El Paradisio

Samara, my last stop on this trip, is paradise at the end of a road. No other description could better describe this little oasis on the Pacific. Just like in calendars, or in exotic location advertising, this has it all-perfect palm tree lined beach, numerous little bars serving basic food and ice cold beer and crashing Pacific waves that feel like tepid bath water. Not only all this but there is also a Canadian owned restaurant that serves beer at 9am in the morning and has a Harley Davidson parked outside. Influenced by my sighting of the Harley I immediately went out and rented a motorcycle for a week- a 125cc Yamaha. I can honestly say that it is nothing like my Harley sitting lonely at home but it sure beats walking and it is kind of fun, helmetless, in shorts and sandals, buzzing along at a reasonably safe speed. If I had enough hair it would probably feel great whippin around in the wind just like the old days but alas, those days are long gone.

Samara is the end of the road. I know there are roads heading north and south but the reality is, once you step off the bus here, it could be very dificult to leave. All I seem to do is walk the beach and daydream. There are many other dark skinned gringos here that look like they were hooked and never left. There are Howler Monkeys in the trees, huge iguanas sauntering along or climbing palm trees, bats divebomb me at night, riderless horses walk by on the sidewalks, the early morning cacophony of waking birds is better than any alarm clock and then there is the 24/7 crashing surf in this small bay protected by an offshore reef.

I have done the wedding photos that first drew me to Samara. Dave and Michele's wedding was a beautiful event on the beach at sunset. Officiated by Fabiola, a local lawyer and music by Dylan, Dave's son, who sang a song that he had composed only the day before that was perfect for the occasion. The tune still rings in my mind. The photos came out great despite my equipment shortages and dwindling light. We headed back to the villa, horns a-honkin, well one horn-a-honkin anyway, to our second sumptuous feast of the day. Earlier it was Octopus, Lobster salad and fresh-caught Laguna Cerviche, now it was the full meal deal -Blackened Tuna caught fresh by the guys yesterday and a beautiful chicken. The evening wound down with Paulette, Dave's gregarious sister, taking the pool plunge in her maid of honour dress.

Punta Mayalas

My second day in Plan territory I explored and photographed some other Plan communities and projects including the community of Punta Mayalas on the east shore of Lac Nicaragua. It is 26km from Juigalpa along one of the worst roads I have ever encountered. This has to be one of the poorest communities that I have ever seen. Houses are basically shacks but at least most have new latrines courtesy of Plan. Surprisingly the people appear happy despite their daily struggle.

The beauty of the place cannot be described. In the distance, no less than 3 volcanos can be seen, one of them active on the Island of Ometebe. The only livelihood in the village is fishing and one of the reasons we were here was to eat fish. Apparently people come from miles around to eat here despite the kidney jarring trip to get here. 

We chose our own fish from the icebox and it arrived whole and headed. I ate most of mine but my Nicaraguan friends sucked every bone clean including the skull. I went and took photos not wanting to witness the pure joy that they were experiencing.

On the way back we took a detour to visit the Mayalas Nature Reserve located at the junction of the Rio Mayalas and Lac Nicaragua. What an incredible place. Bird life in numbers that I have never witnessed before waded, flew, and just generally hung out. We were given a free boat ride upriver where we saw numerous birds and I got some great photos including a stunning photo of a huge Egret shadowed by the Ometebe volcano.

All good things must come to an end and we headed back to Granada, passing on the way through Managua, the capital of Nicaragua, a place that guide books and previous visitors told me to avoid. What a hole of despair. Rivers were flowing with garbage, every available space was covered in bad grafitti, emanciated dogs ran free everywhere, the streets were filthy, the housing mostly shacks apart from the rich areas and the people basically bored with nothing to do. The pollution from the numerous buses and moto cabs was intense. We quickly passed through and I was back to Granada, a haven of colonial tranquility in a mad Nicaraguan world. There I ran into John Oliver, my rastafarian street artist friend who has slowly been telling me his story. Tonights chapter was the time he fought with the Contra´s in Nicaragua´s civil war. As he explained, you either fought for the Contra´s or the Sandanista´s or one of them killed you. Pretty hard to imagine but that is Nicaragua!

Visiting Mariela, my sponsored child

One of the significant aspects of this trip was my plan to travel to the village of my sponsored child´s family on the east side of Lac Nicaragua, near the city of Juigalpa. Mariela, her sister Martha and their mother Josepha live in the small community of San Pedro, a very poor community of 5,000 people, supported by Plan International (used to be called Foster Parents Plan) who I have worked with before in Pakistan. The plan was to spend half a day with Mariela and her family and then do some photography of nearby Plan projects the next day as part of my ongoing volunteer work with Plan.

The trip to Juigalpa took over 3 hours through very dry cattle country. It is summer here (the dry season). Winter (the wet season) is the other season and it starts in May. The trip to San Pedro took another hour travelling on a gravel road. Along the way we had to dodge car sized potholes, roaming cattle, numerous cowboys on horses and many smoke belching buses. We arrived in San Pedro and pulled up in front of Mariella´s house where the family was waiting along with some of the community volunteers. Both Mariela, who is 10 years old, and her sister, Martha, who is 11 years old, are beautiful children who did not speak a word out of shyness. Josepha, their mother is only 26 years old and single, as it is very common to have children at a very young age in Nicaragua and very common for the menfolk to walk away once the children are born. They live in a shack with a dirt floor which is swept clean daily. The front wall is cinder block and both sides of the shack are planks with gaps in them. There are 2 separate partitions for the bedrooms and a kitchen in the back has a 3 burner propane hot plate. An open area out back is home to a cinder block shower stall and a wash tank for laundry. The tiny property behind the house is occupied by a couple of plants and a latrine in the back corner. Josepha has bricks and cinder blocks to do some improvements once the father of the children has time, or the inclination, to do the work

On my arrival I was served a drink of corn, cinnamon and cacoa which was quite delicious but somewhat granular. I also had some hard bisquits also made of corn. A little later we were served pasteles (cake) and coke. On the wall in the front room were cut out letters saying Beinvenidos Paul and a cut out drawing of what they thought I looked like. I had a hat on and was round. I was very touched by this act. I handed out gifts including some hand made bracelets from the Duncan Downtown market, some totem pins, and an English/Spanish dictionary to help Mariela when she was writing letters to me. They were gratefully received but still the girls did not talk. My spanish is getting quite good and I was able to have a conversation with Josepha while only needing help from the interpreter a few times. I was especially pleased that I could do this.

After the goodies we went for a tour of the town. First the baseball stadium, then the bullring where the men ride the bulls, and then off to Mariela and Martha´s school for a presentation. Arriving at the school we were met by a group of grade 4´s who officially welcomed me and led the way into Mariella´s classroom where she was supposed to introduce me. She was still tongue tied so we went ahead with a question and answer period with me answering most questions in spanish with a little help from Ellen, the Plan interpretor. Mariella has 45 classmates, a typical size class in Nicaraguan terms the principal explained to me. The school is in desperate need of most supplies, especially pencils and exercise books, since the government does not give much money to the school system. The school did not even have a single computer. After the presentations we all filed outside for a group photo and then repeated the process with Martha´s class.

