We walk to Haubi

At Amarula campsite in Tanzania every once in a while someone would mention Haubi, a small town nestled in the mountains to the east and south of us. It had a lake! Amazing to consider in this dry environment. And a Sunday market!
Hamisi, one of our workers said he'd ridden his bike there to visit his father from the Pahi side, so I thought it couldn't be too far. One of our goals at the camp was to investigate possible day hikes around the vicinity for our visitors.  Our time at Amarula was rapidly coming to an end so we arranged with Hamisi and Daniel to guide us there one Sunday in September.
  Our host Seppo was visiting and drove us early to the turn, off the Kondoa road. As he drove away the numerous folks waiting for the bus to Haubi peppered Hamisi with questions. "Who are those white folks and why are you walking when you can take the bus?"

The road was rough; loose rock, steep and dusty from months without rain.  Soon we took a"shortcut" following a well worn path traversing a wild and undulating landscape. Off to the right and behind us a village  perched on a rise in the distance. Ahead brush, the odd tree and far away to the south as we climbed we could make out buildings in Kondoa.


When it rains here it is torrential. We descended a few times into canyons of eroded clay and stone, crossing narrow channels carved deep into the earth between hoodoo like columns of dried mud.

Then up and out through scrubby bush and herbage. Incredibly in the midst of this we passed a woman, just sitting, waiting. For what I know not, seemingly, in the middle of nowhere.

  Back on the road dump trucks filled with people passed us by on their way to the market. They all seemed pleased to see us, waving and calling out as the truck lumbered past swaying and straining up the hills. Not long after we walked across a wide sandy river, the tire tracks churned deeply into ruts. I wondered how they managed when the river was running.
Occasionally we'd pass or be passed by young women draped in layers of colourful cloth, Kangas and Kitenges flowing behind them, mist like, baskets in their hands.
Climbing still we passed through a small village, Hamisi again explaining  our purpose to the assembled men at the roadside.

 Not long after a few of those men caught up and walked with us awhile through more extreme looking landscapes till suddenly before us the lake appeared. Some settlement all around, the town visible at the far end at the foot of the hills.


 Walking on we found a fig tree loaded with fruit. Although apparently not so attractive to the locals, we nevertheless enjoyed a sweet treat and a break in the shade before continuing on.

 Down below to the left the lake was choked with weed and reeds so no swimming to cool our sweaty bodies. By this time the road had become quite crowded with people returning from the market. As we turned a corner near lakes end, there before us, a sea of people, booths and buses, trucks, donkeys, dogs, goats and chickens, coloured cloths, racks of western style clothing, pots and pans. I walked past a fellow sitting behind all manner of hardware, hinges, doorlocks, bolts and screws, car and bicycle parts spread out on the ground. And almost everyone there staring at us.
 The whole way we'd been anticipating some food and a place to sit to enjoy it. Where we finally ended up was more like a cave than a cafe and no chips mayai.
That brief interlude passed and we continued on around the lake walking back towards Pahi, passing a woman carrying an enormous clay pot on her head.
 Turns out Haubi is a source of homebrew, made in these giant pots. I wanted one! Sanity prevailed and we walked on.... and on... and on.
 The road continues into the hills but at the river Hamisi turned us right.

 Erosion has an amazing face, the steep walls of sandy clay cut by years of roaring river,  the bed wide and hard enough to drive on. We  walked down broad avenues, around corners into grottoes and canyons, past cliffs and islands eventually climbing onto a plateau up what looked like a driveway.
 On one side farmland stretched right up against the rising hills. On the left, steep drops into narrow canyons choked with vegetation.  Proceeding through this valley the path became narrower, the drops on either side more precipitous and I realized no one was driving in or out from this side!
Ahead the vast Masai steppe was visible from our vantage point in the hills. The trail, no longer a path, traversed one hillside to the other, up down and around loose rock and boulders through Miombo forest.

  It was remarkably red and green, the trees beginning to leaf out in anticipation of the coming rains.

 Stopping to rest we were passed by parties of young men and women, then family groups from very old to young with a troop of donkeys, not impressed, veering off the trail to avoid us.

 

 Down, down through scrub and forest, sliding over rock faces, around more boulders then coming around a corner on the road,  way off in the distance, we spied Amarula camp. Elke called Seppo for a ride and as the land leveled off we walked into  Pahi.
Quite a spectacular walk, we decided next time we'd do it in two days. Maybe then we could try the homebrew?

Bad day for a bus ride

Here we've arrived off Babu Transport after shopping in Kondoa. Seems like they have concerns about the front tire.



Sometimes though the signs are there and I'm not paying attention.


Occasionally we would run low on cash. There's no international ATM in Kondoa, so we'd make the trip to Babati 3 hours and 80km away.

The bus is cheap, relatively speaking, 6,000 TS (about $3.C), runs once a day to Arusha and is scheduled to pass by our driveway at  5:30am.

That morning the bus never came. Babu Transport, our usual ride to Kondoa, happily carried us up the hill to Kolo where an eager fellow sold us tickets to Babati on the next bus. It arrived within minutes and away we went standing up front, swaying and holding on.
Within an hour we were stopped by some undetermined mechanical problem. The bus jockeys were back and forth from the tool box and two hours later had leaf springs unassembled under the bus and were then waiting themselves. This was a clear message to start walking.

