Entrance to the Inter Zone

July 3rd

The next morning I depart San Francisco, although worst luck of all – I step on to the train as the guard is stepping off to see who gets on. She immediately asks for my ticket, with the train still at the platform. Thinking fast, I gesture to my bag and say billete, then step past her on to the train. She waits impatiently, with her arms crossed, the door still open behind her. She casts an imposing figure, looking down at me with disdain.

I sit on my bag, and ask to buy a single to Algeciras. She shakes her head and says I must buy at the station. Sensing a glimmer of hope, I point out the station is closed and so I cannot. She tells me I must pay for a ticket with Euros, I tell her I (truthfully) only have my bank card, which she tells me they do not accept. I start to complain about the train company for not accepting Visa in my best tourist voice, and she tells me to wait as she goes to consult either the head guard or the driver, probably the latter.

As she walks away, I quickly rise and close the door. As she strides off hastily, I know the driver will see all doors as closed, and knowing the signal ahead is green will set off, hopefully before she reaches him. A few seconds later, the engine growls and we start to move. Feeling like I should be twirling an imaginary moustache wearing a top hat, I lean back against the train wall on my bag and wait for her return, knowing I at least have made it one stop closer.

When she returns she tells me to get off the train at Antequera, and buy a ticket there. Three stops! Result! I go to one of the many empty seats and listen to music, the Sun magnified through the window causes me to fall into slumber.

A short while later we arrive, and she wakes me up and points me to the door. I walk off, the train leaves, and I rest my head against my sleeping bag for two hours waiting for the next train to arrive, after a quick look outside the station to see if there was anything worth braving the midday Sun for in the town.

When the train arrives, I try and find a seat, although this one is much busier. I apologetically move when passengers show me their tickets for the seat I am in a few times, and eventually find my way to a seat at the front of the train.

As the train sets off, I set up my laptop and start to read, a fantastic story called “Move Underground” by Nick Mamatas, where Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassidy and William S. Burroughs do battle for their souls, Buddha versus the Lovecraftian nightmares of Cthulhu and Azathoth.

The guard soon arrives and quickly tells me to get off at the next stop. Normally I would just agree and thank him, but for some reason I feel like arguing. I start concocting a story, the guard ushers me out of my seat to the door, where we continue our 'discussion'. An Australian woman intervenes and speaking perfect Spanish to the guard, offers to pay the twenty Euro fare for me. I try and refuse politely, knowing full well that I have no way of paying her back when we reach Algeciras, but she shakes her head, kindly insisting.

I thank her profusely, the guard leaves, and I return to my seat. A Spanish gentleman has taken the seat opposite me, and I nod politely and engross myself back in the novella. Feeling his eyes upon me, I look up at him and am flabbergasted to see he is the spitting image of Burroughs in his late forties.

He says something I don't understand, and I respond with the classic “habla poco espanol”, to which he smiles. I'm reading Kerouac and Burroughs talking, and at the same time whenever I look up I feel we are continuing the conversation in our minds, my gaze staring through his shades and we somehow both comment on what I read, sharing responses.

It starts to become too much, my mind flagging from the Sun and the synchronicity, and the automated train announcement says our next stop is San Francisco de Loja. Me and Burroughs raise an eyebrow while the rest of the train laughs, then he raises his hands in a “the world is going crazy” sort of way. I say “Esta loco dia” and he nods.

At the next stop, a family gets on and says they have reserved our seats. We both grumble under our breath but move, and I sit next to a Frenchman at the table behind and over the next three hours or so I finish the story, satisfied with the only ending to a Lovecraft story that isn't suicide or insanity.

We finally reach Algeciras, and I make straight for the port. I approach one of the many ticket offices, and ask how much for a foot passenger to either Ceuta or Tangier. Thirty Euros to either destination. I try my bank card vainly, and when it declines ask how much at other offices, receiving the same price. Wondering how so many companies survive, offering the same price for the same service, I walk back towards the town, have a cigarette and think what to do next.

Deciding to hang around the docks, hoping for a cut-price ticket, another French guy approaches me, and starts to talk. He tells me how he is disturbed by the Satanic Illuminati everywhere, pointing out how their symbols are everywhere. He points out the road sign is an upside down triangle, his eyes fixing me with a “Now do you see them?” sort of look.

I try to reassure him, pointing out that squares and triangles are basic geometry, nothing Satanic about them by themselves, and he moves his head from side to side, agreeing but saying that they can also be combined to have a powerful effect, and some people use this power for Evil.

I say that it is not necessarily Evil, and he is misunderstanding Satanism, but it can hold power over people's minds. We talk for a little while longer, then I walk to the departure lounge, and join twenty or so other people in sleeping on a waiting bench.

The next day, I repeat my perambulation, walking up and down the marina and pier, feeling increasingly despondent, weak from hunger and lie down on a park bench under some trees for half an hour, looking up at the waning Moon in the daylight, wondering why we can't see the stars as well.

I get up dejectedly though slightly mind refreshed, and walk up to a few skips, with some boxes piled next to them. A full cured pig leg is propped next to the side of one of them, and I look at it. These are considered a delicacy in Spain, selling for nearly eighty Euros each. Jamon serrano

I think the style of pork is called?

Inspecting the meat, I brush off a few hairs and smell, pretty fresh, considering. Giggling with myself, I pick up the leg by the hoof and say “How do you do?” Carrying it like this, I walk for a while towards the sea, ignoring the looks of the mad Englishman in the midday Sun. I wash the meat in the sea, take out my knife and take a strip of the meat. I chew, the initial smoked flavour pleasing, but then my body reacts to the Sun's effects and I spit it out, coughing and spluttering. Bad medicine. I heave the leg out to sea, and walk again.

Some hours later, I arrive back at the port entrance, and see two guys, one in a white shirt, the other in black. I recognise them from walking past earlier, and the one in white asks me how I'm doing. I tell them how I'm trying to get to Maroc, but only have ten of the thirty fare. He nods with sympathetic understanding, and tells me to try round the corner from the main building, that perhaps there will be people there who will sell me a discounted ticket. I thank him and start to walk off, then the guy in the black shirt whistles at me. We walk to each other, and I feel some sort of conflict in him, he is very confrontational.

“You go Tangier? I know place for ticket.” I tell him how I have only ten Euros, he replies “No problem, you give me ten Euros I get you ticket, Los Barrios.” I agree, and we walk to his car, put my bag in his boot and drive off. I tell him I need a bank machine for the dineros, and we try a bank but the minimum note it dispenses is twenty. I tell him this, his response is “Si, si, no problems” and we drive off to the auto-route. As we drive, he tells me “I am a good person” a few times, and that he has five children. My spider sense tingles, most of the good people I have met never mention the fact, and the guy from Total Recall enters my mind “Man, I got five kids to feed!”

I agree anyway, and after five or so minutes we enter Los Barrios. We drive to a bus station, and I look at him quizzically. “This station to Tangier?” I say, disbelieving. “Si. Give me dinero.” I look out the window at the empty bus station. “Que hora bus?” “Media hora.” I realise the scam, and I try to think of the best way out. “Give me diez Euros” he says, the smell of beer on his breath, dry flakes of skin peeling off his face. “Need banca.” I reply. He grumbles and drives round the corner to a bancomat. I get out and try the bank anyway, same as before, minimum withdrawl twenty. I'm still thinking how to get my bag and get out. I return to the car and say to him, truthfully. “Solo diez Euros en account. Banco solo dispenses venti. No good.” He gets out of the car, telling me to try again, I do, then he tells me to try twenty, I do, bank says my limit has been reached.

We return to the car and I tell him I will buy the ticket from the station, ask for him to open the trunk so I can remove my bag. He refuses, saying he wants my money first. I tell him that if I do not have my bag when I buy the ticket, the bus will drive off. It takes a few attempts, but eventually he concedes, I take my bag and we walk to the station together. A few people have turned up. He is nervous and fidgetty. “Give me dinero.” “You give me dinero.” etc. I tell him I have none on me as he has just seen. I ask again if this is the bus for Tangier, knowing full well it isn't.

“Si, dinero.” He replies, getting angry. I tell him I will buy a ticket for Tangier here and get money from the driver for him. He starts to argue, saying how he just drove me here to get the bus to Tarifa, and from Tarifa I can get to Tangier. I say I asked for Tangier twice, and he agreed ten Euros for a ticket to Tangier. He continues to argue, threatening at the same time, sticking his car key between his knuckles as a weapon. I move on to the tips of my feet, ready to respond if needed.

He shouts at me, telling a hippie-looking guy nearby how my mother is a whore and I am a thief, but he understands what we have both been saying, telling the man “si, si” and agreeing with him, smiling and looking at me understandingly at the same time. A few schoolgirls to the right of us are laughing at the scene.

The car-owner comes back at me again, snarling and spitting, raising his hands but not lunging forward to attack yet. I'm wired, ready for the attack, responding calmly in clear concise basic Spanish. He threatens to call the police. I smile and invite him to do so. He grunts, knowing that he cannot, and goes back to the tired “Give me dinero.” I say “Por que Los Barrios? Algeciras – Tangier?” he says “Si, tu bus aqui, aqui Algeciras, Algeciras – Tangier.” I repeat, “Por que Los Barrios? Por que tu drive me Algeciras? We meet at Algeciras.” A few more people have arrived, he glances round nervously, and tells me to pick up my bag and follow him.

I say I will wait at the station, and get the bus back to where I was, he can stay at his casa at Los Barrios. He draws the fist with the keys back and snarls, I smile, standing still. He speaks rapidly, I pick up general insults and he tries to take my bag. I grab it first, and he tells me to follow him. Sensing a stalemate, I gesture for him to go and we walk to the front of the station. My bag on my shoulder, I know I'm at a weakness if it comes to a fight now, but need to be able to take my things quickly.

We keep repeating ourselves until two buses pull up, and by this point the man is raving. I explain again using basic Spanish and English words, until one of the bus drivers leans out of the window and says something to the man. He turns and responds to the driver, as he does a thought comes to me, “Get out of here.” I turn round while he is distracted and get on the opposite bus, hastily saying to the driver “Tengo no dinero, por favor one stop away from this man.” The driver nods, the guy in the black shirt whirls round and starts kicking out at me, hitting my bag. The doors slam closed, and we drive away while the guy keeps shouting.

I restrain myself from any further gesture towards the scammer, and thank the driver profusely, taking a seat. I exhale fully, while the guy is hitting the side of the bus. An old lady and her son gasp and tut, while the rest of the bus crane their heads to watch. I remain silent, staring at the pattern on the chair in front of me, and calm myself on the drive back to the port.

