For the weekend in Hungary, I arranged to visit my kiting students from Austria and have a customize whirlwind tour of Vienna at the same time. I rented a motorbike (something I just really wanted to do, screw the expense) and cruised the 240kms across the boarder. The drive was uninspiring, but the bike was a lot of run. Max speed 210kph, but it was the acceleration and manoeuvrability that was really enjoyable.
In Vienna, Melanie and Harry were embarrassingly welcoming hosts: as I don’t speak German, they took advantage to make the excuse to prevent my paying my fair share. I actually had to insist before they let me contribute some!
The first and last night we chose the same restaurant – a great brew pub with exceptional beers and traditional dishes. I was quite please to visit the second time around, and even pigged out on two meals as I couldn’t do just the one!
One Saturday, we did all the worthwhile tourist things: all kinds of buildings in the historical district, traditional cheese sausage, and of course beers. But also there were locals-only tips, like eating at the town hall market stands, and chilling at a beach bar alongside the Danube. Then we capped off by visiting the in-town amusement park, replete with all kinds of rollercosters and rides, but with the special distinction of not requiring an entry ticket: you just paid for the rides you wanted. These accomplished, we sat for dinner where I tried another traditional plate of meat, meat, and meat!
For Sunday, we slept in before searching the ‘net for options. We settled on the local cable-park, where you get towed around a circuit on a wakeboard on a flat lake. This spot was awesome: lots of hot girls watching from a bar restaurant, where a mix of hilarious novices and impressive local pros rode (or tried to at least).
While Harry chose to sit on the sidelines and play cameraman while quaffing plenty of beers, Melanie and I had a go for an hour. While she struggled to get to grips with this new variation on wakeboarding, I was successful at launching from the stand-up launch station (the one used by the pros), but found getting all the way around to be quite a challenge. Eventually I was doing it and even trying so little tricks, but it was a little different to kiting. So I was quite content once my hour of riding, and swimming, was over. I could feel in my legs the amount of walking I’d been doing for the past few days, and this sport compounded it. I had earned my beers, so we chilled before returning for a shower, picked up their flatmate (another kite student from Portugal) for a good night out. Just a great time. I look forward to returning the hospitality when they visit NZ sometime in the future…
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Side-trip to Budapest
Seeing a very poor forecast at the end of July, I decided to look at cheap tickets somewhere else in Europe. The cheapest were for England, which has the advantage of catching up with my cousins and their new families. However I decided that could wait for a modified return journey at the end of my stay. This time I wanted something more exotic. I’d had a notion to visit Egypt during my stay, but that option was too expensive. I started focusing on the likes of Munich, Prague, Vienna, Budapest or Istanbul.
Budapest come up a winner, so I book tickets from Lisbon. This had two extra advantages: Pedro could use the van for some promoting which was good for him and for me as I didn’t need to park it. Also, I would be in Lisbon to join him for Ocean Spirit, a multi-discipline surf contest (kite, paddle, kayak, etc) after my return.
So after 2 hours of sleep, I boarded a morning flight to Budapest, Hungary. I was asleep before the seatbelt sign turned off!
The first thing I noticed upon arrival was the skies, the weather. It has been years since I’d been so far inland and you could see and feel the difference. The forecast was for a little cooler than Portugal, but other than a couple of thunderstorm downpours (which I fortunately avoided) it was actually baking hot – so nice!
I picked up a great discount card that provided 3 days of public transport, 2 free walking tours, and lots of other discount options for just 4500 Florents - 27 euros. Yes, changing money into the local currency made me a Hungarian millionaire (almost) with approx 290HuFs = 1 euro.
And things were comparably cheaper: one beer was 350HuFs, about one euro. This was the same as Portugal, except the glass was twice as big. And the hostels were less than 10 euro/day. I could finally afford to eat out every meal!
So anyway, I got right to exploring this dual-identify city. I learned the area was settled in 896AD by the Huns (hence the derived name of the country – the local language is actually Magyar in their tongue, not Hungarian, but it translates to the same). There are 3 regions to the city – mainly Buda on the west in the hills, and Pest on the east on the plains, with Obuda to the north – separated by the Danube running on a tectonic line that causes the different landscape.
Having 2 cities in one provided so many more activities to enjoy: on the Buda side was the old historic buildings housing the library and art gallery, and terraces providing beautiful panoramas. The castle hill is built on a limestone hill riddled with caves that have been utilized for past purposes of a wartime hospital and bunker, and recently a post-modern thought-provoking Labyrinth with funky sounds and statues without. One section also pokes a bit of fun by suggesting they had to stop excavation after discovery of unidentified fossil marks which are actually clay imprints of modern items: a shoe, a cellphone, and a computer keyboard for examples. Then just as I completed the circuit to be confronted with a gate preventing completion of the mapped route, I turned back to find they’d turned out the lights. Later explorers had been provided with lanterns, adding even more to the challenge and atmosphere of the place. A very cool exhibit.
I discovered a lot of other cool things to keep me busy for 5 full days, but the best was a full-on spelunking trip into a cave system. I suffer slightly from claustrophobia, so my stress level went up for the first 10 minutes, but after that you pass the point of no return and just go with it. We were on our bellies, crawling through gaps barely large enough to pass our helmets. These would then open to massive caverns where you could barely discern you entry point from all the other opportunities. It could be so easy to get lost. And some of the paths were pretty much one-way only (without a LOT of struggle) as you slipped and slid down narrow passages – sometimes headfirst. We all really enjoyed it and did so well the guide gave us some extra challenges – one was so tight it almost dislocated my shoulder, while a few of us were cursing as we tried to squeeze through one tight gap. Despite the cool subterranean air, we were panting and sweating under our provided overalls. What an adventure! The beers at the end were well deserved. And for only 15 euros, it rates as one of the all-time best tourist activities I’ve ever done.
The night-time was no less active. This is where Pest reigns. I quickly got in with a group at my hostel – including a few of the locals that worked their – and had a quite a few really late nights, partying it up. Though that didn’t stop me getting up with the sun the next day. I honestly don’t know how I did it for so many days, but it was all worth it.
Budapest come up a winner, so I book tickets from Lisbon. This had two extra advantages: Pedro could use the van for some promoting which was good for him and for me as I didn’t need to park it. Also, I would be in Lisbon to join him for Ocean Spirit, a multi-discipline surf contest (kite, paddle, kayak, etc) after my return.
So after 2 hours of sleep, I boarded a morning flight to Budapest, Hungary. I was asleep before the seatbelt sign turned off!
The first thing I noticed upon arrival was the skies, the weather. It has been years since I’d been so far inland and you could see and feel the difference. The forecast was for a little cooler than Portugal, but other than a couple of thunderstorm downpours (which I fortunately avoided) it was actually baking hot – so nice!
I picked up a great discount card that provided 3 days of public transport, 2 free walking tours, and lots of other discount options for just 4500 Florents - 27 euros. Yes, changing money into the local currency made me a Hungarian millionaire (almost) with approx 290HuFs = 1 euro.
And things were comparably cheaper: one beer was 350HuFs, about one euro. This was the same as Portugal, except the glass was twice as big. And the hostels were less than 10 euro/day. I could finally afford to eat out every meal!
So anyway, I got right to exploring this dual-identify city. I learned the area was settled in 896AD by the Huns (hence the derived name of the country – the local language is actually Magyar in their tongue, not Hungarian, but it translates to the same). There are 3 regions to the city – mainly Buda on the west in the hills, and Pest on the east on the plains, with Obuda to the north – separated by the Danube running on a tectonic line that causes the different landscape.
Having 2 cities in one provided so many more activities to enjoy: on the Buda side was the old historic buildings housing the library and art gallery, and terraces providing beautiful panoramas. The castle hill is built on a limestone hill riddled with caves that have been utilized for past purposes of a wartime hospital and bunker, and recently a post-modern thought-provoking Labyrinth with funky sounds and statues without. One section also pokes a bit of fun by suggesting they had to stop excavation after discovery of unidentified fossil marks which are actually clay imprints of modern items: a shoe, a cellphone, and a computer keyboard for examples. Then just as I completed the circuit to be confronted with a gate preventing completion of the mapped route, I turned back to find they’d turned out the lights. Later explorers had been provided with lanterns, adding even more to the challenge and atmosphere of the place. A very cool exhibit.
I discovered a lot of other cool things to keep me busy for 5 full days, but the best was a full-on spelunking trip into a cave system. I suffer slightly from claustrophobia, so my stress level went up for the first 10 minutes, but after that you pass the point of no return and just go with it. We were on our bellies, crawling through gaps barely large enough to pass our helmets. These would then open to massive caverns where you could barely discern you entry point from all the other opportunities. It could be so easy to get lost. And some of the paths were pretty much one-way only (without a LOT of struggle) as you slipped and slid down narrow passages – sometimes headfirst. We all really enjoyed it and did so well the guide gave us some extra challenges – one was so tight it almost dislocated my shoulder, while a few of us were cursing as we tried to squeeze through one tight gap. Despite the cool subterranean air, we were panting and sweating under our provided overalls. What an adventure! The beers at the end were well deserved. And for only 15 euros, it rates as one of the all-time best tourist activities I’ve ever done.
The night-time was no less active. This is where Pest reigns. I quickly got in with a group at my hostel – including a few of the locals that worked their – and had a quite a few really late nights, partying it up. Though that didn’t stop me getting up with the sun the next day. I honestly don’t know how I did it for so many days, but it was all worth it.
Construction
Just a quick comment on the state of affairs here. Although there is currently a recession, you wouldn’t believe the amount of building here. True, not all of it is active: in some cases you will find just a shell of a concrete structure, all derelict and covered in graffiti; in slight less abandoned projects, you find a crane as a permanent fixture but which is never active – in fact it is hard to scan the horizon of a city without spotting at least one crane somewhere. However, plenty of projects are active; they may not be the most efficient of operations but throw enough people at a problem and they actually get completed pretty quickly. Two underground parking garages have been constructed in Lagos since I arrived. And the guy running the hostel in Portimao stated it is the city of roundabouts and shopping malls when I commented on the proliferation of construction.
Everything is the same: concrete edifices, whitewashed and either flat topped or covered in red corrugated tile. But the homogeneity is contrasted with the somewhat ‘higgledy-piggeldy’ architecture of some of these concrete blobs, delivering a definite Portuguese style of architecture.
Everything is the same: concrete edifices, whitewashed and either flat topped or covered in red corrugated tile. But the homogeneity is contrasted with the somewhat ‘higgledy-piggeldy’ architecture of some of these concrete blobs, delivering a definite Portuguese style of architecture.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Yoga
When I’m not busy, or on days where I can squeeze it in, I’ve rediscovered yoga in the form of a new studio that just opened. In fact I met the lead yogi, Igor, as he was passing out flyers in my favourite bookstore. I joined up without hesitation when I learned a monthly unlimited pass was just 36 euros. A casual visit is 9 euros so I only had to make it once a week to break even. But in fact I’m one of a small group of very regular practioners – almost exclusively girls, of course – who are blessed with two of the best yoga instructors I’ve ever met. In fact a couple of the girls that attend are yoga instructors themselves.
Perhaps it is there instruction, my relaxed lifestyle, or some other mystic quality, but I’m finding the inspiration of the practices to have a more positive influence than ever, affecting not just my tight, poor abused body, but my very response to life. The challenge of course will be to maintain this once I return home.
The Kite House has joined a partnership with the studio also, so I regularly try to recruit residents to come to the sessions. So far no luck, but I’m doing what I can to support this worthy, fledgling enterprise TheLightRoom.com. Personally I go about 5 times a week, though sometimes that is twice a day!
Perhaps it is there instruction, my relaxed lifestyle, or some other mystic quality, but I’m finding the inspiration of the practices to have a more positive influence than ever, affecting not just my tight, poor abused body, but my very response to life. The challenge of course will be to maintain this once I return home.
The Kite House has joined a partnership with the studio also, so I regularly try to recruit residents to come to the sessions. So far no luck, but I’m doing what I can to support this worthy, fledgling enterprise TheLightRoom.com. Personally I go about 5 times a week, though sometimes that is twice a day!
The Owl Story Bookstore
When I’m not working or going to yoga classes, one of my favourite places is the local English bookstore in Lagos. I’ve mentioned the slightly crazy Scottish guy, Ian, who runs it, in past blog entries; well the more time I spend with him, the more I realize is the best friend I have here. An unlikely combination: he’s 15 or so years older than me, has a very opinionated, harsh Scottish demeanour borne from past military service. However it is front, for he’s a really stand-up fellow who’s just not scared to speak his mind. He’s not afraid to torment or insult his customers. In fact, the one’s that have a backbone and take it in stride are his favourites (I believe I must have passed that test somewhere along the lines, but being me, I didn’t even notice).
