Down and out in France and Spain

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Back at work(!) people would come to your office and confiscate your hardcore technical books if you were deemed to be doing something sufficiently uncool (ie, consistently writing userland code or java applications or working on docs and the likes). Something similar should be done to travelers who go soft: take away our shoes or passport or backpacks or something.

From the detention centers in Yemen our story leaps to France and Spain, those exotic dangerous countries that one only reads of in books but rarely dares to visit in person. For the sake of completeness, I'll mention that I returned to Turkey overland via Oman, UAE, and Iran (without any run-ins with the law!), then spent 3 months kicking it in Istanbul and trying to make my extended presence useful. Then, as I was making plans of visiting Eastern Europe (finally?), my trusty companion and truest friend Janvier (aka "X", mentioned often in my Africa blogs) blackmailed me into going to France for his wedding... which I did and then took revenge by camping out in his flat for 2 months until I started to grow moss on my hass and the seasons were changing and the universe kicked me out of there.

Thus began my new friendship with Bazou. I don't know why I seem to always find the French on my travels.. maybe it's because I secretly wish I were French.

Bazou is a beauty. A walking miracle. A true Work of Art(tm). I picked him up in a 2nd hand junk store for 25 euros, spent about a week taking it apart and ruining it, then went to work on it with Janvier with a broken electric drill, 2cent (euro) coins and an assortment of nuts and bolts (mostly scavanged from parts around Janvier's house... some of them even came off his toilet). We had about 3-4 false starts, including one when the luggage rack broke seconds before I was about to start my "expedition". The repair guy I took it to for a "tune-up" ended up changing some of the cables and little else (if I knew then what I now know!), so it was basically as it was when I bought it (or possibly a little worse), when I took off one afternoon, with custom-hacked panniers full of too much junk, a broken luggage rack reinforced with bits of aluminum, and a full La Poste postman's rain uniform (my favorite), and a 1:1million Michelin map of France. I do believe I prayed every pedal turn of the way my first day, traumatized as I was by the thought of wiping out under a truck or seriously breaking down and sitting by the side of the road with tears in my eyes, looking at the sky and moaning "Why?"

France

Before I get too carried away, there's a rumor out on the internet about French farmers shooting you if you try wild camping on their fields. Now I don't want to sound pompous, but I wild camped nearly every night in France (the exceptions being the times when I camped in city parks or other public places), and I never had problems worse than being unable to find water or wine for the night. Your mileage may vary, but I found the farmers and village folk to be fairly kind (and cautious) folk, so the more outlandish you seem the more likely they are to leave you alone (within reason, obviously). Nobody wants to mess with The Beard and Bazou...

The trip itself was fairly uneventful (which is a good thing, believe me). I had my share of problems: a broken rear axle my 3rd day (and I didn't know what an axle was!) -- repaired by an extremely friendly farmer who basically adopted me for 3 days and later told me "just because you're bike is fixed doesn't mean you have to leave". Tell me where to sign to get a French passport! The usual assortment of flat tires don't deserve mention. I guess my worst day was when I camped in the rain by the river in Saintes, broke my rear brake cable before breakfast, lost my La Poste raincoat while fixing it, then broke my luggage rack in the middle of nowhere and had to drag it to Pons to find they didn't have replacements and I would have to go back to Saintes (20+ km, nothing on a bike but tricky with a broken luggage rack) to have it repaired. Even then the Universe came to my aid and the local town council very unexpectedly gave me a room (with kitchen and hot shower) to leave my stuff while I went to get my bike fixed (which I naturally spent the night in).

It was around this time that my strange friendship with "the Americans" began to develop: Jay and Debbie, walking the Camino de Santiago, seemed to always be there when I ran into misfortune. One would think it would be almost impossible for us to see each other, considering that they were on pedestrian trails and I was sticking to asphalt, not to mention the fact that 15km/hr is not too fast on a bike, and I doubt many people can do more than 5km/hr on foot. But I think Jay stopped counting around our 14th "chance meeting". I began to think there was a reason we were repeatedly brought together... and that I would have bicycle troubles to slow me down until The Reason was fulfilled. In fact, we reached Finisterre (the end of the world), many weeks later, on the same day. Towards the end I spent a few days walking because I enjoyed their company so much.

