Rock the Casbah - Morocco

Preface:  A couple of paragraphs may require a rating of PG-13 so for any parents who let their kids read this, God help you.  If you are reading this at work, please read it out loud.  Also, I have uploaded many more photos for Morocco at the link on the right.

It's amazing how two points of land separated by a sliver of water can be worlds apart, yet this is what happens while on the ferry crossing the Straight of Gibraltar.  To the north lies Spain where, aside from speaking Spanish with a severe lisp and bulls occasionally chasing you through the streets, most things seem normal to the Western eye.  To the south lies Tangier, Morocco's northern most city and the gateway to North Africa where the cities are composed of labyrinth like medinas filled with artisans, tribesmen, shopkeepers, and lost tourists all surrounded by the grand Atlas Mountains which are in turn  surrounded by the vast Sahara Desert.  These are my favorite places, where civilizations collide, and I was looking forward to getting off the ferry and stepping foot on the African continent.

Below is the route I traveled through Morocco, starting as mentioned in the northern most city of Tangier, then headed south to Fes, then to the desert outside of Merzouga, then through Marrakesh before ending up in Casablanca.

Journey through Morocco:  Tangiers, Fes, Merzouga, Marrakesh, and Casablanca.

Tangiers is undoubtedly the most touristy city in Morocco due to its proximity and ease of access to Europe allowing many day trippers to take the short ferry ride across the Straight and be back before sunset.  Tangier is a beautiful seaside town with camels lazing on the beach hoping no one wants to go for a ride while women covered in head-to-toe black burkas go swimming in the ocean and once submerged immediately turn into something resembling a huge black jellyfish.  The white-washed walls of the city rise from the beach protecting the homes and medina inside and extend upwards to the old casbah or fort that safeguarded the city in days gone by but still stands as one its main attractions.

Morning view from my hotel roof top as the sun begins to bathe the city.

Tourists consider if they want a ride and camels consider if they want to give one.

Locals enjoy the evening view from the battlements left in place on the casbah with Spain in the distance.

Being that there are many tourists means that there are equally as many touts trying to sell you anything you could possibly imagine and many things you don't want to imagine.  Most of the time you almost expect them to pay you for taking this crap off their hands.  As a 35 year old male, I am just not in the market for a pinwheel that lights up or a spinning top that makes a very annoying noise no matter how many times you shove it in front of my face.  On the other hand, my cousin's child has a birthday coming up.  I'll take the annoying noise making spinning top.  Do you gift wrap and ship?

To say the least, eyeing up their customers is not their specialty.  They go for quantity not quality.  However there was one gentleman who must have taken a 2 week online business course because either he could tell by my posture and jaw line that I was a sucker for subtle humor or because I was the only obvious foreigner gathered in a crowd to watch a local children's acrobat performance.  He approached quickly with a monkey in tow and got right to the point, "My monkey likes penis."  Well I appreciate the valuable insight and will make sure to avoid you in the future but monkeys aren't really my thing.  I am more into quality than quantity my friend.  "You pay for penis."  At this point I was unsure of whose penis we were now talking about but was still pretty adamant about not paying for any type of transaction involving this man and his monkey.  Being unsatisfied with my unyielding answer of "No, please go away.  We are at a children's performance and this seems quite inappropriate", he then stuck his hand in his pants.  I thought if this was happening back home I am pretty sure myself, this man, and Bobo Jenkins the monkey would end up sharing a small cell but luckily here, the nearest police were bickering over which way was up on a fallen stop sign.  Luckily also when the man pulled his hand out of his pants he had a handful of peanuts.  A big smile appeared on my face which my friend assumed was just because I was happy to see peanuts but also because, due to my esteemed colleague's accent probably since he was taught English by the British, I now understood that he pronounced peanuts like penis.  Well in that case, how many can I buy.  I'll even help you find more tourists as long as you keep the peanuts hidden and say 'penis' to them until they are about to hit you.  Let's go.

These are the young acrobats.  I thought it better not to show a photo of the tout, his monkey, and the 'penis'.

Shark:  the other white meat.

Tangiers is a great introduction to Morocco.  The medina is just large enough not to get too lost in and it is always easy to find your way since the sea is right beside you as your guide.  Also, the Moroccan seafood is fantastic.  One evening I made my way to a recommended local spot that is somewhat hidden but well known for its seafood.  There wasn't really a menu.  You were just told to sit down and a 5 course meal started showing up consisting of  whatever they had caught and prepared that day which at least meant it was fresh.  Everything from the seafood soup, to the spicy shark, to the whole fish kebabs, to the strawberries and almonds covered in honey for dessert was delicious.  After eating most of the seafood that was available in town I decided it was a good time to head out and take the 6 hour train ride south to Fez.

Fez is one of the oldest trading cities in the world and its medina is world renown packed with homes, hotels, shops, restaurants, butchers, tanneries, bath houses, and everything else that is needed to make a city tick.  New comers who want to explore the shops, or souks, become lost after just a few turns as there are no signs and small corridors lead to large passage-ways to small single-file alleys to old wooden doors to main thoroughfares.  Touts are posted up like vultures to immediately prey on those who are obviously lost and charge them a small fee to lead them out but the entire point of going to Fez is to get lost in the medina and as long as you keep heading in one direction you will come out somewhere.  

Just a portion of the vast medina that is Fez.

My luxurious riad and enthusiastic bellboy.

