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!)