Day 26 and 27: The road to Meknes

Day 26: 'Chaouan to south of Jorf El Melha (125 km)
Weather: nice.  mostly sunny, mid 60's
Bike: rear tube still questionable.  Held most of today, but was squishy at end.
Road: not too bad most of the day, but got more congested later on.  Doesn't take much on those no-shoulder highways to make things unpleasant.

Kind of a rough day today.  I was trying to make time through this less interesting part of the country, and unless I wanted to spend 4 days picking my way through the mountains on super rough roads and sleeping in people's yards, I had to take the relatively major road.  Actually, the first part of the day wasn't bad at all- though there were still no shoulders and the pavement is kinda rough, and the dogs meaner, the traffic was lighter than I thought it would be, and the 2000 feet of elevation I gained slowly gave itself up in a mostly downhill way.  The scenery was pretty nice, with rolling mountains covered with cork oaks and olive groves being actively harvested. So I got to my sort of tentative destination around 2 pm, which was sort of one of those "campismo" like place I stayed in in Portugal and Spain a few times.  It seemed nice, but for some reason they wouldn't take tents, only RVs.  It being early, me not being particularly tired, and seeing an opportunity to turn 3 days travel into 2, I decided to go for it, and find shelter where I may down the road.

But the land got flatter, the road rougher, other traffic thicker, the dogs just as mean, and the towns I went through had no where to stay, and even if they did, I would be very hesitant to stay there, because they were super dirty and kinda scary.  Sadly, the worst part about the ride, though,was the people.  Though some were nice, most were pretty unpleasant.  This country has a huge problem with unemployment, particularly with young men, and that mixed with a culture where women are expected to do most of the work, the young men have little to do.  So they do what all bored young men do the world over- travel aimlessly about the streets (or even most country lanes) and try to look cool in front of their friends.  Enter a vulnerable, dopey-looking foreigner reeking of unimaginable privilege. The result is predictable, and honestly, considering the situation, could be worse, but as it is, going through towns is kinda horrible considering most people are jeering at me, or throwing rocks, or grabbing at the bike, or demanding cigarettes, or deliberately veering their donkey cart in the way, etc.  

Anyway, not finding anywhere to sleep and with the sun going down and with my rear tire flatting out again, I was getting pretty desperate, so I asked a nice looking older guy (older guys with jobs are usually nice) in sign language if there was somewhere I could pitch my tent, and thank God he took me behind a school and introduced me to his friends- other nice older guys, who said they would keep an eye out for me.  These other guys seemed to be important, because when they talked to the throng of kids who had gathered to watch me make camp, the kids listened.  I ate my little camp dinner (which was a little bit of a bummer, because I can't replace the rubbing alcohol fuel- they only sell rubbing alcohol here in tiny expensive spray bottles) while another rando guy stared at me and asked over and over again in French if he could have the headlamp i was currently using.  (Is "non" not "no" in French?).  I disassembled the bike, put it in the tent with me and turned in at dark, mainly so I would be boring and people would leave me alone. 

Anyway, the experience was kinda fun and adventury in retrospect, but mostly scary and unpleasant at the time.  The disparity of wealth thing is really preying on my conscience, and well, it kinda sucks regularly running a gauntlet of sneering youth and malicious kids and snarling dogs and having huge mega trucks and busses nearly hit me every few minutes.   The upshot is I am strongly considering pushing on for another day to see the apparently amazing Roman ruins of Volubilis nd hit the major town of Meknes (despite difficulties, I did make 120 km ytoday and am within very doable range) , get a comfy room, see the sights of Fez and Meknes for a few days, then pile the bike on a bus back up to Tangier, and continue the European leg back to Lisbon, accelerating with bus where needed.  It is my vacation, after all, and I want to do more than endure it.  And I guess as difficult as it is, I might have to admit I bit off a little more than I could chew with this developing world bike tour thing.   Sigh.

Day 27: (Thanksgiving) Jorf to Meknes
Weather: A thin skim of clouds most of the day.  Mid 60s.  Not as cold in the morning 50s maybe. 
Bike:  rear tire stopped holding air, replaced tube. 
Roads- not terrible traffic on sections of major road, almost no traffic on country road section.  Country road pavement was intermittent and grades steep.

Well, no turkey today, but I have a number of things to be thankful for.  First, I am not spending the night in a field of trash.   Instead, I'm  snug in a kinda antiseptic but totally fine hostel (with WiFi!) in Meknes.   Today was a whole lot better.  Starred out rough when my get up early to beat the traffic plan did indeed beat the traffic but put me square in the time where these nightmare kids are waiting by the side of the road to get picked up to go to school.  So ran the gauntlet of taunts and rocks hucked at my head again first thing, but made myself feel better by coming up with a term for my young tormentors- the "Mocking Dead." So called due to their tendency to sniff me out from a distance and swarm to pile shouted insults at me, and also due to the often dead-eyed expression, even as they call me wicked names. 

But I dwell.  Almost immediately after that I took the scenic route and got immediately free of traffic for hours, and a hugely view-packed ride to boot, though steep, rough, and hard (stop snickering- it's beneath you).  The fields stretched far away on every side, and were being tilled for a winter crop.  I was interested to see that about half of this work was being done with tractors, and the other half by donkeys and mules drawing plows. 

Then by early afternoon I was at Volubilis, a stunning archeological site of a sizable Roman town.  There was a pleasant restaurant across the street and I was starving, so I had my feast there, and felt much better. 

Anyway, this site is at least twice the size of  Bolognia in Spain, and Volubilis also has an amazing amount of nearly intact mosaic floors.  It's a bit of a mystery why they just leave these 2000 year old priceless bits of art in the open with no protection, but on the up side there are not nearly so many rules and roped-off areas, so you can get a much better view of the ruins.  They have partially rebuilt some of the more interesting structures, such as the triumphal arch and part of the basilica.  They also rebuilt on of the many ancient olive oil presses and included replica wooden works so you can get an idea how the Romans produced one of the major exports of Volubilis.  Interestingly enough, that industry hasn't changed- the area is still surrounded by working olive farms.

The end of the day was fine- a fairly busy road and some unwelcome hill climbing right at the end of the day, but get this: a shoulder!!  Such luxury.  Will sleep well tonight. 

Day 25: Chefchaoun

An ideal rest day today, with perfect weather (though chilly at night), beautiful sightseeing, and actual rest.  Though as I mentioned before, this is not a particularly early-rising culture (except for the 5:15 call to prayer echoing over loudspeakers all over town), it is possible to find somewhere to get breakfast before 10 am, and this is enough of a tourist town to have a couple spots that will make some eggs for you, washed down with a cafe au lait and absolutely fantastic fresh orange juice. 

I checked some emails , and then meandered the famous Medina, which is all in shades of blue- apparently this was historically the Jewish quarter (many Jews settling here fleeing persecution in Europe), and they added indigo to their whitewash to distinguish their neighborhood.  The Medina is relatively compact, but still and absolute and literal maze.  There is no rhyme or reason (or signs) to the layout, and the alleys-often so narrow you could brush the fingertips of your outstretched arms along either wall- will asss often dead end as pass through.  'Chaouan is also built on a mountainside, so there is a vertical element as well, with twisting staircases leading up and down like a Dr. Suess illustration.  Lots of people live in the medina, of course, but most of the ground level space is dedicated to cubby-like tiny shops selling all manner of things- from practical groceries to all sorts of handicrafts.  Some of these niches are workshops, and the artisans hard at work inside on a loom or doing finish carpentry or making shoes, etc.  All in all, it's a great experience just wandering around getting inevitably lost. 

Without the bike in tow, I didn't have the giant bullseye on my back for the many, many people who claim to have a room or house for rent, and the only hustle is for restaurants or hash dealers peddling their wares.  'Chaouan and the surrounding area is the prime marijuana-growing area in the country, apparently the legacy of a political deal the king at the time made with a minority group: they would help him put down a rebellion, he would look the other way vis a vis the weed. It does seem odd that in a country where it is basically impossible to get a drink you regularly see all sorts of people smoking kif from long thin pipes, but thus is the great fun of travel- those "huh, did not expect that" moments.

