Passage to India, volume 4

Greetings from Bogota, dear readers, many greetings, from your half dead author, who has reached the ripe age of 35 years. May the fourth be with you, and many thanks for all the greetings and cheeriness, and in some cases, gifts! Many thanks.


I celebrated many times, firstly with a lovely meal and cake at Casa Elena.....

That´s me in my new Barca top. I can't bring myself to explain what it says on the back of it - I will tell all when I see you.


Followed by a fun-packed Friday at a fish restaurant of the top order, the beach at Barcelona....

...and then off to get some fanny......

Before heading to see a Serbian band play some rocking gypsy-folky stuff which had the whole place dancing at the end.

This was followed up on Saturday with fish pie and more cake, home made by the lovely Argentine pocket rocket Eu.

Same candles. Apparently the Catalan folk are as famous as the Sc--ts (insert letters here to suit your desired stereotype) for being tight.


But before all this....... 

Lanzagrotty


And so it was I waved goodbye to Morocco and landed in Lanzarote, meeting Elena, staying in a friend´s flat, camping and driving about.


I thought Lanzarote was all Brits and burgers, yet a little bit of inside knowledge takes you to the most stunning of places.


We camped for a couple of nights at a secret place (contact me for details), with beaches, dunes, volcanoes and wee fish restaurants for company. This was the view from our tent.

And again, at sunset.

Or with some faces shoved in the vista..

You can wander about, hire bikes, or just chill out with some beers. After the drought in Morocco, I was only too glad to suck up the beer. The beaches are incredible and the sea is just about warm enough for a good swim.

Or if you are feeling flush, why not buy a yacht from the pretty harbour?

After the beaches, we headed into the mountains where some thristy Spaniard, banished from the mainland, just knew he could make wine in the most unlikely setting of a black lava field.

They dig holes, put walls around them, and the vines grow along the floor, sheltered from the wind but getting the full sun and the fertility from the ash. It´s very good too, the white wine. So good, in fact, Elena was inspired to start stealing cheese and bread from a Bodega after a wee glass.


What I loved about Lanzarote was that in 20 minutes you could go from beach to volcanoes to lovely restaurants to beach back to volcanoes. It even looked a bit like Scotland at some points.

After a week in Lanzarote, it was to Barcelona for my birthday and catching up with folk, seeing lots of bands, eating enormous amounts of lovely food, cinema, rolling around, terrace yoga and more. 


The two weeks flew past and afore I knew it, I was wobbling across the Atlantic on an Air France flight wondering what on earth happened to the black box of that Air France plane that ditched into the sea a few years ago......




Bogota


Delayed getting here due to a thunderstorm which closed the airport, Bogota is a big, nay huge, sprawling grid that is as confusing as it is interesting.


The old town has a crazy mix of beautiful colonial buildings, some of which are unused and crumbling, others are among the finest I´ve seen.

As I discover more about the place, the crazier it gets. In Spain, stamps are sold at tobacco shops. In Bogota, if you want to go for a swim, you buy your ticket....at the bank. I´m going to the bank later. For a swim. Or something.


The Spanish is as wobbly as ever, so look out teachers, here comes a man who struggles to remember much.


Pip pip


xxxx


PS - postcards may not be flapping their way across from Colombia. I have 80 plus willing recipients, and unfortunately, it costs GBP 3 to send one card. I just cannae afford it hen!

Passage to India, volume 3

And lo, it being Easter, and with my 12 disciples following me, let us reflect on what has passed.

Dear reader, we start with a puzzle.


My final hurrah was a four day trek in the High Atlas. I hired a muleteer and a mule and set off across several 3,000m+ passes through stunning scenery.

It was slow going at times, I'm guessing a steady one mule an hour.

Our puzzle is a whodunwhat. The muleteer, Ahmed, is paid is GBP 10 per day, which was paid in advance to the fixer, Abdullah. On day two, Ahmed explained he had not been paid, and I had to pay him. I had seen him receive money from Abdullah before we set off.

Not so, I protested. The expected tip for the muleteer is GBP 20, exactly the amount that Ahmed was short. So, dear reader, did Abdullah expect my tip to cover the shortfall? Or was Ahmed trying it on? Or were they working together to get more money?


It wasa  great trek nonetheless. Ahmed cooked and led well, although occasoinally I was reduced to sniffing out mule tracks and dung to keep on course. I got a few nose bleeds too.

I spent one night in his friend's house, where we had a lovely cous cous meal and I entertained the kids with paper aeroplane folding demonstrations, the trusty knuckle popping and the surprisingly popular cheek noise tricks of old.