It was pleasant walking, a few flowers on trees brightening the dry leafless landscape. An hour later we stopped at what appeared to be a bus stop. A group of local women and children were entertained to see us. When a bus roared past I waved it down.

This bus was already full. On the roof a large overstuffed chair, baggage/luggage and piled sacks with two or three men sitting on top. In order to get on we had to wedge ourselves onto the steps. We carried on for a few minutes when it stopped to pick up more passengers!
I was pushed and shoved further into the bus so more folks could get in. I had my head up against the ceiling. Elke, behind me, perched on the edges of a sack of rice. Both of us in full contact with the rest of the standees front and back.
 Unfortunately this is quite typical. Limited service, low wages and a large population mean the bus folks will take as many as they can to make the extra cash.

I'm watching as the bus slows down and the two bus jockeys standing in the doorway are thrown out as we lurch left. The bus tips over and slides sideways across the road. People are screaming, I'm thinking "is this my time?" and "no apparently not."  I search around for Elke who is now beneath me.

 I've braced myself against the wall maintaining a somewhat upright position. Folks are scrambling up and out the windows, crawling out through the doorway and the back window/exit. Elke has the presence of mind to grab our bags, I pass them up with her as she is pulled through the side windows and jumps down.

My turn, except I've lost my shoe as someone squeezed past my foot. I'm standing in kerosene, very slippery on a metal surface. I grab my shoe off the ground beneath the bus. I'm one of the last out. Helpful hands haul me up and over the edge, dropped into the arms of a fellow outside. Women are crying, yelling into their phones, limping and sitting alone shock and dismay on their faces. A group of men push the bus up and pull out the two who fell. People are running towards us from all directions.

Someone asks if we are ok? as we sit beside a young woman, Elke reassuring her, checking out her possibly injured hand. Other than shock we seem fine. There is not much we can do here, don't speak the language and folks are assisting where needed. Two motorcycles take some injured fellows away held in place by another sitting behind.

We start walking, stopping frequently to inform folks to the best of our ability what happened. I'm still amazed I've survived. The walking helps to ground me. Elke calls our friend in Babati who arranges a cab and after walking another hour we are picked up.
This experience is truly unsettling. We talk about the safety and security of life back in the developed world, how complacent and trusting we became. How risk makes things interesting and why we would choose to even get on a bus that full.

Back at camp a week or so later we hear the sounds of singing as a vehicle comes down the hill, then a crash and silence. We rush over to the overlook on the road where we see a large truck on it's side, people everywhere. 19 die returning from a wedding.

Here it is "the will of God" Certainly there is sadness and mourning but it seems accepted that these things happen. No blame and it seems no responsibility either. Is this the price, the risk I take to be here?

What it's like, to be out there....

I am isolated. Adrift  in a stream of reality I could only dream of before being here. Where ever we are, our reality, imagined by me or you, supports how we believe we wish to exist.
Until I stepped out of my safe(fear driven) job, culture and belief system, I was dependent on my structured life to define who and what I was. I'm still connected to that reality, living on the avails of 20 years of pension payments, but I am proceeding through life differently in a new and alien culture.
  For starters I'm sleeping in a tent, eating mostly locally grown vegetables and helping to build an earthen house.To go anywhere I take the bus or walk.


 I know this is possible back home too, yet it seems more real, more intense, more dramatic and essential here. The options are limited, yet I feel no lack. (Well maybe good chocolate occasionally.)There are things to do, challenges to overcome, meals to cook and daily tasks to complete. All my life I've yearned for this simplicity,  to live outside mostly, with only the distractions that one's immediate surroundings can generate.
We are far from the nearest town, most services and dependable internet. There is cell coverage depending where you are standing. And I put the cell phone away, since no one is going to call me anyway.
This close to the equator the sun sets at 7 and it gets dark fast. Except it isn't mostly, the milky way a bright swath across the sky. The moon rising full or setting as a sliver in the morning are reminders of past times, and the passage of time. There are moments when time almost stands still; a rainbow arcing across the vista, lightening flashing from all directions and those incredible light shows of sunrise and sunset. 



Daily I wake early as the dark fades, the  first morning bird song from one particular bird followed by another different song and another. I write awhile, have some fruit and the day begins as workers arrive, tools are collected and the house slowly emerges from the land.
Stone and earth, clay and sand, water and local labour form this building. It is a kind of primal experience with overtones of elegance and sophistication from our skills and knowledge.
I am happy, content and prospering. Privacy and isolation have never been that attractive to me but here there is something refreshing, powerful and soothing about wandering the land, watching the weather,  throwing mud at the walls and being present in every moment to what is.

No, I don't want to leave!

I'm not afraid of weirdness, but this is something else. We are on the cusp of leaving Africa/Tanzania. Having already said goodbye to our recently completed home/cottage at Amarula Camp and the folks in the village of Mnenia, we are now about to leave Arusha.
  It was challenging! Especially getting onto the overcrowded bus, after being in a bus crash not so long ago.(more about that later) The swaying, jerking and bumping affecting my equilibrium as I unsuccessfully tried not to recall tipping over.