As usual, I adhered to my strict practice of waiting to think about accommodations until I am enroute to my next destination.  I met a fellow on the train who assured me of the most luxurious accommodations at his friend's new hotel in Fez for a fair price.  After the 'fair price' was negotiated and my train arrived in Fez, I was led through a maze of alleyways before surprisingly ending up at an extremely nice riad, or hotel.  The manager wasn't too happy with the price his friend agreed upon and I wasn't too happy with trying to remember where my hotel was located but after a couple days I had my route to the hotel down and figured the best way to explain it is by video.  After watching this myself it is apparent I am not cut out for making documentaries and will stick to photography but it gets the point across none the less:

Getting up the next morning and seeing my 'friend' from the train in the lobby I knew there was more to it than helping me find nice accommodations.  He told me he was going to buy some carpets to send to his other home in Switzerland and I could come along if I wanted to at least have breakfast there.  Sure breakfast at a carpet shop sounds fantastic.  Of course I knew what I was getting into but I did want to see a carpet shop since they are supposedly some of the best in the world plus it would be entertaining to see how good these guys are.

On the way through the medina to the shop, my 'friend' is telling me that the annual art expo just finished up and now all the artisens, including carpet makers, are selling everything that didn't sell at extremely cheap prices.  That is why he is here and I should feel lucky.  Lucky indeed.  I sent out a Tweet as soon as I could.  We walked into the carpet shop and before my eyes could adjust from the bright sun to the shaded interior I was lead to a comfortable side room where a full breakfast was laid out and told to just relax and enjoy the food.  After breakfast, the pleasantries were over, the gloves came off, and it was time for business.  Here is the cliff note version of how things went:

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Salesman:  Which one do you like?

Me:  Well they are all very beautiful and it is difficult to decide.

SM:  That is ok you can buy many.

Me:  Actually I don't want to buy any.  I just wanted to have a look.

SM:  Which color do you like?

Me:  I guess the blue-green is really nice.

-The salesman claps his hands and barks a few commands at 4 old seemingly crippled men who painstakingly unroll 6 more rugs in front of me.-  

SM:  Which one of these do you like?

Me:  They are all nice but I am really not going to buy any.  And I understand you are using these old men to make me feel sorry for them so please stop asking them to unroll your entire inventory of carpets for me.

SM:  Ok, well just take off your shoes and walk on this.  They are double sided.  This side is for the summer and this side is for the winter.  

Me:  Well I am from Texas and we don't really have winter.  Do you have a side for really hot and really humid?

SM:  Look at the stitching on this one.  Three women went blind while making it.  If you buy it you will support them and their families for 6 months.

Me:  That is unfortunate.  Can I just donate some money to them.  I can't fit a 12 ft x 6 ft rug in backpack.

SM:  That is no problem we can ship it very cheaply.

Me:  More importantly I just do not want to buy one and have no need for it.

SM:  So you can't use it.

Me:  Exactly.  Hence I don't want one.

SM:  Well perfect.  You can sell it when you get back to America and pay for your trip with the profit.  Look at this book signed by previous customers.  Daren and Kate from Australia wrote, "We bought 8 carpets and sold them when we got back home.  It paid for our entire trip and we also had enough extra money to pay off our student loans, buy the Outback Steakhouse franchise, start a koala/kangaroo breeding foundation (how cute would their babies be), fund a new Australian Space Agency, buy our own airplane to fly back, buy more carpets, and sign this book to tell everyone about this amazing deal.”

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I will say being able to start my own space agency and breed kangoalas was intriguing but I had had enough and was ready to leave.  Plus after refusing to buy a carpet so many times, I got kicked out and never saw my 'friend' again. 

Elbow-to-elbow traffic in the Fez medina.

After getting kicked out, I was left to roam the crowded medina on my own and in no time had another tout at my hip.  This one wanted to show me a leather shop/tannery.  Sure why not.  It's still the morning and I was hoping to get kicked out of three shops by midday.

Once inside the shop, I was handed over to the proprietor who seemed more perturbed that I interrupted  his black and white soap opera re-run of 'Esek, the Donkey that Always Sleeps' than interested in making a sale.  He haphazardly lead me through four stories of hand crafted leather goods which were all actually very nice but out of walls and walls of women's brightly colored slippers, they didn't have any in my size and if I couldn't get the slippers, why would I buy a matching handbag.

After we finished the fourth floor he asked if I would like to see the terrace and before I could answer he handed me two small mint leaves and began leading the way.  As soon as we stepped foot on the terrace there was a foul odor in the air.  He looked back and could see the disapproving look on my face and the mint leaves still in my hand as I was unsure what they were for.  He motioned to roll them up and place them in my nose to help mask the stench.  I wished I would have had these when I was strolling through the meat market.

We walked to the edge of the roof top and below at ground level to my surprise was a vast open area of small pits filled with different colored water with some men running back and forth carefully between them.

The old-fashioned tanneries of Fez.

This was a sight I had seen before in travel magazines and on tv but never thought I would stumble upon it here in Fez.  These are the oldest tanneries in the world and they have been operating in the same way for centuries turning animal hide into workable leather using techniques founded during the medieval period.  I immediately had to get down there although once in the tannery it was quickly apparent that flip flops weren't ideal foot apparel for the ground level tour with buckets of lye, vats of pigeon dung, and all states of animal hide spread about.  I gingerly made my way through.

The process:
They bring in stacks of animal pelt on the backs of donkeys through the narrow and packed alleyways of the medina.  Once unloaded, lye is applied to help remove any of the fur or hair left after shearing.  Then the hides are put in pits of water and pigeon dung where the workers stand waste deep and work on the hides like grape crushers at a vineyard to soften them up.  They are left to soak for a few days, then taken out and washed in a gigantic manual tumbler before being dyed and set out to dry.  It is quite an amazing process to behold and every chemical they use is natural from the lye to the pigeon dung to the dyes:  saffron for yellow, henna or madder root for red, indigo for blue, cutch from the acacia tree for brown.