Anyway, I saw the sights, including a nice hike up to the "Spanish mosque" that overlooks the town.  Apparently it was built by the Spanish during their colonial period here, and despite the commanding view it has over the town and valley, was never used.  There are great adventurous day hikes one can take further on up into the mountains, but feeling like I should stay true to the spirit of the rest day a long pull to Fes/ Mekenes over the next few days) and the fact that's where many of the nearby marijuana farms are, I took it easy. 

I did take the time today to chat with lots of interesting people, such as two young American recent converts to Islam, who, true to the old saw about there being no more fervent believer than the newly converted, urged me to examine my life and the lack of Allah in it.  On the rooftop terrace of the pension I am staying, I also chatted with a group of upbeat Peace Corps volunteers who were heaped to a rendezvous in Rabat for Thanksgiving. They were more than happy to give me route advice and answer my questions about the culture.  Not surprisingly, they had some friends in the SCA (my very recently former employer), there being a strong cross- pollenisation between the organizations.

And of course many shorter conversations with locals, which made me feel a lot better after a upsetting incident the previous day where I yelled at a guy who was just trying to help me because he was the previous nine such people who had approached me, ( sweaty and tired on my bike, and getting very frustrated at trying to find my pension in a literal maze swarming with people gaping,staring, and laughing at me ) , were scammers. I am not proud of the language I used, and it so happens this particular guy spoke solid English, so the colloquial American English epithets I directed at him were not lost upon him.  Watching him slump away, muttering, "such language, just really uncalled for" made me remember a polite but firm "no thank you'" followed by "please leave me alone" for the more persistent is sufficient.  Maybe when I get a really pushy one again I will use sea jargon to amuse myself, (belay that bilgewater, ye scurvy son of lubberly dog!)

The food here is definitely cheaper than Europe, so I have treated myself to some of the staples: richly seasoned skewers of lamb and beef on cous cous (yum), and tangine, a sort of meat and vegetable stew served bubbling hot in a clay dish (also yum). 

It getting cold at night and there being a dearth of heated buildings to hang out in, I decided that evening to experience a hammam, which everyone told me was like a Turkish bath, which actually told me nothing, because I had also not done that.  This must have been derived from the Romans, because like them, there are a series of rooms, each hotter and steamier (and kinda slimier) than the last. The hottest room is a little cooler than a wet sauna, but defiantly hot enough to sweat vigorously.  The idea is to sweat out all the gunk from your pores (which explains the odor in there of cumin and sweaty dudes), then pour buckets of hot water on your head and body while scrubbing yourself with a scratchy glove and soaping yourself. I don't know if it was more or less weird that you are not nude in there, though it does make total cleanliness a bit more awkward.   There is a big beefy guy in there running things, and if you pay a little extra (and I figured what the hey) he will scrub you (none too gently) with the scratchy glove and give you a "massage." This turned out to be different than the whale song-accompanied incense-burning chi-focusing experiences I had had before- primarily in that it involved lying on a hot slimy floor with a burly dude roughly twisting my arms, legs, and back in painful positions with jerking motions that made my vertebrae crackle, while occasionally having hot water dashed upon me kinda like what you might do to wake up a drunk on your lawn. 

All in all though, a pleasant experience, and above all, a warm one.  I had no trouble getting to bed and a slept well for the long road ahead. 

Days 23 and 24: The road to Chefchouan

Day 23: Tetouan to Oued Laou (50 km)
Weather: Partly cloudy, low 60's most of day, mild headwind most of day
Road- traffic moderate at first, tapering to light the farther down the coast I got
Bike- worked on it this morning, adding brake pads and adjusting shifting, rear tire still seems to have slow leak, considering swapping with spare tube, but also took apart my pump today and restored its high pressure/low pressure functionality which allows me not to be reliant oon gas stations to get bike up to full pressure. Hoping that "slime tuauhbe" will self-seal under full pressure. 

The day unexpectedly broke clear today, despite the forecast of the 100% chance of rain.  Plotting out the time I have left, I have to be a bit choosier about where I want to stay, and though seeing Tetouan in the clear daylight made me want to stay for a day, the more spectacular sights I might have to sacrifice later on made me/want to go.  I did wander about for a bit in the morning, getting some crepes with honey and soft cheese for a cheap and easy breakfast, and then falling into the clutches briefly of a rug scam guy (had not yet broken the habit of saying yes to people that paid off in Europe).  But free from him, strolled part of the charming Medina, got to a high point to get the skyline of the city, and then back to the pension to pack and prep the bike. 

Things were still a bit damp from yesterday's drenching, but I have extra sets of everything but shoes, but it being sunny and warm, I hit the road feeling fine.  After yesterday's experience, I chose the longer, more minor, scenic route and this paid dividends very quickly .   this was great psychologically since the day before really left me shaken about the whole Morocco leg of the tour, and I needed to get right back on that horse.

My road led directly east to the Mediterranean coast, and then bent southward to parallel it.  The Rif mountains, which make such a dramatic backdrop to Tetouan, reach all the way to the sea, and the road winds, climbs, and drops furiously along its slopes and alcoves.  This of course, makes for spectacular, though challenging, riding, since almost none of it is flat, and much of it is really steep.  The hills progressed in size each ridge, starting about 300 vertical feet, and by the 5th or 6th headland, a rugged 750 feet.  Each time, it would lose almost all elevation as the road dipped to service a town in a bay.   I got a lot of moral support chugging up the hills from the locals passing by beeping and shouting from tricycle tractor things and decorated truck/vans. 

But this took time and energy, so my original dream of getting all the way to Chefchouan (around 100 km) grew kind of dim by the time I hit Oued Laou mid afternoon.  Though I still some proverbial gas in the tank, stretching to remaiming 55km inland would put me in town around dark and exhausted, and probably soaked again, as the clods were piled up dark and menacing over the mountains.   Plus Oued Laou, a small seaside fishing village, seemed inviting enough.  My Rough Guide, coming in more handy in a more difficult country with much less WiFi, pointed me to pleasant friendly inexpensive centrally located hotel (which is nice to know about so I can avoid the hustlers here offering their "room house very cheap").  I had only eaten snacks for lunch, so I pigged out on an early dinner at a fish place on the beach.  It was delicious, and neat to be eating the fish (With my hands, as apparently the custom) caught by the small boats just outside the restaurant, though being ankle-deep in feral cats and stared at by the passers-by as I ate (there are pretty much zero western travelers so far on my route), reminded me once again this I was definitely not in Europe anymore. 

But as I sit here on top of my hotel overlooking th
e beach at sunset and the Mediterranean behind it, with children playing in the courtyard below, and the minaret in the distance chanting out a call to prayer, I feel much, much better than I did yesterday and feel like I am falling much more into the groove on the trip.  The forecast seems favorable tomorrow, and the minor road up up the Oued Laou valley looks fantastic.  And at the end, the first big destination of the trip: the famous blue Medina of Chefchouan! 

Day 24- Oued Laou to ChefChouan (60 km... But 4000+ vertical feet)
Weather: mostly sunny- highs in high 60's, lows in low 40s, nice tailwind early and late today.
Bike: rear tube still a little questionable- but held pressure pretty well today. 
Roads: with very short exception of a bit of major road near Chef choan (which just confirmed my route choice), roads were nearly perfect-smooth, almost car-free, and incredibly scenic. 

Awoke this morning (actually day 25 when I write this) at 5:30 to the call to prayer, which, here in 'Chouan (as everyone calls it) echoes off the sheer cliff faces of the Rif  mountains the town and down into the valley.  I am piled under a heap of blankets- Chouan is at around 2000 feet, and it gets near freezing at night an issue in a hotel without heat.  It is very cheap, however, and long on charm- it is just off a square fronting the kasbah (castle) in the Medina (maze-like pedestrian-only area of town that is honeycombed with tiny shops).  The Medina here is famously painted all in shades of blue, and it is indeed a wonderful place to get lost!

But I am ahead of myself.  Day 24 dawned bright and mostly clear, with a strong wind coming off the Med.  Though Morocco is not quite as a layabed culture as Spain, not a lot goes on before 9, so I was kinda pacing around a bit with a packed bike before the hotel owner woke up and I could pay him and leave.  (When one goes to bed around 10 in a country without wine, one only needs so much sleep).