The time here in Tanzania has been full and potent with events, people and experience. I have new friends, thousands of photos and a greater sense of humility. It has been a huge challenge to sit and write (peck away at the keyboard) while there was so much to do, including wandering around the landscape marveling at the flora and occasional fauna. Even in the dry season.

 To get back to the weirdness, I'm anticipating a cultural shift of massive proportions. Stepping into a densely populated, sophisticated, moneyed and consumer oriented reality. Need I describe our existence up to now as anything but? Truly, I don't want to leave. And yet, I will, willingly embarking on new adventures, intending to learn German, teach English, continue to bake bread, do some traveling and get back to writing.
My sense is one of confusion, fear and concern... What if...? and I know that's all bullshit. The future remains an unknown, the time here now is what matters.
 We have some time to organize, repack and let go of the last bits of stuff I am still hanging onto. Anything to distract me from the impending departure. I don't want to leave!

At the moment I'm sitting outside on the porch of the Masai Cafe here in Arusha,  listening to the sound of the croaking white shouldered ravens. On the fence, red, orange and purple bougainvillea, while bits of avocado flower fall like rain and jacaranda blossoms litter the driveway. The temperature a pleasant 25'C  with the smell of burning cheese and dough from the wood fired pizza oven occasionally drifting past my nose.
Arusha is lush, Mt Meru's influence maintaining rainfall year round, although we've had a nice dry spell since we arrived. The usually shrouded peak is visible from most anywhere.

I'm holding onto these images, this moment,  feeling some sensory overload. Traffic for one, there isn't much in Mnenia. The birds have much more melodic and attractive songs, the acaia 'fruit' it's distinctive smell and the brown and greys of the dormant vegetation a stark sight on the hillside and mountains. But man! I love it there. I don't want to leave!
The shuttle tickets purchased, I have bread waiting to bake, bags packed, weight distributed evenly, my treasures tucked away..... Here I come!

Amarula Camp

My life at Amarula camp is idyllic. Each morning the light wakes me with enough time to dress, walk to the Banda and take a few pictures of the rising sun. The Banda is a large octagon open shelter with a conical high thatch roof. It provides shade, a meeting place and an impromptu office. Often the breeze blows through, keeping it a cool space to hang out in during the hottest part of the day.
 The birds too, don't hesitate to pass through or stop to pick up a bug or bit of dropped food. Bird song/calls are constant. Beside the Banda there is a red and white bird building a nest on the tip of a branch, an enclosed ball of woven grass and twigs, like an upside down igloo.
 I stood underneath and watched him moving around inside, setting up the boudoir. Apparently he will soon woo a wife who inspects his work by shaking it as hard as a bird can. If it survives, they make babies together.
There are flocks of little yellow birds, single bigger bright yellow birds and pairs of black and white birds with long tails, all  flying back and forth from the many trees on this meadowed slope. I saw  a strange one flying over the tent,  long, black and thin with a bent yellow beak.
 Our night watchman Mohamed has been cutting the grass with the Chinese made African weed whacker. He swings his arms back and forth with such force the grass flies high in the air above his head. The aroma of the African Basil, now sliced and diced is wonderfully fragrant. We've been harvesting it almost daily for our meals. Strangely the locals don't use it.
 After the hay dries, I rake it up and spread it in the garden for mulch, and around our newly planted bananas.

The vistas here are marvellous, across the way to the South, above the river, Kolo/Mnenia mountain covered in the Miombo (forested hillside). Then to the south East more bushy mountains, the Irangi Hills, above the savannah spread out across central Tanzania as far as the eye can see East and North.  Many people are living down there along the rivers, seasonal as they may be. Everyone grows food, so beside the roads, onto the plain and up toward the mountains are fields and fields. Corn, sorghum, sunflowers, sweet potatoes, beans and squash, an occasional plot of tobacco, cassava and many more "vegetables" I'm unfamiliar with.

 Our sleeping room, a safari tent, sits on the Eastern edge of the ridge, and  sounds of the village are carried up by the wind. The call to prayer from the mosque is much more pleasant than the horns of the bus to Arusha at 5:30 am. At that time  we hear the dhikiri- recitations of the 99 names of Allah, hauntingly beautiful.

On the Western horizon more Miombo as the Irangi Hills continue West and North. There is old decrepit rock everywhere here, crumbling granite, some black mix of iron and mica with flecks of green. We drop it and it falls apart. Some seems integral enough for foundation building though.

Our cob cottage is coming along. After a couple of work parties with the "Mamas" from the village we are almost ready to start cobbing. Our glassless windows are ready to be installed along with the doorframe, once the mud starts piling onto the rocks. It is exciting to be building a space we can call our own, even temporarily. I take pictures as it progresses, help where I can and imagine the final product, making (I think) helpful suggestions on some esthetic touches.
We'll see eh?
..