Esek the donkey ready for his rest.

Applying lye with a smile.

Vats for dye.

The large wooden tumbler to wash the leather.

Yellow leather soaked in saffron set out to dry on the roof tops.

The final product - shoes to decorate your shop walls.

This was a live falcon.
Didn't ask what it cured.

After the rug shop and the tannery I was done with guides and spent the next couple days just getting lost and finding something interesting around every corner.  The local Berber pharmacies were always a favorite and interesting to walk into never knowing what you would find.  They had a plethora of different mostly dead animals to choose from and shelves of twisted twigs and roots soaking in some type of odorous fluid.  While doing a bit of online research on Fez I came across one man's comments on a pharmacy item:  "Don't eat the seed-pod like things the proprietor offers you. Although he's eating them also, they are very high in estrogen and can cause a man's nipples to be sore for several days afterwards."
(Note to self :  Next time at the pharmacy, find medicine for sore nipples.)

This is what they wanted me to wear.
I stuck with my own traditional garb.

Fez is remarkable but after so many days exploring the medina It gets a bit suffocating.  Luckily the Sahara Desert is just down the street.  I took a 12 hour bus ride over the Atlas Mountains to the ends of the earth in Merzouga for a camel trip into the desert.  It wasn’t really high season so I was the only participant in the camel caravan.  My guide walked in front of me sometimes talking on his cell phone but after 15 minutes we were past the first dune and surrounded by endless desert.  We rode about 2.5 hours to a site of Berber camps and a little oasis tucked below a mountainous sand dune.  It was definitely peaceful and relaxing sleeping in the open on a mat with just the stars overhead.  My guide told me next time I came I should come with him to where he is from.  It is only 5 days more by camel into the desert.  I told him that just after 2 hours on that camel my ass was pretty sore but I knew a monkey in Tangiers that might make a good travel companion.

A one-camel caravan.

My Berber guide pretending to sooth his camel.  They are one of the most ornery creatures I have ever met.
I guess I would be in a foul mood as well if I was the beast of choice to carry people
and their belongings through the desert.

Our camp for the night.  I slept in the middle on a very nice carpet with just the stars overhead.

After this I headed back into the thick of things to Marrakesh.  If Fez is the heart of Morocco then Marrakesh is its cultural capital.  Home to the busiest square in all of Africa, Jemaa el-Fnaa, which means 'Assembly of Trespassers'.  It is still filled every night as it has been for years with snake charmers, fortune tellers, Berber musicians, magicians, baboons, and all those that come to witness the spectacle.  The only thing that probably hasn't been here for centuries is the 'ring around the coke bottle' game:

Locals can't get enough of trying to put a ring around a bottle of coke.

Snake charmers aren't that charming.

Lights at night in Jemaa el-Fnaa Square.

What's for dinner - the entire sheep's head or just the brain?  Kids eat free.

Aside from Jemaa el-Fnaa, Marrakesh is filled with the grandest palaces, tombs, gardens, medinas, and people watching Morocco has to offer.  The main medina in Marrakesh isn't as lived in as the one in Fez and is set up more for tourist shopping resembling something akin to Aladdin's Cave when you enter.

There are plenty of restauranteurs vying for your appetite and money as you walk the streets especially around Jemaa el-Fnaa but it offers the best people watching.  One day during a lunch time stroll a friendly lad presented me with an overly adequate menu so I decided to have  a seat and watch the crowd meander by.  After taking some time to finally decide what I wanted from the exhaustive choices, I called the waiter over and pointed to my first pick.  The waiter then told me they were out of that.  I pointed to my second item.  That is not good.  I pointed to my third item.  We don't make that any more.  Ok, just tell me what I can get.  Kebab.  Ok give me that.  So the waiter went and pulled a few kebabs out of the warmer that were probably made yesterday and I gnawed at them for a while at least enjoying the parade of people passing by.  Luckily there was a cheap ice cream place just next door.  The ice cream was delicious but as a piece of advice make sure to have it finished before the sand storm roles in or it gets a bit gritty.

After my travels through Morocco with just one more short stop to go before leaving the country I decided to indulge myself and relax in a hamam or traditional bath house.  There are separate hamams for men and women of course and it's basically a sauna/bath/massage place where you can get bathed and massaged by a full grown man for a small fee.  Who could pass that up?  The description calls it a relaxing massage and bath but it seems more akin to some practices during the Salem witch trials with the amount of contortions they put you in and scrubbing they do.  I definitely admitted I was a witch more than once but that didn't seem to be enough to make it stop.  I will say that they thoroughly scrub every inch of whatever is exposed.  I had on my swimming trunks but the local attire seemed to be a just a pair of tighty whities. You might think it a bad idea to go into a hot bath house in a town that is situated in the desert however it is so hot inside that the 100 F degree temps outside seem relatively cool afterwards.

Once I was thoroughly satisfied with my time in Marrakesh, I left one day for Casablanca before I flew out.  For all it's fame and lore, there really isn't much to see in Casablanca even though it is Morocco's largest city and is home to the largest mosque in North Africa.  Even the famed Rick's Cafe was just recently built a few years ago to satisfy tourists.  Of course I went.   

Rick's Cafe - Best meal I had eaten in a long time accompanied with Casablanca Beer.

The inner courtyard of the massive Hassan II Mosque.
Third largest mosque in the world.  Tallest minarets in the world.
Capacity of 25,000 worshippers inside, 80,000 outside.

I know that was a long read and if you made it this far, thanks.
Hope everyone is doing well and always great to hear from everyone or anyone.
Only one more entry until I am caught up to my current location.  Five points for anyone who knows where I am now.