Getting off the bus, I head to El Corte Ingles, one of a chain of Spanish department stores on many floors, and search for an empty plug socket to use their Wi-Fi. I check my bank account and I am thankful to see £40 in my bank account, more than enough for my ticket!

I transfer the funds to my savings account that is accepted at more continental paypoints just as the manager of the store tells me I cannot use the socket. I acquiesce, and make straight to the port, half-expecting to see the guy there again, my body still on edge from the adrenaline that was not used in the encounter.

Thankfully, peace still reigns and I buy a ticket, and after a short delay board the ferry to Tangier, the price to Ceuta now a few Euros more for some reason.

00:06 July 4^th, Ferry from Algeciras to Tangier

Brain leaking it feels. Tired. No point sleeping, the ferry will arrive within twenty minutes.

Filled out the card of arrival, a first for me, stating my intentions to travel as studying, with all the other regular details. Was donated £40 otherwise I would still have been stuck in Algeciras, aimlessly wandering around the harbour, promenading myself conspicuously looking for some way of free passage to Maroc.

Lost sight of Europe for the first time from where I sit, and above the steady hum of the boat's engines a man talks rapidly into his mobile, near impossible for me to pick up any words to attempt to learn the language, except “chakram” every now and then. A lady in a headscarf browses with her phone nonchalantly while her parents sleep opposite her. I feel an overwhelming need for sleep but try and fight it.

As I write, a thought of “Why bother?” rises and I yawn, deciding that ten minutes will be better than none in the shade, and I want to be half-awake for seeing Africa for the first time by night, and my curiosity at the spectacle I shall see when the Sun rises is high.

Then I see how close we actually are, decide to pack up my laptop and things, then walk up to the bow of the boat and drink in the air.

The air is fragrant, a scent I still cannot pinpoint exactly. Earthy, musky, yet not unpleasantly so. The foot passengers disembark seperately, so myself and five of the fifty or so passengers are the first off, and quickly transferred to the main station, where the police merely glance at my passport before waving me through.

I leave the station and breathe, looking around. Africa, at last. I roll a cigarette and as I light it a man approaches me. He is about 6” 4' tall, heavy-set and has a long black beard.

“Taxi?”

“No dinero.”

“Donde eres?”

“Inglaterra.”

“Inglaterra and no dinero? How long travel?”

“5 semanas, autostop. Cuanto kilometer Tangier centro?”

“Three maybe four.”

“Chakram, I walk. Piede.”

“OK.”

I walk away and get about fifty metres before he shouts and gestures me back, walking towards me. “Come, I take you to my house, one night no problem.”

Thankful for not having to walk the distance into town, he tells me to sit and we wait. Slightly puzzled that we did not get into his taxi, as I believed he had one (it later transpired he sells tickets for the ferry), I cross my legs and remember what I learned about Moroccan business style in Amsterdam. “You smoke?” I say yes, he asks me I smoke hash-hish, I say yes, he says we smoke at his house.

A taxi with two guys pulls up, my new guide shouts them to a stop and after a speedy conversation I put my bag in the boot of the car and we drive off. As we screech off in a cloud of dust, I let the bartering over price become background music and stare out of the window. I see other people starting the long walk back from the port station, men and women, grand-fathers and grand-mothers. Feeling slightly embarrassed at my immediate comparative luxury thanks to my country of birth, I look out of the other window and watch the rolling hills, and immediately distinctive houses.

I see fast food kiosks, with boiled pig heads hooked on to the corner of the canopy at the forefront, bright pink, twisting in the wind. My mind does a double take, and I remember Naked Lunch, and Burroughs talking of the Inter-zone briefly. I'm surprised at the pigs, and mentally remember to question it later. We stop briefly at a stall by the side of the road, where the man offering me shelter gets out quickly to buy a pack of cigarettes. He walks briskly back to the car, throws them into my lap along with another one, outside of the pack. A minute later I realise the significance. I open the pack, taking out a cigarette and thank him.

Less than ten minutes later, the man instructs the taxi to pull over, and we get out alongside the auto-route, the only light from the street opposite, and the numerous stars above. He takes me by the wrist once I have my bag, “Come, come. One, two nights, my house, no problem.” I pat his hand and he lets go of mine. I light the cigarette and he tell me to wait while reaching inside the house window for the key.

He opens the door and turns on the light. The house is a concrete room with a wall between one third, seperating the kitchen/toilet area from the sleeping/sitting area. He asks me to take my boots off before I enter, which I do, remembering what I had researched on Arabic etiquette.

His expression changes somewhat, and he asks me for the pack of cigarettes back. I hand them over, and he asks for the other one he gave me as well. I hand it back to him and he walks back out of the house, telling me to follow him. I walk barefoot round the corner behind him, and he shines his mobile phone into a concrete shelter adjacent, dog shit littering the floor.

“You sleep here. OK?”

I look at him and nod. “I back in ten minutes, talk to my friends first. You have bag for sleep?” I nod again, and he walks off. I put my boots back on, and stand outside, looking up at the stars again, thinking. A few minutes later, he returns. “OK, come.” I return to the other house and he tells me to take my boots off again. Once again, I understand the subtext, but go along with it.

He tells me to sit, pointing at the opposite blankets/bed to his, which I do, cross-legged. He lays on his bed facing me, propped up on one elbow. He lights a cigarette and after inhaling once, rests his hand with it on his knee. I have a unlit cigarette in my hand, seeing nowhere to flick the ash and waiting to watch where he does. He continues not to smoke, watching me intently. I return it, neutrally.

Before the ash falls, he leans across and flicks the ash onto the concrete. I light up, and ask him where he is from. “Casablanca. Very big city. Have you been?”

“No, but I have heard. Very industrial.” He looks down, nodding. “Yes, very industrial.” A few minutes pass in silence. There is tension here, a sort of challenge, but I don't feel overly threatened, despite the man's stature. “You eat?” I reply in English, “Yes, if you do, chakram.”

He stands and walks behind the dividing wall, returning with bread and halal sausage. Despite my hunger, I don't eat much (although at the moment I regret not eating more) and he asks me if I like the food. I say yes, and although the bread is fresh, and the sausage tasty, I rub my hands over my belly in such a way as to indicate my stomach roiling around; he nods and I finish my cigarette after we eat.

Pointing at my filthy, bloodstained once-white trousers, and then at three alternate pairs on the floor, he says change, the same order tone in the voice. I stand and look, saying “La, chakram.”

“No, no, change. Is good. This? This? This?” pointing out the individual items. “Good for sleep.”

Clean clothes would be better, and my pockets are full of things, so I thank him and put on some tracksuit bottoms, putting my other clothes back in my bag. “You want sleep now?” I shrug, and get my sleeping bag. Returning to my bed for the night, I use my orange hoody as a pillow and my sleeping bag as a duvet.

“No, no, get inside” he says, pointing again. “No, it's warm.” I reply, miming as such. He stands up and approaches the window, which has a pink sheet with roses as a curtain, he lowers it slightly. “Is OK for you?” Undertones again rise to the surface, and I say no problem, smiling.

“OK, we sleep.” He returns to lie down, same posture as before, and I lie facing the white ceiling. A few minutes of silence, and he gets up and turns the light off.

I start drifting off asleep, my thoughts a conversation with unknown people, and he turns the light on, and then peers at me, his face a few inches from mine. “Sleep good?” Thinking of telling him that it was until he turned the light on and woke me up, instead I say chakram and hold my hand above my eyes, squinting against the light. “Here, I help you sleep.” With that, he grabbed me with both hands and pulled my torso up, moved behind me and started rubbing my head and shoulders. “Is good?”

Take a moment to picture the scene. I'm underweight, half asleep, and suddenly John-Rhys Davies in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is kneading me like putty. He is literally pulling at my temple and scraping back my hair, my eyes comically widened.

“Is good?” he asks again. He grabs my shoulders, his hands enveloping my entire upper arms. To be fair, my shoulders appreciate it greatly. “Shoulders yes, hair no chakram!” I say. “Problem,” he replies, “here.” He stands up briefly, flips me over, pushes my head down into the blanket, and sits on my lower back, his entire weight causing my spine to click repeatedly as he settles his arse on me.

I let out a noise, something like “Flarghaasjirsa” but still, all things considered, this isn't too bad. He puts his hands around my neck and starts unbuttoning my shirt. I try to move, explaining with traditional British politeness that this really isn't necessary, and he pulls my shirt down, exposing my shoulders. He starts tapping them with his fists, although they feel like punches. “Wait.” He stands up, and then turns round and sits back down between my shoulder blades. “Hoooooooooooooyah.” I say, gutturally.

He picks up my feet and casually bends them backwards until my toes are touching my buttocks, and the pain/pleasure triples. “Is good no?” he says, pushing harder. “Ek.” is the only sound I can muster. He lets them fall, and then starts to massage my back. While the rest of my body aches, the lower back starts to feel more relaxed. He puts his hands lower, under the waist-band of the tracksuit bottoms. “Ok, ok, I'm good.” He removes his hands and punches my arse. I laugh, inexplicably.

Getting up suddenly, he opens the door, goes outside and spits, then returns to the opposite wall, sits down and lights a cigarette. “You are very easy.” he says, dead-pan. I look at him, one eye squinted, and several comments occur to me, but I remain silent. “I go to sauna every week in Medina for massage, after work very good.”

“You want my turn?” I say, rising. “No” he responds urging me to stay where I am. I feel the need for a cigarette, and we smoke in silence for a few minutes.

He gets up and turns the light off, then I try to sleep once more. As I am about to fall unconscious, he turns the light back on then comes over and picks my sleeping bag off me, and starts unzipping it. I ask him what he is doing, holding on to it. He flicks my hand away, saying “is better” then puts it back over me, as one would to a child. Then he lays back in his original position, watching me again.

I lie on my back again, hands folded across my stomach, and a while later he turns the light off again. I am roused once more in the night and see the end of a cigarette in the darkness, although sleep well afterwards.

This morning I wake before him, and stumble around to roll a cigarette. He wakes as I am doing, and offers me a café and a swiss-roll/Twinkie type sweet called a Bambi. I think of saying I hope it wasn't dear but feel like my genius would be wasted. We drink the café outside, and his neighbouring villagers look at me like an alien, one or two greeting me traditionally with a Salaam. He asks me if I have a phone, as he has friends in the centre (which is now forty kilometres away) who can put me up if I want, but I say I lost it in Spain.

