Morocco: Part I (ft. The Incident)

0330hrs, December 31st, 2008
Our cab arrives to take Tim, Kate, Anna (Tim's younger sister), Jacqui (Kate's younger sister), M-A and I to the airport. The sun is still asleep. The temperature is below zero. The moon didn't show-up to work. Who can blame it? The fog is thick. We can barely see 20 meters ahead of the car. Our driver obviously possesses some form of bat-like sonar system - he sits on 60mph most of the way. I would be nervous if he was relying on vision like the rest of us.

Perhaps its the amount of traveling we've done lately, or maybe the size of our group, but we realize during the flight that we're suffering from an acute case of traveler's-complacency. Armed with the combined knowledge of the six of us - we would be lucky to spell 'Morocco'. In our defense, we are carrying a Lonely Planet. Shame it is a Europe Lonely Planet, and not for the continent we are actually traveling to.

The few preconceptions we do possess are gone soon after landing in Marrakesh. The airport is, umm, ... nice. And modern. And organized. I thought this was Africa? As six ridiculously uninformed tourists exiting the airport with pockets full of large-denomination dirhams, we expect to be overwhelmed with offers of transportation. In fact, we have to walk a hundred meters to where the taxi-drivers are lounging on their vehicles. One of the drivers approaches us, and Kate does the talking. He very actively not listens. At least not to Kate. He makes it clear that to be heard, our words are going to have to come from someone in possession of a Y-chromosome. So the girls pull the strings and the boys mouths move. We agree on a price. We walk towards a nearby mini-bus. He approaches a regular taxi.
Us: "Ummm"
Driver: "What? It is a six-seater?"
Us: "Ahh, even if it was a six-seater, six of us plus one of you equals seven. And that is a five-seater."
Driver grumbles something along the lines of, 'I have already put your bags in the back. I'm driving off now.'

We cram in. M-A and I in the front, the other four in the back. Now this is more like Africa!

So, we arrive at a bus station. A local gentleman appoints himself as what I would describe as our travel agent. Here's how it works: We agree on a price and mode of transportation with him; He runs off and arranges it for presumably substantially less; He keeps the difference. Fair enough.

Improbably, we manage to meet up with Harrow (Tim Harrison). Eventually, after our helpful travel agent had run every play he knew on us ([in Maxwell Smart voice]: ahh, the old agree-on-a-price-for-a mini-bus-that-conveniently-disappears-leaving-only-one-in-all-of-Marrakesh-which- of-course-wants-a much-higher-price trick hey?), we agree to hire two taxis for the journey to Agadir. I'm pretty confident we bargained him down from roll-around-on-the-ground-laughing-overpriced to only cynical-under-breath-chuckle-overpriced.

The drive to Agadir:
Crawling through congestion to escape Marrakesh. Necks craning, trying to keep an eye on the other car. Not wanting to get separated. View impaired by shade-cover completely obscuring rear-window. Driver obviously doesn't care to see what he's left behind. We dodge through pedestrians, bicycles and donkeys. Our cars are banged-up Mercedes from the 80's. No seat-belts. Civilization becomes less dense until we aren't seeing buildings for many kilometers at a time. We stop at a rest-stop. Squat-style toilets. Again I'm grateful for that Y-chromosome. The only food we're confident to order is a round of naan breads. Our drivers order complete meals. We sit and wait. Once back on the road, we quickly enter the Atlas Mountains. [Without hyperbole:] We traverse the mountains as fast as is humanly possible in these vehicles. The car containing Anna, Harro, M-A and myself leads. While our cab driver in London earlier in the morning may have possessed bat-like sonar, this one should have his own Marvel comic. His super-power is overtaking on blind-corners with a cliff one on side and only one hand on the wheel while listening to strangely hypnotic Arabic music and appearing half-asleep. I dub him - Suicidal Cab Man. But, we do arrive at the Residence InTouriste (our hotel) in Agadir. And pants can always be cleaned. Our cab drivers appear to be arrested by the police shortly after we pay and exit the vehicles. Presumably for attempted murder.

We're alerted to the fact we've arrived at the correct hotel by a slightly intoxicated man wearing Moroccan robes, yelling at us from a third floor balcony. We reply "Good-day to you too, Chris".


Approx 03:30am, January 1st, 2009: The incident
The tick of the clock from 2008 to 2009 also marked 42 consecutive waking hours for me (Excluding some brief plane-sleep - commonly acknowledged to be a distant relative of actual sleep). Soon after the fireworks launched from Agadir beach have faded from the sky, sleep arrives with a vengeance, claiming my fellow early risers and I.



Chris, Sean and Krystal (works with Chris) had arrived in Agadir the previous day. One day in Morocco was apparently enough to overwhelm them with home-sickness. The three of them, joined also by Harro, having flown over a thousand kilometers from the English pub in which they live, welcomed '09 in a venue named: 'The English Pub'.

