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After the truly awesome experience that was Marrakech, we were pretty pumped for Fez. Thankfully, we were not to be disappointed.

The journey there was an adventure in itself, travelling on the Moroccan train system as we were. 40 degree day, packed into aircon-less compartments, trying to refrain from drinking to avoid offending fellow travellers. James had reacted badly to the beef tagine he’d had last night, and spent the 8 hour trip ridding himself of the toxins in every which way possible. That turned out to be a stroke of luck, as during one of his many absences a rather friendly fellow by the name of Mahmoud. Turns out one of his cousins, Isham, has a New Zealand girlfriend, and we were more than welcome to join them for dinner that night. Our decision to do this was by far the best thing we could have done, and it really shaped the rest of the trip for us.

After finding our hotel and dropping a still ailing James off, we headed out to meet Mahmoud and Stacie. 30 minutes later, our new friends running late, Steve and I had gotten bored and were wandering around trying to get oriented, while Dave stayed at the meeting point. Wandering around, hopeless lost and disoriented, we were approached by locals – and this is where Morocco became one of my favourite countries.

Unlike Marrakech or Casablanca, heavily tourist based towns, the locals here are genuinely willing to help, not trying to gain something out of the transaction. Of course, there would be some bad eggs, but on the whole the populace were amazingly helpful and friendly.

So, back to the story. The locals asked what we were trying to do, where we were trying to go. We explained we were trying to find the market to get some food, as the sun was just about to set and the Ramadan fast about to be broken. Immediately, we were offered seats (all this took place on the street, as is commonplace here) at their table, to take part in dinner with them. When we (rather shocked) tried to decline, saying we had to get food for our friend too, they started offering us plates of food to take with us. No concern for the plates, we could just bring them back later, no worries! Still declining, slightly bemused by it all now, we explained we want to try to explore a bit, find the market and with it our bearings.

So, to make the journey faster, they gave me a moped.

Put the key in, started it up, and proceeded to show me the tricks to start it again once it died. By the time Dave arrived, Stacie and Mahmoud in tow, I was sitting on the moped practising kick starting it, ready to whiz round a strange town completely lacking in road rules, helmet- and gear-less. Slightly disappointed, I returned the moped and Steve and I joined the others, heading to Stacie’s house to break fast with them.

I won’t delve into the details of it all, but the Moroccan hospitality continued in the same vein as described above, Isham (a qualified guide for Fez) offering to show us around the next day for free, while another cousin, a chef, prepared a stunning feast for us. For people they’d never met before. Without asking a thing. Absolutely mind blowing.

That night we joined them in a game of midnight soccer, playing amongst the rubble and ruins in the 30 degree heat. The occasional donkey got in the way, but beyond that the game was pretty much normal – albeit I understood almost nothing of what was shouted at me, and it appeared as though they were going to fight at any moment. They take soccer very seriously here.

The next morning Isham and Stacie took the 3 of us, James still recovering, on a tour of Fez. Without him we would have become hopelessly lost, as Marrakech is a well planned, structured city compared to Fez. One thing for sure, Morocco constantly forced me to re-evaluate my standards.

The tour took us through most of the old city, including the biggest sights. The tannery, biggest in Morocco and using all natural ingredients (stank like it too); the weavery, still using an manual loom and threading; various Mosques, and the oldest University in the world – built in the 800s. The pictures can explain better than I can, be sure to check them out.

That eve we gathered James and joined Stacie again to break fast, having some traditional Berber food (the natives). While we were there, another cousin (bloody huge family) offered to guide us around Chefchaouen, our next destination. He had family there, and was more than happy to come along with us and spend some time showing us around – for some reimbursement of course. Not everyone is a saint haha.

Plans made, we had another game of soccer before retiring for the night, our 2 nights in Fez brief but eventful.

Flying in to Marrakech was slightly unreal, not only because for the first time in Europe we’d flown somewhere (well, Steve and I anyways), but of course because we were now in Africa. And in a country of Islam. Almost had an ‘oh shit we’re in Europe’ moment, except that of course, we weren’t in Europe.

Our contact from the hostel arrived late, a juxtaposition of smart dressing, thongs and cheap cigarettes, all bundled up in a beat up minivan. The drive to the hostel was initially hair raising and concerning, but soon enough the crazy swerving and complete and utter lack of road rules kind of lulled you into acceptance. Once disembarked, we followed our host through dusty winding streets,  poorly lit alleys and low archways stretching 10s of meters forcing one to duckwalk for quite some time.

