Ios Nights

Somewhat dazed, Frank the Nurse, Mr. Saturday Night himself, was roused to consciousness by the relentless heat of the Greek morning Sun and the adventurous flies exploring his nasal cavities in the bright new day.  Swatting the spelunking flies away; Frank sat upright and instantly regretted such turbulent motion to his brain as it sloshed about in his skull.  Squinting, Frank tried desperately to focus his vision through his hangover on something, anything.  Eventually, his bed wear came under his rather groggy scrutiny:  a skirt bunched up round his waist and women’s panties.  
 
"Right," thought Frank, "clearly some inquiries into last night’s memories are in order."  His brain replied back after some delay that such information was temporarily unavailable but to try back later and thanks for calling.  After a few minutes of fumbling Frank managed to shed his bed wear and pull himself into a pair swim trunks and began a slow stumble to the pool.  
 
Across the campground, Louise, clad in Frank’s "Dangerous Cock" boxer shorts, swatted unconsciously at the flies, rolled onto her back and began to snore.  
 
From the deck of the pool, I looked up from my game of chess with Big Frank, to watch a rather haggard Mr. Saturday Night lurch to towards the crisp blue water and topple in, thereby jumpstarting his brain. 
 
Wet, but thinking a bit more clearly as his brain grinded from first to second gear, Frank sat at our table, a pool of water forming under his chair.    "Bob," he began quietly (loud noises were best to avoided), "I’m trying to piece together last night.  Can you explain the women’s clothing to me?"  His eyes desperately sought an answer, and at the same time, dreaded what revelations might be forthcoming.  
 
"It all began with Pip, Frank"  
 
"Pip...." 
 
Given a starting point, Frank’s memory suddenly restored communication with his brain and various fragments of memory started arranging themselves, sliding into place as puzzle pieces do when one realizes the jumble they’re looking at is the leg of the donkey.  
 
I think at this point I should make a short digression to explain Pip, or Pippen.  Now, it’s not as though any of the madness I experienced during my second week on Ios was Pip´s fault, but most of it can usually be traced back to an idea originating in her mind.  Pip comes across as a nice, upbeat, goofy chick though rumor has it an easy way to get her seriously inebriated is to sit down with her and play a game of "I Never."   
 
The idea that came from this nice, goofy mind on the night in question, when four of us:  Pip, Saturday Night, Louise, and I were walking down the thronging alleyways of Ios´ nightlife was, "Hey!  Why don’t we all swap underwear?"  Needless to say we thought this a brilliant idea and after toasting Pip for her ingenious plan with a round of Vodka, we nipped into a sorta deserted alleyway to make the trades.  I called dibs on Pip´s thong and soon was wriggling my way into that.  Thus clad, we felt it only appropriate at this juncture to record the event with a photo and requested the services of some passing girl who quickly had her mind warped.  Now, I can’t be certain, but I’m fairly sure it was Louise who felt that stopping at underwear was far too tame, and in short time we were back on the streets in full drag, Frank and I cutting a swath through the crowd.  Needless to say, a few shots later we were dancing atop the bar at "Disco 69" the busiest club in Ios and generally causing the clientele some confusion, especially when we mooned them.  It was a hell of a night.   
 
The rest of this story has disappeared at some point on my travels, so I draw my narrative to a close.  Hope you all find this enjoyable. 

Sacrilege

If there’s a hell, and I’m undecided on the matter, I know one man who’s sure to go there someday, even if it’s for a brief spell in purgatory. Now, I’m not saying I dislike the bloke, it’s just he happens to be the one man I know who I’ve witnessed commit multiple acts of sacrilege in a period of an hour.

Our heels swinging above the throng, Ty and I watched the throng below us. Ios had taken to the streets on this warm August night, the result of a 2am power outage. The entire town was dark, and this happens to be a town possessing over 100 bars. The outdoor bars were doing a brisk trade. We stayed away from these seas of humanity where the throng was suffocating by hopping onto the roof of a church, 8 ft. above the street. We sipped our drinks, nicked from the bar when the lights went out and watched the spectacle below us. Eventually our friends below us, hollered that they wanted up, so Ty and I scrambled up onto the church and out of the way.