Cheers,

JB

Self-portrait:  Here's lookin' at me.

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Unpaid Advertisement:

I have no idea what it tightens but he guaranteed results.

My buddy with the monkey from Tangier asked me to advertise some of his other products and in return he would give me a cut in any new sales.  So the next time you are in Tangier please stop in at his shop and make sure to mention my name;)

Crossing the Pond - Part 3

After spending four days exploring the solid ground of Faial we decided it was time to pull anchor and start again before we lost our sea legs.  Plus, the boys had somehow managed to both get into trouble so it was none too soon to depart.  William had a bounty on his head after knocking over a light post in the city park during one late night of drunken amusement.  It may have been me but we all agreed to blame William.  And Filip was blamed for impregnating 2 women, a goat (male), and a post office box all in the same night.  Aside from the seemingly scientific marvel he had pulled off, we found it best to leave at once.

We left the cramped docks of Horta on June 1, 2012 just around noon with about a weeks worth and 1,300 nm of sailing ahead of us which felt like a mere day trip after the 2+ weeks it took to get to the Azores.  Our sail back to the open ocean started under blue skies as we passed Pico, the island just east of Horta and probably the most picturesque with its perfectly conically shaped peak and just a feathering of clouds drifting lightly across its top.  Below is a short video proving our whereabouts, that being the ocean, and that I was allowed to helm the boat as long as Paul's watchful eye was nearby;)

The sail east kept the wind to our backs but it was still shifty both in speed and direction forcing us off the rum line and to run the motor more than we would have liked.  Both before the Azores and after we were accompanied by large pods of dolphin which was always a delight and got everyone up on deck.  They played in front of the bow teasing the boat onward as we looked them in the eye letting them know we were happy for the visit.  Once they had had enough, they were gone just as fast as they arrived.  One day instead of a pod of dolphins, we were surrounded by a pod of massive tuna, almost the size of dolphins.  Obviously not as playful as the dolphins but they stayed with the boat for a good while however not long enough to catch one.

Probably the most memorable encounter, for Paul at least, occurred one early morning just as the sun was rising and he was alone towards the end of his shift.  A hump back whale came up just meters from the side of the boat unnoticed until it exhaled from its blow-hole giving Paul quite the wake up call before it dove back down to the depths below.

With time on our hands during slow days I wrote a message in a bottle and tossed it overboard about 32  N, 61 W so if you are in the area keep on the alert.  There may be a reward if found and by 'may' I mean there isn't.

Unfortunately there is no audio but we were playing 'Message in a Bottle' by Sting.
At least I was in my head while trying to not fall overboard.

At times there was no wind at all and Paul cut the engine so we could have a dip and say we had swum in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean with thousands of feet of water below us.  The 18 C (64 F) water temp was a big difference from the 28 C (84 F) water temp we last enjoyed in St Martin so we didn't stay in for too long.

Filip holding on to the boat since he can't swim.  The swim mask is for his sensitive eyes.

We all felt like old hands on the boat and everyone knew their part well.  However a story about crossing the ocean wouldn't be a good story without at least one problem.  Our's turned out to be the forward toilet.  For a few days we had noticed it wasn't flushing correctly and actually backfilling.  Luckily we were on downwind with the boat flat.  Had we been on upwind heeled over even the slightest it would have made quite the mess.  We began to trouble shoot the problem and to my great fortune all the plumbing for the forward toilet lies behind the panels in the v-berth, where I had taken up residence.  There had been a slightly foul odor I had noticed on occasion but Filip and William were both in the small room next to mine so I figured it was just from them.  However, after taking apart most of the v-berth we found our problem.  The overboard pipe had a small outflow of black water at one of its fittings which meant we had a clog somewhere in the system.

On a side note, whoever designed a boat to have so many small screws holding on so many large panels obviously never intended for them to be taken off, much less while at sea.  This should have been our first sign of what was in store.

Well after we banged on every pipe, fitting, and tank in sight we also realized that the clog had been there for some time because the holding tank was also filled to the gills hence the leakage from the fitting and the back flow into the toilet.  We all stared at the pipes for a good while hoping they would say something like, "Well boys, we can see you have put in a good effort already to find the problem so we will go ahead and fix ourselves otherwise it's going to get really messy."  Unfortunately not a word from the pipes was to be heard.

Once realization struck us as to what had to be done, we looked around for any volunteers.  None were to be found.  Fixing this on solid ground would have been a job in itself but on the forward end of sailboat while underway in the middle of the ocean added an entirely new level of consternation.  So Filip and I donned gloves, masks, life jackets, and any other protective wear we could find while Paul oversaw the operation and William was at the helm all the happier to extend his shift while we did the dirty work down below.  To do this we had to disconnect a meter long hose which had one end connected to the holding tank that was full and the other end that went overboard through a hole in the floor well below the water line.  Both ends posed severe problems.  The end connected to the holding tank we knew was back filled and would be extruding extremely black water as soon as we disconnected it.  The other end we had to make sure wasn’t damaged as it was below the water line and we would have had a 6 foot high water spout inside the boat.  In case you aren’t aware, any type of water spout is bad inside a boat while at sea or otherwise.  The only things that should have water spouts are narwhales and hot thermal geysers, neither of which should be inside a boat.

At this point, I think everyone gets the picture so I'll leave out all the gruesome details.  We managed to get the hose off, get the clog out, get the hose back on, empty the holding tank, and restore the toilet to its nominal working condition without sinking the boat or turning the v-berth into a sewage treatment facility.  Luckily we had filmed the entirety of our operation and sent it off to Phoenix College online where Filip and I were awarded honorary degrees in plumbing at sea.  Definitely going on my resume.  Now all that was left to do was sail the boat to Gibraltar and not clog any more toilets.