Bus rides

Bus rides in Tanzania, hurtling through traffic seemingly oblivious to any signage or common courtesy, passing at approaching hills, an ongoing game of chicken with the oncoming traffic. The horn is used liberally mostly as a warning to get off the road, but  also to announce ones arrival and departure. I must be so familiar with it it doesn't wake me at 5:30 am any more when the Arusha bus arrives in Mnenia.
The dala dalas are even crazier. The "conductor" leaning out the window or mostly  open door, soliciting his customers, then out before it stops, hustling any available passenger into the already cramped, what I would call overflowing mini van. The driver inching into the traffic flow and racing along, cutting people off to pull over and disgorge someone. Like some gigantic game of leapfrog there are countless dala dalas stopped and moving all the time (well maybe not all the time) both directions along the main drags.
Our experience with Kondoa 1 the 6:30 am passing through the village has been wonderful. It stops at our driveway with smiles on the ticket sellers faces. They seem genuinely happy to see us as we wedge ourselves into an already overflowing, in motion bus. I've learned the best place for me to stand is on the steps in, that way my head isn't crushed against the ceiling on every bump.
  The conductor "boys" are friendly and seem to look out for us sending Elke to an available seat when such a miracle occurs and letting me know it's not safe for my hand (grasping the window frame or clutching the door outside) when we deke down a side road to avoid the authorities at some road check. Me I would hesitate to drive my van down that road. These guys in a 40 seater bus make it work, driving up one side of a half metre deep gully, crossing over gigantic cactus remnants and along the edge of corn fields. Then across the river. There must be lots of traffic through, it is hard packed sand. Upriver I saw some boys stripped down having a bath in a pool they dug and have seen women washing clothes, colourful patterned material laid out on the rocks and sand to dry.
At the bus "terminal" the bus conductors get possessive as we purchase our ticket home (no refunds or exchanges), and later the ticket sellers are all over us when we return from our shopping, trying to sell us a ticket somewhere, anywhere.
Returning home from Kondoa, anticipating the next stop, one fellow climbs up the ladder outside to untie, dislodge or somehow release whatever the passengers have trusted to be up on the roof so when the bus stops, their goods are handed over and we are in motion again within it seems the blink of an eye and a bang on the side of the bus.
On one ride we watched a fellow climb out the window, swing over to the ladder and disappear up as we careened down the red road.
Our trip to Arusha was somewhat different, a larger bus, and a seat each near the back, although my knees were spread so wide someone else could have sat between. When the seat at the back in the middle was vacated I grabbed it, my freed knees level with the arm rests on the seat forward. Beside me a mother, her two daughters and a box of chickens. Mother and eldest daughter motion sick into their own ubiquitous black plastic bags.
Later they were buying cookies and bottled drinks through the window when we stopped in Babati where at least half the travelers got off. Women hawking snacks and drinks from the plastic wash basins carried arms free on their heads. The men generally don't carry stuff on their heads preferring great square frameworks loaded with wristwatches, combs, sunglasses and other small manufactured items resting on their shoulders. Occasionally a man will walk by with a tray loaded with boiled eggs or newspaper cones of peanuts. We bought samosas.
 After Babati, pavement. The road seemed to get worse what with the speed bumps and potholes, swerving around cyclists loaded with all manner of freight and lurching to a stop when they spied a possible passenger. My back was not happy.
Arriving on the outskirts of Arusha a number of men standing beside the ladder up, caught the six large baskets of chickens the roof jockey levered off.
I was glad to step off at the bus station and walk the half mile or so to the Masai cafe.

At Home: Amarula Camp, Mnenia, Tanzania

The climate here (central  Tanzania) agrees with me. I like being warm and it has been hot and humid.  Early morning and late evening it is very pleasant.  At mid-day laundry dries in 40 minutes. The sun rises early and about the same time everyday.

 We do what needs doing till about 11 then take a break, as the heat can be oppressive.  The solar collector fills the battery by 10:30 most mornings (we've had some misty overcast ones) and along with everyone's cell phones we're able to keep our laptops charged.
Getting online has been at times challenging, our stick works only in specific locations, (must be bouncing off the knob of rock to the north behind us.) It is painfully slow and doesn't like it if more than one page is open. I'm learning to prepare, then upload, download and do my best to NOT get distracted and start reading and responding while online.
Much of the time we are alone here, we have a security guard Mohamed who spends the night flashing his light/torch around and chasing off any wandering livestock. Daytime security is Saum who does some domestic work, dishes and laundry (also chasing livestock) with an occasional delivery of fruit, vegetables and fresh milk. She leaves at noon and returns briefly in the evenings.
 Our man 'Friday' though is Daniel, a hard working, creatively talented, positive force in getting stuff done and translating to and from Kiswahili. I believe we would be struggling here without him. At least until we're more fluent.
I have been reading, writing and researching, planting trees and making compost.
Often quietly enjoying the view from the hammock.  The clouds roll around the mountain, called Mnenia mountain on this side, Kolo mountain on that side and Pahi mountain down below to the east.
There seems to be a breeze most evenings off the mountains to the west down onto the plain, during the day it mostly blows the other way. We've had no rain to speak of for weeks now, even though  it is supposed to be rainy season. Beside the road to Kolo the corn looks parched. Women in colourful kangas hoe between the rows. I've seen them walking up the road early in the morning their hoes suspended on their heads the blade hanging over the back of their necks.
 Getting my hands dirty; planting Baobab, Sausage and Sandpaper trees, putting in a garden and collecting local plants to "landscape" the place has been wonderful and if you'll pardon the pun, very grounding. Permaculture principles and convenience support planting food plants/trees around our kitchen/living area and to that end we planted our first bananas. There are more varieties coming,  we'll need to prepare each spot appropriately. Papayas seem to grow easily here so along with as many mangoes as I can find, in a few years it might look a little like the village down below.
Minus the corn: GMO, terminator varieties covered in pink pesticide anti fungal dust? No thanks. I'm hoping to obtain some dryland corn like the hopi varieties. People here are totally dependent on what they can grow, so they grow what survives. I've got lots to learn here, for our survival we'll need to be working with the villagers.