He has some great stories to tell about all his past exploits in the restaurant game – he should write a book, as he certainly doesn’t read them!
But he does well enough, and enjoys the human interaction. He’s as gentle as could be to the younger, less ‘worldly’ of his clientele. But we certainly enjoy some light-hearted word-play with those who can play the game.
And he sound rather sound – if questionable – business practices, which are all about pleasing himself. If a customer says something he doesn’t like, he let’s them know. Or kicks them out. Rudely. His thinking is that leaves more books for those he wants to have buy them. And anyone that person tells about their bad experience will either be more undesirables, or will be just intrigued enough to check out this peculiar bookstore!.
In fact he recently shared an email discussion with one such malcontent that ended with Ian telling him to ‘piss off – goodbye’. However he then declared the guys wouldn’t dare write back. I bet him lunch that the guy would write back (if he didn’t, it would just even the score anyway, as Ian had shouted me a lunch earlier that week…while he just drank beers). For two days I was fielding cocky comments about his impending payback until I got the text that admits the guy couldn’t resist biting back with one more retort.
So last Saturday I was in the store near his closing hour (early on a Saturday, conveniently), and he sent me around the corner for beers. So here we were, kicking back in a friendly little bookstore putting away a couple of pints. And then come closing time, he surprised me further by rolling a spliff before heading over to café for a delicious burger – yum!
I think that cemented it, as we had a couple of beers in the store again today, and I’m taking his wife into Portimao to do some shopping tomorrow morning (they don’t drive). And I believe I’ve mentioned he’s insisted I’m no longer allowed to buy any books at the store anymore – I just take what I want!
He has some great stories to tell about all his past exploits in the restaurant game – he should write a book, as he certainly doesn’t read them!
But he does well enough, and enjoys the human interaction. He’s as gentle as could be to the younger, less ‘worldly’ of his clientele. But we certainly enjoy some light-hearted word-play with those who can play the game.
And he sound rather sound – if questionable – business practices, which are all about pleasing himself. If a customer says something he doesn’t like, he let’s them know. Or kicks them out. Rudely. His thinking is that leaves more books for those he wants to have buy them. And anyone that person tells about their bad experience will either be more undesirables, or will be just intrigued enough to check out this peculiar bookstore!.
In fact he recently shared an email discussion with one such malcontent that ended with Ian telling him to ‘piss off – goodbye’. However he then declared the guys wouldn’t dare write back. I bet him lunch that the guy would write back (if he didn’t, it would just even the score anyway, as Ian had shouted me a lunch earlier that week…while he just drank beers). For two days I was fielding cocky comments about his impending payback until I got the text that admits the guy couldn’t resist biting back with one more retort.
So last Saturday I was in the store near his closing hour (early on a Saturday, conveniently), and he sent me around the corner for beers. So here we were, kicking back in a friendly little bookstore putting away a couple of pints. And then come closing time, he surprised me further by rolling a spliff before heading over to café for a delicious burger – yum!
I think that cemented it, as we had a couple of beers in the store again today, and I’m taking his wife into Portimao to do some shopping tomorrow morning (they don’t drive). And I believe I’ve mentioned he’s insisted I’m no longer allowed to buy any books at the store anymore – I just take what I want!
Working for the competition
A couple of weeks ago, Daniel the owner of Algarve WaterSport, contacted GustyKite about taking a group of clients as he was overbooked. This opened up the discussion that led to being their 3rd instructor on days when they were overbooked. This has been happening on quite a regular basis, I’m happy to report, so although I’m not making half the money as with Pedro and GustyKite, I’m busy working. And sometimes we are each taking more than our legitimate 4 students/2 kites limit. Top that off with crazy winds, extreme tides, the occasional gear malfunction, and even some double shifts and it adds up to some tiring days.
The teaching situation isn’t ideal, as they are pushing as many students through for as many dollars as they can collect in their short season. On days when there’s no wind, I don’t work, but they keep going, offering surfing or wakeboarding as alternatives. So I really have it good as far as some work but some free time: my new instructor friends Borat (a fitting nickname) and Martin work basically 7 days a week through their busy season, and have the extra duties of driving clients and cleaning gear from which I’m exempt.
Of course I try to chip in as much as I can, which has won me a place of respect and favour with the whole team, to the point I feel like I’m part of the crew. It is a fittingly humbling experience to be the junior member of the team, but I’m learning quickly how to accommodate their level of business. I still probably put in an excess of energy and effort, trying to move (sometimes in deep water) between the groups of clients to ensure they get the best instruction and experience possible.
I feel, for better or worse, a strong attachment to each group of students, so it is difficult when they cycle out, just to be replaced by another fabulous group of guys and girls. When I hang around the Kite House for a well deserved shower, and to use the internet at night, I’ve been invited to share home-cooked meals and to hit the town partying with the crew. It’s been great fun! And I’m pretty sure I’ve just about accomplished one of the primary objectives of this trip: gaining enough teach experience to upgrade my status to Level 2 instructor. Though I’d be surprised if I ever make it to Borat’s status of Level 2 Senior, which requires something like 120 students and 2000 hours teaching!
The teaching situation isn’t ideal, as they are pushing as many students through for as many dollars as they can collect in their short season. On days when there’s no wind, I don’t work, but they keep going, offering surfing or wakeboarding as alternatives. So I really have it good as far as some work but some free time: my new instructor friends Borat (a fitting nickname) and Martin work basically 7 days a week through their busy season, and have the extra duties of driving clients and cleaning gear from which I’m exempt.
Of course I try to chip in as much as I can, which has won me a place of respect and favour with the whole team, to the point I feel like I’m part of the crew. It is a fittingly humbling experience to be the junior member of the team, but I’m learning quickly how to accommodate their level of business. I still probably put in an excess of energy and effort, trying to move (sometimes in deep water) between the groups of clients to ensure they get the best instruction and experience possible.
I feel, for better or worse, a strong attachment to each group of students, so it is difficult when they cycle out, just to be replaced by another fabulous group of guys and girls. When I hang around the Kite House for a well deserved shower, and to use the internet at night, I’ve been invited to share home-cooked meals and to hit the town partying with the crew. It’s been great fun! And I’m pretty sure I’ve just about accomplished one of the primary objectives of this trip: gaining enough teach experience to upgrade my status to Level 2 instructor. Though I’d be surprised if I ever make it to Borat’s status of Level 2 Senior, which requires something like 120 students and 2000 hours teaching!
Monday, July 12, 2010
Excursion to the south of Spain – Part 5: Sevilla
On my way back to ‘work’, I took my Dad’s other piece of advice and made time to stop in Sevilla. I has honestly thinking ‘oh great, another big European city’, yet I really enjoyed it. I was fortunate to approach from the south up a huge, very scenic boulevard, passed many large, impressive mansions, state buildings and university structures, before arriving at the requisite dense, windy old town quarter. Forced by the ever-present one-way road system into a circuit of the old town, I quickly saw all the sites that I eventually determined were the tourist photo opportunities.
When I did park and explore on foot, the first major edifice I encountered was the grand cathedral. Truly massive, yet inspiringly airy and skyscraping from withing, it was astonishing to witness the detail that went into all the carvings everywhere. And there was even a pipe organ fired up with accompanying choir when I arrived, to add aural ambiance to the visual.
I decided not to get sucked into doing a tourist train circuit but instead visited Starbucks (where I could be guaranteed of a long-missed BIG cup of coffee) and settled on an hour of people watching.
Later I took a stroll next to, and over the river from one bridge to the next, and ended up in some beautifully adorned gardens, before quitting the city and its 36 degree heat for the slightly more temperate climate of the Portuguese coast.
When I did park and explore on foot, the first major edifice I encountered was the grand cathedral. Truly massive, yet inspiringly airy and skyscraping from withing, it was astonishing to witness the detail that went into all the carvings everywhere. And there was even a pipe organ fired up with accompanying choir when I arrived, to add aural ambiance to the visual.
I decided not to get sucked into doing a tourist train circuit but instead visited Starbucks (where I could be guaranteed of a long-missed BIG cup of coffee) and settled on an hour of people watching.
Later I took a stroll next to, and over the river from one bridge to the next, and ended up in some beautifully adorned gardens, before quitting the city and its 36 degree heat for the slightly more temperate climate of the Portuguese coast.
Excursion to the south of Spain – Part 4: Tanger (Tangiers), Morocco
Having no wind, I explore the old quarter of Tarifa, which provided a very interesting maze of narrow alleys and surprise open air squares nestled away. But I also kept my eyes open for other activities. When I went for a drink with my kiter hitchhiker and his girlfriend, they suggested how cheap it is to go across to Africa for a day. I found an offer for ferry, guided tour, plus lunch for 45 euros – a very good deal.
Next day we boarded at 10am and made the quick crossing from a tiny Spanish outpost to a bustling, burgeoning Moroccan metropolis. Although the tour was very ‘touristy’, I got a good deal out of the quick bus ride – narrated by one guy in English, French, and Spanish in quick succession: impressive.
For one euro, we got a quick ride on camels, which was one of those ‘must do’ experiences for an accomplished horseman, just to compare. Then we got a walking tour of the truly maze-like old town and markets with its hustle and bustle, and fascinatingly foreign sites and smells.
Finally to lunch, and we were well impressed that for our complete 45 euro package, this meal consisted of bread, soup, kebab, then chicken in couscous, accompanied by authentic live music and not so authentic belly dancing. It was great fun!
Finally we were guided through a few shops that made a theatre of presenting their wares: first carpets, then holistic medicines, and finally knick-nack brassware ornaments. I took a serious look at the carpets, but nothing cried out to me. Fortunately I’m very resistant to a pressure sale. Sadly the same wasn’t true for my English-speaking companions: a young guy from Australia and his slightly wiser girlfriend from Canada. She did well picking up a carpet, but probably paid more than double what she could have done given time. And he was suckered into a bracelet that even he regretted 5 minutes later. But they will both value their treasures as much as they overpaid for them.
Others in our group were chased and harassed by street hawkers , but curiously I’ve learned the body language it takes to shake them off with a simple toss of my head. Yet it as fun watching one girl drag one particular vendor for miles, negotiating on a simple bracelet. Even when she’d got him down to 1 euro, she tried to short change him. I thought it was great entertainment!
All in all it was an eye-opener, especially as the King of Morocco was due to arrive the next day, so everything was in preparation with huge red state flags hung everywhere. We finished in the Hotel Continental, apparently being famous as a movie set for Bogart and 007 movies. Back across the water, I enjoyed a nice dinner with my new friends which rounded out the day just nicely.
Next day we boarded at 10am and made the quick crossing from a tiny Spanish outpost to a bustling, burgeoning Moroccan metropolis. Although the tour was very ‘touristy’, I got a good deal out of the quick bus ride – narrated by one guy in English, French, and Spanish in quick succession: impressive.
For one euro, we got a quick ride on camels, which was one of those ‘must do’ experiences for an accomplished horseman, just to compare. Then we got a walking tour of the truly maze-like old town and markets with its hustle and bustle, and fascinatingly foreign sites and smells.
Finally to lunch, and we were well impressed that for our complete 45 euro package, this meal consisted of bread, soup, kebab, then chicken in couscous, accompanied by authentic live music and not so authentic belly dancing. It was great fun!
Finally we were guided through a few shops that made a theatre of presenting their wares: first carpets, then holistic medicines, and finally knick-nack brassware ornaments. I took a serious look at the carpets, but nothing cried out to me. Fortunately I’m very resistant to a pressure sale. Sadly the same wasn’t true for my English-speaking companions: a young guy from Australia and his slightly wiser girlfriend from Canada. She did well picking up a carpet, but probably paid more than double what she could have done given time. And he was suckered into a bracelet that even he regretted 5 minutes later. But they will both value their treasures as much as they overpaid for them.
Others in our group were chased and harassed by street hawkers , but curiously I’ve learned the body language it takes to shake them off with a simple toss of my head. Yet it as fun watching one girl drag one particular vendor for miles, negotiating on a simple bracelet. Even when she’d got him down to 1 euro, she tried to short change him. I thought it was great entertainment!
All in all it was an eye-opener, especially as the King of Morocco was due to arrive the next day, so everything was in preparation with huge red state flags hung everywhere. We finished in the Hotel Continental, apparently being famous as a movie set for Bogart and 007 movies. Back across the water, I enjoyed a nice dinner with my new friends which rounded out the day just nicely.