The hostel itself was truly amazing, a high walled courtyard surrounding by 2 levels of rooms and 2 terraces, absolutely divine. We were treated to some Berber whiskey (the local name for mint tea, the popular drink) while having some of the rules of the city explained to us. Thus prepared, the net morning we set out to explore a totally foreign culture.

We were staying in the old town, quite near Jemaa el Fna (the main square), so we jumped right into everything. The market stalls were huge, a twisting turning warren of sellers hawking their wares, each trying to fleece hapless tourists for however much they could. Thankfully our host had forewarned us and armed us with some basic haggling knowledge. A key tip was not to buy till your last day, cause you’ll see many vendors offering the same items and the prices are generally made up on the spot. Getting a feel for the range of prices allowed you to more accurately aim for a reasonable price – often 1/10th of what was initially proposed.

An interesting point to our entire stay in Morocco was that we were visiting during Ramadan, a major Islamic festival. Not a festival in the traditional sense, but a period in which followers fast between dawn and sunset, consuming no liquid of food or any other luxury – e.g. smoking. This makes being a tourist slightly awkward, as the country shifts to a nighttime cycle of life, and eating during the day in front of people is considered rude. Still, snatching quick bites to eat unseen in corners, or sitting down at a cafe is permitted, so one can survive easily enough.

While we spent the daylight hours wandering through the old town, seeing the catacombs and palaces, sunset was when Marrakech truly came to life. Named the Red City for the simple fact that almost all the city is red from the building materials, the fading sunlight highlighted this dramatically. Watching the sunset from a terrace overlooking Jemaa El Fna, we witnessed the entire square fill with food stands and locals eager to break their fast and indulge in food. And what food it was, Tagines, couscous, whole lambs heads, camel (quite expensive), spicy Moroccan soups, all along side traditional western meats. A feast, for quite reasonable prices too – couple of euro would land you a good feed, if your bowels didn’t react badly to the local cuisine.

One of the 3 days we went on a tour of the countryside, visiting a traditional Berber house (Berber being the natives, as opposed to the Arabic population) to experience first hand the lifestyle. As part of that we mounted up on some fractious camels and had a brief ride. Once out of sight of his dad however, the child acting as our guide tried to extort us, refusing to lead us back till we gave him some euro’s. Cheeky bugger, it conveys well enough the general attitude towards tourists that exists over here – cash cows, waiting to be milked.

Our 3 days in Marrakech were packed with activity, and thoroughly enjoyed by all. With that in mind, we had high hopes for our next port of call, Fez.

well…mostly.

Stuff from Africa isn’t up yet because I don’t have the pictures off of the camera yet, but it’ll happen very soon as I only have the luxury of Dave’s laptop for 2 more days before we part ways.

In any case, list of updates (only picture/video links, as the blogs you can just browse from this site), chronologically.

France

• Lyon Pictures
• Paris Pictures
• Bordeaux Pictures

Spain

• San Sebastian Pictures
• Bilbao Pictures
• Barcelona Pictures
• Valencia Pictures
• La Tomatina Pictures

La Tomatina Videos

• Locals cooling off the crowd
• Shirt throwing war zone
• Let the tomato throwing begin
• Ankle deep in tomatoes and sangria

That’s it, hope they satiate you for a bit – next up will be the Africa pictures and blogs, and those from Portugal, but after that will be a larger dry spell. Seperating as Steve and I are from the other two, we will be without a laptop to use when we feel like, and posts/pictures will be difficult, pictures more so than posts.

This is what its all about in my opinion. Pure, undiluted randomness and winging it. No real planning, just a snap decision.

After hearing about how we’d be in the area for La Tomatina from almost every traveller we’d met, Dave and I decided off the cuff to make it happen. Our jaunt south started with a train to Valencia, where we hiked around town a bit, not lost, just searching for our Hotel. Once found, we settled in for an early night to prepare us for the big day to come.

6am, dawn just broken. I suited up, settling my Panama hat firmly on my head, while Dave made similar preparations – wearing as much white as possible, as is tradition. Making our way to the train station I’m the subject of many odd looks and more than a few chuckles or high fives. Once at Bunol, where the festivities were to be held, chuckles and high fives turned into outright drunken laughter (at 8am, as many people had been drinking the entire night) and photos. I also made it onto TV, as the most well dressed celebrator.

Thankfully we’d chosen to come quite early, so managed to make it near the centre of town where the greased pole was. For those unfamiliar with how La Tomatina all works, at 10am the crowd starts climbing the 10m high greased pole, trying to knock the ham off the top. While this happens, the rest of the crowd entertain themselves by ripping shirts off each other, tying them in knots and throwing them around while the locals spray them with hoses. Can get pretty insane, lumps of sodden cloth flying around, looks like a war zone.

