By Bicycle: from Lisbon to Setubal, Portugal Part I

By Bicycle: from Lisbon to Setubal, Portugal Part I
Vila Nova de Milfontes, Portugal
October 29, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

Mira riding through the Portuguese countryside.

Mira and I ran out of the youth hostel in Oeiras in the nick of time, as our incessant laughter and giggles were beginning to run their course with the rest of the hostel’s inhabitants, who seemed to be in a perpetual state of misery. So we hopped upon our faithful steeds (bikes) and rode out on the busy coastal road that lead to Lisbon proper.

About ten minutes out, we realized that our load was far too heavy for our bikes and gear racks to carry. I watched Mira ride over a curb only to have her mountainous bundle of baggage swing back and forth and pull the backside of her bicycle in and out of the busy highway. Something had to be done. So we pulled over into a little beach front turnoff and tore all of our stuff out of their bags and strew it all in piles about the beach. It was now time to sort out what was needed from what was merely wanted. Mira wept as she tossed away her gigantic wooden hair brush and brick sized “Learn French in Thirty Days” lesson book. Her sad droopy eyes made me sad too, so I scooped up the big, dumb “Learn French in Thirty Days” lesson book when she was moping under a pine tree and hide it in my gear basket. I left the comb behind though. Mira also had to part with a pair of jeans, a sexy night gown, an armful of color pencils, a gigantic copy of Arabian Nights, and a big dumb battery charger that did not really even work. For myself, I cut my load down to a single pair of pants, a t-shirt, a thermal top piece, and the two long sleeve lumber jack shirts that you have seen in every photograph of me from this past year. I also, of course, kept my big Dell laptop, nicknamed “Old Faithful” because it has travel over sky, sea, and land with me for the past two years and still starts up on command (Ode to Old Faithful!). I had to leave behind a Lonely Planet Morocco, a huge Rough Guide to West Africa (yes, it seemed to be as useless as Andy warned), a copy of William S. Burrough’s Interzone, and a book entitled Making out in Arabic which I did not use in Morocco, as I did not feel the need to make out with anyone and only saw an old French woman without any clothes on (not quite the score that one would imagine). Now, a little less encumbered, we were ready to begin our bicycle journey across Portugal and into the old time embrace of Europe. Throwing one last sideways glance back at our discarded pile of past-possessions, I smiled and Mira pouted as we pulled away from the beach on onward towards France! Throwing things away while travelling makes me happy; throwing things away while travelling makes Mira pissed.



What I look like on a bicycle riding across Portugal.

On the road to Lisbon, we lost our way a few times, only to find it again a few moments later; we just had to follow the graffiti trail into the city. Soon we arrived at the ferry port and prepared to board. I went in to buy the tickets. “One forty three,” the pleasantly plump ticket vending woman behind the counter said to me. “One hundred and forty three Euros!” I exclaimed with a boisterous shock. “No!” the pleasantly plump ticket women said with exasperation, “One Euro and forty three cents!”

“Oh,” that sounded better to me.

So we prepared to board the ferry while an old Boston song blared out over the port side PA system. I took Mira in my arms and stared out across the river at the barren looking land where we would venture without plan or care.

We soon boarded the ferry, and the ride to the other side went smoothly, as I watch Lisbon fading away into the sea. I was excited, and so was Mira, except she was far more interested in the huge brown jellyfish that were floating up to the surface in the wake of the ship. “Jellyfish! Jellyfish!” she would exclaim with excitement each time one bobbed its ugly head above the waves. I enjoyed watching her transform back into a little girl by the simple enjoyment of spotting a few jellyfish.

“I have always love jellyfish ever since I was a child,” she said. “They don’t have brains, you know?”

I would imagine that Mira would love something that did not have a brain.

Once on the other side of the tributary, Mira and I rode through a complicated mess of highways and into a deep rain storm. “What way do we go?!?” we asked each other in unison. One highway went one way and another jetted off into another direction. Cars screamed by us and the rain fell upon our heads. I didn’t know what way we were going, so I just rode on into somewhere. Anywhere, I figured, was better than sitting in a tangle of highways in a rainstorm talking about what way we should be going. Soon we came to a little gas station and I ran in and bought a map. A map which just told us that we were going the wrong way.

So now that we had our wrong way map, we wrapped our gear up in a big yellow float bag and sought shelter for the night. On a whim, I lead the way off of the highway into a subdivided agricultural suburban area. All of the homes were fenced in and many lead into small vineyards or cow pastures. This was almost an appropriate area to bed down in, but not quite. The small wooded farm areas were much too close to houses for us to do a good deal of rustling around. This was our first night of camping on the sly and we both knew that we would need to do a good deal of rustling. The dogs of this little suburb were also a menace, as there were dozens upon dozens of them that would bark incessantly as we rode by on our fully loaded bicycles.



Beautiful beaches of Portugal.

We soon decided that the small wooded lots of the suburb were not the best place for sleep on this night and instead made way back to set up camp in the brush near the highway. The old time tramp motto to “get in late and get out early” when camping on the sly rang into my ears on this occasion, as, while it was dark outside, it was only around 8 PM- much too early to be sneaking within earshot of houses. So we snuck into the brush on the side of the highway when no cars were going by and made a quick camp.

Mira and I took out our brand new big blue tarps and laid one on the ground and tied one half of the other to a fence so that we had a triangle looking enclosure. It began raining again, so we curled up together in our new eight Euro a piece sleeping bags and began dozing off. As the night wore on the rain became increasingly heavy. At one point, Mira woke me up and asked if she was sleeping in a pool of water. I lazily inspected the bottom of her sleeping back and assured her that she was dry. I was wrong. Ten minutes later I awoke to her ripping apart our camp and yelling at me that she was sleeping in a huge puddle of water. This all of a sudden became my fault, of course. She was right, she was sleeping in the middle of a rather large pool of rain water.

*Note to all tramps: It seems as if your bottom tarp stretches out beyond your top tarp or tent it will gather rain water and create a puddle which will eventually get you wet. On a cold night, this could spell disaster.

But, luckily, the night was not too cold, and, although Mira shivered and froze wet from the waist down for the rest of the night, she was not in much danger of running hypothermia. Under slightly altered circumstances at a higher line of latitude, this could have been the end of little Mira. I have come to find that Hypothermia is a real problem.

Poor Mira yelled at me for the entire next day for my error in assessing her sleeping situation. I have come to realize that everything that goes wrong is always my fault. I have found the rightful place of the husband.

All I can do now is shrug my shoulders, keep my mouth shut, and accept the blame.

Ferry across river in Portugal.

