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This is pretty much a placeholder post, as we haven’t really done enough to justify a full post yet. Not sure how frequent the blogging will be from now on in, as losing Mr Young’s laptop (and his company of course ) makes things somewhat more difficult. Nevertheless, I will try. Edinborough and the Scottish Highlands to go, then I work for a bit in Germany – hardly blogworthy.

This is pretty much a placeholder post, as we haven’t really done enough to justify a full post yet. Not sure how frequent the blogging will be from now on in, as losing Mr Young’s laptop (and his company of course ) makes things somewhat more difficult. Nevertheless, I will try. Edinborough and the Scottish Highlands to go, then I work for a bit in Germany – hardly blogworthy.

In any case, farewell Mr Young! Been a bloody good trip, look forward to catch up with you in a month and reminiscing.

P.S. Yes, I could have written about how much I drank and what kind of things I did, but you all know me well enough to make your own judgements. I will say that it was bloody awesome though

Amsterdam had special meaning for us. Not because the obvious reasons, moreso as it would be the scene of our last stint as a travelling group before losing another member. Dave would be heading home soon after, and we would be down to two. And of course, cause of the obvious reasons.

So with great anticipation we boarded the train from Antwerp (stopover from Bruges) and zoomed off to Amsterdam. Then promptly stopped. The train had caught fire. Typical. After that got sorted we were off! Finally stumbling into our hostel at 10pm, we were greeted by a room full of smoke and music pumping away. Thankfully, our room only had a slight haze of smoke, quite bearable.

Our first action the day after was to go on a walking tour of Amsterdam (yet another plug to New Europe Walking Tours), which showed us a lot. Afterwards Dave and I went on a wander ourselves, checking out some of the 260 coffee shops still with licenses and doing the touristy thing – no, not getting absolutely stoned off our faces and falling in the canals, but seeing the sights.

Beyond constant, constant partying, one of the highlights from Amsterdam would have to be a bike ride along the dykes on the north side of town, venturing out in the farmlands and villages barely half an hour from Amsterdam proper.

Another major highlight was the AFL Grand Final which took place at 5:30am on Saturday morning local time. Seeing how I went to bed at 4 after a big, big night, I didn’t expect to be in much of a shape to enjoy it. Turns out I was mistaken, and the next 4 hours were brilliant. Probably a new record too, 5 beers before 9am, and spending $20 AUD on a meat pie. Bloody good pie though, just what I needed to fully enjoy the game.

4 days of crazy experiences behind us, we headed to London, bidding (for most of us) farewell to mainland Europe.

P.S. Yes, I could have written about how much I drank and what kind of things I did, but you all know me well enough to make your own judgements. I will say that it was bloody awesome though

Man, I’m so original. We went to Bruges, so I called the post In Bruges. After the film. Hah, the wit!

On a less toolish note, the only reason we chose to go to Bruges was because we saw the film In Bruges. Random plug, but a seriously good watch.

Bruges is a picturesque town, amazingly beautiful. Cobblestone streets, canals and parks cutting through the town, the scent of chocolate, waffles and fries (Hot Tip: Belgium is the home of Fries, not France, and they are gooood) wafting out from the countless shops offering these delectables. Living, while not cheap, was by no means expensive, and finding the small places which had quality goods became a real pleasure.

Really, I can’t write too much about Bruges because it is something you just have to see for yourself. I can’t describe the enjoyment you get from wandering the streets, pictures can’t capture the sounds and smells, so I won’t waste my time trying.

I can however recommend renting a bike and riding the 20km or so to the coast, or even up north and ducking into the Netherlands for an afternoon before cycling home. We went to the coast, and it was a great ride. Till Steve’s tire went flat, 6km from home. That wasn’t too great, but the rest was!

After a less than peaceful 2 days in Bruges (1 euro beers from 9pm-1am makes any night big), we headed to Amsterdam, and our final stint in mainland Europe.

Oh, and I recommend not walking down the street, singing Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry Be Happy at the top of 4 peoples voices at 1am. The locals don’t really appreciate it hahaha

Erlenbach is such a small town that as we walked through it (from a larger town nearby, as Erlenbach doesn’t have a train station) and passed a dance school, all the 15-16 year olds rushed to the window to wave and carry on. We were staying with my grandparents, well into their 80’s, so it was traditional German living all the way.

Our time was spent doing things not normally associated with tourists. Picking fruit, collecting walnuts, making jam, cleaning out and preparing the tractor and trailers for the upcoming wine harvest. Unfortunately, due to the lack of rain, the grapes weren’t quite ripe and everything had been pushed back some weeks.