Once the ham is loosed, cannons fire, signalling the begin. 10-15 dump trucks full of tomatoes then start making their way through the crowd, with some lucky few in the trucks beginning the barrage. Once near the middle, the trucks dump, and the insanity begins.

It really is impossible to describe, beyond calling it a war zone. Being in a full white suit, Panama hat and all, I was a prime target, and to be honest had the time of my life.

Some time through the onslaught Dave caught an unsquashed tomato in the eye, swelling it nicely and showing why tomatoes should be squished in the hand before being thrown.

Beyond that though, a solid 2 hours of awesomeness was had. Traditionally, after 1 hour the cannon fires again and people stop throwing tomatoes. Traditionally. When you get 60,000 people, drunk, mostly naked and covered in tomatoes, tradition sometimes gets tossed out the window. Once peoples fervour finally died, I started making my way to the meeting point to catch up with Dave, having been separated rather quickly.

On the way back I took every opportunity to hose off, finding tomatoes and tomato residue everywhere…and I do mean everywhere. On the way I by pure chance ran into Coops, our guide from the Croatia Cruise – fairly amazing luck given the sheer volume of people.

While the public service to Bunol was superb, running smoothly an efficiently, service out was dismal. Completely full trains would sit for 40 minutes at Bunol, before moving for 10 minutes towards Valencia then stopping in the middle of nowhere for another 20 minutes. I found some floor space next to a tomato filled trash can and spent most of the trip asleep, looking the Hobo part quite well in my now pink suit.

Once finally in Valencia, I found a park with a fountain to wash off in and had a siesta while my clothes dried in the sun.

Truly an awesome experience, although I showered red for the next couple of days – not from tomatoes per se, but from the sangria that was also thrown around. Cannot recommend it highly enough if to anyone who ever gets the chance, do not miss it.

Oh, and check out Dave’s take on it all, over at his Euramble blog with James

Pictures
La Tomatina Pictures
Valencia Pictures

Videos
Locals cooling off the crowd
Shirt throwing war zone
Let the tomato throwing begin
Ankle deep in Tomatoes and Sangria

After 3-4 hours of blissful unconsciousness, I was wrested from my peaceful slumber by James rolling off the seats onto me. Once the resulting confusion cleared, we realised we’d reached the halfway mark, with the associated rest pause. Thankfully the rest stop was well equipped, and we did what we could to alleviate our hangovers before boarding for the remaining 4 hours of the journey.

Now, I should explain why we were stuck on a bus for 8 hours instead of whizzing to Barcelona in speed and (relative) comfort on the train system, which is remarkably good. We had originally planned to do so, it just didn’t turn out that way. Out of the blue, on the day we’d planned to leave San Sebastian, every train – really, every train – to Barcelona had been booked out. Completely. How bizarre.

So, back to the floor of the bus. Although my initial level of obliviousness was unreachable, being sober and all, the remained passed in relative comfort, as Dave shared with me the wonders of Dexter on his laptop. Once disembarked, we made our way to the hostel, wandering ignorantly (on my part at least) past some Gaudi architecture.

That night was thankfully quiet, but bright and early the next morning we headed to the beach to meet up with Sal (from Croatia cruise), now living in Barcelona. Spending the afternoon reminiscing with her was nice and relaxing, so much so that when the Hostel organised a ‘massive night out’ we jumped at the chance. Unfortunately, Opium, the biggest beach bar in Barcelona, was…shit. No other words for it.

Returning to the Hostel around 4, the others crashed out while I sat out on the smoking deck (according to the hostel staff, for weed only, no cigarettes…brilliant) with some of the guys. One of the guys was convinced the fridge was magically eating his maltesers, as every night for the last 4 nights he’d been putting a bag in it and the next morning it was gone. What he neglected to mention was that he’d been high, and had in fact hidden 4 bags in 4 separate fridges, and when this was discovered around 4:30 he was over the moon.

To top the night off, I passed out on the couch, guitar in hand, with a girl so drunk she was shaking with cold in a 28 degree room in my lap, trying to stay warm. Bloody odd night.

The next morning we darted off to La Familiar (another of Gaudi’s constructions) to meet with Sal one last time, before Dave and I headed down to Valencia to get to La Tomatina, Festival of Tomatoes.

Barcelona Pictures

This place was everything we expected, and more. Australians were (as usual) bloody everywhere, but we managed to – for the most part – avoid them and party with the other tourists.

This place was everything we expected, and more. Australians were (as usual) bloody everywhere, but we managed to – for the most part – avoid them and party with the other tourists.