Next stop the San Pedro church, built in 1952 and a very important part of the family´s life. The church is being renovated because, after 56 years, like myself, things are falling apart and need work. Old churches in Central America, like this one, are very fascinating with all their collected icons and memorabilia and the community is very proud of it. I was then shown the basketball court and told out that the youth had no basketballs to play with. Crossing the street we went to meet the Mayor as I was apparently a very important visitor, but he was busy so I met the assistant Mayor instead and he told me about all the great work Plan is doing in the community.

Last stop was the Rio Mico where I watched people wash their cars, do laundry on the rocks and swim. Ellen acknowledged the issue of pollution from these activities but said that the local municipal government was not concerned and did not see this as a problem. I didn´t say much because I am not there to judge but to witness. With all the other issues and challenges the community faces I can understand why the river pollution is pretty low on the radar.

It was time to say goodbye. This was really tough and emotional since I had been corresponding for over 2 years with Mariela and a couple of hours of visiting seemed so short especially since the children had hardly spoken. They did, however ask me when I was coming back. I told them as soon as I am able. Hugs all around and we parted ways, none of us looking back. One of the hardest goodbyes I have ever had to experience.

Granada, Nicaragua

After a long and tiring bus ride, and a very drawn out immigration affair at the border where I was left sitting for 2 hours,- thanks for the heads-up John M, you were right, I arrived in Granada, one of the oldest cities in Nicaragua. The history of this city is intense and includes a major burning of the city by an American who once took over the country. He eventually was hanged when he was stupid enough to come back and try it all over again. The violence continued over the years and right up to the early 80´s giving the world a sense that this is still a dangerous country. This is far from the truth. I have discovered some of the most wonderful people and some of the greatest natural country that I have seen in all my travels. I am staying at the Hotel Corona right on the Parque Central, (every city in the Spanish world seems to have a Parque Central. Horse and carts fight for street rights with Hummers and bicycles. The people are extremely poor and begging by all ages, especially children, is prevalent. I have made some good friends here already including John Oliver, a black Nicaraguan street artist from the east (English, Rastafarian and Carribean) coast. In many ways this is a country divided by it's inhospitable and difficult to access centre.

Took an all day tour yesterday with my new friend Megan, a jailhouse worker from San Francisco. The tour was a relaxed one with the tour vehicle being the personal car of one of the employees. It started with zip lining through the jungle tree tops at high speed on the side of a dormant volcano. Talk about heart stopping. If that wasn´t enough, we did tricks as well- hanging upside down with arms hanging down and flying like superman, screaming and yelling like an idiot. . There were 13 lines each ending in a platform high in the trees. The final line treated us to being flung up and down, almost bungee like by the guides, as we raced to the end. What a thrill. Someday I will grow up

Later that day I took a boat tour with my new friend Megan, and guides, Leo, Jose, and Maurice, thru the 300 odd mini-islands that form the coastline near Granada. We had the 14 passenger boat all to ourselves as we cruised amongst the tiny Islands, most the size of a a large house lot and usually owned and occupied by foreigners, a growing concern for Nicaraguans who are seeing their land being bought up by outsiders. After a couple of hours we stopped at Paradise Island, at least that's what I called it. It was crowded with Nica (Nicaraguan) families enjoying their Semana Santa (Easter week) holiday. Drank lots of Toña beer and ate whole fish with the head on and eyeballs staring at me, got over it and enjoyed it thoroughly and then went swimming in Lac Nicaragua, supposedly occupied by ocean sharks that have found their way into the lake from the Atlantic Ocean via the Rio San Juan in the south. Did not see any myself but did see numerous birds and some eager monkeys on, of course, Monkey Island. As it must, all good things come to an end, and I was dropped at my Hotel and another great meal with my new friend, on the Avenida des Comidas, Thai this time. The wind was up from the nearby Lake and the fabric street-side drapes were flapping and cracking dramatically as we ate. A fitting end to the day and our time together since we both head in opposite directions tomorrow.

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Good Friday, Liberia

Today is Good Friday and in good Christian fashion everything is closed. When I say everything I mean the entire town is closed. If there were doors at each end of town, they would be closed too. Went for a morning walk and ended up in the Good Friday parade, an event that is obviously as old as the country. Basically the whole town gathers on a side street close to the town centre and main church. Mannequins in the forms of Jesus (with a cross) and 3 others, who I expect are important but forget who they are, are held aloft on the shoulders of townsfolk. Jesus leads the procession but is first greeted by the other 3 mannequins who are then lowered in deference and then walked behind Jesus to form a processional. The route is lined by the 12 disciples ( I assume this since there are 12), all dressed in the robes of the time. Mary Magdalene then anoints Jesus´s feet with oil and then he is lowered and the cross removed and placed on the shoulders of another man who walks at the head of the procession. Then everyone starts to walk slowly towards the church, walking to the staccato beat of a snare drum that gears up into a full brass band crescendo before dying back again to the single snare. With the smoke and the noise and the moment I felt a religious moment come over me but I soon got back to the raison d´etre- shooting photos, and I got some good ones. The procession made its way into the main church where we parted ways, Jesus to the alter and Pablo to the pool!

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Los Chiles, the end of the earth

Los Chiles, or the end of the earth as it feels, is a little town close to the Nicaraguan border in central Costa Rica. You reach it by driving two hours thru pineapple and sugar cane plantations and nothing else. The town sits on the Rio Frio and it is the river gateway to San Carlos, Nicaragua. It´s a strange place and feels a little frontier-like. Lots of people just sitting around, waiting for something to happen it seems. Flat bottomed river boats arrive and depart depositing groups of people on shore while across the river, Howler Monkeys roar and swing amongst the tree tops. On arrival I tried to sign up for a river boat tour and almost ended up going to Nicaragua the wrong way, being that this is the terminus for the riverboat buses ferrying the people back and forth. There is a large policia presence here due to the immigration problem of poor Nicaraguans entering the country illegally. Apparantly 20% of Costa Rica´s population is made up of Nicaraguans, many of them illegals.

I am staying at the Rancho Tulipan Hotel, built by a dutch company who are involved in reforestation projects in the area planting and harvesting fast growing Teak and Acacia trees for export to China and India and other countries. They also employ a large percentage of the community for which the community seems quite thankful for. I learned all this by hanging out with Max and Paul, two dutch foresters who work on the plantations. We shared a lot of beer since tomorrow the Easter holiday starts and no more alcohol is allowed to be served until after the holiday. We talked about trees, environment and world affairs late into the night (10pm is late in Costa Rica and the bugs were out in force). We didn´t solve any of the worlds problems but we made good friends. I love these friendships made over beer.

I took the riverboat tour at 6 am the next morning (with a headache from the beer last night) and had the 30 passenger boat all to myself and my guide/driver and headed down river for a 3 hour excursion. The wildlife, especially the birdlife, is prolific and that is only what I can see. Numerous species are nocturnal or are hidden by the jungle vegetation. The skies are full of birds flitting and flying here and there, lizards crawl the banks and run across the water (the Jesus Christ lizard) and Caymans, small alligators, lurk lazily in the narrows and beneath tree trunks waiting for prey. The rain, which fell all night, continued unabated throughout the entire journey, sometimes drizzling and sometimes just dumping on us. Thank goodness the boat has

a roof a roof.