• Bicycle Portugal
• Bicycle Europe
• Ferry from Lisbon, Portugal
• Portugal Travel
• Bike Travel
• Camping in Portugal

On Masterpieces and Messes

On Masterpieces and Messes
Vila Nova de Milfontes, Portugal
October 30, 2007
Homepage: www.VagabondJourney.com

"I have always been an idle fellow, and prone to play the vagabond."
-Buckthorne, Tales of a Traveller, by: Washington Irving

" . . .great geniuses never studied, but were always idle . . ."
-Buckthorne, Tales of a Traveller, by: Washington Irving

I have either made a masterpiece or a mess out of this life. That is right, the rambling, horizon chasing road has either added up to an elaborate collection of insight and wisdom that forms the rough substance of a life well lived, or an astute waste of my tenderly cultivated potential. My mother and father put a lot of time into raising me, and I have gotten the impression that I have become an awry Frankenstein sort of creation.

“When are you going to settle down?” my mother asks me. “When are you going to get a real job?” she pushes. “Don’t you want a family?” “How are you going to support a family if you don’t have a house?” She has always asked me these questions, but now they come with a touch of scorn. She seems unable to view my lifestyle as anything other than adolescent and I have the impression that she blames herself for my perceived short comings. She cannot understand the merits of a life lived on the Road, of an existence that is based not in the tangible acquisitions of security and family, but in the wholesome acquisition of life experience and knowledge.

I tell her that I am the richest man in the world.

But she does not believe me. My life is simply different than hers. My mother grew up on a farm with a large family. This is what she knows, and watching me miss out on this way of life makes her worry. My mother’s happiness derives from family, love, security, and routine. She seems to think that I am going astray, and will eventually be unhappy with my life decisions. She is just being a mom, and I can not blame her for the ever increasing harshness that she shows towards my incessantly inconsistent lifestyle.

My father, on the other hand, seems to know exactly what I am doing and may even admire me for it at times. He is a proud man who will be equally proud of his son no matter what he does. He knows that I have used the faculties that he provided me with to find loopholes out of the system of working nine to five. My father seems proud of the fact that I have found ways to live like a king and do whatever I want on a mere five thousand dollars a year. He knows that work sucks, no matter how good the job is, and I have suspicions that wishes for me to never do anything other than what I do. He is a strong, solid working man, who made a good living for himself and his family on the might of his own two hands. But my father knows damn well that this kind of living is not for me. He sometimes tries to teach me how to do some things, like fix an automobile, and knows that I am all thumbs- that I will never learn it no matter how many times he shows me. But that seems to be alright with him, and he has never complained about teaching me the same things over and over again. My father knows that I am better equipped with the pen than with the wrench.

But it does bother me a little that my parents seem to have no idea what I do for most of the year. This is the main reason that I began writing this travelogue in the first place: so my parents can understand a little of how I live. I had the privilege of being able to meet up with my mother and father when they went to China to adopt their daughter. I met them in Hong Kong and then went to the orphanage in Hunan Province with them. This was the first time that they have ever been out of the USA (except for occasional trips over the border into Canada) and I was thoroughly excited to show off a little of the traveling prowess that I had earned through eight years of being on the Road. But when I met them, my plans to impress them disappeared, as I realized that they had absolutely no conception of what I do or what an itinerant life consists of. It made me a little worried to know that not even my parents know anything about me. So I began seriously writing on this travelogue with the hope that they will occasionally read a little bit of what I am doing and find substance in a life that I can only regard as being full to the brim.

But sometimes I still feel as if I have disappointed my parents. This is a heavy weight to bear, but one that I push with a sense of stubborn pride. Old mom and dad put everything that they had into forming a well-educated, successful man, and I took these precious raw materials of my youth and threw them into a direction that my parents could not have dreamed of. I took my skills and education on the road with me to live as a pauper of a poet; to live on my wits and my wits alone. When I am done with all of these travels, I will have learned a hundred trades, wrote a hundred books, and loved and lived enough for a hundred lifetimes. This is my only ambition. What comes inbetween- the jobs, the haunts I call home, the possessions, the accomplishments, the respectability that I choose to ignore- is all transitory to me and means nothing. My goal, my idea of success comes not from how others regard me, but from how I think of myself.

Last night I thought that I made a mess out of this life. I thought that I took the tender, perfect guidance that my parents provided me with and stomped all over it. I had just finished a bottle of wine and was beginning on a liter of Absinth when this overbearing feeling enveloped me: I felt as if I was a waste, that I have not, nor would, accomplish anything. Have I ignorantly shoved my potential into the gutter? Have I disappointed my parents?

There is no worse feeling in the world than that of letting down your family.

I looked at myself in the mirror:

Tattoos covered my body. My ears are stretched open, deformed, by pieces of three quarter inch think teak wood. My beard had not been shaved or tamed in years. My face bore the wear of almost a decade on the Road.

As I stared at myself, the lines to a Pogues song soon came to my tongue:

“I could have been someone. Well so could anyone.”

A tear rose to my eyes and I looked down at the beauty of Mira, as she laid in perfect sleep on the bed below me. Her face rested softly upon the pillow and her body took the shape of the mattress that she had been deprived of for the past three nights. This beautiful girl had been tramping with me like a character of old for the past year and a half- living out fantasies, realizing that dreams are born and die with their birth. We have been discovering this world together for an entire revolution of the earth and, in the process, and have only discovered each other.

“A masterpiece or a mess?” I repeated this to myself.

Travelling can save a man or break a man.

It is my opinion that it concurrently does both.

This is OK with me.

I know that Mira knows that we are the happiest people in the world. I smile as I know that we have already realized what every man on his death bed comes to know:

That life is only the collection of experiences, knowledge, and memories that you acquire throughout the moments of your days. That the recollections that go through your mind in those last moments of life are the most precious things in the world, and that the numbers at the bottom of bank statements and stock certificates are as worthless as the paper they are printed on. Life is about the happiness of moments, and happiness is never reserved for tomorrow.

Today is all we have.
Seek the horizons that only dreams are made of.

Paint your masterpiece.

• Travel Philosophy
• Travel and Family
• Traveling Lifestyle
• Portugal
• Vila Nova de Milfontes

In Lisbon

In Lisbon
Setubal, Portugal
October 25, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

Lisbon, Portugal Aquaduct

“Lisbon is the most beautiful city that I have ever been to,” exclaimed a curly haired Romeo of a German born Portugese in the youth hostel of Oeiras. Mira thought that he was a hunk, I just thought that he was right about Lisbon. Lisbon is beautiful, that is all I need to say about it.

We stayed in Oeiras, which is around a half hour train ride from the center of Lisbon for around four days just outfitting our bicycles by scouring dumps for materials that could be rigged up to haul our gear. We also drank a lot of wine and sat on the beach just thinking about how beautiful this damn Portugese country is. In addition to boasting about Lisbon, the curly haired Romeo also told us about a part of the city that is just full of bars and truly crazy.




“Go there ” Go there now ” he told us. We did. He said the name of the district was something that sounded like “Barbarawalter.” But neither Mira nor I could believe that anyplace could be named “Barbarawalter” so we keep asking him the name of it. “Barbara Walter?” that is the name of the drinking district “Barbara Walter?.”

“Yes,” we were told, “Barbarawalter.”

Oh well, I guess we were going to “Barbarawalter” and we would enjoy it all the better for its silly name.