That accomplished, I headed up the very scenic Oued Laou  (pretty sure Oued is "river" in Arabic) valley, through bucolic farmland and cute kids waving and shouting "Hola amigo!" to me from their yards, older friendly men in Moroccan snuggies leading donkeys laden with sacks of grain to the mill, young men uselessly  wandering the road or lounging in small cafes in a rigid uniform of bleached blue jeans, euro-soccer jackets, high-top fades and insolent smirks (and generally smartass remarks in French and Arabic), and of course headscarved women doing almost all of the actual work.  

I quickly realize that the notion I had yesterday of doing the route from Tetouan to 'Chouan in one go was insane for anyone but some mutant leg-monster from the planet Herculiod.  Though my distance wasn't what I was getting in Spain, the vertical feet gained (and usually lost immediately) is hugely more, and the climbing isn't nice gradual spinning, but almost entirely granny-gear grinding up grades rarely acceptable elsewhere.  So, considering this day entailed considerably more vertical foot gain and a greater distance than the hardest mountain bike ride I do in Boise, AND I am doing it on a 100+ pound bike, I am going to officially cut myself some slack about the distance. 
The climb took me up through steep canyons with sheer cliff walls 100s of feet tall, and majestic craggy ridge lines of the Rif mountains towering overhead.  It was jaw-dropping scenery, and combined with yesterday's panoramas of the Mediterranean, made for one of the big riding highlights of the whole trip.  The near total lack of traffic, with only the occasional Mercedes "grand taxis" puttering by, made things all the more pleasant, and I arrived in 'Chouan decidedly tired (there is a particularly cruel 1000 vertical foot climb at the very end of the day when I was within sight of the town), but very happy about the day's experience. 

Quick side note about the taxis.  I have noticed that in many developing world countries that there tends to be a strange uniformity in vehicles that serve the same purpose.  Not only are they the same make and model of vehicle, but the same year and color as well, which in the case of the grand taxi (which is one way to get town to town if you don't like the bus- if you just want to get somewhere else in town, you take a "petit taxi"- a green compact car) is about 1991, and always either yellowy-beige or sky blue.  Bolivia had its decrepit 80's Range Rovers, Vietnam its massive Chinese dump trucks, etc.  How does this come about?  I imagine a scene like this:

CAR DEALERSHIP, INTERIOR, DAY.  FROM THE CLOTHES AND MUSIC, IT IS EITHER THE LATE 80'S OR EARLY 90'S.  SUDDENLY, THROUGH THE WINDOWS, A MOTORCADE IS SEEN PULLING UP OUTSIDE.  FANTASICALLY-DRESSED GUARDS SPRING OUT OF A BULLETPROOF SUV AND OPEN THE DOOR FOR AN EVEN MORE RESPLENDENT FIGURE, WHO EMERGES FROM THE VEHICLE, AND IS LED INTO THE DEALERSHIP FLANKED BY HIS HONOR GUARD.  HE IS TENTATIVELY APPROACHED BY A TIMID CAR SALESMAN, SAY EDWARD G. ROBINSON'S CHARACTER FROM "FARGO."

Car Salesman: Hey, uh there, how ya doin'?  Welcome to East Rutherford Mercedes/BMW.  How can I help ya today?

King of Morocco: I wish to purchase a vehicle, perhaps several vehicles.

CS: Well you sure came to the right place!  My, that's some getup ya got on there.  If you don't mind me asking, what do you do?

KOM: I am the King of Morocco, sovereign of the ancient realms, lord of all I survey.  Mortals tremble before me and flowers grow where I tread. 

CS: Well, that's super.  What can I do you for?  Maybe you'd like this S series right here?  It has power windows and anti-lock-

KOM: Tell me, is this a long lasting vehicle?  Would it, say, continue to operate until at least 2013? 

CS: Well, sure, with the right maintenance and our extended warran-

KOM: Excellent.  And could you fit perhaps 4 or 5 grown men in the back seat of this vehicle?

CS: Well, there's not really enough seatbelts, but I suppose in a pinch you could-

kOM: Splendid.  I will take 1,450,234 of them. 

CS: Wow.  Um.  Any color preference?

KOM:  I like vomit yellow.  Though make a few of them sky blue.  You know, for fun. 

END SCENE.

Bike Tour: Days 21 and 22: Tarifa to Tetouan, Morocco

Day 20: Rest Day at Tarifa

Due to it being rainy, and also me having a desire to get caught up on writing and photo organization, and also gather my wits a bit before launching into the craziness that will likely be Morocco, I took the day off.  Not a ton to report: I just wrote most of the morning and attached photos, etc.  in the afternoon, I strolled around and took in the sights Tarifa has to offer, such as standing on the very furthest southern bit of the continent, strolling the streets of the historic part of town, looking at the castle, and walking down the long beach to where the kiteboarders were doing their thing.  That looks like a lot of fun, and if there is anything I need, it's a gear-intensive new hobby!

Day 21: Tarifa to Tetuoan, Morocco
Weather: cloudy turning to sprinkles, turning to full-on rain.
Roads- moderate to heavy traffic, shoulder usually adequate, but really unpleasant riding in combination with the rain
Bike: fussy today: got a flat, shifting and brakes both unhappy with the wet and all the road grit.  Need to give it attention.

The day started out promising enough and happily ended well, but I have to say the middle was a definite low point of the trip.  The ferry out of Tarifa is straightforward enough, and I took the early one just to maximize the day.  Pretty much all of my word of mouth knowledge of Tangeir was negative- but my Rough Guide seemed to think it had a few things worth seeing, so I tentatively had planned to sightsee during the day and then take off for Tetuoan the next day. 

But unfortunately the rumors of the scam artists being thick on the ground in Tangier was true, as I found out before I even got out of the ferry terminal- this one being hard to escape : as one ferry employee said I had to do something special with my passport, while another pretended to smooth the way for me,  then of course leaning on me for a tip to clear up the hassle he and his confederate had caused in the first place.  I was rescued by a government guy who swooped in as I started making a fuss-apparently they are trying to eliminate this sort of thing-  bit I had a bad taste in my mouth that seeing grungy Tangier did not alleviate.  Plus, having sort of itchy feet from sitting around a lot yesterday, I decided just to skip Tangier altogether and do the 65 km to Tetouan today.

All well and good, until the gray skies began to sprinkle, then rain outright, while the bike decided to be difficult as well, flatting out and getting cranky with the shifting.  The rain reduced the brakes' effectiveness, as well, which was a bummer after climbing a big pass in the rain and having to descend the other side of it.  The road, being a fairly major one, but the only route to Tetuoan that was at all direct, was full of giant trucks, and not to flavor the point, but it was hands down the worst day off riding so far. 

I just my head down, though, and got to Tetuoan wetter than a drowned rat cold and miserable.  I staggered into a cafe to get my bearings, and things immediately started to improve with my first pot of sweet mint tea, apparently a staple here.  I went to a cheap boarding house style hotel called a pension, and got a nice room for cheap.  Though the shower is down the hall, all I cared was that it existed, and after that I return back to ranks of the living.

From my whole 10 hours of experience, Morocco strikes me as on be of those countries like Peru or China that sits somewhere between the "developed" and "developing" world.  It is certainly a step down in convenience from Europe, but it's also no India or Cambodia.  The roads are reasonable shape;  people drive fast, but not insanely (and are relatively light on the horn, thank God); and walking the streets is perfectly pleasant (meaning I am not being swarmed by hucksters and cheats); and violent crime is really rare. 

That being said, this a FOREIGN country.  Aside from language and some relatively minor social differences (siesta, food, etc), Spain and Portugal kinda operate within similar parameters as home.  Morocco is an Islamic country, and an ancient one, and there is a lot going on here that hasn't changed a whole lot in many centuries. Calls to prayer echo from minarets everywhere, women are often veiled, and most of the men stroll about in Dr. Suess-looking snug body ponchos. 

