and the family fishes.

We now travel the quite smart EuskoTran, which has become more of a commuter train, and off to San Sebastian. Smartly European; flash shops and a whole different feel. But a nice spot with a big bay and sandy beach, framed by two high lookout hills either end (great run locations). A feature of this trip (isn't all of Spain?) was the food. They don't have tapas here, but pintxos Bigger servings, and all lined up on the counter tops ready for your selection. A big feature, particularly back in Asturia, was the pulpo, the yummy octopus.

We went out to the small town, Orio, where we could watch the final stage of the Vuelta al País Vasco cycle race. A good spot: It was the finish of the 5 day tour race, and the race came into town, did a loop back into the near countryside, and finished on the straight between town and the beach. (This picture was in the local El Diario Vasco newspaper, and I copied from the Reuters site - I just like it.)

During the loop out of town the cyclists go up a short but very steep hill section (called Aia).
So steep, the crowd helps push the support motor bikes up, assists the cyclist racers - but many have to get off and push! - these are the top names of world cycling!
Anyway, at the finish, I got to say "G'day" to Cadel Evans (just watch that Aussie go in this year's Tour de France) and check out his bike in the park at the end.

Second on the day was Alberto Cantador, race winner overall, (last year's TdF winner - but that's another story).
As we found our way from one viewing spot to another at the Vuelta, we came across a pair of rather unusual spectators.
Onto France, and Biarritz. Another of those old surf dreams from way back.
Not only armed with pretty good English, a great understanding of Castillian Spanish, but Deb also won her college prizes for French and Japanese. (Well, I can speak Australian as well, you know.) A few years back now for her admittedly, but still pretty handy.
Crickey it was expensive. I had to eat less so I could have a few more bierres. It was sunny, the surf was pumping; all very good.

Back to España, and onto Pamplona. Running of the bulls, el encierro, has always fascinated me. But the pictures you see now, and the stories you hear, it seems like it has turned into hell on earth. Shame.

Good old Ernest Hemingway took 'running of the bulls' to the outside world's attention in his The Sun Also Rises and he is still immortalised with a bust at the entrance to the bull ring.

And a notice on the back of our hotel door states the accommodation rate during encierro is six times that of mid-season. Restaurants have different menus during the event, five or six times more expensive. The whole event is part of the fiesta de San Fermin, a black saint whose image resides at Iglesia de San Lorenzo - and quite pretty too. I understand it is paraded through the streets of Pamplona during el encierro.

I did go for a run taking in the course of the running of the bulls, imagining los toros chasing me.
Probably as close as I will get. These days there is less running and more huddling in large groups of tourists, hoping to get in the middle so they don't get picked off the outside by an errant bull. Nasty accidents do happen - yeah you've all seen the photos that circulate the web.

Back onto RENFE, fast trains, and back to Madrid, staying with the bro. Always nice. We met some of their amigos madrileños (Madrid friends). They asked how we can possibly understand the andalus Spanish. They tell us that when people from Andalucía are interviewed on TV, they often run sub-titles across bottom of screen to help people (other Spaniards) understand. What chance do we have?

And then, across the plains of La Mancha and back to Antequera. Fantastic couple of weeks.

'ta luego
Mad
aka Max

A 5km run, and some success.

2008-06-23T12:28:00.000-07:00

With my bike stolen the day before, I had to flag the club ride on Sunday morning. There was, however, a 5km road race (running) on that day.

The local Ayuntamiento (town council) here is amazing with its event management, for all kinds of events. But at the drop of a hat, they will close all the roads for an event, provide staffing, provide post-event food and drinks, trophies and prize monies. And there is never any entry fees. There are stacks of other non-sports events organised without entry fees also.

Anyway, the 5km run. Having ridden 134km the day before, and 500+ kms that week I wasn't at my running sharpest. I had done little running recently, concentrating more on the biking. I entered with little expectations.

They gave away trophies for 1st to 3rd, and medals 4th-6th. Again I picked up a medal, the same three guys beating me as in the Street Mile back in December. That was in the over 45 age group. All placegetters in my age group except one, were over 50. The first four of us could have won the 40-45 age group. The winner in my age group, the bearded Liam O'Hare (from Ireland. No!), is sixty and still runs 1hr 20mn half marathons. He won the Berlin half Marathon, age group. We've been on a few runs together. And murdered a few Cruzcampo on ocassions.

Deb again won her age group, winning a trophy. Another women beat her by two strides, and was 10 years younger. Deb also won second place local Antequera woman, and 45 €uros for her efforts! The other woman was first Antequerana. Deb also got some press time, with a photo in the local Sol de Antequera titled 'The Antequera Queens of the Town Race'. The paper refers to her as británica (a pom) which helps keep our heads down, Spanish-ifies her second name (you have to give all your names in Spanish - they just don't understand why she doesn't use her mother's father's surname as well!), and calls her O'Kone. Ah well.

Not a bad day. And then after the race there was, of course, the molletes, aceite, jamon, y cafe to get stuck into.

Mad
aka Max

My bike is stolen

2008-06-23T10:18:00.000-07:00

I had been able to get some decent riding in leading up to last Christmas, with the L'Etape de Tour de France in the back of my mind.

January and February and training was interrupted with travel. Got back from London, after NZ, and came down with a really shitty cold that hung around for nearly three weeks. I got out for a couple of rides but really struggled. Anyway that went and in the last week of March I actually got a good, big, week under the belt (just over 500kms). I wanted this as we were heading off for a couple of weeks travelling across northern Spain onto Biarittz, France.

Anyway, then my bike got pinched two days before we left. I had just completed a 134km ride. It's funny how in hindsight you realise how a series of events change history, any one of which could have easily been different.

I finished off this ride with a coffee at Shithole Arriba, aka Bar La Socorrilla. Deb met me there. We finished up and as I was about to hop on the bike and roll down the hill to home, Deb comes out from paying as says "Max. Arsenal is playing on the TV." With that we went inside and had a beer. I placed my bike where I could keep an eye on it. Almost at game end and a large group of German tourists all gathered around at the tables outside. A couple of their kids were rarking around close to my bike so I moved it slightly, losing direct sight line.

Next thing, a couple of the Germans burst in and shout that two little shits are taking off with my bike. Gone. One tourist shows me a digital photo of a rear distant shot. But enough for me to believe I recognise two little shits we've seen causing 'strife' at times. Not Spanish, but from a neighbouring country across the ditch in North Africa.

One of the locals from the bar says to jump in his car and he drives me around the usual hangouts of local teenage ratbags (his inside information?). No luck.

The local police have aleady been called by the bar owner. He and the patrons are horrified by all this. We complete reporting , but also have to go to Policia Nacional HQ next morning.

But I just know I'm not going to see the Avanti Corsa again. Of course, this is a really unique bike in these parts. It will just get trashed, or dumped at a pawn shop in Málaga. It was just true opportunism. As a postscript, I haven't seen the two 'little shits' again either. They are pretty itinerate.

Next day, when I tell guys from the club they are beside themselves. All their predujices come out when I hint at who I believe nicked it.

I could have easily gone straight home for a feed after the biggish ride; Arsenal could just have easily not been the game on TV; .... whatever!

Mad
aka Max

Goodbye Old Mate

2008-06-23T09:28:00.000-07:00

One of the hardest things about leaving Wellington, March 2007, was saying goodbye to our old mate Mr. Wilson.

We'd been together just shy of eight years. He was a true joy. Throughout our travels in Africa we often wondered how he was.

He'd gone to Deb's brother's home. Which meant regular visits from his old cobbers Ing and Pete. And regular email updates for us.

As the photos show, he was a real 'action man'. But when I visited Wellington a year later I saw him and he'd aged (he was then coming up to 18 years.) He'd lost some of his spark. That 'Mr. Wilson'-ism.

Not long back in Antequera and the news came through. His time was up.

So long old buddy. You were a beaut. A real mate. Some might say "he was just a cat.". They didn't know.

He was the Mr. Wilson.

Mad
aka Max

An Easter with Family

2008-06-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

We were delighted to have bro, BOK, Sally and the boys Reece and Aidan visit us across Easter. They have visited us in Antequera before, for a weekend, coming down from Madrid.

It was school holidays so they came down the weekend before Easter, stayed the night, and left behind their Aussie lorikeet to look after while they traveled around southern and western Andalucía.

Their bird, Fernando - (named after El Niño, Fernando Torres, but make no mistake BOK is an Arsenal fan but Fernando played for his favourite, and local, Spanish Team, Atletico Madrid before transferring to Liverpool) - kept us on the hop. He is quite a character.

Anyway the la familia returned to Antequera by the Thursday before Easter. We took in some of the Semana Santa processions, as much as the kids could bear, together.

We walked around our usual haunts. The boys love our back garden. But they were particularly pleased when I showed them a way we could climb behind a wire fence, and then up onto the castle/alcazar wall. After walking along we could look down into our back garden and call and wave to their mum, Sal, and Deb.

Antequera Golf Hotel runs a bus to the Torcal - a limestone formation national park atop Sierra Chiminea where we all did a walk. A nice day.

One day Deb rode in their car with them and I climbed onto my mountain bike and we visited the three dolmens of Antequera: Menza, Viera and Romeral. These are sites of cave-like rock slab chambers, once burial grounds and storerooms for the riches of tribal leaders dated circa 2,500-2,000 BC.

On Easter Sunday, I again led them out on my mountain bike onto a farm track, across a ricketty bridge, parked the car and locked the bike, crossed a rail line, climbed over a fence and then proceeded to climb to the top of La Pena. "We've done lots of things we shouldn't do today, haven't we dad?" remarks six year old Aidan, "I never dreamt my holiday would turn out like this!" But it was a fantastic outing, great views towards Antequera, across the surrounding plains, and back to the Sierras.

These guys were always on the other side of the world for us. We had visited them in England several times. But now that we are also on the 'other side of the world' it's great having some family almost close - in the same country even!

Family, schmamily. They're great.

Mad
aka Max

Domingo de Resurrección.

2008-05-29T10:23:00.000-07:00

As this will be the first of my Semana Santa postings as you scroll down this blogsite, I will suggest that you actually scroll further down and first read Semana Santa: something else again, and then come back up the postings in a chronological order.

Resurrection Sunday, Easter Sunday, and the last day of the processions that make up the Antequera Semana Santa, Holy Week.

This procession is different to all those held earlier in the week, and in evenings, in that it is held mid-morning (well 12 o'clock is only mid-morning here). As a result I made my way past a waiting crowd as I came back from my club cycle ride.

But I still have a photograph for you thanks to Google images. And, thanks to an Jose Antonio, the photo taker. As it is I know about 150 Jose Antonios in my bike club, and there's another 200,000 of them here in this 45,000 people town.

So, here is the only trono in this particular procession: El Señor Resucitado (The Resurrected Lord), organised by a Agrupación de Cofradias de Pasión de Antequera. And for the record, the procession starts and finishes at Iglesia San Juan de Dios.

For me, this Semana Santa has been an experience I will treasure.

Mad
aka Max

The BIG one: Viernes Santo

2008-05-29T09:59:00.000-07:00

Viernes Santo, Holy Friday or Good Friday as we are more likely to call it, is a big one in the Semana Santa calendar. With its importance in the Christian, and more especially Catholic here in Spain, beliefs the procession here take on extra peninance to show their faith.

It's big, firstly, in that there are three processions this night. And all three are what we would call 'in our hood' or en nuestro barrio as the locals might say. Secondly and what the Antequeranos really look forward to, is two of the processions finish their route by running the tronos up hills. A sensational effect.

I'm going to present the three processions in an order relating to where we live, and therefore our 'involvement'.

Firstly, the Cofradía de la Soledad, from Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Carmen. This church is not so far from where we live (well fairly close really, as nothing is too far in Antequera) on the less direct route to town - the way we sometimes go if we want something different, to take in a view of La Peña.

The next two are real locals. If you take the direct route from our place to town it is up and over a hill, and it would stretch it to be half a kilometre to Plaza San Sebastián. From home it´s 150 metres at a stretch to Plaza Portichuelo, and the Iglesia de Jesús (home to Cofradía Arriba -meaning above or top). 200metres down the hill, and perhaps 100metres up from San Sebastián is the Basilica de Santo Domingo, where Cofradía Bajo - below, is housed.

Both these processions attract huge crowds, at 1:00 -2:00am, when at the completion of their processions, the tronos are run back up to their respective churches. Cofradía Bajo runs the 100metres non-stop up from up the sharp Cuesta la Paz back to the Basilica. It's a nasty little climb to have to shoulder the trono and run jammed up against the person in front also carrying. It's bad enough carrying our shopping home!

The tronos carriers of Cofradía Bajo get a rousing applause at the start of their procession as they take the tronos straight from the church and immediately up some steep stairs to a road the Cofradía Arriba will run up later. As a result Cofradía Arriba takes a longer, zig-zag path home to the top. They are not going to be up to run Cuesta la Paz and the stairs!

Cofradía Arriba runs a first leg, quite steep but worse to come, from San Sebastián up Cuesta de Zapateros (I should remind you Cuesta means a steep Calle - street. We, for example, live in Cuesta Real.) They have to take a break there as it is a 90 degree turn in a very narrow street. Always a tactical move for the tronos. Then another 150 meters of uphill but much more gentle Calle Viento, where they take a break on the corner at the top of the steps from the Basilica before the last big push, the 200 metres steep uphill up Calle Caldereros back to Plaza Portichuelo. These are amazing scenes to witness.

What's amazing is that all the teenagers of Antequera treat it like their running of the bulls, and this screaming mass preceeds the grunting, huffing, groaning trono carriers. Crowds, including ourselves, pin themselves to the walls to avoid the mayhem. Paramedics also line up at 10 metre intervals - for crushed spectators and collapsed trono carriers.

Anyway. Onto the processions.

Cofradía de la Soledad, from Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Carmen:

There are two tronos carried in this procession. Firstly, Santo Entierro de Cristo.

And the second is yet another beautiful Virgin trono: Virgen de la Soledad.

And as is the norm for the Virgin trono, she is depicted weeping.

The two tronos assemble back at Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Carmen before being taken back into the church. This is a routine completed at the end of each procession. But seeing as it was fairly close to home, we saw it this time. Also, we were killing some time before heading off to watch the other two processions run up the hills. It was pretty quiet here, most people are back at the steep steets awaiting.

The expressions say it all. It is a long night, and these guys have carried the trono for hours. It has to be heavy. And progress is made by not much more than shuffling.

But, being local we got to see preparations for the Cofradás Arriba y Bajo taking place. These next few photos show preparations, pre-event parties, and people either making their way up or down to Basilica de Santo Domingo, for the Cofradía Bajo procession.

Last minute adjustments: everything has to be just right.

A couple of quick pre-event sherries no doubt.

A fine military band leads the way for the Cofradía Bajo procession.

Followed by crucifix and standard carriers.

Trono de Cofradía Bajo, Niño Jesús Perdido (the lost child Jesus)

Dulce Nombre de Jesús: Sweet name of Jesus

Santo Criso de la Buena Muerte y de la Paz: Holy Christ of the great death and peace.

And this is Nuestra Señora la Virgen de la Paz Coronada. Our Lady, the Virgin of the crowned peace. (These have been my literal translations, without knowing how they might be more correctly translated by a practising Catholic.)

This is the mad rush that is the running of the trono up Cuesta de la Paz.

Attendants hurry along the kids running in front. Notice the guy in front using a long staff to 'assist' with shunting people along. A paramedic is seen on the other side of the street.

We got to 'party' a little before the start of the Cofradía Arriba procession. My bro, BOK and Sally and the boys Reece and Aidan were visiting for Easter. Plaza Portichuelo, as I have told before, is home of the 'shithole' - Bar Socorrillo and the troops of El Rgimiento de Infanteria Ligera Regulares número 52 de Melilla (phew!) that would be escorting the tronos of Cofradía Arriba had made it home. And they were in a great mood. They demanded photos betaken of them, and with us. They were a great lot.

With bro, BOK, and one of the Regulares, and a round of Cruzcampo cerveza.

Deb was snaffled, a fez-like cap stuck on her head and for the first time ever she held a real gun.

Sally, Reece and Aidan entertained by another of the Regulares.

Cofradía Arriba, not to be out done, has its hooded devotees.

Jesús Nazareno Ayudado por el Cirineo: Jesus of Nazareth helped for the (something?)

El Rgimiento de Infanteria Ligera Regulares número 52 de Melilla may have rarked around at Plaza Portichuelo, but for the next five hours they didn't flinch. That is until they got the chance to herd teenagers running in front of the tronos.