So we hopped on the train and rode through the night into Lisbon center and walked up the hill towards “Barbarawalter.” “How are we going to find this place?” Mira wondered. A large tourist map on the other side of the road beckoned to us and we ran to it and searched it for the peculiar district known as “Barbarawalter.” Our fingers ran over the map and did not find a “Barbarawalter” but did discover a Barrio Alto. That was it Barrio Alto

So we mounted the hill to this district and were quickly met by it’s graffiti plastered walls and posh looking night goers. We walked up through the district once and were only amazed by the splendor of the architecture and the excessive graffiti. The bars in this famous night district just seemed ritzy and rather lame. Mira and I briskly walked the entire district and were not called in my any bar in particular, so I choose one by force and we walked in through the door and ordered up a couple of the cheapest beers on hand. One and a half Euro each was an acceptable price to pay, but we had to drink them quick because the company that surrounded us seemed to be sucking our energy. They were of that unhuman majority sect of human that seems more like wall paper than sentient being. So we slammed out beers and retained our humanity as we quickly made way for the door. This done, we sought another bar to quickly erase the memories of the previous one. But to no avail, we were stumped. But we drank anyway; had fun; then went home to hump.

So that was “Barbarawalter.”

I tip my hat to the experience.

Streets of Lisbon, Portugal

• Portugal
• Lisbon
• Drinking Portugal
  

To Portugal

To Portugal
Lisbon, Portugal
October 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

Arriving by sea to Spain from Morocco only presented me with one real option: Go to Portugal. I had previously traveled in the north of Spain and I did not visit Portugal. I feared that if I were to travel across the Spanish Mediterranean after not finding a strong urge to return to Morocco without visiting Portugal, it may be a long while before I return to this region of the world. I had to go to Portugal. This I knew.

Long term travel is a funny endeavor. After a while it is as if you are painting, rather than traveling, the globe. A big shaded in spot goes over the countries and regions that you have travelled through, while the other places remain blank. Symmetry figures in highly in all arts, and painting this global picture is no different: to travel through a part of the world and leave one space blank is to leave an annoyingly empty blemish on the travel canvas. It is as if you have a great experientially derived mental picture of the world, and any gap in the midst of this conception is like a chain that is missing a link- it just does not go together, like a puzzle with a couple of pieces gone. I do not have an extreme attraction to Southeast Asia, though I have traveled there twice, but I get a little annoyed that I have been in all of the countries of the region except for Cambodia and Myanmar. I wonder what is in these blank spaces so much that I know I will travel through this part of the world, that is not nearly my favorite, yet again just to fill in these blank spaces. I do not know why, but unvisited countries in regions that I have before traveled extensively seems unsymmetrical to me.

Therefore, from here on out, I propose to travel through regions of the world in sweeps rather than paths. I will approach the world as if it is made up of geographical regions, rather than mere countries. I do not like national boundaries anyway.

So like this, Mira and I headed out to Portugal. But an obstacle stood in our way: the tickets from the port city of Algeciras to Lisbon were 59 Euro (around $80) a piece. $160 for both of us would be more than a flight. We stood in front of a kid at the international bus ticket booth as our spirit slipped away from us. “Lets go talk about this,” Mira said. We went outside and sat on a bench.

Mira had a tear in her eye as she told me that she did not have the money to take the bus. “You go and we will meet back up here.”
No way. “Do you love me?” I asked. “Give me a kiss.”

She did. I got up and ran back into the station and emptied all of the money out of my pockets for two direct bus tickets to Lisbon. I then ran back out to Mira, waving my spoils in the air.

She smiled.

We were off to Portugal that night. I have had an affair for Portugal ever since I stumbled upon a picture book of the country many years ago in a Salvation Army. I also have an affair for picture books. Now I was off to live the romance that I had yet only imagine on gloomy Sunday afternoons of staring into the images on the pages of this book. Portugal You are in my dreams.

• Portugal
• Europe
• Bus Travel
• Europe Travel
  

Up the Great Rock of Gibraltar

Up the Great Rock of Gibraltar
Lisbon, Portugal
October 20, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com



Gibraltar. A name that rings out through all times and ages; a rock that many men have died over; a landmark for sailors since time immemorial; an iconic image of all in the world that is solid, lasting, and trustworthy: the gateway to the Mediterranean Sea. There it stood, rising abruptly out of the flat lands of Southern Spain in all of its crass, jagged splendor into the sea coast sky like a deep scratch across the door of a brand new car- it is just something that seems so misplaced that it usurps all attention and demands one to stare upon it with awe. Gibraltar, your name, your image has filled my mind with romance, and I was delighted to have had the opportunity to take your hand and dance.




Mira and I were fixed in a deadpan gaze upon the grey saw tooth ridges of the Rock of Gibraltar as we waded through the lax passport check and across the wide open space of the airport runway (which, oddly enough, bisects the only road to the territory). Our necks were craned back in an exuberant trance as we stared on in awe and the hugeness of this great rock. Mira then got a little nervous, because she knew that I would be dragging her up that enormous peak in a matter of minutes.

“Lets climb up to the peak and try to break into the prison and get arrested like Richard Halliburton,” I rambled on gleefully. Mira did not like that sounds of that plan.

“Lets just go up and look at the rock monkeys,” she countered. I shrugged and agreed, as rock monkeys are fine with me.

So, after walking through the touristed part of the U.K. territory we began our ascent of the Great Rock. We were stopped short soon after starting, as our little sidewalk path did not seem as if it would take us to the top. “We can just climb up this ledge and get to that road up there,” I said as I pointed upwards. I then stood on a park bench and began pulling myself up the concrete wall that partitioned the sidewalk from the earthen slope that steeply rose up to the road above. Mira pushed me up the remainder of the way, and I repaid the favor and gave her a good tug up to join me on the terminus of the slope. We then clamored up the ledge until we arrived at a fence that blocked off the main road that was our destination. I was in the midst of an unsteady climb to the top of it when Mira spotted a nice little gate with a stairway leading up to it a few meters away. As always, she is a genius at keeping me from doing stupid things.

So we took the uneventful way to the road and walked up its switchbacks until we arrived at the park at the top of Gibraltar. We paid the compulsory one Euro fee to get into the visit the rock monkeys and then continued our upward trek. After about ten minutes of walking from the ticket booth a car passed by us and Mira suddenly began yelling like crazy at the top of her voice:

“Fuck you, Assholes Fuck you ”

Startled, I asked her what was going on. “Those assholes hit me in the head with a rock ”

I felt a tinge of anger wheal up within me and I instinctively looked over the ledge for an appropriately sized rock. I found one. The car of the assholes was still in range. I pictured my rock going through their back window. I liked this thought, but I hesitated- go with the flow, I thought. A new strategy came to mind: I would be patient and find their car later on parked outside of one of the park’s attractions and slash not one, but two tires. I like this thought. What would they do with two slashed tires at the top of the Rock of Gibraltar? Call a tow truck? They would be stuck. I liked this idea far more than a direct confrontation with three Moroccans (yes, the assholes appeared to be Moroccan). So I calmly tried to subdue the enraged Mira and we continued on our walk to visit the rock monkeys, while being ever watchful for a chance to enact an appropriate spin of justice upon the rock throwing Moroccan assholes.




