Andalusia

Andalusia

Southern Spain wears brightly the vestiges of its Arabic and Islamic past in the layout of its towns, its architecture and culture. Moving from Madrid to Cordoba is to move appreciably closer to North Africa. The Moors invaded the Iberian peninsula in the 8th century and only at the end of the 15th century did the final bastion of Arabic and Islamic power in Western Europe fall to the Spanish kings.

Al Hambra

Grenada is home to the foremost Arabic architecture in Europe. The Al Hambra is a massive fortress built on a hill in the centre of the city. It was the Arabic capital of Al Andalus and home to the various dynasties who ruled before the Spanish "Reconquest". The massive fortifications, exquisite palaces and royal quarters are in remarkable condition including mosaics, carvings, ceilings, fountains and engravings. One can easily spend an entire day exploring the palaces, ramparts and gardens - in high season booking ahead is essential and well worth the effort.

Albaythin

On the hill directly opposite the Al Hambra is the old Arabic residential quarter - the Albaythin. This is a warren of tiny cobbled streets and alleys where maps are rendered pointless. The streets are mostly too narrow for cars or buses and only a few can accommodate the mini-buses which provide public transport. The lawnmover buzz of a scooter engine is frequently heard seconds before the machine speeds past, rider swaying too and forth dodging impossibly between nonchalant pedestrians, shouting warnings and remonstrations.

The Albaythin is home to numerous North African immigrants and to a crusty community of cosmic proportions. The streets are patrolled day and night by glassy-eyed scruffs wearing worn, stripy sweaters . The males sport dreads, piercings and tattoos. Female crusty chic embraces the mullet and silver mouth studs that at first glance appear to be shiny over sized zits. Clothes are baggy and colourful and in need of a wash and several stitches. A mangy dog is de rigeur for both crusty genders.

At night time it is difficult to navigate unless you exactly where you are going, which of course i did not. On venturing out from my hostel after dark i wandered in circles for hours before finding my way back. Along the way i spotted a sign hanging from a second storey building. It was painted onto a white sheet. The Arabic part, in black paint, i could not decipher. The English, in red, was easier and read "Violent muggings". This was of great comfort as i stumbled along lost in the dark.

Alternative Living

The hostel was set in the heart of the Albaythin and is best be described as crusty central. On arrival the hostel was overbooked - shocker! - and i was offered a mattress. I accepted same and was led to a dorm room hosting two double bunks, no more than three feet apart. Between the bunks a ladder ascended steeply through the ceiling into the attic. I scratched my head. The girl - who spoke only un poco des ingles - pointed towards the attic. I laughed and the girl laughed a little, nervously. As i attempted to ascend the almost vertical ladder with 15kg of backpack strapped to me i recalled briefly that i had yet to finalise my travel insurance.

Poking my head above the ceiling i discovered not a converted attic, but an attic. The roof sloped at a narrow angle such that at the near end of the mattress it was impossible to kneel upright and at the far end the ceiling and roof were separated by six inches of space which looked directly into the toilets next door. There were a total of 5 mattresses side by side, all of which would be occupied that nite.

The hostel appeared to have a number of permanent residents and it was difficult to distinguish guests from staff. A rather eccentric Mexican was nominally in charge. However the most arduous of his duties seemed to be pouring himself jugs of beer, rolling joints and roaring - rather than singing - Spanish songs at unexpected moments. Other residents/workers were drawn from Spain, Holland, Sweden, the UK and Germany. During my stay i discovered that most of these had arrived for a night or two and were a number of months into their drug fuelled soujourn. They seemed never to leave the hostel itself.

An English lad arrived later on the afternoon of my arrival. He had slept on a park bench by the train station the nite before. He was a vegan and was travelling to learn more about Buddhism and hoped to reach new heights (depths?) of meditation. He shared his theory that cows are the lynch-pin of the political and economic establishments - through the jobs provided by the production and consumption of meat. Andy was convinced that if only we could destroy all of the cows we could defeat the system and the world would recoil into zen harmony. Andy also specialised in stealing beer from the bar whilst the worker/residents were indisposed/passed out/passing out/asleep.

Cave-dwellers

At the end of our visit to the Alhambra, my Californienne companion suggested going to the caves in the hills above the Albaythin. Apparently there were people living in caves and the mental Mexican had offered to take some of the hostel guests on guided tours. Weary of going anywhere under the guidance of Mr Tijuana i suggested that we find them for ourselves. There was no mention of the caves in the guidebooks and no other traveller had mentioned them in dispatches. I was intrigued and suspicious - troglodytes in the 21st century European Union? I had seen and heard of cave dwellers in other parts of the world but who the hell lives in caves in Spain?

The Californienne knew no more than i but understood there was some sort of tourist route up through the caves. So we walked to the Albaythin and continued upward until there were no more streets above us. There were no signs for caves or cave tours and the Californienne had no idea where to go. So i suggested that we simply keep on heading upwards into the fields above the Albaythin until we saw something or not. So i walked around the side of somebody's house, beckoned the reticent Californienne to follow and continued unmolested in an upwards direction.