Santa Cruz de Jerusalén: Holy Cross of Jerusalem.

Nuestra Señora la Vigen del Socorro Coronada: Our Lady, the Virgin of Crowned Help.

The trono, Nuestra Señora la Vigen del Socorro Coronada, takes a break during running up the last hill of the night - up the last hill, Calle Caldereros. When they take off, the Regular puts his gun horizontally in front of him and just pushes as he runs flat out. The kids get of of his way pretty quickly.

The trono has made it back to Plaza Portichuelo, and rests before being put back into Iglesia de Jesús. The Regulares are already in the shithole, Bar Socorrillo, onto their second round of Cruzcampo. They have deserved it.

A big night.

Mad
aka Max

Jueves Santo: Dos Cofradías esté noche

2008-05-29T08:03:00.000-07:00

Holy Thursday and two host Cofradías tonight, from two seperate churches. One procession, of the Cofradía del Consuelo sets off from their Iglesia de San Pedro, and the second, Confradía de Los Delores, from Iglesia Conventual de Belén.

They make their way from the individual churches, but both use the same inner city loop course making watching an easy task.

I'll keep this one straight to the point, but recommend you start, if you haven't already, with the posting Semana Senta: something else again which explains the Semana Santa phenomenon. Some of the earlier postings also show the processions in more detail.

The Cofradía del Consuelo procession starts pretty much the same way: bands, hooded devotees, altar boys, incense carrying girls.

This Cofradía carries one trono Cristo an and two tronos of the Virgin. The Christ throne is Cristo de la Misericordia:

the beautiful Virgen de los Afligidos del trono de la Misericordia

It takes a bit to keep the kids' interest for the near five hours the processions take to finish.

The second trono de Virgen is the magnificent Nuestra Señora la Virgen del Consuelo.

It´s the same pattern for the second procession of Confradía de Los Delores. The same pomp and ceremony.

though I hadn´t seen anything quite like this all week. Unusual attire, and bagpipes!

The first of the two Cristo tronos is El Señor Atado a la Columna ...

and the second, was El Señor Caido.

And the simply beautiful, and as usual, weeping Virgen Nuestra Señora de los Delores Coronada.

Despite a similarity each evening, crowds still throng every night. Our interest was held, and we also went each night.

Mad
aka Max

A big disappointment Miércoles Santo: Cofradía del Mayor Dolar

2008-04-22T08:12:00.000-07:00

Wednesday of Holy Week, Miércoles Santo, is much anticipated by Antequeranos as the Spanish Foreign Legion arrives to carry the tronos in the procession that night.

The day is organised by Cofradía del Mayor Dolor and two tronos are carried: El Señor del Mayor Dolor (The Lord of Greatest Sorrow)and Nuestra Señora la Virgen del Mayor Dolor (Our Lady the Virgen of Greatest Sorrow.)

The day's proceedings are in two parts. At media dia a reception is held in Iglesia de San Sebastián, the host church, where civic dignitaries and committee of the Cofradía meet representatives of the military forces. Then the Foreign Legion marches the length of the main street, Infante Don Fernando, to the Plaza San Sebastián in front of San Sebastian church to parade for the thronging crowds, accompanied by thumping bands. Plaza San Sebastián is a default main plaza, as Antequera does not have a Plaza Mayor as such. It has a paseo and several significant plazas.

I´ll come clean and admit that Deb took the following photos. I wasn´t there as I had gone for a bike ride. I was saving myself for the procession that night. Like it was going to be way differant to the proceeeding three nights!

Big mistake. As if from nowhere, it rained that afternoon. It had ceased by start time but the decision was made to cancel the procession. Out of respect for the safety of the tronos carriers on wet cobblestone streets, and the safety of the tronos, and spectator safety as well I guess.

Huge disappointment. I witnessed grown men sobbing, clutching each other. Tears streamed, some men were unconsolable. It was quite distressing.

So. Here's the midday event.

Dignitaries mingle outside Iglesia de San Sebastián:

With the Foreign Legion presence, media interest was high:

The Foreign Legion threads its way through thronging crowds on its way to Plaza San Sebastián ...

... and parades in the Plaza outside Iglesia de San Sebastián. Those are real guns. The Foreign Legion is not going to take any nonsense from Antequeran trouble makers. And they had heard there was an Aussie and a Kiwi in town. They can never be too careful.

Crowds crane for better viewing ...

... and photos are taken from best opportunities.

Kids climb all the best vantage spots:

The Legion parades El Señor del Mayor Dolor to the expectant crowd. Note the guy in the background who has climbed the outside of a building to perch on the outside rail of the first floor balcony.

In a display of strength, the Legion lifts the trono to full arm´s length height as they round the fountain in the centre of the Plaza. You´ll notice the round of clapping the crowd gives.

So. Thanks to Deb, else Miércoles Santo would have been a total non event for me. Apart from seeing some very distressed people that night.

Mad
aka Max

Martes Santo: Cofradía del Rescate

2008-04-22T08:11:00.001-07:00

Holy Tuesday, a procession of the Cofradía del Rescate, hosted by the congregation of the church Iglesia de la Santisima Trinidad.

Again I´ll suggest, read the first of the Semana Santa postings: Semana Santa: something else again! to get an understanding of what is happening.

This was a slightly, only just, smaller procession in that there was only two tronos: El Señor del Rescate and the Nuestra Señora la Virgen de la Piedad.

Bands are a big opening item.

There was the Purple KKK (I should probably stop calling them that).

... and then the Reds.

Just one last time: KKKKK - Kindly KKK with Kid.

And some scary hooded jokers.

Teenage girls play their part. All quite amazing. I wonder if their parents have the major say in this.

El Señor del Rescate

Not hooded, but nearly as scary ...

Be warned girls, you've had a glimpse of what grandma has turned out like.

Members of the congregation of Iglesia de la Santisima Trinidad join in behind the trono. You will notice it is mostly women. The men are carrying tronos, or are hooded carrying crosses. But in the case of the older guys they are there in spirit, taking up a position in a bar having una or dos cerveza, y un surtido de las tapas (one or two beers, and an assortment of tapas), smoking cigarettes like mad things, and raising a glass as the procession, and their wife, passes.

Nuestra Señora la Virgen de la Piedad

That's three down: four to go.

Mad
aka Max

Lunes Santo: Cofradía de los Estudiantes

2008-04-22T08:10:00.000-07:00

Holy Monday: Cofradía de los Estudiantes. Host church: Iglesia de San Francisco.

I am suggesting, if you haven't already, read the first of the Semana Santa postings: Semana Santa: something else again! to get an understanding of what is happening here.

Cofradía de los Estudiantes carries three tronos. They are Santo Cristo Verde, Nuestro Padre Jesús Nazareno de la Sangre and the Nuestra Señora la Virgen de la Vera Cruz.

These processions are long affairs, taking many hours. About 100 metes, and not 15 minutes, into tonight's procession and a little tyke, five years old if that, bursts into inconsolable sobbing: ¡Yo tengo hambre! I'm hungry! Harden up kid, if you ever want to grow up and carry one of the trono you bettter not let the big boys of the Cofradía see you crying like that. Mum gave him a packet of potato chips, and that did the trick - for then.

This night was the first sighting of the, at first impression, breath taking KKK-like robes

The trono, Santo Cristo Verde, a very large and heavy crucifixion.

The second trono depicts Christ carrying the cross: Nuestro Padre Jesús Nazareno de la Sangre

There are many youngsters sticking it out for hours, doing a remarkably great job.

This little fellow was still blowing away hours later.

And the trono that always gets the little old dears dabbing the tears from their eyes, the Virgin. In this case, Nuestra Señora la Virgen de la Vera Cruz.

This parade was every bit as big as Sunday night's, however I've tried to reduce too much repetition.

Mad
aka Max

Domingo de Ramos: Cofradía de La Pollincia

2008-04-22T08:09:00.000-07:00

This is it. Palm Sunday - Domingo de Ramos. The day all have been looking forward to. The start of Semana Santa, Holy Week, and the week of daily processions, kicked off by Cofradía de La Pollincia.

The previous posting Semana Santa: something else again will explain a lot. I'll post a few photos on this the first night to help you visualise.

The host church is Iglesia de San Agustin. Three tronos are paraded. El Señor a su Entrada en Jerusalén (The Lord's entrance to Jerusalem), El Señor Orando en el Huerto de los Olivos (The Lord´s speech in the olive grove) and Virgen de la Consolacíon y Esperanza Coronada (The Virgen of consolation and crowning hope). All three quite magnificent.

The procession is lead by Roman legionnaires...

Next comes the officialdom of the Cofradía. That's the mayor, Ricardo, on the far left. He isn't a member of the cofradía, but just cannot help himself if there is a photo opportunity. We call him Senor 'en la sopa' - A Spanish expression literally translated as 'in the soup', meaning he is everywhere. He'd turn up for the opening of an envelope if a camera was to be there.

Next comes the start of many, many attendants. The girls, of course are demure and attentive ...

... and the boys rark about.

the first of the tronos: El Señor a su Entrada en Jerusalén ...

The procession lines up behind:

more attendants ...

The second trono is El Señor Orando en el Huerto de los Olivos:

All the tronos are decorated with cherubs.

... and more attendants

every vantage point is taken

care is taken with every detail ...

incense levels need checking ...

The third trono is the beautiful Virgen de la Consolacíon y Esperanza Coronada

Her garments are just lavish.

Beautiful.

And this is just the first night.

Mad
aka Max

Semana Santa: something else again!

2008-04-22T08:08:00.000-07:00

Semana Santa: Holy Week.

The week preceding Easter, starting Palm Sunday - Domingo de Ramos - through to the following Sunday, Easter Sunday - Domingo de Resurrección. The Easter public holidays are celebrated on Thursday and Friday in España.

Our favourite bi-weekly, local, newspaper El Sol de Antequera described the phenomenon as a big serve of religion, a chunk of culture, and a slice of tourism. That very description exposes myself. I'll fess up, and admit I have misplaced the clipping which gave the statement a bit of statistical credibility.

Basically, it's all about nightly processions of religious tronos, literally thrones, depicting scenes of Holy Week. Each procession is organised by a cofradía, a society, each with a very structured hierarchy, based at one of the many churches. It is an Antequeran status symbol to be a member of the 'board' of a cofradía, and a big deal within the host church community. Between 70 and 80 men, and some very few women, lift the tronos onto their shoulders. These are highly valued positions, handed down through families. Some wear a simple, conservative black suit, others a costume. Famous actor, Antonio Bandaras, even returned to his hometown, Málaga - to much media attention, to take part in his role as a trono carrier at his home church.

The tronos are decorated in elaborate, and expensive, robes and jewels. A a result the Cofradías, fund raise by holding big 'beer tents' at the Spring Fair and big casino nights.

The tronos carriers are somtimes accompanied by Legionnaires - both costumed Roman and the contemporary Spanish Foreign Legion - or military bands, altar boys, girls swinging incense laden crucibles. But a startling sight is the KKK-like outfits worn by many. Apparently these are to hide the identity of the person so they don't achieve any recognition for showing their adoration. I don't know the history and if there is any link with these outfits and the KKK ones, apart from hiding identity.

The crowds are spectacular. People adorn their balconies with banners of the colours and emblems of the host cofradía, and crowd them to watch the passing procession. Many of the old dears are reduced to tears at the sight of the tronos, and their grand children (some just wee tots) parading as altar boys and crucible carriers.

Processions start around 6:30 - 7:00pm and can go on on until 1:30am, doing loops of the inner city. Processions usually move forward for about 100 meters, then stop, and take a rest. Crowds usually take a break as well, nipping into bars and cafés for a quick drink and a round of tapas. There is a real buzz all over town. Clapping applause greets the procession the whole way.

The tronos are spectacular. Opulent. Usually two depict a scene of Christ, and a third with a stunningly beautiful statue of the Virgin Mary, usually with tears on her face, and the most lavish of robes. Each trono is laden with angels, and cherubs.

Each procession has a familiar feel, yet each is unique in its own way. Despite the 'sameness' I have covered them all so you can get the whole picture.

I'll dedicate a posting to each procession. Mostly pictures, to make it easier for you, but a few notes to explain any peculiarities.

For me, an experience not easily forgotten. Friday night is the big one, as the tronos carriers take on additional difficulty to prove their devotion on the day of remembering Christ's death, and run the tronos up step hills.

Catholicism is still very strong in Spain, though apparently slipping a bit - not that you'd notice during Semana Santa in conservative Antequera.

Mad
aka Max

Andalucía Day: A bull fight

2008-04-22T04:20:00.000-07:00

We made it back from some time away ('Getting around and catching up') just in time for Andalucía Day celebrations. Which kicked off with bands and civic ceremonies in the Plaza. We didn't attend these and as a result missed out on wearing a green and white rosette on our lapels as it seems all of the town's citizens did for the rest of the day.

But one of the festivities we did attend was the bull fighting. Now I'm aware there are people strongly pro and anti this event. I had no feeling either way due, as I had confirmed, having very little knowledge of what went on. If you know that you are really anti perhaps you don't want to read further, I understand. It was a learning and observation experience for me.

I had a misunderstanding that once the matador (or sometimes called torero)had fought the bull, the 'judge' - the President of Plaza del Toro would give a thumb up or down assessing the matador's performance, and thus the right to kill the bull. Wrong, first mistake. Actually what happens is that if the bull has fought 'bravely' the public can petition or even the matador may request an indulto: the bull is spared. This is very rare. In fact the bull has been speared and stabbed and would be lucky to survive back on the farm anyway. No, what you are likely going to see is the bull being killed. In fact the judgement of the matador's performance is on how well he kills the bull.

I'll do my best, as I understand it, to explain what happens.

The format is made up of three matadores who each fight two bulls. Following a brassy fanfare by trumpet the matadores and their teams enter the arena to the accompaniment of a full band, and salute the President and dignitaries. The matador has the assistance of two picadores mounted on horseback,and four banderilleros, one of whom acts as mozo de espada (sword page boy) and assists with the final kill of the bull.

A bull is let loose into the ring, snorting and pawing, and racing around like a mad thing (I wondered what had been done to him to have him so riled.) I understand the bulls should be at least four years old, and weigh at least 500 kgs. Upon sighting, some of the crowd around us murmured they thought a couple of the bulls could have been a bit young. The bulls race from one side of the ring to the other chasing anything that moves - the banderilleros waving capes at him, then running and leaping behind shelter walls. One guy got his comeuppance and got a good trampling, he was carted off and not seen again that day. Apparently the bull is being observed by the matador for its ferocity, agility, and strength. It also tires and slows him down a bit. The matador confronts a bull with his large colourful cape, but not 'fighting' at this stage but making some sweeping passes at the bull as it races past.

Next, two picadores enter, riding well padded and blindfolded horses. Naturally, the bull charges the horse getting stuck in. While the bull charges the horse, and the matador notes which side the bull favours, the picador lances the bull in a muscle group high on the neck and shoulder. The reason is to make the bull carry his head, and horns, lower when 'fighting' the matador as lifting his head will hurt more. This lets the matador perform his 'classical moves'.

Then three banderillos take over. As the bull charges them they dodge, an attempt to stab two razor sharp and barbed banderillas into the passing bull. They aim is to place them as close to the wound made by the picador as this angers the bull but at the same time weakens its neck and shoulder muscles through pain and loss of blood. By now the bulls charges are not much more than a canter, or very short bursts.

The matador is now back on the scene, in an otherwise cleared ring. This time he only carries a small red cape and a dummy sword he uses to shape the top of the cape. It's at this stage, the 'bull fight' is conducted, to classical moves, or art as the purists would have it. he whole point is to perform under total control, getting as close to the bull with each pass as possible. When ready, the matador will motion to his page to bring out the real sword.

The matador will continue for a while with this all the while moving the bull into a position where he can stab the bull behind the shoulders going right down into the bull's heart. Done well, the bull should drop immediately. If it staggers and drops to the ground the page will move in and stab the bull in the brain. Should the bull keep moving the matador's sword is retrieved and he attempts another time. One fight we saw, the matador had three goes. Two were clean, immediate drops. The dead bull is ignominiously dragged off by a couple of horses.

Should the crowd be satisfied, and the President agree and wave his handkerchief, the ear of the dead bull is cut off and presented to the matador. On his victory circuit of the ring, waving to the crowd, he will throw the ear to a 'lucky' person - imagine catching a bleeding bull's ear. God knows what they do with it.

The performance we saw was not a first grade event,and the crowd was not large. Antequera has a big week long festival of bull fights in August. We won't be here.