“Mate, I gotta piss,” Ty said under his breath to me. He is an aussie of course, I may have failed to mention this beforehand, but I thought it might have been implied.

“Just take a piss here,” I replied, gesturing over the backside of the church, meaning for Ty to piss over the edge. Well, I blame it on the drink, those teetotalers may have been right in this respect, but Ty’s stream failed to clear the distance. It took me three or four moments before it occurred to me that daft bastard was pissing the roof on a church. Now, that can’t be good, most atheists I think would even agree. I hollered at him to knock it off, but he was well into it and wasn’t about to choke it off. Once he’d organized himself, I voiced my issues with his actions.

“No worries, Mate, Ty replied, in that easy manner Aussies seem to be born with, “What can one do, if you gotta go, you gotta go.” I reflected on the logic of this one and figured, why not, if Peter did man the gate, I’m sure he’d identify with an overfull bladder.

As the rooftop slowly filled with our friends, Ty and I explored the rooftop and the view that it held. Ty nudged me and pointed to the top.

“Aye, let’s have a go at that,” he exclaimed excitedly to me. Again, I cite the enormous amount of alcohol flowing through our veins. I fixed my eyes on the dome of the church and reckoned it wasn’t that difficult. If you’ve seen pictures, or been to Greece, envision one of those small churches with a dome on top. The curved sides seemed easier than the steeples I knew from home.

“All right, let’s try it,” I replied, and we, moved towards the top, preparing out assent. Getting our footing right, we pulled ourselves up to the base of the dome and then looked for our next footing. This proved more difficult than it looked from afar, but Ty, the best of the lot, managed to get some leverage and heaved his hulking frame upwards. Unbalanced, but nearly to the apex, Ty saw victory in sight as he wobbled above Ios’ masses. His arms waving, he caught hold of something to steady his balance, lest he topple off sideways.

Reflect for a moment on what one might grab hold of that might be on top of a church; the only thing that one can grab hold of on the top of a church. Ty’s hand closed around the iron cross fixed atop the dome, and he steadied himself.

“Just one final step,” he called back to me, and I watched as his arm tensed and he attempted to pull himself up the final meter.

With a arresting sound, the cross broke free in Ty’s hand, and once more he was unbalanced upon the church. He lowered himself and steadied, then turned to me.

“Here, hold this a sec then, Mate,”

“Fuck off,” I replied indignantly, as Ty tried to pass me the buck, my profanity being the least of the problems at this point. Ty lunged back up to the apex and attempted to rectify his err, and thrust his broken piece back onto the crucifix. He managed to right it, albeit with a bit of a tilt, and then slid back down to me.

“Well enough of that, then, eh?” Ty muttered to me, as I looked at him for sure, as I stared speechless. Coupling this last act with the pissing err of before, I realized I’d watched this goof from Melbourne pretty much fling himself into the fires of below.

Now, either of his actions taken alone might hold up in a court of appeal, but together… I shook realizing my poor friend was damned, maybe not for all time, but a few years over the red hot coals were certainly in order. I looked back at Ty, he mustered an Aussie grins and we sealed the occasion with a toasting of glasses and a swallow of the last of our drinks.


In reminiscing on this tale, I’ve felt it necessary to put on some hard rock from Down Under. So I leave you with this thought, as I end my tale.

“Going Down! Party Time! And my Friends are going to be there too…”

Pink Castles Made of Sand

With a resounding crash, eight china plates slammed down against my skull and splintered into shards falling round my Buddha like posture, porcelain petals falling from a blossoming tree.  The blow struck me like the sudden shock of diving into a cold body of water.  Not pain, just a jarring of the senses, a sudden snap of reality.  Giddily, I rose; unbalanced more by the four shots of Ouzo fed to me one after another than the blow to my brain, and made my way to the bar to find the beer which I had been assured would re-anchor my feet to the pulsing dance floor.  As I sipped my beer, I absently brushed away a thin line of blood which trickled down from a slight scratch, scored on my skull from exploding fragments.  A mark left, a memento to go with the memory.  What a rush.