We followed a dirt trail that meandered between two medium-sized slopes. There was garbage strewn either side. After about fifty metres i looked up and on either side there were caves dug into the hillside. The entrance to each cave was screened-off with refuse and discarded (or liberated) construction materials. The caves seemed to cater for single occupancy. One had been burnt out and the rocks surrounding it were coated in soot. Two bearded guys sat on beer crates directly above us drinking cans and smoking. They looked down at us intently.

A preturnaturally large, shackled rotweiler attempted to draw me into a staring match where there could be only one winner and one bloody corpse. The dog/minotaur was chained to a piece of scaffolding outside one cave. After i sensibly broke eye contact it barked continuously. At the brow of the opposing hill a ponytailed figure emerged from a cave, emptied a bucket of liquid down the slope and returned to his cave. Whatever the Calfiornienne had been told, this was definitely not on the tourist trail. Tourists were more likely to feature on the menu than on a tour. Nonetheless i was keen to explore just a little further - no one had approached us and there was no immediate signs of danger. The Californienne had seen enough however and we returned to the familar - and suddenly safer looking - alleyways of the Albaythin far below. A more detailed exploration of Grenada's deliverance country will have to wait for another day.

Adventures in Malaga

There is little to be said of Malaga. Its reasonably pretty and the weather was mild - not beach weather. There is the remains of an Arabic fortress, which pales beside the Al Hambra. I stayed in a hostel in the centre of town. In the evening i headed out to watch the Barcelona game on the box. On returning i paused at a bar across the square to consider plans for my departure the next day. As i wrote and read i noticed a mddle-aged crusty character with long grey hair walking up and down the bar with a beer in hand. Eventually he settled at the table next to mine and we strick up a conversation after a while.

Alessandro told me that he was an art director, born in Italy but divided his time between New York and Malaga. He had been the art director on Antonio Banderos' last movie. The conversation was mildly entertaining but i had an eye on time and was about to head for leaba when Alessandro insisted on buying a round of beers. So naturally i could not leave before squaring the round. Amid the banter Alessandro eyeballed me and said that although i would never cut the mustard as an actor, i had, from an artistic viewpoint, a beautiful face. As i digested this information he proceeded to tell me that i had beautiful hands and that he was gay. At this moment i broke eye contact and scanned the room. There were groups of blokes sitting at tables around the bar and some birds. At the counter there were two blokes kissing. "Is this a gay bar?" i asked Alessandro. "No." Good i thought. "But it is gay nite." Ah. I made polite excuses and sodded off back to the hostel.[Postscript: Was Alessandro the art director on Antonio Banderos' movie? You'll have to google for yourself.]

I had intended on going directly to leaba. My attention was caught however by the hostel bar - no more than a counter and a couple of stools in the lobby. The barman - who would turn out to be named Alejandro - was pouring shots at a pace that suggested he was afraid he as somehow running out of alcohol. There was one customer - a Canadian. Barman and customer appeared to be tasting and rating a number of concotions. Having shown sufficient overt curiosity from the end of the bar i was invited to join them.

The following evening was cheap shot nite in the hostel bar - €1 a shot - and Alejandro was preparing a revised shot menu. The American and i were happy guinea pigs. We each in turn devised a concoction from the materials on display in the - rather limited - bar. We would each try and rate the other's suggestions. The cream of the crop was then named and installed on the shot menu - a blackboard behind the bar. So rounds of whiskey and banana liquor were followed by blackcurrent, vodka and gin - which was a noticeable improvement on grenadine, tequila and rum. One of my creations - grenadine and whiskey - made it to blackboard status. Perhaps owing in parts to the deeply dark pink colour and to my earlier encounter with the art director, i christened it the Elton John. Happily i hear reports here in Morocco from other travellers that the Elton John remains on the shot menu in the hostel bar. So if you're heading to Malaga...

(PS i have had some difficulty accessing the blog page while in Morocco. Hopefully this has been sorted and updates will return to their usual frequency. Gibraltar, Tarifa and adios to Spain is coming soon!)

Madrid Redux

Madrid Redux

On day three in Madrid Andy's herculean snoring finally prompted me to move to the Mad Hostel (Mad, Madrid, get it! Oh, the originality). I was intent on a quiet nite despite the injunction in the Hostel brochure: don't come here if you don't like to party. Yeah baby, yeah. In the early evening i sat in the hostel bar sending some emails. I was sipping on a pious bottle of tap water when i fell into conversation with an English lad and a Kiwi. Succumbing to peer pressure i agreed to sup one beer ... and it was 3:45am before i finally made it up the stairs, which whirled around me as i groped in the darkness for the light switch, handrail or some such.