BANG BANG BANG.
"Richie. Open the door." Sean's voice.
BANG BANG BANG.
Anna is sharing the room with M-A and I. She comes into our room. Apparently M-A is awake too, both having been woken some minutes ago by the pounding at the door. Both lighter sleepers than I (an exclusive group which can also claim the long-term comatose as members). They advise me not to open the door. A neat summation of the next 24 hours would be: I should have listened. But even with my judgement clouded by sleep, I'm not stupid; I'm only going to open the door wide-enough to proffer some words of wisdom, before closing it firmly.

[Michael slightly opens door]
Hmm. Chris is holding a fire-extinguisher canister; This cannot be good.
[Michael slams door closed]
SLAM.
Hmmm. I have just closed door on the nozzle, which is pointing into our room.
Hmmmmm. That is definitely not what I expected to come out of it. What is that?
[A thick, blue cloud fills the room]
[Michael, blinded and choking, runs blindly in various directions]

Okay. So we all learn an interesting lesson; It turns out not all fire-extinguishers contain water. I believe this particular species contains a dry-chemical sodium-bicarbonate agent. Which in a few seconds, completely coats our entire room. Even the main bedroom, in which M-A and Anna have barricaded themselves, is not spared. The pale-blue powder goes under the door, and attaches itself to items on the opposite side of the room. Anna's backpack was in the lounge, and regrettably, open. It now contains equals parts fire-retardant and clothes. Chris and Sean, having run away giggling, are unaware of the disaster-zone on the other side of the door. Anna, M-A and I are... angry. The only positive is that the chances of a fire in our hotel room tonight have been dramatically reduced.



1000hrs, January 1st, 2009: The aftermath
Unfortunately it wasn't a dream. It also wasn't exaggerated by our alcohol-affected brains. If anything, the results are more confronting by the light of day. And I'm still angry.




BANG BANG BANG.
This time its my turn.
"Wake up Crichton!"
I sense Chris feels I'm being dramatic when I describe our room as uninhabitable. After taking him on a guided tour of his handiwork, I'm confident he agrees with my assessment.

I demand that he deal with it. Cue the performance:
"There was an...incident last night, and a fire-extinguisher was used" Chris explains to reception, looking as innocent as one can when just-woken, still-drunk, and dusted with blue fire-retardant.
"Would it be possible for us to have a new room?" He requests.

Amazingly, and with no further questions, we are shifted to a new room. I have an uneasy feeling this won't be the last we hear of 'the incident'.

So, Chris goes back to bed. Tim, Kate, Anna, Jacqui, M-A and I head into Agadir for some lunch. We have our first of what will many tagines.

After lunch, as the others are going shopping, I head back to the hotel to meet Sean and head for the beach, and hopefully some surf.

However, when I attempt to get into my (new) room, my card won't unlock the door. These readers are always flaky. A cleaner walking past comes to my assistance with her master key. I put on board-shorts for the first time in many months and meet Sean in his room. We tuck the boards under our arms and go downstairs. The last thing I have to do is to leave my card at reception for when the girls return.

"Hi. Is it okay if I leave this key with you for my friends to pick up?" I ask reception.

"Of course. What is your room number?"

"415." I reply.

"Did you just go into that room?" She asks with a puzzled expression.

"Yeah."

"This key opened the door?" Now appearing more puzzled.

I realize that it was no accident my card couldn't unlock the door.

"No. Actually a cleaner let me in."

"I see. Your room has been locked. You need to read this and call the number at the bottom. It is from your travel agent." Handing me a piece of paper.

Travel agent? I didn't even know we had a travel agent? I read the note. It is from someone named Sayid, who is apparently a representative for a company I have never heard of. It seems Sayid had been called to the hotel while we were out, and was accompanied by the police. The note also says the damage will have to be paid for.

None of this is surprising to me. What would have been surprising was if the hotel wasn't angry and demanding compensation. Chris has already said he is willing to pay damages. I just want to go to the beach.

I call Sayid. He seems like a nice guy, but says nothing that wasn't in the note. I still can't work out exactly what his role in this drama is.

The receptionist, seeing I have finished on the call, returns to me. I explain that I have spoken to Sayid, we're happy to pay for damages, and I'll see her later.

"No. You must speak to the hotel manager first."

I don't see why? Just append the damage to our bill and be done with it. But what can I do? I wait for the manager. When he eventually appears, we walk a conversational path that is beginning to feel well-worn. Yes, a fire-extinguisher was used in our room. I'm very sorry. Well, actually it wasn't me. Yes, we are happy to pay for the damages. By the way, how much are the damages?

The more I repeat that last question without receiving an answer, the more nervous I become. But how much could it possibly be? £100 for refilling the extinguisher. £200 for cleaning. Surely worst-case scenario, £500?

"Nineteen thousand dirhams."

I do the 10:1 conversion we have been using. I do it again to be sure: 19000/10 = 1900. Oh shit.

"Wow. That's a little higher than I was expecting." As if my face hadn't already said it.

"You will pay or I will call the police." The manager is definitely not friendly. And I'm beginning to suspect I'm not going to the beach today.