Excursion to the south of Spain – Part 3: The Rock of Gibraltar
Upon hearing of this crazy plan to run away from normal life for 3 months, my father was inspired to recommend I visit the Gibraltar. So I made a day trip to this little English colonial outpost. As such there was even a controlled border crossing with passport checks – a little farsical, seeing how small is the country (outcropping of rock).
Inside, there was a sense of London’s hustle and bustle. One neat feature was entering the main town through the old fortifications by means of the old drawbridge, now converted to a road ramp. But mostly, it as another European city.
But The Rock was a different matter. On a whim, and without a map or signs, I just started climbing stairways until I reached a road. I later learned what I had traversed was a closed public footpath, called by one smart aleck “The Rottweiller Gauntlet”. Oh well.
This no-conventional infiltration of The Rock had its pros and cons. I discovered and climbed the big long vertical wall to the top ridge, where families of Macaque monkeys made themselves a home, supported by wildlife organizations that wanted them to prosper, but avoid the temptation of foraging in the town.
These scamps were fascinating. But just as I was reading so bios on their behaviour and social structure while snacking on a banana, I felt this heavy hand on my shoulder. Surprised, I turned, and next thing my banana was swatted from my hand! One of the little devils had jumped up on me and stolen my food. Turns out they think of humans as inferior in their social hierarchy since we feed them (giving another ‘your’ food being the ultimate act of subservience). Apparently they wouldn’t try this stealing behaviour on one another. If only I’d realized, I would have made that little bugger show me some respect!
The sad part of my unconventional approach to the Rock was that I had bypassed the ticket booths so didn’t have access to some of the old war-time fortifications. But down in the town I did visit the museum which was very informative and complete, so gave a good understanding of all the power struggles back and forth of the centuries concerning domination of the (apparently) strategic outpost.
All in all, a very informative and worthwhile visit to a truly impressive looking landmass. Thanks Dad!
Inside, there was a sense of London’s hustle and bustle. One neat feature was entering the main town through the old fortifications by means of the old drawbridge, now converted to a road ramp. But mostly, it as another European city.
But The Rock was a different matter. On a whim, and without a map or signs, I just started climbing stairways until I reached a road. I later learned what I had traversed was a closed public footpath, called by one smart aleck “The Rottweiller Gauntlet”. Oh well.
This no-conventional infiltration of The Rock had its pros and cons. I discovered and climbed the big long vertical wall to the top ridge, where families of Macaque monkeys made themselves a home, supported by wildlife organizations that wanted them to prosper, but avoid the temptation of foraging in the town.
These scamps were fascinating. But just as I was reading so bios on their behaviour and social structure while snacking on a banana, I felt this heavy hand on my shoulder. Surprised, I turned, and next thing my banana was swatted from my hand! One of the little devils had jumped up on me and stolen my food. Turns out they think of humans as inferior in their social hierarchy since we feed them (giving another ‘your’ food being the ultimate act of subservience). Apparently they wouldn’t try this stealing behaviour on one another. If only I’d realized, I would have made that little bugger show me some respect!
The sad part of my unconventional approach to the Rock was that I had bypassed the ticket booths so didn’t have access to some of the old war-time fortifications. But down in the town I did visit the museum which was very informative and complete, so gave a good understanding of all the power struggles back and forth of the centuries concerning domination of the (apparently) strategic outpost.
All in all, a very informative and worthwhile visit to a truly impressive looking landmass. Thanks Dad!
Excursion to the south of Spain – Part 2: Tarifa
Approaching Tarifa, kitesurf mecca for its constant windiness, the landscape became again mountainous, with the promise of rock climbing. And the quantity of wind turbines bespoke of its reputation for wind. I thought I was in for a great time!
Arriving at the coast, there were only a couple of kites up, and not enough wind to get me excited. Strange, as the forecast that drew me here was most promising. So I drove on the town, past a guy with his kite gear who was hitchhiking, through the town with its innumerable kite shops, to the windward shores. But I could find no evidence of beaches in this direction.
So I decided to head back and see if the hitcher was still there. He was, so I piled him and all the gear in the trusty van and offered a ride as we started to chat. He was a novice and new to the town, but confirmed that the first beaches I passed was the entire extent. So we went to visit and saw a stunning site: so may kites pumped up and waiting; truly as far as the eye could see. But no wind.
The windlessness continued for a few days so I did some other side-trips instead, but on my last day I had gone to inspect the local climbing – discovering I hadn’t packed my shoes, so I just played around at the base of some wonderful (and difficult) looking climbs – when I noticed the wind build.
Down again to the beach and still not enough. But later it built enough to use my biggest kite for 2 hours before dying again. And even in that short time, it was very busy. I can’t imagine when it’s enough wind for everyone who had only brought small kites. It was an uninspired session, but fun, and now I can say I’ve kited Tarifa. But would I go back; not necessarily. Maybe in the winter when the storms brew up big waves.
Arriving at the coast, there were only a couple of kites up, and not enough wind to get me excited. Strange, as the forecast that drew me here was most promising. So I drove on the town, past a guy with his kite gear who was hitchhiking, through the town with its innumerable kite shops, to the windward shores. But I could find no evidence of beaches in this direction.
So I decided to head back and see if the hitcher was still there. He was, so I piled him and all the gear in the trusty van and offered a ride as we started to chat. He was a novice and new to the town, but confirmed that the first beaches I passed was the entire extent. So we went to visit and saw a stunning site: so may kites pumped up and waiting; truly as far as the eye could see. But no wind.
The windlessness continued for a few days so I did some other side-trips instead, but on my last day I had gone to inspect the local climbing – discovering I hadn’t packed my shoes, so I just played around at the base of some wonderful (and difficult) looking climbs – when I noticed the wind build.
Down again to the beach and still not enough. But later it built enough to use my biggest kite for 2 hours before dying again. And even in that short time, it was very busy. I can’t imagine when it’s enough wind for everyone who had only brought small kites. It was an uninspired session, but fun, and now I can say I’ve kited Tarifa. But would I go back; not necessarily. Maybe in the winter when the storms brew up big waves.
Excursion to the south of Spain – Part 1: Jarrez
Having some free time before a lesson booking, I decide to head south for a few days. Although the decision was firm, the timing was a bit impromptu: I was leaving a yoga session one night, and took a few wrong turns, ending up on the freeway. What the hell, let’s go for it! 3 hours later, I’d crossed the border and made it close to Sevilla before camping at midnight.
The next morning saw me up at dawn, but this was still later than some of the farmers started. Sevilla via freeway was a bit tricky to navigate, but by midday I was down in the town of Jarrez de la Fronterra.
I stopped in Jarrez for two reasons: mundanely, to cash more travellers cheques; but also to determine the connection between the name Jarrez and one of my favourite apperatives, Sherry.
I knew that afficionadoes considered true Port to only come from the region of Porto (or the same for Champagne). But I wasn’t aware the same applies for Jarrez/Sherry – the two words meaning the same thing (in fact ‘Sherry’ is labelled ‘Jarrez’ in Spain).
So I took a tour of the Sandeman bodega (wine cellar). The girl guiding us was great, adorned in their trademark hat and cape (Spanish hat and Portuguese cape apparently, so not an authentic look for the region really, but quite distinctive). She had the unfortunate distinction also of naturally emulating the voice every English comedian does when poking fun at a Spaniard who can’t master the English accent. Her technical English was excellent, but trying to comprehend through her inate lisp and rolling ‘r’s and throaty ‘h’s made you really wonder what she was talking about a times.
However, she was very theatrical in her delivery of some very good information. She told how all sherry is made with white grapes in vineyards that are not irrigated, then left for a long time in a loosely corked barrel with no yeast. Sherry’s distinction from regular wine is that the wine is fortified with near-pure alcohol, also distilled from the same grapes. These aging barrels are mixed every few years so that 1/3 of the final batch is removed and bottled, then 1/3 of each subsequently younger barrel is mixed in, up to 4 generations or more. So 4 barrels at 5 years each is called a 20 year sherry, but clearly some of the contents spend much longer than that! The different grape varieties are later blended to give the varieties of sherry.
A lovely town, and very different region – flat as a pancake and close to being a desert – I’m glad I made the detour. But my true destination was Tarifa, at the southern tip, prominent in the way it juts into the Straits of Gibraltar.
The next morning saw me up at dawn, but this was still later than some of the farmers started. Sevilla via freeway was a bit tricky to navigate, but by midday I was down in the town of Jarrez de la Fronterra.
I stopped in Jarrez for two reasons: mundanely, to cash more travellers cheques; but also to determine the connection between the name Jarrez and one of my favourite apperatives, Sherry.
I knew that afficionadoes considered true Port to only come from the region of Porto (or the same for Champagne). But I wasn’t aware the same applies for Jarrez/Sherry – the two words meaning the same thing (in fact ‘Sherry’ is labelled ‘Jarrez’ in Spain).
So I took a tour of the Sandeman bodega (wine cellar). The girl guiding us was great, adorned in their trademark hat and cape (Spanish hat and Portuguese cape apparently, so not an authentic look for the region really, but quite distinctive). She had the unfortunate distinction also of naturally emulating the voice every English comedian does when poking fun at a Spaniard who can’t master the English accent. Her technical English was excellent, but trying to comprehend through her inate lisp and rolling ‘r’s and throaty ‘h’s made you really wonder what she was talking about a times.
However, she was very theatrical in her delivery of some very good information. She told how all sherry is made with white grapes in vineyards that are not irrigated, then left for a long time in a loosely corked barrel with no yeast. Sherry’s distinction from regular wine is that the wine is fortified with near-pure alcohol, also distilled from the same grapes. These aging barrels are mixed every few years so that 1/3 of the final batch is removed and bottled, then 1/3 of each subsequently younger barrel is mixed in, up to 4 generations or more. So 4 barrels at 5 years each is called a 20 year sherry, but clearly some of the contents spend much longer than that! The different grape varieties are later blended to give the varieties of sherry.
A lovely town, and very different region – flat as a pancake and close to being a desert – I’m glad I made the detour. But my true destination was Tarifa, at the southern tip, prominent in the way it juts into the Straits of Gibraltar.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Intro to novel
You are going to commit the perfect crime. You will commit your crime perfectly, but that is only a basic requirement. The distinction is a subtle one that confounds most master criminals, dooming their efforts to failure from the outset. No. You don’t just plan to succeed; you plan for failure also. You need to know that even if you are caught, you won’t be convicted. But even then, you haven’t encompassed the true ideal of the perfect crime. The perfect crime is undetectable; it is victimless; but still, you know it shouldn’t be done. It’s a bad thing. But you must do it. And you want to.
You start to plan. You’ve got your motives. But they are inconsequential to final outcome. A means to an bigger ends, if you will. You’ve got an idea in your head – a truly life-changing notion – and so you start planning around that. But you see the inherent evil in your plan, which is why you know what you will achieve is a crime. Before going further with details, you need to identify the perfect crime. You build a list of the most basic questions that need to be answered before anything else: who, what, when, where, and why.
Why. Crime is normally motivated by either money or revenge. But underlying all that is power. Maybe that’s why you know what you plan to do is bad. And that is also why you want to. Money and revenge are forms of power, but you want something less traceable, less tangible, less evidentiary. So, why? Control
When. When it’s a crime, it’s not so important how you do it, as how someone else can figure out later how you did it. If your prime methods leave no trace, they cannot be investigated later. And if they were somehow discovered, make it so they are not reproducible. No proof, no conviction, right. When? Transcedentally.
Who. Your first instinct: Obviously not you – remove yourself from the ‘scene of the crime’ as much as possible. But then think about the other answers you’ve already arrived at and know you must be at the very center of it all. The double-bluff; the best way to allay suspicion, by openly admitting your involvement. And don’t be lead into the trap of hubris. If you aim to get away with it because you are smarter, you must accept there is always someone smarter than you out there. No, don’t take it on alone. In fact, the more the better. And so the answer evolves logically, and you see the beauty of it all. Who? Everyone.
How. Now you are getting to the meat of the undertaking. What you have in mind is nothing as simple as “break into bank; steal gold”. It requires an evolutionary approach, much like growing a business: you need a business plan, investors, employees, a product, and a market for your crime. And when you state it like that, the answer is clear. How? Openly.