But for all of our patience, the plan did not materialize, and Mira came away from Gibraltar with only a bump on her head, hurt feelings- “Why would someone who I do not even know want to hurt me?”- and photographs of the rock monkeys. The monkeys, or tailless marques to nomenclate them appropriately, were neat. They just sat around the sidewalk as if they were in a sedated slumber as tourist took up close photographs of them. It was as if they were hired as actors and were just doing their jobs. They sat on the railings and posed for pictures, they climbed on top of cars and shook the antennas, they picked fleas off of each other with lazy solemness. It was as if they were just going through the motions of being typical monkeys to give us tourist a good show, and this show did not seem real. But I took pictures anyway.

It rattles up a human a little to get close to other primates. How do you react towards them? Do you approach them like people or animals? My initially reaction is to think of them as I would other animals, but then one of them looks me in the eye and I momentarily feel as if I am looking into a portal of true depth and character. I feel as if I am meeting a human, and it makes me feel awkward to not offer a handshake and a greeting. There is a feeling that arises at being close to primates that jumps the bounds of species and genus; I suddenly feel as I imagine little kids do in the back country of non-English speaking countries who cannot believe that I do not understand their language. It all seems so human, but not quite . . .




After coming back down from the Rock of Gibraltar, Mira and I returned to Spain. We quickly made way to a cheap 24 hour diner, that was modeled off of the American style, and ate a cheap hamburger and a cheese sandwich, with the brooding view of Gibraltar taking his rightful place at our table just outside of the window. At this point we were beginning to take Gibraltar as being one of our friends and began referring to him in human terms. “Do you think Gibraltar would like to eat this hamburger?” “What do you think Gibraltar did before all those humans were walking all over him building prisons and all that stuff?” We kind of like our new companion, and sought to find a place to bed down for the night that offered a great view of him, so that we could go to sleep together as well.

We found an appropriate sleeping place right on the beach at the foot of Gibraltar in the midst of some ancient ruins. It was all too perfect. Gibraltar stood proud and tall above us with search lights shining on his every flank, the sea sang out a pleasant song as it crashed against the beach, and the fishing boats in the nighttime sea rode back and forth in front of us in search of fish. It was romantic, and the bottle of wine that Mira and I passed between us just added to this romance. We began talking to Gibraltar for real, and we became good pals through the course of the night. It got really cold that night, as there was a sharp breeze coming in from the sea and we had no blanket to abscond into, but I was high on the moment and just sat there on the beach gazing upwards at the magnificence of that great king Gibraltar. I do not know if I slept at all that night. Between listening to sea, watching the fishing boats, chatting with Gibraltar, and Mira’s incessant shivering, sleep was not something that really occurred to me.

I just sat there.

Feeling Romantic.

Happy.

Anyone who can travel and doesn't, is cheating themselves out of a thousand lives.

• Europe
• Gibraltar
• Rock Monkeys
• Gibraltar Monkeys
  

By Bike: From Lisbon, Portugal to France

By Bike: From Lisbon, Portugal to France
Oeiras, Portugal October 21, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

My New Steed.

Mira and her decked out ride.

This is the plan. Mira and I just bought two new, blue mountain bikes from the Decathlon in Lisbon yesterday. We then attached a couple of gear racks and rear view mirrors on them and then set out to scavenge the city in search of thrown out materials that could serve as baggage boxes. We found a couple of large plastic milk crates that will do the trick and came up with a strategy for sticking them to the bikes. We are now just about ready to begin this journey, which should take us down around the Portuguese coast to the Mediterranean beaches of Spain, and then up through the mountains to the little hamlet country of Andorra before moving on to France, where we will meet up with a couple of long lost friends from Chile.

JessieAnne and Sergio ran the Cuerpo Orgulloso tattoo studio in Santiago, Chile for a number of years before packing it in and taking their show to France, where they settled in pretty comfortably. I have not seen them since the old South America travelling days, and I miss them dearly- they are truly good friends. I look forward to meeting up with them again. . . and taking away a few new tattoos.

I have never before undertaken a long distance bicycle journey, and I look forward to the new horizons that this could provide. The bicycle is the most energy efficient form of transportation in the world, and I think that it is about time that I try this new way of getting around the globe.
While travelling by bus or train you find that you can only really go from place to place on a map without experience much of the inbetween areas. Go, stop, go, stop, go, stop. Public transport travel is a divide and conquer way of wandering, and you are only offered small glimpses of the routes that you move upon. Now, I want to connect the dots on the map and travel complete paths, to experience these foreign lands in their totality. I want to feel every rock, every hill, and every rainstorm and sunny day. I want to feel the true distances that I travel, know what is in the blank places on maps, and find out how large the world really is.

And to do this all under my own power:

Enter the bicycle.

• Portugal
• Europe
• France
• Spain
  
• Bicycle Travel
• Europe Bicycling
  

The Ferry from Tangier to Algeciras

The Ferry from Tangier to Algeciras
Oeiras, Portugal
October 20, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

On the night of the October15th, Mira and I were sitting around our little pink room in the Hotel Marraketch in Rabat joking and scheming up plans of how we would travel around Morocco. Before we knew it we hashed out a plan to go way out into the desert and check out the little end of the road abode of Figuig. But as we talked through the night, I went off on a string of romantic musings about riding bicycles across the south of Europe.

“We could pick up a couple of old lady bikes with baskets in the front and gear racks in the back in Portugal, and ride all the way around the coast from the Atlantic Ocean to the south of France ” I raged.

The next day we found ourselves on a boat to Spain. I like romance of going the wrong way. Mira does too.

So we rode out of Rabat on a morning train and made Tangier by mid-afternoon. From here we battled the crowds at the train station for a taxi; and one drove right up to us, told a Moroccan lady who tried to get in to go shit in her hat, and picked us up special. This was the most miraculous thing that I had yet experienced happening in Morocco. The driver must have thought that we were, as foreigners, far less inclined to battle for a taxi and offered us his service to make our time a little easier. Once inside the taxi, he started his meter up right away and we were on our way to the port. The taxi man even joked with us a little and made my exit of Morocco a little more heart felt. We soon arrived at the port and I tossed the driver a large tip, as I knew that my bulging pocket of Dirham would soon be worthless fodder.

The purchasing of our ferry tickets to Algeciras was rather simple, as there were numerous ticket offices lining both sides of the only road which sold the exact same tickets for around the exact same prices.

“How can so many places sell the same tickets to the same people and all stay in business?” Mira asked.

I did not have an answer. So I shrugged and went into the ferry terminal to buy a ticket in a more officious seeming setting. 370 Dirham (nearly $40) each would ship us to Europe. Mira and I snatched up our tickets and smiled at the thought of this adventure.
Once through the passport stamp check we made way into the tunnel that went into the ferry and found ourselves packed into the tightly enclosed corridor with three to four hundred other passengers.