Backtrack to the Day before, again the shock of diving into a cold body of water.

What a rush!  Exultant, my head broke the surface of the turquoise, blue sea and my eyes whipped about, seeking my hat which had come loose from my head as I plunged into the depths of the water after my forty foot plummet moments before.  Exultant as I had overcome my fear from a minute before as I stood atop a cliff looking over the edge, down at the drop I'd watched others tumble over, carefree lemmings flinging themselves into the sea.  One steadfast soul remained with me a top the ledge, a man named Matt attired with a good disposition for battling my fear. 

"Breath in and just Go."

And with a cry I did, screaming like a banshee, as I flew gracefully as a brick through the air, meeting the sea below as I sank into its depths, the salty water washing over me, cleansing me of my fear and filling me with elation.

I'm in Corfu and having fun.  The rest of my week would likely bore you, as it involved mostly rampant debauchery.  Take care all, and I'll write again and fill you in on the calm after Corfu and my 20k. trek through the World's largest/deepest gorge.

Bob

Where Dreams Come True and Fire on the Mountain

Sitting next to my tent, which is perched on a hillside facing North, I study the Southern face of of Mt. Etna as the last scraps of my dinner disappear down my gullet.  On my right, night approaches, ending the day; and, on my left, the sun ignites the Western sky in a fiery display.  All day now, I've sat here and contemplated the smoke billowing from Etna's peak.
 
 But I get ahead of myself.  After leaving Amsterdam last Thursday, I took a turbulent twenty nine hour train ride South, aiming for Cinque Terre in the Italian Riviera, "Where Dreams Come True."  As my 29 hour trek drew to a close and I boarded the last train, I met a group from LA and fell into fast company with them and even faster company with their bottle of Bacardi and Coke (if any of you are raising your eyebrows see above: length of time I spent on trains).  Once in our destination of choice, we freshened up and bit the town.  Yes, bit, I'd gotten my third wind and we were feeling somewhat lively.  While roaming the streets, we met up with the two cousins (twice removed, they can marry in Vermont if they want) with whom I was sharing a room, or bungalow.  Our party was thus formed, and after a quick bite to eat and "finding" a bottle of wine worth marrying (neither of these are in reference to me, stop what you're thinking, because it can't be good), we went out and found a bar.  And here I had my first taste of traveling in the Tourist Season as the bar and the Cliffside around it was literally swarming with Americans.  As the Mediterranean was literally a stone's throw from the bar, late night skinny dipping seemed natural to the evening, though Rebecca (one cousin) and I had to persuade Lindsay (the other one) that we should wait till past two.  Now, I like skinny dipping as much as the next man;  but, when it involves evading Night fishermen’s rather large fishing hooks, well, that's a bit too extreme for me, no matter how much I've had to drink. 
 
The next few days were spent at the beach and hiking from village to village, an occasionally avoiding the Naked Italian Man on the trail, stroking himself while trying to have sex with me.  Seriously  though, that run in was quite strange, and not a little disconcerting.  This guy in a Speedo and sandals followed me from the nude beach where I'd been having lunch and sunning my bum.  The trail I was on led back to the main trail connecting to of the seaside villages and was quite steep, narrow and a tough climb.  Given his attire, the guy didn't strike me as a day hiker, and after he'd trailed me for 5 minutes I got kinda edgy.  I stopped and let him walk past me.  He finally did and disappeared up the trail, going round a bend.  I wasn't even sure I was on the right path, so I waited a few minutes and then started up it.  Well, I came round the bend and the dude was waiting there, Speedo off, and he was getting himself stiff, presumably in anticipation of some sort of encounter with me.  Right path or wrong, I decided it was time to find another trail and retraced my steps downwards and eventually found the right trail, the one I had two hours previously descended.  I ascended that trail at a quick pace headed back to the main patch and out of that place.  
 
 The rest of Cinque Terre was quite fun and I believe some California Dreamers had their Dreams come True.  But eventually, the party broke up and I headed South, detouring from Greece to catch a unique spectacle in Sicily.
 