If I had left after one or two 'fights' I would have seen enough, though I wasn't compelled to leave. I could be tempted to visit a first class event, in one of the big rings, with a big crowd for the atmosphere. But maybe, I've seen enough.

So, that's another whole new Spanish experience.

Mad
aka Max

Getting around and catching up

2008-03-19T14:43:00.001-07:00

Following January, with trips to Madrid and London, time spent in Antequera seemed somewhat scant.

It continued as at the start of February, Deb and I flew north to Berlin. Yet again travel has blown away misconceptions. With the cold war hanging all over my youth, propaganda left me with the idea 'West' Berlin would be a much better place than the dour old Soviet era 'East' Berlin. How wrong. What was the 'East' is in fact what was the original old Berlin and all its history. And the DDR's showpiece. It now has so much more to offer as well.

Really, you should read Deb's blog page 'Berlin' at http://stayontheroad-nz.blogspot.com/ which really does our trip justice.

I just loved the whole time there. What especially? Hmmmm...

The angel statue atop Victory Monument, in the Tiergarten is just beautiful.

Bismark stands proud in granite form.

The higgledy-piggledy heights of the stone stelaes, contrasting with the orderly lines in both directions, of the Halocaust Memorial, is an awe-filling sensation to view.

We chose to visit the Pergamon Museum, from the number of first class museums on Museuminsel (Museum Island). Wow. The completely removed, reconstructed, and restored Istar Gate from Babylonia is something to be seen to be belived.It's approx. 2500 years old. Rows of lions stand in relief. My pick. Though the Pergamon Altar, hence the Museum's name, was also impressive. What I did find interesting was the PR releases justifying the museum's reasons for not returning treasures to their original countries. We witnessed a lot of the other side of the argument in newspapers and magazines in Egypt whilst on the Africa trip.

And sometimes, it's the little things. Like Ampelmann. The really neat little green walking man of the pedestrian crossing lights. And the Trabbies ... the Trabants, those quaint little heap of shit Soviet cars. A local said that people used prefer buying a second hand one: there was a chance they might go.

And I especially love tying loose ends when traveling, those coincidences and such like I've often written of. Like visiting the Jewish Museum, not only for its own architectural worth and interesting and not over-burdening story of Jewish history and culture, but because its first Director was none other than, the late, Nigel Cox, one time manager of Wellington's best book shop, Unity.

I can't leave Berlin without quoting one of a series of plaques embedded in the footpath of a street. It quotes Miguel Cervantes, famous Spanish author (Don Quixote):

"Travelling and sojourning among various people makes men wise."

Walking in and around Berlin is great. Their Metro is beaut. Beer, naturally, damn fine. Stacks of 'The Wall' reminders. The glass and chrome Norman Foster-designed dome addition sitting over the historicist Reichstag parliament is interesting, if not a bit incongruous. But all the reflections, mirroring, makes for some interesting photos.

Home. Antequera. And only a chance to catch breath and repack the bag.

Back to New Zealand, family and friends, in Wellington, for a fortnight. Wacko. The purpose: to play my part in the RoosterRacing.com team sucessfully defending the Men's Grade Trophy won at the Around Lake Taupo running relay. Mission accomplished.

It was so nice catching up with friends. Unfortunately the time constraint meant it had a slight business feel about it. Make appointments, meet, next! But I got to see all I wanted to at least once. It made me think that I wished I was there a bit longer, could spend some more time with people, but then I'd be back in Wellington, and ...

Just had to visit Unity. And again connecting those loose threads, spotted Nigel Cox's Phone Home Berlin: collected non-fiction (Victoria University Press, 2007). Posthumously put together by Fergus Barrowman. Hey, and there's Ampelmann on the front cover! A nice gift for the Deb, who didn't make the trip. But ... ahhhhhh ... Victoria University, takes you back.

I took every opportunity to catch up with my old mates, Ingrid and Peter, los sobrinos. I loved doing all the old favourite things with them. Picking them up from school, going to beaches, rock pools, cafes, parks... On my last afternoon, after school, we walked the harbour front (Pete stood "the closest I've ever been to a helicopter."), we spent a couple of hours rock climbing the walls at Ferg's, and finished off with dinner at One Red Dog. Really neat. I went directly to the airport with a big fat silly feeling welling inside. It was bit tough.

This time I flew back to London via a transit in Hong Kong. Couple of times I've gone through Singapore, but mostly via the US. It was a good change. Nobody on the plane, window seats galore, and daylight travel over Mongolia, Siberia, and smack bang over the top of Moscow. Makes a change. A chance to finish off Ghosts of Spain: travels through a country's hidden past by Giles Tremlett (Faber and Faber, 2006). Took a while longer to read than I would have thought - too much traveling around.

Deb had already flown up to London, staying at her sister's. Tracey had given birth to Zoe, the Zoster or is that Zo-star, on Christmas Eve. She is a real little cutie. We goo-ed and gah-ed, and she puked milk over our shoulder and farted on your hand while you held her. A real charmer.

While in London, we saw Saracens play Harlequins, at rugby. Tracey's man, Rhys is a real Saracens fan. Deb and I went to the Brit Museum, yet again. But during my visits to London, this time and in January, I made a point of catching up on some movies. Ang Lee's Lust, caution. Kite Flyer, based on Khalid Hosseini's book. Ian McEwan's (one of my favoured authors) Atonement. Slueth, I just like Michael Caine. And of course, The Cohen bros' No Country for Old Men. Got lucky - I liked them all.

But by now I was itching to hear the sound of Spanish, have lunch at three, tapas and cerveza at ten (pm), and just be surrounded by charming Antequera again.

Not such a bad option.

Mad
aka Max

Desfiles, cabalgatas y fiestas: una via de vida en España

2008-03-19T14:35:00.000-07:00

Processions, parades and fiestas are a way of life in Spain. They live for them and celebrate with a passion.

Our first procession was witnessed in Cadiz, in the week after we arrived in Spain, followed closely by another in our first week living in Antequera. These are processions to the Virgin Mary, and this one in Antequera to La Virgen del Rosario.

Escorted by a band, 32 men hoist a large, and judging by the struggle - presumably heavy, statue onto their shoulders and do a slow march, resting every 100 metres or so, around town stopping at each church - there are many. Each arrival is announced by tolling bells, and throngs of nuns. This is forerunner of much bigger things at Easter.

Christmas here, as the Spanish name, La Navidad, suggests is really, oddly enough, about the birth of the child Christ. Santa Claus, or Papa Noel, is a more recently and commercially introduced figure. But you don't, not in Antequera anyway, see characters dressed up as Papa Noel, or stores with a resident Santa. A custom of hanging an inflatable Santa, or small 'stuffed' one from front of your house is taking off. Kids are, of course buying into him pretty quickly.

Towns, and businesses within towns (organised by the local Ayuntamiento - town council, who in turn usually enter the biggest) compete in Belén competitions - nativity scenes. Some are downright spectacular. Needless to say I have seen more nativity scenes this Christmas than the rest of my life total.

We saw Belénes in Granada, Cordoba, Malaga all set out in pastorial magnificence, but I like the poetic licence of this one setting the whole Christ birth and surrounding pastoral activities with a backdrop of the Antequera Alcazaba.

Christmas Eve as we call it, but Nochebuena (the good night) in España, is a big time family affair. It is reputed that TVs are actually turned off that night - something I find a little hard to believe! But the norm is a big feast of seafords, fish, and meat and then los dulces ... the sweets: el turrón, el mazapán, y los polvorones. This all takes place at Mum and Dad´s place.

Next day, Christmas, is yet again another family bash with much eating, and la cava ... the champagne.

Next on the fun calendar is 28 December, Santos Inocentes, and the equivalent of our April Fool´s Day. TV and radio stations play practical jokes, and it´s the aim to stick un monigote - a little paper cut-out stick man - on the back of an unsuspecting friend. All harmless stuff - until someone pokes an eye out!

New Year's Eve, El Nochevieja - the old night, is of course another big night. A big celebration is held in la Puerta del Sol (the Sun Gate) in Madrid and broadcast live nationally. Everyone takes their lead from the clock in Puerta del Sol, for with each toll of the bell una uva (a grape) is eaten - doce en total (12). Then washed down with a quaff of cava. The custom is to wear red undies (ropa interior roja) for good luck in the forthcoming year. This is celebrated more likely at friends, but the family tug is still strong.

On the evening of 5 Jan, the kids get all excited. We witnessed it in Majadaonda, Madrid, with our nephews Reece and Aidan. It's all about Los Reyes Magos - or the Three Wise Kings as we know them. A big street parade is held with lots of floats, bands, jugglars, acrobats etc, and buckets and buckets of sweets and balloons thrown out to the kids. The last three floats have the Three Kings riding aboard. The kids go berserk and scream what present they want brought that night (equivalent to Santa coming to kids back home).

We returned home to discover Antequera had again boxed above its weight and the parade included camels, bears and the Three Kings actually rode the parade on horse back.

The first weekend of February and we celebrated Carnaval in Antequera. A celebration of fun during the last days before Lent, this celebration was pretty much quashed during the austere Franco years. It's now making a big rebirth, especially in Cadiz, and takes place the same time as Rio's Carnaval, New Orleans' Mardi Gras and the other big ones. Antequera, again, did it pretty well. From media dia, kids all start appearing in elaborate fancy dress. About 60% of adults go fancy dress once dark falls.

Antequera celebrates with a parade through town of a giant mollete (the famous bread roll) dressed as a local balomano (handball) player (?). This starts about 11:30. Music is already blazing away from two stages in Plaza San Francisco. At about 12:30 the mollete is set alight, in a great blaze.

Then molletes, aciete de oliva (olive oil), cola cao (hot chocolate) and café (coffee) is served to all. Then, in that typically Spanish way, there's games for the kids in the Plaza at 1:30am! At 2:00 a fantastic un grupo tambor (a drum band) kicks off. At least 100 drummers and percussionists play at fever pitch for an hour with no break in a spectacle that would go down well at Wellington's Fringe Festval. Fantastic!

They finished at 3:00am and that was pretty much it for us. The stages continued to host live rock bands.

You know, I could get used to all this

Max
aka Mad.

Antequera - three months on

2008-01-26T08:58:00.000-08:00

Expressed simply, I just love Antequera.

The Romans first gave the name Antikira, an ancient place, so it has some history. There are dolmenes, three sites of cave-like rock slab chambers, once burial grounds and storerooms for the riches of tribal leaders dated circa 2,500-2,000 BC.

From Roman days there remains baths and in the enchanting museum there is El Efebo, a rare for its time, bronze statue (and now an Antequeran 'mascot') and pieces of columns, and other Roman artifacts.

The Moors built La Alcazaba, the fort, which is a visible landmark for kilometres out of town, and overlooks our house (it is in photo below the tower, just off the bottom). Antequera was the first town to be 'taken' by the Christians, and then in a show of strength, they built churches for ... Rome, I guess. There are twenty four magnificent churches and seven convents in Antequera (pop. 40-45,000).

One, in particular, San Sebastian, is another visible landmark from all around town. Atop a pretty spire, is un angelote (another Antequera mascot), a wind vane reputed to have the bones of Santa Euphemia (a patron of Antequera) in a bag around its neck.

A third major landmark is actually outside of town, La Pena de los Enamorados, Lover's Rock, which I have written of in an earlier blog [A thing of beauty]. From just above our house we can see all three of these landmarks in one view.

A fourth, but not so widely visible, landmark of town is of course the Plaza de Toro, the bull ring.

We live in el barrio San Juan. What luck! It's a nice little area, but we still get to have both of Antequera's shitholes nearby. Below, is Bar San Juan, opposite Iglesia San Juan, St. John church, were the local clientele can look across at a magnificent tiled picture of the crucifixion and keep an eye on their wives as they go to Friday afternoon, and Sunday morning (oh yes, 9:00am) Mass. Above us, up the hill is La Socorrilla, my already mentioned [El Ciclista de Antequera] post-cycle ride coffee stop. It is on on the beautiful Plaza del Portichuelo , ringed by the lovely Capilla Tribune del Portichuelo (chapel) and Iglesia Santa Maria de Jesus. It is on a tourist walking trail, and the chairs outside sit gloriously in the sun. It's a popular spot for the tourists to stop and take in the ambience, and that lovely Spanish charm. Make no mistake though, inside she's a shithole. But these are tiny, tucked away places and create no problems. It's not tourist season now and it has reverted to a serious, local shithole. I love it. Deb and I are about the only ones who sit outside in the sun, in the lovely plaza, currently. Regularly funeral notices of regulars are posted on the front door, and then a couple of days later she's closed.

But there are plenty of lovely little bars and cafes down in El Centro. And a street of pretty lively late (real late) night action places. El Centro is not the geographic centre of town because of more recent growth. But it means our barrio is very close, even though we sit at one end of town. As a result we are able to walk everywhere - no probems. Also, we only have to walk 250-300 meters to a dirt road that follows a stream down a valley bordered by hills litered with trails for running, walking and mountain biking. It pays to keep an eye out for wild asparagus, and the sneaked views back to town.

Antequera also has a spectacular golf course (I still don't play.)

But another major attracion is El Torcal, a National Park of spectacular limestone formations. Maybe 15 minutes (at most) from town. From there, high in the Sierra, you can see the Mediterranean.

But generally, as planned, Deb and I engross ourselves totally in living in Antequera. We have become regulars and friendly with a number of cafe, bar, and shop owners. Even at a supermarket one of las dependientas, shop assistants, Blanca, always waves at us to come to her check out queue. It's cute. They love us. Being Australian and New Zealander, we are different - from the English. We go all out to speak Spanish with them. They like it. They encourage, correct and teach us. We also get this from my cycle club, and Deb from her yoga classes at the gym. We read local papers and learn what events are on: concerts, shows etc. We are now treated as regulars and they speak freely with us and invite us into conversations, and to share a round of drinks. Many English, sadly, keep to themselves and learn little Spanish. Though we have met a handful of nice couples. (We went out with some last night, and I raised a toast to Australia Day. Nice.) Not so many live in Antequera. Usually they colonise small villages and then make their own little England in Spain. There is a village, Mollina, not far, which is already 75% English, and there are 63 new units being built all already sold off plan to English. They build in squares around a pool and include a bar. The occupants only have to speak to other English. A pub in the town centre has bingo Tuesday night, scrabble Wednesday, pool and darts Thursday, and Beef Hot pot special on Friday night. There are gadzillions living on Costa del Sol. Very sad, I think, but I guess they are quite pleased. Then they venture into town, Antequera, to conduct business and some niceties. We are often asked if we can do some translations in shops and cafes for them.

We have joined the Asociación de Vecinos 'San Juan', the neigbourhood association, and have already gone away with them on some of their regular bus trip day outings. It's amusing, the whole day is planned around the food breaks. And drinks. And dancing at lunchtime! They are real fun. Now when one of many little four foot women call out to us we can guess, usually correctly, they are one of the little old dears from the association and the bus trips. They insist on giving us big hugs, and stroking our arms.

The local market is where we do all out friut and veg, fish and meat shopping. A wonderful experience. A local panadería, bakery, has a van that drives the street tooting the horn and the man sells pan, bread, from the back door. Naturally, Deb and I call him the 'pan man'.

Antequera is well located for travel to other Andalucian highlights: Seville, Cordoba, Granada and Malaga, and is a hub for road and rail. Bus services are great. As a result we have done rounds of all these with visitors. Malaga, only an hour away on the autovista is a great place for picking up cheap flights to Europe. Deb and I have made three trips to London, and we go to Berlin for five days next week. We have more trips planned.

We've also made a couple of trips to and from Madrid on the AVE, Alta Velocidad, high speed 350kph train. Check out this for a neat look at the AVE http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QC4YBHoaWfY. Note the olive groves before Antequera Santa Ana station and the hills just after: all my riding territory. I pass the staion a lot, it's 20km from town. Antequera station is now the old one in town. Also note all the new track work, bridges and stations they have just built to put this new service in.

We stayed in un cortijo, a farmhouse, in Monachil, at the base of the Sierra Nevadas, near Granada for Christmas. Rising straight out of town is a nasty, steep, long, hill used last year in the Vuelta de España cycling tour race. Wicked. Christmas Day was glorious, and it snowed boxing day. We went to the mountains the next two days and went skiing. New Year and Los Reyes Magos (The Three Kings, we'd say) were spent in Madrid - Majadahonda to be precise, with bro BOK, Sal, the two boys, and Ashleigh our visiting Aussie niece.

Mid January I spent a week in London, showing Ashleigh around for four days before she flew home. We had a beaut time.