But life on the road can be fairly lonely (on those days when you don't meet the Americans, and during the many days before I met them). I filled in my time listening to BBC on my SW radio, visiting the myriad churches in all nearby towns, raiding apple orchards and vineyards, growling at dogs, and eating a lot of baguettes, fromage (au lait cru, of course), saucisson and drinking as much wine as possible. Oh, and talking to myself and Bazou. I had a book to read, but I was saving it for a rainy day, and only reading one (short) chapter at a time. Books are precious and difficult to replace in a place where people pride themselves on only speaking French. Oh, and I tried learning French... I went as far as lesson 5 and realized it was hopeless without someone to get help from (the cute girls at the tourist offices were unreliable), and gave up. I can do a passable imitation of a French accent. I instead focused on my Arabic, and sought out the Arabs wherever I went. It's a universal language!

So the Camino. It's an old pilgrim's route - actually a collection of routes - leading to Santiago del Compostella, where some 9th century bishop miraculously discovered the tomb and final resting place of St James the Elder (the brother of Christ). This is the same dude who apparently returned from the dead to chop off some Moor heads during the Reconquistada. Needless to say I wasn't too impressed. But the advantages of a sticking to a well-established route include alleviating the responsibility of day-to-day destination choosing, and almost guarantees a solid collection of churches and cathedrals erected for the edification of past pilgrims. I was pretty directionless after turning right at the ocean near Bordeaux and deciding it wasn't worth heading northeast in the fall, so when coupled with the thought that Spain ought to be “warmer”, I was sold. I didn't stick to it very closely in France... I was enjoying France too much, and didn't feel up to a new country quite yet (listen to the traveler!), so I ended up taking endless detours, down the Dordogne to Sarlat, then down through Perigord and truly gorgeous French countryside to rejoin the route coming from Le Puy before finally making it to St Jean Pied de Port at the foothills of the Pyrennes before Spain with a flat tire, 2 broken spokes (requiring the removal of the cassette to fix), and a broken front axle. Cycling can really be fun!

A note about repair shops in France. I think French people for the most part consider themselves to be rich. What that means is they're reasonably willing to lend you a hand for free if you're nice enough about it. Many a time I would arrive at a repair shop, borrow their tools, use their pump, then shake their hand and wave goodbye. Or sometimes they'd offer to do it for free, too! I looked pretty disreputable, so I guess they figured I didn't have anything to pay them with anyhow (which proves they're also smart). For the record, I was averaging about 7 euros a day and eating pretty well (thanks to the free grape and apple dietary supplements).

The ride over the Pyrennes isn't worth mentioning. It's about a 1300m climb at a good grade, and took me about 3 hours to do. Easy. One dude I met (also on a bicycle) was carrying loads of warm gear because “it would be cold in the Pyrennes”. Maybe. For 3 hours. 'Nuff Said.

Spain

After the Pyrennes you're going downhill, so I entered Spain with the best of attitudes and intentions. I even had wild plans of continuing what I had been doing in France: wandering off the beaten trail and spending time in small towns and villages, and following the Camino mostly in spirit. I had to rapidly backtrack on that plan when the gas cylinder for my stove (ubiquitous in France) turned out to be impossible to find (even in Pamplona), plus Bazou had begun to misbehave and I quickly learned that Spanish repair shops could be pretty 3rd world, both in service and in charging practices. I had to hitch a ride into Pamplona to take care of another broken spoke (again requiring me to remove the cassette, which I didn't have the tools for), and I spent half the day looking for a repair shop who would say something other than “buy a new wheel, we don't have the tools either”. When the Universe finally led me to a shop where they could fix it, the guy insisted on doing the whole procedure himself (physically blocking me with hurriedly whispered esperas), then asked for 12 euros, and then his female coworkers turned hysterical when I countered with all I had on me (5 euros). It was funny for its unprofessionality: I've had so many attempted con experiences in the middle east that the Spanish attempts seem ridiculous. In the end I got a lecture on work ethics: “jo trabajo! Tu bacaciones!” repeated over and over by a woman who was red in the face by emotion. That's when I decided Spain is a 3rd world country.

The upside is they have cheap places to stay. Sometimes free, usually around 3 euros a night. If you have pilgrim's credentials, that is (easily obtained for about 2). The first night I slept in one of them I was on a top bunk and I kept waking up in terror when my bottom neighbor moved or if someone coughed. None of those should be happening in a normal tent environment, and my sense of normality was freaking out. I tried spending a couple nights outdoors, but I didn't feel I could justify it to myself or to the locals who would be thinking “there's a hostel 200m away for 3 euros... what's your problem?”