He left around noon, saying he is going to the neighbouring village, and to wait. I decide to take the opportunity to write this up, and am still deciding how to get to the centre. It's in the low thirties outside, and my body aches, ravenously hungry and not sure if I should hitch from the auto-route a few minutes away and leave the dude's house unlocked, or await his return, despite having no food, although running water and electricity also feel like a boon.

Think I'll wait a little while longer. Seems the decent thing to do.

16:26 4^th June 2013, village near Tangier, Sar?

21:47

Still no sign of the house owner, and no food since Bambi. That still sounds wrong. Ventured outside of the house and saw three kittens playing outside a house. Decided to get my camera out and watch them play. The children were naturally curious of the outsider, and of the camera in my hand, we watched the kittens together, although they didn't like being picked up, and scratched one of the boys slightly, before all three ran and hid in a tiny hole in the wall. Getting to know them as themselves – bright and happy, they cheered me up immensely just being around them, seeing that...something...that we all hold on to in our hearts yet bottle up, afraid of being that vulnerable, for we are taught eventually through life that there are bad people who will hurt us, and as we are hurt we close ourselves off to the outside world. Although when we feel safe we open up to people, and we all (I hope) managed that today.

Three Little Kittens (video)

To share that experience with their parents was a blessing I am thankful for. Later, I showed the children the video clip of themselves, to their astonishment and delight. I met the father of the boy who picked up the kitten and showed him the video too, although my lack of language skills was evident, and I really wanted to talk more, though I will keep trying. The children helped in that regard too, even though I couldn't put it into words, they must have sensed my frustration, and they brought me one of their French school books, and we looked at some of the words together, reading aloud. Afterwards, and apropos of nothing in the same way as before (kaka buddha) the boy said “Habibi.” I said “Comment?” for I had recently read a novel of the same title, and was intrigued. “Mohammed. Mere d' Mohammed.”

I was speechless for a minute, digesting this wisdom – for while Mohammed is regarded as a Prophet, the Mother also is revered as divine, as with Jesus and Mary. Thinking more now, the difference is that the Prophet is not worshipped, as was the command of God/Allah from the beginning.

Interestingly, there is a hadith (I think) where Mohammed travels on the back of a mythical winged creature through the seven levels of Paradise to receive his divine wisdom, and is offered a choice between wine and milk. He chooses milk, and is congratulated by a djinn/angel, for if he had chosen wine his followers would be led astray. I cannot help but wonder if Jesus had a similar experience in the desert during his forty days and nights, but chose wine instead – for did he not turn water into wine, to quench the thirst of his followers?

Surely it would still have been a miracle turning a cup of water into enough for five thousand, without mixing it with alcohol? Not that I have anything against wine (or milk for that matter) but this seems like I need to contemplate it more.

Perhaps there is a third option? If the next Prophet who transcends to this level of Paradise is offered either wine or milk, chooses neither? What then? I think that would be my choice anyway, for only water is pure.

A little earlier, we (the children and I) were listening to music together, Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie, and Baba Yetu (the Lord's Prayer). Listening isn't the right word, for we were singing along, and they were dancing. There were two toddlers, and the girl approached the boy, to dance I believe, and the boy got upset and hit the girl round the head lightly. The girl wasn't distressed by this, just confused and moved away. Myself and the elder boy made tut-tut and not right sounds and gestures, and the boy calmed down, I looked down to change the song on my laptop, and when I looked back they were happily dancing together. Seeing that was yet again a blessing.

I feel different, my stomach has stopped making noises, I am no longer hungry, and water, coffee and cigarettes have been enough to keep me going so far. However, I felt ashamed for smoking, and closed the door excusing myself to smoke, while I heard the eldest child explain “fumer *something something* papas”, which I presume to mean that smoking is just for dads, and I felt relieved.

23:52

Damn fine coffee. No cherry pie though.

I felt a brush of something in my hair earlier, and carelessly flicked my hair, and a large beetle landed at my feet on it's back. As it scrabbled frantically, it's legs kicking as fast as they could, I put my finger down to it so it could hold on to me and right itself.

The beetle crawled up my finger, before flying around the room, though bumping into walls as though dazed. I watched it intently, hoping it wasn't damaged permanently. It crashed down again to the floor, on it's back again. I reached over, again helping it up. The same crash happened again, and this time the beetle stayed still once uprighted, resting I suppose. I started to think that perhaps it would be an act of mercy to kill it, rather than watch it suffer pointlessly, but then I thought that perhaps it is not beyond living a full life, and can adapt. One of it's wings was outstretched, and some form of sac at it's back pulsed rhythmically. I noticed one of it's legs had detached, probably due to my hit, though there was very little force to my knowledge when I brushed my hair.

Throwing the leg outside, not without regret, it eventually flew off again, though still damaging itself, bumping into the white walls, and I picked it up, cradling it in my arched hands, and let it out of the front door to the ground outside, where there was less for it to bump into.

I sat down by the door, listening to random music, and after a few minutes I noticed the beetle had crawled back into the house. Starting to think the beetle was here for a reason, I watched it instead of intervening, and it crawled under another door into some shade, where I thought it was a good place for it to stay and rest as long as it needed, nothing further I could do for it.

My host has returned, after a day of work. I told him I had taken some café and he replied it was no problem, and asked if I had eaten. When I replied in the negative, he said I should have gone to the shop and taken some food, and that he would have paid the owner back when he got home, well known in this small village. We laugh at the language problem, and I resolve to try and learn more about practices in this country. He is cooking pasta with tomato puree, and has bought some orange juice. Enough writing for one day, I know I shall enjoy my meal.

00:58

20:47 5^th June 2013, Tangier

True enough, the meal was filling, and a friend of his brought round bread fresh from the oven to accompany it. We ate in silence, save for the satisfying slurps of pasta from spoons.

Afterwards, I offered to play some music, but he seemed bored, I suggested a film to pass the evening, though of course there was no subtitles for him to understand, but he said OK. After half an hour he told me to turn it off, which I did. He asked me to step outside with him. “Come, come.” I sighed, and followed him. We breathed in the night air together. “Fresh air good after smoke yes?” I agreed readily enough, then mimed for sleep and turned round to enter his house. He told me to wait a moment, and started to massage my shoulders. I half-expected this, and gently brushed his hands away, telling him my body was still limber from the night before. He looked slightly crest-fallen, and I patted him on the back as we went back inside.

He turned off the light, though I felt his gaze for a few minutes before I drifted off to sleep, dreaming they were trying to remake one of my favourite childhood PC games, and we trying to negotiate release of the source code.

I awoke before him, and prepared a coffee on his gas stove, and finished reading Camus' The Stranger. Two children from the previous day waved as they passed, riding two red poles like knights. “Deux chevaux” I remembered from the textbook. My host woke and went to the village shop, buying eggs and bread for a peppered omelette sandwich, deliciousness.

After the meal we went outside and talked with an elderly gentleman who spoke to me a little in English, telling me he had worked in Gibraltar for twenty years. He continued to speak with my host and the friend who offered bread, and I understood some of what was said at the time, yet I find I cannot remember it now although I laughed somewhat.

My host asked me if I wanted to go to Tangier today, and I agreed. We walked half a kilometre or so to the next village, drank some water from a container under a tree with a cup attached, then walked on to a bridge next to the ruins of a Portuguese fort. My host tried to catch the attention of passing drivers, gesturing at me, telling them I was English. I told him we should move off the bridge, to where there was more room for cars to stop. We did, and remarkably (thanks in full to my host) a truck stopped and I climbed in.

He wished me well, although I half expected him to join, and the driver set off, while I drank in the fantastic scenery, jolted constantly yet half-pleasantly by the suspension. It was forty odd kilometres, and we passed through two toll-gates, before he dropped me off at the outskirts of the city.

Having spent most of the afternoon walking around this city, I am surprised at how European it is in many respects. I'm not sure if my expectations were too wild, but although most of the chain stores are absent, the city itself seems all too similar to the Spanish ones I visited, although cheaper (seven dirham for a coffee, about 50 pence).

I walked round a market, though as I wasn't hungry or thirsty I didn't purchase anything. I did enjoy some honey and nut bars for three dirhams, should probably have haggled! They are delicious, and I don't even have to consider eating them as a problem! Hooray!

I've had some trouble finding WiFi in a lot of areas, and the Internet cafe's here block my Facebook and Gmail access, as they did in France. Strange, perhaps something to with the French language government? Maybe Interpol really are after my details! Heh. Hehe. Hee.

I walked round more, and briefly a befriended a stray animal – half-dog, half-fox and she was beautiful. I approached her and started talking to her and stroking her, before kneeling down to eye level with her. She nuzzled my hand and licked it affectionately, while I continued to feel positive thoughts between us. I decided to call her Zorra.

She walked away from me and started sniffing around a carrier bag full of stuff. She sniffed a couple of times before walking off, content there was nothing edible in there for her. She looked round and saw three guys walking towards her and crossed over the road. One of the men clapped his feet on the pavement and told her to “Asphat!” or something which I take means “Shoo!”

Trotting off quickly I looked at the man briefly feeling slightly angry for him urging my new friend away. I followed her around the corner and sat with her a while. I could sense she wanted feeding, but I had no food in my bag.

Eventually I asked her to follow me, and walked away. Though she merely bowed her head, blinked twice, and sat on her hind legs, watching me leave.

So even my new companion wouldn't stay with me for longer than half-an-hour. Ack. I decided to walk on and heard the call-to-prayer from a Mosque that was only ten or twenty metres away. Perhaps more spiritual guidance could help me on my Lam?

I removed my shoes, and entered, placing my bag at the rear of the temple. I was instructed to put my shoes onto a wooden shelf, and then to place my bag at the side. I misunderstood the last part, although we managed to talk coherently when he switched from Arabic to French,and we assembled in lines, with some people sat around the edges. At the front, opposite the door, a small group of people sat cross-legged, singing hadith(check) from the Qu'ran. We bowed together, then knelt onto our knees and placed our temples on the carpet on the floor.

I found myself listening to very few of the words themselves, instead listening to the harmony and tone of the song itself. It seemed like it was highly regarding someone, a person who gave guidance to the rest of the people of the planet.

The only word that I focused on for guidance as to the actual text of the song was Ali – who is believed to be the natural descendant from Mohammed, his son. Although this is contested by the Shi'ite denomination who believe it was A______(?).