Still, we were well occupied, even attending a oil presentation and tasting night (walnut, poppy, flax and canola) at my distant family’s farm. My cousin (twice or three times removed or something, we shared great-grand parents) offered to take us out to the Weindorf (literally Wine Village) festival that night, so come 10pm we’re in the midst of a MASSIVE crowd filling street after street in the middle of Heilbronn, downing wine like there was no tomorrow. Bloody surprise to me, as I’d never heard of it before and had spent a fair amount of time at my grandparents place. Highlight of the evening was Stefan (aforementioned cousin) buying a bottle of his own wine from a shop to drink with us. Hilarious. Well, at the time anyway. We were fairly drunk, wine not our normal drink of choice.

A horrible nights sleep later (wine dreams are MESSED up…not allowing a certain someone anywhere near me with a golf club again) we were roused to eat lunch before heading back to Heidelberg for a day trip, to celebrate a young cousins graduation or something. Hours of cake filled goodness followed by a table tennis tournament (as I said, one extreme – backpacking through Morocco, partying in Berlin – to the other – taking part in a family gathering playing table tennis), we retreated back to Erlenbach to pack and prepare for a long travel day tomorrow.

On a side note, pushing 190km/h on the autobahn with me in the boot…new record (for car boot speed)!

Arriving in Heidelberg late in the afternoon, the sun shining (after the grey dreariness that Berlin had to offer), we chose to take the time and walk to my Aunt Martina’s place, our lodging for the next few days.

It was definitely a … different … environment then what we’d experienced in our travels so far. Wandering through the front gate, we were greeted by the yells and screams of five 6 year olds, toys strewn everywhere. Greeting the family, we quickly dumped our gear, grabbed some bikes and escaped, riding through Heidelberg and just getting a feel for the town. I’d spent portion of my year overseas living here, and wanted to see how much I could remember. I found the Irish Pub where I had the awesome bar brawl a good 4 years ago, but this time I just had a beer with Steve, instead of getting involved in any havoc.

On our return to the house we were greeted by my brother Martin (LINK TO BLOG), living and studying in Heidelberg. Spent that night chatting and catching up with him, making plans for him to show us around some time while we were there.

The next day dawned sunny and warm, so we grabbed bikes and went on a bike tour through the hills in which Heidelberg is nestled. The ruins on the peak lent a splendid view over the Neckar (the river which runs through the city) and the old town, and a hilltop cafe provided us with some much needed refreshment. 10 weeks of drinking with little to no exercise makes 30km hill ride bloody tough.

Our time here was a pleasant change from the typically touristy travelling we’d done so far. Really got to experience the local lifestyle instead of floating above it on a cloud of tourism. A cruisy afternoon playing tennis, walking through the back streets to find little hidden shops, lying on the banks of the river enjoying the sunshine…blissful.

Next up: Erlenbach, truly a small country town.

Our return to Germany began with a rather long travel day from Portugal, 13 hours of intermittent movement interspersed with hours and hours of waiting around in an airport. Surprisingly, we dealt with it quite well, barely noticing the wait. Is it a bad thing that you can get used to sitting around waiting for stuff to happen for 6 hours?

A rather amusing fact (given the vaunted German efficiency) about Berlin’s public transport. The S-bahn, the trains connecting the suburbs to the city itself, was running with only about one fifth of it’s trains. The reason why? The trains – all of them – had somehow managed to miss annual servicing. 6 years running.

A spate of brake and wheel failures prompted drastic actions, and roughly 80% of the trains were out of service. This made getting to our apartment pretty bloody hard, especially at 2am.

Anyways, travel difficulties aside, Berlin is probably our favourite city to date. It may have been the mix of being back in a fairly western culture, or that we met up with a mate from Australia now living in Germany – sup Crispy – but we had an absolute blast here.

From seeing some random concert with Steve’s cousin to doing the walking tour through the city proper (highly, highly recommend it – New Europe Walking Tours), everything just seemed…great. We saw all the classic sights, the Brandenberg Tor, the wall, the site of Hitler’s bunker, East side gallery, all the major landmarks.

As much of what we saw was laden with WW2 history, it was natural for Sachsenhausen to rear it’s ugly head, and we did put aside a day to visit that particular concentration camp. It has truly mind opening stories and facts about the entire period, and while not really enjoyable as such, it too was worth the visit.

If we hadn’t been museumed out by the first 10 weeks of our trip, they probably would have held some interest as well. As it stands, we gave them a miss in favour of hitting up the nightlife with some locals (Aussies, but now living here).

Sleeping off a 6am finish the night before, we spent a quiet Sunday relaxing by catching a movie in one of Berlin’s many English cinemas.

Our 4 days in Berlin were, while overshadowed by shitty shitty German weather – first sub 20 degree day we’ve had yet – a lot of fun, and I personally can’t wait to go back.

