Dave the Nomad

After the consulate fiasco, I was ready for a break, and New Years was just the right thing. Our hostel was having a dinner and drink included party with entertainment which most of us decided to attend. We were wandering around on New Years Eve and suddenly noticed a ton of Santa hats and Christmas apparel. After a bit, we asked someone why the late celebration. The response was simple: “Why do you celebrate so early?” Perplexed, they explained. Your basis for the New Year is based on Christ, BC and AD, so why do you celebrate a week early? I laughed. It is arguably the widest reach of Christianity in the world, and Christians don’t even celebrate it on the right day! (Of course Orthodox Christians follow a different schedule, but in main stream society this is hilarious.) Light-hearted I again listened to Christmas tunes playing on the street at a time when most of us would throw the radio after being so sick of hearing them the past month. Belated but happy.

As most of you know, and thanks everyone for the Facebook posts. New Years is my birthday. I wasn’t sure how that was going to work abroad, but it turned out to be a blast. We had a filling Turkish buffett dinner and danced around. At one point the waiters were going around lifting people up on their shoulders and dancing around. The crowd was pretty tame until about 4 minutes to midnight, and then the place took off. I’ve never seen such late bloomers, but maybe its the European trend of not going out to party until 2 am rubbing off on them. I also had the chance to practice one of those dances that should be forgotten, the macarena. We also had a belly dancer come perform for us, and she soon pulled me up and made me dance with her. What we all soon realized was 1) she wasn’t a good belly dancer 2) She wanted money for being pulled up and dancing with her. Regardless, it was a fun party. I’ll have to write a separate post about my feats of during the day time of my birthday.

On a lighter note, the nights between my defeat by the consulates was spent seeing the city. I went to a small bar in the clubbing area with seating for at most 40 people. There was a live band playing Turkish music, everyone was singing along. We ended up being the only English speaking people in the room. It was a fun night, and relaxing break from the bustle of the city.

Brad and I also ended up running into a couple of guys from Chicago. They were just in town for a week or so, but we ended up randomly meeting them again the next night completely unplanned. They were a cool bunch of guys, and certainly a change from the usual Canadian Australian crowd I’ve been meeting along the road so far. So Igor, Paul, and Nemanja send me some pictures, I dont have any with all of us, and say hi to Chi-town for me.

I’ll keep this short after my long-winded consulate story, but I’m planning to drop off my visa application in Ankara and meet back up with some people in Cappadocia. I’ve been looking forward to a visit here for months now, and I hear its snow-covered as well.

Under the stars. I haven’t been camping much lately since I’ve been in large cities, and avoided other areas after reports of violence against campers. Tonight my plan was to hike into an area on the Ligurian Coast of Italy called Cinque Terre and stay at a hostel in Manarola (one of the five villages.) This UNESCO area is composed of 5 small villages perched on rock cliffs like barnacles clinging to a precarious livelihood. These steep mountainsides have been farmed for over a thousand years, and now present themselves as a blend of vanishing nature, terraced olive and lemon trees, and grape vines.

The off season is in full swing now, which means my plan flopped. I showed up at the hostel only to find a chain, surveillance cameras, and a locked door. They were closed until February. I’ve been carrying a 4 lb 4 oz back-up plan with me for a while now, and after walking through a silent town with no one in the streets, I decided to explore the countryside outside the city. As I walked out of town and waited for my eyes to adjust, I realized I should say terrain and not countryside, since I was greeted by steep steps at times closer to ladders snaking their way up asymmetrical terraces filled with vines. This was the case in every direction. The village was a small speck near the sea with climbing terraces surrounding it on all sides.

I stopped for a minute and looked up. I was trying to remember the last time I could see the stars so clearly. The milky way was a ribbon of transparent white in the sky, my eyes didn’t strain to see it past the brighter individual stars. I remember the last time I could see the stars so clearly, and it was in Morocco on the roof terrace, and I remember what I was thinking at that moment. I was laughing how the closest thing to home is the farthest thing away. Sans the Southern Hemisphere (sorry Aussies), no matter where I am, be it lost or known, I know where I am, and I have that proverbial picture and all its stories right above my head.

I turned my gaze towards the village below me, and suddenly every thing looked quantized, real, and tangible again. I could see half the city streets, the three men near the church saying their goodbyes for the night, and watched the whole valley below me grow darker as each window turned blank and blended into the walls supporting it. I counted every light I could see. 63. I looked up, laughed, laughed some more when trying to think of the most efficient way of counting stars. 59. My view below diminishing, my view above gaining with every light extinguished.

The terrace I stopped on was bordered by thick brambles, and was protected nicely on two sides by walls. Since I had heard no sound but the distant pounding of the waves against the cliffs, and the occasional rustling of grape leaves around me I decided to check out the surrounding area to make sure I wasn’t missing out on a better site. 56. Happily, I returned to my pack and nestled myself in near the wall under the grape vines, leaving my 4 lb 4 oz back-up plan tucked away. 54. It wasn’t too cold, I put a sweater on and for the first time in a while slept on rocky ground with the smell of earth and autumn leaves melding together. I glanced one more time to look down at the city before gazing up through the grape leaves until I passed out. 53.

We started our trek to Chefchaouen standing at the bus station in Tangiers confused and worried we missed our bus…until we were told the time change in going to Morocco was plus two hours, not one. Relieved, we waited around the bus stop and met a Canadian traveling to Chefchaouen named Gary. Gary has traveled around Morocco before, and was returning to just Chefchaouen this time as he said it was by far the best part of Morocco. He was nice enough to also share his handwritten map of the city with us, and let us follow him to a hotel just outside the medina.

The bus ride was extremely wet. The rainy season started about two weeks ago and I found myself in the window seat in the very back of the bus. The 90% sealed windows provided me with fresh water every time the bus would start going uphill; the gravity fed water droplets would trickle until they reached the last window and dropped down on me like a mini Chinese water torture device. Thankfully the scenery was amazing with views of rolling hills covered in olive trees and makeshift streams of eroded material from the influx of water. We arrived in Chefchaouen to emerging blue skies as the nearby craggy peaks tore away the clouds.

Chefchaouen was founded by one of the last groups of Jews and Muslims expelled from the Iberian Penisula and until a hundred years ago was shut off to the rest of the world. Nowadays, the city is undergoing massive construction capable of bringing in big tourist money. Thankfully for the time being this town seems to be off the beaten path enough to get away from the hustle of Morocco’s other larger cities.

Gary has been our unofficial guide and has suggested breakfast places, day hikes, and supplemented conversations with his French. The pace of life here is intoxicatingly slow and unmetered. You could easily run through this city in one day and move onto other cities, but once the daily influx of private tour bus crowds leaves for the day the clear night air is only filled with smells of tangine, couscous, and mint tea.

The main plaza is home to a dozen or so restaurants serving traditional three course meals for under 10 euro. However, watch out for the incessant hustling and begging of … the cats. Their faces are capable of duping you, but they are fearless and talented at swindling food off your plate if given the time of day. If you are feeling daring, as Chelsea and I were, then look out for the food stalls the locals crowd around. One in particular became a part of our daily routine, serving a bowl of snails in spiced broth fresh from Fes each day for fifty cents each.

If you can afford to not run through this city in a day, stay and take a deep breath.