I strolled around a bit after recovering from my wretched day of soggy riding, and the nearby souk (outdoor market) was really hopping. I had mentioned the medieval street layout of Lisbon and Seville, well, this is just plain medieval.  Same tiny alleyways, etc., except instead of being filled with classy wine bars, they contain butchered goats, live chickens, grilled kebob stands, delicious pastries, vast trays of olives and exotic fruits, and hidden entrances to mosques. Though a hell of a lot less classy, it's also a lot more interesting, and you can easily graze till you are full at various weird food carts and stalls (escargot?  Lentil soup?  Delicious panani sorta things but with cabbage, cumin, and meat?). for a couple bucks.  Try doing that in Europe.

Also kinda digging being well off the backpacker path.  Though this entails the rebirth of Big White Clown (see my China blog) and I once again draw stares and smirks wherever I go, it also involves staying at more interesting places than hostels- such as this pension I currently am writing you from.  French colonial architecture, run by a friendly family, filled with Moroccans laying prayer rugs and doing their ambulations to Mecca.  Also cheap cheap cheap.  Minus: squat toilets and very strangely designed showers. 

Bike Tour: Day 18: Cadiz

Took a day here in Cadiz to explore the sights, and, following the pattern of the last week, it was sunny though cool in the morning, warming and burning off whatever clouds there were in the afternoon.  I suppose, like anywhere, one could spend much longer to actually get to know the place, but the old city being so necessarily small (it being perched on a long thin peninsula), I felt I got most of the highlights in my day of sightseeing.

I started by walking along the waterfront and exploring the fortresses which long made Cadiz a nearly impenetrable stronghold.  On of the forts is out on a long spit accessible by a thin walkway over the reefs and sand, and it's easy to imagine the havoc it could wreak on any invaders foolish enough to come super its guns.  Though still impressive, they haven't gone too far out of their way to restore or explain to the visitor the history of the place- there were a few signs in Spanish that I generally got there gist of, but it seems the tide of EU historical money I have seen so many other places in Spain hasn't gotten here yet. 

It had gotten to the very impressive main cathedral in town, which apparently underwent a major renovation.  A large part of the charm of Cadiz is that most of the older buildings are constructed of a fossil-rich limestone, which over time has eroded fairly significantly, so everything seems pretty crumbly- which is great for aesthetics, but bad for giant towering highly ornamented churches.  By now suffering from inevitable cathedral fatigue, I moved on to the Museo De Cadiz.  I have been a bit spoiled so far in museums being housed in buildings as magnificent as their collections, and this one is not, but it did have a great archeology exhibit focused on the very long history of Cadiz- from pre-history, through the Phonecians (they have a pair of nearly intact sarcophagi that are awe-inspiring, considering they are nearly 3000 years old) , through the Romans (which also gave a nice teaser for Bolongia, where I was to visit in a few days), then the Moors, and so on.  Upstairs was another Museo De Belles Artes, which I have come to understand is as "religious art museum."  Sort of pearls before swine for me, since being poorly educated in art history, all the vast canvases of ecstatic saints and Virgin mothers and cherubs and Christ at various stages of the passion have now run into kind of a blur for me.   Plus, as I mentioned, after the stunning museum in Seville, this one was second fiddle.  I finished the day with some more strolling around various excellent waterside parks, eating the famous fried fish out of a paper cone (sorry England, invented here first), and soaking up an outstanding view from atop the Torre Tavira (the tallest of the hundred or so watchtowers in Cadiz). 

Sleepy from a poor night's rest there night before (thunderously loud snoring roommate), and having a big day of riding the next day, I reluctantly skipped the flamenco dancing trip that night (I would probably be more game if it started before midnight). 

Bike Tour Days 19 and 20: Cadiz to Tarifa

Day 19: Cadiz to Zahara De Los Atunes (85 km)
Weather: A little warmer: 50's in the morning , mid-60s in afternoon, Mostly sunny. 
Roads: Awful at the very first, when forced to ride along interstate, but rapidly improving as day went on, to some of best riding of trip near end of day.
Bike: Should adjust shifting.  All is functional, but could look at miking it run more smoothly.   Also considering swapping front tire with bigger spare. 

Even though the people a the hostel showed me a back road next to the railroad tracks along the South peninsula where it was possible to escape Cadiz, it looked likely to be a time-consuming challenge to navigate, and an unpleasant stretch to primitive road even when I did find it, so I just caught the train out of town, which dropped me off in San Fernando, at the mainland side of the Peninsula.  There began an unpleasant stretch of riding that, due to a large river estuary, forced me onto a European version of a freeway, which is to say, a freeway with really narrow shoulders bordered by a guardrail upon which one could not help oneself smeared should any of the speeding traffic veer from its lane by a few feet.

However, this only lasted for a few kilometers , and soon I escaped on an exit where I could follow a road along the/construction of an extent ion of the train to Chiclana (future bike tourists reading this, take the train to Chiclana), then I was on more manageable suburban roads heading out of town.  Heading west to the coast, the suburbs gave way to ritzy golf communities and upscale seaside condos.  The traffic disappeared, and I whizzed along the smooth pavement out into more parkland along the ocean and bike touring gold. 

Taking lunch at a clifftop overlook of Concil De LA Frontera, I basked in full sunshine and warm temperatures, and the first of many spectacular views along the lightly developed coast of southwest Spain.  I zoomed along the valley next to the ocean with farmland slanting down to the dying sea, until the view to landward became dominated by the dune/mountain of LA Brena y Marismas De Babarte national park. Huffing and puffing up the steep road from the deserted resort town of Zahora, I summited the mountain and cruised along the ridge, gathering sweeping sea views here and there through the pines.  If I had it to do over again, I would have taken the trail (actually a well-packed, slightly graded dirt road) to achieve even better views, but as it was, I had a delightful cruise over the top, and a thrilling descent with great views down to Barbote, where I had a late-afternoon beer at one of the beach side cafes.  Having daylight and energy left in the tank, I bumped off another 10km to find a nice campsite area near Zahara De las Atunes.  A quick dinner on the camp stove and and early night to bed, making up from a couple sleep deprived nights in a hostel full of snoring cohabitants.

Oh, and I can see Africa in the distance now.

Day 20- Zahara De las Atunes to Tarifa(45 km)
Weather: chilly in the morning (high 30's), warming (low 60s)and sunny midday, the getting cloudy later. 
Roads: A day of extremes: from steep loose jeep trail to smooth pavement with a massive tailwind
Bike: same as yesterday

Day broke chilly but sunny, and after almost 12 hours of restful slumber in the tent, I was soon packed and moving southward.  This was a somewhat significant risk, because though my road map showed the road to Altanterra as a dead end, the tablet's GPS showed a couple routes via dirt road that tied together the communities on either side of a rather prominent obstructing mountain.  There was a low road and a high road, and though I had certain knowledge of the low road going through from a friendly German in the campground, I, in my arrogance, decided the high road was superior.  This, I figured, was due to its longer length (which equalled lesser grades in my estimation), and thus I could avoid pushing the bike, as  I knew I would have to do with the low road.

This was not correct.  I huffed and puffed up a very steep twisting paved road to find a locked gate at its end, but with a bike-sized gap beside it, and tracks leading in to indicate it was travled.  However, the longer length, I found, just meant it climbed over the mountain all the more- to its 1300 foot summit, in point of fact.  The good news is now I can say I have now mountain biked in Spain, the bad news is that it mainly consisted of pushing my bike-cum-luggage cart up the side of a steep mountain. 

Lessons learned?  Arrogance works.  While the push was tiring, the views were increasingly stupendous, and upon finally reaching the summit, I was welcomed with pavement and a nice road down the other side.  The top was a strange maze of overgrown roads withe curbs and drains as if it were slated residential, but then abandoned- sort of a "Lost" feel to it.  But great views boost to the north (back toward the park with a massive wind farm in the middle distance) and to the south, where I could see all the way down to Tarifa and  in the farther distance, detail beginning to show on the foothills of the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. 

Zooming down the steep but paved road on the other side, I soon reached a major goal of the day the archeological site at Bolonia.  This excavation of an amazingly intact Roman town is special because unlike most other such sites, no civilization built on top of the site, and it takes little to no imagination to understand the layout of the settlement.  I am guessing some Euro-cash flowed in here recently, because there is a spanking-new visitor center, and very informative interpretive signs everywhere, all for the very reasonable €1.50 entrance fee (free with EU passport).  Present are sections of aquaduct, a large theater, forum, temples, houses, and a fishery.  Just amazing for anyone with a flicker of historical curiosity.  Also the valley that housed the town was a s scenic as could be, with dramatic stone spires behind, and a gleamimg beach with turquoise water. 