Our return to Europe was greeted (at least by us) with a certain degree of enthusiasm. Although Morocco had been tremendous fun, the action packed days did take their toll, and we were looking forward to a bit of what we’ve come to consider ‘normal’.

Thankfully, Portugal provided that for us in abundance. We’d decided back in San Sebastian to stay in the top rated hostel in Hostel World, a place in the centre of town called Traveller’s House. It definitely lived up to it’s reputation, welcoming us with open arms, 24 chillout jazz and unlimited breakfast…heaven.

Beyond the luxurious hostel, Portugal’s main attraction (for us) was rest and relaxation – accompanied by plenty of Portugese custard tarts and roast chicken. Beyond our wanders locally to enjoy some brews, our one sightseeing attempt to see the famous Sintra region ended poorly; a 25 minute walk and a €1.30 train ticket, all to end up less than 100m from our Hostel. Disheartened, we had a coffee and gave up on Sintra.

One thing which made Lisbon interesting was the prevalence of poorly dressed individuals offering you large amounts of oregano or flour, wrapped up and packaged as hash or heroin. This forced me to adjust my method for dealing with the dealers – no longer could I say that hashish wasn’t hard enough for me and that I wanted some cocain, heroin or meth. If I pulled that here, they would instantly offer me some annonymous white powder. It wasn’t even real, the nerve!

Instead, we started playing games with them. As the dealers are rather easy to spot, we would wander close enough to attract their attention then try out various solutions we’d come up with. Foisting them onto each onto random strangers was amusing, but rarely successful; asking for rare substances was largely ignored; consistent rudeness (the words ‘fuck off’ hummed in chorus, or flipping the bird for the entire length of the dealer’s approach) worked, but gave rise to a game called ‘how long till Klaus gets stabbed’; by far the most successful method was flat out refusal to acknowledge them.

The worst was enthusiastically asking for 3kg’s of weed, a bag which would be roughly the size of my upper torso, then telling the dealer to take it and insert in the orifice of his choice. That lead to said dealer following us down the street for a good minute, hurling abuse. Hey, at least it kept the other ones off of us.

Portugal was also the final point in our journey where we four travellers would be together, with Steve and I heading up to Berlin while James and Dave headed to London after a brief sojourn in Porto. James of course, to begin his journey home, while Dave wanted to catch some design festivals – something which I’ve begun to appreciate more in the last couple of months.

After a final meal of roast chicken together (shat all over Nando’s) we spent the evening putting our affairs into order – hence my angry post early thursday morning.

All things being in order, Mr Richards and I bid James, Portugal, and in fact Southern Europe (and it’s warm weather and beaches) a final farewell and flew to Berlin…let the crazy nightlife begin!

What a hole. Seriously. Barely deserves a blog post, but I’ve done it for every other city so why not.

Tangir was disliked by the old King, as being the main port to Europe it had a constant stream of Westerners, whose influence he was not pleased with. Therefore Tangir remains a dirty port city, with little to offer. The new King has invested some money into it, but its still no place you’d want to visit.

We wandered the streets before finding a hotel for 3 euro each, and although the facilities were archaic and the beds had hills and valleys, it was comfortable enough. The rusty shank of metal that was the shower room door handle gashed my finger nicely though, taking my right hand out if action for a while…hooray for Steves first aid bag, thank you Lynne for packing such a wonderful assortment of medical goods.

That’s it really. Shitty little port town in which I probably gave myself tetanus. Win.

Our journey to this little town high up in the Rif mountains of northern Morocco began with a 4 hour long taxi ride. That might seem kinda crazy, but it worked out to be only $35 AUD each – about the same price a bus would have been. Admittedly, we had sqaushed 6 people in the taxi, which lowered the average price, but it was a still a comfortable enough drive – although I shared the front seat with our guide. At least it wasn’t the stereotypical 15 people packed onto (not into) a van, of which we saw a few.

After a couple of police checkpoints (and associated bribes) we were dropped off near the centre of town. Immediately, barely out of the taxi, we were offered hashish. Not just by one guy, but by 10. Without even trying to be subtle. Walk straight up to you and asked if you wanted to buy some hash. Bizzare.

To fend off the countless dealers I quickly responded by asking for stronger stuff – heroin, cocain, meth, anything along those lines, trying to throw them. For a short time that worked, leaving them staring dumbly while I wandered on. Soon enough though they learnt to just ignore me and drone on, spouting their offers of hash like broken records.

Our accomodation for the 3 nights we had was cheap. Incredibly cheap. $5 AUD a night, well below the $45 we budget for normally. Unfortunately, it was a roof. Literally. A series of mats lying against a wall on the roof of a house was to be our home for the next few days.