In the centre of the group of people was a young boy, I guessed that they were singing to him at first, comparing him to Ali and helping to instruct him on his path.

This thought was pleasing, but then I heard anew, and suddenly I saw the energy was emanating from the boy himself, and I was at once reminded of the Dalai Lama who is chosen from a young age, after answering a series of questions about himself.

After hearing amazingly intellectual messages myself from young children with their families, perhaps we are underestimating the value of their intelligence, especially since the discovery of the Internet, where children as young as 10 are helping discover new methods of cancer treatment, and teaching themselves to code remarkable things.

While we are at this stage of childhood, I believe we still remember most of the things from our old age in the past/same life, and still have the same urges to pass on wisdom to the “younger” generation.

People slowly filtered out, and eventually I left also. As I was crossing the park adjacent, two young men in traditional Islamic attire greeted me, and I somehow understood they were asking if I had been to the Mosque just then. I said I had, and they asked to sit and talk with me a while. I gladly agreed, and we sat cross-legged in a triangle.

They asked where I was from in Arabic with a few words of French, and how long I had been in Morocco. I told them, and they asked me if I was Muslim. I replied that I believed in God or Allah.

One of them asked if I was hungry, and walked off, then returned with some chocolate biscuits, which we shared. We tried to continue talking, and I was responding in English now, unsure of how much of what I said was understood.

Then the other gentleman asked if I was still hungry, and politely asking me to wait there, walked away. In the meantime the other man and myself compared our identity documents, showing each other our names and dates of birth.

We talked some more, myself mainly of djinns /angels, then they bade me farewell and good luck on my Hajj. Admittedly this wasn't the first time the phrase has been used for my travel, by friends here and in England.

I walked on, after fifteen minutes of walking suddenly, unprovoked, felt angry and my bag weighed heavier into my shoulders. Letting out a startled laugh, I wondered why I haven't found any chess players or shisha café's yet. I had seen a few people playing Backgammon, which I had also played in Spain, but found it left too much in the hands of chance (heh).

I decided that Backgammon was similar to Ludo, and then found myself five minutes later walking past a café where people were playing a game that looked remarkably similar to Ludo. Laughing again, I decided to walk in and have a coffee.

There were no empty seats at the games, so I looked up to see what was on television. Dark and stormy setting, someone's climbing a tree at superhuman speed, looks decent. Then the characters show themselves. Bloody Twilight. Gah.

I instead watch the other customers, happily playing games and talking with each other, I find myself laughing too at times. Especially when I noticed Twilight every now and then.

I finish my coffee, and walked on, seeing a fire in a paint can on the pavement. I stop to sit and have a cigarette, and a young man casually walks over the fence in front of me, then staggers forward, drool falling from his lips.

“Tu ok?” I ask. He turns towards me and asks for a cigarette, which I start to roll for him. We greet each other and he sits opposite me. The fire shows a large scar down one side of his face. We exchange pleasantries for a few minutes, before a man in a robe walks along, and picks up the flaming bucket with a hooked twig. We both exchange a look of disbelief as the man walks off with our heat source, before I shrug at him and say “it was probably his anyway.” He invites me to the place he sleeps, a short walk away. We walk, on the way I watch as he talks to a vendor, buying a carton of milk and a candle. He sings as we continue across a busy roundabout to a brick wall with a hole in. He lights a candle, and asks me to step inside with him. I push my bag through, and crawl inside.

Immediately I step onto foot deep rubbish and general waste, and glance about my eyes adjusting to the candle's flickering light. I hear mewling to my left, and scurrying to my right. The young man steps left, kneels, then hands me the candle.

I watch as he opens the carton and pours it into two makeshift trays made from previously used cartons, and four kittens tumble around in a cardboard box making their way to drink. I smile at the kittens, then take in my surroundings. Concrete walls and pillars support a large floor space, and I can make out similar discarded waste as far as I can see.

He stands and waves for me to follow, and feeling like I've discovered some long lost Tomb, I shoulder my bag and walk slowly behind him. He holds the candle towards a wall, and shines light on a man in his mid to late forties with a large handlebar moustache, slight beard, bald head and piercing eyes. He stands up and I immediately feel threatened – sure enough I look down and he is holding the blade of a type of Stanley knife in his hand, which is clenched around it. We stare at each other in mutual assessment for what feels like an era, before the man who invited me in walks forwards and stands next to him. They start to speak in Arabic and French, while I pick up certain words, English being prominent.

The wiry bald man's eyes enlarge wildly, and he mimes thrusting motions towards his friend, and I realise with deep dread he is talking of stabbing me in the dark abandoned building, as a rich tourist from England must have much money.

I drop my bag to the floor, sighing “not like this...la chakram...”, the scarred man with the candle speaks a little more, this time in Spanish, “hombre” and “amigo” words that stand out this time.

“Ahhhhhh! Familia! Why no say?” He immediately lowers the knife, and extends his hand limply in a gesture of peace. I match it, and he beckons me over to where he is staying, a blanket on a concrete ledge. They say they both stay here for the last two weeks. Walking to the left, they tell me “dormir here” and gesture at an identical though bare ledge. I ask them why they sleep here instead of in a tranquil jardin somewhere, they reply policia grande problem. Still not convinced, but letting it drop, the moustached man goes and I see his silhouette root through a pile of things on the floor, before he returns with a blanket, and a grime-encrusted pillow, which he starts to arrange in to a bed for me.

I thank him, but try to tell him how I have a jumper for a pillow and a sleeping bag. He waves me away, and tells me to sleep here.

All the way through this, occasional noises of empty water bottles being moved around, paper rustling, and screeches of rats emanate from the dark. The other man tells me he sleeps in the other half of the building where the kittens were, and walks off after telling me to stay tranquil and that we are all equals right?

Naturally, I agree readily and he walks off, illuminating himself by the flame of a lighter. The other man sticks the candle to the wall above my bed by the melted wax, and asks me some general questions, where I'm from, how long in Morocco etc.

Then he bids me wait, and blows out the candle, then walks off towards the alternate exit of the building. I see him turn round a corner and I am alone in the pitch blackness, the only noise that of the rats, which also sound suspiciously person like.

Half of me wants to just retrace my steps and leave now, the other half is primed for an attack at any second. Looking back, perhaps it was the braced part of me that made me stay there. My eyes dart left and right, and numerous coffees (perhaps) have me seeing shadows move above rat-height. Being trusting, but not too trusting, I decide to hold my pillow over my midriff and adjust my position from where I was left in the dark, just in case a blade attempts to slide between my ribs suddenly.

I breathe half a sigh of relief when I see the man return, sparking the lighter for temporary bursts of light. Rats flee from his feet, and I peer down below my crossed legs and see a rat nibbling at something. He drops two more bags, and brings out a sheepskin rug and a remarkably fresh and clean pillow.

I stand up and pick up the water bottle while the man arranges the pillow and rug, then pick up the half-full water bottle. The lid is chewed slightly, but the water is thankfully pure. I drink a few swallows then sit back down with it. He walks off again, then returns a few minutes later, and relights the candle on the brick wall then takes out two pieces of foil.

One foot on my bed, the other on the ground, he unwraps one of the foils, revealing a few drops of red liquid. “Five Euros this.” he complains, wearily, bitterly, and understandably. “Twice a day, five euros, five minutes *points up*”. I tell him the Moroccan hash is good enough for me. He says “whiskey very good, hashish very good, this drugado mal.” He tells me he used to make lots of money from it, now resorting to living like this.

Asking if there are any rehabilitation clinics in Tangier, and if he has tried methadone, he says he cannot afford methadone and the clinics are likewise not free. I nod in sympathy. The other foil is rolled into a straw, and he burns the foil underneath the liquid, causing an effect of watching him chasing some blood down some silver, inhaling clear smoke, exhaling thick white.

His behaviour afterwards, also remarkably, is unchanged. He tells me to relight the candle if needed, then blows it out and walks off again.

Alone once more, with the rats talking to each other, my mind suddenly has a thought: “Lo siento.” I'm sorry? For what? Paranoia still rampant, I watch, my attention following light when it can, but mainly relying on the carried sound, and I realise that the noises are too late to plan a reaction, or try and centre a location for the movement, thanks to the acoustics of the building.

After an unknown amount of time, I lie horizontally, willing myself calm, deciding that if it happens, it is better to not see it coming. Oddly enough the thought doesn't comfort me, although I do manage to close my eyes.

Even worse when I lose my actual (probably poor) night sight, and rely instead on my incoming thoughts. My mind is telling me there are several men lurking nearby, crouched down walking slowly towards me, occasionally brushing against an empty water bottle, or kicking a rat that screeches and scampers away.

My heart is beating loudly. My eyes open, certain there is someone nearby. Within a minute or so I hear a noise from upstairs, somewhere up until that point I didn't know even existed. I see a torch light bounce along walls through slight cracks in the concrete, and a man emerges from an alcove, and I make out a bearded man walk up to the moustached man's bed adjacent. I am squashed against the wall, watching him silently. He shines the light around his bed, and I can see him perfectly, also sure he has seen me, though he gives no indication of this.

He touches nothing, then walks away towards the way I entered. My fear is overcome by curiosity at the situation. What is happening? Why are the people who stay here vacant? What was that man doing? Bizarrely, thoughts like these calm me, and I feel I have something to focus on. My older feeling, that this is all a test of endurance, resurfaces. I am reminded of the Scooby-Doo cartoons, you must spend a night in an old abandoned haunted mansion. Feeling humorous, though not laughing, I lie back down, and attempt to think of rats as friendly, merely cleaning up our scraps with their mouths, itty bitty teeth chomping happily on a piece of paper. It works, somewhat. I am disturbed once more in the night, by the moustached man's brief return, and when I wake I am alone, and the rats are absent.

I take off my blanket and stand, deciding to take a picture by the morning light. The moustached man once again walks back in, cheerily saying Salaam. I return the traditional greeting and we touch hands again. He says I am welcome to stay here again tonight. Moving my hand in a uncertain manner, I say maybe, pack my bag, we wish each other well, and I walk out of the building.

I walk around to a nearby cafe and order a coffee, can't remember how much I had at the time, though I entered Morocco with 200 dirhams, thought I could spare a coffee. Watched some of Al-Jazeera, concluded briefly how it was Multi-Nationally owned since the Invasion of Iraq, finished my drink after politely chatting then walking on.