But all the rest is inconsequential when you consider the most important question, the big one:
And finally, What. They say “it’s only a crime if you get caught”. Sure. But the best way to get away with something is to do something so unique, so novel, that it isn’t actually a crime. Not technically. Not yet…
You start to plan. You’ve got your motives. But they are inconsequential to final outcome. A means to an bigger ends, if you will. You’ve got an idea in your head – a truly life-changing notion – and so you start planning around that. But you see the inherent evil in your plan, which is why you know what you will achieve is a crime. Before going further with details, you need to identify the perfect crime. You build a list of the most basic questions that need to be answered before anything else: who, what, when, where, and why.
Why. Crime is normally motivated by either money or revenge. But underlying all that is power. Maybe that’s why you know what you plan to do is bad. And that is also why you want to. Money and revenge are forms of power, but you want something less traceable, less tangible, less evidentiary. So, why? Control
When. When it’s a crime, it’s not so important how you do it, as how someone else can figure out later how you did it. If your prime methods leave no trace, they cannot be investigated later. And if they were somehow discovered, make it so they are not reproducible. No proof, no conviction, right. When? Transcedentally.
Who. Your first instinct: Obviously not you – remove yourself from the ‘scene of the crime’ as much as possible. But then think about the other answers you’ve already arrived at and know you must be at the very center of it all. The double-bluff; the best way to allay suspicion, by openly admitting your involvement. And don’t be lead into the trap of hubris. If you aim to get away with it because you are smarter, you must accept there is always someone smarter than you out there. No, don’t take it on alone. In fact, the more the better. And so the answer evolves logically, and you see the beauty of it all. Who? Everyone.
How. Now you are getting to the meat of the undertaking. What you have in mind is nothing as simple as “break into bank; steal gold”. It requires an evolutionary approach, much like growing a business: you need a business plan, investors, employees, a product, and a market for your crime. And when you state it like that, the answer is clear. How? Openly.
But all the rest is inconsequential when you consider the most important question, the big one:
And finally, What. They say “it’s only a crime if you get caught”. Sure. But the best way to get away with something is to do something so unique, so novel, that it isn’t actually a crime. Not technically. Not yet…
Road Navigation
OK, I think there is only one word to describe driving around in this part of the world – shear bloody madness. There are roundabouts everywhere. Everywhere. Even when they are not justified, like to take a left turn. Or to prevent one. What?
Now add to that signs are sometimes misleading – like when you have 3 exits indicated, yet you count 5 as you rotate around once, twice, or more (fortunately this is completely legal).
And of course lane markings are completely optional. Yes, on roundabouts that makes sense, sure. But elsewhere? Yup.
Same for parking: if you can make a space and not block people in, its legit (until the cops bother to ticket/clamp that one day in a year). And sometimes the common respect rule of not blocking your fellow parkers appears to be overlooked. Or was I in a used car yard. No, I don't think so.
More on signs, and/or lack of: sometimes they indicate a turn-off right at, or before the sign. Other times they indicate the turn after the next minor intersection. Or you will get a sign leading you in a direction and then have to guess that you keep going straight at the next intersection, until the following intersections confirm you are ontrack and need to keep going straight. Huh?
And on the rare, refreshing occasion, they are just flat wrong! Just for fun, I’m sure.
Or take the instance where you’ve gone off track about and detour into a locals-only district. Of course you live there, so when you finally pop out onto the main thoroughfare, you naturally known to turn left or right without the aide or something as trivial as a signpost. Right.
And just when you think you’ve got it all figured out – that’s it’s just a melee
free-for-all – you discover that traffic lights are sometimes treated with religious reverence. Even when it means a long line of cars on a major road waits for the longest time at the intersection of a minor intersection which sees no traffic at all in the intervening time. I mean, come on!?!
Now you may think to plan your route ahead of time by picking up a map or two. You accept that the larger the scale of map, the less accurate it will be. But I would like to make some sense out of what detail is include, and what conveniently left out. Friday afternoon cartography? Simple lack of space? I know, the “I did the best I could, but I’ve never actually been there ‘cause the boss doesn’t give me a travel budget, so I kinda guessed” excuse.
Or you get a smaller scale map – say just for the little town of Alvor. But half the roads and back alleys are unmarked. Actually, fair enough – it is really hard to find a font small enough to fit “Our lady the holy virgin Madonna of the blessed land” for a street 30 yards long. Or try “Doctor Julio Mendozza Pedro Marcus de Sao Fransico” as it weaves through and intersects with all the other similarly named streets in the cramped old town quarters. Really, yeah – go ahead and leave those blank I guess. However, there is a limit. Like 10% blanks, not 50%.
Figuring out where you are, even when on foot with all the time in the world to look around and compare with your trustworthy map, becomes just a little trickier when you can’t always find the street name placard.
But of course, the freeways are better. Smoother, wider, less interspersed with continual intersections, modern… or make that modernized. It does get a little tricky when an old track, the upgraded route, the bypass road, the supplanting highway, and the major freeway all share the same tract of asphalt. And they all have their indicative road numbers listed on the intersection signs. Now which one did I need to be on again? Let me scan ahead on my (t)rusty map to see where they split and confirm I’m still en route.
And while I’m checking my route, let’s see which direction I need to take at that intersection coming up…which may or may not give you a preview indication of your possible choices, and which choices you see first may or may not be repeated in the same format when you actually reach said intersection. OK, that aside, you are faced with two choices. But are they showing you the next town in either direction? Or the next major town in either direction? Or the final terminus destination at the end of the road (and which of the many roads do you judge that based on?)? Yes, any of the above, or mix at match at your leisure. But choose wisely – you may not have the option to change your mind for quite some time later.
Finally – tollbooths. Thankfully there are few of these. Now I don’t expect them to show signs in English, but how about some useful icons. For example, I ran across one where I could figure out not to use the express lane, so went for one of the cash options. But there was no booth. No person. No sign at all, just a slot.
Fortunately there was a help button (unmarked of course) that got me in touch with someone who fortunately spoke English. He explained this lane was credit card only. OK, so how about putting the standard stamps for Visa and Mastercard and whatever next the little slot that must feel so naked and unstylish in its bland brushed-metal grey. So I whipped out my card quick as I could, but not soon enough to avoid an irritated hoot from behind as I raced away.
Now add to that signs are sometimes misleading – like when you have 3 exits indicated, yet you count 5 as you rotate around once, twice, or more (fortunately this is completely legal).
And of course lane markings are completely optional. Yes, on roundabouts that makes sense, sure. But elsewhere? Yup.
Same for parking: if you can make a space and not block people in, its legit (until the cops bother to ticket/clamp that one day in a year). And sometimes the common respect rule of not blocking your fellow parkers appears to be overlooked. Or was I in a used car yard. No, I don't think so.
More on signs, and/or lack of: sometimes they indicate a turn-off right at, or before the sign. Other times they indicate the turn after the next minor intersection. Or you will get a sign leading you in a direction and then have to guess that you keep going straight at the next intersection, until the following intersections confirm you are ontrack and need to keep going straight. Huh?
And on the rare, refreshing occasion, they are just flat wrong! Just for fun, I’m sure.
Or take the instance where you’ve gone off track about and detour into a locals-only district. Of course you live there, so when you finally pop out onto the main thoroughfare, you naturally known to turn left or right without the aide or something as trivial as a signpost. Right.
And just when you think you’ve got it all figured out – that’s it’s just a melee
free-for-all – you discover that traffic lights are sometimes treated with religious reverence. Even when it means a long line of cars on a major road waits for the longest time at the intersection of a minor intersection which sees no traffic at all in the intervening time. I mean, come on!?!
Now you may think to plan your route ahead of time by picking up a map or two. You accept that the larger the scale of map, the less accurate it will be. But I would like to make some sense out of what detail is include, and what conveniently left out. Friday afternoon cartography? Simple lack of space? I know, the “I did the best I could, but I’ve never actually been there ‘cause the boss doesn’t give me a travel budget, so I kinda guessed” excuse.
Or you get a smaller scale map – say just for the little town of Alvor. But half the roads and back alleys are unmarked. Actually, fair enough – it is really hard to find a font small enough to fit “Our lady the holy virgin Madonna of the blessed land” for a street 30 yards long. Or try “Doctor Julio Mendozza Pedro Marcus de Sao Fransico” as it weaves through and intersects with all the other similarly named streets in the cramped old town quarters. Really, yeah – go ahead and leave those blank I guess. However, there is a limit. Like 10% blanks, not 50%.
Figuring out where you are, even when on foot with all the time in the world to look around and compare with your trustworthy map, becomes just a little trickier when you can’t always find the street name placard.
But of course, the freeways are better. Smoother, wider, less interspersed with continual intersections, modern… or make that modernized. It does get a little tricky when an old track, the upgraded route, the bypass road, the supplanting highway, and the major freeway all share the same tract of asphalt. And they all have their indicative road numbers listed on the intersection signs. Now which one did I need to be on again? Let me scan ahead on my (t)rusty map to see where they split and confirm I’m still en route.
And while I’m checking my route, let’s see which direction I need to take at that intersection coming up…which may or may not give you a preview indication of your possible choices, and which choices you see first may or may not be repeated in the same format when you actually reach said intersection. OK, that aside, you are faced with two choices. But are they showing you the next town in either direction? Or the next major town in either direction? Or the final terminus destination at the end of the road (and which of the many roads do you judge that based on?)? Yes, any of the above, or mix at match at your leisure. But choose wisely – you may not have the option to change your mind for quite some time later.
Finally – tollbooths. Thankfully there are few of these. Now I don’t expect them to show signs in English, but how about some useful icons. For example, I ran across one where I could figure out not to use the express lane, so went for one of the cash options. But there was no booth. No person. No sign at all, just a slot.
Fortunately there was a help button (unmarked of course) that got me in touch with someone who fortunately spoke English. He explained this lane was credit card only. OK, so how about putting the standard stamps for Visa and Mastercard and whatever next the little slot that must feel so naked and unstylish in its bland brushed-metal grey. So I whipped out my card quick as I could, but not soon enough to avoid an irritated hoot from behind as I raced away.
Montezuma’s Revenge
Well, I finally got bitten by a tummy bug. But that makes it sound much nicer than it really was. Strangely, the warning signs cam on a week earlier, with a strange gag reflex just while walking down the street. “That’s odd, I thought” but nothing more. It happened again a few days later, but equally nothing more followed. And if I think back, I noticed a slight soreness in my throat.
Then during a yoga class, my neck started aching, and gradually throughout that day my whole body started aching like I had flu or something. That night came sweats and chills, and by the morning I was also having attacks of diarrhea.
Hoping it was just a 24 hour bug, I went to the pharmacy and explained my symptoms. The girl looked concerned and suggested it would be an infection, for which I should visit a hospital to get a prescription for antibiotics. But at the time the symptoms had calmed to just aching and a grand headache, so she dispensed some strong dosages of paracetemol and ibuprofen.
The drugs kicked in and I was happily distracted with extracting my van after parking too close to edge of a dirt birm, and slipped over the edge. But that’s another story…
The next day, medicated and preoccupied with bits and pieces, I was fine, but again that night, with the drugs wearing off, it started all over again.
By 4 in the morning I’d had enough and drove to the Portimao emergency room for help. They were very helpful, and although the doctor didn’t speak English, the receptionist and nurse did, and I managed to get the idea across. They were thorough – blood and urine tests, and even an x-ray, then left me on a saline drip for a couple of hours before declaring there was no sign of infection, and that it must have been something I ate or drank.
So I walked away with a prescription for amoxicillin, after paying a very reasonable (but for my current financial status, expensive) bill of 125 euros. This was due to my lack of residency or European insurance card, which would have made it almost free, I understand.
I filled the prescription and checked into the local youth hostel. Other than struggling off my sick bed to do my laundry, I spent the majority of the day in bed or on the can!
But when you have a bad day, it just seems to invite incidents to compound upon each other. In this case (and I’ll blame being a bit drug-addled), I locked the keys in the car. Great. But the hostel provided a length of wire that they used to repair their chain-link fence. Low and behold, I had the lock popped open in just 10 seconds! Well, not bad – and now I have a ‘spare key’
.
By day’s end, the drugs and sleep had balanced me out enough that I was available when my students called saying there were kites in the air. We went out and had a great couple of hours of them getting drug around through the sand and water in their first kite-flying experience! Finally a bright spot to my day. And just enough activity to wear me out so I slept through the night (other than the frequent runs to the bathroom).
The next day, things improved. I stayed awake all day, mostly working on repairing the school kites I’d been given. But I was still running to the toilet hourly. At the end of the day, I took my 2 students out for lessons and the fun and activity distracted me enough to make it through 3 hours in a wetsuit without incident. Plus my head felt clearer, although I was still on painkillers.