-Everybody was stuffed eave to eave, and baggage flowed into person, and person into more people, in an endless continuum down the entire length of the entrance tube, like a straw that was clogged in an attempt to drink a hefty stew. Moroccans who were hauling entire homesteads as their luggage were pushing against little kids screaming in strollers; baggage cart laden porters tried crashing their way through unopenable corridors in the packed crowd, while the crowd pleaded that there was not enough room for them to pass- there wasn’t- but the porters just replied with yells to get out of the way.

There was no where to escape, and a deadlock grimace crawled across the faces of the entire steerage. Mira and I just plastered ourselves against a railing and looked out through a window at the night time view of Tangier. A crescent moon shown brightly above the Muslim world that we were anxiously leaving. There could not have been a better goodbye gesture. “Farewell ancient cities of Islam, farewell Morocco, farewell empty belly and Ramadan,” I whispered to the crescent moon. I was on my way to Europe to engorge myself on that land of plenty. The road of the Vagabond looked me in the face.

In Morocco I am money on legs, in Europe I am properly regarded as a poor man. The way of travel between these countries is as vast as these perceptions of my social standing. In North Africa I can travel as a king, and sleep in hotels every night, take trains and busses at will, drink tea in little cafes, and eat meals in restaurants without it unreasonably draining the sustenance of my pocket book. While in Western Europe I must travel as the rightful tramp that I am and sleep on the sly on hillocks, forests, back alleys, and rooftops; eat only what I can come upon or scavenge cheaply from grocery stores, and can never utilize public transport. It has been a little while since I have had to travel in this fashion, and, as I laid with Mira upon the top deck of the nighttime ferry, drinking a bottle of wine, and looking at the star spangled sky, I looked forward to getting back to some old time tramping.
Mira and I truly enjoyed our passage to Spain and heartily passed back and forth the bottle of sweet red wine that I bought with my pocket full of change at the port side duty free. I do not think that wine has ever tasted so good to me. The disparities of Ramadan only made my pallet crave the woefullness of excess, and I took long deep swigs from the bottle, told bad jokes, and laughed like I have never laughed before. In celebration we wrote a little message and corked it back up inside of the empty wine bottle and threw it off the ship and into the sea for someone to discover. We were going to Europe! We would be a poor once again!

I smiled to Mira and the stars in the sky my joyful embrace of my renewed birthright.

• Ferry from Tangier to Algeciras
• Ferry between Spain and Morocco
• Tangier
• Spain
• Morocco
• Europe Travel
  

The End of Ramadan

The End of Ramadan
Rabat, Morocco
October 13, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

The winding alleys of Sale.

The coast of Rabat.

The sweets of Ramadan.

The streets are full of people and the people are full of food; for it is the end of Ramadan, and Rabat is full of festivity. Every corridor and ally of the city is crammed with food carts, ice creameries, and orange juice shops on wheels. Smiles adorn the faces of every little child and grizzled old man. Another Ramadan is has passed and a new dawn rises on the Muslim world.

Now that all sins are purged, another long year of sin making can commence. The children seem to have engaged upon this venture with added vigilance. Huge packs of little boys were running wild all over the city, throwing stones, climbing up walls, and bothering the tourist. One particularly aggressive gang of ten year olds were throwing their stones a little too close for Mira’s comfort.

“Can I spit on them?” she asked.

“Yeah, go for it,” I replied, as I did not have a better idea.

“Thawak ” Mira hacked at one of them.

They all looked confused and retreated. It worked. The score: Us- 1, Little boys of Morocco- 0.
Many more people seemed to also be celebrating the resurgence of their pre-Ramadan vices. Mira and I went for a walk along the beach and clamored up some jagged coastline rocks that stretched out around the base of the lighthouse. Once on the sea side of the lighthouse and out of view of the main road and most of the beach goers, we found multiple groups of teenage boys enthusiastically smoking hashish. As we walked by they all looked upon us with friendly facial expressions and one group, who were sitting on the edge of a great cliff, called out to us with an offer of join them for a smoke in their circle. They were smoking hash out of a big old hookah and seemed to be a real friendly bunch of kids, but hash is often times not to my liking and Mira outrightly despises it, so I regretfully turned down their offer. If it were a big bottle of whisky that was being passing around then I would have joined right in and had a jolly good time of getting drunk with a group of mad Moroccan youths while looking out to sea.

It is of interest to me how the various regions of the world seem to have their choice forms of intoxication. In Europe, North America, and East Asia it is Alcohol, in Southeast Asia it is opiates, South America cocaine and alcohol, and in North Africa, the Middle East, and South Asia the drug of choice is Hashish. I believe Burroughs wrote something about this.

When I think about it, I find that I most enjoy the alcohol countries: China, Mongolia, Japan, Chile, Argentina, Spain.

I ate a full three meals today for the first time in over a month. I must say that I am pleased to retire my Ramadan fare of sardines and crackers. I profess with assurance that a sardine diet is perhaps the best way to assuage the hunger urge. It is amazing how little food one will eat when their only option is a can of sardines and grotty crackers.
Bring on the culinary delights of Morocco, Ramadan est finite

Now, with a full belly for the first time in a month, I begin looking for a plan to guide my wanderings throughout this country.

The End of the Road: Figuig

The End of the Road: Figuig
Rabat, Morocco
October 11, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com





The end of the road is where a traveller’s dream begins. All travelers have a special affection for the places where long roads meet their end. From the looks of it, Figuig, hidden in the farthest south eastern corner of Morocco, is such a place. I think that I will go there. I need to feel out the end of my tether right now.

Being a touch off- kilter with the inhabited parts of Morocco, I searched the map for the most desolate, remote, nowhere looking place that I could find. By any account, I would have to say that this place is Figuig. A few paces to the east and south is Algeria, to the north and west is dry, grizzled desert. It is the back door of Morocco, and, as least since ‘95, it is a door that has been locked closed. At one time Figuig was a common stop over on the old route between the Moroccan and Algerian Sahara, but now that the border has been closed for some time, the traffic to this little date producing town has since dried up. I want to find out what is left out there.

Warnings from Casablanca

Warnings From Casablanca
Rabat, Morocco
October 11, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

I swung through Casablanca and scooped up Mira at the airport yesterday. She came in right on time, and I was hiding behind a post as she was squirted out of the customs area. I watched her from my hiding place, laughing to myself as she looked nervously all around for me- I am prone to such base self amusement and she really did not expect anything else. After my humor reached its fallow end, I then snuck up from behind and tried to startle her with a funny voice. It didn’t work. Rather, she just turned a huge smile towards me and went “Baby ” and gave me a big hug with tears sprouting from the corners of her eyes. I think she loves me.