Coming around one bend in the river there was a large white thing in the mud on the river bank. I asked what it was- Cow the guide said. I thought that this was some kind of spanish word for a wild animal. It wasn´t. It was a cow and it was up to it´s neck in the soft riverbank mud. All that was showing was the top of it´s back and it´s head. It was in dire straits. A cow here is very valuable to the poor people so we had to get it out. My guide lassoed the horns and then tried to drag it out of the ooze with the boat. Fifteen minutes later and a lot of tugging it came free. I was sure we had killed it because the dragging would pull it´s head under the mud for long periods. We then dragged it alongside the boat (doing our best to drown it) to find a place for it to climb ashore. Our first effort resulted in it getting stuck again because it stopped to eat half way up the bank. Finally we found a place to land the dumb brute and after a lot of ass-smacking it made it to high ground. My reward for this rescue was a Fire Ant bite and a lot of mud all over me.

We continued up the river hoping that we would find no more cows in trouble. There were none. Tons of wildlife. The highlights of the trip included 3 of the 4 Costa Rican monkey species including White Faced Monkeys which were as curious about us as we were about them, a Wood Stork high in the tree tops, and a couple of Yellow Keeled Toucans which were surprising good flyers despite the fact that half there body weight was hanging from their faces, or so it seemed.

All good things have to come to an end and my guide soon announced that it was time to return to Los Chiles. Arriving back at the hotel I had a hotel breakfast $2 and some more really bad coffee. Then I headed back to Liberia. I took a back road through the Cano Negro Refuge. This was a dirt road, or what we would call a gravel road except that in Costa Rica they use boulders as gravel and the potholes would better be described as craters. Had fun though blasting along the road making big splashes ( it´s a guy thing). I must admit that after 2 hours of this I was dreaming of tarmac. Finally reached the end of the road and headed south on a real road. Got a little lost and, when asking for directions, was told to go back the way I came. I was sure it was staright ahead across the mountains so I went for it. As luck would have it I was right but it was another Costa Rican dirt road but I made it to Arenal and the highway home in good spirits.

Arenal Volcanoe

Today I hiked to the base of Arenal Volcano, the  most active volcano in the America's,  where I witnessed the rumbling and explosions of boulders erupting from the volcano leaving a lava dust trail as they rolled down the volcano's side. I never seen anything quite as impressive as this! I realized today that I have been on a volcano search since visiting Mt. St. Helens in 2005, and then the Colima volcano in Mexico later that same year. Well I saw a big one today, I was thrilled and now I want more.

The volcano tour was the second to last of the days adventures that I shared with my guide, Miguel and our driver Guilermo. It all started yesterday when I found my hotel room by luck after getting a tip from a German couple in a tourist information booth. The original plan was a nights stay in a little luxury before heading north to a much less tourist oriented habitat. That quickly changed after reading the 'tours available' binder at the hotel reception. I couldn't help myself, and since I wanted an intense experience in little time, I signed up for the all day excursion with a local tour company. They would pick me up at 7am the next day.

The next day I was up early, ready to roll. Then I sat at the reception waiting. 7:15 a tourismo van pulls in and a short stocky guy, not much younger than me, jumps out, looks around and says someone's name. Wasn't my name for sure. He hurries to the reception- a fast blathering of spanish and off he goes to the guest's room. Before long he's back, no guest and after another short discussion we all realize it is me they are looking for. Hop in the van, Miguel, the stocky guy starts talking a mile a minute doing introductions, there are others in the van including the driver, Guilermo, and off we go. First stop the hanging bridges, 13 bridges and trails through the forest canopy and forest. Miguel turned out to be a great guide, well informed and funny when necessary. We learned a lot about the canopy, jungle trees, and other growing things. I heard my first Howler Monkeys and Miguel found a Blue Jeans Black Leg Frog the size of my thumbnail with legs. 

We exited to Arenal Volcano. Most of the cloud had cleared and I saw it clearly for the first time. Wow is all I can say. Miguel bought out cold beer to celebrate. I like this guy!

Next stop- drop the other guests then grab a lunch back at my hotel, the Casa Luna, all part of the package deal. And it was a great lunch. Top of the menu stuff. Stuffed! I discovered the next tour would be to the La Fortuna waterfall, a short drive from my hotel. Arriving there I discovered that it was a short drive but then it was a serious long way down via stairs and coming back up was going to be a killer especially after a large lunch. Oh well, down we went. It was incredible. A high, thin spout falling from way above into a pool. The water was icy and fresh. The spray smell reminded me of childhood. Swim done, we hiked all the way back up which was not so bad after all.

Next was the late afternoon volcano hike. We picked up a family and headed off to the 'other' side of Arenal, the dangerous side. At the parking lot before starting up the trail, Miguel got all excited and told us to see if we could see anything on a tree. We couldn't see anything except this small yellow looking fungus type thing. The yellow thing was actually an extremely poisonous yellow coral snake, and yet it was tiny and looked harmless. Not so Miguel explained as he showed pictures of 21 more deadly snakes including the easily provoked Fer de Lance. The ladies in our group were well freaked by the time we started up the dense Bamboo Palm lined trail to the volcano. The trail ended at the bottom of an old lava flow but the spectacle above was pretty cool. Below us is a jungle and then Arenal Lake which flows into the distant horizon. Flocks of Yellow Keeled Toucan's were flying between the trees in the fading light.

Miguel rounded us up and led us back. Driving back to town we saw lightning bugs flicker all over the fields and memories of Quebec nights returned.

Last stop was at a thermal pool resort where the guys left me for a soak and dinner. The soak was in a series of cascading rock-lined hot-tubs- hottest at the top, this one had a small waterfall that poured boiling hot water onto my bald spot. Sure wasn't as relaxing as the brochure said. Looking around I noticed the hot springs had this huge fence with barbed wire the length of it. As well, loud erratic disco music was playing out of very old speakers making a beautiful place very weird indeed. Ignoring the noise I worked my way down the pools with a couple of Negra (beer) stops along the way. Hopped out for dinner feeling pretty good.

Dinner was part of the package and as I sat eating a delicious meal of Sea Bass I loud explosion went off just behind the restaurant. Nobody seemed bothered and there was no screaming so I forgot about it until my driver, Guilermo picked me up and asked if I had noticed all the armed security guards outside.  I hadn't noticed which is not unusual since there are plenty of guns in Costa Rica, even beer trucks have flak-vested armed guards. He went on to explain that there were two thermal pool operations side by side and the older operator was very angry at the new operation and was doing his best to destroy the business with loud music, homemade bombs (everyone does this here) and other tactics. There had even been a shooting recently. I thanked Guilermo for this info. 

I jumped into his van, now loaded up with his family, and they dropped me back at the Casa Luna. A great day indeed!

Liberia, Costa Rica

I am here and it is hot and humid and bug ridden. My first night I went to bed covered in bug welts. I guess that is what bug spray is for. Today is simply an unwind day, heal from uncomfortable plane seats day, and find a good coffee day. The day started with no power for the entire city, not even water would run out of the taps. Everything is good now. Wonderful fresh fruit for breakfast, and lukewarm coffee due to no power. I am already sweating and it is time for the pool and further R&R before starting my travels. 