As we drew closer to the Straight the ship traffic picked up immensely and the sailing became a bit rough but soon enough land was in sight.  The tide and wind were both with us as we sailed on through the Straight of Gibraltar with Europe to our north and Africa to our south.  For the ancient Mediterranean sea-farers sailing west, this straight marked the end of the world and was known as the Pillars of Hercules marking the farthest west Hercules traveled to perform his twelve labors.  For us it marked the completion of our eastward journey across the Atlantic Ocean.  We hugged the Spanish coastline and soon had the Rock of Gibraltar in our sights standing alone like a welcoming centurion.  We arrived safely in the calm waters below Gibraltar on the morning of June 9, 2012.  Twenty-seven days and 3000 nm after leaving St. Martin our transatlantic crossing was an unforgettable success.

Cheers to Filip, William,  and Paul for an amazing journey.

Both local and foreign boats fill the docks under the protection of Gibraltar.

Unfortunately this was the getting off point for William and myself but not the final resting spot for New Dawn.  We said our goodbyes knowing we had made the trip of a lifetime together.  William went to catch a plane while Filip stayed on for a few more days and helped Paul get the boat to Mallorca and then he had to jump ship as well.  The only one who had time and leisure enough to sail New Dawn to her final destination in the South of France was her owner and skipper, Paul.  After spending some time in Mallorca getting a few things fixed up, he made the final few day-sails alone in somewhat rough conditions until both boat and captain were settled in at their home port.

Back at Gibraltar, the timing also worked out well as Crystal was en route to Nigeria to start her Doctors Without Borders work and was able to stop in Spain on her way there.  Somehow with just the not so accurate gps location from my Spot Tracker she was able to locate where our boat was anchored and was waiting on shore all smiles when our dinghy pulled in.  It was great to see a welcoming face and warm smile on the other side of the pond.

Crystal and I just a had a few days together in the area before she departed so we spent most of the time exploring Gibraltar.  You would think that it wouldn't take that long to explore a large rock but to our pleasant surprise there was much more to see there than expected.  Those are my favorite kind of places.

The Rock of Gibraltar is a pinnacle of limestone that juts 1,400 ft above the sea below it.  As one would assume it gave a mighty advantage for military dominance to whomever commanded its precipice being that it guarded the entrance to the Mediterranean and has changed hands countless times throughout history.  The final country to lay claim to it  was Britain in 1704 although their authority over the Rock was not without contest.  During the 18th century both French and Spanish forces tried unsuccessfully to reclaim Gibraltar as their own with their 14th and final attempt known as the Great Siege lasting from July 1779 to February 1783.  The tunneling and vantage point of the British forces were too much for any imposing force to overcome.

This was not the last of the tunnels to be carved through the Rock.  At the peak of World War 2, in preparation to defend Gibraltar from a German invasion that never happened, enough space was carved out to hold 16,000 men.  The British military brought in Canadian miners who specialized in removing limestone to dig out close to 36 miles of tunnels most of which are abandoned and off limits today but nonetheless an amazing feet in size and scope.

Just the beginning of endless tunnels some large enough to fit easily fit an 18-wheeler.

Crystal saluting her fellow country men who were really good at digging holes into rocks.

While these tunnels were being dug out, the miners stumbled upon a vast natural cave system that became known as St Michael's Cave.  So large and beautiful that a full concert theatre has been built in one of its chambers that holds the annual Miss Gibraltar Beauty Pageant along with weddings, concerts, parties, and in the past duels.  Reservations must be made years in advance to book this one of a kind venue.  No refunds on duels no matter the outcome.

The amphitheater of St. Michael's Cave.  I am somewhere in this picture .... I think.

No matter how one gets to the top of Gibraltar, whether it is by car, foot, tram, of hot air balloon, you are immediately greeted by a welcoming troop of Barbary Macaques.  These are the only primates that are known to reside in Europe.  (I could insert a joke here about the French or Italians but I will refrain.)  Their numbers have fluctuated drastically over the years however thanks to a legend that reads if the Macaques should ever die out completely, whoever controls Gibraltar shall lose it, Winston Churchill set up a nature reserve in 1942 on top of the Rock to ensure the declining population again proliferated.  Now the Macaques are so thick and have become so accustomed to tourists that the later are used as playground equipment when the monkeys are playing about.    

The British Flag, Gibraltar Flag, and Barbary Macaques greet you at the top.

The primates - takes one to know one.

Pondering the swim back home to Africa in the distance.

Two tourists take advantage of the view from up top with Spain spanning the horizon to the north.

Once we had our fill of monkeys, caves, and breathtaking 360 views, we headed back down into town where there was even more going on.  Apparently it was the Queen's Diamond Jubilee year.  I'm not really sure what that meant but it seemed to have thrown the citizens of Gibraltar into quite a frenzy.  They were quite keen on having the town decorated in so much British decor that it appeared the buildings had vomited a flag, banner, or anything with blue and red on it, underwear included, out of every high-rise window and taped on every store front.  We weren't getting a visit from the royal highness herself but from what I understood the just slightly less royal Earl and Countess of Wessex were coming in her place.  Once they arrived and toured the narrow streets, the town went off in a crescendo of excitement only to be compared to something one would see at a monster truck rally championship in America.  It also seemed to give the local Brits a reason to dress their children up and wear even odder clothes than usual.

I assumed their was somebody famous in this photo.

 Hopefully it's obvious who dressed for the occasion. 

One-sies are acceptable in wrestling, figure skating, KISS,
and apparently if royalty is in town.

After these few days, we felt we had conquered most of Gibraltar including a fantastic meat pie and were both ready to begin the next leg of our journey into Africa.  Crystal to Nigeria and myself to Morocco.