I think of Chris sleeping upstairs. I suspect he doesn't have £1900 on him. I'm still calm though. It's a lot of money, but I know I can cover it. It could be worse. Plus, all prices seem to be up for negotiation in this country. Maybe I can barter?

"Can I see a breakdown of the costs?" I ask.

The manager disappears, then returns with a printed invoice.

[Camera 2. Close-up on Michael.]
[Fade out all sound. Silence.]
[Out-of-focus background spins.]
[Overhead camera. Zoom to paper in Michael's hand.]

Total: Nine-zero-zero-zero-zero.

English is at least second, if not third or fourth in the manager's repertoire of languages. And his pronunciation of the word 'nineteen' is virtually indistinguishable from his 'ninety'. That, or my brain rejected 90 as not valid for the context, and jumped to the next plausible value.

90000. 90000 /10 = 9000. 9000 pounds. 9000 pounds!

The invoice is in French, but I can comprehend some of the items. They range from completely expected, to take-the-stupid-scared-tourists-for-all-they've-got:

• Cleaning (obvious)


• Refilling extinguisher (fair enough)


• Room unavailable for 18 days


• Replacing air-conditioning


• Refurnishing the room. Inc, new lounges, beds, etc


• Replacing all appliances. TV, refrigerator, cooker (outrageous)


• Painting the room (Ok, this is one of those hidden-camera shows right?)

The manager is reluctant to let me leave the foyer. But I really need to talk to Chris. After much convincing, he accepts that I probably couldn't escape with only board-shorts and a surfboard. My passport and wallet are both locked in the room. What am I going to do? Paddle back to the UK?

BANG BANG BANG.
I wake Chris for the second time today. I hand him the invoice.

[Camera 3. Close-up on Chris.]
[Fade out all sound. Silence.]
[Out-of-focus background spins.]

1700hrs, January 1st, 2009: The conference.
Chris, Sean, Harrow, Krystal and I are seated around a table in the foyer. Sayid has been to see us. As best I can now figure: We book the hotel through LastMinute.com, who then make the reservation via another company, which is who Sayid is representing. He is proving to be useful, not least because he speaks all three languages involved (French, Arabic, and English). With his help, the hotel have dropped their asking price to 72000 dirhams. I have told Chris that I will loan him the money, if he chooses to pay it. Ultimately, the decision is his. We have spent hours talking amongst ourselves, with Sayid, and also via mobile phone to the chef from The Hurlingham (Chris's pub), who happens to be Moroccan. At some point, not paying, and letting the police handle it, became a valid option. The hotel's unwillingness to drop the bill to anything resembling a realistic value of the damages now makes it the preferred one.

"The police have arrived." We are told. Our nervousness is not helped by the absence of any uniforms or marked vehicles. They read my name from a sheet, and order me to go and get my passport. I am accompanied upstairs by a very un-police looking dude. He appears far more like a night-club bouncer. We stand uncomfortably close in the elevator. Judging by his nose, he has been in at least one fight - which is one more than me. He waits at the door of my room while I locate my passport. Again we ride silently in the elevator back down. Back in the foyer Sean whispers a suggestion to not hand over the passport without seeing police ID. I had come to the same decision during the elevator ride.

"Your passport." One of the so-called-police demands in heavily-accented English. We play a brief game of i'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours, which results in no identification being produced by them, and my passport remaining in my pocket.

The police take statements from hotel staff, and again we wait. From our observations, we conclude that two of the men are likely police. The others (including my friend from the elevator) are probably hotel security of some description. The mood at our table is sober and anxious. The police and the hotel manager approach. They say that our statement must be taken at the police station. Again it is me they request - the room being in my name. Perhaps I am simply a coward, but I couldn't help but feel that some injustice would be done if it were I that was taken. After all, I had been on the other side of the door. Fortunately for me, the boys agree. We lie-on-the-fly and explain that we switched rooms after check-in. And Chris confesses to being the lone shooter.

And so it is that Chris, Sean, Harro, the hotel manager, Sayid, a couple of Moroccan police, and a few renta-thugz exit the Residence InTouriste.

I watch the tail-lights disappear. I'm concerned, relieved, guilty, frustrated, and ... tired. But our room is still locked. I return upstairs and debrief Tim, Kate, Jacqui, Anna and M-A on the day's events.

Hours pass, now late into the night. They return. But not for long. Chris must return to face court the next morning. I realize I don't even know what I had expected the result to be. On a positive note, Sean hands me key-cards for our room - reactivated. Finally this day is finished.

0830hrs, January 2nd, 2009: The trial.
I wish Chris a happy birthday, although I suspect it is in vain, as he departs for court. Sean, Harro, and Krystal go along. I consider joining the entourage. But, having already accompanied Chris to court many years prior, and seeing he is well represented, I opt for the beach and pool.

My skin absorbs the first real sun it has seen since Croatia. Tim, Kate, Jacqui and Anna ride Camels and watch Flamingos. Chris sits in a holding cell at the Agadir courthouse.