Into inner Tanzania

Africa is not a country. Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, Malawi, Burundi, Mozambique, those are countries here in East Africa. Most people here speak Kiswahili. Some English is spoken, French, German, Arabic and hundreds of tribal languages. The best option for being understood though is Kiswahili.
My efforts to learn the language have been spotty at best. Tomorrow though, we head back to Kolo and Mnenia, the village Elke worked in with Twiga women's group. Maybe one or two people there speak English, I intend to volunteer at the school teaching English and I know I'll be learning Swahili from the children. I have a few phrase books to assist me, Elke learns new words every day, so by journey's end I should be speaking.
We've had much fun in the past few weeks wandering around Arusha, visiting Moshi,  tree nurseries, sampling local cuisine; Chinese, Indian and Tanzanian.
I volunteered for two days at a new school up the hill north of Arusha. The children were eager to learn and I was naive enough to think I could teach them. My inexperience had me expecting too much and by the second hour the class I had were jumping off the desks, running around the room, laughing and shouting, completely ignoring my entreaties to "sit down".
They do understand some English but were very aware I didn't understand Swahili. I got  help from another teacher, getting past my concern that I look like I don't know how to manage 9 year olds and they settled down till recess.
Later I saw that after first lesson they get a break...
 The little ones, "the baby class", 3-5 year olds were like limpets, all over me. Stroking my hair, my arms, pinching me and wrapping their arms around my leg fighting over who got to hold my hand in circle. Yikes!
The folks running the school have next to nothing for resources, I made some boundaries around what I had to offer, it would have been easy to go out and buy what I thought they needed, spending everything I had.

A last walk into town to buy supplies. Only what we can carry in my backpack. At most corners there are young men eager to sell us a giant poster map of Tanzania or a Masai knife, belts, hats, shirts, art work or the ever present offer of Safari. I've learned it's not rude to ignore them, in fact I'm doing them a favour so they don't waste their time, cause I'm not buying!
With Seppo's help we purchase an ancient looking wheelbarrow, 13" very used tire and wooden box, renailed numerous times, a bag of flour for making bread in the cob oven and lots of peanut butter. The honey is amazing, yogurt (no fridge so gotta watch that one) buckets, bags of rice and beans. It all goes in the LandRover or on the roof and we're off.
This time the police checkpoints slow us down, I get a fine for not wearing my seat belt. I wore it every other time! Everyone agrees it's bogus as no one in the back seat has one to put on and the driver wasn't wearing his.
Basket makers displaying their craft at the side of the road , massive mats, round square and rectangular as well as coiled baskets all made of local  palm leaves or is that fronds?
We drive past Masai herders,  their goats and cows crossing the road to get to pasture or water. This year is an Initiation year and several young men have masks of black and white with huge plumes rising off the back of their heads.
Stopping briefly in Babati for supplies the vendors at the market are amused by the sight of us attempting to haggle over the price of a watermelon, 3000 shillings about $2C.
The road is still under construction but soon we are onto the familiar red dirt road passing the farmland South of Babati.
A climb into the hills past banana plantations, fields of corn and sunflowers just started and then fields of both in flower. Snaking along a ridge, down into valley back up and around.  We see log bee hives suspended in trees and gigantic cactus trees- Euphorbia Candelabra. Many types of Acacia, Sausage trees, Baobab, Mangos and so many more species to investigate.
 This is where we all came from. The Rift valley over to the west, Olduvai gorge to the north. On some level, I've come home.

Reflections on Deutschland

It was great to settle down awhile in Germany. Eckard and Hedda were most accommodating and gracious hosts on our revisit.Their quiet country retreat, with few responsibilities,  gave us time to slowdown even further and allowed for explorations in the immediate vicinity.
 I recall it being cold; crisp days bundled up in our meager winter clothing, (thank goodness for long johns!) Visits to towns where I was continually enthralled by the old architecture, stone embellishments, faces and figures honouring some past individual or perhaps the sculptor himself.  The churches seemed understated, less light and colour,  with mostly more design than depiction in the glasswork. Some impressive bells though and lots of them.
I drove Eckard's van along narrow country roads into rural Saxony and spotted a wooden caravan parked off the road. Later I found out, it's a mobile beekeeping operation.
 We visited a thousand year old oak held together with strapping and guy wires. Watched trains go by with children going to school coming out of a roadless valley.
 I was happy to see so many folks bicycling around, young and old. Matrons and patrons with their baskets and cloth bags of groceries packed onto a bike and wheeled home. Students, parents with children,  a constant stream of riders on the cycle designated sidewalks in the cities.