First impressions- The heat and humidity, the demolition derby traffic, the weird money, 2,000 Colones for a beer, lizards everywhere, noseeums everywhere, weird birds, weird bugs, dodging huge ripe Mangoes dropping from sidewalk trees, dodging bird s*** from those same trees in the evening, the square and the church, and weak beer till I discovered Negra!

Mountain bikes and markets

My cousin, Michael, and I decided to rent a couple of mountain bikes as he had done so in the past and enjoyed the experience. Being an avid bicycle rider (in the distant past) I was liking the idea and pictured a leisurely ride along the coast checking out the sites and shooting some pics, after all that´s why I am here. Michael obviously had other ideas when he pointed to a distant mountain top almost obscured by haze and announced ¨that is where we are going- Cape Formentor¨. I first thought he had said Cape Tornmentor which seemed the perfect name. Now I am well known for my enthusiasm and somewhat foolhardiness but very soon, I seriously doubted my ability to mount the peak so to speak and I spoke my words of caution but they fell on deaf Welsh ears (thank goodness this quality is one welsh trait I was not born with). So what the heck and not being a quitter, we headed off.

The coast ride was nice despite Mike´s need to race ahead. I simply sauntered behind at my own pace evaluating where the pains were going to first appear. My legs I guessed would be the first to go, perhaps my heart considering my advancing age, no maybe my neck from being hunched over with my head held up by neck sinews. I got it all wrong as it was the slowly developing blisters on my back end that started to shout for mercy- the screaming would come later.

We made it to the next village and I stopped for a chocolate croissant- fuel you know. I offered Mike one and he showed me his small apple and smiled saying ¨this is all I need mate!¨ I wished I could be like him as I devoured the freshly baked, chocolate oozing delicacy. Fueled up we started up the hill that went forever. Again Mike was soon far ahead and I was in the highest gears the bike could achieve and still I continued to slow. It then came to me that I could walk faster than I was pedalling and it would save my derriere as well. So off I got and got into my Pembrookshire rhythm and was soon making good time up the hill. Apart from the fear of cars racing up behind me and the sweat that was making my entire body a walking bath I was doing all right plus I had the added bonus of being able to easily stop for photos. Other bicycle riders would occasionally pass me with friendly hola´s and the occasional bus would also pass me coating my wet body with oily exhaust but what the hell, I am on vacation here and enjoying it.

Miles and hours later, or so it seemed I made the first lookout where Mike was waiting. The plan was to go on to the next and he kept asking me if I really wanted to go. Like as if he really did not want to go because he had practically killed himself doing the first leg but needed me to say no, I am too tired, just to y¡take the pressure off him. I played along to make him feel better and we then hiked up to the lookout with the other couple of hundred refreshed looking tourists to the lookout over the sea and coast. Incredible views and an amazing coast line. What a treat!

The ride back down was at high speed, pedal free, hair in the wind breathlessness. I loved it and managed to break some land speed records doing it. Coasting back into the village we stopped for some fresh zumo- juice and cafe con leches. Then back on the road to home. I manged to develop a new style of riding on the way back, one that allowed me to avoid placing my blistered butt on the wood (or so it felt) seat. Back at the apartment it was time for cerveza´s, a swim, and some bragging to anybody that would listen. The best part was the fact that Michael still complains 3 days later of sore everythings, while I am pain free.

The market in the old town of Alcudia is a site to see. Two days a week the parking lots and city streets fill with stalls, hundreds in numbers. Everything from vegetables to the imported beach vendor useless things is on sale. Mixed in were artisans selling their wonderfully crafted wares. The streets and aisles between vendors is practically impassable at times and I am soon covered in free suntan oil from rubbing up against so many people. I have become a potpourri of oils and smells. Despite the variety and opportunity I buy nothing as I am overwhelmed by variety and people but it has been fun to experience.

The Alcudia beach is another story of crowds and colour. The best time to experience it is late in the day when all the tourists have left and the Spanish take over. It is also cooler and quieter. My daily ritual is a walk along the beach with frequent stops at the cafes for some liquid fortification then on again. Once I have gotten as far as I think necessary for the days efforts I turn back again seeking liquid refreshments to keep me liquidated. Sometimes a veer into the ocean and walk7swim out as far as I can go and then float on back with the added buoyancy of the salt water. Then I slowly swim acroos the beach coming into land at my starting point. Not the greatest adventure but sure feels good. Again I have to celebrate this good feeling with another cafe visit to rest from my vigours.

Walking back home from the beach or from the cafe later in the evenings I am continously struck by the colourful display of the tourist´s beach paraphernalia hung on the high rise hotel balconies and every other possible place to dry for the next day´s use. I take photos to illustrate the some what whimsical efect of this tourist art.

Majorca, Spain

I arrived in Palma on the Island of Majorca, without my luggage. It seems that the airline forgot to put it on the plane! This was kind of a drag especially after reading lots of lost luggage horror stories in the British tabloid press (is there any other kind of British press?). Already tired on arrival from the previous night attempting to sleep in the airport waiting areas built-for-discomfort chairs, it wasn´t long before my patience wore thin especially after an additional couple of hours searching and lining up for info about my lost pack. Finally my turn at the wicket and I was told it would arrive at 1am the next morning. Great! I took a taxi into Palma, got a hotel room and then lit out on the town.

The Island of Majorca is legally Spain but once here it feels more like a separate country. In many ways it is a seperate country with it´s Castillian roots and long, colourful history. After the poverty and insanity of Pakistan, the remoteness of the Welsh coast, and the the English lifestyle plainness, Palma, the largest city, was a visual and aural treat. Everywhere there was beauty, life, music, people, and art. Tons of art. One museum I went to had Picasso´s and Dali´s. Outdoor sculptures abound, many of them huge and many of them quite challenging for the artist within us to accept. Take for example a miniature version of an upside down, half-built house or a row of huge, alien-like, Russian doll figures made of steel. One open-aired building, almost a sculpture in itself, has been built strictly to house ongoing exhibitions of outdoor art.

Palma has a rich and long history well illustrated in it´s architecture. It´s central feature is a huge cathedral surrounded by lesser, but equally impressive heritage buildings. Fountains, waterways, and statues of ancient warriors and gods fill the architectural gaps. Outdoor cafes , and street buskers fill every inch of available sidewalk creating a daily street carnival of the likes that I have never seen before. Around every corner is a new show, different food, and a thousand faces from all corners of the globe. I spent a lot of time sitting in the shaded outdoor cafes just watching the world parade by.

The joy of all this was lost to me when I returned to the airport at 2am to locate my missing luggage. After a couple of hours arguing and lining up again I managed to get back into the luggage arrivals area and found my pack sitting lonely and abandoned on an empty carousel. Thank goodness it wasn´t stolen as airport security, despite all the hype, is notoriously lax when it comes to departing luggage. Then back to my hotel room to sleep for what was left of the night.