The lifestyle is great: and I'm not just talking not working! 1:30 - 2:00pm is the start of siesta. From 5:00pm to 8:30pm things happen again. Comer, the day's main meal, lunch, is had during this time. Then after work people go for a couple of drinks, cervezitas - some small beers, and eat tapas. At about 11:00pm they might eat larger tapas - raciones. Music doesn't start at bars before 11:00pm. We've had a few 3:00am nights.

We have found a great bar, Manolo, that has live, and good, and a different type of music every Thursday night. It's great, we have a Spanish lesson from 19:30 - 20:30 that night. We then drop into a favourite tiny bar, Casa de Diego, for unas bebidas y tapas, some drinks and snacks (and some more free Spanish lessons from Diego! - Deb baked and nicely packaged some Anzac biscuits for Diego, 'Mrs. Diego', and son Dani for Christmas. They were told the bisuits are a true Australian and NZ item. They gave us crushing hugs and tears welled in their eyes.), we watch a little Spanish TV - man, they go nuts over TV here, (Diego's is also my favourite place to go watch European Championship League football) then at 10:00pm we rock on up to Manolo, some bebidas, some raciones, some música. Sweet, or dulce, should I say?>

And internet and Skype keeps us in touch with family and friends across the world. I can't think of anything I need.

I continue to rack up a lot of kilometres on my bike through countryside of olive groves and white pueblos.

Oooops. Nearly forgot. Antequera is also famous for La Antequerana (the lady of Antequera) - a bakery specialising in a range of biscuits - legendary in Spain. It's also famous for El Mollete - really just a bread roll, but travel through Andalucia and you see Mollette de Antequera advertised everywhere (probably not made in Antequera, but that style of breadroll). They are nice, I guess, but a bread roll just the same - don't let an Antequerano hear me saying that. Traditionally taken with el aciete, olive oil, but not just any olive oil, but Hojiblanca, extra virgen. They tell us here Hojiblanca of Antequera, of course, is famous the world over. What do our Te Horo olive growers say to that?

The Antequera football team rocks along in second place in their piddly competition, but the town's handball team, their pride and joy, sits mid-table of the National First Division league.

Last time I mentioned reading I think I was mid Markus Zusak's The Book Thief (Black Swan, 2007). That was a true joy. Next, I read Season of Migration to the North, by Tayeb Salih (Heinemann, 1969), which I bought from a road-side stall in the market square in Khartoum, The Sudan. It turned out to be a nasty pirate photocopy with photocoping creases down some pages and pages out of order towards the end. That aside, it was an interesting, if not intense read. Intense in that deep, strong, poetic, arabic style of writing I guess. I don't know, I've never before read deep, strong, poetic, arabic style of writing. And interesting because of the mention of places I had recently visited. It showed its time in history when the the train trip north to Wadi Haifa, and the Egyptan border, is described in all its luxury!!!!

Then onto some writings on Spain. I read ¡Guerra! (which translates as War!) by Jason Webster (Black Swan, 2007). It was a fascinating enough story mixing his trip across Spain investigating the story for the book, and about the Civil War - prompted by a neighbouring farm lady showing him the site of a forgotten mass grave. A bit shallow though (the story, not the grave!).

A much better read is Ghosts of Spain: travels through a country's hidden past by Giles Tremlett (Faber and Faber, 2006). Much more insightful - about the Spanish Civil War, the Franco years, and the current Spanish psyche.

I realised we are now closer to four months here. Time flies when having fun. But that, really, is our only concern. How quickly this will pass. Enjoy while we can.

Max
aka Mad

El Ciclista de Antequera

2007-11-16T07:16:00.000-08:00

In this posting you will read of some of my rides and riding in and around Antequera, joining a club, and an announcement of a big future planned ride.

It is said by some: "That two out of three ain't bad".

I don't know. I'll let you decide for yourselves.

After a delay receiving our belongings, I enthusiastically re-assembled Deb's and my mountain bikes, and my road bike. I have to say I was really looking forward to the road bike. All looked pretty good.

For my first ride on the trusty Avanti Corsa - it's red, all the fast bikes are red, I headed out of town on a pretty much flat course into the countryside and Bobadilla Pueblo. Through this quaint village, and onto the new Antequera - Santa Ana rail station (where we first arrived) waiting for the new super fast AVE trains coming in December. The batteries in my bike computer look like they have crapped out, at least that's all I am hoping it to be. So I don't have a true measure of distance ridden, just guess work from road signs. Anyway, it is suddenly becoming very cloudy and rain looks ominous. As I head to Humilladero I think the weather is turning shite, so I turn around, and at that instance it decides to bucket down on me. I ride back to Antequera in pouring rain. The first day I ride a bike, it rains for the first time since we got here. Sods law.

That's not so bad, it's only rain and it's not cold. But ... Antequera is chock full of cobblestone streets, and some short and steep hills getting to our place. The roads are now nothing short of treacherous. As I try to ride the first leg of the uphill to home the back wheel just starts to spin.

As I attempt to go up and around a corner, I'm down. Now, try to stand up on wet slippery cobblestones in cycling shoes. 'Muy dificíl' as we say in Spain. So it's shoes off, and in socks I walk/push up the hill and then ride back down to our house on the other side. One last problem. How do you stop this thing on slippery wet cobblestones going down?! But that, however, is ride one.

Ride two wasn't a real ride. I just went out to test the new batteries in the computer, and seek out some 'dry routes' for getting home, not that I needed them then. Almost as soon as I got home the previous day, the sunshine came out, yet again. Oh and one other thing. Until now, having been walking everywhere I had to pay attention to, and work out, the one-way street systems that make up this town's layout. And they are also very narrow. And yet another thing: remembering to ride on the right-hand side of the road, especially when turning from one-way streets into two-way. Something you get the hang of very quickly.

Ride three. A doozy. I head south and into the Sierra de Chimenea (the Fireplace - or chimney, both work, Mountains). Quickly into the rural, and just as quickly notice the incline. Rather ominously a roadside sign announces Carratera de Montaña. Hmmm. Does that mean highway to the mountains, through the mountains, or mountainous highway? It gets quite tough going with some pretty grunty climbs straight away. This looks bad. Pretty soon, after a couple of bends, I'm looking at this near straight piece of road that just goes on forever into the sky, heading to mountain tops. It's murder. In the year after the Ironman I only rode my bike twice; they've been packed away for eight months, I'm not ready for this! The pedals just push back through my quads. My lungs scream. I'm in small ring, lowest gear, going nowhere fast. I'm making a dick of myself here. And of course, when I reach the end of the straight - it's a false crest. Onwards.

Then the zig-zags start. Why am I doing this? What looks like the crest is coming up and a sign announces Boca del Asno - Mouth of the Donkey!

I feel like I'm kissing the other end of a donkey! It's a lookout. But the road turns sharply (another zig or was it a zag?) to the right and heads on up the ridge that dropped back down to donkey's breath. After a short recovery stop at Boca, I take off again. But this is just way too tough. And when another set of steep zig-zags start again, I cry off. Call me whimp if you want, I couldn't care - then. But the return was fanatstic. At one point I hit 73.2kph before grabbing handfuls of brake, and sweeping around a hairpin. Just quietly, I shat myself. Guess it means I broke the 40kph speed limit. Hope Deb doesn't read this post; she gets twitchy about that sort of thing. (You'll notice in the pictures the horrible blue skies we have to put up with around here.)

So there you have it. Two out of three and not quite what was planned

But in the weeks since I have quickly gone much further a field with rides of 85-95 kilometres. I have also joined Club Ciclista El Torcal de Antequera. I have only had the two club rides so far, but they seem like a good bunch. We struggle through conversations. I say "¡si!" a lot, and smile. But you don't have to talk to enjoy a ride with a bunch. There's a good number of jokers of my age (OBs - old bastards) with years of cycling behind them. It's a real lifestyle thing here. (Not so many runners though.) There's the same old banter as everywhere: "No estoy en forma - I'm not fit" as a tummy is patted, having just minced you up a hill. I've heard it all before, some things never change. But there's a handful of older jokers who really know how to spin those pedals. They mix it with the best. One, Pepé, is 72 year old! You look around, he's always there and we truly scoot along (at speeds I haven't been used to) as a pack at times. Anyway, as it turns out, Pepé lives just above us and being the cunning old shit he is, having ridden for years, he shows me the tricks for avoiding the steep cobblestones home. Good man.

There very well may be one or two among you say "Ah-haa, Mad. You've got your Spanish wrong. Wouldn't it be El Ciclisto?" But no. Spanish like all languages has its irregularities just to frustrate the learner. It's one of those words that takes the feminine form even if the one in question is male (but cyclists are in the best company as there is also el artista, el poeta, el futbolista.) So you have El Ciclista, a male cyclist, La Ciclista - a female cyclist, Los Ciclistas - group of male cyclists, Las Ciclistas - group of female cyclists, and of course Los Ciclistas for a mixed group of men and women. That's the Spanish lesson for now. Next lesson; the many and varied ways you can say 'cycling'.

I'm no quitter. And I plan another attack on Carratera de Montaña. I study some maps and figure I could go on a loop around another way. And perhaps ride out, and around the Sierra. But aware that if I am to come back down my first mountain there could very well be a climb up the other side as well - kind of logical really. Maybe it's not so bad on the other side. Maybe.

I head off out on another road, out past the Parque del Lobo - The Wolf Park(!). I turn off onto another road that will take me to La Joya. And straight away there it is again: Carratera de Montaña. And will you look at this sign. ¡Mi Dios! The zig-zags are in a warning triangle, it's 7.5km of them, and the road is only 4 metres wide. I get the feeling I'm not going to cheat the good old Sierra de Chimenea in a hurry. The sign is just up from the road junction and is at the start of a gentle climb which pretty quickly picks up in gradient and heads off up to a bend, where the road disappears out of sight. And that would be lucky to be a kilometre and a half away. What is the other six kilometres like?

Well I haven't earned the name Mad for nothing. What do you think they would be like? I have never, I repeat, not - ever, ridden anything as steep, for as long, anywhere around Wellington where I have done most of my riding. But there was, of course, the Tibet trip. But that was mountain bikes on dirt roads and it's different. Man this was something else again. Somehow I popped out up over the top, knackered. I tried to enjoy olive laden hillsides. And the village of La Joya was just drop dead gorgeous, after a nice downhill ride into it.

I rode onto Villanueva de la Concepción across a series of gentle ups and downs. Stopping for un café in the sunshine (this is the way to ride, I tell you) I couldn't help but notice the road out of town in front of me rising up through some houses, and then turning away completely out of sight. The road heads towards El Torcal, at the top of where I was trying to ride on my first assault of Carratera de Montaña. It's a National Park with a spectacular rock formation landscape. It lends its name to many enterprises in Antequera, not least my cycling club. But no surprises here: One; the road turned to the left and immediately commenced a diabolically steep climb, and Two; there was the good old Carratera de Montaña sign again.

This side of the mountain is just ... I don't know. Speechless. I didn't know whether to weep, scream out, get off my bike and throw it away, or what. But I did realise we don't own a car in Spain, so Deb couldn't come and save me. Sorry, I wasn't in the mood to photograph. Only one thing to do. Grind like crazy. You get there, you always do. I was also remembering the great ride down on the other side.

I ride across the top, trying to regain some composure. And off, down the hill. Almost immediately a set of excitement-packed zig-zags emerge. Yahoo. They are fun. When I come out the other side I recognise the spot I rode up to on the first attempt. Man, I was that close! Away, this is unreal. I just know one day I will be that bit too cocky and will come unstuck. But in the meantime ... Very quickly, I'm back into Antequera.

As I ride past, this sign always reminds me of that Paul Kelly line '... and I can order sandwiches in seven differant languages, and...' ('Every Fucking City'. Roll on Summer EP: EMI Australia). I haven't seen ice, or frost, here yet - not by a long shot. But this hill from a signpost at the bottom, to a signpost at the top is 4.5km on the button (the frost sign is part way up). I can ride it, it's kind of steep but rideable, very constant with no flattening off sections, as a good training hill in just under 20 minutes. Six repetitions, ride up - ride down, and do it again another five times gives you just under two hours hill riding. A nice workout. The downhill back is great - lot's of sweepers. Then, it's only a short ride back home.

Although not much more than 100 metres away from home, up a short, sharp hill, is the Plaza Portachuelo on which is Bar La Socorrilla (say sock-core-ree-yah) and it's outside tables and chairs sit beautifully in the sun. I have made a habit of stopping at the end of rides, calling up Deb, and having un café con leche - a coffee with milk. Life is just dandy.

But, here is the big bit of news. I have had my entry into L'Étape du Tour Mondovélo 2008 - the stage of the Tour de France that is opened for a public ride - accepted. In (July) 2008 it will be what is to be the 10th stage of the Tour, and will be the 165 kms from Pau to Hautacam. The very same route as designed for cycling's elite. The most significant point of the route will be the Col du Tourmalet (2,115m), the biggest summit of the Pyrénées with 39.5km of 1,500 metres mountain climb (average 7.5%) and the finish at Hautacam after a 15.2km (1,000m) climb at an average of 7.2%. But that means there is a 36 km downhill as well!! I believe they will again allow 9,000 entants in 2008. In 2006 of the 7,548 actual starters, only 5,477 finished within the time limit.

So ... I better get stuck into that Carratera de Montaña.

Max
aka Mad

A thing of beauty

2007-10-16T09:36:00.000-07:00

In Plaza Castilla, Antequera, there is a beautiful and strong looking statue:

On a plaque at its base is the following inscription:

VIENDO IMPOSIBLE SV AMOR
CEÑIDOS EN FVERTE ABRAZO
SE ARROJAROS LOS AMANTES
DESDE LO ALTO DE LA PEÑA
Lorenzo Valla (1445)

Allowing for the Roman-icised Vs replacing Us, and the poetic language used, I believe the following translation pretty much captures the essence:

Since love was to be impossible,
as one in a strong embrace
the lovers threw themselves
from atop of the rock

There is a free, English language, magazine 'Local Connections', available in the Costa del Sol district. In the regular 'Out & About in Antequera' column, of Edition 37, Aug-Sep 2007, Liz Partridge has written a piece titled Legends of Antequera. It goes:

The story begins sometime during the conquest of Antequera, when a young man, believed to be a christian, was captured and taken to Granada. There, he worked as a slave for a family of Moors in a beautiful house with a garden. But busy both in the house and in the city, it was sometime before he saw the daughter of his master. One day, as he was working in the garden, she came out walking with her maid. He politely urged her to take shelter from the sun under the pergola. She was instantly taken by his way of speaking and his good manners, while he fell in love with this gentle maiden. Dismissing her maid on some pretence, she was able to continue her discourse with the young man. They were irresistibly attracted to one another and, while discussing how they could possibly be together, decided to escape at the first opportunity, ignoring the obvious danger that entailed.

One night, while her parents were sleeping, they slipped out of the house and fled in the direction of the Rock. There, they rested awhile talking of what their life would be like together. Suddenly, they heard the sound of horses approaching at great speed and were horrified to see her father and his men drawing nearer.

The only refuge, under the circumstances, was the summit of the Rock, where they climbed breathlessly. Her father and his men dismounted and followed on foot. The maiden's father ordered her to return to her family and his men urged her to throw herself at his feet and beg forgiveness. The young man, hearing this , turned to her and said, "Go down, ask for his mercy and he will surely forgive you. As for me, I can no longer live." "Love of my soul," she replied, "if you die, then we will die together." Then, with their love declared, they embraced and threw themselves off the Rock, to their death.

There are various interpretations of this legend though they all end in the demise of the lovers. In one, it is said that the couple were found still entwined and were buried together. Another tells how, in the fall, they became separated and remained where they lay amongst inaccessible rocks. [I like the first version better - I reckon it is in keeping with the sentiment of the statue inscription.] Meanwhile, the Rock retains its mystery and its appearance of a face seeking the stars.

I am known far and wide as an old romantic, so I won't spoil that reputation by drawing any attention to the distance between Granada and the Rock outside Antequera. And I assume if she was to throw herself at her father's feet pleading forgiveness, she'd come down from the Rock first. No? Hey, it's a lovely story.

It's a lovely statue.

Max
aka Mad

Living the dream

2007-10-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

Well. Spain.

We spent the first weekend in Spain with my bro, BOK, and family at Majadahonda, Madrid. So nice to be with family again; so nice to be in domestic comforts. On Saturday night, we went and watched BOK race in a Street Mile run, he picked up third place.