Mira and I then rushed into the city on the train and promptly got a cheap little room at the Hotel Foucalt, which is a major transitioning stop for many shoestring travelers going through Casablanca. From here I took Mira out on a little date to Chinese restaurant that, from the description in the Lonely Planet, was suppose to be moderately priced. It wasn’t- there were wine glasses preset upon the tables, which is a sign that usually repeals me right back out the door. But I was in no mood to be horridly cheap; I was taking my girl out on a little date after being apart for over a month, so we took up our seats and appreciated the splendor. We even downed a half bottle of the cheapest wine on the menu (I, of course, made sure to take a trial taste of it before I allowed it to be poured), as we happily chatted about the same old nothings. The meal came to $25, and I think it was the most expensive meal that I have purchase in many years.

Once back at the hotel, Mira pulled opened the drawer of the end table that sat in between the two beds, and on it were scrawled ominous warnings from the hands of a dozen past travellers. I pulled the drawer all the way out and examined the writings in detail; they were written all over the entire inside surface and were in a score a languages from representatives of ever corner of the world. The warnings were meant to be for the benefit of travelers who would come later, and went as follows:

“Morocco sux. Do not trust anyone. Get out while you still can.”

“Casablanca, Tangier, and Agadir are shitholes. The rest of the country is alright.”

“Moroccan men are tricky, sticky, and dishonest. They cannot be trusted. The women are lovely, sweet, and friendly. I hate to write negative things about a country, but this is the way that I feel.”

And there were more messages written out in languages that I could only half read, but they all had a similar message.

I could only imagine how Mira felt in that moment, after traveling across the world to a country that many other travelers found so difficult to deal with that they were compelled to voice their complaints on the inside of an end table’s drawer. But I do not think that she was too worried, as she has wandered the world long enough to know that 90% of the problems that people encounter while traveling stem from purchasing frivolous amenities and services. Mira has no intention of buying a carpet, and she is not the kind of girl who will be suckered into the “Just take a look. No buy.” routine, so I think she is in the clear.

This point is one that I would like to re-emphasize: If you are not interested in buying anything, it is much easier to enjoy the cultures that you are traveling through. I have never had more unpleasurable interactions in any country than when I try to purchase gifts to take back to my family in the USA. The act of simply being willing to open up your pocket book to buy a little trinket seems to cause such a vacuum sucking reaction in many shopkeepers that you, oftentimes, have to use a little muscle to close it again. Anyway, except for special occasions in random places (like the flea market near the port of Montevideo), most of the souvenirs that are available in shops across the world are just wholesale junk that is made to conform to the ideas of what tourist think should be available in a given country. The goods sold in most of these shops are also strikingly similar to those that are sold in nearly every corner of the globe- you can get the exact same knit bag in the Central America, the Andes, or the Himalaya. It is my imresstion that, if someone wanted to purchase a genuine culturally oriented commodity (Chinese silk, Moroccan carpets, Andean blankets, Rajastani silver etc . . ), they would be just as well off to purchase it in their own country rather than scouring the planet for mascarading imitations. In my opinion, the days of finding ancient, unique treasures while traveling are just about over.

Tourism is a beast which transforms places into superficial representations of what you expect them to be. Yes, there is silver in the Rajastan, silk in China, and carpets in Fez, but they seem to be factory produced reproductions of the real thing.

The genuine is seldom found in the exotic.

These are my impressions.

I think I need to penetrate further into Africa.

As My Youth Prepares to Set Sail, I Mistake North for South

As My Youth Prepares to Set Sail, I Mistake North for South
Meknes, Morocco
October 8, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

“A traveler changes routes, itineraries, schedules and wanders the planet.”
-Andy from Hobotraveler.com, Traveler vs. Tourist

I am young. But not for long. To borrow Andy's way of gaging age, I am 26 years old, probably look like I am 36, sometimes feel like 46, and act like I am 16. I am watching youth, that holy devil, bound over the plank and into the great Ship of Past Things-

Getting ready to sail on the Never Returning Seas of History.

I have recently gotten the notion, as I sometimes do, that I should eat this youth trip up during its last glimmering days. I have no fear of getting older. To the contrary, I welcome age and the character depth and experience that it brings- but I do not think that I am there yet. There is something holding me back, telling me to join with some friends and exploit this time of our lives to the fullest. . to share my joyful, playful youth with others.. . . before many of my quickly aging friends disappear into the deep, dark cellar of antiquated responsibility. . . . From where I will not be able to access them in the same free-flowing capacity.

Sometimes I live really crazy. Sometimes I live really tamely. There is no in between. Either I am running a fast course into a glorious no- man’s- land of far off horizons and folly, or I am just sit with my face in a book in some stray little town, being real content, quiet, and jolly. I play each extreme out until I cannot stand it any longer and then snap harshly into the complete opposite extreme.

I have truly enjoyed these quiet, bookish days in Meknes, but I feel that it is time for a little excitement. Mira, from Wanderjahr Jill travelogue, is arriving in Casablanca tomorrow night. It is time to move on to the next extreme. . .I need to stretch my legs a little. Three weeks of the studious life here in Meknes was good for whatever it is worth, but now it is time to be moving on. Too much time in books entraps the mind and opaques the soul. I am ready to cease my redundant mental chatter and thoughtlessly chase some horizons . . .taste some fruit that was not previously printed on paper and clasps into binding.

I have been rethinking my planned route through West Africa. It would be a good run, for sure, and one that I really want to make, but I do not know if it is my path at this particular time. A traveller’s mind is most comfortable in flux. . . and it is nothing out of the ordinary to go north when the plan is to go south....this I know:

I am not indecisive, I am free. And a free man never professes to make up his mind.

I think that I may break down and heed the call of friends in Europe. I really do miss them and am getting a little tired of these ongoing years of email communication. The daily thoughts of the wine, fun, and good cheer of Europe are also wearing on my southernly, desert crossing resolve. I have been invited by my old Chilean friends Sergio Villagran (the great tattoo artist) and his wife, JessieAnne, to immediately go up to the south of France where they now live. I made a promise to them that I would visit them this year. This promise was made while I was in China, and now that I am so close to them, it would be a sacrilege to the institute of friendship to not get up there soon. There are also many other dear friends of the Road who are now in Europe: Jennie the Swede, who I met in a storage closet in London many years ago, Dana, my jolly gaijn friend from Japan, is now in the Neatherlands, Yumi, my Japanese traveller friend, is in Hungary, Mira’s crazy friend Katie from Costa Rica is in London, and a Flemish traveller who made a really deep impression on me in Mongolia is currently home in Belgium. Yes, I hear them all calling to me now, with big beers in hand and smiles on their faces. . . . I don't know if they are aware of all the bad jokes that they could be in for.

. . . . and, of course, Ubertramp (www.ubertramp.com) will soon be back in England, dancing to Janis Joplin . . .

Perhaps West Africa can wait until after a quick run to the north?