Cheers,
JB

Looking across the Straight to our next destination, Africa.

Post-Script:  Here is the proper way to wear a one-sie if dressing up as KISS for Halloween or any other festive occasion including trips to the grocery store for doughnuts and sun tan lotion.

Crossing the Pond - Part 2

On the morning of May 12^th, 2012 we awoke to a welcoming sky and a fair northeast breeze, perfect conditions for our departure.  We eagerly lifted anchor, turned the motor on just long enough to maneuver through the remaining boats moored in the harbor and once clear, we raised sail, cut the engine, and our voyage was officially under way.  The plan was to sail pretty much due north, pinching east as much as the wind allowed until we got into the westerlies which were expected to kick in around Bermuda at a latitude of 32° N.  Then jibe over and ride the waves east to the Azores.  As a starting point of reference St. Martin lies at a lat and long of 17°N, 61°W.  
  

The route which roughly covered 2500 nautical miles of sailing.
About the same distance from the west coast of California to the east coast of North Carolina.

We were all up on deck as we left St. Martin behind and sailed passed Anguilla to our west watching the land until it slipped below the horizon and were left surrounded by nothing but open ocean.  We were excited, anxious, and pensive as to what the Atlantic had in store.  Hopeful that the sea would be kind and we could handle whatever came our way in the 2 - 3 weeks it would take to get to the Azores.

Watching St. Martin fade away.

Sailing on the open ocean has its advantages and disadvantages to sailing along the coast.  The obvious advantage is that with an average depth of thousands of feet, worries about running aground or maneuvering through reefs are thrown to the wind.  The only thing you have to worry about running into are other ships and sleeping whales.  The first of which can be handled easily enough by radar.  The second is only found out when there is a sudden large thud on the hull seemingly stopping the boat in its tracks jolting crew and equipment forward.  And if the damage is extensive enough the boat is going down.  Thousands of feet down.  (I wish this was a joke but it's not.  Upon arriving in the Azores we learned one boat attempting the crossing had struck a whale at night causing a breach in their hull.  They pumped water out continuously for 2 days to no avail as the boat was lost.  The crew were safely picked up by a large tanker as they watched the top of their mast sink below the water line into the abyss below.  No news on how the whale made out. I am sure it now has a severe limp.)  

Now being so far from land, the threat of piracy becomes a non-issue.  Pirates are crazy but as we all know, any good pirate is in turn a poor swimmer, if he can swim at all due to his peg leg.  So straying too far from the nearest shallows fills them with a since of foreboding and an uncomely death by the waters that have served them for so long.  With that being said, being so far from land means you are left to your own devices no matter what comes your way whether it's severe weather or a burst of appendix.  There is no nearby port to slip into for protection or immediate medical assistance.  You've just got your know how and grit to use against the wind and waves and your wilderness survival guide, swiss army knife, and rum to handle the appendix.  Luckily no appendixes were burst in the making of this tale. 

Once land was lost and the horizon became infinite in all directions, we settled into our 3-hour shifts keeping a keen eye on all systems and sea while the autopilot handled the helm.  We were on starboard tack with the boat heeled over about 10 degrees slicing through the 3 - 6 ft waves that were on the offensive and coming at us non-stop.

Life on the edge...especially with William at the helm.

Now New Dawn excelled in these conditions averaging 7 kts/hr sometimes giving us 190 nm in a day, which is superb however life below deck was like living in a tilted carnival fun house on the San Andreas Fault.  It reminded me of when I went on one of those spiny rides at a rodeo carnival just after eating a turkey leg.  The ride operator normally spins it up for a few minutes then gives the next yahoos in line a turn.  Well since no one was in line he decided to give us our moneys worth and kept us spinning despite the cries of anguish and whatever else came up as we swirled passed him.  Ok, the fun is over.  Let's turn this thing off.  No, this was life on the boat for the next few weeks.  

Crawling on all fours seemed like the safest option however it is by far the least efficient and most importantly, unbecoming of a sailor.  After the first day or so everyone new to the boat, which was all of us except Paul, knew where the hand holds where and how to make it fairly safely from the cockpit to their bedroom with a stop in the head for good measure.  What was a nice drawer around your knee when the boat was flat was now a good place for your foot.  What was a window well above your head was now a nice hand hold at eye level.  Cooking in the kitchen was an entirely different story.  These were our living conditions until we would jibe east.

As for sleeping, Paul designated me to the v-berth while Filip and William took the bunks on the starboard side.  Now the v-berth is the most spacious and luxurious cabin after the captain’s quarters and while at anchor is as comfortable as sleeping at home.  However, once underway and plowing through 6 foot waves, the v-berth turns into a catapult of sorts being the most forward point on the boat.  I found there were 3 phases of sleeping up front in the v-berth.  Phase 1 was when all was calm and you are allowed to lay comfortably on the bed as the good Lord intended.  This occurs about 10% of the time.   Phase 2 was when the front of the boat jumps off the top of a wave launching the sleeping victim easily 2 – 3 feet in the air.  Sleeping through this is only possible if one has spent copious amount of time skydiving or living on the International Space Station and is accustomed to sleeping in a zero gravity environment.  This happens 45% of the time.  Phase 3 is probably what you guessed – the landing.  If somehow you have made it through phase 2 without waking up, being slammed back down onto your bed will definitely do the trick.  Luckily, most of the time you are so tired from not being able to sleep that after the jarring wake up call you can fall back to sleep within seconds hopefully to catch some sleep during phases 1 and 2.  I know this seems like quite the paradox but don't think about it too hard.  The closest thing I can think of to compare this to would be like trying to sleep on the back of an extremely pissed off bucking bull.  (I realize that this is two rodeo references in two paragraphs but I am from Texas so it can't be helped.)