It was past 1:00pm when i exited leaba the next day heading in the direction of the Palais Royal. Given the time i had passed out the nite before i had a certain self-satisfaction in simply being out and about. In the later afternoon the warming satisfaction had dissipated and my left heel had sprouted a blister of the sort i thought belonged only in Vietnam movies. On return to the Hostel my drinking companions of the nite before were chasing away their hangovers with a jug of beer in the bar. It would of course have been rude not to stay with them for a sociable one.

Gypsy

We exchanged brief details of our respective days, though it was the English lad's retelling of the previous nite that was of most interest. English's dorm hosted four people including one who was to become known to one and all as the "Gypsy". Gypsy had arrived into the dorm the previous nite even later than English. He then proceeded to switch on all of the lights, leave and re-enter the dorm a number of times and generate a great deal of noise. Having spent close to an hour clanging about he finally quenched the lights and lay into his bed. English was furious and of mild inclination to offer Gypsy a physical appraisal of his behaviour - English was a former prop forward whose frame shared many of the characteristics of a medieval fortress. As the other dorm sharers had left duiring the afternoon English was slated to share the dorm with Gypsy on his own that nite.

Later in the evening Gypsy appeared in the communal kitchen. Mostly he leaned on the door frame entreating each entrant to share their dinner with him. As he was unknown to all, and took no time to introduce himself before requesting a half-share of people's food it was unsurprising that nobody wished to break their bread with him. Not one to be daunted by an initial set back Gypsy settled on a more direct route - stealing the food in the communal fridge. My deli-counter slices of salami remain missing in action, presumed gypsified. An American lad came out of the kitchen into the bar area holding a plate and shouting "He's a fucking bum. He's a thief. There's some guy in there stealing everyone's food right under their eyes. Bum". I wished English well for the nite ahead.

The early evening soon melted into early morning and our little cabal was forced to break up. The inebriated Kiwi set out for the bus or train station for a bus or train to somewhere. He was as dim on the details as i. The bar had long shut when i staggered up the spiral staircase and bid English good nite.

The following evening English filled me in on the goings on of the previous nite as we sat in the Hostel bar. Gypsy had arrived in around 5:00am and followed his standard operating procedure - turning on the lights, rummaging in plastic bags full of clothes, entering and exiting the dorm room, chomping on an apple. When the seam of English's patience had been exhausted he sat up to find Gypsy leisurely lying on his bed reviewing some receipts. English politely requested that this undoubtedly urgent task be left till the morning and that perhaps they could turn out the light. Gypsy poked a hand into his inside jacket pocket and produced a handful of pink, penis-shaped jellies which he offered to English. The offer was declined as was the follow up opportunity to buy from Gypsy some pills that "will make the sex magical". At this point English lumbered down to reception to request a new room, a request that was granted only on English recounting his desire to break Gypsy in half.

That evening as we discussed the geo-political imbalances building up in Northwest Asia over a relaxing beer in the Hostel bar, none other than Gypsey seemed to be approaching our table. I was curious whether A) he was here to apologise; or B) English would break him in half before he got to spoke, denying me an insight on a truly incredible mind. As it happens Gypsey siddled up to English - as though nothing had passed between them the nite before - to model his freshly stolen brown leather jacket. My jaw opened a little at the braggartly audacity when Gypsey nudged English under the ribs and asked if he would "loan" him the price of a beer.

Reina Sofia

The Reina Sofia is a gallery housing modern and contemporary art. My mixed mind on this topic is documented in previous posts, but suffice it to say i went along prepared for the worst. Mostly i wanted to see the collection of Picasso's and Salvadore Dali's. The collection was organised chronologically and it was noticeable that best stuff was created in the early and mid twentieth century and the most recently produced material was almost uniformly bilge. Even more disconcerting is that the bilge was created by the self same artists who had produced their best work decades before. Now they are so famous that a tiny black dot on a ten by twenty foot blank canvass is considered a masterpiece - would the same work turned out by a spotty twenty year old art student be held in the same regard? Perhaps if it were titled Polar Bear Nose in a Blizzard? Even more pitiable was the artist's explanation of his work faithfully reproduced on the (€8.00) audioguide. It went like this: "I have always been interested in the idea of innocence. White is a colour that is synonymous with innocence and i use a lot of it in this work". Its a blank cavass with a dot. And you haven't even bothered to explain the dot, you lazy bastard.

On a more uplifting note the collection of Salvadore Dali paintings is excellent. Dali's surreal, paranoid and often nocturnal worlds connect with the parts of my brain that recall hangovers and drunken nites. The outstanding Picasso piece is Guernica - the artist's protest at the bombing of a small Basque market village by the German Luftwaffe. It is a huge, complex and impassioned piece. An accompanying exhibition contains the sketches and drafts Picasso created in preparation for Guernica. And the emergence of the piece itself from a blank canvass (no dots) is recorded in a series of photographs by Picasso's missus (as i am sure she would prefer to be recalled by history).

With that i left Gypsy and the mad, Mad Hostel behind and i headed for Andalusia.