On Moroccan Touts

On Moroccan Touts
Meknes, Morocco
October 8, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

The following is a comment that Ubertramp www.ubertramp.com left on my post Travel Tip #5- Not Your Friend:”

http://canciondelvagabundo.blogspot.com/2007/10/travel-tip-5-not-your-friend.html

I feel this comment (don't worry, it is not the one about his avocado underwear) deserves to be posted properly for the sake of further discussion, as he brings up a trick that the Moroccan tout, in particular, is very versed at pulling off:

As we know, the “hello my friend. Where you from?” routine is a global phenomenon (at least it is in places more frequented by tourists) and as such, after a while, it’s easy enough to deal with. What I found hard to deal with though was the way that, in Morocco, they don’t just play mental chess with you – which can be kind of fun, and keep the senses sharp – but the real hustlers go straight for the heart. And, in my opinion, that’s a shitty, shitty trick to play.
A lot of the good hustlers know the best angle, and that is to get you onside - to befriend you (although, as you rightly say, they certainly aren’t acting as a friend would). Any decent human being is polite, courteous and wishes to be a good ambassador and give a good impression. It’s engrained in our psyche, its how decent people are programmed to be, it’s the right and natural thing to do. Acting any other way simply makes you feel awkward.

These guys clearly know this, and they use it against the uninitiated to good effect. If you do rebut them they then go to stage B, which is to look offended thus reconfirming in your own mind that your behaviour is inappropriate. It’s their last chance saloon, their final shot at drawing you in – and it’s by far the most powerful weapon in their arsenal. The phrase ‘saving the best until last’ seems to befit this situation perfectly, as no one like to upset others - especially a new friend…

In short, it’s the dirtiest trick in the tout’s book of underhand tactics, and it’s used all too often. That’s why now I feel no guilt about doing as you do, which is telling myself that they are not my friend, and that’s why I can just walk away having not succumb to their predatory tactics.

He is right. Moroccan touts especially, and all touts in general, are so skilled at manipulating basic human nature that is it almost impressive. In Morocco, it is as if they utilize a manner of folk lexicon to know the best tactics to exploit a traveller’s ingrained idea of social courtesy. They know that tourist and travellers oftentimes want to view the world as a hospitable, friendly, and welcoming place, and to befriend local people to obtain an “inside” view of the culture that they visit- and it is these good natured intentions that touts are so trained at exploiting.

Their formula is simple, pretty ingenious, and, all too often, successful: They use your polite and good-hearted tendencies against you to make you feel obliged to do whatever they want (i.e. spend money).

First, they usually approach you from behind or from the side and greet you with a friendly introduction (Hello , Bonjour , Ola , Salam ), which causes an instinctual reaction to turn around and look at them. Once eye contact is made, the first stage of sucking you in is completed. You have now acknowledged them and made a mild social contract to hear them out.

Then the tout usually tries to solidify contact further by engaging you in everyday “polite” conversation. “Where you going?” , “Do you like Morocco?”, “Can I help you find something?”, "I am a tourist guide, I know good place.” They pretty much say anything to get you to talk to them and have a conversation as if you were new “friends.” If you do speak, regardless of what you say, it seems to create a deeper social contract and allows the stage to be set, upon which the routine will continue. A simple, innocent handshake also puts you in the bag a little more, as the game here seems to be tricking you into carrying out the polite introductory routine that you have been socialized into doing while meeting someone for the first time.

They oftentimes will also say ridiculous statements just to break the ice and make you say something, anything, to them. Just last night I was approached by a tout who keep saying that he thought that I was from Finland. “Helsinki? Helsinki?” he kept asking. This seemed to be so ridiculous to me that I verbally negated his assumption, and I was therefore taken to the next level.

This level is the most despicable of all, as it consists of exploiting your natural faculties of friendliness and trust. Touts usually do this by trying to find some similarity, point of common reference, or any conceivable bridge to draw a connection between you and him. These connections can be a piece of clothing, a tattoo ("I have tattoo, too, look"), music (“you like Bob Marley?”), spiritual outlook (“we are all the same being living a common existence”), language (“I am an English student and want to practice”), profession, hobby (“you like hash, in Morocco we like to expand the mind”), experience (“I have traveled before, I go to England for two weeks.”), anything that can be used to make you trust him and think that he is just a hospitable guy who wants to be your friend and share a common interest. Oftentimes they try to compliment you, because they know that you will feel rude to not accept a compliment. They have even tried to invite me into their homes for a “traditional Moroccan meal” or some other such nicety that a traveller would otherwise welcome. in point, they try to make you think that you have found a friendly “way in” to Moroccan society . . . as you open up a “way in” to your pocketbook.

If the tout fails to “befriend” you outright, he will then often times try make you feel bad for him to gain your empathy. If this still does not work and you continue to walk on aloof, he usually then sets you up for what Ubertramp calls “Shitty, shitty trick(s).” Basically, they try to mind- fuck you into feeling as if you are an unfriendly, rude, and ugly specimen of human being and, as Ubertramp continues, “reconfirm in your own mind that your behavior is inappropriate.” They call you out on your impropriety and try to make you think that you just declined the friendly advances of a hospitable stranger who only wanted to share himself and his culture with you. They often times say things like: “I just wanted to practice my English,” or “I only wanted to show you the same hospitality that I was shown while traveling,” or “Smile the world is beautiful, there is no need to be angry.” These tactics are designed to implant some seed of doubt in your mind- “Maybe this person really does only want to be my friend? What if I am being the asshole?” This is the roughest stage, in my experiences, to get through, and is why the Moroccan tout is at the top of his class.

In this situation, your own ideas of politeness and rudeness are use against you and you are forced to analyze yourself through the lens of your own values from the perspective of the tout. They first push you to act rudely and then back up and make you realize that you were rude and that you treated them coldly.

Simply put, few people want to feel as if they treated someone improperly, and this is where the tout makes his money:

For how do you really know that someone who comes up to you in the street is a tout and only wants to hustle you? How do you really know that the person that you just rudely dismissed is not truly a poor student who just wants to practice their English?

This is the seed of doubt that they try to plant, and it has the effect of sprouting quickly into a horrid weed of guilt; which in turn makes your own personal sense of common courtesy and compassion rise up against you. It makes you feel like a “bad person” for defending yourself against a potentially “bad person.” It is a classic psychological role reversal: the predator all of a sudden becomes the prey, the attacker becomes the attacked. Then, against your better judgement and intuition, you are made to feel guilty, which is a feeling that most people want to assuage as quickly as possible. Henceforth, the tout is often embraced on the flimsiest chance that he may really be a “friend.”

Then you end up paying $50 for a cheap meal, $100 for a worthless carpet, and another $50 in unnecessary guiding fees. You get railroaded, taken to crooked shopkeepers, pressured into buying things that you do not want, and put into even more uncomfortable situations where your own sense of decency is exploited and manipulated in a great scam to relieve you of your money.

For many people, it seems to be far easier to just hand over the money and be done with an uncomfortable situation than to go against the grain and stand up against a quick witted tout.
I have seen it happen. Perhaps not to the same extreme that I wrote above, but pretty close.