After a few hours sleep following the early morning airport adventure I continued to explore the alleyways and back streets of Palma before returning to the airport again, this time to meet up with cousins arriving from wales and travel with them to Alcudia on the far side of the Island. We learned very quickly that the law in Majorca is 4 to a taxi only (no such thing as a mini van- at least not at the airport), so it was 2 taxi´s and a very hefty price tag for the 5 of us to Alcudia.
Alcudia is a strange but beautiful place. Beautiful because it sits beside the Mediterranean Ocean, the warmest body of water I have ever experienced. Strange because it is just like being in England except hotter.The Spanish are hard to find due to the thousands of Brits that flood the Island every week or two. British pubs, British fish & chip shops, stores with British papers, and British tele shows flicker on hundreds of screens on the main drag. You can keep score of a big football game by the roar of the crowds and the proliferation of England football shirts out on the day of the game. Signs often read: English owned; fried toast available here; full English breakfast; Guinness on tap; and so on. The beaches are full of very white, or very red, British bodies occasionally mixed with the deep browns of the Spaniard. The smell of sun tan oil smeared on very burnt skin seems to be the national smell of the Island.

The weather in Alcudia is very hot during the day and humid at night. While here the rains came a couple of times and the traditional uniform of the tourist- football shirt, designer T shirts and baggy shorts, was quickly replaced by cheap raincoats- multi-hued plastic bags with tight little hoods. The humour of it could not escape me and I had a large smile on my face as I watched the procession of pastels paraded by me as ducking in and out of the tacky tourist shops featuring cheap wares from all over the world. The rainwear colours were actually quite beautiful on the beach where I watched some brave souls wading colourfully in the afternoon rain.

Pembrookeshire Walk

I arrived at Newgale midday ready to walk 50 miles up the famous Pembrookeshire Coast Walk, a 186 mile walk along the wild Welsh east coast from Cardigan to near Tenbigh. My pack had been packed and repacked several times with the goal of lowering my carry weight. This was critical due to the weight of my camera equipment and I wanted success not crushing defeat.

After being dropped off by my cousin I looked at the trail climbing dramatically from the beach. I immediately started to question the fun of this venture but doggedly started on my way. Fortunately, being a photographer, I had the advantage of stopping every few feet to shoot a photo of the unfolding drama below. In reality I needed to catch my breath. I finally made it over the first hill only to find a long walk back to a beach level and then another climb, even steeper. This became the rhythm of the day till I arrived at the port village of Solva, a picturesque collection of buildings and pubs at the head of the bay. I gratefully quaffed 2 pints of reverend James Real Ale and devoured a plate of prawns. Refreshed I headed out for the next leg to Caerfi Bay which I arrived at, exhausted and sweaty, early in the evening. I was lucky to find a campsite, and luckier still that it was located next to a pub- the Welsh are so civilized!

Next step in the program was to set up my newly purchased ultra light, ultra modern tent. Being a reasonably bright man who always refers to instructions I learned that the first step in setting up this tent was to set it up at home first to get familiar with the process. Obviously I did not due this and paid the price in time and comments from passing campers (on their way to the pub of course). A typical comment I heard was "you shoulda set it oop at ome afore ya tried to do it ere yu know!" After an hour, Success. In my opinion it would have helped if the instructions were a little more clear but what the heck. The good news is that I made it to the pub with time for a meal.

Caerfi Bay is only a mile into St Davids City, the smallest city in Britain and home to the magnificent St Davids Cathedral named for the patron saint of Wales. Arriving in town I decided to spend the day to take in the sights and do a bunch of photos. The real reason was aching muscles and feet from the previous day. I found a B&B for the night figuring one night in a tent was already suffering enough and it was time for some well deserved pampering. I soon found the best cappuccino in all of Wales and I was happy. I explored St Davids cathedral and walked the town taking lots of photos. Also found the Farmers Arms, the city's most popular watering hole. Life was now complete. I then walked a couple of miles out to St Justinians on the coast where I took a jet boat ride around Ramsey Island, a bird sanctuary. Saw amazing landscapes, some of the highest sea cliffs in all of Britain and deep sea caves going deep into the cliff walls. Returned at dusk for a long walk back into town and my soft bed.

The next day I explored and photographed the empty town in the early morning before a full English breakfast at the B&B. The breakfast room was full of grey haired couples who all seemed to know each other. It turns out that the men were all members of the famous Welsh Men's Choir in town for their annual performance in the cathedral famous for it's acoustics. They gave me a cd as I could not make the performance as they reminisced of their past visits to Victoria. I left, full and replenished and walked back to St Justinians to rejoin the coast walk. Five minutes up the first hill something made a funny twang in my right calf and I was soon hobbling along the rail with a badly pulled muscle. I crippled my way into the next campsite at Whitesands Beach and set up my tent there. I spent the day walking the damage out and limped back into St Davids for a revitalizing cappuccino and dinner. I also got lucky and got to hear the Welsh Men's Choir doing their rehearsal and now appreciate the famed accoustics of the cathedral. Then another walk, slowly back to Whitesands.

Day 3 I left the camp set up at Whitesands and walked slowly back along the coast between Whitesands and Caerfi Bay arriving in St Davids exhausted and hurting badly. Reverend James generously provided some excellent medicine and I walked back in the dark to Whitesands.

Day 4 I again left the tent set up and walked the wildest part of the coast from Whitesands to Trevine stopping only in at Porthgain Harbour to meet my old friend R James. This was an 11 mile hike up and down some of the most rugged hills. My arrival in Trevine was heralded by rain and major exhaustion. Every muscle ached and getting up from the pub table was equivalent to raising the dead. I now what it will feel like when I am 100 years old. Fortunately there was a bus back to the campsite and an oncoming gale that had emptied the site of all my neighbours apart from a very drunk group of youths who generously sang me to sleep.

I woke up on my final day to grey skies and slugs in my tent. Four buses and 8 hours later I completed the last 100 miles of my adventure back to Ammanford and the welcoming soft bed of my cousin's house.

Back to the sixties

England for me represents my past, my childhood. It seems so strange to hear the crack of a cricket bat and, in my mind, feel the weight of the hard ball as it hits the English hardwood. Same goes with smells as a particular tree fragrance takes me back to the parks of my British youth.

To continue the theme of memories I attended an outdoor festival in a soggy farmers field outside of Wickham in the south of England. The occasion, me bruva's 50th birthday, whose wifely gift was concert tickets to the headliner at tonight's performance- Jethro Tull. The show is under the big top of old travelling circus times, a massive tent held skyward with 4 columns and hundreds of guy wires stretched taut. It is huge and the over capacity crowd is dwarfed by the structure. The stage is close and brightly lit. Nearby is a long tent occupied by 20 mini-bars and long lineups, with cold beer (can you imagine) the beverage of choice. Standing next to the bars, in typical British organized fashion, are the porta potties with equally long lineups. A uniqueness that I have never seen before are the large 'Gents' portas that can occupy ten at a time, much like a revolving door- in one end, out the other, and back to the beer lineup for more.

The festival grounds are much like our own folk festivals, dozens of vendors hawking everything from JT T shirts to typical ex hippie paraphernalia and clothing. The track between the displays is churned mud and it wasn't long before the inevitable mud started to climb the inside of trouser legs. The rain had just ended and, in a god-like fashion, the bigtop was blessed with a huge rainbow ending above the highest point of the tent, the pot of gold waiting for us all inside.