Dawn the next day of good solid sleep, and although not perfect, I could definitely feel the old self reemerging. Now I’m just sweating honestly, from the heat of the day. Highs are in the mid-30s.
I could not believe the intensity of this infliction! Without the aide of modern medicine, I would have been completely incapacitated by this simple germ. (The daily temps in the 30s didn’t help at all.) I can’t know where I picked it up, especially if the gag reflexes and sore throat were actually precursors. I do believe the yoga activity freed it up from its latent state – that is one of the purposes of yoga: to purge the system of embedded toxins.
Then during a yoga class, my neck started aching, and gradually throughout that day my whole body started aching like I had flu or something. That night came sweats and chills, and by the morning I was also having attacks of diarrhea.
Hoping it was just a 24 hour bug, I went to the pharmacy and explained my symptoms. The girl looked concerned and suggested it would be an infection, for which I should visit a hospital to get a prescription for antibiotics. But at the time the symptoms had calmed to just aching and a grand headache, so she dispensed some strong dosages of paracetemol and ibuprofen.
The drugs kicked in and I was happily distracted with extracting my van after parking too close to edge of a dirt birm, and slipped over the edge. But that’s another story…
The next day, medicated and preoccupied with bits and pieces, I was fine, but again that night, with the drugs wearing off, it started all over again.
By 4 in the morning I’d had enough and drove to the Portimao emergency room for help. They were very helpful, and although the doctor didn’t speak English, the receptionist and nurse did, and I managed to get the idea across. They were thorough – blood and urine tests, and even an x-ray, then left me on a saline drip for a couple of hours before declaring there was no sign of infection, and that it must have been something I ate or drank.
So I walked away with a prescription for amoxicillin, after paying a very reasonable (but for my current financial status, expensive) bill of 125 euros. This was due to my lack of residency or European insurance card, which would have made it almost free, I understand.
I filled the prescription and checked into the local youth hostel. Other than struggling off my sick bed to do my laundry, I spent the majority of the day in bed or on the can!
But when you have a bad day, it just seems to invite incidents to compound upon each other. In this case (and I’ll blame being a bit drug-addled), I locked the keys in the car. Great. But the hostel provided a length of wire that they used to repair their chain-link fence. Low and behold, I had the lock popped open in just 10 seconds! Well, not bad – and now I have a ‘spare key’
.
By day’s end, the drugs and sleep had balanced me out enough that I was available when my students called saying there were kites in the air. We went out and had a great couple of hours of them getting drug around through the sand and water in their first kite-flying experience! Finally a bright spot to my day. And just enough activity to wear me out so I slept through the night (other than the frequent runs to the bathroom).
The next day, things improved. I stayed awake all day, mostly working on repairing the school kites I’d been given. But I was still running to the toilet hourly. At the end of the day, I took my 2 students out for lessons and the fun and activity distracted me enough to make it through 3 hours in a wetsuit without incident. Plus my head felt clearer, although I was still on painkillers.
Dawn the next day of good solid sleep, and although not perfect, I could definitely feel the old self reemerging. Now I’m just sweating honestly, from the heat of the day. Highs are in the mid-30s.
I could not believe the intensity of this infliction! Without the aide of modern medicine, I would have been completely incapacitated by this simple germ. (The daily temps in the 30s didn’t help at all.) I can’t know where I picked it up, especially if the gag reflexes and sore throat were actually precursors. I do believe the yoga activity freed it up from its latent state – that is one of the purposes of yoga: to purge the system of embedded toxins.
The World Cup
So, there’s this game of football – known to some as soccer – and apparently it’s even come to the attention of Americans that there is a World Cup contest held every few years (and yes, it involves a whole slew of different nationalities, with one team per country, unlike the American-dominated baseball and basketball equivalents).
Well, the Portuguese natives and English tourists are equally soccer-made. This has a very odd impact on the population of the little tourist town of Alvor. Fortunately their rivalry doesn’t set them at odds. But in the middle of the day, I can walk down the main streets which are at the same time empty of pedestrians yet teeming with noise from avid supporters as they are all glued to the big flat screen TVs that are hosted in all bars.
And although this is a good time to get things done, I’m not immune either. I got sucked into the NZ-Slovakia match where I couldn’t believe the refs allowed the first Slovak goal when their players were offsides (even though I had to be reminded what this infraction meant). And I was equally elated when the All Whites tied it up with only 10 seconds of penalty overtime left to go. It really was an excellent match.
Unfortunately I missed the remaining NZ games, though I was eager to know the results afterwards. Yet with all the options for allegiances I share – NZ, USA, UK, Portugal – I’m already without any clear team to support. Now they’ve been knocked out, I wonder if the Portuguese support will default to their neighbours the Spanish?
Well, the Portuguese natives and English tourists are equally soccer-made. This has a very odd impact on the population of the little tourist town of Alvor. Fortunately their rivalry doesn’t set them at odds. But in the middle of the day, I can walk down the main streets which are at the same time empty of pedestrians yet teeming with noise from avid supporters as they are all glued to the big flat screen TVs that are hosted in all bars.
And although this is a good time to get things done, I’m not immune either. I got sucked into the NZ-Slovakia match where I couldn’t believe the refs allowed the first Slovak goal when their players were offsides (even though I had to be reminded what this infraction meant). And I was equally elated when the All Whites tied it up with only 10 seconds of penalty overtime left to go. It really was an excellent match.
Unfortunately I missed the remaining NZ games, though I was eager to know the results afterwards. Yet with all the options for allegiances I share – NZ, USA, UK, Portugal – I’m already without any clear team to support. Now they’ve been knocked out, I wonder if the Portuguese support will default to their neighbours the Spanish?
Steve & Monique, local Canadians
This couple moved to a little town to the north as Steve is involved with a Canadian mining company. He has been kiting for 6 years or so, and she is just starting to learn. They are a delightful couple: I ran into Monique at a restaurant and we had a good old chat about life in Portugal and how Steve and I should buddy up as we are at the same level of kiting. This suggestion came partly out of the fact that she was about to pay a visit back home for the next 6 weeks and Steve could enjoy someone to hang out with in her absence.
On an apparent tangent: Now one thing I’ve acknowledged about the old van is that the rear-wheel drive tires are as bald as anything. Following a failed parking attempt at the edge of a slipper grass and sand slope, I found myself stuck. I envoked a whole family to give me a push actually over the edge into the flats, where I may be able to drive out. This we did successfully, but I was still stuck as I couldn’t gain any traction on the dry grass, and kept threatening to dig a deep rut in the underlying sand.
After trying to jam some loose wood planks under the tires with no result, I set to changing the worse stuck tire for the spare, which had ample tread left. But even then I could not break free. Resigned to calling a tow truck – the next morning, as I figured I would get an extra after-hours call out fee this late in the day – I heard a friendly voice call out if I was OK.
It was Scott, who’d come down on a day off to try and get a little kiting time in. Although that effort was a miss, his timely presence came to my rescue. He applied his 90+ kg bulk to rock the van out of the little ruts and backed up onto the cardboard I’d laid out as a kind of mini runway. Then he got behind and pushed as I took off as best I could.
But even still I felt the insidious feeling of bogging down again in the sand – that awful knowledge that you don’t have enough speed to keep moving, but that if you give it more gas, then you succeed in just spinning the tires and digging ruts that trap you even worse.
But then I kept moving and caught on harder ground and suddenly I was free! I asked Scott afterwards and confirmed that he’d been able to catch up and give that little extra assist I needed to keep momentum and escape.
“So what are you drinking?” I asked in way of wanting to say thanks.
He was happy with a small beer at the closest tavern where the Spain-Portugal match was playing. We got engrossed and at half-time decided to move to a more comfortable scene to enjoy the rest of the game. In between the action we got into a good chat about kiting and gear (as you do) and had another beer (that he definitely was not going to be allowed to pay for!) Although Spain beat Portugal, we enjoyed our short boy’s night out. He had an hours drive home, so we called it quits at that point, but I look forward to the next time (hopefully without vehicular incident this time).
Post-script to the van incident: after riding on the spare tire for 2 days, I went out one morning no issues. Then 2 hours later, I went to get my students for a lesson and felt a rhythmic thump as I drove. My first worry was that the clutch was slipping. But it was the tire. It had deformed - in the heat, under use, or with the full pressure of inflation, I'll never know. Well we made it out to the kite spot, and I let some air out as we could visibly see it had deformed. The drive back felt better, but we ended up limping - then thumping - into a gas station. I had hoped I'd let out too much air for full speed driving, but found the outer layer of the tire had completely separated. Nothing to do but swap back to the bald original. Oh well, guess I'll need to find a replacement (after I make some more money!)
On an apparent tangent: Now one thing I’ve acknowledged about the old van is that the rear-wheel drive tires are as bald as anything. Following a failed parking attempt at the edge of a slipper grass and sand slope, I found myself stuck. I envoked a whole family to give me a push actually over the edge into the flats, where I may be able to drive out. This we did successfully, but I was still stuck as I couldn’t gain any traction on the dry grass, and kept threatening to dig a deep rut in the underlying sand.
After trying to jam some loose wood planks under the tires with no result, I set to changing the worse stuck tire for the spare, which had ample tread left. But even then I could not break free. Resigned to calling a tow truck – the next morning, as I figured I would get an extra after-hours call out fee this late in the day – I heard a friendly voice call out if I was OK.
It was Scott, who’d come down on a day off to try and get a little kiting time in. Although that effort was a miss, his timely presence came to my rescue. He applied his 90+ kg bulk to rock the van out of the little ruts and backed up onto the cardboard I’d laid out as a kind of mini runway. Then he got behind and pushed as I took off as best I could.
But even still I felt the insidious feeling of bogging down again in the sand – that awful knowledge that you don’t have enough speed to keep moving, but that if you give it more gas, then you succeed in just spinning the tires and digging ruts that trap you even worse.
But then I kept moving and caught on harder ground and suddenly I was free! I asked Scott afterwards and confirmed that he’d been able to catch up and give that little extra assist I needed to keep momentum and escape.
“So what are you drinking?” I asked in way of wanting to say thanks.
He was happy with a small beer at the closest tavern where the Spain-Portugal match was playing. We got engrossed and at half-time decided to move to a more comfortable scene to enjoy the rest of the game. In between the action we got into a good chat about kiting and gear (as you do) and had another beer (that he definitely was not going to be allowed to pay for!) Although Spain beat Portugal, we enjoyed our short boy’s night out. He had an hours drive home, so we called it quits at that point, but I look forward to the next time (hopefully without vehicular incident this time).
Post-script to the van incident: after riding on the spare tire for 2 days, I went out one morning no issues. Then 2 hours later, I went to get my students for a lesson and felt a rhythmic thump as I drove. My first worry was that the clutch was slipping. But it was the tire. It had deformed - in the heat, under use, or with the full pressure of inflation, I'll never know. Well we made it out to the kite spot, and I let some air out as we could visibly see it had deformed. The drive back felt better, but we ended up limping - then thumping - into a gas station. I had hoped I'd let out too much air for full speed driving, but found the outer layer of the tire had completely separated. Nothing to do but swap back to the bald original. Oh well, guess I'll need to find a replacement (after I make some more money!)
Surprise visitor
One morning I woke up to the most unexpected call from Steve Dale, my dormmate from the first Lisbon hostel I stay in. We had enjoyed a couple of good days and nights exploring that town, and since then he’d kept up with my blog. When he saw I’d been through Santa Clara he couldn’t believe it – that’s where he’d been based since leaving Lisbon, working for room and board at farmstead that hosted tourists.
So he was calling to let me know he had the day off and wanted to know if I was free for a visit. Having slipped into a very relaxed lifestyle by now, I said sure; there wasn’t anything I couldn’t put off until Amanha (Portuguese for Manyana – tomorrow).
So we met up in Lagos and wonder the streets for a while; checked out the old fort that I wanted to visit anyway. Here we learned that one of the old Portuguese princes in the time of exploration had been responsible for fabricating a sailing and navigating school in Sagres, the southwest-most tip of the country. Fabricated, not founded, as the school never actually existed! This must have been one of the earliest forms of PR I’ve ever heard of. And of course with no “on the spot, roaming reporters” to confirm or deny, the myth stuck. This museum suggested it much more likely Lagos was the main exodus point for voyages of exploration, due to the coastline and population.
We next headed over to Alvor and I was happy to show Steve around this little burg… which took all of 15 minutes, by which time it was beer-o’clock. And of course there was a soccer match on TV, so we settled in for a little chill time.