We caught the train to what we thought might be a good place to establish ourselves: Antequera. Why? Easy access to lots of top Spanish destinations; nice size: not too big, not to small - 50,000 people; on good transport routes; banks, shops and all the necessary services, and a web site said 85% of tourists are Spanish. As we rode the taxi into town, from the spanking new Santa Ana rail station, built for the new AVE fast trains, we knew immediately. This will do. A gorgeous looking town. Nothing since has made us think differently.

Looking up our Cuesta towards Chapelle Tribune de Portachuelo

Within 24 hours we had found a fantastic place to rent. But possession would be in a fortnight, so we headed to Cádiz, Costa del Luz: a lovely place despite its tourist appeal. Half a dozen very large cruise ships visited port during our stay. But ... sun, sand, sea and warm as.

While there the Cadiz Film Festival was on. We found out the second to last night. The Jonathon Demi film, Neil Young: A Heart of Gold was showing. So there we went. Ten o'clock at night, open air, under the stars, warm, couple of cervezas, wacko! After the movie, they had a local blues artist perform: Felix Slim - Happy Skinny we called him. Very entertaining. Lovely night. Feeling pretty good.

Looking down our Cuesta towards Iglesia San Juan. That's treinta y ocho second on the right, the taller one.

Back to Antequera to sign our rental lease, and with a week to go we headed down to Málaga: Costa del Sol. The name suggests Spain's Sunshine Coast. But I didn't feel at home. Unlike Queensland's Sunshine Coast, the beach at Málaga is pretty ordinary. But there's stacks of shops. And we are talking here about two people approaching seven months since packing up and leaving 217 Wilton Rd, and still without our shipped goods, and still in clothes worn through Africa. I treated myself to a new pair of trousers, a couple of shirts, and new underwear. That evening I went to dinner feeling like a million dollars (Euros?) - must have been the new undies!

As you know, the Brits are all over Costa del Sol. As a result, you can easily pick up the English newspapers. And a good thing too - as a result I found this fantastic little article in The Sunday Times (September 30, 2007) written by Matthew Campbell, titled 'Book now for the flight to nowhere':

An Indian entrepreneur has given a new twist to the concept of low-cost airlines. The passengers boarding his Airbus 300 in Delhi do not expect to go anywhere because it never takes off. All they want is the chance to know what it is like to sit on a plane, listen to announcements and be waited on by stewardesses bustling up and down the aisle.
In a country where over 99% of the population have never experienced air travel, the 'virtual journeys' of Bahadur Chand Gupta, a retired Indian Airlines engineer, have proved a roaring success.
As on ordinary aircraft, customers buckle themselves in and watch safety demonstrations. But when they look out the window, the landscape never changes.
Even if 'Captain' Gupta wanted to get of the ground, the plane would not go far: it only has one wing and a large part of the tail is missing. (Gupta bought the plane from an insurance company, removed the Indian Airlines logo, and painted the Gupta name.)
None of that bothers Gupta as he sits at the controls in his cockpit. His regular announcements include,"
Passengers are looked after by a crew of six, including Gupta's wife, who goes up and down the aisle with her drinks trolley, serving meals in airline trays. As for the passengers, Gupta charges about 2 pound each for passengers taking the 'journey', they are too poor to afford a real airline ticket and most have only ever seen the interior of an aircraft in films ...
Jasmine, a young teacher, had been longing to go on a plane. "It is much
more beautiful than I ever imagined," she said.

Times up! We are into our new home:

It's fantastic. Everything we could of dreamed of: a white town; castle; churches, and now a lovely house with a to-die-for courtyard. We had visions of a basement flat! We are now living that dream. I must have known something. I even packed my art block, pencils and water colours when we left. As they hadn't arrived yet I actually went to the Antequera version of a $2 shop and bought some kids paints, and an art block. It's amazing what you can draw with the Bic pencil as well.

The house is owned by Brits, and has British satellite TV installed. As a result, we get to watch the good old Wellington/Kiwi boys Flight of the Conchords.

Getting our belongings from Customs was a real test. Incredibly, in a piece of clever timing, our stuff arrived in Barcelona two weeks before we touched down in Madrid. There have been the usual combinations of language difficulty and not fully understanding local procedures, not to mention the cretin we have had to deal with (being illegal immigrants hasn't helped the cause). Then, after four weeks, when it was cleared, we were informed delivery would be in 48-72 hours. A week later we still waited. The shipping agent then admits the transport company has lost our stuff! The new found patience and art of just accepting things that I discovered in Africa held me out through the customs clearance. But oddly, it wasn't replaced by anger, rage or any other nasty emotion. Just plain straight disappointment. All has been going swimmingly well. Will just have to work through this one. But it's now all but eight months of living with just a backpack of worldly possessions. If we has set of to travel nine months, you'd be prepared, it's just that when your expectations are raised ...

But we have managed to get stuck into the normal everyday stuff: rental lease, phone line installed, buy a cell phone (replacing one stolen in Ethiopia, mine is in the post somewhere (?) from Nairobi ... ummm), open bank account, set up water and power accounts. Blah, blah, blah. Life goes on. And the weather has been 25 degrees plus, each day, with only two or three days of feather like clouds. And not a breath of wind.

It's frustrating for Deb trying to do her uni study using an internet cafe.

Oh, and we have had our first visitors as well. Deb's mum and sister arrived. Tracey had taken Barbara on a trip from London, to Rome, Venice, Barcelona, and Antequera. Tracey stayed a couple of days, but mother-in-law, dear, stayed on. I'm going to get a medal for this one. Deb will take her back to London.We made it to Spain only two weeks before they arrived, and moved into the house two days before they got to Antequera themselves. Slick, huh? In the first few weeks we were able to get around to visiting places we hadn't seen on previous visits to Spain, but showing Barbara around to the 'big' sites meant that doubling up was inevitable.

We have been to see the local team play football in the Third Division, GroupIX against Granada74. It was no Real Madrid v Barcelona, I tell you. I did overcome language barriers to learn the support chant though:
An-te-quera! clap, clap, clap-clap. An-te-quera! clap, clap, clap-clap.

Though, my Spanish continues to struggle. There's a funny little man, (between you and me - a little, how do they say, - simple, I believe), who rings the doorbell each Thursday afternoon and opens up with a sales pitch at one thousand miles an hour. He is selling two local newspapers. One is priced at 1Euro-fifty, the other 75 cents. But for 1.50 I get both, and what looks like a raffle ticket or something. He points at a page in the paper. He appears to not notice that I cannot engage one single bit in his banter, or that I have not the faintest idea what is going on(except I have two newspapers obviously), he gives me a big smile, a wave and takes off. I look forward to seeing him again next Thursday.

However, I visited the barber, the old peluquero as we say around here, was able to order what I wanted, talk about the weather, the local football, the Premier League (Spanish), my trip through Africa, and that I'm now living in Antequera. Not bad. Usual bloke's haircut conversation.

But 'believe' I have found some Spanish classes. And some art classes - something I have promised myself for years. So, the two things I assigned myself to do in Spain: Learn better Spanish, improve my art skills. Hey, and you thought I was just going to lark around.

I'm not even going to mention the Rugby World Cup.

I mentioned I was reading Karen Blixen's Out of Africa (1937, Penguin) as we arrived in Spain. I sometimes got tripped up when reading this book. Often poetic turns of phrase demanded you stop, re-read, even re-read again. 'The vault of the nocturnal sky swung back over our heads as we sat on, new constellations of stars came up from the east. The smoke from the fire in the cold air carried long sparks with it, the fresh firewood smelt sour.' Just a randomly picked choice of many. But it's a book of its time. This paragraph, to me, captures so much. The era in which it was written, a poet at work, and charming images.

Charcoal burning is a pleasant job. There is undoubtedly something intoxicating about it, and it is known that charcoal burners see things in a different light from other people, they are given to poetry and taradiddle, and wood demons come and keep them company. Charcoal is a beautiful thing to turn out, when your kiln is burnt and opened up, and the contents spread on the ground. Smooth as silk, matter defecated, freed of weight, and made imperishable, the dark experienced little mummy of the wood.

And that word. Probably what we would call 'old-fashioned' now. I didn't have my dictionary when I read it - it didn't matter. Context gives ample meaning. Wonderful. Onomatopoeic.

All the bookshops in Spain, no matter how small, are carrying the book La Ladróna de los Libros. When in Malaga, I visited the grand Liberitería Luces, which surprisingly had a reasonable English section (not bad! It's Spain after all). And there it was , Aussie author Markus Zusak's The Book Thief (2007, Black Swan). Bought it. The only problem (small) is that the Spanish title has given away a clue as to the thief's identity. But the book actually introduces you very early on, - and it's on the cover! No matter. Apparently it has picked up several awards already, explaining the wide sales around town, but traveling through Africa this is all news to me. It's one of those, as the reviewers like to say, unputdownables. I shan't tell you anymore.

You've gathered: I quite liked Out of Africa. Before I let it go I have to share one more nice little piece from it, with you. It cheers me up a bit. Bit pissed about our belongings.

One evening, as we were going to play cards, the English traveller told us about [his earlier travels to] Mexico and how a very old Spanish lady, who lived on a lonely farm in the mountains, when she heard of the arrival of a stranger, had sent for him and ordered him to give her the news of the world. 'Well, men fly now, Madame,' he said to her.
'Yes, I have heard of that,' said she, 'and I have many arguments with my priest about it. Now you can enlighten us, sir. Do men fly with their legs drawn up under them like the sparrows, or stretched out behind them, like the storks?'

Think I'll call the office, and phone in sick tomorrow. Yuk yuk. Sorry, rubbing it in.

Max
aka Mad

Cairo: don't forget the pyramids!

2007-09-17T09:26:00.000-07:00

As the Royal Jordanian flight touched down in Cairo, I finished John Reader’s Africa: a biography of the continent (1998, Penguin). At last. It’s been one big read. Quite fantastic, though I personally thought just a touch weak in the concluding chapters on modern Africa (post Independence). But still, a magnificent read.

On our last afternoon in Nairobi, way back then, we used up the time to visit the Karen Blixen house. A bit understated. But we did buy a copy of Out of Africa (1937, Penguin Classics). Well, you have to, don’t you? Just like we have bought Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls when in Key West, Florida, and his Old Man and the Sea (the Spanish version, that is: El Viejo y El Mar) when in Havana, Cuba, and Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped from his house in Samoa. There’s been others, but you get the idea, just a little quirk of ours. In fact, there's been several books bought and read in Africa where the authors lived or the subject was set. Most recently, of course, Deb's purchase of Married to a Bedouin from Petra, Jordan. Anyhow, I’m now reading Out of Africa. Now, do you want a coincidence, and this one takes a few years? Old Man and the Sea won for Hemingway the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. Next year he was awarded with the Nobel Prize in Literature. 'Upon receiving the latter, he noted with uncharacteristic humbleness that he would have been "happy; happier...if the prize had been given to that beautiful writer Isak Dinesen", referring to Danish writer Karen Blixen' (Wikipedia). I love this kind of stuff.

Arriving in Cairo and making our way from the airport we are immediately reminded of a downside of Cairo: the taxi drivers. We return to our first visit hotel, a good idea since they are holding a bag of our stuff and we are expecting tickets to Spain to be delivered there.

We have three full days back in Cairo before departing Africa. And we have a few things we want to get done: a visit to the Suez Canal (don’t forget the pyramids!); a trip to Alexandria on the Med coast (don’t forget the pyramids!), and a trip to Giza to see the pyramids - imagine a trip to Egypt and forgetting to see the pyramids!

Day One and we plan a morning trip to the Canal at Suez, then an afternoon trip from there to Alex for an overnight stay and return to Cairo the next evening. All perfect in principle. Some days travel plans go like a dream, and some days they don’t.

To cut a long story short, and save the pain of reliving it all, we did get to Suez, and we did get to Alexandria that day. But not until about midnight, and after a return to Cairo and another leg up to the coast.

I doubt this makes sense, but the Suez Canal was sort of what I expected, and sort of different. It’s maybe 100 metes wide, with low, flat desert either side. Just a water course through the desert. And wouldn’t you know it, despite hanging out in cafes and restaurants for a couple of hours, we didn’t see a ship pass. A muck up with bus departures in Cairo meant we arrived during the change of directions.

Late afternoon we took the bus to Alexandria, via Cairo (don’t forget the pyramids!). Which all went without incident. We did catch a sleep on the bus which meant we were right for going out when we eventually arrived at Alexandria. But it did reduce our time for a visit, becoming much shorter than it deserves. It has a lovely corniche, waterfront promenade. And besides, we have now travelled Africa bottom to top.

We spent the day ´cafe-ing´, and enjoying a great seafood lunch. But the sensational highlight was our visit to Bibliotecha Alexandrina. It has been built off the back of world-wide sponsorship, especially from the EU. Architecturally stupendous.It offers 2,000 PCs for library searching. I can only suggest taking a visit to www.bibalex.org and taking some time out to have a good look around the web site. You’ll be able to search ancient Egyptian manuscripts, and more. Fantastic place.

Caught a train back to Cairo. I was surprised when I had a meaningful and pleasant conversation with an Egyptian man. Our friend Sara will disagree with me, but I hadn’t thought this possible. Maybe an awful thing to say, but I’ve had my patience tested. But we talked of Islam, of Ramadan, his job as a mechanical engineer at a textile factory, of working for a multi-national. Very pleasant.

Anyhow, the next day back in Cairo is the first day after the new moon. It’s the start of Ramadan. And with a cool spell making temperatures, very pleasant (early thirties - we must be acclimatising), Cairo is a different place. It’s gone stunningly quiet. But we do get to Giza.

And we see the pyramids, and the Sphinx. Cool. Not disappointed. And, I cannot believe I have done this. Sara coerces us into taking a horse ride into the desert to look back at the pyramids. Oh man. But she is a very good rider, and it had to be better than a bloody donkey, or worse - a horrible camel.

We want to say our farewells and celebrate our end of the Africa trip. We're off to Spain the next day, and Sara to Sweden the following. She has been a great travelling companion for a couple of weeks. We have had a heap of fun, and shared some neat adventures. Finding a beer was even more difficult than usual. With respect to Ramadan, some of the places that usually serve beer don’t for the month. But good old Winda-zor (Windsor) comes through. I have a Stella, Deb and Sara go the full throttle and have gin and tonics. Even getting a feed was difficult. We found a really nice Chinese Restaurant, The Peking, as you do in Cairo!!!

Since Nairobi, I have missed newspapers. Firstly, and obviously, to read. And secondly, to give me ammunition to write stuff about in my blogs. I’ve been reduced to writing travelogues. Not my favourite. Besides you can all find TV programmes, books, and magazines that do it so much better than me. If I write about a trivial thing I find interesting it comes across as inane, something bigger or more interesting as big noting. And it reads like I’m telling you how to travel, which is not what is intended. It’s only my experience - pretty personal, and as a result, hardly worth sharing. I loved it when I could comment on happenings and events as reported in local newspapers. Then that’s news for you as well. But don’t fear ...

Last day and I do locate the Daily News Egypt (Tuesday, September 11, 2007 - so OK its three days old, but I’m not complaining) and look at what you have been missing:

From page 6, and oddly enough the Business Section: Saudi cancels camel beauty contest amid mystery deaths. Riyadh: 'Saudi Arabia has called off a camel beauty contest scheduled for later this month in the face of the mystery deaths of thousands of the animals that are a national icon in the deart kingdom.' ...
'In Saudi Arabia, camels are often referred to by the Arabic word mazaen (beauties) and can fetch more than one million riyals (200,000 Euros) a head.'...
'At least 2,000 animals have died over the past month, according to ministry figures. An AFP count based on press reports suggests at least 5,000 animals have died and thousands more fallen sick.'...
'From its base in London, the banned Movement for Islamic Reform in Arabia suggested that a "leading Saudi prince has poisoned thousands of camels belonging to other owners.'

Serious business. But, perhaps, not as serious as (page 5, The Region) Iran steps up crackdown against 'immoral' activity´. 'Tehran: Iran is pressing on with one of its toughest crackdowns in years, warning tens of thousands of women over slack dress, targeting "immoral" cafes and seizing illegal satellite receivers, local media reported on Monday.' ...'The Iranian police launched the crackdown in April in a self-declared drive to "elevate security in society" that encompassed arrests of thugs, raids on underground parties and street checks of improperly dressed individuals.' ... 'Reza Zarei, commander of police in Tehran province, said that since the drive began the police have handed out 113,454 warnings to women found to have infringed Iran’s strict Islamic dress rules.' ... 'He added that 5,700 people - including 1,400 men - have been sent to "guidance classes" on how to behave in society.' ... 'Zarei said police have been targeting billiard halls and coffee shops - the latter hugely popular in Tehran as a meeting place for men and women - as certain establishments promoted immorality.' ... 'Watching satellite television is illegal in the Islamic republic as it is deemed to spread decadence.'