Jethro Tull were phenomenal, Ian Anderson outstanding as he contorted, danced, and slithered across the stage making the finest music with his trademark flute. One old favourite after a another caused time to speed up as the performance raced to it's climatic end and a huge outcry for more. The crowds cacophony was quickly rewarded with the return of the band and an even more rousing rendition of Aqualung. Following the song, Jethro Tull exited with hands held skyward in Churcillish Victory signs and the crowd exited ever so Britishly into the nights darkness. A great evening for all, and the happiest of all was me Bruva.

Streets of Rawalpindi

I am back in the saddle again after a week of home rest in the Islamabad Diplomatic Compound, recovering from what I discovered to be an intestinal infection, likely brought on by lunch in Mansehra, where I ate some (freshly washed!!!- should have known better) tomatoes. After 6 days of suffering and hardly eating, I was invited to one of my new friends, Dr Shaukat Malek, an eminent cardiologist, for a going over. After a quick visit to his house on a Sunday (try that in Canada) I left with a prescription and a recommended diet (all on the same piece of paper). I went to the Chemist's, had the prescription filled in a matter of minutes and was again happily on my way. One day later- Cured! Unfortunately my remaining days, since I had shortened my trip due to the 'troubles' including a suicide bomber close to our compound area, had been sucked up and all I had was one day left to take advantage of Shaukat's, and another new friend's, Syed Kazi- President of the Photographic Society of Pakistan, offer of a tour of neighbouring Rawalpindi.

Rawalpindi, or Pindi as it is known here, is the big sister city of neighbouring Islamabad. Where Islamambad has only been around since the 1960's, Pindi has been there a lot longer. A city of 4 million+ inhabitants it can be best described as bedlam spread. Intense traffic, noise, pollution, and a potpouri of smells all blend together in a urban whirling dervish except without direction.

Syed and I hit the streets just as the temperature was hitting 40 degrees, not too hot yet according to some residents. We were in the market area of the city, famous throughout Pakistan for the variety and sheer amount of saleable goods including one section, called the smugglers area where items, that had 'fallen of f the back of trucks' was openly displayed and sold. You can get anything you want...... and so on.

We wandered the market streets and back alleyways for a couple of hours shooting stalls, colours, people, beggars, anything and everything, If my camera had a barrel it would be hot to touch after a couple of hours of amazing images,. Every direction I turned their was image magic, all made better by the friendliness if the people. 'where you from', take my picture', 'how are you', and hello were the introductions of welcome as business people and residents welcomed me into their midst.

The back streets, better described as alleyways, are much like the alleyways of Marrakesh, but dirtier, rougher, and smellier as raw sewage runs in narrow culverts on each side of the elevated sidewalk. Power wires run everywhere, political posters cover the walls and the remnants of old campaigns, paint jobs are random and often incomplete as the if the paint ran out and no more was to be had. Motorcycles, donkeys, all manners of beggars, shopkeepers, and all the other myriad of humanity that is needed to create a city coursed up and down the streets like ants going to , and retuning from, their daily errands. One of my favourite memories, and one that I will likely propose to my city council on my return to Vancouver Island, is Pindi's imaginative way of resolving badly parked cars- they simply pick them up with a forklift and head off to a parking lot where the car can be reclaimed for a price. What a sight to witness, a car, 15 feet in the air, travelling along and above the heads of hardly interested shoppers. Such is life in the Pindi mall.

I was not a rare site in the streets, just a long not-seen sight, as few tourists visit Pindi anymore when compared to several days ago when the political situation was more stable and foreigners need not fear for their lives. In reality in all my time here I have never feared for my life. In fact I have felt more welcomed here than some of my travels around my own country. I am hoping that one day Pakistan's troubles will once again be over so that the rest of the world can experience the incredible welcoming warmth that I have experienced here. Alas, many Pakistanis openly do not see better days in the future.

The tour ended at the Pindi's Pearl Continental Hotel's Chinese restaurant where Syed and dined on a most amazing authentic Chinese meal, including my very personal experience with an unnoticed hot pepper (should do wonders for the tummy at risk and my 8 hour flight tomorrow), and several return visits to the vastly colourful and delectable dessert bar.

I will be back and have already stated planning for my next trip to visit again all my new and old friends that I have made here.

Mansehra for lunch

I left at 8:30 this morning fully packed for 10 days in the North West Frontier Province (NWFP). The plan was to visit the 11 sponsored children and then visit the earthquake restoration efforts being undertaken by Plan Pakistan. The 3 hour drive north was uneventful when one considers the near misses and averted head on collisions which are a daily part of Pakistani life on the roads. Driving to Mansehra is not for novices, it requires great skill while handling the wheel and keeping the other on the car horn. It gets even more challenging when the cell phone rings, and is answered, usually with the hand operating the steering wheel.

Most roads in northern Pakistan are 2 lane affairs with a reasonable curb lane on each side for pedestrians, carts, dogs, bicycles, and even a few chickens. While in North America this road style works well and the rules are often respected, in Pakistan, where traffic rules seem not to exist, the 2 lane/2 direction road often becomes a 4 lane/1 direction highway. It is not rare to come around a blind corner and experience 2 to 3 lanes of horn-blaring traffic coming straight at you. As you can see by the fact that I am writing today, most survive this experience and arrive home safely but accidents are common and usual quite disastrous.

I am fortunate that most of my transportation is in air conditioned vehicles or aircon as it is called here. Those, that are less privileged, count on open door aircon where passengers, and sometimes the driver, drive with their car doors swinging open and hang their bodies outside of the vehicle for maximum cooling effect.

We arrive at the Plan office in Mansehra unscathed and I receive a warm welcome from some of my old friends from last year's visit. I am then ushered into the Director's office who informs me that the political situation has deteriorated significantly in the region now that some of the children, who were killed in the recent Red Mosque attack, are being returned to their villages for burial. I am told that most Plan personnel have left the area temporarily until the situation calms down and that those staying are keeping their heads down by not leaving the premises and by travelling in taxis rather than by Plan vehicle when making necessary journeys. The end result of this conversation was that I had to return to Islamabad and that I would not be meeting the sponsored children nor would I be travelling into the villages to see the reconstruction efforts. But, all was not lost, as I would have lunch first.

The Plan Mansehra office is very fortunate to have an in-house cook who makes the most delicious meals and lunch was no exception. I chowed down with the Director until stuffed. Lunch was followed by a long discussion on Pakistan affairs particularly affairs of the NWFP and the ongoing violence in the region. It was an eye-opening discussion and I learned much about political affairs from the perspective of those living in the region. These perspectives are vastly different, and sometimes opposite to those opinions that we read daily in our newspapers and it was enlightening to hear these views.

I also learned about Plan's activities in the area, especially in regards to construction of new schools to replace the approximately 2,000 schools that were destroyed in the earthquake. I was very pleased to learn that Canada is at the forefront of the school rebuilding with the involvement of CIDA, the head of which in Pakistan, I recently had dinner with. The new schools, while slow in deployment due to design issues, are now full speed ahead and should soon improve the educational resources for children, especially for girls who traditionally have limited access to school.

Lunch and conversations over, I said goodbye to my hosts and returned to Islamabad with my Plan driver.

Charlie Colony, Islamabad

Today was my first sponsored child visit with my hosts, Plan Pakistan. After an orientation session, and obligatory tea, at the Plan offices in Pakistan where I learned that there are over 20,000 children sponsored by Plan in Pakistan, we left for Charlie Colony, a Christian slum in Islamabad.

