Algeciras, I’m Sorry I Doubted You (Part II of II)

You were every bit as scummy as I had hoped.

Just when I thought you’d gone off and gotten soft on me, you threw a nice little 1AM curveball to keep me on my toes. And while I blame myself for not knowing where the ferry was going to drop me off, and for buying a ticket that brought me into port at 1AM, I blame you for telling me it was Tangier, when in reality I was something like 60km away from the city (to my readers: there is another port 2km away from the city, which is where I legitimately believed I was until the next morning). I should thank you though, for at least sending me to a port with amiable lodging. Welcome boys and girls, to the Tangier Med Ferry Terminal ‘Youth Hostel’.

She may not be your traditional hostelling service, but all of the standard amenities are included:

- Beds¹

- Low rates²

- Free Wifi³

- Free storage lockers⁴

- A bathroom ensuite⁵

- A common area – great for meeting other guests⁶

- An early check-out is available⁷

- Rooms with scenic views⁸

¹ Bedding not included. Please bring your own sheets, pillows, and mattress. Only available sleeping surfaces are wooden benches and tile flooring.

² Lodging is free, but you may be robbed by other guests in your sleep.

3 Not functional, as there is a known ‘problem’ that is currently unsolved. No explanation into said problem can/will be given. 

⁴ Assuming you have a lock, please lock all belongings to your person. There are no actual lockers.

⁵ Also shared with the rest of the ferry terminal. Please clean up after yourself, because no one else will/has for a very long time.

⁶ Other guests are homeless and stay on a regular basis.

⁷ Early check-out required. Café opens at 5AM, at which point the hostel closes. You will be woken up by morning staff via French and Arabic yelling and/or poking.

⁸ Only one view is available—of the oil storage tanks

Maybe I should just start from the top, instead of at a weirdly promotional midpoint. As stated in my last blog posting, I was mildly disappointed with the sketchiness/sleaziness of the Algeciras boarder crossing. This, once again, is the port city in Spain where the ferry to Tangier, Morocco, leaves from.

Excuse me, where the ferries to Tangier leave from. Yes, there are several ferries to Tangier, which do not all go to the same port. One of these ports, the “new port” as it was later explained to me by a very kind taxi driver, is roughly 60km away from the “old port”, which is actually in Tangier. I did not know there were two ports, and as I set foot onto African soil for the first time in my life, I legitimately thought I was in Tangier—at the “new port”, the only port which I knew existed. Overall, it’s a very strange feeling to not know where you are, when you actually think you do. That said, please take my word for it, as I don’t recommend getting into the situation yourself.

Right—do as I say, not as I do. Please jot that down, as it will be on the test later.

Admittedly, I shouldn’t have gotten onto a Ferry that made me arrive in a completely unknown place at 1AM, but it was two hours delayed. For that, I blame Algeciras. But anyway, as I disembarked from the mighty VRONSKIY LIMASSOL (home of the “Neptune Trucker Bar”, just in case you ever want to take a date there), I quickly found myself completely alone watching all of the other passengers drive away on an Italian-Moroccan tour bus. It was about this point that I wished I spoke French, Arabic, or Spanish. Any one of those would have been infinitively more useful than what I had instead, which were the sleep-deprived hand signals (I’d gotten up that morning at 5:30 to start queuing for the Alhambra) that I used with the crew unloading the ship.

Moving right along…

Eventually I got my point across, because I was put onto a bus, completely alone, driving on a road between huge oil tanks away from the unloading ships. This eventually arrived at the port’s passenger terminal (not the center of Tangier, like I had so desperately hoped I was heading as I rode along in the dark), where the driver yelled something at me and made me get off.

Now, I’d done my homework because I hadn’t wanted to get ripped off by the cabdrivers at the terminal, so I knew that it would cost me about 30 Dirhams (roughly 3 Euros) to get a ride into town. The first cabdriver I spoke to told me it was 300 Dirhams, non-negotiable. So did the second. And, because apparently I’m not one to take a Moroccan cabdriver’s word for something, so did the officer at customers.