Managed to write some of my haphazard philosophy in a different place, and then was taken in from a unearthed Necropolis at the Western border of the city that night by a neighbour, who let me sleep in his yard.

Today, I walked around the Kasbah, noticed their very similar sea defence system to my home town, and explored the quarter, before going into Café Baba, I smoked some of my Hash, had a couple of coffee's and pondered what I had seen earlier, a small dirt-encrusted kitten shivering in the morning rain. Felt like bowing over it, instead picked it up and placed it on my knee, it eventually leaning into my hands and sleeping, warming steadily.

Wondered where it's parents were, and if the community were feeding it, it's tail was very skinny. Suddenly snapping back to the Cafe, the owner is tapping me on the shoulder, saying “You OK Monsieur?”

“Good hash man.”

I stagger out of the café, and walk along the way I came, back along to the panorama view from the archway by the sheer cliff walls at the top of the Kasbah, and walk along the cliffs

The memories of the next few days are a haze within my mind – through the madness that followed and follows as I write within a roadside café on the outskirts of the city.

Having practically given up on vocal phrases entirely, I now seem to rely a lot on my other senses combined, the languages mixing, the audio not matching the visuals, with things such as football games and cafe's – I hear familiar voices talk to me, repeated phrases constantly trying to lead my physical presence around by a short leash.

At first words are like mental slaps – an immediate darkness of vision longer than a blink, and a barked order - “COME” for example (imagine the possible connotations) with the mental reeling causing slight subservience before the fight/flight response is triggered, as it is so unexpected.

I struggle daily with my soul, my body (with luggage), and it seems, with Allah. I believe the will of the people is being absorbed and given out as I move around them, and I feel the duality at times between the masks and the reality – the shiny exterior and the grimy sub-plot that houses every Hollywood studio, as before in my past, the same areas expected for Tourists (TORE WRIST) and once you move beyond your friendly guide's instructions, you will find yourself lead astray by forces out of your perception, with a vague glimmering feeling of “I meant no offence!” as the previous man you talked with walks away with a smile and a gesture of “Get out of my bar freak”.

However, people being people, when you have refused them everything they think you want, they start to offer you the things you had only perhaps heard of previously, things that can cause insanity if not prepared for them. No stranger to this route, I have been confounded by the vast walls within the city that tower, until eventually the looming red-bricked houses and crossroads become like junctions on a sliding block puzzle, where after every move from one to the other, the pieces shift round, and after another step, you will realise you will be where you wanted to be before, with the vague recollection of moving them yourself, while all the while your every thought will be picked up on and brought before you in a couple of moves.

Before long this will turn into a long-distance game, where you try and fit all the pieces together in your mind, searching for an exit, and being presented with a symbolic archway, while all the time being talked to with a speech so acute that it can scarcely be described and still do justice – for the Moroccan people are highly-skilled in the marketplace, and pride themselves on their speech craft. I sometimes enjoyed meeting a skilled operator just to hear the hustle further along, while all the time complete courtesy is paid to the person. The best hustles are where you fulfil the role yourself, your previous wants corrupted into a desire. Although then you are still hooked on something, and surely that something has a price, and if you have money you can have honey, and I'm sure my friend at the next shop has that exact thing for you, but perhaps you can do a little favour for me first. Free sample, whatever you like. No price? Grashuish monsieur. (NB grashuish in no way means free).

Caveat emptor, as has been remarked upon and provided a solid maxim, remember what you actually want, stay focused, there are many paths here, and the unwary can find themselves bargaining for more than they expected.

11:34am 11 June 2013 / Somewhere close to Tanger

Feeling Fashed

1^st June 2013

Sitting waiting to depart Granada, the train shall soon approach to Sevilla. Probably no choice but to spend the night there before heading on to Algeciras.

I wonder at everyone around me, they all seem distinct yet similar, and when I stare for too long I start to see their faces become familiar. Never when I stare directly though.

“She works hard for the money, so you better treat her right.”

I find myself swaying to the music, and as I write, I feel the urge to stop and glance around me. It's after seven, and the early evening Sun makes the city seem sleepy – an illusion, for this is when the dedicated start to rise and enjoy life.

Feeling similar, I nevertheless seem unable to shake THEM off, the “social workers” and “civil engineers” and others who in another author's words “promise forever but never deliver” . I believe that author confronted most of his demons as well. “Demons to some, angels to others”?

It is not perspective that identifies this time, but intent.

My problem seems to be that they are all trying to help me, sometimes literally pushing / pulling me in a certain direction.

The problem arises as I have known that direction well, and have visited those lands. They provide a little, but do not quench fully, not like the direction I would like personally to choose does.

Judging myself, my appearance, scent and aura seem repellent. Bloodstained filthy trousers, a cut on my nose, black nails, accumulated dust from the mountains and dirt from the streets layers over my body.

Contemplating for a minute, I realise that the person who can support me at this stage , while at the same time being open enough for me to do the same to them would be special indeed. Support wise, a shower would be a nice start.

I resolve that this is all part of the purpose, and my dharma is set, the samsara rebalanced once more to keep everyone else happy in life. Divine suffering seems attractive indeed, for infernal suffering seems pointless. Maybe I will get the second half of the point of suffering in the stage between death and rebirth.

The barista tells me the train is three or four hours, plenty of time to dream soon. There the battle for my soul recommences and it is with great difficulty that I can even begin to see the sides at that level, for how can a form be either good or evil?

At most, only certain attributes of said form can be either True or False, yet even falsehoods can be beneficiary, and it is with great trepidation that I try to refine. For to refine another, is to refine my Self, should such a thing even exist. Enough for now, the train approaches.

I think I should write more about the voices. Sometimes male, sometimes female, it is hard to differentiate and even harder to react correctly. For to respond to one voice insulting my mother would provoke understandable anger to someone asking me how my day has been for example. Maybe there is no choice after all for some things? Or should I simply reply “Yes, yes.” in the previous example, saying nothing of merit and being grey to both?

Realising that the words I pick up are only part of the message, with the direction I am facing and point to affects what I receive, I still feel reversed from everyone else.

9:03, seven stops to Sevilla.

Seeing both, I see the misunderstanding from each side, yet am powerless to point out universally the falsity, and therefore cannot alter the Destiny/Maktub mapped out for me.

Both parties within me have known for some time what danger lies ahead. So I decide to stop trying to change and instead prepare for the mammoth task on the horizon. Knowing the plan is just that, so I turn my thoughts to the other species that live amongst us.

Change only happens globally when all agree. Apparently when ten per cent believe something, the idea takes root and spreads to the rest of the population, truth-hood of no concern.

Is it wrong / false to eat meat?

I still weigh up the variables in MY mind. For I see death as no problem for any creature, only the method with which it is brought about. If we remove needless suffering, the animal would have no idea when it is to die, and could lead a happy half-life.

Hmm...half-life...the term seems almost ironic now. For we have already domesticated and removed most instinct for herd animals to survive in the wild, so it would either take a very long time for these animals to evolve back / devolve to their normal state, or genetic modification.

Which brings rise to another problem: What need would the rest of the human population have with such animals if their products are no longer used? We do not value them correctly, and it is rare to see a sheep or a pig as a household pet, rarer still to see families that breed them, and farmers (under enforced vegetarianism) would cultivate their fields for other purposes.

The same can be said for the non-domesticated ones too, for as Zoos pass into privatised hands, would only the 'cute' and 'adorable' animals survive, as they would attract the most customers?

I think back over the nature documentaries that have been made over the years and struggle to remember one dedicated to the wood louse or whelk.

Some people are interesting enough to care for animals beyond their physical appearance, and it might be that a few of these “lesser species” (what a horrible term) may survive in glass tanks, biospheres, their species preserved, albeit out of their natural habitat. Maybe we will build another Ark, with which to escape the planet, with two of each kind of animal on the spaceship, or their genetic blueprints.

22:54

After being thrown off the train at the influentially named San Francisco de Loja, I walked from the station to some nearby rocks overlooking the town. Finding a small cave, I ventured inside, finding first a football (which I returned to the surface), and a briefcase.

Prising it open, the Zelda chest music playing in my head, my eyes were greeted with. . . emptiness! Save for compartment's for a mechanic's tools, it's durability was balanced against the size of my existing bag and I left it next to the ball – I can find someone's drug stash another day.

Went to a bar and had a small beer, then went to El Alamo nearby. After my previous thoughts of an omnivorous lifestyle, I decided to live on the edge and order a cheese and bacon sandwich. The waiter brings out mayo with it, which I apply and I ask for some olive oil. Humiliatingly I forgot the name for both olives, and oil. The owner smiles and offers me first some olives, then the olive oil, which I smother liberally over the bread. I take the olives and return the condiments, then eat, pondering the ethics of my actions, for I was neither desperate or without choice, yet chose to eat THE FORBIDDEN MEAT duh duh duh.

It tastes like cooked ham. I shall have a cigarette and think, try to see why pig in particular should be abhorrent to Judaism and Islam. Reckon I should start there before addressing meat in general again.

I honestly believe it is nothing more than a leftover remnant from a time when cooking pig was particularly unsafe, and we were advised against eating it with sound purpose. However, times have changed and the fact that the pig is covered in it's own excrement at times signifies nothing – for do we not clean all animal thoroughly before eating them?

That question satisfied to myself, why did God never state not to eat animals in general? Or perhaps s/he did. Thou shalt not kill seems pretty straight-forward, though if we include animals in general than we should also not kill the trees and plants around us, for are they not alive too, and therefore chopping down a tree would be killing it?

As usual I can see only the white and black, off or on, kill or no kill. I think I shall have to try the no kill route. For while I am tempted by the taste of human flesh, which the “on” of “kill” would permit, it seems wrong to me. So I shall live off only fruit, nuts, and dairy products, which while taken from a life form ala fruit, it does not kill it, the fruit regrows, the cow provides more milk. Funnily, vegetarians would be commiting murder in this sense, as when a vegetable is plucked it's roots are taken with it, and another life form must be replanted. Double irony! Maybe God really does have a sense of humour that I'm starting to get.

00:44 July 2^nd, San Francisco De Loja

Granada - Rambling in more ways than one.

11:00, 1^st June 2013, Granada

fuck this

Allow me to rephrase, at 14:57. I no longer feel like writing about the menial, the day to day.

I set off last night searching for the people eking out an existence in the Sierra Navada mountains, around the area of Sacromonte.