 Hung out in Ahrensburg, the "burg"  denotes a castle or fortress where the "king/baron/landowner had ensconced himself and family.The Church would be (and was) somewhere close by due to his patronage and surrounded by the local peasantry who worked the fields to supply this individual with all he needed, mostly.
We took daytrips by train, convenient, quick and affordable into Hamburg. Then board the subway on the same fare taking us all over. Cobblestone roadways, pedestrian friendly walkways and the endless brand name clothing stores that seem to be taking over the world.

In the harbour, we took the official tour, viewing ships being loaded and unloaded simultaneously in one of the biggest  container ports imaginable. It's history stretches way back, the evidence on the buildings, the river tidelines visible on the bricks. These warehouses are now converted into offices and trendy addresses with pulleys above and big doors near the water level. The modern and the historic side by side.
 One evening a drive through the red light district, near the spot the Beatles worked out their licks, and to the fish market, anecdotes and observations peppering the tour.
 We walked some in Blumenthal, so flat and framed by the dike beside the river. I  correctly speculated on the history of the farmland, how the first people had filled in the marshland  built dikes and settled this fertile plain. Elke's brother-in-law Frank filled in the details, of how at one point most of the community picked up and moved a few Km away, taking their houses, animals, etc. to higher ground.
Another train ride to Lüneburg an old guild town, remarkable brick work, an organ that Bach played in a well embellished baroque church. In the canal/river a sailboat between two bridges it's mast tall as the bridge.

Just before leaving the country we drove out to the mouth of the Elbe and the North Sea. There is something compelling about the ocean, I knew I wouldn't be close for a while.  I took a taste to hold in my heart till next time.
Overall I enjoyed my time in Germany: an efficient transportation system makes travel easy, the history was accessible, stimulating, and intriguing. The people out and about somewhat aloof, reserved. Like the minimalist advertising everywhere (except the city), they don't make it a big deal or a spectacle. Generally (always dangerous making generalizations!) people seemed not unfriendly but uninterested in strangers.
Elke's family and friends though, were most welcoming and wanting to practice their English. By the time we left, my ear had adjusted, and I was beginning to say a few words in German.

Barcelona to Paris

Elke had located us a hotel in Barcelona via the internet. The taxi driver had never heard of it, but his GPS and a phone book got us there in driving rain that night. Another strange bedroom, the bed just long enough. We watch Spanish tv news, rivers rising, flooding all around.
In the morning it is still raining. We walk to as many Gaudi buildings as possible, taking pictures between taxis and showers.

Stop for lunch to dry off then to the ultimate Gaudi building... the still uncompleted Cathederal.
It is quite magnificent, inside, the glass, the columns, the sheer audacity of it is mind boggling. There are interpretive displays describing the man and his work, scads of tourists and much for the eye to gaze upon.

The climb up is closed due to the weather and when the power goes off briefly we get a different perspective. Down in the basement (He's buried there!) more about the man and the work to create a building so grand.
Stepping out we ride the subway to the main post office to retrieve our shipped ahead mail from Algecera. Another ride to the train station to secure our passage north.
That evening we enjoy a nice meal at one of the many restaurants close by, it is great to have so many choices.
Later we hang out in a bar that triggers many student memories for Elke. I feel old until two very marginal characters come in. They're part of the group that sings, tells stories and makes noise outside our hotel room at the all night bar across the road.
This is another place to return to, the weather has dampened our enthusiasm and our Eurailpass has only three more days of travel within the week.
Onward! Into France. Matthew has been waiting patiently (I suppose) It's hard to tell when we're communicating via email on a Kindle. We change trains in Lyon and take the commuter line west to St Etienne. Then the tram to the last station as the train wasn't running any further.
From the tram I spot Matthew buying fruit. From the back across a street I recognize my son.
A wonderful reunion, a nice meal and a long bed. Finally, not a hotel! Time to reflect and kick back, see some sights and take the days without that sense of having to be somewhere soon.
We climb the hill behind  their apartment, finding magical mushrooms,

 and great views of the surrounding area.  Then descend into a clothes shopping spree with Elke. Actually it was a highlight!
We visit Matthew's fave coffee shop, Mary's and wander the town.
Sabrina, Matthew's partner was working till the weekend. The night before we take them out for dinner and have Raclette. Matthew is definitely in cheese heaven here.
Saturday morning we all squeeze into Sabrina's car and head up into the mountains for a hike; ancient stone installations, amazing views and menhirs!

Then south to visit her parents.
On the way we check out a troglodyte village up on the side of a mountain. A carved out hillside in sandstone, both new from the 1940's and older habitation side by side.