The v-berth:  I did have to share my bed with some very frisky gear.

Aside from the pitching motion at the front, the breaking of sea on bow as the boat soars through the waves is a constant bane on even the most deaf of customers.  I have been known to use exaggeration to make my points however no exaggeration is needed to detail the unimaginable noise water can make on smooth fiberglass.  It is as if Poseidon had summoned a beast from the dark depths below to breath flames of death and destruction trying to get through the 35 mm hull so he may devour your soul.  If the flames don't work, he turns to tooth and nail until you are sure he will break through at any second immediately filling the boat with steam and salty water letting you catch a final glimpse of your horrified self in the reflection of his gleaming eye before snapping your head off in one bite.  Other than that it was quite cozy.

It can't always be smooth sailing and on day 3 we had our first troubles.  The autopilot had become spotty and had finally succumbed to life at sea, quitting to work at all.  We were taking 3 hour shifts at the helm which gave us a luxurious 9 hour break in between.  Now with auto gone we would have to hand steer the rest of the journey which is quite physically and mentally taxing.  The captain decided to shorten our shifts to a more executable 2 hours however reducing our time between shifts to 6 hours.  Obviously this was a slight notch to everyone's spirits but it was taken in stride.  We wouldn't be able to relax as much but then again we could say we hand steered across the Atlantic Ocean and I think the last person to do that was the pilot of the Titanic.  He made that ship pretty famous so we felt confident and pressed on north.

Along the way we had copious amounts of time to get to know one another.  Filip and William peppered me with questions on what fraternity life is like in American universities.  I unfortunately had to tell them that I myself was never in a fraternity but from what I gathered the most important thing fraternities taught you was that 'no' doesn't really mean 'no'.  It just means 'slow down'.  They seemed pretty happy with this sacred insight and keen on putting it to good use once back on solid ground.

Paul could not understand the conglomeration of applying peanut butter to one piece of bread and jelly to an opposing piece then putting the two aforementioned pieces together before inserting into your mouth.  Nor could he wrap his head around how the word 'awesome' can be used both literally and sarcastically.  I am certain he still despises that word to this day.

Having three younger men onboard, I take the liberty of including myself in this group, Paul was bound to learn a few hip phrases.  We taught him the remark 'That’s what she said.'  He was very eager to use it, however we had to chastise him the first time he used it since he used it on a sentence he himself said.  We told him this was strictly forbidden and it could only be used after someone else had spoken.  In the end he got the hang of it and couldn't be stopped spewing it forth every chance he got.  (If you thought about saying 'That's what she said' after the last sentence, give yourself one point.  If you actually said it out loud, give yourself 5 points.  Paul, go ahead and give yourself 10 points.)

Aside from the chatter we cooked a lot.  If they really want to have an interesting season of Top Chef they should have it on board a sail boat while under way.  I would have to say we managed fairly well.  The boys made about 132 crepes one day which we ate for 4 days and also their famous meatballs for another meal.  I found out that Swedes don't call them Swedish meatballs.  They just call them meatballs.  I introduced some Tex-Mex and made chicken-of-the-sea quesadillas one night.  Plus we always had our Sunday morning meal of fried eggs and bacon under all circumstances.  Carrying hot grease in a frying pan out of the kitchen below deck to be tossed into the sea from on deck in rough conditions is a skill I will include in my resume from here on out.

Appreciating the inventor of the swivel stove but not the waves.

The drop in temperature was a good sign that we were heading in the right direction and the cooler weather was a welcomed change from the balmy air of the tropics.  Bermuda was just a few hundred miles to our west and the westerlies were finally starting to take shape.  Captain made the official call as we excitedly scampered around the deck to make our first change of direction in 8 days (850 nm) and jibe east towards the Azores.  Now we had the wind behind us and enjoyed the "fair wind and following seas" which flattened the boat out and returned us to a bit or normalcy.

When the chart shows you crossing the words "Atlantic Ocean" you know you are in the middle of it.

Bundled up for a Scandinavian rave or sailing in the northern ocean.

On our downwind leg of the trip the wind was a bit shifty in both speed and direction but always at our back.  We were forced to turn on the motor a couple of times or else we may be still sitting out on the still ocean.  However things picked up as we came closer to the Azores with the wind racing from 20 – 30 knots and the ocean swells building behind us forming small yet looming mountains of sea that cast an ominous shadow on crew and boat alike.  By evening we were all versed at surfing a 50 ft boat down a 30 ft wave well aware that if we got her sideways, we may be going for a swim.  As night fell the waves did not but we had Faial in our sights, the first of the Azores archipelago, and held firm.  I was on shift at the helm as we sailed just south of the pitch black outline of the island occasionally spotting a fleck of light probably from a small house where the occupants where comfortably watching 'I Dream of Genie' reruns with bad Portuguese voice overs.  Once we had the east side of the island to our port, we turned up, dropped sail, and Paul motored us the rest of the way into the safety and calm behind the breakwater. 

We arrived in Faial's port town of Horta, 38°N, 28°W, at 11:30 pm on May 27^th after 16 days and 2678 nautical miles of sailing.  I think Filip, William, and myself completed the last 25 meters to the nearest pub in record time to enjoy a well deserved celebratory libation.

The Azores are the only safe haven between Europe and the Americas.  They lie 850 miles west of the Portuguese mainland and are under its rule.  Captain Joshua Slocum, the first man to sail around the world alone, said when he first cited the Azores,  “Nothing can replace how it is seen from the water,” and how true that is.