I did have to climb over a low pass to leave the valley, but getting back on the main road to Tarifa, I enjoyed a strong tailwind and sailed the last 15 km easily into town.  I grabbed a late lunch (generally the only type available), found the hostel, and settled in, taking on the long-neglected task of editing all my photos.  The next day is predicted to be cold and rainy, offering the perfect opportunity to take a rest day, catch up on the blog, and make a game plan for Morocco. Happily, this hostel is lightly occupied, and I got a room to myself for the price of a bunk, and the ability to sleep indoors at peace.

Decision Time

Well, the time has come for bold decision making, and it appears it is back to Plan A. 

I have worked my way down the coast of Spain nearly as far as possible, and now the decision point comes: turn east to begin the loop back to Lisbon via Ronda, Granada, and Cordoba, or... Steer south toward Tarifa and this across the Straight of Gibraltar with the bike to Morocco.  Let us examine the variables:

Weather: never certain, but favoring Morocco.  Winter comes late to southern Spain, but it's getting here- forecasts for the next couple weeks definitely favor a southern trajectory.

Personal fitness: I was initially  worried that after a  few weeks on the bike I would tire of it, but actually the trend is the other way.  Now that I have burned off the flab and I no longer creak and ache in the morning, and I see my viable range per day rising from 55km to more like 100, I am perfectly content to pedal away the rest of the trip.  Plus, I had not factored in the fact that I would regularly be stopping for a day here and there to sightsee.  Though I still get a workout walking around a city (generally 5-10 miles worth), it's different enough that my body (and let's just say it-my rear end is the limiting factor at this point)  has time to recover. 

Better Intel: By now, I have talked to a good number of people about my plans, and have gotten some much better info about Morocco. In particular, I talked at length with a British travel writer in Cadiz who urged me toward Morocco with a number of compelling arguments and assuaged most of my fears. 

Adventure:  the romantic appeal cannot be denied.  The "Lisbon to Marrakech" definitely sounds a lot cooler than the "Iberian Peninsula Loop."  The latter smacks of traipsing about Europe, while the former adds mystique, and perhaps a bit of danger.  In reality, I will say bike touring anywhere is plenty challenging, but Morocco will push the comfort envelope where I think it needs to be at this point.  Plus, as I mentioned in an earlier post, I am getting the first signs of cathedral/castle fatigue, and I believe Morocco holds a certain cure.  Finally, it seems I only get one of these trips every 3-4 years, and I wanna get the most out of this one.

Obviously, there are many compelling points to the "con" column: such as the touring is very likely to be less bike-friendly (goodbye bike lanes, hello dogs and rock-throwing children), the attendant challenges of developing world travel, logistics of getting the bike back to Lisbon, and so on. But these issues that I have dealt with before and are generally more unpleasant in the anticipation than the reality. 

So the wheels now point south for Tarifa and North Africa.  Gulp.

Bike Tour Days 14 and 15: Sevilla

Ah, Seville. It's so nice when something lives up to the hype.  Coming into town, I frankly wasn't too impressed.  Seville, pretty much a dead flat city, lacks the rolling beauty of Lisbon, as well as the red tile rooftops.  But when you get inside the city, it turns out it is all about the nooks and cranies.  I budgeted two days for sightseeing, and like Lisbon, I could have easily stayed more.  But I think I covered the must-sees.  They are no secrets from the tourists, but there's a reason.  The main cathedral of Seville is jaw-droppingly enormous (like 12 stories tall inside), ornate, packed full of priceless art and treasure, and if that wasn't enough for you, has the tomb of Christopher Columbus in the middle of it.  It was also built on the ruins of a magnificent mosque (knocked over by the same earthquake that leveled Lisbon), but the spectacular minaret (the Giraida) remains, and hiking up to the top of it is part of the tour.  The Alcazares palace is similarly amazing, particularly the moorish bits that remain, nearly intact.  There are other great sights, such as the immense Plaza de Espana (build for the very unfortunately timed 1929 World's Fair), the astounding Museo de Bellas Artes (a former convent packed with more priceless religious art from any prominent Spanish artist from the Rennessance on you might care to name) and the grim Plaza de Toros (one of the most famous bullfighting rings in the world.  Fun side note- bull fighting in real life was even grosser and crueller than I thought- apperently it was common for at least a dozen horses to be evicerated in a day's proceedings.  Nowadays, they wear horse body armor, but the event remains about the same for the bulls.) and the giant "mushroom" sculpture at the Plaza Mayor right downtown.  

But again, the charm of Seville really comes from the Medieval maze of streets that make up most of the central city.  Not a morning person's city (or country, from what I can tell), the streets burst into life in the evenings, teaming with music, laughter, and people of all description enjoying their beautiful city and each other.  It's a really treat just walking anywhere during the evenings- the energy is infectious.  Of course, staying at a hostel is an ideal way to specialize in night life, since most of the young people there are on young people schedules- stagger out of bed around noon, grudgingly see a sight or two, nap through the siesta, and then begin the evening with a Spanish-time supper (around 9 usually), then out to the bars around 11, and finish at 4 or 5.  And repeat until the next city, and repeat there, and so on till the money runs out.  I have always been a morning person, and also am a history nerd, and would never forgive myself if valuable sightseeing time were lost, and also am nearly 20 years older than most of these kids, so I only half heartedly participated, but still had a lot of fun.   

Oh, and also the women are indeed beautiful and the oranges top notch.  These things also live up to the hype.  

So that's Sevilla.  On Sunday morning, I was out long before my roommates even stirred (a shocking 9 am), and on the road heading for Cadiz.  I feel like I gave especially short shrift to the city in this entry, but this is really really one of those places you have to experince to get it.  Also I am behind on entries, so this will have to do!  

Bike Tour: Days 16 and 17: The road to Cadiz

Day 15: Sevile to south end of Dona a National Park (97 km)
Weather: 40's in the morning, warming to low 60's.  Clear and sunny.  No wind until end of day, then a steady headwind off the ocean.
Bike:no problems but I fear it took kind of a beating today with all the gravel roads
Roads: mostly dirt and gravel, maybe saw 10 cars all day.

Today's ride was mostly on gravel roads along an informal greenway along the Rio Guadalquivir- the very historic path that Colombus, among others, used to travel from the city up to the quite prosperous counting houses of Seville.  Though this route was under-developed from a biking perspective, it still was pretty popular - I saw many bikers along the way, as European as could be in head to toe neon spandex and cheerfully shouting encouragement my way.  The Guadalquivir estuary was hardly pristine, but it was very pleasant and filled with huge flocks of interesting wetland birds- cranes, herons, and if I am not mistaken, some sort of European flamingo. 

The rest days in Seville paid off and I think allowed my body to consolidate the gains of the previous couple weeks of riding.  This allowed me to beat my distance record and this time I was just a little tired.  Granted, the route was pretty much flat as a pancake the entire way, but I will give myself difficulty points for the rough surface and the late-day headwind. 

The later part of the ride was across a wide-open estuary with the wind tearing across it, so I pushed it a bit for a forested area I could see in the distance.  This tuned out to be the tag end of Donana  National Park, and its pleasant forest glade made for a delightful night of impromptu camping.  It was nice to catch up on sleep lost from the hostel- my roommates were, shall I say, on a different schedule than I , as well as prodigious snorers.  A quick dinner made on the camp stove and I was out!

Day 16: Donana National Park to Cadiz (80 km-though actually only 60 in a useful direction)
Weather: cool and sunny trend continues, with 40's during the morning, low 60s during day
Bike: Discovered a bolt had rattled out of the rear rack yesterday, was able to replace with one from water bottle cage.  Also got puncture flat from price of metal midday.  Also repaired.  Actually found a real bike shop this morning, and was able to replace bolt and buy extra set of brake pads for later. 
Roads: mostly pavement today. 