 I awoke to the morning Sun, riding the rails South through Italy, along her Eastern shore.  And as I sat, there rose a mountain outside the window;  a high peak with a narrow, gray plume of smoke extending upwards into the atmosphere.  This was I'd come to see:  a Natural Disaster, The Volcano at the peak of its Glory.  And so, train turned to bus, and bus to foot, as I approached this awesome site and camped in its shadow.  Amidst the billowing ash, and Etna's groans, I pitched my tent with an unfettered view of the display that was to come with the approach of night. 
 
And now, as the shadows grow long and blend together, dusk falls and the rivers of lava previously obscured by the sun's light, are becoming visible and beginning to glow bright.  From the very apex of this monolith, lava shots upwards into the sky.  And now, the dull thunderous roar, booms 'cross the foothills to my eager, straining ears.  

Into the Wilderness and the French Cooking I found there

Three days ago, I woke as a dull light seemed to light up the horizon. Crawling out from under the multitude of blankets from which I kept the night chill at bay I stumbled from the tent, pausing to put on my shoes, my pants and my wool poncho and wandered past the camels and climbed the nearest sand dune to wait for the second part of why I had travelled this far into Africa, a sunrise over the Sahara Desert.
 
Sitting in the morning chill, I looked around me at the changing colors of the dunes which surrounded my campsite, on which other tourists had perched themselves in anticipation of the same event. There's something I'd forgotten about sunrises which sets them apart from sunsets, the actual moment when the first rays of the sun break across the landscape is not known and so I watched in eager, uncertain anticipation as the sky grew brighter and more colorful without giving me any hint as to when the sun might actually put in its appearance. And then, when you don't think the sky can become any brighter, and blinding shaft of light broke across the sand and struck me, dawn had indeed broken.
 
Well, I'm back from the desert and what an amazing experience it was. After leaving the Kif mountains I headed south to Fes one of the larger Moroccan cities. Unfortunately, it rained the two days I was there, and I didn't really enjoy the city that so many people raved about. Plus, I'm not wild about cities and shopping and I think this was a major appeal to some of the people who loved Fes.
 
Sick of the rain, I took an overnight bus south crossing the Atlas Mountain range, which was surprisingly (at least to me) snow covered to the Sahara, to Rissani which is the last stop on the line. Getting off there, I was somewhat discouraged by the brisk 7:00 am air and the multitude of puddles in the street. Puddled, muddy streets wasn't what I had in mind when I imagined the Sahara, but I let it pass, and turned my attention to finding a taxi to take me and the two Canadians I was traveling with to Merzouga, the town which is situated on the edge of Erg Chebbi, the only true Saharan sand dunes in Morocco. On the rather bumpy two hour taxi ride out to Merzouga (roads, where we're going, we don't need roads) I learned from our driver that it had rained last night in the Sahara, evidently for the first time in three or four years. I spent part of the ride grumbling about the fact that I was trying to get away from rain and it turned out that the one place I figured I'd pretty much be guaranteed clear skies had a major downpour the night before.  Oye! As it turned out, some where far worse off because of the weather than I, but I'll come to that later. Bouncing our way across the black sand desert we finally reached the edge of the erg and the hotels which are entrenched here.  
 
After finding a room at a simply wonderful French run hotel which also had amazing dinners each night, I bounded off into the desert to explore the dunes and try my luck at Berber skiing. Berber skiing is simply skiing on the sand dunes. I must say, it's a hoot. I first tried it with a snowboard, which was somewhat frightening as this was only my second time using a snowboard, and the first time I happened to ski off a cliff. Then I tried using what I guess could be called snow scooter, snowboard that have a scooter shaft and handlebars attached to them. That was a lot more fun and did not involve falling quite as much.
 