So there you have it.

And that’s that. A little over six months and we are off on Egypt Air to Madrid, Spain. Keep an eye on Just Call Me Mad, and I’ll let you know how it goes.

Max
aka Mad

Jordan: if only all travel were this easy

2007-09-07T02:37:00.000-07:00

The Sinai is a tough piece of landscape. The drive from the coast to St. Katherine's monastery , still used by Greek Orthodox priests, is through harsh desert, with rock outcrops reaching straight to the sky. For fourteen Bedouin tribes, Sinai is home. Over the years, Egypt and Israel have warred for possession over the top of the Bedouin.

The climb to the top of Mt. Sinai was done overnight, under moonlight, to allow that particularly quaint tourist habit of having to view sights at sunrise. he climb up is via the 'camel track', and down via a steep rocky path of 3,000 plus steps. The sunrise, it has to be said, was indeed a beauty.

On return, we had arranged to be dropped off at a police checkpoint on the Dahab - Nuweiba highway, where we hoped to be picked up by a bus to take us to Nuweiba. This better work - we'll be in the desert. It worked.

Nuweiba is pretty much a nothing town. Just a port on the edge of the desert. We arrived close to mid-day, shagged, and being told a ferry to Aqaba, Jordan, would leave at 2:30pm. We located the ferry tickets sales building, not as you might expect on or near the wharf. What a thrash. Queues a kilometre long, it seemed. Luckily, we worked out that women can go to the head of the queue., which Deb does and buys the tickets. We told a Japanese group - one woman, three guys the same trick. And in that usual Japanese polite way they were very thankful, with many bows.

We hadn't eaten since dinner the night before, apart from some biscuits, so found an eating spot for some omelet and falafel pita breads, and some Arabic coffee. Plain and simple, does the trick.

We trekked off to the ferry terminal. Another zoo. And that was just immigration. The departure hall was crazy. Hot as hell. We located some benches under a high ceiling fan, read for a while, eventually succumbing, lying down and promptly falling asleep. Deb and I had a slow start to the previous day, but were up all night on the mountain. Sara, on the other hand, is a keen equestrian and had taken an Arab stallion for a tough ride out to a desert oasis, ('she rode through the desert on a horse with no name'), and was totally knackered.

Some time later, a joker was giving me a gentle shake, but not keen or allowed to even dream of touching Deb or Sara, indicates to me to wake them.

We board the ferry. First task is to go to the front of the boat and have our passports taken of us for Jordanian visas. After an hour, the ferry departs: it's 9:00pm!!!

Deb and I had teamed with Sara from the Egyptian border, after the Sudan train trip, because we figured we'd be doing the Libya trip together. With that falling over, and the idea of side-tripping to Jordan 'just happening', we stuck together. No problems, easy.

We arrived at Aqaba, maybe 10:15pm, having skirted around the top of Saudi Arabia, the lights on the other side of the harbour are Eilat, Israel - or Palestine, as they say in these parts.

Jordan is different. But of course, we've left Africa behind, we are in the Middle East. One sensed that even in Egypt they saw themselves as Arabic firstly, then maybe Middle Eastern, but thirdly as African. But smaller differences are immediately apparent. English is widely spoken; Immigration and Customs halls are clean and tidy; the taxi into town is a tidy car; the driver waits while we check out the hotel, drives us to his recommendation when deciding against the first; accepts the minimum fare we had been told without question. His recommended hotel is a lovely little place - warm (not hot, not necessary) fresh water (for five days in Dahab we had showered in brackish salt water - it didn't seem to matter at the time.), air-conditioned, and with cable TV. At 11:00pm we started watching a Bruce Willis movie - for about five minutes before crashing asleep.

Next morning, and Aqaba looks a lovely town, we start putting a bit of a plan together over juice and coffee. Backtracking is always a bit of a pain, retracing the ferry trip wasn't appealing (though already we figure it would be better on the Jordanian side, compared to the Egyptian madhouse.) Our time in Jordan is limited, se we decide to make the most of the week. So the plan was (for then!): Wadi Rum for an overnight desert experience, Petra, Dead Sea, then fly from Amman, the capital, back to Cairo. Deb and I already know that if it wasn't for her Masters degree start, a bag back at the hotel in Cairo, we'd be pushing on: Lebanon, Syria and then fly to Spain from Turkey.

Some things, however, are the same. It was already 39 degrees C at midday, and the hot part of the day was still to come. But Jordan is different. Returning to out hotel, we stop off at the bus station and enquire about buses to Wadi Rum. "Bus go now." But we hade to collect our bags - a ten minute return. "No problems, we wait." They do, and we're off in a bus with only two other passengers aboard. No waiting until the bus is full. This is stunning; quite unbelievable.

The bus conductor, Mubarak abu Rasheed, decides the opportunity is right to rack up a bit of business: "If you want desert trip, stay overnight, eat Bedouin style, my brother he do special price for you."

Well, it's what we have come to Wadi Rum for. We agree and before you know it we have bypassed the tourist centre for such outings, and been dropped off at the conductors house; his wife promptly serves tea; we meet one year old Rasheed (Abu means father of, the naming convention: Mubarak 'father of eldest son' Rasheed); and the trip is put together by calling up brothers.

This desert, with a range of coloured sands, and sandstone and granite mountains is simply stunning. We've seen a bit of deserts recently, but this is cool. Great light effects from the sun. This is where old T.E. himself, Lawrence of Arabia used do some of his rarking around. In fact, many scenes from the original classic movie was shot here.

What a lovely night. The brother, Audi, turns out to be a great joker. Around the campfire he tells us all about Bedouin traditions (most lead a dual life: we've already seen stacks of the goat hair tents in the desert, just as likely to have a Landcruiser as well as the camel parked outside - but also a house in the village so kids can go to school); remorsefully telling about his recently broken up seven year relationship with a Swiss woman; his new business venture taking French tourists through Algeria; singing a few traditional songs; and telling us the secrets of 'romancing' a woman. (I ask the question that had been bugging me: "Does a man ever get to see the woman who wears a full veil before they marry?" Apparently there is an 'engagement' period of a month prior to the wedding when he can get to see her.)

But the 'romancing' is something else again. It's all about whispering sweet nothings. He describes the sweet talk that must occur. Talk like: "If a bee should ever taste the honey from your lips, it would never again touch a flower." "Of a nighttime, when you open your eyes all the stars in the heaven close when they see your beautiful light." And so on. We try to hold back out chuckles. This is all just too much. He was so earnest. The girls tell Audi: "Max is very romantic. It doesn't matter where he is, when he sees the full moon he just goes very romantic." Audi is very impressed. Well, if two girls say it. "Yes, Max. Like what things you say, for example?" asks Audi. I think for a moment. "Oh just little things like - Every time I look at these beautiful rocks I see your face." " When I see the stars sparkling I am reminded of the crumbs you've dropped down the front of your black dress." "Every time I touch a Bedouin goat-hair tent, I am reminded of the feel of stroking your hair." "Every time I notice a mosquito bite on your arm, I would just love to help you scratch it." It just comes easily. Just a natural.

But the experience with just the three of us, and not a full tour party of several 4WDs is nice. In fact, the well worn, old, first edition Landcruiser adds to the charm. Gorgeous sunset, wonderful stars, stunning sunrise against the rock walls. But I feel a little disorientated. I'm not familiar with these northern hemisphere stars. We discover later, that we did get a real bargain as well.

Another bus belts us through the desert on superb roads to Wadi Musa. On the way, the driver has to slow down and show us the stockyards where Australian and NZ sheep, live exports, are penned after arrival at Aqaba. He's very pleased with himself to be of such knowledge.

The conductor, as they do, sees his opportunity and recommends a hotel for us. Again another beauty. The owner has to be a sister, cousin, or some family relation for sure. But already travel in Jordan is just so easy. It's a fairly popular tourist destination, thankfully we are here in the off season - very quiet (Can only imagine what Egypt is like at its peak). It still has a bit of the exotic. Great roads, good transport, no hassles people. Couldn't be simpler. Wadi Musa, set dramatically on the side of a mountain in muted sandstone colours, is the service town for Petra. It's a tad cooler, being at a bit of altitude, and has a nice splash of trees. We work up to visiting the Petra complex. In the first afternoon we check out little Petra, then do the candlelit nighttime visit to Petra that evening. A day off, (actually Sara, with over eight months travel under the belt and a week to go, is firing out both ends. We call a doctor. Funny, we have eaten exactly the same across the past few days), then the big One. Petra recently (July 2007) got voted as one of the seven new wonders of the world (http://www.new7wonders.com/), can't say I agree with the finalists myself.

It features the temples, tombs, and auditoriums hewn from towering rock faces. They were created by the Nabataens - a new one for me - an Arab people from pre-Roman era. They controlled, and taxed, the trade route that passed here. feature is the large Siq, a canyon like split in the rocks caused by tectonic earth movements - which provided a good hidden entrance. The Romans came, saw, and conquered, as they did, and carried on building magnificent sites. Quite fantastic. Expansive, extensive, and understandably very popular.

We've had a head-on collision with the tourist trail. There must have been a travel show on Petra back home. For the first time we have come across Aussies and Kiwis in droves, nearly all on package tours.

Funny thing happened. We spoke to a joker in a tea shop. When he discovers Deb is a Kiwi, he immediately asks "You know Marguarite?" Deb is puzzled. Marguarite van Geldermalsen (like Deb, a Dutch father) is a the guy's sister-in-law, who has married a Petra Bedouin, and written of the experience: Married to a Bedouin (2006, Virago). Bedouins consider themselves all related. If you come from New Zealand, you must be related. Before Deb knows what is happening, she has a cell phone trust in her hand, with Marguarite on the other end. She's very understanding; it happens regularly enough. But Deb, in her lovely affable style, chats away for a while. She buys the book.

It was quite a magnificent site: expansive, extensive, and understandably popular. We were quite shagged at the end of the day. It didn't stop us watching the original Indiana Jones movie at the hotel that night: it feature Petra at start and end. Like a bus conductor, our taxi driver back to our hotel, Mohammed - yep, another one!) saw his chance. We negotiated a ride up to Amman next day, taking in the sites: a better option than busing to Amman, on to another bus to and from the Dead Sea.

It was a good choice. We were taken to, stopped and had explained all the attractions along the Kings' Highway. The alternative, the Desert Highway, was just that. At one point, the road drops from near At Talifa, just over 2000m altitude, to the shores of the Dead Sea, the earth's lowest surface point, just over 400m below sea level. At this point we proceed along the Israeli West Bank border. A fenced, heavily military guarded district on both sides. To our driver's surprise there are also many police checks, and a lot of helicopters overhead. He figures something has happened, but isn't game to ask what. (Next day we read in the Jordanian Times that Tony Blair, Special Envoy to the Middle East Peace Process as he now prefers to call himself, I understand, is out and about.) He tells us that the radio news is all about an Al-Qaeda bombing in Algeria. He spends the next while berating Al-Qaeda and how un-Islamic an organisation it is. He reckons the word 'peace' is repeated 165 times throughout the Quran.

Anyway, the Dead Sea. Everyone knows about the high salinity and how you float so easily. But it is something you jus have to experience. When not quite knee deep you can lower yourself and bob away. Cool. A slight drop on your lips tastes gross. And it seems rubbing Dead Sea mud all over yourself is the other must do. The cold shower afterwards is much more refreshing than the swim. You need to wear sandals to the water’s edge. The sand is hot, hot, hot. The car radio apparently (thanks to Mohammed) told us it was 40 degrees at the Dead Sea's Amman Beach. But, as happens, we are starting to get used to these temperatures.

Driving along the sea shore, with a very clear day, we could see Jerusalem in the distance - and could make out the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque. At the northern end of the Sea is the source of the Jordan River, the Baptism site, and Madaba - home of the mosaic that mapped all biblical sites from Egypt to Lebanon (560AD).

Driving through olive groves into Amman city and the large direction signs point the way to the Iraq border, the Saudi Arabia border, the Syria border, and the Palestine border. It's a sprawling, low-rise, subdued colour tones - almost monochromatic, city. Quite attractive. We stay in the old bazaar quarters of Downtown, but go for dinner in the more modern, middle class suburb of Shemisani - a nice change.

Quite like this Amman city.

Caught the first round results of the Rugby World Cup on the BBC. Only surprise (was it?) the Argies over hosts France. I read on www.stuff.co.nz that the All Blacks are pissed because the Italians turned their backs on the Haka. That old story again. I don't understand that one. I'm all for developing and maintaining your culture, but at home. Heading offshore and jamming your culture down others throats is nothing short of imperialism.

Did you know that in the early 1900s an All Black and a Wallabies team were touring the UK. The All Blacks performed a haka, and the Wallabies a war cry. From memory, I don't think there was a Maori or an Aboriginal in either team. Anyhow, the press gave both teams a real dress down calling the performances shabby and belittling of 'natives'. The Australians, then as they still are now, being the more politically correct dropped the routine. The All Blacks persited. If you are prepared to wait a couple of years until I get home to my books, I can quote source, the newspaper, etc.

North of Amman lies Jerash, a preserved Roman city. But we have to say stop somewhere. Besides anymore of all these old Roman sites will be the ruins of us. Sorry.

Tonight, we fly Royal Jordanian back to Cairo. Back to Africa (Strewth! We better see those pyramids and the Sphinx!).

Mixed emotions, only four days before we fly to Spain.

Man. Where has that six months gone?

Max
aka Mad

But wait, there's more: Jordan

2007-09-03T07:01:00.000-07:00

Apart from wanting to visit, our trip to Sinai was also to use up a few days.

A South African couple, with a 4WD, we met at Wadi Halfa and on the ferry had invited us to join them crossing Libya to Tunisia. Then we could fly Tunis to Madrid - it would have been great to go all the way to Morocco then just hop across the Straits of Gibraltar to Spain, but Algeria is a no-go zone, and its border with Morocco is closed.

Traveling across Libya is not straight forward. It can only be done with a guide who travels with you, in one of your vehicles - there was to be three vehicles in convoy. You are permitted a 'Transit Visa' for this type of visit. But enough time to cross, and see the Roman ruins, Tripoli etc. The visas are a bureaucratic struggle, car registration tricky, etc etc. Apparently, the South Africans had a contact/guide lined up to get all the formalities processed. We submitted all our passport details in readiness for the visa.

The South Africans stayed in Aswan finalising all their Egyptian vehicle formalities - they needed some extra paperwork from South Africa. We went ahead, planning to meet up in Cairo on September 7.

We kept in email contact. Then one day, while staying in Dahab, we received a terse email saying 'No go. All too hard. Ferrying the 4WD Cairo to Morocco'. That's that. Ah well. Bit disappointing, but we are in no position to feel down beat. It was just an extra to an already unbelievable trip.

Plan B. In Dahab, we are close to Jordan, so with the opportunity we'll cross the border (after crossing Gulf of Aqaba!) and take a look at the wonders of Petra. Man, this could continue for ages, but no...

We've now booked airfares to Madrid for 14 September. So after Jordan, we'll make our way back to Cairo, see the pyramids, the Sphinx, and a couple of days on the Mediterranean at Alexandria.

Not such a bad option, what do you reckon?

Max
aka Mad

Sinai: you wouldn't catch me wandering about here for forty years

2007-09-03T06:25:00.000-07:00

Heading from Cairo to the Sinai, by bus (not the same restrictions up here), you are immediately back into the desert. And lines of cannons and anti-aircraft missiles at the ready, as you near the Suez Canal. Fairly heavy military presence.

Dipping under the Suez Canal through a tunnel does more than take you to the Sinai. We actually cross from Africa to Asia. Glimpses of the Gulf of Suez sparkle; the rest is harsh desert with stark, short, steep, rock hills.

The bus takes us to the south of the Sinai Peninsula, to the sea-side tourist resorts town of Sharm El-Sheikh. With a couple of hours wait, we taxied down to town for refreshment. Long enough.

We're heading to the village of Dahab. As we await our bus, a huge, blood-red, full moon rises, shimmering across the Gulf of Aqaba. In jest, I say "This is pretty romantic, eh girls?" Deb and Sara burst out laughing. "Oh yeah, sitting in the bitumen car park of a bus station, being harangued by touts. Very romantic, Max." We laugh. I guess they'll laugh again whenever they see a full moon.