Beautiful dawn today, and a little nippy (though to judge by the native Spaniards here you'd think it was Alaska). Munched on some cereal and made some coffee, packed up the bike, and then was pleasantly surprised by having the first 5 km or so be along a lovely little bike path through the sand and pines of the park.  This spat me out right at the mouth of the now-mighty river, and after navigating through a small town just waking up, I decided to cut across the peninsula I was riding on in hopes that I might get in a bit early to Cadiz. 

After lots of bumpy gravel road yesterday and a headwind, it was a real treat to get a stretch of brand-new smooth asphalt, very little traffic, and a nice tailwind for the next 20 km or so.  Whereas my speedometer yesterday mostly hovered around a pokey 15 or 20, for a long stretch I opened the B-2 up to 30-35. 

I then began some navigation misadventures through the towns of  Puerto De Santa Maria and Puerto Real, which in my defense are made much more complicated by a twisted mess of natural obstacles- rivers and salt marshes.  By dumb luck I did stumble on yet another nice dirt bike path through yet another park this one through a very scenic estuary of the San Pedro River.

But the big stumbling block came in getting to Cadiz itself, which sits out on a long narrow peninsula, and accessible only by two narrow bridges.   I attempted my usual scheme of just blundering up to one and hoping for a miraculous pedestrian bridge, but this was rebuffed completely, and I found myself having to backtrack along a narrow shoulder on the wrong side of a freeway.  (I suppose it was physically possible to go across the bridge on a bike, but since there was no shoulder at all, I would be riding for about 4 km in the middle of freeway traffic which seemed to me tantamount to suicide). Anyway, I employed my terrible Spanish at a nearby gas station and found that my only hope was to get on the light rail train. 

More fumbling about trying to find the station (getting directions is hard for me, because it comes in rapid fire Spanish, from the generally loquatious people here- so what I understand is: "Oh, okay- what you want to do it go to the round about up there, then go left, then [unintelligible], but what you really need to keep in mind is [unintelligible], which reminds me of my Cousin Frank, old Frank, you know he always said that [unintelligible].  Anyhoo, after that third left [unintelligible], and you can't miss it."

But find it I did, and rode the slick new train into town with no further problems, found the hostel easily, and was welcomed into the fold once again.  New friends, interesting conversations, and a massive dinner cooked by a ex-pat from Alabama who I did not trust was actually an American because he had never heard of "The Empire Strikes Back." Calories replenished and blog updated, sleep came easily. 

Bike tour: Days 12 and 13- The Road to Seville

Day 12- Huelva to Matalascanas (60  km)
Weather continues in perfection- :70s and sunny
Traffic: generally pretty light other than leaving city
Bike- : all good, seemed to have goosed a few more days out of current brake pads.

Today brought a decision: either go hell bent for leather to Seville on a long unpleasant day of about 100km next to the freeway, or split the trip in a more indirect but much more pleasant route.  Of course I chose the latter, and for the first day anyway it was a great choice. 

The way out of Huelva looked to be a really unpleasant slog through a long industrial zone, but once again the bicycle guardian angels/city planners showed up, and I was able to follow a pleasant desperate and well marked bike lane through the city right out to another arm of the Camino  erode that had aided me so much yesterday.  The industrial zone was turned into a delight with a wonderfully landscaped greenbelt bike path  adjoining a long estuary reclamation project.  From that perspective, all the huge container ships and cranes and so on were just a cool backdrop.  The fun ended at the bridge across to the road leaving town, but I was grateful for all the rest it did give me. 

A spooky ride on a narrow pedestrian lane over a bridge later, and I was an even heavier industrial zone.  Fortunately, in the middle of this bleakness was the very nicely preserved momestary of El Rabido, the very place where Columbus and his captains assembled their crews, took their last mass, and then set sail across the ocean blue in 1492.  Of course Columbus ended up being a little murdery for today's tastes, but that aside, it,s pretty amazing to stand at the site of one of the most important moments of world history.  The monetary is very well preserved and beautiful, and nearby there is a little museum that contains full-sized replicas of Columbus' fleet of ships.  The latter museum was a little cheesy, and the museum's treatment of the Native Americans on Hispanola downright cringe-worthy (apparently Spain lacks the second thoughts Americans do re: CC), but the boats were neat. 

Back on the road along the seashore, I rode past a massive oil refinery, but then things got much nicer as I got into a national park, and what do you know, my old friend the Camino Verde showed up again.  For half the way to Matalascanas, the bike path was paved and even veered off away from the road to offer a quiet natural experience for 15 km or so.  For the last half, the path went to gravel and dirt, and since there was zero traffic and a huge hard shoulder, I went back to the main road and zoomed along the flat straight asphalt an pt an excellent clip towards the campsite at Matalascanas.  

As I have mentioned before, this could not be any more the dead season for these resorts, and the campsite indicated on the map wasn't even open.  Not a giant deal, however; since tent camping seems to be more or less unheard of, and non-car camp in even less so, I was able to secure a spot under a lighthouse overlooking the ocean just steps from the beach and a 3- minute walk to town.  It helped that the resort was so dead, but just alive enough for a few restaurants to be open.  So, after walking the beach for a while and contentedly reading a book in the sand, I had a nice dinner at seaside place and then an enjoyable time tasting wine and exercising my awful Spanish as the only guest at very friendly wine bar.  This was an ideal immersion scenario: these guy's English was as bad as my Spanish but everyone was really nice and enjoyed the practice.  Plus, I learned all about dried pig leg and many other topics!  Good wine, too.  I think this guy was pouring me the good stuff just to be nice. 

Then back to the tent, where I write this while listening to the surf pound the shore below.  Tomorrow I make for Seville!

Day 13- Matalascanas to Seville (90 km)
Weather: excellent, with only exception being 10-20 mph headwind all day. 
Roads: mix of busy road shoulder, dirt road and bike path.  Mostly light except approach to Seville.
Bike: all well

A longer day than first expected, made longer by a persistent headwind that beat mercilessly on the flat front face of my bike.  With the panniers, the B-2 is hardly an aerodynamic masterpiece.  But It was definitely a nice start, waking up as I did beneath a lighthouse on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Munching cereal and sipping coffee was mighty fine at dawn watching a fishing fleet ply back and forth, filling their nets with what I imagine were sardines or anchovies.

The general plan of taking the long way to Seville generally worked out, in that most of the way today was pleasant country roads (including another section of another "camino Verde"- though this time it was just a dirt road shortcut). I speculated that some of the middle section, though a national park, must have been originally Roman, because for 20 km though a pine forest the road was flat and unerringly straight as an arrow. 

The main sight today along the way was a beautiful town and cathedral at El Rocio, where apparently there is a huge religious festival to celebrate a miraculous statue of the Virgin Mary, which, Excalibur-like, refuses to be moved from the town.  They do parade her all over town, together with thousands of horses, ox-carts, and apparently half a million people.  They town was more or less deserted when I passed though, though, but the cathedral there displayed her very proudly. 

The approach to Seville had none of the charm of Huelva, and I was not rescued by a miraculous bike path on the way in again (not to say there is not such a route- I just don't know it).  Instead, as I feared, it was an unpleasant slog through the suburbs on a busy road, which mercifully had a wide shoulder, but a very stiff headwind, and the a huge barrier of an elevated freeway and a river which I had to go far around to enter the city. 

But I have worked out a procedure for such situations, which is to plug in my headphones (which normally I avoid as to not isolate myself from the experience), hunker down, and slog. As usual, the unpleasantness proved to be temporary, and once across the river I soon found the network of blessed red-painted inner city bike routes, and navigated to the hostel I had researched previously.  I hit the place in late afternoon pretty tired from the mileage, but pleasantly surprised by it being cheap (my days of solo rooms are long over, but sharing a room with an amiable Canadian was not that much of a hardship), possessed of piping hot showers, and as I returned to the common area to relax/and socialize, free sangria hour.  Viva frickin Espana.

Exhausted from the riding, spent the evening relaxing at the hostel making new friends and swapping stories.  Nice to get to bed early, for tomorrow and the next day I go into more traditional backpacker mode and take in the sights of Seville.

Day 11: Spanish border to Huelva

About 65 km.
Weather: ideal again.  Mid-70s and sunny.
Traffic: aside from an umnpleasnt stretch midday getting around Lepe, very light.
Bike: brakes need some attention.  Front rack needed adjustment.