The weather, though... boy was the weather something. I had heard of windmills in Spain but didn't really deduce its logical corollary: therefore there must be wind! Straight out of Pamplona with the sky like steel and an army of angrily turning windmills on the hill ahead as the wind blew in my face and sometimes playfully sideways as to give me an evil shove, either into the ditch or under the ever-present trucks - I didn't think I was going to make it. I realized I had been on the road long enough when I calmly walked into the only nearby hamlet and pitched my tent in the village church. The next morning I was awaken from my early morning relief (squatting by the side of the road with my pants around my ankles, admiring the landscape) by a local man and woman, both maybe 5 metres from me and heading straight towards me. Picture that to yourself for a minute. You can't attempt decency. Hurriedly pulling up your pants won't solve anything either. I do believe I mumbled a “hola” and pretended I was more interested in the landscape. 😉

In the hostels I ended up meeting people. Including my favorite Americans who were shocked to see me and even more shocked to hear I wasn't returning from, but still heading towards Santiago. Some I kept running into again and again. Most of the people are doing the Camino for the exercise, but some of them can be really really interesting. You limp into some monastery in the middle of the night, soaking wet and starving, and end up spending hours talking about the Universe and the search for the meaning of life to some total strangers. The next morning you exchange names and wave goodbye and never see them again. Quite surreal relationships. Then you come back “home” and wonder why you can't fit in. Or you're sitting on a beach somewhere near the end of the world and a total stranger sits down next to you and you watch the sunset together with tears in your eyes and at that moment it seems like you will never have a friend so close. It may be the moment, or fatigue, or ever-present insanity, but the feeling seems genuine enough.

Not all experiences are good, unfortunately. At one monastery the lady in charge seemed to take an immediate dislike to me and made me spray my sleeping bag and shoes with insecticide, forced me to wash my hands (I had been doing some repair work), and basically did everything in her power to single me out and rub it in my face: You are a Filthy Stinking Bum! I tried to laugh it off but I did resent it at first. After some thinking, though... I decided my attitude was hypocritical: Here I was, living and acting like a bum, but expecting to be treated respectable? That's not consistent. You can't live like a bum and then be quick to take offense. The deep thoughts of life on the road.

But, like all good things, it too ended one day when I pulled into Santiago del Compostella and didn't even like the town (and they didn't have hostels). I really feel sorry for the people who came all that way hoping to find something special there. All I found was a reinforced dislike for Spanish catholicism. I can't respect a belief that paints their statues in hues of pink and dresses them up like mannequins - I could swear some of those Madonnas would close their eyelids if you laid them down.

Finisterre was something else, though. There at the beach facing the ocean from the World's End, camping out with complete strangers who shared their food and advice, lazing around in the incredible November sun and swimming with the florescent plankton at night, then coming back to the campfire to warm up... nevermind that my sensibilities were scandalized by the europeans hanging around naked: it was special. Then they all left and it stormed on me for a full day and a crazy/cool guy came and told me to be a “Rider on the Storm” and I left for Seville (on yet another route of the Camino).

The road to Seville was cold. And rainy. And almost utterly deserted, even at the hostels at night. I was racing to get there in time to catch my flight to Istanbul, so the thought of future breakdowns (including a broken rear axle, which I knew was due) would keep me up some nights, and towards the end I would calculate if I was within walking distance, should my bike decide to completely die on me. Both happened, paranthetically. The universe fixed me my rear axle for a grand total of 5 euros and I didn't even lose any time that day (it was special). And my rear tire (not the inner tube) blew out 2 days before Seville, and the duct-tape patch I so cleverly applied only lasted me 5km.

So I limped in to Seville around noon the day before my flight was due, muttering to myself snatches of “Barely well but still alive/You might laugh when I arrive/It's not a bad bike that I ride”. By then I was a wreck too. My shoes were only attached to their soles in a couple of spots, my pants were starting to self-destruct, my sunglasses were extremely crooked and the lens cracked, but I was alive and in one piece, and it was a moment of complete victory!

I guess the story ends with me boarding the airport bus with Bazou (I was even contemplating taking him with me but decided he was terminal), unscrewing my improvised pannier fasteners, and removing all salvagable parts from Bazou before stuffing all into my trusty WFP sack (friends since Sudan), tying it up with cord and eating one last meal of canned sardines and crackers. It all clicked so unbelievably well that I was sure the Universe was coming with me. Bazou ended up being abandoned in front of the airport terminal, a sad end to a loving friendship experienced over 4500km.


here's a map of the wanderings in France
and in Spain
(until the travelblog maps are fixed)

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Photos

Down and Out
We made a great team with this guy. He's a French Accountant. People basically left us alone.

Breaking Bread
This group of South African cyclists saw me with this loaf of bread and clamored for a photo-op. I guess Jay wanted in on the action. Unfortunately this loaf only fed 3.