Managing only to find fellow travellers close to the mountains, after managing to upset people having a birthday party, trying unsuccessfully to communicate above things like “where u from” “what u do” “how long here”, I stormed off after being told “no trouble please” which of course I cannot refuse, so I shouldered my pack in the most painful way I could imagine as I walked, feeling that I somehow must deserve the pain that I somehow caused to them.

Steadfastly walking, first down to a valley where I pondered and listened to the voices, before climbing again until I arrived at where I was told to sleep, at a narrow footpath with a sheer drop to the river below.

In an unusual coincidence, a child holding a blue balloon just walked in. Feliz compleanos!

Five seconds later they walk out.

Before sleeping I stared at the stars, musing upon their significance, until I pictured the reverse, how the others must see us while we sleep – the sky pure white with dots of black seemingly at random.

I say slept, but many of the rocks beneath me on the path hurt my back, and even when I removed the ones I could, I still barely managed to rest my mind. Once I woke, I retraced my steps back to the village that was closed to me the night before, and then caught a bus, which only took me half a kilometre before turning round. Feeling cheated, I walked along until I came to a café at the foot of the Alhambra, and wrote in my notebook:

What is the NEED for Shelter?

Above all, protection from the ravages of the elements, yes? So while we seek this protection or sanctuary that all are entitled to (the NEED), what should be within the building?

Would a collection of branches, woven together tightly enough to withstand the wind and rain suffice? Partly.

For this Shelter could not provide warmth, nor withstand Fire, and no matter how strong the branches, they would eventually collapse given enough pressure from the Earth. (Looking back, the same is said for the wind and rain, Air and Water.)

So we evolved past cutting down trees for our Need of shelter (and warmth, another Need, that cannot be quenched by shelter alone), and we can clearly see the varying types of Shelter we have in the present. Let us look into the future together, to see how we would choose our shelters to evolve.

Imagine a shield of electricity around your house, harmlessly rebounding anything (or disintegrating the same, if you prefer?)

If the shield keeps everything, and therefore everyONE out, we are left with a feeling of total isolation. It seems the IDEAL, the archetypal Shelter, is one that can provide isolation as and when we require. Yet the electricity that protects us, is the same that imprisons us.

Imagine your electric shield (and shelter) holds within it a four poster bed if you wish. A hidden compartment which dispenses every feeling of food and drink imaginable, so that you may dine on the finest delicacies at any time. Do you still not see the bars that isolate you?

While in your shelter, no matter how luxurious it may seem to those standing next to the electric bubble and peering inside, the person within would still be in intense suffering.

Do we equate isolation equal to loneliness then?

Even if we managed to devise a system of communication that can pass through the shield, removing any translation errors, the isolation would still be present, albeit in a slightly different form.

So it is, that even if you are stood surrounded by happy, like-minded people, the iso-loneliness would still be present, for when we touch, we communicate in a unique and unparalleled form of communication.

Now, perhaps, do we see the the TRUE next set of bars within society.

“Look, but do not touch”; “Please do not walk (barefoot) on the grass”; “Please do not walk barefoot at all”. A series of instructions that are agreed upon that we must follow in order to belong in society, yet we do not realise how we are being instructed not to take pleasure, not to enjoy. For the pleasure of walking on the grass, the sensation of the blades tickling the undersoles, should be able to be enjoyed by ALL. Yet once we see a sign instructing otherwise, we forbid ourselves from our natural instinct.

As children, it is believed we need this instruction, this protection. Our parents wrap us with cotton wool swaddling clothes. Natural enough, yet we must learn that there is nothing to fear but fear.

Give out fear to someone and that person will give it back, yet unless that person who you were initially afraid of's aim was to make you afraid, the person will respond with anger.

What causes the fearful responses? Fear of loss, in some form or another. Yet to lose is to gain.

A person approaches you, and for someone to want to communicate with you, Law dictates that they want something from you, physical or otherwise.

Example

X : Excuse me? / Pardon? / Hello? / Hi? / Por favor?

Y: EEEK! / *sniffs* / [silence]

X = ?!?!

X = “A request?”

Y = “Don't take anything from me!”

X = Feelings of Astonishment and Anger

Here we see that even in this conversation, feelings are exchanged, albeit from the Y's erroneous fear.

Rational method of discourse:

X: Hello? / et al.

Y: Yes? Can I help?

X: Thank you, [request]

Y: Yes [grants request]/ No [declines request]

X: Thanks / Thanks

X + Y = NO FEAR

There are few verbal ways to create fear directly. Instead, to create fear intentionally, we create surprise:

X: Boo! }

}

Y: Eek! }

} Fear, created and resolved, stored contently.

X: Lol! }

}

Y: Grr! }

Yet fear is also excitement.

Fear is fun. Ease your fears, spur on fun.

For it seems to fear nothing is to be excited by nothing, to react with only dull grey blandness. This too causes unhappiness if treated as a rule. So once we reach this point, we crave artifical fear: Roller coasters, horror films, bungee jumps, etc.

Then if the artifice serves it's purpose our need is sated and happiness increased.

Take a step back, see the bigger picture.

One of our most common fears is the fear of death, which is identical to the fear of birth.

“It will hurt!” ; “What happens after?” ; “I'm afraid!”

Many of us ponder this fear, trying to answer these questions.

Ask your Mother while you are in the womb if there is anything to fear in life, telepathically. What would she respond to her child inside, from your perspective?

What do we tell the child, once it is born? Subconsciously keeping it afraid?

“Don't talk to strangers!” ; “Don't touch that!” ; “This is bad for you!”

All statements to which a rational adult, and therefore an irrational(?) child would reply:

“WHY?”

Now, we see how from birth we falsely instill fear, or better, instill the UNKNOWN, and it is this UNKNOWN variable which is the cause of fear, yet as long as there remains an unknown variable, X, the answer will be ?

X = ?

Naturally, we do not want our children afraid all of the time, in fact when they cry from Fear (misunderstanding) we want them to be quiet, happy and content again.

A child cries for attention, yes?

A child wants attention for assistance in some form of another, correct?

As we age, we realise that to CRY is to CRY OUT:

“Help!”

“Excuse me!”

“Please!”

If a child is unanswered at first, it's screams will intensify. At the age before words are taught, this will be an unintelligble noise that will nevertheless create concern, distress et al., at it's recognition.

These cries could perhaps be translated thusly:

“HELP ME!!!”

“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!”

“SOMEBODY!!! ANYBODY!!!”

If the child / adult is ignored again, which thankfully rarely happens, the person will typically be silent for a while, content in it's discontentment.

Until the cause of the initial outcry is resolved for the person, the urge to cry will always be present.

What, then, when the person X, realises that every Y it asks for help knows HOW to resolve it's OUTCRY, but instead chooses not to (or responds in the negative)?

The X learns resentment. This resentment will cont inue to grow until the X meets a Y that can resolve the outcry.

(At this point I was struck with a sudden realisation of the solution to the equation, baring in mind the character itself, not the variable at this stage:

[ X = Y ] = ? ; [ X = Y – 1 ] = ?

X = Y with one diagonal line removed. Y = T . The 4 become 3. )

Simplified then, any X is a Y looking for something not to be given but taken, keeping in mind the previous maxim.

For when we remove one part of the X, leaving the Y (why?) we have identified a quarter of the X, from which the corresponding opposite can also be identified as it's opposite, and can therefore replicate correctly to solve the initial question.

I AM STILL AN X

I HAVE IDENTIFIED MY Y

Yet no-one will take the remainder of the Y, leaving me incomplete, not whole, not one : 1

x ǂ 1

Although it is a different viewpoint, the ɫ .still has a use, though it is an unhappy chartacter.

Barcelona, Cartagena y Murcia

10:17, 15th May, Barcelona, Spain

----------------------------------------------------------------------

No more dreams as of yet, although my waking life still seems as such. My earlier prediction of my backpack breaking was eerily accurate, the next day as I was walking along the Passieg De Gracia, the stitching finally tore completely and my kit bag dangled out of the bottom.Grimacing, I walked along, my hands cupped behind me holding the contents of my bag at my thighs like some military green prolapse.

Finding a bench to unload, ignoring the masses of tourists walking past staring at me like a circus sideshow act, I dump the bag that I have carried for years into a waste bin, anger bubbling close to the surface.

I clutch my kit bag in both hands and walk to the Supermercado, where the security guard tells me I can't enter with my bag. It doesn't fit in any of the storage lockers there, and when I ask where I should put it he shrugs, arms outstretched wide, head tilted quizzically with a apologetic smile on his face. I make a wall of shopping trolleys and place my bag behind them, then search for some duct tape - perhaps the bag can be repaired?

Up and down, weaving through slow plodding shoppers, I soon discover that while there is an entire aisle dedicated to different types of flavourless water, they do not even sell sellotape. A Sideshow Bob-esque grumble emerges from my throat and I make my way back to my kit bag. As I do, the security guard physically stops me and starts to pat me down. My fists clenched, I look down at his shining palate and tell him to place my dick inside his mouth and choke on it. He stands up, we smile at each other, and I walk out.

Walking back to where I sat before, I mentally apologise to the guard who, after all, was merely doing his job. A voice reminds me that concentration camp guards probably had the same attitude, and I laugh out loud, a small mercy from the stress of being surrounded by vapid stares as I think about what to do next. For while my back muscles have been built up slightly from this long march, my arms have not needed to be exercised as much, and after emptying all the side pockets of my burgen (Bergen?) into my kit bag, it's overflowing, and feels like it weighs more than I do. Weak, Martin. Very weak.

My right leg is jittering like it's playing the bass-line in a drum solo for Slayer. I've rolled a cigarette, but it's doing little to calm my nerves. I stare at the floor, still trying to think about what to do when I'm aware of an elderly gentleman sitting down to my left. I clench my teeth together quietly, and after ten seconds he gets up and leaves. I do the same, feeling something has transferred and plod slowly to the nearby plaza, aware of the dark clouds coalescing above and hobble down some stone steps to the Metro station.

I empty the bag and try to decide what to keep and what needs to go. Staring at my spare clothes, toiletries, and miscellany, a sudden realisation hits me - How much of this do I actually need? Very little, I decide. I fill a carrier bag with a stove, knife and fork, and the leftover French rations, another with my notebook and laptop charger, then put on my desert jacket, packing into the numerous pockets my USB cables, a toothbrush, waiter's friend, two pairs of socks/pants, my army hood and then stuff the laptop inside my jacket. I put on my ripped leather jacket over the top and walk down the corridor, leaving the rest behind. It was a weight off my mind, as well as my back. Time to leave the Passieg, the tourists are getting to me.