A day of pleasant surprises for the most part.  I had expected this to be a bit of a slog, but the presence of a couple bike routes and paths turned what could have been a nightmare into a very pleasant experience.

The day broke clear and fair, and I had zero problems finding or using the pokey old ferry that got me across the river into Spain first thing this morning.  It dropped my off at Atatuya, a pleasant enough place with some nice buildings around a central plaza and a bullfighting ring on the hill.  Getting out of town, I avoided the busy main road in favor of following the edge of a national park- a large wetland with lots of interesting birds to keep me company.  Even better was the existence of a bike route like the one on the Portuguese coast I found yesterday.  Though kind of bumpy and sandy in spots, it sure beat dodging traffic, and there were lots of things to look at as I wound my way through strawberry fields, peach and orange orchards, and large areas of of natural wetland.

The estuary pinches all roads north at one point, so I was forced onto a busy street around and through the gritty town of Lepe.  I will say that Lepe has an impressive bike lane loop through the downtown that made it easier and much more fun to go through town.  After that it was up and down  some very nicely paved  but lightly traveled new country roads until I got to the point I dreaded- a section of freeway up the estuary and across the river into Huelva.  Very fortunately, there was a long-distance bike path along the freeway for this very purpose called the "Camino Verde" (green road)- a very nice bike path painted green the whole way that took me the last 20 km into Huelva.  Apparently, it joins Huelva to a popular beach about 30km south from the city, but whatever its reason for existence, I would like to buy its creators a cerveca. 

I thus pleasantly toodled into Huelva, found a hostel I had previously researched (a great barn of a place in a beautiful 19th century building with its 60 or so dorm rooms on 3 levels all opening into an enclosed plaza space in the middle.  Though I paid for a dorm bed, again I got the room to myself.). Huelva isn't really all that interesting of a city, especially by Andalucian standards, but that was sort of a relief in that I didn't feel pressured to run out and see lots of stuff.  Instead, I wandered the streets around the hostel, and was delighted by the everyday city life of a random Spanish city.  Like in South America, it seems like people here are much less content to sit around their homes at night, and as the sun goes down, the streets mill with people just out socializing.  The public sphere at night also seems to involve a lot more kids than in the US-  it doesn't appear taboo in either Spain or Portugal to bring your kids to a restaurant or mellow bar and have the adults hang out together while the kids play.  (This is the third time, too, that I have seen a toddler's birthday party held in a bar).  This deserves consideration, America.

Another interesting factor from my whole one day in Spain is the decrease in English spoken, and the necessity for me to wheel out my terrible high school Spanish.  However, I am very happy to say I have completed several conversations such as:

"Good evening, sir.  I hunger and would like a beer.  Is there menu?"
"This is a pet store. Try that tapas place over there."
"I see.  Good evening, friend."

I also need to figure out certain social challenges, such as the difference in what businesses provide what.  Happily, in Spain, there exist recognizable grocery stores(strange only on that a major item for sale as you walk in are massive dried pig legs) so I can get breakfast and lunch stuff easily and cheaply.  But there are mystifying ones- such as the "juice bars", which like the omnipresent "snack bars" of Portugal, sell pastries, espresso, a full range of alcohol, but also add dried pig leg as an option.  I got the impression in Portugal that the people must live primarily on custard tarts, espresso, and tiny cups of sherry, since these places were everywhere, and always containing at least a few old men who eyed me suspiciously.  (Though the hairy eyeball seems to be more a constant of old men than nationality- the US equivalent would probably be a small hardware store).

A good night's sleep in the hostel, and it's off to Sevilla tomorrow.  Everyone has been telling me how fantastic it is the while trip, and I am excited to see it and take a couple true rest days/while there!

Bike Tour- Days 9 and 10

Day 9: Portimao  to Loule (90km)

Weather: Partly cloudy
Traffic: Moderate to light, improving all day
Bike: no issues

Avoiding to clouded and overdeveloped Algrave coast, I headed inland today in a 2-day arc the hopefully will end up depositing me at the Spanish border tomorrow.  I am happy to report that the rest day yesterday and the week of solid biking before it is startling to pay results: even though I had some significant elevation gain today and the longest distance so far, I got to my destination merely very tired and not at the point of falling off the bike, like day 2. 

Today was Sunday, which in Portugal is taken pretty seriously- basically nothing is open all day, but the good news was that the traffic in the morning was quite light on my exit from Portimao.  The mid-sized 2-lane roads in Portugal generally lack any shoulder to speak of, and it can be pretty harrowing being on a busy street with lots of tiny fast cars zipping along inches from one's panniers. 

Anyway, the traffic got even lighter as I got on a more minor road and began my climb up to Silves.  The surrounding countryside soon transformed into rolling foothills covered in orange and pomegranate orchards, vineyards, and the occasional olive grove. (As a random side note, I now know why the call the color "olive" olive: it's from the color of the leaves, not the fruit).  The climb all day was generally gradual, but significant- a net gain of about a thousand vertical feet that that I had to win back a few times.

Silves was very quiet, it still  being Sunday morning, but beautiful.  The center of town is dominated by a surprisingly well-preserved Moorish castle and an impressive cathedral (obviously a later addition) attached to it.  There is also apparently a nice market building that used to be a 19th century cork factory, but it was all closed up. 

After sampling some of the fantastic local citrus and touring the castle, I hit the road again for a few hours, gaining more and more altitude until I stopped for a mid afternoon break at Alte, an insanely quaint whitewashed mountain village surrounded by ancient orchards.  Recharged by some fresh orange juice, I rolled over more foothills on the way to Loule.  I was losing daylight fast, and was hoping I could find a campismo not on the map (there were a couple such operations near Silves) but unfortunately no luck.  Having passed a couple viable (though not particularly desirable) dispersed camping spots earlier, I was cursing myself as I glided into town just as the sun went down.  I decided to regroup at on of the few restaurants in the very pleasant downtown, and used my tablet and a weak WiFi signal to try to find a hostel, at least.  No dice there, but I located a pretty cheap hotel nearby.  So... sweaty, cold, and worn out (but well-fed on double-ham pizza- I was kinda firing blind on the menu) I arrived at what turned out to be a pretty classy hotel.  It was more expensive than a hostel, but less than every terrible dump I stayed in while visiting the American south for work, and it sure beat scouting for a place to crouch in the bushes for the night, so I swallowed my cheapness for once and just laid down the coin.  A long hot shower had me feeling a lot better about life and I soon sank into slumber.

Day 10: Loule to Vila Real De Santo Antonio (60 km).
Weather: Simply glorious. Mid 70s and sunny all day.
Traffic: moderate heading out of Loule, non-existent east of Tavira.
Bike: all a go, brakes starting to show wear, hope to swap pads at Seville. 

Awoke in my nice room again far too early (a pitfall of going to bed at 9:30), but caught up on some writing and did some research on Spain, which is rapidly approaching.  Got everything ready to go on the bike and then checked out the complementary breakfast, which to my great pleasure turned out to be opulent.  As a cost saving measure, I have been avoiding eating out-generally limiting myself to one meal out a day or none when in Portimao, where I was feeling guilty for my surfing expenses.  Generally the one meal out is supper, when I am the hungriest and the least motivated to deal with cooking.  So all of this is a long way of saying my breakfasts heretofore have been meager.  Which is a hardship to someone who LOVES breakfast, and also burnt about  9000 calories yesterday.  Anyway, when faced with this bounty, I shamelessly destroyed this buffet.  At one point, I caught an uptight looking German couple staring at me inhaling some weird bacon/ham I had mashed between 2 croissants with a look of undisguised horror, but I cared not.  I came, I ate, I conquered. 

The traffic was a little unpleasant on the way out of Loule, but the weather was so great that it was hard to be too upset.  In any event, I was soon out of it and gradually climbing again, then spilling my 1200 vertical feet in a couple of fun descents though the citrus and olive groves, the approaching sea sparkling in the background.  My mood improved even more when I arrived at the splendid town of Tavira.  In addition to the cobblestone streets and charming 18th century architecture that is now kind of expected, this town is centered on a long slough, both sides of which are lined with gorgeous parks, plazas, cafes, and so on. There are several bridges across the span, the oldest of which is Roman.   Sort of a similar treatment American city planners have been going waterfronts these days, except here they did theirs 200+ years ago.  Of course, they also have a great Moorish castle and cathedral, which I explored and took some nice pictures and got some great views.