…Confusion sets in…

Believe me, I tried to haggle this price down, but I ran into two very significant obstacles: (1) that I was the only person looking for a ride into town at 1AM and every taxi driver knew that I had no other means of transportation available to me (outside of walking), and (2) that it really was a fixed rate. As I haggled away unsuccessfully, one cabdriver finally told me I had two viable options (he also offered a third option—to stay the night at his house—which I politely declined): pay 300 Dirhams for a ride into Tangier (he kept insisting it was 60km away) that night, or sleep at the ferry terminal and catch the 20 Dirham bus in the morning. While haggling, I told him that I would stay at the terminal, looking for something (anything) to bargain with. He called me bluff immediately—I think he was tired of arguing with someone who didn’t know where he was—and happily led me away inside the terminal, up to the café area, which was in the process of closing.

While walking up the staircase, the cabdriver asked me if I wanted AC or not. For a moment, I thought he meant that there were hotel rooms upstairs, and told him that I preferred non-AC (they’re generally cheaper).

He nodded in agreement, and led me to a bench far away from the air-conditioning vent. Great.

Strangely enough, when the cabdriver (I never did get his name, but he was surprisingly helpful and I wish I had thanked him; at the time I was just focused on figuring out where I was though) explained to the café worker that I would be staying the night, there was no argument. He just nodded, took away the cushion that was on the bench (which he also did to every other cushioned area in the café), and let me be. Apparently (as I learned later when other ‘guests’ arrived), this was a normal, nightly thing.

Once again everyone, welcome to the Tangier Med Ferry Terminal ‘Youth Hostel’. It’s free, and dorm beds are available.

In case you’re wondering, it was a very cold, uncomfortable night’s sleep. At 5AM I woke up (was woken up), and waited for the 20 Dirham bus. I took that into town—it took 45 minutes to get there, they weren’t lying to me about the distance—and caught the first long-distance bus to Chefchaouen I could. To put it bluntly, I got the hell out of Tangier as quickly as possible.

I’m still alive though, so that’s cool.

JHW

The First Disappointment (Part I of II)

I’m leaving you, Spain. No, I’m not mad at you, I’m just disappointed. I think you’ve let a lot of people down here. We (I) had high expectations for you, but clearly I should have just set my sights lower. No no, don’t apologize, what’s done is done, and it’s part of the past. With time I’ll move on, and maybe in a few years I’ll see you again, but it’s a just little hard to look at you right now. And I mean that in the most physical way possible, because I’d have to get up and walk to the top deck. Because I’m on a boat. And I’m leaving you. On a boat. Just get it, man.

Algeciras really wasn’t what I expected. Sure, it had that is-that-urine-on-the-sidewalk? smell to it, but not much more than the rest of Spain. And other than that? An enormous letdown overall in terms of being a sketchy border crossing. Let’s start from the beginning here:

1)      The ferry station is only a five minute walk from the train station. I didn’t even have the chance to get ripped off by a cab driver, because I could see the loading cranes peaking over the tops of the buildings. I knew from the instant I set foot in that city that it wouldn’t be what I had expected (hoped?). I just followed the giant blue north stars that load ships. And with what? At this point, I’d go so far as to guess that they only contain officially authorized and declared goods. What kind of port are you?

2)      Outside the ferry terminal, I was only offered drugs four times. And not even anything that would garner a serious jail sentencing. Where was the heroine, the cocaine? The best you can do is hashish? I didn’t even know what to say to that. I was speechless. Worst of all, the dealers didn’t have goatees or gaudy sunglasses. They actually looked like they might just be normal people, casually selling drugs outside of a ferry port. Not sketchy enough. Not nearly sketchy enough.

3)      There was not a single moneychanger. Not. One. Where am I supposed to be given half of the acceptable exchange rate, if not at the boarder? Please tell me, because I for one have no idea.

4)      I was only overcharged by five Euros for my ferry ticket. Only five—that’s it. And how I know this, is what you should be truly embarrassed about: your seemingly-sketchy-ticketing-office-with-a-giant-yellow-English-language-sign-in-front printed the actual price on my ticket and handed it to me. They gave me the exact printed copy of my ticket—directly from the online site where they purchased it on my behalf. It even detailed out specific charges: 20.43 Euros for the “Importe Tarifa”, 6.57 Euros for the “Tasas + Sub. Combus”, and 3.00 Euros for the “Cargo por Emision”, all adding up to 30 Euros. They handed this to me, and what did they do? Looked me dead in the eye and said, “35 Euros”. I don’t know who you think you are. Where is the vague tourist copy? Where is the fraudulent-looking “good-for-one-ferry-ride” voucher that I half expect to get kicked off the boat for? Where? Where?