Personally, I have not had any real problems with touts in Morocco. Like everyone, I have had a few uncomfortable run-ins, but nothing too major. I have also found the touts in Morocco to be by far more cunning and cut throat than their brethren in even India, Vietnam, and Latin America. I must say that I am completely surprised by how well the hustlers run their routines here, it is almost respectable.

I also think that I limit my approachability by touts a little by truly not being interested in anything that they could offer to me and from avoiding the main stomping grounds (markets, tourist commercial areas etc . . .). As a rule, I tend not to go shopping, I don’t hire guides, I don’t do drugs or sleep with prostitutes, and I seldom buy anything other than necessities while travelling, so there is little that a tout could offer me that I would want. If a hustler walked up to me and offered a roll of toilet paper, then perhaps I may be taken (haha).

But when I am approached, I fail to even give them even the slightest nod of basic human politeness, as I feel no social or personal obligation to them at all. This may seem rude at first, but I do not believe it is.

When a tout comes up to you in the street, he is “at work.” It is his job to try to manipulate you and swindle your money out of your pocket. That is how he feeds himself. All things being equal, I do not have any real problem with it. There are many jobs in this world where people are forced to do horrible things to other people: like soldiers, police officers, tax officials, judges, loan sharks, advertisers, stock brokers . . .. .

When a tout approaches you in the street, he is essentially wearing a mask- he would not talk to his friends in the same way that he talks to a potential “clients”- and therefore, it is this front that you are dealing with, not the person behind it. This is why I feel no guilt for being harshly direct with a tout that happens to approach me. Often times, I just put my arm up to cover my face and ignore his presence completely (which only works to various degrees). I feel no shame or remorse in this, as I do not feel as if I am insulting a fellow human being, but rather subverting the affront of someone who happens to work in an ignoble profession. . .. . and I know that I am saving my own ass as well.

To identify a tout is perhaps the hardest part, so I leave you with this piece of advice:

If someone offers their service when you are not showing any signs of distress, speaks multiple languages well, is aggressive about being your “friend,” and does not leave you alone when you dismiss them or they follow you or try multiple approaches to gain your attention, then there is a good chance that they have an alternative agenda.

This post also give a few more indications: Travel Tip #5- Not Your Friend

As always, these are just my impressions of the world as I move through it . . .

I do not wish to give the impression that I am correct or right about anything.

This is just a record of my experience, and my experience is all that I know.

In Meknes, Morocco

In Meknes, Morocco
Meknes, Morocco
October 6, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

Open park area that serves as the city's meeting place, in Meknes, Morocco.

In Meknes, Morocco the men in the streets perpetually engage each other in verbal conflict and pretend that they are going to fight. It just seems to be a normal thing to do. I have yet to see them actually engage each other physically; they just stand in the streets yelling, with a crowd of spectators standing around them. This manly mock fighting is such an anti-climatic event to watch that it almost makes me want to sneak in and throw the first punch. Then, at least, something would happen.

It has been written many times about how the repetitive, go nowhere tidings of Arabic music represents the ways of the culture. Maybe this is no better represented than in these macho pseudo fights that clog up the streets with spectators at extremely frequent intervals. Two men disagree, they call each other out, then stand face to face yelling for around five minutes, then one of them momentarily walks away only to return, and the whole cycle begins again. It goes nowhere. There are no punches, no pushes, no violence; just men puffing their plum out at each other until both egos are fully satiated. Eventually, both men seem to forget why they are standing there yelling at each other in the first place, and then return to their daily activities.

Kind of like Arabic music.

In Meknes, Morocco I walk the streets with little care in the world; I have one friend and little company. The only things which distract me from my continuous internal dialog are the queer little statements from my one friend, Abdel, and chatting through instant messenger to my best friend Erik (about girls) and Mira (about love). It seems as if time has stood still for these past few weeks, and I have been able to just walk through the frozen stiff crowds, gaze at the unmoving, age old city streets, and live completely removed from everyday concerns and obligations. I feel free in such anonymity and welcome these short periods where I am so trapped in my own thoughts that I can hardly acknowledge the world turning all around me. But I will soon awake, fresh to my senses, as Mira the Solitude Smasher is coming to pop my little bubble of isolation, and I will find, with a shrug of my shoulders, that life has been continuing on for this entire time. On and on and on.

Kind of like Arabic music.


Man at Restarant Oumnia, who no longer provides me with reduced price meals.

Unexpected Moroccan Discoveries or: Girl Talk is Boring and Peepholes are Scary

Unexpected Moroccan Discoveries or: Girl Talk is Boring and Peepholes are Scary
Meknes, Morocco
October 6, 2007
Homepage: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com

The rooms at the Maroc Hotel are arranged in a circle around a central courtyard full of orange trees. In this circular set-up, the window of one room opens right up upon that of another room. There is a group of loud female American students who are studying abroad in Morocco staying in the rooms near mine. They are loud, but they are having a good time, so I cannot blame them. They are on study abroad sabbatical and are having the time of their lives . . .

At night the loud American girls next to my room make girl talk really loudly. I cannot escape listening, no matter how hard I try. They are loud, and it is as if they are yelling right into my room (they are).

I have always wondered what girl talk consists of, and last night I was force fed a lesson. The very loud girl from Milwaukee began orating a very loud description of how she recently had sex with some guy named “Shawn.” Up until now, I always thought that it was a put-on when women would tell me that they do not think of men sexually in the same ways that men think of women. I refuse to believe women when they tell me that they are not attracted to male sex parts in isolation. Mira tells me all the time how she thinks that naked men are repulsive. I refuse to believe her. This is probably because I am a man. I was now forced to listen to the girl talk that was pouring in through my open window, and I thought that my counter assumptions would finally be vindicated.

I was wrong.

The loud girl from Milwaukee went through the whole entire episode of having sex with “Shawn” and, not only did she fail to mention anything even remotely exciting but, could only talk about how cute the nervous pitter patter of his quickly beating heart was.

Girl talk is boring.

I disgustedly shut my window and covered my head with a pillow to escape being too bored to sleep.

On to the peep hole . . .

The Maroc hotel is usually not very full of people at this time of year. It is quite big and I sometimes think that I am the only one here. So a few nights ago I made my way to the shower, which is usually always unoccupied at this time, and I walked up to the door and made a motion to open it. But I momentarily stopped short because the light was on inside. I figured that someone just forgot to turn it off, as there was not any water running and I heard no sounds coming from within. But I waited for a few moments none the less, so that I could avoid disturbing someone. As I stood there listening, I noticed that a little eye level hole had been bored through the door.

“Ah, a peephole ” I thought with a touch of surprise.

I still did not hear anyone inside and presumed that the shower was unoccupied, so as I reached for the handle to open the door, I peeked in through the peephole to see what someone could see if they were to be peeking in on me. . . . .

And there was an old French woman.

That is not what someone would see if they were peaking in on me.

She squealed.

I ran away, terrified, and without my shower for the night.

Peepholes are scary.

Unexpected Moroccan discoveries.