Second-hand information warning: Because I am beside the pool, I am not a primary source for the events that take place at the court.
Although we don't fully understand where Sayid came from, right now, Chris sure is grateful he showed up. He acts as translator and legal-council, even swearing the oath on Chris's behalf. Chris stands in front of the panel of judges as the facts are stated, before being returned to the cell. Over the following hours, the hotel progressively lowers the compensation being requested. These offers are made to Sayid, who translates and relays to the entourage, who relay to the incarcerated Chris. They are rejected. As the afternoon passes, and the deliverance of the judges' verdict surely approaches, the hotel returns with an offer of the same amount we had offered the day before: 15000 dirhams.

Chris accepts and is released. The verdict goes unheard. All return to the Residence InTouriste. I swipe my Barclays card. A number in a database in England decreases. A number in a database in Morocco increases. We go to the beach. And the incident is consigned to history.

Sailing Croatia

Eyes burning. Mouth bone-dry.  Disorientated.  Travelling is supposed to fun, surely.  Why does it always start like this...

Not hung-over though.  Too early for that.  Possibly still inebriated from last evening.  'Metro' golf with uSwitch crew.  Office workers imitating Tiger Woods for the evening.  Open-stances and baseball grips.  A few air-swings precede balls hurtling or trickling towards wall-sized computer representations of St. Andrews, or Pebble Beach.  Peroni beers wash down bland pizza.  Greased fingers grip flailed fairway-woods.  Sensors between players and screens track slices and hooks.  Impressive game, enjoyed more because my team won.  Not the same though. No birds. No insects. No smell of cut-grass. No summer sun. Not the same.

Minutes pass quickly.  Andy's clock is slow. He needs to be hurried. Rushed goodbyes to Pam.  Outside is still dark and cold.  Next thing we're on the bus towards Stansted airport.  All airports the same.  Cue the routine.  Follow the stage directions and don't forget your lines.  Few precious minutes more sleep on the plane.

Transfer in Stuttgart.  Something not right.  Check-in clerk looks at his screen, confused.  Somehow we missed a beat.  Perhaps this is the wrong desk for transfers.  Signs mostly in German.  Supervisor called over.  We're out of time with the music now.  Time ticking towards take-off.  Budget airlines - they don't check baggage through.  This would have caused stress, a long time and many flights ago.  Repeated stimulus dulls the response.  Fifteen minutes until take-off.  Still have to go through security. Supervisor punching keys.  We pass the seconds by blaming each other. The three musketeers.  Supervisor smiles.  We rediscover the beat.  The dance is familiar from here. 

Touch down in Zagreb, and located a bus headed towards city.  Voices speaking unfamiliar words.  A conversation in English cuts through the cacophany.  Australian accents.  Always. Everywhere.  

Apartment blocks punctuate otherwise flat ground.  Buildings unmatched in their lack of attention to aesthetics.  Must be council flats.  Concrete gray.   Unrendered.  Only color provided by vandals.  Their chemical rainbows unable to climb beyond 8 feet from the ground. 

We arrive at a station, stepping from the vehicle's deceptive refrigeration.  Still dressed for early morning London.  Skins instantly prickle with perspiration.  Thermometer says 34c.  Jeans are quickly replaced by shorts.  Sunglasses are located.  Months worth of dust removed from their lenses - unrequired by London's grey days.  An eatery is located.  No english on the menu.  Something is ordered.  Food is cheap.  For good reason.  It all tastes like stale smoke anyway.  No such thing as non-smoking sections here.

We wait for a tram.  No tickets.  Sign warns the fine is 35 euro.  Risk/reward is evaluated.  We get on.  Central Zagreb - the 'old town' - is much prettier than the outskirts.  All statues, parks and paved streets.  M-A plays tour guide.  Andy and I happy to follow.  Tree-lined streets.  City views and churches.  Upper-end Mercedes Benz drive down cobble-stone roads.  Past crowded homes with shingled roofs and no glass in their windows.  Scaffolds have grown over buildings everywhere. Cosmetic surgery repairing the scars of time. Stone walls, hundreds of years old, act as a canvas for the hydrocarbon-propelled artwork of youth.  New world meets old, in a way that seems characteristic of Europe. We cover kilometres on foot.  The sun lightly burning any exposed skin.  Cool water from a drinking-fountain is greedily gulped.  The final hours before our 22:00 train to Split spent lying on the cool grass in a park across from the main train station.  The day in its twilight.  The temperature pleasant.

The train arrives.  We find the shlaf-wagon.  Our cabin small, but seemingly new and clean.  Barely room for the triple-bunk and wash-basin.  Oppresively hot, we selectively remove clothes as we attempt to sleep.  A storm begins outside, the wind howling.  The train begins to move.  The air-conditioning powers up.  The cabin cools.  My lack of sleep the previous night has come to claim its debt.  I fall asleep before the others.