First Impressions
This was taken the 2nd time I met los Americanos. Judging by their faces you wouldn't guess that they're the sort of people to sabotage your bicycle and steal your raincoat. Maybe I sense a slightly evil twist to Debbie's smile...

Laying my Burdens to Rest
People would pile up stones everywhere. Basically on any surface that could support a pile (or even a single stone). Debbie said they were peoples' "burdens" that they would lay by the road. Jay said people did it because they're bored and would knock them down every chance he got. The dude in the car in the background had an impressive catch of dead rabbits.

Walking on Water
I've always wanted to walk on water. I don't think a man is a Man until he walks on water.

Walking
This must have been one of those days when I was walking. Somewhere in Spain. Looking at the Burdens Bazou had to carry, I'm surprised he survived as long as he did.

Doing Nothing
One thing I learned is the Art of Doing Nothing(tm). During my finest times I could sit and do absolutely nothing. For hours on end. Just look at the sea or something. Jay said something like "I have a limited time on earth and I want to do something useful with the time I have". He has a point.

Off into the Sunset
Somewhere in Spain.

Aqualung
I like to have at least one picture of me looking like Aqualung. I think this one was taken the day after the lady at the hostel made me spray my sleeping bag.

Comments

[Marcoelitaliano]

Welcome back!
Good to read something from you after so long. I totally disagree on your opinion about Spain but I still love your writing. No, that's actually incorrect. What I truly like is maybe not your writing but rather your way of travelling. Marco

[anonymous]

It doesn't seem fair to desdain anything that doesn't fit your needs or your way of doing things. Good luck on the rest of your travel.

[anonymous]

Dharma Bum
I was thinking of you when I read that book by Jack Kerouac; especially regarding the bums and respectability. Pretty cool... just don't get sucked into Zen Buddhism crap. Also don't forget that half the monkeys who sit behind cubicles don't have half the respectability that they like to pretend they do. What's respected are the nice clothes and projected illusion of money. Ye kurkum ye! Heck, when I go traveling personally unshaven and ragged parents hide their children from me... but then I'm browner than you and hence I must be a terrorist... because we all know that brown people have those tendencies. I'm sure it's got nothing to do with the fact that I don't own a toothbrush, eat my own dandruff and don't let my scabs heal.

[deleted_899]

Does this mean you won't be writing about the trip from Yemen to Istanbul (visa Oman, UAE, Iran)? I'd love to hear about that trip......

[bedreddin]

Yemen to Turkey
I suppose I could write about it, but it's been a year already... and I'd probably say little more than "lived like a complete bum on the beaches of Oman, spent maybe 6 dollars a day, then was amazed at how modern and secular Iran is (it really is.. a couple young teenage girls chatted me up in the park, and I kept looking around for the /komita/ to come and arrest me for being long-haired), I was aghast at the pink and yellow mosques in Turkey". If anyone is willing to pay me lots and lots of money I could write blogs ;)

[Al Ajnabijah]

Nice to see you that you fell in love again - with a bike ... :) Love to read your blog! Will you once publish parts of your diary,too..? Hug

[evet]

i've also had that experience. with the sunset and the stranger... isn't that the essence of being? when you don't wear your masks for a moment and you are connected through the stillness? i like the way you write and hope to see you soon with your new experience.

[sen beni biliyorsun...]

sen beni biliyorsun...
yaninda olmaliydim...

[random int]

what's next?
I'll be disapponing if you just stop. You did not even touch Eastern Europe, which would be lot's of fun - I am sure, or Far East. India could be fun too. Looking forward for your next blog. Good luck!

[bedreddin]

random int?
someone who knows that "int" is mnemonic for "interrupt" in x86 assembly?? tell me more... not done traveling yet. working on a new blog. i hope i'll be heading towards the "far east" very soon...

[Farfetched]

just got back
I'm 65 had some bad health sproutung so I put a tag on a travel blog to see if I could get info or another old person to go with me but alas the young cared not to share with me , so I set out alone for the month of M arch and traveled through France useing mainly train but some bus , feet, and thumb I was amazed at this country being so small and yet overflowing the brim with manna , I am now thinking of going back and takeing it slow maybe the Camino. you cleared something up for me though when you travel as a bum (Pilgram) you have to accept you will be treated accordingly,thanks I enjoyed your writteing.

[Nico]

Really good writing
I was just looking for a place to camp outside Paris, but got stuk on your site. It sounds like you had a really nice trip, and I really enjoyed your way of personal and unpretentious writing.. Now I wish I had a bike here ;-).