Arriving in the slum with an entourage of Plan workers we soon gathered a small crowd of curious people. They followed us everywhere we went, losing a few and gaining more. The most obvious observation on my arrival was that there are a lot of children and very little to do, especially considering that it is a school holiday and almost every parent has left to work in their low status jobs. It is explained to me that, if you are from the slums, then good paying jobs are not available for you. Most work in sanitation or household worker jobs. The other reason for the large numbers of children is the birth rate, an average of 6 children per family. Birth control is rarely an option here despite the efforts of aid workers.

I learned, while walking to meet the sponsored child, Adeela, that Plan works with several other on the ground aid organizations in the slum who provide front line services to the people. Their focus is on education, health & nutrition, and developing micro financing to support small entrepreneurial enterprises. One such enterprise was a stall serving hot vegetarian meals, primarily to children, who need good nutrition the most. I was served a plate while a large crowd looked on. It was delicious and I expressed my approval to the owners delight. I was also introduced to his wife who, apparently, was the brains behind the scheme and held the purse strings. You know what they say- that behind every good man....

We also stopped at one of the small Christian churches that could be found throughout the slum to meet several of the front line workers. It was stiflingly hot in the small church and I sweated profusely while listening to the introductions and explanations of the work that they were doing. Before leaving they picked up some drums and other musical instruments and did a song for me. Again the simpleness and kindness of these small gestures struck me deeply and reminded me why I have chosen these endeavours for my travels.

After walking through several dirt covered alleyways we arrived at the home of Khaleed, the father of Adeela. He was home because he had lost a leg in an accident and could not work. His wife was out at work and Adeela and her brother were there looking out for him. I was an honoured guest in their 2 room home. I was given a seat in the bedroom, about 8x8 in size, where Adeela's father was reclining on the bed and we had a chat about Adeela and her life. She is 11 years old and in grade 4. She is very striking with very intelligent eyes. Overcoming her initial embarrassment of having such guests she quickly relaxed and told some of her story with the help of an interpreter. She hopes to be a teacher of children one day. We chatted a while longer and then went outside for photos. After taking some photos she presented me with some gifts of drawings that she made for me to give to her Cowichan sponsors.

We left, back the way we came, stopping to see a Plan sponsored water pump providing fresh water to the community; a street side barber giving a local man a shave- a risky business considering the sharpness of the razor and the proliferation of Hepatitis B on the community; another micro financed business- a vegetable stand that had no vegetables this day, and a portable Ferris wheel that children could ride for 2 rupees (4 cents) a go.

After long goodbyes, we left the sights, sounds, and children of Charlie Colony.

Dateline Islamabad, Pakistan

Arriving at the Islamabad international airport after a long sleepless night I was herded into the arrivals area. Various signs directed me and my horde into the appropriate queues as per our nationality, citizenship, and gender. I was classified a foreigner and lined up accordingly. The air was sticky with humidity and soon soaked my clothing as I did the slow shuffle forward. After half an hour and an advancement of about 10 inches I realized that the signs meant nothing and I jumped ship and lined up in the Pakistani citizens column. This speeded matters up somewhat and a half hour later I was at the luggage carousel waiting the arrival of my gear. Half an hour more- no luggage!. It turns out that I had been misdirected to the wrong carousel. Moved to another one, found my bags and exited into the bedlam of the Islamabad arrivals area. Picture this- walking through the exit doors one is faced with a sea of expectant faces, 200 across and 10 deep, all wearing similar clothes and all gesticulating loudly. I heard my name above the din and was quickly whisked away by my Islamabad hosts, Michael and his son James.

Leaving the airport parking lot I was soon drinking in the sights and sounds of Pakistan. There seems to be no rules in Pakistan, especially on the roads. If it has wheels it is allowed to roll and, if it has the space, it is filled to capacity. We were quickly engulfed in a mass of moving vehicles, small scooters, smoke belching buses, vastly overloaded 'jingle' trucks, and pedestrians weaving through and dodging the motorized madness. The roadsides were full of people, mostly men squatting as is the fashion here, seemingly waiting for something that might never happen nor appear. Every couple of hundred feet stands a soldier or a police officer armed with whatever weapon was available (I have told that they have to provide for their own weapon and uniform besides being paid almost nothing).

A couple of hours after landing I was lounging beside a pool at the Canadabad Club, inside the heavily guarded international embassy's compound walls, drinking an ice cold imported beer surrounded by the sounds of an artificial waterfall cascading behind me. The incongruency of the situation almost overwhelmed me as James told me the story of a recent party at the 'club' where the guests were entertained with the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions when government forces attacked the Red Mosque and it's determined defenders.

James and I left the compound later in the afternoon to pick up his dad's car which was having some bodywork done. We were dropped off by embassy vehicle at what I call 'bodywork avenue', a street lined with bodywork stalls. Stalls not shops since all the work was done on the street and the stalls seemed to be for tea and social gatherings only. The smell of paint hung in the air as workers hammered, sanded, and painted their ongoing projects. Meanwhile others stripped vehicles for every part that can re reused when called upon. 5,000 rupees later ($100)and we were on the road back to the diplomatic compound.

Pakistan is a very troubled country at the present time, especially since the destruction of the nearby Red Mosque. The most recent development was the President's recent ruling to re-instalment an important official. As we drove near the presidential compound crowds were gathering to celebrate the news. Police and the army were also gathering in large numbers to counter any demonstrations that might turn violent. A strange welcome to a person arriving from a country where demonstrations are quite often polite affairs.

We got through the gathering crowds safely and made it back to the compound without difficulty. Later we had a formal sit down dinner with other embassy folks, dining on Alberta beef, BC smoked salmon, and drinking Moosehead beer. Outside monsoon rains were falling and the sky was lit by flash lightning that lasted all night. Falling asleep as sat I (intelligently) decided to hit the sack. I tried to read for a while but kept dropping the book on my face until I gave up and slept the sleep of the dead.

Wales on another cloudy day

The sun came out at 8:13 this morning (and then left, again, for the rest of the day) just as I started my bowl of porridge, organic I might add. Hot and steaming, delivered to the table by my unsmiling aunt with an "all right?", the welsh 'hello'. I am staying at my aunt and uncle's house, the house they have lived in for over 40 years and raised 4 children in. My work this week is to meet all the relatives, a near impossible task considering that the Fletcher/Griffiths clan has been in the area since Celt became a feared word, and a daunting task considering that my father had 11 siblings and many of them since have also had many children. Ten of the original 12 have already left this earth leaving stories and legends in their wake. Take for example Gil & Jeryl, my uncle and aunt, and my hosts, they have spawned 4 who in turn have spawned 19 and they in turn are now delivering more fresh faced Fletcher's on a regular basis. Complicating matters further are divorces, adoptions, and so on. Many have just simply disappeared. It is an almost impossible task. One cousin, Denise, who matches me in age, and was my playmate during childhood visits, has been working on the family history for most of her life. She has now traced the Griffiths side back to the 1700's. Wouldn't you know it that some of the departed have been politicians and activists. One, James Griffiths, became a very famous British politician. His brother a well known poet. Another, Thomas Fletcher, was a local councillor. How life repeats itself!