Another great meal, a lot of challenging (I thought I knew how to speak French!) conversations. Sabrina's dad tells me the river flooded to their stairway, it is just out of view across the fields, vineyards and orchards of this rural landscape. In the morning we do a tour of the Ardeche valley. We drive by one of those recently discovered caves covered in ancient art, paintings thousands of years old.
The river, a favourite kayaking destination, shows oxbows and arches in the rock, canyons to rival many others, narrow gorges and ...fog. Still beautiful and awe inspiring. Yet ANOTHER place to return to. Castles, one lane bridges and a long drive back that night.
Next stop Paris! OMG! the Paris subway, Montmarte, the Eiffel Tower,

Arc De Triomphe,
the Louvre and Notre Dame...
Yes all of that and more in two short days.
It is November after all.
11 Euros for a coffee and Hot Chocolate, beautiful glass in the cathedrals, stone sculpture everywhere, busts of the famous "fathers of France". An intimate little Italian, family run (many generations) restaurant, endless miniature Eiffel towers for sale, the list goes on. And Paris is so full of itself!
The metro was efficient and entertaining. I watched a fellow across the track, obviously feeling the effects of the bottle he was most of the way through, attempting to chat up a lady. He made eye contact across the tracks and we had an amusing exchange for both of us.
Suddenly the last day of the Eurailpass is upon us. In the morning we board the train and continue north, back into Germany.

Safi to Barcelona

Time to see the sea again. I choose Safi, pronounced Asfi, a confusing detail when buying a ticket to get there. The guide book had no information, only warning that El Jadida further north is the playground of the Casablanca folks and not really tourist oriented. The map was not much help either.
More dirty train windows. I was tempted to run outside when it stopped to wipe them clean, a risky venture without knowing how long we'd be in each station. Lots of people getting on and off, likely returning home from the holiday.
Arriving safely in Safi we schlepped our bags across the road to a cafe and sat watching the other passengers slowly dwindle away, picked up by taxis, trucks and buses. Since we didn't know where we were going it seemed prudent to ask someone in the cafe. With the little info we garnered I stood on the road waiting for a taxi.
Where did they all go? Eventually a fellow with a truck (we rode in the back to start with) took us from one hotel to another till a suitable room with a long enough bed was found.
The town has no real beach, a big harbour, a naval base and a promenade along the cliff. Walking there, we speak with a couple of men who talk about, among other things, the sulphur coming from Vancouver to make matches(?). I recalled the great piles of it on the north shore, visible from the Lion's gate bridge.
We wandered through the Medina and now having some experience, successfully purchased a few items.
Due to the holiday the only restaurant open was a specialty chicken place and what a deal! Soup, bread and a delicious spice mix on the more than abundant meal. No other choices! So much for seafood.
In the morning I found a manhole cover worth photographing.


On the bus north, fields and fields of vegetables both sides of the road and adjacent to the lagoon-like inland waterway. Looks like a great kayak destination.



The young men in the seat in front of us wanted to talk (French) and later in El Jadida they take us to a great hotel.








After arranging our room we headed to the beach where we saw a camel and pony (dog and pony show?) all decked out for rides along the sand. Our friends from the bus were having tea and coffee in one of the many establishments along the promenade so we joined them getting more lowdown on the town.

The Medina there is a an old Portuguese fortification, the souk or market takes place across the road and up a main street, fruit, veggies, spices and meats off to one side then clothing, pottery and everything else lining three streets around. I found us a place to sit at a juice bar, a triple coloured treat of avocado, strawberry and mango.

For the first time in Morrocco we saw beer for sale, although no women in any of the establishments catering to such trade. I purchased a few to go and we enjoyed a quiet beer over dinner in our hotel room.

The folowing day walking north along the promenade past football (soccer) players, surfers and fellow walkers spotted an immense seemingly abandoned building. I imagined... real estate opportunities...
On our way to the train the next morning overhead a flock (!) of Storks flying inland.

We'd been told "Casablanca is not worth visiting". Since we were changing trains there anyway, we enjoyed breakfast at the cafe across from the station watching myriad "petite"taxis dropping off and picking up. Each registered and numbering in the thousands! We made a contest of spotting the lowest number while waiting for our train back to Tangier.
Our plan had been to spend the night but it seemed possible to take the ferry that evening. After walking along the promenade looking to exchange our local money (good only for novelty outside Morocco) a generous cabbie dropped us sans fare at the ferry slip. More than one company and more than one ferry made for confusion.
The trip across, in the dark and rather rough made picture taking untenable. But the bus waiting at Tarifa was a relief, and I was happy to surrender my last piece of chocolate to a fellow passenger with insulin challenges on our way to Algecera.
Another night in the hostel next to the market, this time at the back of the building! Not a sound did I hear.
The (only) afternoon train in Spain ran mainly in the rain, through some awesome terrain... back to Ronda! And then on to Barcelona, one of our original destinations...