Each night since, in Dahab, as we sit on Turkish carpets, on thrown cushions, low tables, having a cold Stella, sea lapping at our side, the near full moon still rising desert-red above the hills of Saudi Arabia, probably only 25kms away, moon rays shining all the way across the waters of the Gulf, we turn to each other and say: "This is pretty romantic, eh?", laugh, and sigh. And reflect on just how lovely it is.

Dahab was once a bit of a hippies hang out. While it has developed tourist wise, it's still got a lovely laid back feel. It's pretty hot; it's the desert right to the sea's edge. But in a reverse of weather patterns at home, Oz and NooZillan, it's breezy in the morning, starting about 1:00am) and dead calm in the afternoons and evening The breeze helps keep the temperature down to the mid thirties. As it eases in the evening, it actually feels warmer, but without the unforgiving, unrelenting sun.

Dahab is a real dive-heads hang out. Good reefs, and stacks of marine life all part of the Red Sea. Sara takes the opportunity to do her Master Diver training. Deb and I, having snorkeled in stacks of places, bite the bullet and do the PADI Open Water Diver course. Full on couple of days: two dives a day, a book to study, Knowledge Review quizzes to do each night. A final exam. And we've done it. Open Water Divers, allowed to dive anywhere to 18 metres. That will open up new opportunities with bro, Whaleboy, and niece, Asha.

It's going to be a bit hard leaving Dahab.

So who is this traveling buddy, Sara? Swedish, but has spent some years working/living in Germany. After her Business Studies degree in England, she got a job with INFORM in a marketing position. But transferred to a consultant's role traveling the world to major airports advising, selling, and implementing ground handling improving procedures. Sounds a cool job. She also plays a mean game of pool. As a doubles team at a local bar (hey! Dahab is a tourist town) we've been hard to beat. She's pleasant company, we get along well. We respect each others space. She has been traveling two months longer than us, down some West African countries to Namibia, then flew to Kenya, and we have been pretty much on the same trail since, crossing paths in Addis Ababa, joining up when leaving Sudan. I think we are just in the same traveller 'head space'.

The Sinai experience has been completed with a trip to the top of Mt. Sinai. At night, because of the heat, and to witness the sun rise. After the Ethiopian 'arc of the covenant' experiences, it just seemed to complete the story by going up to where Moses supposedly received the Ten Commandments. At the base of the mount is St. Katherine's monastery. Katherine was a martyr at Alexandria, apparently tortured on a spiked wheel and then beheaded. (Hence, the fireworks called a Katherine's Wheel.) Ah, the Christians and Moslems have such a history of getting along.

Our plans take a slight detour at this point.

Max
aka Mad

Cairo: the Arab world's biggest city

2007-09-03T06:06:00.000-07:00

Cairo: A little crazy; a little chaotic; but what a buzz. A neat place. An adventure just crossing the street. Taxi drivers another breed. Love it.

Stacks of retailing and offices but still street stalls and eating.

And we tracked down the fantastically quaint Windsor Hotel (made slightly more difficult with the local 'Winda-zore' pronunciation, with a good range of cold beers. We were prepared to have another crack at the local Stella, not to be confused with the Belgian Stella Artois. Not bad, when cold.

The Big One in Cairo is, of course, the Egyptian Museum. Chocker full of things Pharoanic (a wee Paul Theroux joke). Over crowded with tour parties - the leader carrying a pink umbrella, or the tour name on a banner, all members with their sticky labels on their chest. Forget the rest of the museum: they are here for one purpose and they bee-line for the Tutankhamen galleries, which are a pushing, jostling, squeezing madhouse. But if you take your time, have a good look around all the other exhibits, and then find your way to the Tut's treasures some time after 3:30 - 4:00pm you can almost have the area to yourself, nearly.

Another example of having seen lots of photos, feeling like you just about know it, then seeing the real thing. Pretty special. What treasures. But you know that.

The pyramids and Sphinx can wait until we come back from a trip to the Sinai.

Oh man, it's hot. Guess you have to expect that if visiting in summer.

Max
aka Mad

Walk like, walk like an Egyptian.

2007-09-01T10:06:00.000-07:00

Perhaps, show some respect and at least dress a little like an Egyptian.

I wrote earlier of our surprise coming across 20 foreigners at Wadi Halfa, Sudan. But, getting off the ferry and arriving at Aswan, Egypt and we were confronted with bloody millions of tourists. Culture shock!

Heat does terrible things to people's dress sense. You need go no further than Queensland to witness that. But crickey! Egypt is an Islamic state, and the way visitors dress is stunning. Some would even shock residents of the Gold Coast. No, I'm not suggesting visitors, especially women, adopt Moslem clothing style, but ... No wonder fundamentalist extremists have made attacks on tourists in the recent past. It must all be such an affront.

Some tourist woman at a Luxor site was dressed in what appeared her underwear, an unbuttoned, low-cut singlet top, prancing in high heels; the singlet read 'Do you think I'm sexy?' Rhetorical question. Shocker. Men as bad. No shirts, beer gutted, wearing poloni-strangler shorts.

But they are mostly package tourists, many staying on the Red Sea resort town of Hurghada. This place is described as the world's worst tourist trap. One guide describes it: 'visit it at your peril, and avoid it if you can.' Sounds none to appealing. They visit Aswan and Luxor on day/side trips. I figure they have packed for the beach and that's it. But they wear what the style police would, or definitely should, arrest for at home.

Call me old fashioned. But, we are visitors. Don't you show a little respect in your host's home? I guess it just seems odd for us having traveled, respecting custom, especially in Ethiopia (not Moslem but has its customs just the same) and Sudan. I know western and islamic thinking is very different, but there has to be a middle ground.

I got a lot of jibes in Aswan walking along with two women. The guys here are first class lecherous. But no chance of feeling big headed, I'm also brought back to size pretty quickly with a little backhander "That a beautiful daughter you have, mister." And poor Deb: "No wonder, she have such a beautiful mother. You very lucky, mister." Gets a tad tedious fairly quickly. The store owners are rapacious. Constantly in your face. But it gets tiresome bartering for bottles of water, or an ice-cream.

We'd been longing for a beer for a while now, all through Sudan. They are available in Egypt, but not freely outside tourist hotels (even ours in Aswan and Luxor didn't have them - but I guess there's tourist hotels and tourist hotels.) In Aswan, we went looking. We found an upmarket hotel, on the river, feluccas sailing, and sun setting, but what a disappointment. It wasn't cold enough by a long shot. I've written of the perils of warm beer. Bugger. Bit of a let down. An internet search showed Luxor at 43 degrees C, and the same for each of the next five days.

Before arriving, the idea of a felucca trip on the Nile from Aswan to Edfu looked appealing. But it's just a tourist trap. People we spoke to that had done it wished they hadn't. Between Aswan and Luxor we visited Kom Ombo, right on the Nile banks, and the Temple of Horus, Edfu - one of Egypt's best preserved temples. Luxor needs no description. With Kanak and Luxor Temple, Valley of Kings, Valley of Queens, Hatshepsut.

All the famous sites of Aswan and, especially, Luxor are truly magnificent. All the grandeur was something else again. It happens time and again as you travel. You visit a site, natural or man-made, for the first time but you feel you know it so well already. You've seen pictures of it before: books, movies etc. But then you see it real for the first time and it just takes your breath away. Abu Simbel, south of Aswan does that. Stunning. In its own way, but also because of the relocation project that saved it from being lost, flooded by Lake Nassar and the Aswan high dam. We got a night time, floodlit view from the ferry as we passed. We just knew we had to get the 270 km back through the desert to see it again. But we had to travel down in convoy, leaving Aswan at 4:00am.

Early Christian visitors earsed faces and any uncovered flesh from the figures.

Recent bombings of tourists means the Egyptian police have become over protective, especially in these high tourist visit places. Travel is supposed to be on over expensive (in US$ fares) sleeper or first class trains; tourist buses in convoys. If I was a bomber, what would I target? The odd train/bus on the off chance there would be a tourist, or go for the convoy or train only carrying tourists? Hmmmm. Anyway, we haven't forgotten our overlanding ways. We 'heard' there was a 7:00am bus to Cairo and get there: no bus. But 8:30am, bus comes: to Hurghada - no thanks. Had also heard there was a train at 9:15am, shoot (Crickey! don't say shoot around here) back to the station and attempt to buy a ticket. Can't do, only a local train, 2nd class. Train comes, and we jump on. Buy our tickets off the conductor no problems, which includes a 'fine' for not having a ticket, but still less than one-sixth of the price of a first class ticket. We didn't have a seat, so a bit of shuffling until we settled. It's comfortable, and air conditioned. Just don't think about using the loos, oh boy. And we got to travel with locals again, share their lunch and cups of tea. This is the way. Lovely.

We travel alongside the Nile all the way. The desert either side of the green, irrigated, strip. Eastern (Arabic) Desert one side, Western (Libyan) Desert the other - this one becomes localised as the White and Black Deserts nearing Cairo.

Arrive at Cairo station. First things first. Goes without saying, the battle with the Cairo taxi drivers. Ah, it's all good fun. And as usual, when you state your destination: "Yes! Yes! I know." then precede all directions, asking people as they go: "Do you speak English? Can you speak to these tourists and find out where the hell I am going?" Of course, they then want to charge for having driven half way around Cairo. Fat chance of that. Like I've said, you have to see the fun in it. Otherwise...

Right. Cairo. Bring it on.

Max
aka Mad

Leaving Sudan

2007-08-24T05:40:00.000-07:00

On the eve of leaving Khartoum, a furious electrical storm struck with a brief downpour. Enough to turn the streets into a nauseous mess of mud - difficult and treacherous to navigate, and with a real pong. Time to leave.

The Sudan we have been in, is the Sudan the government is prepared to let you see: that is, the arab, islamic Sudan with its sharia law. There are two Sudans, possibly three with the Darfur situation. South Sudan, black and with a seperate government, was nearly joined to Kenya or Uganda at independence, and is near impossible and way too dangerous to visit. Years of war since independence in 1956, have left landmines, bandits, and armed tribes. (Mind you, stacks of people still walk the streets of Ethiopia with a Kalashnikov slung over the shoulder.)

There has been a peace agreement in place since 2005, and a referendum is planned (2011, I think) on self determination for South Sudan. The government is currently letting stacks of Chad refugees in to the South to help stack islam numbers prior to the vote. Most of Sudan's oil comes fom the south, which the North Sudan won't be keen on giving up. It is currently all piped to refineries in the north. It's all pretty messy, not easily sorted. The opposition press, South sympathisers, generally refer to the government as fascists, oppressors, and such rhetoric. They are regularly banned, popping up under a new name.

Sudan has had a colourful past. It has supported Saddam Hussein during the Gulf War; offered sanctuary to Osama bin Laden; hosted Carlos the Jackal and the Palestinian group Humas. In 1993, the USA put Sudan on the list of state sponsors of terrorism. Then in the mid 1990s they started their war with Eritrea; got involved with the Ugandan resistance movement; tried to assinate Egypt's president Mubarik; and then in 1998 Clinton ordered a misile attack of Khartoum, of a supposed chemical weapons factory, that turned out to be producing veterinary drugs. The goverment through this period was vehemently fundamentalist Islamic. But by 1999 oil production came into full swing: a new wealth was found, things settled. Post September 11, 2001, Sudan gained some creditability turning over to the US all its files on al-Qaeda and Iraq. They then started negotions, taking years, and not quite finished, with the South.

Everything, from what we were allowed to see, on the suface, seems settled. What lurks beneath, who knows?

The salubrious sleeper carriage

The train , Khartoum - Wadi Halfa is 930km and took 35 hours. It's done in, kind of, three stages: Khartoum to Atbara, then to Abu Hamed, and the last to Wadi Halfa. Each stage is about 12 hours, and 300km. There's a break of about an hour at each leg end.

The first leg is along the Nile. To the left you see the river, palm trees, and some farming. Green. To the right, desert. Second leg, more of the same I guess - don't know, it was dark. The third leg is the stark, harsh, slighty spooky, Nubian Desert. On this leg we stopped for three-quarters of an hour at Station 6 (there's 10 on this leg including start-finish, Abu Hamed and Wadi Halfa). Station 6 has a well,and as a result, 4 or 5 trees - and a small vilage, in the middle of the desert! The other stations just have a couple of railway workers huts. Bleak. It had to be 50 degrees at least at Six.

left side of train: Nubian Desert

right side of train: Nubian Desert

Station 4. Bleak. There are some dismal workers huts on the other side

The train is the most dirty, grotty, broken down specimen I have seen. It has Classes I, II, and III and a sleeper carriage - which we scored with help of our station master cobber Yasir. Then there's the peope who travel for free, by sitting on the roof, through the desert - poor bastards.

They pull their beanies down over their face when the train moves, and that's it for protection.

Our Swedish friend, Sara, got on at Atbara - without a ticket. She couldn't buy one for trying. They are sold in Khartoum! While we walked the station looking for her, she had quickly seen that classes I to III were just zoos. No free seats, every bit of floor space slept on, and luggage and 'cargo' stacked to the ceilings. Dirty as all hell. It was crazy. We spotted her sitting in the cafeteria carriage, looking a little concerned.

We spirited her into our sleeper compartment, and set her up on one of our camping sleeping mats on the floor. She was quite comfy, and way grateful. Next day she sat with us in our compartment and nobody said boo. About 40 kms from journey end and they came and collected tickets (they do check them regularly in other classes, but after first check left us alone in the sleepers). She paid for a third class seater ticket and got away with it.Good stuff.

A very few trucks and 4WDs cross the desert by driving next to the rail tracks. We saw only the two truck-buses, both laden with people and stacked to the sky on luggage racks. We had to stop and pick up people on the train; one truck was bogged in sand to the axles.

Going nowhere fast; passengers have boarded the train and the dig out will commence in the heat.

Man it was hot. And dusty, sandy. The toughest travel of the whole trip. Maybe. Kenyan trucks across the desert was tough alright, but this took so long. You could have made tea with our drinking-bottle water stored in the shade. The hot wind blowing through the window was like a blow torch. Literally inches of sand covered us, the beds, the floor. The train creates its on dust - lucky our carriage was up front, and we also traveled through big dust storms. Man it was tough. And we were traveling the 'comfort' class. The people we met in Khartoum who had come down by train had gone first class and were still in shock. Mind you, they also had an 11-hour derailment.

A local joker in another sleeping compartment chatted with us, telling us he last travelled on the train in 1966. It was air-conditioned, had a buffet dining car, and served cold beer! Alcohol was banned in Sudan in 1983.

We spent the night at Wadi Halfa at the Nile Hotel. All accommodation is quickly snapped up - there's the train from the south, and the ferry from the north all in town at the same time. It was full - we were offered 'outside', which is a sandy, courtyard come garden arrangement. Beds are dragged out, a mattress thrown down, a clean sheet and a pilow. You sleep under the stars. Wonderful.

To our surprise, there was about 20 foreigners there.The most foreigners we had seen in months. An overland truck, four 4WDs, and us three heading north, and a German motorcyclist and a German lass heading south into Sudan.

Wadi Halfa isn't much more than a hell hole. Again, it had to be 50 degrees, just wicked. The highlight, while sitting out our three hour breakfast in the shade, was watching an Indian made tuk-tuk get manually off loaded from the top of a bus it had been transported up on.

We had bought tickets for the ferry to Aswan, Egypt, with our rail tickets in Khartoum. Others take what they can get. You've guessed it - we hosted Sara again, in out roomy, air-conditioned cabin. The overland truck people all hosted the 4WD people on their floors as well. There was quite a comraderie between us all. But it was no secret. It became quickly well known amongst the staff that I had two blonde women with me in my room - very good for my reputation. But it was all too much for one Egyptian joker,who, all cliche tourist jokes apart, sideled up next to me at breakfast last morning, having done his research and knowing us white-ies have just the one wife, and in all seriousness pointed at Sara and says "This one, not wife?" "No, friend," I reply. "I not a rich man, but I can get two camels. OK? But I have a party, a very big party for you. My friend, he have a lot of Riki Martin music. Yes? We do?" I had to say no, I'm sure Sara's father would not have been happy had I not got at least three camels.

Offloading the boat was diabolical. When boarding we all had to throw passports in a box. During the trip they sorted the honkies out, and did our visa requirements. The rest, bloody hundreds if not more, of locals they listed alphabetically. Everyone queued in every corridor and accessway to get off as the officals called individually from the list and let people off one-at-a-time. Thankfully, somebody thought the foreigners should be allowed go as we had been through the visa stuff, and we were let off.

We stepped ashore. In Egypt. Our last country on the trip north.