Being the only spot of land between the Americas and Europe, everyone pulls into Horta’s port happy to be 2/3’s of the way across and ready to drink and share their stories of trial, adventure, and flat out lies.  Horta’s docks, no matter how much expanded each year, are bursting with boats tied up five deep of the docks.  It didn’t help that the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers (ARC), the largest transatlantic sailing event for cruiser yachts just pulled into town as well.  It was a complete mess when any boat wanted to untie and leave but it was a sight to see, sure to draw a good heap of on lookers, both sailors and land lubbers alike.  If any boat aside from the outermost wanted to untie and leave, it took a small army of crew to make sure the event went as smooth as possible although it rarely did.  It looked like a new event was being forged together worthy of the next Olympics, or the Roman Colosseum, consisting of tight rope walking, destruction derby, and amputations.

A tangle of masts and stays fill the view from the crowded docks in Horta.

We couldn't have arrived at a better time because over the next couple days a severe weather system blew in with 40+ knot winds causing the sea to build and whitecap even in the safety of the harbor's breakwater.  Everyone hunkered down and made sure their boat's lines held fast.  Boats that where unfortunate enough to be stuck out in this system came in as best they could with crew looking like they had just been released from a prison camp.  One boat, while turning the corner into the breakwater, got a line wrapped in its prop and was powerless against wind and wave.  Before anyone could react, it was getting smashed to bits against the seawall with the crew being tossed around like rocks in a rock tumbler.  It was a complete horror to watch and took great effort and time before a coast guard boat was able to safely get a line to them and pull them off.  With the water line just inches below their deck from all the water they had taken on, they were immediately towed to a dry dock without a moment to spare.  The 3 crew were somehow unharmed except for bumps and bruises and their boat was the sight to see in town as water poured out of her for the next 3 days.

Filip debates making an offer to the boat's owner.  Careful lad, it will definitely need a bottom job.

Once all the excitement was over and we were settled in, cleaned up and dried off, we were able to enjoy the sights Horta has to offer.  All the sailors attend Pete's Cafe consistently throughout the day and more consistently at night.  We definitely had our share of food and beverage at this fine establishment.  

A true sailors den covered in flags and lore.

Enjoying the famous kebab with New Dawn's colors hanging on the wall signed by crew.

As Paul had seen the rest of the island once or twice before, he was ok with staying busy on the boat while the boys and I rented a car for a day to peruse about the island.  Once out of the port town of Horta there is hardly a sailor or other tourist to be spotted anywhere.  The island is dotted with small old European style villages that surround a central volcano with picturesque views around every corner.

View of the breakwater and port at Horta.

We were a bit apprehensive about where to stop and eat as out here the locals only speak Portuguese.  We decided on stopping at a place that was an obvious restaurant due to the goat sign hanging above the entrance.  We never got a menu while the mama talked to us for at least 5 minutes in Portuguese.  We just graciously nodded our heads hoping we were ordering something tasty.  We weren't let down.  After a healthy bowl of soup, a large platter was brought to our table that seemed to consist of about 4 lbs of french fries.  Once we dug through this first layer, we hit pay dirt.  Lying deliciously beneath the french fries were about 15 pork chops covered in a tomato/vegetable sauce.  We weren't sure if we were supposed to share this with everyone else at the restaurant because we couldn't possibly eat all this food.  Well given enough time and homemade wine, miracles do happen.  Somehow we ended up with all those chops coming to their demise in our stomachs.  No three gentlemen have ever been fatter and happier.  

Goat sign = Obvious restaurant.

The entree.

After a 2 hour nap outside on the sidewalk (that's as fas as we could make it) to digest the food, we picked up where we left off and headed to the southwest side of the island that is famed for a recent volcanic explosion in 1958 that engulfed the island's lighthouse and added a completely new peninsula to the island's perimeter.  It was an impressive display by mother nature and was comparable to an alien landscape.  I wisely invested, with a tip from a local realtor, or maybe it was a bar maid, in a piece of land that hadn't even formed yet but was sure to turn a profit after the next eruption.

The remains of the lighthouse humbly look over the strength of creation after the 1958 eruption.

Standing on newly formed ground looking west towards the Americas.

Fun Fact:
Horta is also famous for its scrimshaw - word of the day.  This is the dying art of carving detailed images into whales teeth, once extracted from the whale obviously.  Carving scenic pictures into the teeth of a living whale is a completely different art form and Williams' attempts at this craft will be documented in my next blog.  How you can donate funds to Williams' fatherless children will be discussed as well.  

Scrimshaw - a dying art due to the fact that it is now illegal to harvest whale teeth.

Safety Tip:
Before we returned to the boat we made one final stop at the supermarket to resupply our rations for the remainder of the trip.  It was a superb grocery store.  Even the meat was extremely cheap.  Well at least one bin set aside from the rest was priced unbelievably low for the quantity of meat to purchase.  As we loaded up our cart I stepped back and noticed a cheerful picture of dogs eating hardily on the side of the bin.  After the boys and I discussed this odd image in the meat section we came to the conclusion that the meat we were hastily loading into our basket, before other shoppers found out about such a great deal, was either meant to be consumed by dogs or was dog.  Either way we regretfully placed it back and were forced to purchase expensive beef intended for human consumption. 

All good things must come to an end and our time in Horta was coming to a close.  We still had an ocean to cross.  It is a tradition for crew to paint their insignia on the docks or really on any semi-permanent surface they can find around the docks to memorialize that they have successfully passed through the Azores.  We started ours the night before and finished it the morning of departure.

Real estate is scarce for boat and paintings alike.

Not the most amazing but it got the job done.  If you are ever in Horta, look us up.  Pier 33, Dock B7.

Cheers,
JB