Rhydaman, or Ammanford in Welsh, is a small town of 20,000, not unlike Cowichan in many ways. It is set in a beautiful valley surrounded by farm and pasture patchwork hills (they call them mountains here) and dotted with remnants of the coal mining past. My grandfather worked the mines here and likely most of the males before him did likewise.

Unfortunately, much of the beer here is warm and lacking in any pizazz. One brand is called Brains, go figure eh! I buy my beer in the bottle out of the little fridge that most pub's have for the itinerant traveller. I am often viewed with disdain when I ask "what's cold" and with even greater disdain when I ask for the German beer. This all passes quickly when I am asked where I am from, and I announce, Canada. Not surprisingly, I have been asked if I know so and so from Toronto. I lie and say I do, to the great merriment from those that know better. The welsh are fun loving, tough people that love a good joke. Their humour is most refreshing and easy to participate in much like our First Nation neighbours in Cowichan.

I leave Wales for Pakistan this Thursday. I am excited about visiting Pakistan again and have been asked to do a slide show for the Islamabad Camera Club a day or so after my arrival. I am looking forward to this and especially to Monday when I travel back to Mansehra to be reunited with my friends from last year. So far visits have been arranged for 9 of the 12 Cowichan sponsored children and I am hoping that I will meet all 12. I will be staying at the Plan guest house just outside of Mansehra. My hopes of travelling up the Karakoram Highway may not materialize as my Pakistan contact has not returned my emails for the last few weeks. It will be difficult to justify 6 weeks in Mansehra considering that most sponsors visit their children just for one day and then they are gone. It will be interesting what the results of this potential change in plan might result in. Also the 'troubles' are resulting in a lot of areas being closed to travellers and the embassy staff are sure to give me dire warnings about even venturing from the safety of their compound where I will be staying for a few days with my friend, the Canadian Trade Commissioner to Pakistan.

I will try to keep the blog up to date and post photos if I can find a way to do it but computers are slow here and caterpillar-like in Pakistan. I will do my best. If I do disappear for a while, it is simply due to lack of access.

Well, enough for today. Off for a latte, Welsh style (translation- awful!)

Back In Canada

Arrived back in Canada and have had no time for jet lag but lots of time for reminiscences of a wonderful adventure. I would return to Morocco at the drop of a dime or 1 Durham. What an amazing country- a living, thriving oxymoron, happening right in front of your eyes.

The strongest memories: The hustle, bustle, and cacophony of thousands of people in the square every night; The asking of money for any service, including a simple hello; The Moroccan handover where you suddenly get a guide and he hands you off to another guy and eventually (and always) you end up in a carpet store; The Moroccan massage, a combination of deep (really deep) muscle manipulation and forced stretching- it hurts but I always wanted more; The scotch girls finding the bootlegger and scotch Bob having an uncomfortable camel ride rather than give up his box of beer carefully balanced in the saddle in front of him; Being the oldest guy on the tour bus- it made me feel wise; The constant haggling to make any purchase and then finding out afterwards that I still paid far more than I needed to; Getting misplaced (lost) in the narrow streets of the Marrakesh Medina; Learning how to twist my body into weird configurations to avoid having my kidneys forcibly removed by the handlebars of passing motor scooters; Seeing grandma flying through the narrow alleyways perched on a scooter's luggage carrier; Seeing grandma driving a scooter at breakneck speeds thru the narrow streets of the Medina; My $28 a night, 3 bedroom apartment in the windy city of Essaouira where the sand continuously blew in the open skylight; My toothpaste tasting like sand after leaving Essaouira; Laying on the top of a sand dune late at night watching shooting stars; Dancing my butt off to Arabic techno; Laying on my rooftop terrace burning the bridge of my nose; Looking over the city from my hotel's rooftop terrace, beside me is a beautiful tiled terrace with umbrella's and fancy mosaic furniture, next to it is a roof top dwelling goat.

And the people- colourful, energetic, creative, lively, beautiful, and friendly. Like I said, I would return on the drop of a Durham

Essaouira

The guide book said the Atlantic Coast town of Essaouira has laid claim to being the windiest city in Africa. They were right! I have just returned to Marrakech from Essaouira after having spent 4 days, mostly within the walls of the old city. The old city, which dates back to the 16th century is a small town enclosed by daunting fortifications. The town essentially runs on tourism and fishing. The fish port is a marvel in itself with about 20 stalls offering you your pick from a large variety of fresh from the sea delights. Each stall has a greeter (to put it mildly) doing his absolute best to entice you to eat at his stall. It is fish bedlam to say the least. Once enticed you pick your selection and it is cooked on the spot for you.

Tourism in the town is centred in within the city walls. Some tourists venture beyond the walls but few do as I witnessed when wandering about the newer section of town. Most tourists keep to the main streets of old town but the gem of the city, or better still, the heart of the city exists in the tiny alleyways that honeycomb the town. Many connect with other streets but one can get 'misplaced' every once in a while. No matter how misplaced you get you will always eventually find your way out, unlike the old city of Marrakech where there are legends of tourists never returning from their explorations.

The main streets are the shopping centres of the town. When busy you can hardly move. At the same time the noise level of hawkers, loud music, motorscooter buzzing,
and the general din associated with large gatherings of passionate people increases as the crowd swells. Like at Alice's estaurant, you can get anything you want. Sheep heads on planks, chickens killed and plucked while you wait- guaranteed fresh the sign says, spices ground in front of you, and everything else from rubbermaid to diapers.

The food here is similar to everywhere else- Tajines, CousCouis, or Brochettes. Most restaurants also have a complete italian menu of Pizza and other dishes. Moroccan fare tends to taste a little bland surprisingly since one would expect spicy food. Even the italian food tends to be bland, almost like Chef Boyardi with some curry throw in. They will spice things up for you but beware as the cooks often do not know their limits. It turns out that Moroccan salads and vegeterian dishes are really delicious and affordable.

Finding accomodation in Essaouira is done by reserving ahead,if you are smart, or wait till you arrive there and search, which typically, I did. The search ended as son as it began. I was picked up by one of the 'accomodation opportunists' who frequent bus arrivals. Despite the usual catastophic results of being led around by one of these characters, I had heard that sometimes they turn out all right. Luckily my guide, Jamel, was good and I was soon parked in a 3 bedroom apartment. A little seedy and dusty from the unglassed skylight, it was still pretty cool in a hippie kind of way. The best of all was the price- 200D a night which is 28 dollars, a little pricy considering my Marrakech digs that were costing me half that. As with all no-star accomodations this had it's drawbacks in addition to the sand blowing in the skylight - I did mention the Windy City tag. The hot water was an adventure in pyrotehnics, My neighbour often cooked with his porcelain bbq just on the steps outside my door, and Jamel keeps coming back with excuses to ask for some extra money. People do this a lot here- ask you for money for no real reason at all except that you will be helping their families.

The photography here has been incredible. Every new street offers something interesting. The colours, the architecture, the clothing, the stores, the life bursting around me all make up a kodak mosaic that I am feasting on. Talking about feasting it is time for me to do so as feasting is a good excuse to hunt down a beer. And in this town it is a hard hunt to find an affordable pint