Max
aka Mad

Farewell Khartoum: and with a new pair of sunglasses

2007-08-18T03:43:00.001-07:00

I've replaced the shonky sunglasses. I've paid NZ$2.50. Alright, more expensive than the NZ$1.40 Ethiopian pair. But wait! The Ethiopians were 'no names'. My new ones are Ray Bans! What a bargain, huh? The Chinglish on the tag only has two spelling mistakes.

Essential to getting out of The Sudan, overland, northbound is getting a train ticket. There's a weekly train to Wadi Halfa. You can try and truck it through the desert along the Nile. But it can get over 50 degrees. Back in Kenya, Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman's "Long Way Down" crew told us of 40km in 24 hours, in flash , new, tricked up Land Cruisers. Max, the German, came down that way, took 48 hours to do 70 kms, and said: "Don't. Catch the train." Besides we enjoy train travel, but this one is supposed to be a doozie.

On our second day in Khartoum, we went to get tickets having read to book early. We were lead to an office and met Yasir Yaseen. But no, they don't go on sale until the Saturday before travel: Mondays. He gave us pricing and after a bit of a chat, a list of useful placenames in Khartoum, like the station, the bus stations, our hotel district, all written in Arabic. Very useful for getting around. Not a complete waste of time.

We asked if he could take down our names, and maybe ... you know ... kind of 'reserve' seats for us. He said yes, but we didn't feel comfortable about it all. Especially when he used say "8:30am in the night, or 2:00pm in the morning." We left with no real idea of what time the train leaves. "Come back Saturday, 8:00pm in the morning. Tickets on sale."

We tried to do some planning. We wanted to see the Dervishes on Friday evening, pick up the tickets 8:00am Saturday morning(?), and catch the train 8:30pm Monday. We went to Sudan Airways to try to book flights to Port Sudan, to see the Red Sea, for midday Saturday and maybe comeback midday Monday.

Well. All (one a day) flights booked until Tuesday, the day after the train leaves. Return flights aren't until 6:30 pm. - too late. And, a new rule a month old, travel permits required for flying into Port Sudan. Bugger that, not going there. I've had enough of permits and registrations. What is with this government? So that trip wasn't going to happen. And a good thing as it turns out.

Anyway back to the station, 8:00am Saturday (in the morning), and back to what we thought was the ticket sales office. There was a large crowd thronging in the main hall. We find Yasir. Much greetings, hand shaking: old friends. "Yes. Of course. I have booked you a cabin, a two person sleeper." (Wacko! This train is notoriously a zoo.) "Come to ticket office." We are lead behind the 'sales window', introduced to another joker, who confirms our booking, but come back 1:00pm. (Lucky we hadn't got a midday flight to Port Sudan, eh?)

Yasir leads us back to his office. He calls out a request to some joker, soon a woman appears with coffee. Shortly a shoe shine boy stops by, then another boy drops a newspaer on his desk. It turns out that Yasir is the station master! And he has taken us under his wing and looked after us.

He explains, they can't issue a ticket yet. The carriage numbers of the train coming back from Wadi Halfa haven't been phoned through yet. He can't look this info up on his PC - he doesn't have one. But he does have a big office, and a big desk befitting a station master. And it's a tough job. He has to manage operations of one train a week to Wadi Halfa, one to Port Sudan, one passenger and two goods trains to Atbara ("very busy, Atbara."), and one train a fortnight to Nyala, in the West. No wonder he has time for a chat and coffee with us, not to mention look after our booking.

He took particular delight in looking at the photos in our Bradt Sudan Travel Guide. "Very beautiful book." (I like this Guide. It's a first edition, and its approach is: we'll get you started, but you've found your way to Sudan, you're big kids - you work it out. Much more refreshing than some that act as bibles, telling you how, when, where, why on every step of a trip - ones that people spend so much time traveling and looking at they don't see the country, or the same one millions of others see also.)

But we now have sleeper compartment tickets in our back pocket for a train that leaves at 8:00am Monday morning! Lucky we hadn't got a midday flight return from Port Sudan, eh?). Train to Wadi Halfa, then the ferry (tickets we got on first visit to station) to Aswan, Egypt. Fortunately the ferry doesn't leave until the train arrives. It's known for derailments, delays, and sand over tracks. On time, it should take 36 hours. Could be interesting.

Sudan, mostly Khartoum, really has been a wonderful experience - bureaucracy apart. There's some really sweet guys who work the juice bar on the corner near our hotel, that we have made a regular. They have become very familiar. Topping up our glasses when two-thirds drunk, giving Deb oranges as we leave, and taking photos of us with their cell phones.

A charming chai seller operating from a seat in the alley allows us to take our glasses (yep, glasses of tea) on a silver tray up to our hotel room and take back later. Oh yeah, spiced and minted tea, and herb and ginger coffee are not bad.

I'm not that naive. Sure there's nice people, but people being people there's bound to be the dislikable as well. Like anywhere. Just haven't met too many here.

I'm still plugging away with John Reader Africa: A biography of the continent but spotted in a market a book Season of the Migration to the North (1969, Heinemann) by Tayeb Salih, born in Sudan, university educated in Khartoum and London and served as Head of Drama at BBC's Arabic Services. It looks a nastily photocopied, cheap production, but an interesting read.

It all started big, open-ended and timeless. We will now be entering the last country of the African trip. It feels odd. But then, there's Spain and a brother and his family to look forward to.

I think I always wanted something like this to happen. Never dreamt of it. Never planned it. It's just happened. And it's pretty cool.

Max
aka Mad

Khartoum: I've seen the Whirling Dervishes

2007-08-17T12:21:00.000-07:00

I'd heard the term 'whirling dervishes' and never paid much attention. Some spaced out, whirling jokers or something, I guess. I wasn't even sure if they weren't some hippy thing, like a hurdy gurdy man or something.

Oh how I have learnt.

Before full proceeding got underway, there was a procession of drum beating, cymbols bashing and flag waving.

Forming a big circle, adherents of the tariqa, an order of the Sufi sect of Islam, chant and clap and whip up a frenzy. They chant 'La illaha illaha', loud, fast and repetitively: 'There is no god but Allah.'

Most Sudanese wear restrained white robes, jallabiyas. But the jokers who dance and prance in the middle wear an array of green and red, often patched; multi-coloured harlequin like outfits; leopard skin, chunky beads and dreadlocks appeared popular.

Then after a while they start breaking off into one-legged spinning. Spurred on by the circle of clapping and chanting adherents. They go into a dizzy frenzy. Some collapse. But a 'good dancer' is one who can reach dizzy state, recover, and restart.

Central to Sufi belief is reaching a state of ecstasy by the constant repetition of God's name. Then, the believers heart can communicate directly with God. It is as important to the chanting circle to help dervishes reach this state.

Not surprisingly, at the beginning of proceedings I struck up a conversation with one Shazali Hamed AL-Amin Elesid (lucky he gave me a business card), M.A. in Geography, with heavily accented but wonderful English. His thesis was 'The effects of the Sufi culture on the communities of The Sudanese northern Nile'. So, he knew his Sufi stuff. He stuck with me most of the ceremony (some women had collared Deb),for one and a half hours giving me all the low down I've described. He introduced me to stacks of people. It was easy to tell he was well respected. All the people I met, went out of their way to tell that not all Islamic people are violent - terrorists, one said. At this ceremony that was obvious.

The ceromony ends with burning incense (I think) being taken around the crowd, for a quick inhale. That's my mate Shazali standing immediately behind the joker in the patchwork outfit.

A real treat to the senses.

So now I know. Not much, but at least something about the whirling dervishes.

Max
aka Mad

Sudan: Desert ruins - a test for sunglasses

2007-08-17T04:36:00.000-07:00

Bad News.

The NZ$1.40 sunglasses didn't last a week. They broke. Surely there's an Ethiopian government authority I can write to about this? Sticky-tape has work for a couple of days. Replacement is inevitable. I'll keep you posted.

We took a break from Khartoum for a couple of days. Heading 300kms, there abouts, north along the Nile to the Royal Cemetery ruins. A set of pyramids in the desert, just short of Meroe. Barreling along the highway in the bus you spot them, call to stop , and get dumped on the roadside. The smallest collection of low-set mud huts (four or five), nearly sand covered, apparently a 'village' called Bajarawiya (that rolls of the tongue) stands a short way off. By the time we gather our bags, two camels and a donkey and cart, and their handlers, have appeared from nowhere to assist us make the half kilometre walk to the gate. It's not required.

But the sufsuf (beats me?) bus is like no other we have ridden since South Africa. Air conditioned, comfortable, and constant supply of water (we stick to our bottles), soft drinks, sweets, and cakes are handed out.But stepping off, we are near flattened by the intense heat.

Swedish Sara has made the trip with us. The ruins are fantastic. Two sets of pyramids, mostly in ruin but German teams have done some nice restoration work on some. We are alone. In the desert. It's just great, in a late afternoon softening sunlight. We mooch, and discover for a couple of hours.

The Nile is where mankid began one of their earliest attempts to lodge 'signposts of permance', and continued doing so ever since. Pyramids, monumental public architecture, extravagant burials, tablets recording the greatness of kings and queens. I guess, that means, where class societies also began. But argument rages (as told by Theroux Dark Star Safari, and Reader Africa: a biography of the continent) about Egyptian and Nubian (the former Sudan) reigns. For a long time, the Egyptian rulers were actually Nubians, but driven out by Assyrians they returned to present-day Sudan and set up all the ways now recognised as ancient Egytian culture. Present day Egyptians reflecting in the glory pisses Sudanese, they reckon after all that the Egyption royalty were Sudanese. Kind of. Anyway, that's why there are ruins at Meroe, and some others you need a 4WD, and GPS navigation. They are out in the desert.

Sara says her good-byes. She's off to Atbara, further north. We'll catch up again on the train, north and out in a couple of days. Deb and I stay the night. The gate man checks we'll be OK, tells us we will be safe, at least that's what we think he has said, packs up his donkey and heads off ... to where? We settle in. We decide not to use the tent. It would be too hot. We try to sleep on our mats, but lie there sweating like hell. A gentle breeze is warm and makes us feel fan-forced, oven baked. The breeze gets up a wee bit, and we get covered in sand. A tough night's sleep. But we wake up, in the desert, with pyramid ruins nearby. It's just something else.

We tromp back to the highway. In about 10-15 minutes a big truck from GOHI Construction & Contracting (Chinese, I think - a monument down the road a bit near something big and industrial has Chinese and Arabic writing over it) stops and offers a ride, 70-80 km to the turn off to Shendi. Picking up a mini-bus back to Khartoum from there was easy. Khartoum has settled around 40 degrees.

We never actually travelled alongside the Nile. They've built the road a distance off, because of annual flooding. But it is close by, standing out in the dry desert as a green strip for 50 metres either side. The Nile has been a bit of a feature of our travels. White Water rafting the source of the Victoria Nile, which turns into the White Nile, in Uganda. From Addis to Bahir Dar, Ethiopia, we dropped 1,500 metres down into a gorge where the Blue Nile, anything but with silt laden red-brown water, raged along. Closer to Bahir Dar we passed a small town with a sign next to a 'creek' that read 'Source of the Blue Nile'. This ran into Lake Tana, where on a boat trip checking out monastrues we were taken to the outlet that is the Blue Nile proper.

Now in Khartoum we see the confluence, where the White and Blue meet and continue their journeys as The Nile up through to Egypt.

We will be on it in a week.

Max
aka Mad

Meltdown in Khartoum

2007-08-17T03:25:00.000-07:00

Khartoum is a mess. Rubbish litters the streets. Unformed, open drains cut across footpaths. Formed drains, many open, stink in the heat.

The streets are crowded with people, the traffic crawls through them. The road code appears based on 'nudging'. There isn't a car on the road, no matter how new, or old, that hasn't a dent or scrape, or many. Away from the city centre, and moving, a vehile could be, on any trip, either 'nudger' or 'nudgee', or on some trips even both. Twice our taxis have even 'nudged' people - one, more of a bump.

Come afternoon, and the streets and footpaths have metre square mats layed out and every item of junk and clothing imaginable is spread out for sale. Along footpaths, you duck under the rows of football shirts on sale.

A month or two back, while somewhere sown south, we read the Nile had broken it's banks and flooded Khartoum. It's all the rain from Ethiopia. There's now a layer of silt in all the streets, along with the sand blown in from the desert, dried out, and now the heat sears through a dusty, gritty cloud.

But, I really like this place. It's got a buzz. People cool, fascinating to observe. The streets are a grid pattern making navigation easier(ish). But then there's the alleys and lanes! Locating your hotel isn't always that easy. But a couple of days sorts that. Lots of appeal in this town.

We spent the first couple of days on the permits trail, chasing rail tickets (fruitlessly), and taking a chance of visting the National Museum - how would you say? very Sudanese, but really interesting. Like a low key Egypt. We've moved into a totally differant culture, past and present. Now, very arabic.

The National Museum

We've changed hotels three times. Each time getting better, and cheaper. Work that out. The latest, and we'll stay put, is Al Nakhil, and is quite nice. Only days ago it seems, hot showers were a priority, whereas now they can't be cold enough. We're staying in the travellers 'district' of Souq Al Arabi. A couple of days of permit chasing means you meet and cross paths with the other travellers in town, who come in waves from the ferry/train from the north, or dribs and drabs, like us, from the South east. Not quite true, everyone times their arrival around the train/ferry out. There is seven of us in town when we arrived. We met for dinner, exchange hints for short-cutting bureaucracy, identifying best hotels and so on. There was the two of us, Sara the Swede, Yenneck and another Max both German, Andrew a Pom, and French Canadian Bruno. A pleasant team.

Bruno is an interesting guy. For three years he has travelled, weekly submitting a story to a newspaer back home in Canada. The things you can do, eh?

It's got hotter! Day Three reached 46 degrees! We spend as much on water, buying stacks of 1.5 litre bottles, as on about anything else. Except, maybe, mango juice - terribly yum. No beer - a dry country, alcohol strictly banned. Probably a good thing, imagine the dehydration of a couple of beers in these temperatures! Don't think I've ever experienced such temperatures, it's really something else. You try not to do much during the middle of the day, except find a food place or juice bar for shade and where you can get blasted by a fan. At night you also sleep under the fan. All the fellow travellers walk around with glowing pink faces - and we're no different.

But we are a bit limited in what we can do. Access is limited to lots of areas, and other just so damned hard to get to - for nothing really. The South and Darfur for the obvious reasons, and because of the war with Eretria, and because many towns are centres for refugee camps which they don't want us seeing, and I'm not keen anyway.

Everything takes ages. As you'd expect, everything is written in Arabic, there's miniscule English spoken, and you grind in the heat. What kind of picture do I paint? But, I'm liking it, a lot.

Khartoum is really three cities: Khartoum , Khartoum North, and Omdurman. Each of two to three million people. Each thinking of themselves as quite seperate. Omdurman has its own real identity. The Blue and White Nile rivers meet, go off as the Nile. Imagine the Y-shape this creates, and each city at a junction corner, are you with me? K North serves mainly as a transport hub for the traveller coming/going north.

The group of us knocking around together (sharing company, and making light of the task of working out how to get around - just like travel in the good old days) made a couple of trips to Omdurman for some great experiences. Souqs (markets), day and night - crowded, noisy, and where you choke on the ever-so-strong smell of spices and herbs; a visit to the camel market - our little mini-van (those tiny Suzuki things) got lost and ran out of petrol, prompting having to hire a boy with a donkey and cart to take six of us the last couple of kilometres - to find out it was the wrong day for camel sales. There were quite a few camels still in a yard, but there was a great sheep sale going on. All the people at the sales were just great with us.

Technology is all around, internet and cell phones everywhere, but digital photography and the ability to show the older guys the photos taken of them just went down a treat. We were all under great demand to take photos of the guys with their prized sheep. Great experience.

Our hotel has BBC and Aljazeera, but I'm really missing a good newspaper read. Internet, here, is the fastest we have had all trip including South Africa, but web news sites just aren't the same. There's also comment, editorials etc etc for gaining an insight into the local psyche that I miss. There's two or three English local papers, but they are just political posturing, written in shocker English. They all seem very pro-South Sudan and get banned and closed down regularly, apparently popping up again registered in the South. Interesting, for their badness, first day, but then ... But I have heard on the BBC my old mate, Zambian ex-president Chiluba, is now facing trial for corruption. Beauty.
I don't mean to paint the wrong picture. I'm enjoying the Khartoum experience, and had some real fun, some cool experiences, and seen wonderful things. Besides, I recall Maclom Fraser telling me, what thirty five years ago? - Life was not meant to be easy.

Max
aka Mad