I feel like I am ten years younger, and realise the Metro is next door and I've walked into an access point for an underground garage. I decided to explore anyway, looking for a plug socket to listen to music (I left my MP3 player in Hereford). After a fruitless search I decide to make a record of my feelings at the moment, filming myself in the mirror for the first time. It was bizarre, but it suddenly felt like I could acceptably talk to myself.

After, I find the actual Metro station, and take great pleasure in using my new mobility to jump the barrier, rather than rush through as before, my backpack setting off alarms left, right and centre. I nearly clicked my heels together as I vaulted, the sense of euphoria was that strong. Thinking back, I wonder at the cause of this elation - was it my body compensating for the anger before, or perhaps the sense of no longer being attached to possessions that were literally and figuratively weighing me down?

I walk quickly towards the nearest train, no particular destination in mind (I still can't remember the area where the train stations are in Barcelona, the only place so far this has happened) and am stopped by two police. Well, I had a good run, managed to get this far dodging the price, time to pay the piper. I turn round, resigned and still happy, and say hola.

They ask for my passport, I ask them what the problem is and they ask me to unzip my jacket. I laugh, realising for the first time just how suspicious I look with a huge bulge under a British Army flak jacket, and show them the laptop. They cheerily tell me there are many theives about, subtly saying I look like one, wish me a bueno journey and I hop (not literally) on the Metro, and emerge after a series of changes in torrential rain.

I keep walking in random directions, looking for a street sign that might either provoke my interest or show me an exit route - city centres aren't the best places to hitch from. My carrier bags are soaked, and I'm worried that the charger will break, so I walk under a shop parasol and count my cash. Three Euros and thirty-two cents. I walk to the nearest café and order a espresso for 1.10, and sit down. The owner walks over with the coffee and tells me this table is reserved for 8pm, so I must leave in ten minutes. There are several other empty tables nearby, and so I use the opportunity to dry myself, my things, and then use their Wi-Fi.

The rain intensifies as I leave, and eventually I find an area with three vending machines - a welcome temporary refuge which I use to prepare some curry noodles a la leftover donated hamburger. I hear an angry East Asian female shouting, and as I eat I watch her push what I presume to be her boyfriend against a telephone box while she berates him angrily.

He stands, taciturn, hands clasped in front of his genitals, eyes downcast while she punches him in the chest and arms. After a few minutes of this, they walk off and once again assuming that he had cheated on her as the reason for the argument, I think to myself that perhaps this is a better way to argue with a loved one.

The woman expresses her anger clearly, holding nothing back, while the man holds steady, accepting his beratement and beating, knowing that the rage is justified, also knowing that he is being hit out of love, therefore afterwards he is the one who broods over his actions, while the woman is calm to think of the way she wishes to progress.

Note, this example served to illustrate a different way of resolving hateful feelings, where instead of merely giving "the silent treatment" the anger is vented immediately. I walked on, ten to fifteen minutes later after a call from my parents, and saw the guy scratching his head with a friend outside some apartments. We exchanged knowing looks, and I shrugged in a "What are you gonna do?" sort of expression. He blinked acknowledgement and I walked on.

After passing a motorcycle accident, I approached the first open bar I had seen in what felt like forever, and decided that respite from the rain and access to the Internet for as long as the owner's hospitality would allow was worth my last two Euros Feeling thoroughly dejected and soaked to the bone, I check my Facebook account. Some friends had posted a picture of themselves with a sign reading "Good Luck Martin!" and I suddenly felt like I wasn't alone, even though hundreds of miles separated us physically.

They had read how I had lost my bag and the negative mood I was in, and clubbed together to send me £55 with which to buy a new bag and for "goodies", my gratitude could not be overstated. I was a rich man! Admittedly I was rich tomorrow, but the sudden knowledge that I could have a hot meal tomorrow caused unbelievable joy within me.

Within half an hour, the bar had emptied apart from the owner, his partner the barmaid, and myself. We started to communicate through the music, and with a smile he brought over a small glass of beer on the house.

The bar was Socialist in nature, posters expressing similar sentiments to my own viewpoints, and after a near orgasmic sing-along of "Hallowed Be Thy Name", they closed up and offered to put me up in a nearby lock up/safe house/bar/club/garage.

They gave me the keys and said bring them back to the bar in the morning, leaving me bewildered at the sudden change in my fortune.

After a night of peace and quiet, sleeping on the top of a piece of wood that served as a table, I returned the keys, wandered for a compatible bank machine, went back to the bar for breakfast of coffee and a croissant, tried to interpret the morning paper then wandered back to a Metro station.

Getting off at a random stop in the afternoon I found myself back in the Passieg de Garcia, and suddenly, nay, mechanically felt an inclination to see if my kit bag was still there. Unbelievably, with all the desperate people in the city, it was untouched from the previous day. I emptied the bag, fitting everything on me easily into the bag, and swung it over my shoulder, leaving behind numerous items for a needing person, much as I have taken similar from the streets, hopefully rebalancing my karma slightly in the take/give ratio. .

As night fell I met some fellow crusties who took me back to their squat, offering me a roof for the night. When we got there I was introduced to everyone, and welcomed the chance to speak English with three Finnish guys. Something about the place seemed wrong though. I couldn't put my finger on why, but I did not feel welcome. They offered me some beer, and then one of them offered to get me some LSD from a neighbour. I agreed, and he came back saying it was ten Euros a tab. I asked to see it, and he unwrapped several pieces of card.

I sighed, and said I would take it here, and pay him afterwards. He tried to tell me how decent his neighbours were etcetera but I was steadfast. He refused, and my suspicion (at the least) was confirmed. I wandered off, met a guy in a long brown jacket who told me he was Russian, and also a hitch-hiker, that proceeded to follow me around for most of the night, silent when I tried to question him. I bought a falafel and started talking to some of the guys outside, who joined me as well and the streets felt alive, people turning their heads to look at us as we passed, the dude in front walking his mastiff on a silver chain clearing a route ahead.

This still didn't feel right. I ducked into a bar on the right and ordered a beer. One fella came in behind me and said they wanted to go to a different bar. I told them they were more than welcome to, and swigged my beer. He sighed and walked off, and I started talking with some Irish women.

After they left, I turned back round and the Russian(heh) guy stood there. "I watch you." he said, smiling. He returned my attempt at conversation with the same silent expression, so I faced the bar again, downed another and ran my hands through my hair in despair. The not-quite-right feeling had returned more than ever, I felt I was surrounded by actors, alone, helpless but to follow a film script where I was the fall guy.

As my mood dampened, couples started to form next to me, kissing and embracing. I left the bar, found another, drank more, and staggered to a nearby church where there was a unfolded cardboard box waiting for me to sleep on. I mechanically wrapped my frayed jacket around me, undid my boots and stacked them next to my kit bag, and closed my eyes, restlessly turning in the cold.

The next morning I walked around Barcelona, talked to a dog called Ziggy, had a glass of wine with a Moroccan guy who lived in an old fort, and had a brief siesta in his hammock on the roof with some rather beautiful cannabis plants growing happily.

 I explored some more of the city before deciding it was time to move on, and took a train to Reus.

I am writing this three days after Reus, and have just woke up after my first night in Cartagena, and feel the need to write down the dream I have just had.

I was at a house somewhere in the old town of Scarborough, none of the places were familiar to me, although I somehow knew it was there. The house was being used as a constant party, there was music being played that I didn't enjoy. I think the house belonged to a blonde kid with a crew-cut, can't have been older than about ten. I remember wondering where his parents were, and I felt as a surrogate father to him, although there was animosity between us.

The only person I recognised in the house was my girlfriend of three years. We were hardly speaking, although when we did she spoke quietly and dismissively to me. She was with another man, a guy with short black hair. Part of me wants to know who he is, part of me knows without having seen him, and part of me wants to forget this whole dream and stop writing, but I continue. I was very uncomfortable, and I think the kid was acting up, house to himself, surrounded himself with "friends", and he was cared for though I felt his house was being used, while he himself remained cut off from the enjoyment. We went to a nearby corner shop at the boy's request, and the scene suddenly changed to him picking random sweets up and me telling him we can't afford them. He tells me to steal them for him then, and I go and look at the shopkeeper while the boy fills his pockets instead.

The next scene I remember was returning to the house, where four people were sleeping naked on a pull-out sofa bed. My girlfriend was asleep in the crook of the guy's arm, and I noticed she had the start of two tattoos; one on her shoulder and one in a crescent above her left breast. As I watch them, they wake and the guy she is with asks for food and drink. The others mumble in agreement and she gets up naked and walks past me suggestively saying "You can have anything you want." She was looking at me as she said it, and that is the only sliver of hope I hold on to. 

More happened, though writing this less than ten minutes after waking it has already faded. It's good to be open minded I guess.

I spent a few hours in Reus, and not long after arriving, I asked a man for directions to the nearest tobacco shop. He told me they would all be nearly closed now, although there was one around the corner. He asked me where I was going and what I was doing, I briefly told him of my plans to get to Morocco, and he invited me to go for a coffee with him. I accepted and we walked for a few minutes to a nearby café. We start talking, and he tells me how he has seven children, two boys and five girls, or was it the other way round? Then he tells me how he was a civil engineer and helped build bridges in Africa, and would have loved to be my age again to enjoy the sights all over again.

Having only two years to live from lung cancer, we talk of doctors and smoking, and while I sympathise with his sentiment that smoking kills, he had quit thirty years ago, and it was debatable whether it was that that caused the cancer. He only spoke a little English (as my Spanish), he told me he had not received a second opinion, although doctors in Madrid, London and New York all agreed on the diagnosis, treatment and prognosis, and that his main problem then was the ache in his bones and fatigue as a result of the medication he was on.

I tried to help, suggesting other doctors, saying that there are many other drugs that have had positive effects but are not yet being prescribed due to not receiving the correct patents, or not being tested thoroughly enough -though surely they were worth investigating, if not trying outright? Nothing to lose, as I am often told, much to my chagrin

He smiled and raised his glass and said Salut or Saluté, and I asked what the toast was to, and he said to Hell. I remember trying to decide whether or not to drink, with so many ideas conjured up by the word. It still seems unreal looking back, but I drank with him, my coffee to his beer, thinking that only part of us was there.