It was good to see him again, and compare notes about our experiences, and tans, of the past few weeks. It sounds like he’s been worked to the bone at this farmstead (Quenta) and so hasn’t lulled as I have. One of the biggest revelations I took away from this re-encounter was how much I’ve slowed down into the enforced relaxation of this new lifestyle. Well, good on ya Steve, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your travels if we don’t meet again around these parts.
So he was calling to let me know he had the day off and wanted to know if I was free for a visit. Having slipped into a very relaxed lifestyle by now, I said sure; there wasn’t anything I couldn’t put off until Amanha (Portuguese for Manyana – tomorrow).
So we met up in Lagos and wonder the streets for a while; checked out the old fort that I wanted to visit anyway. Here we learned that one of the old Portuguese princes in the time of exploration had been responsible for fabricating a sailing and navigating school in Sagres, the southwest-most tip of the country. Fabricated, not founded, as the school never actually existed! This must have been one of the earliest forms of PR I’ve ever heard of. And of course with no “on the spot, roaming reporters” to confirm or deny, the myth stuck. This museum suggested it much more likely Lagos was the main exodus point for voyages of exploration, due to the coastline and population.
We next headed over to Alvor and I was happy to show Steve around this little burg… which took all of 15 minutes, by which time it was beer-o’clock. And of course there was a soccer match on TV, so we settled in for a little chill time.
It was good to see him again, and compare notes about our experiences, and tans, of the past few weeks. It sounds like he’s been worked to the bone at this farmstead (Quenta) and so hasn’t lulled as I have. One of the biggest revelations I took away from this re-encounter was how much I’ve slowed down into the enforced relaxation of this new lifestyle. Well, good on ya Steve, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your travels if we don’t meet again around these parts.
Visiting kiters
I’ve only been here a few weeks so can hardly be considered a local. That said, I’ve played host and guide to a number of visitors, which has been most enjoyable.
Kasia and Dana: the first visiting kiter friends I met were two girls arrived from Gernsey Island (in the English channel), yet they were natives of Poland and Slovakia. I got a mild tongue lashing when I collectively described them as Germans!
They were a lot of fun, and it was great to watch them improve from having trouble staying up wind to confidently riding in strong wind conditions with little worries. I joined them out on the town one night but had to call it quits by 2am. Apparently they carried on till 5 or 6 that morning. Of course, they were a waste the next day. But as they said, there was nothing they had to do except kite, which doesn’t happen till the afternoon here anyway.
Sergio Borg: Perhaps most enjoyable was this young chap who, despite the name, came from the north of England. On a whim he came for a few days in the sun, rented a station wagon, bought a cheap air mattress and wetsuit, and was the happiest man you could imagine! The first day I met him, he was frozen to the bone (this was before the wetsuit purchase) and chatting away with another kiter, who we (the “German” girls and I) were introduced to as Tony – actually Antonio from Sevilla, Spain. Tony spoke barely any English, so we marvelled at Sergio’s linguistic skills. It was soon revealed Serg didn’t actually speak any Spanish, but with a fun friendly attitude and a few hand gestures, they were able to communicate quite impressively.
All 5 of us went out to dinner that night and it was a riot sharing thoughts and ideas between this multi-national group. It turned out I actually spoke probably the most Spanish, but that didn’t mean I was the best at communicating with Tony – my perceived knowledge prevented me from bridging the gaps as willingly (and flagrantly) as the others. But at one point, after sitting back quietly, Tony turned to me and expressed that he was really enjoying this interlude as it was a great language lesson for him. I love people with good attitudes!
The next day we met another Spanish guy from Sevilla who spoke good English. Although this improved the communication to some extent, this kind of took the fun out of it a little.
I’ve also played local guide to a few others:
Ed, who wanted to learn how to turn, and thought he would need some lessons as he thought he’d never get it. But I watched for an hour and could tell he just needed a bit of time in these ideal learning conditions.
Lee and his horse-loving wife, who were here for a few days
Tim, the bulky tattoo but soft-spoken Brit for the south-east who was just happy to be here.
And then there was Ed & Kev – two examples of backpackers who each stopped me on the street, noticing my stickers, and asked for some info. Of course, I haven’t heard from either of them again…
Kasia and Dana: the first visiting kiter friends I met were two girls arrived from Gernsey Island (in the English channel), yet they were natives of Poland and Slovakia. I got a mild tongue lashing when I collectively described them as Germans!
They were a lot of fun, and it was great to watch them improve from having trouble staying up wind to confidently riding in strong wind conditions with little worries. I joined them out on the town one night but had to call it quits by 2am. Apparently they carried on till 5 or 6 that morning. Of course, they were a waste the next day. But as they said, there was nothing they had to do except kite, which doesn’t happen till the afternoon here anyway.
Sergio Borg: Perhaps most enjoyable was this young chap who, despite the name, came from the north of England. On a whim he came for a few days in the sun, rented a station wagon, bought a cheap air mattress and wetsuit, and was the happiest man you could imagine! The first day I met him, he was frozen to the bone (this was before the wetsuit purchase) and chatting away with another kiter, who we (the “German” girls and I) were introduced to as Tony – actually Antonio from Sevilla, Spain. Tony spoke barely any English, so we marvelled at Sergio’s linguistic skills. It was soon revealed Serg didn’t actually speak any Spanish, but with a fun friendly attitude and a few hand gestures, they were able to communicate quite impressively.
All 5 of us went out to dinner that night and it was a riot sharing thoughts and ideas between this multi-national group. It turned out I actually spoke probably the most Spanish, but that didn’t mean I was the best at communicating with Tony – my perceived knowledge prevented me from bridging the gaps as willingly (and flagrantly) as the others. But at one point, after sitting back quietly, Tony turned to me and expressed that he was really enjoying this interlude as it was a great language lesson for him. I love people with good attitudes!
The next day we met another Spanish guy from Sevilla who spoke good English. Although this improved the communication to some extent, this kind of took the fun out of it a little.
I’ve also played local guide to a few others:
Ed, who wanted to learn how to turn, and thought he would need some lessons as he thought he’d never get it. But I watched for an hour and could tell he just needed a bit of time in these ideal learning conditions.
Lee and his horse-loving wife, who were here for a few days
Tim, the bulky tattoo but soft-spoken Brit for the south-east who was just happy to be here.
And then there was Ed & Kev – two examples of backpackers who each stopped me on the street, noticing my stickers, and asked for some info. Of course, I haven’t heard from either of them again…
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Pilgrimage to Sao Barnabe
So I spotted this little dot on the map of a town named Sao Barnabe – Saint Barnaby – so I just had to go! The wind was looking a bit light for a good session and I had no lessons on the horizon, so after a couple of drinks at my favourite pub/free wifi spot, I journeyed up the mountains for a first stop in the fresh air of Monchique.
Starting at dawn, I took a short hike to a local peak before the day became to hot. It was easy going, except the trail markers were a bit haphazard, to say the least. Their symbol in a red and white stripe, painted on what ever surface they feel suitable. If there isn’t a convenient street light or bare rock available at an intersection, you just have to guess and continue on until another marking confirms your intuition.
In this manner, I made a lovely loop track to the peak and back. The ‘picota’ was a barren rock with a scaffold lookout tower on top. Climbing this provided an awe-inspiring view of the surrounds. The rest of the land is very clefted with steep canyons, but none of the hill tops are near as high as this, offering a top-of-the-world view!
I also discovered some odd little bugs on this scaffold. At first I thought they were welding beads, as they were clustered in the crevices and have shiny metallic wings. But some started shifting as the day warmed up and I discovered they are a cousin of the ladybug. Quite curious.
Back in the township of Monchique I relaxed for a while under some strongly scented blossoming trees with a swarm of intoxicated bees harvesting the nectar. What a lovely experience – one I hope never to forget.
After making use of a bit of free WiFi, I picked up some snacks for the road. One of these was very heavy – turned out to be basically a ball of figs compressed and glued together with a sugar. This little treat was so filling, it lasted me a full 24 hours! (Unlike the delicious almond macaroon and custard-filled doughnut that disappeared in the blink of an eye.)
One other interesting feature I started to notice everywhere – a lot of trees had their bark cleanly stripped on the main trunks, with a single-digit number painted on each. I asked the girl at the local tourist i-site, as she spoke excellent English. She explained they were collecting to make cork in a local factory. Bizarre – I never knew cork was processed from the bark of oak trees!? And that you could strip this without killing the tree. She also included that the numbers indicated the year of the last harvest, as the bark grows back slowly, so that they use a 9- or 10- year cycle.
Anyway, I set off in search of the town of my namesake with plenty of hours of daylight. But after turning off the highway at the indicated town’s exit, I found only dirt road. What the hell, I thought – it either goes through, or not, in which case I’d need to turn around. Nothing lost, nothing gained.
Well the track continued, split off, rejoined (I think), past single houses and small villages, with lots of names, all of which were not on my large-scale map. I basically used the sun to define my compass direction in choosing when presented with a fork in the road.
And then I started seeing very tidy, clean new signs for a couple of places. This was eventually explained by one sign the read “Rally de Portugal”. Now, I love watching rally racing on TV and would loved to have done that in an alternate life. But it always looks like they are just racing around dusty dirt roads. To actually drive one of their courses, I am even more impressed with their skills, and the mechanics of the cars they drive. My little van was feeling every little judder of the stripped and scar surface of the cutting these tracks took through bare bedrock and loose chunks of remnant debris. I was probably averaging 20kph where they veritably fly around these courses.
But eventually I found one name that was on my map. And it was a little middle of nowhere spot with two decrepit buildings. Why this made it on the map I don’t know. Or maybe is was an adjunct to the actual town with its proper road, that I came to believe was further north. This belief was fostered when I finally hit Santa Clara de Novo, a sizeable village with tar seal roads going in three directions.
I came in from the west, and could have gone north (to the roads on my map) or west (continuing my current plan). Well I chose to go west, but tar seal soon ran out again. But after a while I realized I was passing through the most picturesque valley of dairy fields, with the cow’s bells clanging somewhere in a hidden valley fold.
Being 6 in the afternoon, I could have pushed on through the remaining few hours of daylight. But why? I simply pulled over (though there weren’t any signs of human life passing this way very often) and setup camp for the evening, reading my book and just enjoying the day.
So glad I did; the next day took me in short order to normal tar seal roads and in short order I’d found signs to my intended destination. Though I first had to navigate a narrow, windy ridgetop populated with more massive wind turbines – a very impressive sight to pass right underneath.
Eventually we started to drop down to the narrow valley floor. As this was shown on my map as a dead-end, I wondered if I’d have to climb all the way back out again, but upon arrival I discovered two separate tar-sealed roads leading in alternate directions – they just hadn’t been included on my big map.
I’d arrived around 8 or so in the morning, but barely a soul was stirring and there was a sign of even a café in this little hamlet. Why it had made it onto my map, I’ll never understand, unless just to draw me out there. Yet they are very proud of their patron saint, hosting with flag on a poll and the crest on a government vehicle.
But in short order I chose to head back to civilization. But a worthwhile and memorable trip into the heartland of Portugal, to be sure. The wind had blown all that night, and was quite chill with a damp overcast. Yet when I made it out to the coast, it was calm and clear blue skies. But come the afternoon heat, the calm did not last and an epic 25 knot gusty wind blew up providing yet another awesome session on the local lagoon – this time with just me and 4 new friends. Where and when do the locals ride?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The little things
On my extraordinary travels to strange and exotic places, it is always the more mundane little difference that catch my attention. Almost like home but subtly and distinctly different.
So here’s a list of what I’ve noticed so far:
Cobblestone streets are in vogue in a lot of city centers. But it’s not rounded river rocks, but chunks of white limestone, and some other black stone. So you find some lovely mosaics in the most ordinary public places. In fact, Lagos has so many animal shapes, I intend to spend a day documenting them all. Ah, what a stressful life.
Shopping carts: as well as normal carts, the personal baskets come with wheels and an extendible handle – how smart!
Biscuit packages come in little prewrapped lots of 3 or 4. I guess this is to keep them fresher longer. But I abhor the waste this generates.
Purchasing fruit in a supermarket (called HyperMarkets here) has to be pre-weighed before going to the check-out. A little unusual.
Trash collection: They’ve introduced a very sensible solution to the problem of recycling and the smell from garbage in a hot place. They’ve instituted these ‘Ilha Ecologica’ spots which look like just a bunch of tall kitchen trash cans. But these are just chutes down to underground dumpsters (have you noticed that Dumpster is always capitalized in novels? Must be a brand name or something. Anyway I digress)
Radio: There are so many English-language pop songs that you feel at home. Until the announcer comes on, or they play a local group. It’s even been suggested to me that this is one of the reasons locals can understand English so well – they are exposed to it so much. Apparently English-language movies on TV are only subtitled, not dubbed, which lends to learning via exposure.