5)      Hoo-boy, and it only gets worse for you. The coup de gras came once I had my ticket in hand, and made my way over to the clearly-labeled-passenger-terminal: I actually felt safe. I might as well have been in an airport for how clean and homeless-person-free that place was. Sure, I had to wait there for two hours longer than expected, but you had a bar, restaurant, and convenience store onsite. And what was playing on the radio when I bought my (legitimately) reasonably-priced bottle of water? Trouble, by T. Swift. Taylor. @#$&ing. Swift. The real version too, as I was disappointed to learn, and not even the goat parody (which I personally find to be a lyrically sound and thought-provoking alternative).

So that’s it Spain, I’ve left you. I’m going to Morocco, and I’m not coming back. Like I said, maybe in a few years we can meet up again, but for now, it’s too soon. I just hope Morocco knows what it means to have a sketchy border crossing, because clearly you don’t.

Hasta luego, not.

JHW

Smooth Sailing

Hola, que tal? Yo voy a hacer un traje de saliva.

Well boys and girls, that’s about the extent of my Spanish. And unless you frequent construction sites—and for both our sakes, Grandma, I hope you don’t—it’s likely that you haven’t heard the latter half of that before. Right. Regardless of my lack of fluency though, I’ve still managed to survive—even with a limited amount of high school Spanish. Clearly, learning Russian over the past months wasn’t of much use here. Oops. Anyway, a helpful Spaniard in Madrid took it upon herself to teach me a few “important phrases”, such as the one above, to use with any new Spanish friends I might meet. As I’m sure you might’ve guessed, since that little intervention it’s been smooth sailing.

And speaking of smooth sailing (this is what some people call a “transition”), I’ll be taking the ferry from Algeciras (Spain) to Tangier (Morocco) in a few days. I’ve heard the straight of Gibraltar is a calm 70 minute journey this time of year, with the two bordering port cities each boasting a renaissance of art, culture, touts, and drug pushers. How delightful. Unfortunately there wasn’t much of an alternative, as the timing of the flights between Sevilla and Fez weren’t going to work for me. Plus I wanted to go to Granada. Plus plus, historically speaking, I love sketchy border crossings (see: Mongolia-China), but have never had the opportunity to go through one by sea—time to check this off my bucket list.

Anyway, Spain has been lovely and full of bingeing of various sorts: cheese-bingeing, wine-bingeing, olive-bingeing, you name it. As expected, this is a land of not only beautiful women, but also omnomnoming (“gastrotourism”, for those of you less high-brow folks out there). Quite frankly, the food here is delicious, cheap, and safe; being able to eat without the constant fear of post-traumatic stomach disorder (PTSD) has been a blessing, and a dramatic shift from many of my previous travels. And despite how much my friends have enjoyed hearing about—and repeatedly bringing up with strangers—some of my more “public” PTSD exploits, I’d prefer to avoid new ones. I’ve only been abroad a week, but hey—so far so good. As long as I can avoid any food that includes a white sauce during the next 3 months (milk+heat=use your imagination), I should be fine.

…But god, I’m only one man, and I’m too weak/cheap to resist Kebabs. Fie on you yogurty-cucumber sauce!

In other news, a bit of housekeeping: for those of you who are keeping track, and noticed that my itinerary never included Morocco until now, I’ve had a bit of a change of plans. Picture on a map, if you will, ye olde Mediterranean Sea. Now picture Morocco on the southwest end of it. Now picture me there, and then flying to Rome via Marrakech. And then picture the rest of my trip exactly as I’ve been planning it so far, but with me skipping Le France because I don’t really have time to backtrack and I’ve already been to the places where I was planning on going. Yup. Don’t worry though guys, I already stocked up on baguettes. Everything will be fine.

And cheese. Sweet, sweet cheese.

Omnomnom.

Hasta luego,

JHW

That John Denver is Full of Shit, Man.