I awake to the knock at our cabin door, informing us we are 30 minutes from Split. It is after 06:00.  Train is late. I wish it was later. The extra sleep is welcome.  Split is humming with activity. Boats arriving, people laden with luggage clambering across the moored vessels to reach the land. Market-stalls everywhere, selling everything. The air is scented with a familiar mix of sea-salt and marine fuel. My olfactory memory must associate this with good times. It excites me. We have 5 hours to kill before our boat departs. M-A and Andy sit at a cafe and order a kava (coffee).  I wander into the markets and purchase a large straw hat. We find some bananas and freshly baked bread. We eat our breakfast on the esplanade which runs alongside the ocean. The white marble-like stone used for paving contrasts with the brilliant, blue ocean. Both reflect the sunlight, so it seems to come from not only the sky, but the ground as well. We purchase some playing cards, feeling they may be well used, and also a few pairs of reef-shoes at the warning from friends who have preceded us on similar journeys.

We rendezvous with Tim and Kate, before boarding what will be our home and transport for the next week.  The Madona.

The Madona departs Split. The four-man crew is introduced. The skipper. His son the host. The chef. The deckhand. 

Our host, the sixteen year-old Duje (Doo-Aay), informs us our course has changed. Bad weather. Instead of Makarska we are heading to Omiš. None of the passengers seemed to know where we were supposed to be going anyway. Or cared.  And if this is bad weather, we should be okay. Slight breeze. A little bumpy. 

Mid-afternoon we find a protected spot to anchor. Water so clear it looks only a few feet deep. Duje says 6 metres. We leap from the boat. Perfect temperature. Cool enough to be refreshing. Very salty. Clamber up the side-ladder. Ascend to the top-deck. Climb onto the roof. Plunging the 4 or 5 metres back into the ocean. Just high enough for stomachs to rise towards throats.  Bodies collide with the liquid.  Neither can be displaced quickly enough.  Descent is slowed.

I climb over the front-deck rail. The crowd calls for a flip. I haven't tried one for maybe a decade. I assume I still can.  My legs spring me away from the boat. But I don't tuck and under-rotate. Perfectly horizontal at the point of entry. Pain is slightly delayed as message is relayed. Chemicals pumped across synapses.  A brief respite. I hear the groans and laughter as I surface. The judges are harsh.  The scores low.  I re-board the boat and repeat.  Result not much improved. Not easily deterred.  Let's go again.  Self-protection intincts activated, albeit belatedly.  Flips to be resumed another day.

We arrive at Omiš.  Duje secures us against the other boats.  Some of them familiar from Split.  We have travelled about 25km south from Split. To the junction of the Cetina River and the sea. It is late afternoon.  The bars and restaurants seem to be preparing for the inevitable trade brought by the invading boats.  We sit outside one.  The mountains towering behind the town give an impressive backdrop.  We order cocktails. Pina Coladas.  Mojitos.  We visit another couple of bars before finding somewhere to eat.  Back to our floating hotel to sleep.

The ringing bell inidicates both that breakfast is served, and that for me it is time to wake.  The boat's engine is running.  We have travelled some distance already in the day.  The by-product of the burning fuel pollutes the air in the below-deck cabins.  I climb the stairs - maybe ladder would be a better description.  My eyes, having adjusted to the dark, are rendered useless by the sunlight reflected from the water.  Breakfast is basic.  Cereal.  Toast.  Bad coffee.

The pattern that will be our daily routine is becoming evident.  After breakfast we head south for a while longer.  We find somewhere nice to anchor and swim.  For many this is also their daily bath.  Eventually Duje rings the bell again.  Lunch is served.  The food is a credit to Josip.  We have spoken to people from other boats, less than impressed with the quality of their fare.  Ours starts with soup entrees.  Then the mains. Baked fish. Gnocchi. Veal schnitzel. One of the girls buys Josip a beer to show her appreciation. 

We sit on the top deck as the boat travels.  The salt left behind by the evaporated water is baked to our backs by the afternoon sun.  With a few hours of day remaining, we dock for the night. Tonight it is Mljet - the most southerly of the Adriatic islands. 

It is tiny port.  Some people rent bicycles and ride into the national park. Andy, Tim and I swim out to a water polo court.  We take turns as goal-keeper, while the others take their shots. Legs furiously pedalling, we quickly tire. We return to the stone shelf.  

The port-town is so small that most of our boat dines at the same restaurant. We rearrange their tables so we are all sitting together. We drink cheap Croatian wine. It tastes terrible. By the end of the bottle it goes down smoothly. Mljet is not renouned for nightlife. We return to the boat and play cards, having smuggled aboard a load of contraband. Water, food and alcohol. Just living by the pirate code.  The skull and crossbone flag flying in the breeze, high above the Madona's decks.

We stop for our morning swim. Duje has let down the anchor. Andy and I swim towards a stone jetty, perhaps 200 metres away.  Both eager for some physical activity. We wade ashore. The stone floor beneath the shallow water is crowded with black sea urchins. Spines protruding from all angles of their circular bodies. Despite purchasing reef-shoes in Split, both our feet are bare. We step carefully and avoid the creatures.  