Kite lessons
Out of the blue I got a call from Pedro saying he has a student for me one day! And this was before I’d even met Pedro so he had yet to provide the gear for lessons. So he offered me 70% to use my own gear. We got one lesson out of that, before the weather weakened for a few days and the guy had to head back home to Lisboa.
The only other lesson so far has been to a Dutch guy who Pedro and I let slip past due to communication problems (he was on the road and I don’t get regular internet access). But I picked him up through the competition, so it was meant to be.
3 lessons in three days proved to be the easiest teaching experience I’ve had to date. Good reliable winds was the secret, but the guy also did very well also, I must admit. So there’s my first IKO Level 1 graduate for this summer.
I’ve got a pair booked at the end of the month, and hopefully things pick up after that…
Bad bits
Now honestly, why would you want to read this post? Oh, right – jealousy.
OK, so what’s in the “not so good” basket, let me see…
When I first arrived in Spain, the heat and my sandals didn’t agree, with the fallout that I got some nasty blisters on my feet. OK – healed, noted, and so I have to wear socks with sandals some days.
It seems everyone hear smokes. But you get used to that.
Um, what else?
OK, so I can’t cook food in my van. And I’m currently not making much money. But these aren’t that bad, and are self-imposed so not really anything to complain about.
So I guess this is my shortest blog entry so far!
Health & Fitness
Other than kiting, I’ve been walking a lot just to explore these towns. Especially in the centers where there is no parking, or not even roads where cars are allowed.
When I’m not busy I go for a run somewhere – on dirt tracks, or on the beach.
And the sea cliffs offer some excellent opportunities for bouldering – they look crumbly, but so far I’ve found they are completely reliable.
As for food, I’m leaving cheap, so nothing that needs refrigeration of course – though my insulated van and thermal-lined backpack do preserve small packs of meat, etc for 24 hours or so. But I’m on a mostly bread and fruit diet, with the occasional eat out when I want something cooked.
Bottle water is still the way to go here, so most people say. But I’ve been happily drinking from the tap with no problems so far. (Excuse me while I just run to the toilet for the 10th time this morning – no, just kidding.) The bottled water is cheap as chips, but what I’m really against is all the plastic waste. If only we could refill from a big tanker or something.
And my tan is coming along nicely. So far I’ve avoided burning and pealing – partly due to the high UV I’m used to in NZ. It isn’t so severe here: I was warned once that in Portugal the UV was very high, 7 – I just laughed (we get 10 or 11 normally in Southland, ouch!)
History
My walking tour around Lisbon provided some very enlightening facts, some of which I was embarrassed not to have known prior.
For example, they were under a dictatorship up until as recently as 1974. Did you know? This was ended with a blood-less civil revolt – possibly unique in the history of man. It has been suggested to me that this repressive government is the reason Portugal is 50 years behind their European counterparts – for bad and for good equally.
Going back to the Moorish invasion that colonized and civilized this piece of the Iberian peninsula, the country was initially only inhabited within the first 50 miles of the coastal regions. This may help explain the haphazard boundary between them and Spain, which is mostly delineated by rivers but is otherwise not too obvious.
But for 60 years Spain invaded and controlled Portugal in the height of their world colonization expeditions (1480-1540 I think?). This explains some of the animosity and pride Portuguese have in defining themselves as a separate nation. Bit of a long held grudge perhaps, though equivalent to Ireland and the UK.
The Women
Girls, if you want to look hot, take some tips from the locals.
Heels: learn to strut in them. The girls here have the model strut down perfectly. You know, where the feet always move forward of the body. I don’t know how they do it. But I know it looks bloody good. And sometimes I’m checking out a nice walk and realize she’s in flat sandals – impressive.
Moving up from the feet: pour yourself into some painted on pants. But please, no muffin tops! In general these girls have all the right curves in the right places. Now I’m not sure if a starvation diet has anything to do with how skinny they are. Conclusion – it’s either the jeans or the genes.
And the faces. Strangely they are not actually pretty, yet they are very attractive in a somewhat sad why. Do you know what I mean? Heavy sunken eyes rimmed with dark skin; long drawn noses and a mouth that seems to host a permanent pout that adds up to a resigned air of sullen dissatisfaction that kind of makes you want to try your damnedest to relieve.
However the Portuguese are a very moralistic society. Distinctly different from their Spanish cousins. I’ve been told not to bother with the local girls; their legs are too tightly closed and take too much work. Well, we’ll just see what happens. I may not even find the time to chase skirts.
[Amendment: a met a couple of lovely kiter chicks on holiday for the week. That I certainly did bother chasing]
Heels: learn to strut in them. The girls here have the model strut down perfectly. You know, where the feet always move forward of the body. I don’t know how they do it. But I know it looks bloody good. And sometimes I’m checking out a nice walk and realize she’s in flat sandals – impressive.
Moving up from the feet: pour yourself into some painted on pants. But please, no muffin tops! In general these girls have all the right curves in the right places. Now I’m not sure if a starvation diet has anything to do with how skinny they are. Conclusion – it’s either the jeans or the genes.
And the faces. Strangely they are not actually pretty, yet they are very attractive in a somewhat sad why. Do you know what I mean? Heavy sunken eyes rimmed with dark skin; long drawn noses and a mouth that seems to host a permanent pout that adds up to a resigned air of sullen dissatisfaction that kind of makes you want to try your damnedest to relieve.
However the Portuguese are a very moralistic society. Distinctly different from their Spanish cousins. I’ve been told not to bother with the local girls; their legs are too tightly closed and take too much work. Well, we’ll just see what happens. I may not even find the time to chase skirts.
[Amendment: a met a couple of lovely kiter chicks on holiday for the week. That I certainly did bother chasing]
Settling in
My exploration of the region continues. And my van has done brilliantly in this regard. It starts every time and I have yet to stall it once. It is very well geared for its weak little engine – climbing the mountains is a slow process, as it cruises on the flat in fourth gear at a mere 40kph. And I haven’t made any mistakes about the side of the road to drive on, although I do keep trying to get in the passenger side of the car. And parking a van is still a bit foreign to me. In fact, trying to squeeze into a tight space recently (they park every- and anywhere they can here) I actually scraped my bumper into someone’s house. Oops.
The next closest bigger town to Alvor is Portimao, a maze of one-way zig-zagging streets. There is a very built up tourist region toward the coast, so the older town center is not very appealing, being a locals-only kind of spot.
Along the coast in the other direction is Lagos, a mid-sized town centered around a lovely walled historic area separate from the urban sprawl. This is my preferred destination when I need bigger shops, though I’m finding my way around both.
The mountain region of Monchique is truly idyllic, and only 20kms away - a nice retreat for fresh air and a change of scene. And in another region of these mountains, I’ve identified an out of the way village named Sao Barnabe. I foresee a pilgrimage…
As for accommodation, I've found a great abandoned farm building at the end of a bumpy dirt road that overlooks the lagoon estuary. Considering my lack of financial security, I may be making this home for the time being. Though one morning that I had Pedro stay with me (a house guest?), he slept in so long that I found out why the grass in my chosen pasture was pressed flat: a tourist troupe of 4x4 trucks came to show off the local Roman ruins. And I’ve seen them once since when I dawdled in the morning, reading my book. Lesson learned – hide away more, or leave early (my preferred option to make the most of the day).
I've found that shopping at the supermarket, I can eat for less than $10 a day. The only remaining challenges were to find a daily shower and to connect to the internet occasionally.
There aren't any public showers on the beach, so I guess I have to splurge an extra $1 a day for the beach restaurants' showers. So far, I've been sneaking into the local youth hostel - supposedly to use the internet - but that can only last so long.
And as for internet access: the Lagos public buildings offer free Wifi… at better speeds than most New Zealand connections. In Alvor the best option is a couple of pubs that also offer free WiFi as an enticement.
Meeting the locals seems to have been quite easy so far. Due to the peculiar nature of the transient population, everyone seems to be very accepting. So far it’s shaping up to be a fine summer.
Getting down to business
With a few days to get grounded before I had any lessons or even met my host employer, I set to discovering the lay of the land in terms of the competition.
Turns out there is a bit of friction between my guy Pedro and one of the local shops, ran by a guy named Nelson. Hopefully my straightforward approach has smoothed the waters some, but after meeting Pedro and the owner of the other shop, Daniel, it sounds like the guy just doesn’t understand the concept of fair business and playing nice. We'll see.
In fact this Nelson guy made me feel quick unwelcome and nervous after confirming I was with Pedro, stick his finger in my chest and saying I was not to teach on his side of the lagoon. I remained calm and said that’s fine. (In fact, I think it is easier to teach on the other side, as you can drive right there, versus the 15 minute walk necessary to use ‘his’ side.) But low and behold, 2 days later he called to ask me to teach one of his clients! This was doubly peculiar as the student had also contacted us [GustyKite] and got my phone number from that correspondence! It was meant to be.
Pedro’s asked me not to take any more of Nelson’s clients, as this happened last year and Nelson ended up stealing Pedro’s instructor. But it gave me the chance to get an inside scope on this other operation. It’s all perfectly alright, but he’s not an authorized IKO school, so I will use that as my out. Plus he only pays $30 commission on a flat fee, instead of a nicer 50% from Pedro.
The other operator, Daniel is friendly to Pedro, which is encouraging. I made contact on the phone and suggested I would be available if he had overflow work. Before I met him, I tracked down his house/store, and later met his instructors when I had to ask to be rescued from when I drove the wrong way on the beach and wallowed in the sand - oops! What an embarrassing way to make an introduction.
Finally Pedro showed up as promised, and we really nailed down his requirements and business model. I’m happy to report he’s a switched-on guy, and a very nice friendly dude as well. I had concerns at first about getting work, but I think it is just early in the season. I now have advertising material and I hope to change the situation to where I have too much work instead.
In fact, I’ve been keeping busy by visiting hotels, surf shops, and tourist activity booths, handing out flyers. Yet I’ve been careful to ask if they are affiliated with any other schools first. I’ve discovered a couple of other operators around, but surprisingly all the others have put very little effort into trying to generate business this way. Hopefully it pays off for me…
Turns out there is a bit of friction between my guy Pedro and one of the local shops, ran by a guy named Nelson. Hopefully my straightforward approach has smoothed the waters some, but after meeting Pedro and the owner of the other shop, Daniel, it sounds like the guy just doesn’t understand the concept of fair business and playing nice. We'll see.
In fact this Nelson guy made me feel quick unwelcome and nervous after confirming I was with Pedro, stick his finger in my chest and saying I was not to teach on his side of the lagoon. I remained calm and said that’s fine. (In fact, I think it is easier to teach on the other side, as you can drive right there, versus the 15 minute walk necessary to use ‘his’ side.) But low and behold, 2 days later he called to ask me to teach one of his clients! This was doubly peculiar as the student had also contacted us [GustyKite] and got my phone number from that correspondence! It was meant to be.
Pedro’s asked me not to take any more of Nelson’s clients, as this happened last year and Nelson ended up stealing Pedro’s instructor. But it gave me the chance to get an inside scope on this other operation. It’s all perfectly alright, but he’s not an authorized IKO school, so I will use that as my out. Plus he only pays $30 commission on a flat fee, instead of a nicer 50% from Pedro.
The other operator, Daniel is friendly to Pedro, which is encouraging. I made contact on the phone and suggested I would be available if he had overflow work. Before I met him, I tracked down his house/store, and later met his instructors when I had to ask to be rescued from when I drove the wrong way on the beach and wallowed in the sand - oops! What an embarrassing way to make an introduction.
Finally Pedro showed up as promised, and we really nailed down his requirements and business model. I’m happy to report he’s a switched-on guy, and a very nice friendly dude as well. I had concerns at first about getting work, but I think it is just early in the season. I now have advertising material and I hope to change the situation to where I have too much work instead.
In fact, I’ve been keeping busy by visiting hotels, surf shops, and tourist activity booths, handing out flyers. Yet I’ve been careful to ask if they are affiliated with any other schools first. I’ve discovered a couple of other operators around, but surprisingly all the others have put very little effort into trying to generate business this way. Hopefully it pays off for me…
Friday, June 11, 2010
Info & Links
Info & Links
----------------
Kiting - this place is GREAT. No waves, which is a bummer. To know more about kiting details, check the blog at
life.gustykite.com
The wind weather forecast for Alvor can be seen at
http://www.windguru.cz/int/index.php?sc=48968
Pictures - For pics, add me on FaceBook and check out my albums - I'll be updating them regularly. But if you want explanations, please ask specifically - I'm limited on connection time rather than megs, and this is one of my current challenges: finding local wifi access.