There were some terrific thunderstorms too, meaning changes of route, crazy swollen river crossings and also an annoying 15-year-old Belgian who kept popping up telling me how tough he was and how slow I was and how he was doing it Bear Grylls-stylee. I nearly collapsed laughing when he started screaming in pain when he popped a blister.


Trek epilogue


I'd warmed up for the trek with a couple of day walks in Tarfroute. Friday being holy day, Simo where took me to his family HQ where we had a Berber breakfast.

Then explored a deserted Berber village nearby. All the locals left 50-odd years ago, apparently they were always fighting each other. It was a beautiful spot and I saw some wild Gazelles, although that might have been Teen and Stewart out for a MORNING jog.

Back to mama's for dinner; which was superb. I struggled to eat it with my hand, most of it ending on the floor, and I'm sure the young girl there called me bum hand or something as I made the mistake of using my left hand - the bum washing hand - for eating.

Hmmm, dinner.


National interest


In between all of this, I'd travelled to the Happy Valley with an American called Lyra. The roads got smaller and the buses turned into transit vans with seats bolted to the floor, with varying success. Up to 22 souls would squeeze in, animals and luggage atop.


Here I discovered the national sport of Morocco. One cheery bus ride saw everyone pile in and plastic bags handed around. Joining in, I requested one and resisted the urge to knot it and place on my head. Wise move. Some 20 minutes after setting off, breakfast was served. Again. The whole bus started vommiting. Barforama!! Most people had had eggs.

My favourite bus vomit experience was a lad who was 'freestyling' without a bag. Fool! I hear you cry. Indeed. As he kept the vomit in his cheeks, he had no option but to try to once again eat the warm food he had collected there. It was going well until the driver slammed the anchors on. Vomit everywhere, which started a chain reaction in the bus. At one point three generations of the same family were all happily barfing away around me.




Happy Valley

And it is. I camped at this spot in Imi N'Ifri for three nights at a veggie eco campsite run by a bonkers local who advertises the place as being 'without lead'.

He was a romantic soul who owened the land next to a terrific cavern, home to hundreds of birds. He smoked a lot; and waxed lyrical about the birds, birds eating insects, the stars and the benefit of vegetables. Here he is.

 
The shower was the cool pool in the canyon, and it was lovely, not too cold, just right. It was perfect for me as I'd developed an odd orange, some may say ginger, fungus growth under my armpits following a week sans douche.

With Lyra, I hiked through a poppy-filled valley to see some dinosaur footprints, which were not the largest it must be said.

And the Happy Valley was also able to provide some drinkable red wine, crumbs!

An endearing memory of the area was buying water at a shop in the middle of nowhere. The lady vendor tried the usual double-the-price trick. With the local kids watching on, I managed to get it at the normal price, but after a day baking in the sun and then a five minute haggle, I let out an involuntary 'Blimey'.


Immediately, the kids chorused a rousing 'BLIMEY' all about! 


Well dear reader, I suspect most of you haven't made it thus far, all that's left to say is that I leave Morocco tomorrow for a week of lager, burgers and karaoke with Elena in Lanzarote, couple of weeks in Barcelona and then Colombia for four months.


I've enjoyed Morocco and hated it, in bursts, too. But  at least I've managed to avoid any awkward-looking pictures of me performing to please the locals, outside my comfort zone and looking like a grinning ninny.

Pip pip


xxx

Happy birthday Rhys

Happy birthday from Morocco wee Rhys Thomas!!! Wooo!!!

Have a great day, I'll have a slice of cake for you.

Lots of love
Uncle Tom
xxxx

Passage to India, volume 2

I've just realised, dear reader, that every post will start with journey back in time and space etc etc, as I am unable to offer a live feed.......

So please, dear reader, journey back with me through space and time to early March etc etc

I missed out a few things about the journey from Fez to Marrakech; it snowed on us in the Atlas; the many people that appeared at every hairpin trying to sell precious stones; the round of applause and kiss I got for overtaking two lorries; the overturned lorry around the next corner.

And the fact that all the hotels are called Auberge (doo do do do do do). Auberge (doo do do do do do). Auberge.

And the lovely; snake-hipped Abdul en route to the desert, he's the one on the right.

And the crazy spelling

Here is a lovely photo of me just after the second bout of the trots in Marrakech.

FLYING SOLO

After waving goodbye to Elena, I retired to my hotel room to sleep off the trots. Met Hassan (he's the one who wants a British bride, for papers, I'm surprised that so far no takers) and then took the bus to Essaouria. The coast!

Famous for surfing, it has a beautiful old town (medina) and a large, windy beach, plus shed loads of gulls. Smaller and friendlier than the big cities, the first two days I spent meeting folk and sitting in the sun.