Striding along the jetty.  Looking out towards the moored vessel.  Andy curses.  The urchin had been sun-dried on the jetty's stone.  Its protective armor now lodged in Andy's flesh.  The sole of his foot, softened by soaking in the water.  Easily pierced.   

Lunch is served earlier than usual, in the port at Dubrovnik.  More time to explore this scenic, walled city.

The boats are docked away from the traditional city.  We wait 15 minutes for a bus.  Watching many, too full to accept new passengers, pass by.  We decide to walk.

Another perfect day. Clear blue skies. Hot.  Not humid though.  We wonder out loud if croatians know what overcast days are like.  And why the clouds take their summer vacations in London?

Dubrovnik's old city looks like it was designed for battle.  Built atop cliffs, its cannons still keep watch over the Adriatic for signs of trouble.

We do the almost mandatory 'wall-walk'.  A sheer drop to waves crashing against the rocks on one side.  The terracotta swirl of the city's roofs on the other.  From this angle it is clear Dubrovnik bears scars fresh even by European standards.  The vivid orange of roof-tiles recently repaired contrasts with those greyed by time.  Bruises showing where the Yugoslav punches landed in '91.  The white stone used for streets and buildings makes Dubrovnik dual-chrome; white and orange. 

 

From the wall-top, we spy it.  The rumours were true.  Perched on the cliff, outside the city walls.  We know immediately we will watch the sun go down from there.  Tables and chairs overlook the vast ocean.  Those occupying them sip drinks served from a small bar.  Others get their refreshment by diving from the rocks into the water.

Once on the ground, the bar with the perfect location proves difficult to locate.  After navigating many alleys, we find the secret door.  There may be better places in the world for an afternoon drink, but all agree we haven't found them.  I climb back up the steel ladder from the cool water.  Letting the slowly descending sun dry the water from my skin.  Sipping fine beer and laughing.  Day becomes night.

The days pass.  Always perfect weather. We have become friends with Duje.  He is 16, but has the confidence from having grown up on this boat, amongst tourists.  His English is strong enough to jest.  The group of central queensland boys challenge him to an arm-wrestle.  Despite being much lighter, Duje toys with them before pounding the backs of their hands to the Madona's wooden table.  Days later Andy, having seen Duje and our deckhand, Nikolai, playing chess, challenged the victor.  Seconds later, Andy's pieces were stacked beside the board.  Nikolai's pieces still standing tall upon it.  Croatia 2, Australia 0.

Andy seeks revenge.  He challenges Duje to a swimming race.  Raised on a boat, Duje is a strong swimmer, but without Andy's years of training.  Duje intelligently demands a short distance.  They start approximately 50 metres from the boat, with the Madona's hull the finish line.  The race is close, but Andy leads all the way.  We toast the victory with the three beers staked as prize money.

Korčula and Hvar.  Harbour towns.  Still battle-ready.  Walls and cannons.  Regular tourist stops.  Strong nightlife.  Buckets of cocktails in a backpacker's bar in Korčula.  No, not cocktails.  Implies creativity.  Buckets of combined spirits.  Too many people inside for comfort.  Doorman appears to be a guest.  Also appears to be working for drinks.  A fun night is had.  The county Queenslanders continue their tradition of swimming in the harbour... sans clothes.  

Epic dance clubs in Hvar.  We return to the boat earlier than others.  M-A unwell.  Perhaps the vacation is taking its toll.

We anchor a few hundred metres off the Zlatni Rat.  Long beach.  White pebbles.  Naked europeans.  We swim to shore.  A rugby ball comes with us.  We pass,kick, and tackle in the shallows.  Sun-bathers become irritated.  No doubt relieved to see us disappear back into the sea.  

Bol provides the evening's harbour.  Our crew cook up a barbeque on deck.  The sun sets on the island of Brač, as we eat, drink and dance through the night on the top deck.

Many days have passed since I last woke in time for breakfast.  Today won't be the day.  I lie semi-conscious until I hear the anchor drop for our morning swim.  No trace of exhaust fumes in the cabins today.  My eyes adjust to the light.  Nicest place to swim yet.  Perhaps because we know it is our last.  Even the air is relaxed here.  Nowhere it would rather be.  The water is undisturbed.  At least until the bodies leaping from the Madona's decks enter.

Lunch is served.  Each day Duje dons his white, collared shirt and bow-tie to wait on us.  Today Quinny wears it.  Lowey wears a sun-dress.  Why?  Why not?  Beer-based decision making.  

Final night spent in the harbour at Split.  We follow a recommendation and have dinner at the Black Cat.  Great food.  Everyone has either already spent time in Split, or is about to.  No need to explore tonight.  Most of the boat returns to play cards on deck. 

Saturday morning.  Checkout.  We rise for breakfast.  My second of the week.  Around the tables, dawning realizations of returning to the world.  Some will continue to holiday.  Some return to routine, in London, Sydney, Vancouver.  Some to start a new life.  New city.  No accommodation.  No job.  Unanimous relief to sleep in quality beds.  To have warm, private showers.  