That night I dined with a couple I met about a week and a half before in Tarifa Spain and another couple who had just returned prematurely from a camel tour in the desert. This is the worse off bit. It seems this couple had been planning on doing a three night camel tour through the Sahara, which sounds wonderful, except for the first night out it rained. Heavily. Bear in mind, that it rains on average, one day every three years or so. That being the case, Berber tents are not exactly waterproof. They aren't waterproof at all and are made of a canvas which is basically the same material that one makes potato sacks from. And because of the lack of moisture, nights in the desert are fairly cold. After spending a cold, soaking wet night in the desert, the couple decided to call off the rest of their tour. I didn't blame them.
 
After dinner I made my way back out into the sand, a little way from the hotel and sat looking at the night sky. The desert, not surprisingly is a wonderful place to do this. The cloud of the Milky Way was quite clear, and the stars were as bright as I've ever seen them. It was, in a word, magnificent.
 
I spent the next two days doing much the same, hiking in the sand and sun and contemplating the night sky. On the third day, I took an overnight camel tour into the desert with two Kiwis I’d met that day. The two hour ride into the Erg was enjoyable except that Brendan's camel behind me had horrible breath and kept burping. Beyond that, I loved the trip out. That night we had a very nice dinner in the desert and then sat out watching the stars as our campfire faded. That night, I climbed up the tallest dune and surveyed the sky and land around me. It was a bit frightening, to be honest, standing on a dune alone in the Sahara night, but it was also amazing.
 
After sunrise, we packed up our camp, and headed back to the hotel. This turned out to be quite an ordeal for me. At this point in my travels in Morocco, I'd only had one very mild case of stomach trouble (please look past this euphemism). However, the meat from the dinner and the motion of riding a camel got my bowels churning and we made it back to the hotel just in time for me to hop off my steed and stumble to the bathroom, from which turning the next thirty minutes, such sounds and smells erupted as to generally frighten and horrify most of the other guests at the hotel (I think the staff was used to such disturbances), which were followed my sighs of relief and then myself staggering back out into the sun and collapsing in a chair.
 
After a few hours of rest and recuperation from the ordeal, I took the taxi back to Rissani and started my trek back north. I didn't feel great the rest of that day, and spent the night feeling rather ill. The next day was a long one, I spent 14 hours on buses traveling back North, from El-Rachidia, back to Fes, and then on to Chefchaouen. During the course of this trek north, I did get to see to absolutely incredible sunsets in which the color seemed to hang over the horizon for an eternity. And, now, I'm back in Chefchaouen, recuperating Rif Mountain style, before returning to Spain.
 
I think I sent all of you a detailed account of my first day and night here in Morocco. That night, I seriously considered heading back to Spain the next day. Two weeks later, I am so glad I decided not to. Morocco has been such a pleasant surprise for me. The landscapes that I have seen are wildly diverse and each is incredible. The food, when it doesn't send you running to the toilet, is wonderful, and after two weeks I've gained an immense appreciation for hot showers and toilets that you can sit on rather than squat over a hole. It's been an amazing unexpected wrinkle in my travels this fall, and as I make my way back towards the Alps, where I hope I'll find work for the winter, I am so glad I decided that day in Tarifa that I should wander this way.
 
Before I end this message, I should briefly mention that my last night in Chaouen before going to Fes was one of the weirdest I've ever had.  I was with the group I'd been hanging out with in Chefchaouen, Stuart, an Aussie acupuncturist, 2 kiwis Micah and Sally, and James, an utter git from North England who is one of the oddest blokes I've ever encountered, and has an unholy passion for hash. The group of us went and hung out at the one room apartment of James' friend Muhammad. It was a rather funky night. Later, sitting on the roof of our hotel, Michah, Sally and I saw the single greatest shooting star I've ever seen in my life, it arced 'cross the sky and while it left a path behind it, the main piece of the meteorite was quite bright and evident. The trail it left, instead of simply disappearing into the night, glittered and sparkled for several moments before fading out as the meteorite had already done. It was simply amazing, and the trio of us looked at each other, wondering if what we had witnessed was real or just a hallucination. However, as all three of us had seen the same thing, I have to conclude it was real and the most incredible shooting star I've ever witnessed. Well, that about sums up a good portion of my travels during the past 2 weeks, I hope everyone is doing well, and this letter wasn't too dull.