 

Then came the rain. There are no real hostals (Auberge) in Morocco, so you meet people on hotel terraces or in cafes etc. This rain was neverending. For four days and nights it was thunder, lightning and rain rain rain. No one was around. Even the shops stayed closed most of the day.

I went from having company at all times to seeing no one. I signed up to go surfing. A Swiss couple joined up too. A more boring and wordless couple you will scarce find.

The surfing in the storms was great, big waves, lots of falling off, but did manage to catch a tube on a couple of occasions. Just growing the long hair now.

Two hours is your maximum time in the water as it's quite tiring. So lots of time - in the rain, hotel (Auberge doo do do do do do do) and the storms - to kill.

The end result of this solitary confinement was me taking this rather cheery photo of a sketch of the moon drowning.

I think we can all agree it was time to move on from Essaoira.

As Dire Straits sang so beautifully on their Why Worry track, there's always sunshine after rain, these things have always been the same, so why worry now.

SIDI IFNI

An 11 hour bus ride, 5 hours in Moroccan time, on a soaked bus, on the inside, meant the trip here started with a dose of the dreaded bum fungus. Let it not detract from a lovely place, warm, friendly people and the good times returned.

The hotel (Aubegre) I stayed at had live music and I even had my own roof terrace to practice some yoga

I met lots of crazy locals, including Bashir Madri, a musician who invited me for dinner with his family. It was lovely, gave me the first chance to speak to a non tourism industry lady in the form of his wife, and see how folk live.

What I wasn't ready for was the chicken purchase. Morocco is covered with shops like this, where I thought people bought the eggs produced.

The date is on the picture, how odd. Anyhoo, they just grabbed a chicken; lopped its head off and then cleaned it in front of the other chickens. Crumbs. Tasty though.

So Bashir and I had confusing conversations inbetween somed jamming and food and the Sidi Ifni dream continued with a visit to a Hammam.

These public baths are gender specific and is a sort of sauna with lots of buckets of water for throwing over yourself inbetween lathering up and scrubbing. You can pretty much lather and rub who you want.

I was befriended by a sailor with a stammer. We did some yoga together, he playfully rubbed my belly and took a sneaky peek at my behind when changing some two hours after I first went in. The homo-erotic experience was completed when I went back to his squat for a cup of tea. He told me he was looking for one special friend and did I want to stay the night. He had one single bed. I politely declined (he had a terrible moustache) and wandered home.

Legzira is a beautiful beach just up t'road from Sidi Ifni with spectacular arches in the rock.

As quiet as Sidi Ifni is, there is trouble afoot. Apparently, the demonstrations in this 15000-strong town have a huge  bearing on the national psyche. The good people of the village obediently had a demo on March 20, National demonstration day, but cheekily added another one on March 24. Watch this space.......

After a sun-drenched week, it was time to head 30k up the road to the 'hippy' village of Mirleft, using the ubiquitous Grandes Taxis. All of these are big Mercedes, and take six passengers; two in the front seat, four in the back.

Stayed in a house with a nice German guy called Philip, played table football with the locals, found 37 pence tripe and lentil dinners, and went to the beach. The old hippies complain that it ain't like the 60s and 70s no more, the kids just surf, play football and dance about.

I just talked to the animals. Gone were the scabby cats of Moroccan cafes, and in their place, canines. This little cutey stayed with me all day. 

Hmmm the date thing is back on. Will contact I.T.

TAFROUTE

Mountains!!

Rocks painted by bonkers Belgians!!

Cycling!!

It's about 30 degrees here, so am off for a swim in a river the locals have shown me. Lovely place this and thats everything bang up to date.

Am heading to the Happy Valley next week, for sight seeing, eco tourism and a trek......

Pip pip

xxxx

Passage to India, volume 1

Welcome, dear reader, and step with me, back in time, to January 25, 2011, at 0953 GMT, just outside Bristol bus station, England.


Our host was striding to catch the 1000 GMT bus to Bristol airport: The final supper in the UK was a delicious fajita mix, cooked by Rhiannon Shearman, as we see here.

And now dear reader, step into the warm comfort, on this biting winter's day, of my pants, and sit back, relax and stare up at the plump, pink clouds of my sphincter, where this tale begins.............


Checking your watch, as you break your gazing at my winnet free bum hair which sprouts from soft skin, you see it's 0954 GMT. Suddenly, the sphincter in the sky opens and a potent mix of loose stools, spices and liquid rains down, covering pant, skin and, dear reader, your good self.


Yes, with 6 minutes until the last bus for the flight, I had sharted, for the first time in many a moon.