I felt compelled to sit and have a beer in the central plaza, and was glad I did, because a local soon started talking to me about my bike (he yearned to bike tour some day-apparently the lack of a front rack was all that stood between him and his ambition), and in this conversation I found out about the existence of an "Eco via" between Tavira and the Spanish border.  This was a considerable improvement on the route I had resigned myself to, which was a 25km stretch of busy road with narrow shoulders.  The "eco-via", as it turned out, was a patchwork of gravel roads, purpose-built bike paths, and city streets that maximized sightseeing while minimizing traffic.  It is marked with Appalachian Trail-style paint blazes that are subtly painted on trees, signposts, walls, etc.  This was a great find, tempered only in my enthusiasm with the realization that this stretched all the way back to Portimao, which I did not know until then.

A negative man would curse this as poor luck, but I had a great time checking out the sights in the foothills, and the roads were pretty mellow most of the way anyway, so... Meh.  Also I got that breakfast. 

I noodled around on the Eco via, passing some charming if touristy fishing villages and a salt harvesting operation, and all in all had a very pleasant afternoon.  I got to my destination campismo with plenty of daylight, set up camp, and went down to the beach, where I wrote most of this entry while sipping a Super Bock and watching the sun set over the ocean. 

And that, my friends, is that!  Great day, and tomorrow, across the ferry and on to Spain!  Multi ombrigado, Portugal.   You have been the best!!

Practicalities #1- Bike and gear

So some of you may be interested in the more how-to aspect of the trip and sometimes the nitty-gritty of the everyday reality of the trip can be some of the most interesting part.  Anyway in this installment I discuss my bike and gear. 

The bike itself I have nicknamed the "B-2", since both it and its panniers are all black, it is the second bike in my heart (after my mountain bike, which is totally unfair, but maybe I like the bad girls), it handles like a bomber when loaded, and it's pretty stealthy.  It's really a 2006 Gary Fisher "Utopia"- designed to be a commuter bike.   It has a heavy-duty aluminum mountain bike frame, but 700 c wheels like a road bike, with rims designed to take either very thin mountain bike tires, or more usually, road bike slicks on the fatter side to take the punishment on all the weight.  Unlike most road frames, it also has a short-travel suspension fort on the front, which makes things much more comfortable on rough roads.

It sports front and rear racks (I had to jury-rig clamps to hold the front rack on the fork-generally this isn't done). There are four main panniers (2 front and 2 rear), as well as a small bag apparatus on the handlebars and another small bag that sits on top of the rear rack.  I have been messing around with different configurations of gear stowage, but what I like the best is this: 

Rear panniers are mainly clothes for around town and for biking, but also have some other misc. items in there, light the poles for the tent.  Speaking of, one front pannier holds the tent and cooking gear, including a compact alcohol stove.  The other holds my sleeping bag and pad.  The handlebar bag holds all the expensive and vital stuff like wallet, passport, this tablet I am writing this on, and maps, the one currently in use stuffed in a handy waterproof transparent flap thing so I can look at it when I pedal along.  That bag detaches easily so I can keep it with me all the time, even though I look like a weirdo carrying what appears to be a football around under my arm as I view castles and whatnot.   The smaller rear bag holds bike tools, first aid kit and is the food pantry. It also has a spare tire wrapped around it!

I have sufficient camping gear to handle most conditions, including being able to purify water and camp pretty much where ever. The alcohol stove is kind of primitive, but works great for boiling water, and its fuel is available cheaply at any pharmacy. 

So far, I have yet to use any of my heavy weather gear, and have kind of resented its bulk and weight, but I may feel differently in the inland section of spain.  I also wonder about the usefulness of my nice light, it being bulky and heavy and not really used. 

The bike fully loaded is about 100 pounds.  Its a little wiggly at low speeds, and catches the wind like a sail,  but at normal speeds it rides well enough.  I have certainly enjoyed its mountain bike gearing, which has greatly helped getting up and over the many hills a so far.  Normal cruising speed for me is around 20 km an hour on flat ground.  I max out at around 50 km an hour going down passes.  Just too spooky with all that weight. 

I have a range of instruments aboard, including an altimeter, compass, and of course timpeice in my watch, a bike computer to measure distance, several paper maps, and this tablet that has a GPS functionality.

So that's about it for gear.  Hope that illustrated things a bit for you all!

Day 7-8: Sangres to Portimao

Day 7: Sangres to Portimao (70km)

Weather: Strange: either sunny and clear or raining.  Low70s.
Bike: No problems. 
Traffic/roads: moderate traffic, mostly large less pleasant roads.

Portugal, I just can't stay mad at you.  Sure, most of the ride today was along a busy highway, but at least it had wide shoulders, so it was unpleasant rather than death defying like the middle of day one.  And sure, I drifted into the Algave proper, which I could concisely describe as "the Florida of Europe'", with seemingly endless development along the otherwise lovely coastline, but then you give me a wrong turn that ended in an incredible beach, a break in the clouds, a cozy beach side bar, and all is forgiven. 

And to make sure there were no hard feelings, Portugal, you gave me this place I am currently writing from.  A quick internet search of hostels from the seaside bar WiFi showed a "hostel" smack in the middle of a cluster of very high end high rise hotels.  I had trouble finding it due to a baffling street plan, lack of address numbers, and no sign on the place, but an inquiry at a local bar uncovered a friend of the couple that runs the place.  It turned out to be a villa that had been converted into a 3-room b and b (but without the second b).  There was no one staying in it all weekend so essentially I got a whole 19th century sea side villa (with terrace overlooking the beach)  to myself for 20 euros.  Needing a rest day, I quickly made that 2 nights, and the incredibly helpful family that owns the place quickly and very cheaply arranged for laundry to be done, a surf lesson for the next day at the beach across the street, and detailed information about my route over the next couple of days. 

I planned to go strolling around the ritzy casino down the street that evening, but some wine on the terrace and a home-cooked meal later, I was on the couch reading a book and could not have been happier.  Sleep soon took me into a welcoming embrace.

Day 8: Portimao "rest day."

Weather: sunny, mid-70s
Waves: 2 meters
Wind: approx 10-15 knots ssw
Alex: full-on stoked, brah!

Today was simple.  Awoke, ate breakfast on terrace, walked on beach, went to the surf school, and got my surf on.  Surf instructors were no disappointment: bleach-blond hair, broad smiles, lots of upper-body development, and skin tanned to the bone.  Though I have only been surfing 3-4 times in my life, they have been in some exciting places, including Peru and Maui, but these experiences have been strung over two decades, so I took the beginner class.  These classes not being exactly rigid, I actually remembered a fair amount and the bumped me to intermediate for the afternoon.

That sounds kind of impressive, and I suppose I am proud that I met my goal of getting a 10 percent success rate on the real waves you actually have to catch (as opposed to the baby waves inside the break).  The waves were kinder at high tide in the afternoon than in the morning, shaped more like ramps than collapsing cliffs, and this helped considerably. 

Now did I do this with any sort of grace? No.  Would a passerby assume that someone had put a wetsuit on a spastic ape and thrown him into the sea?  Perhaps.  Did I so completely fill my sinuses with wipeout seawater that a giant jet of hot water flew out of my nose an hour ago? Yes, and once a side, actually. And did I actually get any rest on my rest day? Of course not.  But I sure as heck made the most of a great day and had a lot of fun doing so. 

I another life I could have easily been a surfer rather than a skier.  It has much the same feel of the gravity-sport carve, and you are also constantly at the whim of the weather.  And since surfing is primarily what the whole west coast and most of the south coast of Portugal is about, it would have been a shame not to go at least once.  Would be sort of going to Moan and not mountain biking or Portland and not getting a regrettable tattoo.

But I am beat, and beat up.  Tomorrow it's back on the bike for more adventure, drifting away from the coast for a day or to for the much less developed (and hopefully more bike-friendly) interior Algavre.