Our hostel had an interesting deal with the pub across the street, being that for every beer you bought, you got a free shot. Definitely made it easy to get a good buzz going.

Unfortunately, it appears that it pushed our roomates over the edge, and the one sleeping in the bunk above Steve felt the urge to vomit spectacularly off the edge of the bunk….all over poor Steve. Once the management kicked them out however, we scored some pretty chill roomates which made the remaining stay much more enjoyable.

San Sebastian sits on the north coast of Spain, and as such is close to Bilbao, Bakio and Zarautz – the latter two being fairly famous surf locations. Bilbao of course is home to the Guggenheim, an architectural masterpiece. Now, normally I’d never really go out of my way to see this. Thankfully, my architect friend Mr Young had the urge to go, so I tagged along.

I had the time of my life.

Never have I enjoyed a museum more than the Guggenheim. From the crazy structure of the Guggenheim itself to the layout of the exhibition rooms to the exhibitions themselves! All of it intrigued and held my attention for a good 3 hours, a feat indeed for something that can be described as Art.

The major exhibition being displayed was the work of one Cai Guo-Qiang, a Chinese gunpowder and explosions specialist. The other works were a recreation of a car crash and a collection of fluid shapes formed out of 20mm think steel and 8 meters high. One of the first places where I enjoyed pretty much every exhibition.

After our Arty stint we took a bus to Bakio, surf capital of Europe. Unfortunately, the surf was atrocious. Staggeringly bad. Still, we jumped in and spent a couple of hours cooling off before heading back to San Sebastian and a topping off the day with a 5 Euro all you can drink sangria evening.

The following days continued in the same vein, surfing (locally in San Sebastian) with some light revelry in the evening.

The exception to this was our last night, which got rather….big. Mr Merrett passed out in the toilets at our hostel, locking himself in on the 3rd story. Mr Young started hard and finished harder, falling comatose after abusing the dance floor, dress code, wall and toilet bowl – not necessarily in that order.

I, on the other hand, spent the entire night going hard at various pubs and clubs (and at one point the beach), powering through the night to chivvy my travelling companions awake at 6am. Our bus to Barcelona was a 7am connection, and I lead the way drunkenly on our mad dash to get there on time. Once we made it however, I literally passed out on the floor of the bus, spending the next several hours in peaceful oblivion.

San Sebastian Pictures
Bilbao Pictures

On first impression, Bordeaux was a very pretty city, pretty much in keeping with France so far. My companions had a different view, seeing piles and piles of dog droppings without any apparent dogs. Nevertheless, Bordeaux was just what we needed, a quiet break before the mayhem that would be San Sebastian.

Our days there consisted of wandering through the town, have coffees and croissants, playing some hackey in the park – only our last night was at all big, playing some inebriated soccer at midnight with some locals. Sadly, we lost. Even more sadly, there were 2 of them. Most sad, they were 5. Oh, and I was wearing the Australian flag as a cape, so everyone knew we were Aussies.

Still, while we enjoyed our break from the hectic life of partying that is our Eurotrip, we were anxious to hit San Sebastian and more importantly the coast, so after 2 days we bid Bordeaux farewell and continued our journey.

Bordeaux Pictures

Ahh Paris. The Eiffel Tower. Moulin Rouge. The Louvre. City of love (please god excuse the terrible pun in the title), and love it I did.

We kicked off our stay with a visit to the Sacre Coeur, conveniently close to our accommodation. Dozing on the steps in the sunshine pretty much set the tone for our 4 days there, relaxing amidst the sights and sounds of Paris.

Another day we spent wandering from the Moulin Rouge to the Academy of Music, swinging by the Place da la Concord and admiring the Obelisk before stopping for a feed and a lie down at the Arc de Triomphe. The Notre Dame, Luxembourge Park, Eiffel Tower and the Louvre all featured in the days to come, but it wasn’t the sights that made Paris for me, it was the general atmosphere.

From chilling in Luxembourge Park playing hackey with a bunch of Americans to hitting the clubs with a mixed group of Danish, German and Polish backpackers, everything we did was made better by the fact that we were in Paris. The food, the drink, the surrounds, everything contributed.

Although it must be said that being backpackers, we didn’t quite indulge in the food as much as we might have – homemade sandwiches being marvellous for staying within budget. In fact, my first crepe was bought for me by a relative stranger, who beyond playing Hackey with us had no real form of communicating, as my French is lacking.

Paris is definitely a city I will return to, next time with some more spending money to truly enjoy the lifestyle a bit more. While the sights were nice, what really impressed is Paris as a whole rather than any specific thing.

Paris Pictures