That eve, after a tasty tagine and salad – yes, salad, our first in months! – for dinner we went to the bathhouse for a traditional steam and massage, called a Hamam. Alternating between scorchingly hot water and ice cold water being poured over you in what was effectively a sauna, followed by a thorough massage, leaves you pretty exhausted, and it was a relieved bunch that fell into bed that night.

The following day, once Stacie, Ishaam and Wajih’s (our guide’s) brother had arrived, we went off to Akshour to swim in the mountain streams and waterfalls. All 8 of us squuezed into a minivan – and I do mean a mini van, about half the size of what we typically call a minivan – and off we went. At one point we had to jump out and scramble down a hill to avoid a police checkpoint, as the taxi driver wasn’t a registered driver or something. May have been because we’d squeezed 4 people in the boot, not sure. Either way, a semi comfortable hour long drive took us to the sedate part of the creek in which we’d be spending our day.

After hiking upstream to find a favoured swimming hole and cooling off, our guide prepared a feast of goats cheese, yoghurt, flatbread and apricot jam for us to eat while he started on the tagine which was to be our main meal. As I’ve said before, the hospitality is without fault.

That evening, after a tiring day of waterfall jumping and swimming – discovering a semi submerged cave behind a waterfall – we spent a quiet eve back at the hostel. I ended up going to the terrace and sat around with some backpackers who were taking advantage of the constant offerings of hashish and were smoking up a storm.

While sitting there, wreathed in smoke listening to the strains of Pink Floyd drifting out from an iPod (cliche much?), I saw one of the most amazing sights I’ve seen in my life, on par with the Barrier Reef and the Alps.

To the left of me, over the closest mountains, the moon was rising, just clearing the peaks. To the right, across the valley, the sun was setting over the far mountains, also just scraping the peaks. Such a magnificant view I’ve never seen, both celestial objects in the sky together, and the setting seemed so perfect for it.

Then the crazy 50 year old French rocker/stoner in lyrcra and mesh started playing guitar and wailing, so I barrel rolled the hell out of there. Way to kill the mood.

Our last day we wandered the town, seeing how the small mountain town lived, learning some of the history. Apparently it is required by law to paint your house blue (in the old town), failing to do so landing you in jail. One way to keep the moniker the Blue City I guess. We topped off the day by climbing (part way) up a mountain to take in the view of this pleasant mountain town, overlooking a valley.

An interesting note about the climb was that it took us through a forest, where gained some companions. No, not friendly forest creatures or stray pets, but surprise surprise…drug dealers. Drug dealers who were for some reason hiding out in a forest. There were around 8 of the buggers hanging around in the trees, coming out of the shadows silently as we passed, their low calls chasing us down the road, offering hashish. After repeated rejections, some continued to follow us up the mountain, trudging silently next to us for reasons unknown. Strange, strange people.

Our 3 nights in Chefchaouen over, our African sojourn coming to an end, we said farewell to our friends and caught a taxi to Tangir, from where our flight back to mainland Europe left.

Its 4am.

I’m not drunk.

I was drunk, quite some time ago.  I miss that.

Right now I’m cracking open another beer and relaxing for the first time in several hours. Over those serveral hours, pretty much everything that could have gone wrong, technology-wise, has gone wrong.

Firstly, retrieving some music files (an asston of chillout/jazz) from an old mac turned into a fiasco when the mac refused to allow my usb stick to be formatted in any other filesystem but UFS.
Fuck you for not supporting EXT2/EXT3, you slack bastards.
Then, the file/folder exploring utility on said Mac wasn’t recognising files that didn’t exist, and trying to copy them. When it found such a file, it would crash without warning and undo all copying.

If one is copying 1091 files, which may or may not exist, this can get tedious.

While all this was going on, a routine software update for my iPhone fried the sim card, requiring me to scab someones spare one in an attempt to allow me to use it again. No, let me clarify. To allow iTunes to allow me to use it again. The phone functions fine without a sim card. iTunes however, does not. Cause its shit.

Then, while sorting all this out, the computer on which I’m working (Jimmy’s laptop) had multiple hardware failures cumulating in iTunes wiping all existing memory of well, pretty much anything. All playlists, all music, everything.

So, juggling backing up a USB stick on one PC so I can reformat it to use it on a Mac to put files to a PC which then can’t read the files cause they’re in the wrong fucking filesystem (UFS + windows = fail), and trying to put my music back onto my iPhone, I’ve had little enough time to do my Fez blog, let alone the Chefchaouen one.

Oh, and did I mention I have to catch a flight out of the country at 9am, and this will be the last chance I have to use either laptop for blogging/pictures/iPhone music stuff. So yea, sweet night in Portugal.

In any case, while I’m writing this rant the pictures and original content are being restored to my usb stick, the songs/playlists are being restored to the iPhone, and I’m relaxing with a beer.

4:23 am now, but life is good.