----------------
Kiting - this place is GREAT. No waves, which is a bummer. To know more about kiting details, check the blog at
life.gustykite.com
The wind weather forecast for Alvor can be seen at
http://www.windguru.cz/int/index.php?sc=48968
Pictures - For pics, add me on FaceBook and check out my albums - I'll be updating them regularly. But if you want explanations, please ask specifically - I'm limited on connection time rather than megs, and this is one of my current challenges: finding local wifi access.
The Economy, aka The Crisis
I keep hearing people use the term “The Crisis”, referring to the poor global economic situation over the past couple of years. And not just in regards to Portugal, which seems to struggling (though it’s hard to say that isn’t a long-standing problem stemming from the ‘Manyana’ sense of urgency prolific in the hot climate Latin cultures). It seems Europe was hit rather hard. Yet there is still rampant success – some people are either born survivors, or have turned adversity into advantage: there are a lot of new, nice cars on the streets, including Porsches, BMWs, Volvos, and even a Lamborghini! God help the suspension of these low-slung sports cars on the rutted, bumpy, and cobblestones streets though.
I’ve heard stories of people in certain working-man industries not getting paid for a year. How is that possible? Another guy fled from Portugal to Morocco for work, which is hardly boom-time. Yet when I visited a mall in Lisbon, I was truly impressive. It rivalled anything the States for architecture, cleanliness and consumerism content. So who can say?
What does seem evident is that things have changed. The Algarve used to be THE tourist destination for the simple English looking for a cheap escape to somewhere serene and sunny. Well it’s over-discovered now and glutted with condominium highrises and all the amenities the tourist dollar can afford: an artificial economy.
Yet the worker’s wages are terrible. When I met Vincent working at a beach bar, he said he was being offered 30 euro a day for ~7 hours work. Which was better than his kitchen staff counterparts, who worked longer for less. He made the point that they couldn’t afford one meal at the same place they work for a day’s wages.
In Alvor, I hear the same from visiting locals like me: apparently 200/wk for 6 full long days is GOOD. Another girl agreed, saying she was only making 90/wk! So I flagged the idea of finding a second job after the first day with my first student when I made 70 euros for 2 hours of teaching. I won’t come anywhere to breaking even on this trip, but it is one hell of a learning experience.
Arriving in the Algarve
My final leg of the 3-day journey that could have taken 5 hours on the freeway led me south into the true Algarve. This region is not the same as my earlier experiences of Portugal. Perhaps it is the tourist influence, or maybe the architecture is actually different, but there is definitely a sense of being in a different district. I'm told the accent here is also different, but so far I'm not skilled enough to detect it. Hopefully that will come with time and exposure.
I found the little town of Alvor after a lot of winding roads and dead ends. It is a lovely little community - a contrast to the two big towns, Lagos and Portimao, on either side. I will enjoy becoming a local for the season.
There are a number of English tourists and pubs, so I looked around for work but it is currently all taken - just recently according to responses. And there are a number of Portuguese tourists also, so I may have a tough time finding a second job in the service industry. And it also sounds like the pay being offered makes it barely worth it.
I started looking as there are no kiting lessons booked until the end of the month (so much for having to hurry to get here!). I also have been making an effort to introduce myself to the other kite schools here - primarily to make sure I don't step on any toes, but surreptitiously to see if there is any overflow work available.
I found the little town of Alvor after a lot of winding roads and dead ends. It is a lovely little community - a contrast to the two big towns, Lagos and Portimao, on either side. I will enjoy becoming a local for the season.
There are a number of English tourists and pubs, so I looked around for work but it is currently all taken - just recently according to responses. And there are a number of Portuguese tourists also, so I may have a tough time finding a second job in the service industry. And it also sounds like the pay being offered makes it barely worth it.
I started looking as there are no kiting lessons booked until the end of the month (so much for having to hurry to get here!). I also have been making an effort to introduce myself to the other kite schools here - primarily to make sure I don't step on any toes, but surreptitiously to see if there is any overflow work available.
Lisbon to the Algarve
So I hit the road south to the Algarve.
But I didn't make it far. Fortunately not due to any car problems. I chose to take the scenic route instead of the highway (the van struggles to keep 100kph, let alone 120, the speed limit). So I took the ferry at Sebutal onto a long sand spit called the Ihla do Arroz (the isle of rice). In short order I picked up a young guy hitching. He spoke great English, being of Brazilian/Dutch decent, and was astonished that his first ride in half an hour was a foreigner.
Vincent was off to work at his friend Mickey's dad's beach bar, and we quickly became close friends. Vincent encouraged me to stick around, so I took a swim, and later got to kite as the wind gently built. They were most impressed (even though I felt there was barely enough wind). Later, after a couple of free drinks, I was invited to stay the night - what a fine way to spend my birthday! We enjoyed a good chat that night and the next morning, but it was time to be moving on.
This day I drove through lovely winding hillsides in a national park, and through little villages, until I arrived in Aljezur. Looking for a map at the tourist info center, I met up with a young Canadian backpacker, Jeremiah. After hitting the supermarket, I gave him a ride to the coast where he planned to stay.
What a lovely side journey. The coast here has dramatic high cliffs with spectacular views. After we enjoyed a chat and a stroll around, I found an empty field and camped in my van for the first time - very acceptable.
But I didn't make it far. Fortunately not due to any car problems. I chose to take the scenic route instead of the highway (the van struggles to keep 100kph, let alone 120, the speed limit). So I took the ferry at Sebutal onto a long sand spit called the Ihla do Arroz (the isle of rice). In short order I picked up a young guy hitching. He spoke great English, being of Brazilian/Dutch decent, and was astonished that his first ride in half an hour was a foreigner.
Vincent was off to work at his friend Mickey's dad's beach bar, and we quickly became close friends. Vincent encouraged me to stick around, so I took a swim, and later got to kite as the wind gently built. They were most impressed (even though I felt there was barely enough wind). Later, after a couple of free drinks, I was invited to stay the night - what a fine way to spend my birthday! We enjoyed a good chat that night and the next morning, but it was time to be moving on.
This day I drove through lovely winding hillsides in a national park, and through little villages, until I arrived in Aljezur. Looking for a map at the tourist info center, I met up with a young Canadian backpacker, Jeremiah. After hitting the supermarket, I gave him a ride to the coast where he planned to stay.
What a lovely side journey. The coast here has dramatic high cliffs with spectacular views. After we enjoyed a chat and a stroll around, I found an empty field and camped in my van for the first time - very acceptable.
Purchasing a vehicle
All my time till now, I have been waiting to meet my new employer, Pedro. Conveniently he had chosen to make a tour of his schools at the exact same time he'd insisted I needed to be in the country, so was not in town and so wasn't able to assist in getting setup.
Not to worry, I'm an independent, accomplished traveller. I found a cell phone in a pawn shop, got hooked up with a cheap rate pre-pay calling plan, and later crossed Lisbon’s river south to the district where there was a van for sale that Pedro had arranged previously with his "friend" who's name he didn't know. Hmmm...
Well I met the guy Jorge, who was pretty straight up and prepared with all the necessary paperwork. But he didn't speak a lick of English. Now that was a challenge, as my Portuguese consists of about 'Hello', 'please' and 'thank you', with a couple of verbs and nouns thrown in.
Pedro wasn't even available on the phone to help translate. But there was only one obstacle we couldn't overcome, and his wife solved that by calling her daughter (lesson 1: the younger generation are much more likely to have had some exposure to English).
So after 10 minutes and basically no test drive, I'd paid $1150 (euros) in cash and walked away with a real dunger Nissan Vanette with all kinds of dings and rust. But it turns out to be a real champ: starts every time, and has a radio (kind of). The back is perfect for camping out in, and is even double-walled which insulates very nicely.
So I hit the road south to the Algarve.
Learning the Language
Having a background in French, with some exposure to Spanish, is helping immensely. However, I do find my brain slipping into French as a natural reaction to "how do I say xyz in another language?" ("Comment le direz-vous en une autre langue?", in case you were wondering). And Portuguese is so horrible close yet so distinctly different to Spanish, it is taking a lot of will-power not to say 'Gracias', but rather 'Obrigado' in thanks for a service.While studying my Portuguese phrase book I'd picked up in Christchurch, I discovered some peculiar phrases that were included. Now I'm not sure, but by the time you need the phrase "I won't do it without protection" ("Eu nao faco isso sem proteccao", again, in case you were wondering), I think you would be a bit beyond needing a phrase book! (Honestly, it's in there, along with a whole set of pickup lines and other sentences on the same topic.)
Actually my little pocket book to Portuguese is reasonably handy for someone accomplished in other languages (and I barely qualify in this category). Having listened to some books-on-CD before coming really helped with the all-important pronunciation. But my little cheat guide to the language is definitely missing, is how to conjugate verbs in all but the present tense. You can guess all you like by connecting the dots from the examples given, but the language has a straight-forward formula for 95% of cases, so why not dedicate another 3-5 pages on that, huh?
Well eventually I dedicated a day to finding a grammar book.
I seem to plan most of my days this way – with one, or two, to-do items that take so much longer to accomplished due to the new learning that is necessary, but which you take for granted in your native environment.
And I was quite proud to have a good length conversation on this topic with a patient lady shopkeeper in a school supplies store that didn’t speak any English, but enunciated her Portuguese well enough for me to follow (or at least get the general gist). She found me a number of books, but I felt even the one of 3-4 years olds was a bit above me. It is a wonder what we intuitively learn as children that they will know the language well enough by this age, but just need to have the structure reinforced; whereas I understand the necessary structure but need the content.
Eventually I tracked down an English book store, ‘The Owl Story’… but that is another topic (or two) in itself. The short story is that I decided to look on line to fill in that missing 3-5 pages I wanted.
Everyone says immersion is the best method, thus I also looked at getting a second job for the night time. But decided against this after a good look around, as they are earning so little (more on this in another topic).
The learning continues…
The Journey
All up, I was probably in transit on one plane after another for about 40 hours. Fortunately none of the layovers were too long. In fact, the stop in Frankfurt, Germany was so tight (partly due to a late departure from Sydney) that I had to skip my one opportunity to take a shower on the journey. Invercargill to Christchurch was an early start that almost didn't happen - I'd neglected to confirm my shuttle the night before and was lucky to have the guy bother to get up early enough to pick me up. Christchurch to Sydney was uneventful, but my travel companion improved markedly on the way to Singapore. I got to share that time with a really wonderful (and beautiful) biochemist cum administrator who was off home to see her family in Bulgaria. We had a great time and the hours flew by (no pun intended).After a short stay in hot, muggy Singapore airport's outside bar, I slept most of the way to Germany, where we arrived at sun-up; perfect for synchronizing the body clock. The last hop was on a 20-year old plane ran by Iberia airlines (I was booked via Qantas). But actually the seat was in some way more comfortable that the newer plane? (Speaking of new planes, I got a good view of the new Airbus double-decker - amazing! It made our 747 "Jumbo" jet look positively puny in comparison.)
I arrived in Madrid, Spain, somehow with any jetlag. I stored my luggage and arranged a night bus ride to Lisbon, Portugal, for 11pm that night. Which gave me about 12 hours to explore this classic city. I was very impressed with the cleanliness while it retained its old-world charm. The public gardens were equally impressive, while the public art museum was a work of art in itself - abstract art it turns out, as there were hallways and stairs that led nowhere (literally). A fitting home for some classic Salvador Dali pieces.
The center of the city was a mass of ethnicities: I spent lunch chatting with two girls from Switzerland who'd come to shop for the weekend, and didn't speak a word of Spanish (though their English was exceptional); and while exploring one museum, I befriended an American girl with whom I talked for a while. And then bumped into about an hour later in a different part of the city - what are the odds!?
I believe the secret to avoiding jetlag is to sleep as much as possible, which normally isn't easy, but somehow I managed 6+ hrs on the plane, and then slept most of the way on the bus to Lisbon. Having only achieved about 5 hours sleep the night before made it a bit easier to get some rest. This bus trip was scheduled to arrive at 6:30am, but got in around 5am - scheesh, not what I needed. Stranded in the middle of nowhere with no map, two big heavy bags, and a metro that was closed for the night, I had arrived in Lisboa.
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