the tour

We signed up for a three day excursion. Bring a change of clothes, camera, water and some lunchtime snacks. But...
Buyer beware with these guys!
We found three different prices, possibly three different tours and everyone meets at the same place, at the same time is assigned a bus and we all go off together!
Does driving here in Marrakech look scary? How about through the High Atlas? Hairpin turns one after another as we climb and climb, snow patches beside the road. An incredible vista at every turn, drops of a thousand feet, tiny villages clustered in the valleys and up the hillsides. Jokes are made about all the pictures being taken, and I cannot take enough to really show what we experienced. At one point later on a group of motorcyclists went by, one had a camera on his helmet. Now that's how to record it.
I'm reminded of Afghanistan, Pakistan or Turkey none of which I have actually seen... A brutal landscape, the greenery limited to watercourses, rivers and irrigation once we are on the other side and into rain-shadow. Along the river benches; alfalfa, apples, apricots, olives and pomegranates, poplar, walnuts and almonds, figs and dates.
We visit Ait Benhaddou site of many popular movies and spent time wandering up through this mud and stone city that is at least 500 years old. Renovated of course but still evoking a time before this...
Then on through breathtaking geology, as the sun sets (pictures taken, out and through the window) into Dades Gorge.
In the morning, the holy day, we inch our way through the throngs dressed almost entirely in white returning from morning prayers at the mosque. Visit a vast garden valley and the Berber weavers. "No, as much as I love that carpet, I am not buying it." A visit to Todra Gorge and a brief stop to view ancient fossils polished smooth for tabletops and sinks, attractive, not within my budget and heavy. As I recall, we are backpacking.
The sand begins encroaching on the road. I see what look like animal pens with sand drifting in, some obscured in all but one corner. We approach our last stop of the day, the biggest dune I can imagine.
This is the Sahara, dune buggies roaring around on the big dune and a group of camels waiting patiently to carry us into the next phase of the adventure. We all climbed on and as the camels rose off their knees, they pitched forward, then back to upright. Once settled they strode slowly, rhythmically as the guides led us into the desert.
The ride was timed to coincide with the setting sun. Try as I might it was near impossible to capture as I grasped both the camera and the metal bar on the saddle. I pitched from side to side back and forth. Enraptured by the sand and flowing vistas, yet unable to capture much of it, I stowed the camera...





Near dusk we arrived at a small encampment of tents, where tea was served. Then music and eventually dinner, in tagine of course.

Rising early to hands clapping we packed and remounted the camels, to trek back in the sunrise. I wanted to spend an hour or three photographing shadow and sand, tufts of grass and tiny footprints.
Instead, breakfast then back in the bus. We stopped briefly a few times but drove constantly, arriving as promised back in Marrakech at the predicted time. Sadly, early on, the camera batteries gave out.
The sunset especially and vistas on return even more spectacular than the trip in. If I return I'll rent a car, stop when I want and take a few more days to do it, now that I know the route.

Marrakech

That song ran through my head, people got on and off, rain pounded against the windows, the train got slower and slower... 3 hours late it arrived. A taxi ride to the Medina and another Ryad.
In the morning we hear the bleating of an animal down below. Looking down I could see a grilled hole in the centre of the room into the main kitchen where the animal was being kept.
Looking up, another balcony and then a covering over an opening which used to be open to the skies. Makes for good airflow (drying laundry!) and interesting acoustics.
Up on the roof it was possible to see all around, the ubiquitous satellite dishes and mosque towers along with the hint of mountains to the south through the smog. Impossible for me anyway, to get a sense of where we were in the Medina with just roof tops as far as one could see.

Out the front door a press of people, mopeds and motorcycles whizzing past, shopkeepers enticing us with offers of tea and promises that we don't have to buy anything. Yeah right.

However there seemed to be less push, less intensity and I felt a more friendly atmosphere than Fez.

The experience there had jaded me slightly so I was more wary and we spent more time exploring outside the Medina, watching numerous sheep go by trussed and not, transported in all manner of vehicles.

I spotted Chicken of the woods (a mushroom!) in a park
and a dinosaur slide.




It was tempting of course, so many baskets, musical instruments, carpets and beautiful handcrafts. We watched a master craftsman felting bowler hats in rainbow colours and Elke almost bought some shoes.
Always there were more photographic opportunities, examples of the plaster and tadelakt in the Royal Theatre, museum and Koranic school, plus wandering around looking for lunch down one passageway after another finding ourselves not where we expected.











The big square beside the Medina in Marrakech, Djemaa el Fna is deservedly famous for it's musicians, storytellers, snake charmers and food stalls. Night time brings out masses of people, motorcycles streaking through the crowds horns beeping, l.e.d. lights shot skyward on mini parachutes, and every food stall with a man or two trying to lure us in to sit and eat. Each one "the best" and when a customer returns the next night spontaneous applause from the cooks and waiters. This IS a competition!
A variety of cuisine, from vegetarian to animal organs, including stalls dedicated just to snails. We had seafood one night, finishing off with spice chai and some strange dessert, looks like chocolate but isn't, sweet with a chalky consistency.
Standing beside a crowd listening as men played a variety of unfamiliar instruments ... wait I recognize the drum, the tambourine and is that a BANJO?!
We're "invited" in to sit after dropping a few coins in the hat. These masters of persuasion had tourists joining with the woman dancing. Elsewhere a heavily made up woman dancing... then the penny drops, it's actually a man!






In the morning the juice stand vendors won't let you by easily, not making eye contact is the best strategy, although fresh squeezed orange or grapefruit is hard to resist.


Water sellers, horse drawn carriages, henna tattoos for luck, incense and herbal remedies, knit and crocheted hats and men with monkeys.
Those last I found a bit hard to take. Give them money encouraging the enslavement and likely abuse of some innocent humanlike animal?
I don't think so.

In our travels around we saw many offers for excursions, to the desert, ride a camel, see the gorges. We negotiated a good price and in the morning, stood expectantly waiting...