Exchange of emails and facebook addresses.  Most will go unused.  Drink tallys behind the bar are totalled.  Time to pay.  Disbelief.  Debate.  Denial.  Some become angry at Duje.  If I had to bet on who got the count right?  Duje all day.  Some embrace their total; the country-boys proud of their double-century lager count for the week.

Final farewells to Duje.  Good host.  We feel special despite being aware the next group will board within hours.  Goodybe Madona.

The heat is more noticeable now.  Clothes covering skin that all week had been dissipating heat.  Muscles straining slightly under the weight of our packs.  Sweat begins to flow.  We seek some respite in an air-conditioned internet cafe.  Then return to the Black Cat for some lunch.

Most of our fellow travellers have headed their seperate ways.  Only, M-A, Andy, Rachel and I remain.  We chase the afternoon away playing 500 in a shady park.  Again we eat at the Black Cat.  Each meal enjoyed. After dinner, Rachel too departs.  Just the original three remain.  

Eventually, it is time to return to the train that delivered us.  8 days ago.  Seems longer.  This time our cabin sleeps six.  We must share it with two Croatian girls, and an old man.  Stifling hot.  We have not showered.  No room to move.  M-A and I sleep on the top two beds.  Difficult to climb to.  Andy takes one of the lower bunks.  Forced to watch the old man finish a large beer, then another.  Eventually sheets and pillows are provided, and the train lurches off.  M-A faces the wall on the opposite bunk.  I'm unable to determine if she's sleeping yet.  I fasten the belt that prevents me from falling.  Andy watches the man open a bottle of clear spirits.  The diesel fumes begin to drift in...  

Our route

 

 

Belgium

When Sean and Chris told M-A and I about the deal they had found for return train-travel to Brussels and two nights accommodation in the Hilton, we said "We're in!". Whether or not they were actually inviting us was irrelevant.

So we dragged ourselves out of bed last Friday morning at an hour so terrifyingly early that the sun had yet to rise, even at London-latitude in the summer. After a bleary-eyed couple of hours on the Eurostar, we arrived in Brussels and headed for the Hilton. The difference in standard between the Brussels Hilton and the accommodation we shared on our previous travels as a group was immediately apparent. I mean no offense to the Oxford Backpacker's, but there were noticeably less dreadlocks behind the desk this time*.

After taking care of some important business - making sure there was somewhere we could watch the Aussies take on the All-Blacks in the Rugby Saturday morning - we walked to the Grand Place.

It was a cracker of a summer's day, as we walked around Brussels' cobble-stoned streets. We visited the Manneken Pis, who was dressed in suitably formal attire for our visit. Something about that little statue urinating happily into the fountain seemed to remind us that we had been in Belgium for hours without sampling one of their famous beers. This was quickly rectified.

Having realized that the total of our group's research into being a tourist in Brussels consisted of M-A's flicking through the Lonely Planet guide on the train, she was unanimously elected tour leader. Our newly sworn-in captain then informed us that for our afternoon's activities we would visit the Atomium.

This metal monstrosity was built for Expo '58, and supposedly resembles an iron crystal magnified 165 billion times. An elevator travels to the highest sphere and offers a view of the surrounding area. Ventilation wasn't great inside the sphere, and there are better views of Brussels available for a lesser price. I feel I shouldn't be too negative towards the Atomium. I imagine visitors traveling to Brisbane's Sky Needle are hardly blown away.

On the way back to the hotel, Chris and Sean went into a store to purchase a few beers to have in our rooms. Chris "impulse-buy" Crichton thought he spied a bargain in a two-litre bottle of beer. Turns out, the price was for the beer only and didn't include the bottle - the idea being you reuse the bottle. Unfortunately for the boys, the store attendants didn't speak much English (or chose not too), and they were stuck with a rather over-priced, over-sized bottle. It made the trip back to London with us. Maybe one day he'll return and get it refilled.

As we wandered into the restaurant-strip for dinner, we knew we'd have to run the gauntlet of touts attempting to entice patrons to dine in their establishments, rather than the generally identical ones on either side. Being the experienced tourists and hard-headed negotiators we are, we managed to hold-out on the first tout at the first restaurant we came to for about twenty seconds before taking a seat. Fortunately their menu did include what Sean desired - Belgium's 'national dish' - a big bowl of mussels with a side of fries.

After our meals, we wandered further down the narrow alleys and found a place called Delirium Cafe. The decor in this place reminded me of a tacky American chain restaurant, with memorabilia stuck all over the walls and ceiling. Also, a painful reminder of how things were before anti-smoking laws. There was a no-smoking sign hanging, but it was difficult to make out through the clouds of smoke. Their range of beers, however, was unbelievable. 2004 is the number they quote, and the menu would pass for a menu of the world's beer. While we cannot vouch that all were available, we did sample a selection including apple beers, coconut beers, and beers with alcohol contents so high they would surely be classed as fortified wines anywhere else. Every beer seemed to come in its own glass, some (such as the test-tube contraption Chris is pictured with) even required a deposit.