With Rhiannon with me, I leapt into the toilets, threw my pants on the floor - nice pair of undies they'd have made for the finder - and smeared as best I could. Rhiannon; outside, laughing, whizzed me to the stop, gave me Imodium and water, and sent many texts of mirth as I made my uncertain and pantless way to the airport.


Relief came after going through security and finding wipes and open toilets, and a semi fragrant Tom headed to Barcelona, where a sympathetic hostess allowed me a shower before the festivities began.........




BARCELONA


Five weeks in this lovely city, with highlights too many to detail. Sobremesas (basically, put loads of food n booze on the table, gorge, and leave/sleep/pass out when you want), lovely people, beach walks, love hotel, terrace yoga, gin, general confusion about what on earth most people were saying, which everyone kindly explained especially Artu an Eu, concerts, food and wine, I had a great time.


They also go nuts for roasted calcots, a sort of not-so-oniony- leek type fella. Here's the lovely Arty-Party roasting them at a sobremesa

He ate about 100 of 'em. Emi made a wicke dsauce to go with them, everyone sagely adding that the secret is in the sauce. 


And a litre iof wine for 1.50 Euro. Can you beat it?




MOROCCO


First time for me in a Muslim country, marked by importing two litres of Venezuelan rum and a sausage the size of a horse's wanger. Morning locals.


Elena and I started in Fez in a posh Riad. Most chats with locals started thus:


To Elena: Where you from? Spain! Where? Barcelona.....Catalan.....Lionel Messi.....5-0 (reference to Barca beating Madrid 5-0 this season), wanna buy some hash?


To Tom: Where you from? England! London? No, ah ok, fish and chips, chicken tikka masala, bread and butter, wanna buy some hash? Good stuff


This was a constant theme, and remains so. I don't know how to explain I don't like bread and butter, or that you have it with fish and chips. Still, it's generally cheerier than the greeting you get for being English in Scotland......it never ends eh? hahahahahaha


Fez's famous Medina had us foxed as to where the good lord anything was, and it was as giddy as it was frustrating, but there was always time for some of the lovely sweet mint tea, get your hair cut or teach kids in town squares how to crack their knuckles before giving them a date to stop em crying......oops

We had a four poster bed too.


Next up, car hire, little Fiat, and how on earth to describe driving in Moroccan cities other than bonkers. It took me 3 days to work out that you just do what you want; as everyone else does. Simple, but still alarming. And look out for occasional lorries with men on top. As these men throw bottles at you. Not much to do up there I guess.


The open road to the mountains and the desert was beautiful, punctured with occasional stops at cafes for confusing conversations with people, the end result being some nice food and a coffee at most places. My French was slowly coming back, slowly, and Arabic was being practised with fervour.




HOTEL DOG


Not run by Bryan, but by Abdul, who is; at least, a lot taller than Bryan. But it smelt of dogs, so drinking plenty of rum and some firey orange stuff was the only answer. And that led us to Merzouga, the gateway to the Sahara, via an Oasis as the desert dream started to unfold....

The Sahara was great, the food, the sunset, the stars the ruddy force 9 gale at night, a great place.

Would have stayed longer if we'd had more time, but on to see the geological faultline of Morocco, the Gargantas of Toudra. This is me just pushing it a little further apart

My work is done........


And then


Sharia don't like it.......
Rock the Kasbah
Rockin the Kasbah


(Consider yourself lucky; I considered a Lionel Ritchie theme at first)


Amazing what folk can make out of mud.

MARRAKECH


Bonker's plqce, bonkers start. Drove into a croded market place while trying to find the airport. Elena kindly pointed out I was about to hit a motorbike, just as I was deciding whether to a) smash into oncoming car; b) hit a donkey or c) take out the crutch of an old lady. Happy times.


Then the taxi driver who tried to rip us off was a good start. Still, got sorted, went out, met some nice folk at the bread with mash and boiled egg stall (anyone want a Moroccan husband? Just for papers, Hassan, very nice, doesn't want to marry me, I asked) and giood times beckoned.


But the soup I had and Elena didn't meant only one thing - the trots for Tommy on Elena's last day. A lovely evening was spent with me on pan or asleep. No real photos of Marrakech then, but we did have a wander about.


More on Marrakech later as I will return there.


Tune in, in the coming weeks, for the next instalment, as Tom goes solo........I've been typing on this crazy Arabic keyboard for two hours and I can't do it anymore hahahaha, if anyone has any grammer hahaha points or says anything about my semi colon use (not related to sharting), hell mend ya.


Here are some sneak preview photos; everyone loves a teaser eh??

Pip pip
xxxxx