A quick lyrical analysis, and its applicability to my current situation, of the only song that comes to mind for today: “Leaving on a Jet Plane”, by John Denver (1966). Overall, I can’t help but feel Lloyd’s sentiments about this song.

All my bags are packed I’m ready to go – This much is true. Granted, I didn’t really have a choice though, as my lease ends tomorrow and I had to move out. Everything I own is now in the backseat of a heavily-overloaded Firebird parked in New Hampshire.

I’m standin’ here outside your door – Well, I’m homeless now, so this comes naturally. I already miss the sweet, sweet feeling of having keys in my pocket…

I hate to wake you up to say goodbye – My flight leaves at 8PM. If I have to wake anyone up to say goodbye, they need to get their lives together.

But the dawn is breakin’ it’s early morn – Welcome to real life, John. You have to get up early sometimes. 

The taxis waitin’ he’s blowin’ his horn – This is Boston. People blow their horn for any number of emotions: anger, joy, fright, hunger, you name it. I’m not even taking a taxi to the airport, but if I was, he’d probably only be blowing his horn to continue his celebration of the Redsox’s World Series victory in 2007. GO SAWKS!

Already I’m so lonesome I could die – I’m actually pretty happy with where I am in life. Cheer up, John. The 1966 couldn’t have been that bad.

So kiss me and smile for me – Quick smooch, anyone?

Tell me that you’ll wait for me – I don’t really expect anyone to wait around for 3 months while I get weird in Eurasia.

Hold me like you’ll never let me go – Personally, a death grip doesn’t really sound that romantic to me. Maybe that’s just me.

Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane – Ah yes, the only line of this song that actually applies to me.

Don’t know when I’ll be back again – Not true at all. August 5^th.

Oh baby, I hate to go – Not true either. I’m real excited.

There’s so many times I’ve let you down – Sure I’ve made a few mistakes, but “so many times” seems a bit excessive. This seems like a good time to repeat Lloyd’s sentiments. 

So many times I’ve played around – I get easily distracted. Is that such a crime?

I tell you now, they don’t mean a thing – Who, John? Who?

Every place I go, I’ll think of you – Actually, probably only those of you who gave me an address to send a postcard to. Sorry, everyone else.

Every song I sing, I’ll sing for you – Karaoke. 

When I come back, I’ll bring your wedding ring – Ooo… This is getting a little too “real” all of a sudden. Let’s pump the brakes here a bit.

(Chorus) – (See the above ramblings)

(Guitar solo) – (Air guitar solo)

Now the time has come to leave you – It’s been real, America.

One more time let me kiss you – Quick smooch, anyone?

Close your eyes I’ll be on my way – Actually, there are still a few hours until I need to be at the airport. To my current hosts (Shwin/Steve/Tom): hope you don’t mind if I continue to eat your food and snuggle into your couch for a little while longer…

Dream about the days to come – Because Kazakhstan is where dreams come true.

When I won’t have to leave alone – …Right. I really can’t picture a time in the foreseeable future when anyone is going to jump on the opportunity to go to Central Asia with me. Mongol Rally2014? 

About the times, I won’t have to say – When I won’t have to say what, John? So kiss me and smile for me? Tell me that you'll wait for me? Hold me like you'll never let me go? Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane? Don't know when I'll be back again? Oh baby, I hate to go? I probably won’t say much of that in the future, because the only part of that which is true is that I’m leaving. And that it will be on a jet plane.

(Chorus) – (see above ramblings)

Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane – Lufthansa flights LH425 & LH 1802, to be exact.

Don’t know when I’ll be back again – August 5^th.

Oh baby, I hate to go – Not true—I’m really, really excited.

Anyway, I’m glad we got things all cleared up. In summary, I’m leaving on a jet plane, and I’ll be back in early August.

To continue with the Dumb and Dumber theme, you’re probably all thinking the same thing: don't you go dyin' on me. But don’t worry, whenever I get into trouble, I’ll just reflect on the excellent advice I’ve received so far:

- Don’t trust Ukrainian girls, they will drug you

- Don’t eat the vegetables in Chernobyl  

And I’m sure that will help me out in most situations. If anyone has additional travel advice though, please let me know.

Keep it real, America.

JHW