In my opinion, the best part of staying in hotels with a few more stars on their signs (and a few more digits in their price) is the included breakfast. And the Hilton's was a first-rate breakfast buffet. After eating more for breakfast than I would usually eat in a day, we went to the Irish pub we had previously ascertained would be showing the Bledisloe cup between Australia and the All-Blacks. There was what I imagine is a decent crowd for a pub early-ish on a Saturday morning, the majority of who were antipodeans. By the end of the game the patrons could be easily further divided into Australians and Kiwis - the former boasting loudly while the latter quickly finished their drinks and headed for the exits.

The rest of Saturday was spent wandering further around Brussels. We found a strange beach festival (no, there is no beach in Brussels) where we met Robert de Castella's former masseuse (at least I hope that is what he meant when he said he was his 'rubber'). We told him we'd say hello next time we ran into Deeks.

We climbed to the roof of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart - JAC**. From here we had a good view of Brussels.

Saturday night, with the complimentary cocktails at the Hilton's Hawaiian themed bar giving us the impassive glaze necessary to ignore the touts' sales pitches, we made it deep into the throng of restaurants before choosing one. Chris, M-A and myself shared a large helping of seafood paella, while Sean again got the mussels. As Sean was eating his mussels, he began to notice that almost all of them contained small crabs. Having not ordered a side of small crabs, he was a little concerned by this. The summoned waiter explained in French, while M-A translated, that the crabs were normal and fine to eat. Seeing Sean was not convinced, he took one and ate it himself. The rest of us found it all rather amusing. Sean did not***.

After dinner we headed back to Delirium to cross a few more beers off the immense list.

Sunday, M-A and I took a train to Bruges. Bruges' attraction is its historic city center. The narrow cobble-stone streets, canals, and medieval architecture give the small city a great atmosphere. We hired some bikes and spent the afternoon exploring. One tip: Bikes + cobble-stones = sore arse. And before anyone asks, yes, I was riding a girl's bike. That's all they had left!

Belgium has definitely got some great things going for it. First-class beer, waffles, chocolate and seafood is always a strong start (I strongly recommend not consuming all at once). Brussels, being the headquarters of the EU and NATO, is a government town (to call it the Canberra of Europe would definitely be do harsh though). It does have some impressive architecture, and as mentioned, culinary attractions. It also seems to suffer from Paris-envy - from its very own Sacred Heart Basilica with the faux Champs Elysees running up to it, to the replica Louvre Pyramid located outside our Hotel.

If Brussels is business, Bruges is tourist. Bruges was very picturesque, and the streets were dominated by bicycles, horse-and-carriages, as well as pedestrians. Though half a day was probably enough.

Good weekend. Until next time. . .

* And more languages. I am still impressed by displays such as the concierge ending a call in French to address us in perfect English, then serve the guest behind in Flemish.

** JAC = Just Another Church.

*** My subsequent research indicates the waiter was truthful. Mussels do often contain Pea Crabs, and they are fine to eat.

Chasing cheese

The annual Cooper's Hill Cheese Rolling festival is everything a sporting event should be: No commercial-breaks. No billboards. No cheerleaders. No overpriced tickets. No overpaid prima donas. Just 15 competitors going hell-for-leather in nature's stadium for the glory of victory*. Plus there's the can't-look-but-can't-look-away thrill when viewing potentially serious injuries. It's sport for the purist.

Chris Crichton, Sean Reardon, M-A and myself drove to Oxford on the Sunday morning, and spent the night in the finest accommodation that £15 per night can buy. On Monday morning we drove out to Gloucester, and parked in the paddock converted to parking-lot for the day.

The BBC's footage of the day's races can be seen here. Growing up, every year I would see the race on Nine's Wide World of Sports on a Saturday morning, but the footage doesn't convey just how steep the hill is. It is difficult to even stand on as a spectator, and the competitors in the uphill races were frequently brought to a complete stop. Not that the gradient was sufficient to deter competitors.

There are 5 downhill races, each with 15 competitors. Competitors queue to race, and the queue was still going strong after the 5th official race had been run. Sean was among the ranks missing out on the official races, competing instead in one of the unofficial events (unofficial = no prizes on offer). The number of people desperate to throw themselves down a hill for no possible reward is interesting. Particularly given the significant risk of injury. The first race of the day's winner's victory came at a cost; He was taken away in an ambulance after injuring his neck - which likely occurred when he landed on it. A significant proportion of the competitors seemed to be fellow antipodeans - I'll leave it to you to decide whether that makes us courageous or insane.

See here for the days results and some good shots.

Like I said, sport for the purist!

* To be completely honest, the competitors aren't competing strictly for the glory. No, unfortunately the specter of professionalism has reared it's ugly head even in cheese-rolling. Third place receives £5**, second £10, while the winner gets to keep the cheese. Ahh, for the good 'ol days when athletes had to work day jobs...

** To put this into perspective, parking costs £5.