We said goodbye, and as everything had closed at about 22:45, I walked back to the station to see where else I could go. The only train that night was in an hour, to Madrid Chamartin, and I decide to wait for it. There is only one man in the station and he invites me to sit with him. He looks homeless, but tells me he is waiting in the station for the train to Barcelona, having missed the last train, and the station closes at midnight. He will sleep in the entrance of a bank, he tells me, asking me where I will sleep. I tell him of my plans, and we spend the next hour speaking of trivialities. He infuriates me with his body language, asking for the English word for many of my clothes, but I bear with him until the train arrives, and I share my sandwich with him.

The train arrives and we set off, due to arrive in Madrid the next morning about seven AM.

I doubt I will get all the way to Madrid, but welcome the risk of being thrown off and exploring the Spanish countryside by night. I sit in the cafeteria, opposite two middle-aged Spanish women, and try to keep a low profile. Not my best quality while travelling sadly. They start playing a card game called Pieua Pieua I think, with the aim being to hatch three chicks before your opponent, after watching a few games I learn the rules, although I don't feel confident enough to ask to play with them, and they don't ask.

A few hours later they leave, and I'm invited to play a Spanish card game after watching three people playing by a woman who introduces herself as Natalya.

"Would you like to be my partner? Come here." she says, patting the seat next to her. Inwardly sighing at the false flirtation while her boyfriend grinds his teeth, I nevertheless accept and he introduces himself as Jordan, and another guy whose name I have forgotten.

The game is Guiringa(sp) and it's a trump based game, with certain cards being worth certain points, very similar to a host of others. The Spanish name for trumps is triumphs, and I remember reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe as a child, the name of a chapter was The Witch Triumphs, and I remember reading it as trumps (English slang for farting) and giggling.

We play a practice game with cards face up on the table, and I'm aware that they are changing the rules slightly as we play, but I say nothing, simply enjoying the experience of making it to Madrid and I'm drinking a cheap carton of wine. They leave at about half two, and I finish off the wine, relishing the station stops to enjoy a rushed cigarette. Compared to British stations where it's against the rules to even smoke in the open air part of the station. I fall asleep at about four, sprawling along the two person seat in the cafeteria, and wake about half seven, the last person on the train in Madrid.

When I emerge from the station the city seems deserted, a layer of cloud permeating the skyscrapers that are dotted around the area. I stagger aimlessly, most of the capital as asleep as I am, and take a few photos of the landmarks nearby. My shoulders aching from the drawstring of the kit bag that rubs across my skin.

For most of the afternoon I am thoroughly downtrodden.

Numerous ulcers had broken out in my mouth, my tooth was aching, my heels were swollen and my boots were falling apart. Worse than all this was the feeling that Madrid was identical to Paris, Berlin and London, with only a few areas that give the city it's identity. Nevertheless, I plod on, eventually finding a tapas café to sit and rest my weary legs.

I sit at the bar between two people, and the bartender approaches me. My Spanish is still rusty. "Um...un glass de naranja?" His expression doesn't falter.

"Que?"

"Un glass de naranja?"

"Oh, naranja!" He says, exaggerating the accent correctly. I twitch but think it's good to pronounce things correctly. He returns with a Fanta. "No,no." I say. "NaraNja, fresh, squeezed." I mime preparing the stuff and point to the mixer at the end of the bar.

"Ah, Zumo de NaraNja!" he prepares the drink to a few titters from around the bar. If I wanted Fanta I would have asked for it. Dick. I was in a foul mood.

Nevertheless, the juice is perfect, sweet energy coursing through my body. Looking for conversation, perhaps an idea of where to go in the city, I say "Hola!" to the guy to my right. He sniffs and sips his cerveza. Fair enough, thinks I. I repeat my greeting to the woman to my right. She stares at the mirror, unblinking, unmoving.

I stare at my glass and clench it. To entertain myself, I picture a scenario. I grab the hair of the guy to my right and pull him over to the beer tap, ramming his nostril on the spout, and turn the tap on. I put my hand on the shoulder of the woman to my left and when she looks at me in disgust I shape my index and middle fingers into a V and ram them into her eyes. The bartender shouts for the police and I stand on the bar, pissing over his tapas. "There's your fucking zumo!"

I laugh and come round, no-one has seemingly noticed or cared. Good. I down the juice, and mime for the bill. Two twenty five. Son of a schweinehund. Instant karma for negative thoughts.

Despondent, I wander further into the city, trying to get into several Metro stations, although they are all vigilantly manned. Eventually I get lucky (in one sense anyway) and manage to hop on a train. I look at the station names, and decide Sol seems the most appropriate for me, and emerge in a thriving Plaza.

Many street artists are performing, and I walk over to a guy with dreads rolling pieces of paper and placing them in a bronze vase of a 'typical' style. We get talking and he tells me he is from Ecuador, and he levitates.

Talking within the circle, we exchange knowledge and I learn the secret. Although he is frowned upon in some places, I feel he is a good person, and I think positive thoughts for him. I sit by the fountain in the centre, and my gaze is caught by a man in a black suit with a curved, horned helmet and a samurai sword next to a Xenomorph (from the Alien films) who are inviting tourists to have their photo taken with them.

Feeling a now familiar sensation, I flick my eyes between the levitator and, for want of a better word, the dark angel. I cross my legs and ruminate on the two sides of myself once more, trying to balance the two. They both seem right within me. I take a photo of them both, feeling like a betrayer of some pact, and glance down to my left. There is a sealed white plastic bag on top of a leaflet. I pocket the bag, and look at the leaflet.

There is a picture of Einstein with his tongue out, and the text reads something along the lines of "Do you know you are only using 10% of your mind?" with instructions on how to send away for more information on Dianetics. I chortle, and walk on.

I walk along a side street feeling out of place and poor in a world that weighs merit entirely too much on finances. Looking about the discarded coffee cups for something to drink, a fellow homeless man who is even more dirt-encrusted than I am finishes off a leftover coffee, while I settle for a little water.

I'm cheered slightly, thinking how we still survive. Then I feel an urge to mix with some wealthier types. I see a very splendid looking café called Valour, and drop my kit bag next to a table and browse the expensive menu. I hear some Americans mutter in disconcertment at my presence, and I smile, notice a café solo is only 1.30 and decide to take a seat at the bar.

Two English ladies sit to my left, and order churros. We make small talk before they go, leaving half the churros and a full cup of chocolate behind. Happily, I eat their still warm leftovers, feeling like a King. Two Americans take their place while I am eating, and order some slice of fruit for fifteen Euros I watch them casually, angry at the way she waves a fifty Euro note dismissively at the waitress, showing how used to her own way she is. They don't tip on a twenty-two Euro bill, and I leave ten cents. Thinking back I probably upset the barista more with the small tip than none at all, but proportionately it was like leaving behind the keys to a car.

Full of caffeine and sugar, I walk back to the plaza and the man from Ecuador is in full swing, a crowd around him. I drop a coin into his vase, and take a fortune:

"The man who can make his companions laugh is deserving of Paradise - Mohammed"

I had recently been weighed down by the laughter of others around me, and this helped greatly. He gestures to me a sign of peace, which I return bowing, and walk on.

I walk for another hour or so, and on a whim decide to enter a bar opposite a famous cinema, the name escapes me of them both. I order a beer and the hostess brings over a few sweets in a bowl. I try to talk but feel like a dog, kept on a tight leash. I go outside for a cigarette and hear two women talking next to me, I mishear one of the words they said as "Logos", and ask for clarification.

We start talking and one tells me how the cinema across the road is very famous in Madrid, and exceptionally cheap - two and a half Euros for a ticket, though you must buy in advance. They finish their cigarette and I walk over to see what's on. A Tim Burton week, showcasing many of his best films. I peer into the entrance, and see the azure tiling that takes me back to the Gate of Ishtar in the Pergamon, and I am reassured I am on the right path.

Returning to the bar, the hostess places her hand on my shoulder kindly, and tells me how she knew I had no money and places a savoury crêpe with side salad next to me, gratis. I am humbled, and feel close to tears of unworthiness. I cannot thank them enough, but they wave me away, smiling benevolently.

I walk through more side streets, and see a bar advertising a beat poetry/story telling evening. I enter and browse, and see a book entitled "Trippers from the Dark Side", with a cover reminiscent of the golden age of comics, Creepshow-esque. Full of references to Poe and Lovecraft, as well as exploitation material (which seems to go hand in hand for some reason, can't enjoy everything I suppose) and I jot down the names of a few authors to look up when I can, especially a piece on pain and it's resolvement by pleasure.

The few people in the bar are more than happy to practice their English with me, though I still feel unwelcome in my soul. The gorgeous young barmaid puts some music on the laptop, catches my eye, and with a flick of her head makes me look at the screen, where she circles the band's name with the mouse pointer: "Bad Voodoo Daddy".

I shiver, once again hating the path I am walking down but seeing no exit, and laugh along with the others at my expense. They invite me back for the mañana to read some of my work, but as I would not be able to understand theirs and vice versa, I politely refuse. I leave, engaging in fleeting conversation with passers by, taking a drag of a joint from a man watching a game of chess which we both watch and discuss, before I try to sleep next to a museum. The ground is wet, and soaks through my jacket, and I cannot sleep.

Voices insult me in every way possible as I toss and turn, until eventually I pick up my things and move to some fairly close steps leading to an office, and unpack my things to sleep under the stairs, like the monster of yore.

When I wake I notice the sign on the door partially reads Lecter and smirk, then walk back up stairs, emerging to bright sunshine that temporarily blinds me. I rub my eyes and my vision starts to clear, and I realise the stairs were next to an important municipal building of some sort, and there are about four manned police cars no less than fifty feet from me. I turn on my heels and cut quickly across the adjacent building before I get hassled for trespassing.

I walk up the avenue to the Plaza de Colon (don't laugh don't laugh don't laugh) and prepare my stove in an area with a sculpture commemorating a treaty for Catalonians, if my memory serves correctly, which it probably doesn't. I eat a pork bouillon from the tin, the last of my French rations, and wait for my sleep-head to drift back to the recesses of my mind.

Not long after, on the same avenue, I see an alcove containing a perfectly made mattress, bottles of water, bread, and other odds and ends. I decide I would still very much appreciate a little comfortable sleep, and start to unlace my boots.

A woman appears and tells me that a woman sleeps here. I explain I only want a siesta, and she tells me that it will be OK as long as I leave when she returns. I lie on the mattress, and an elderly gentleman approaches me and asks the now familiar question: "Donde eres?" I reply Inglaterra, and he gives me two Euros for a
coffee wishing me luck on my travels.

Nearly bursting into insane laughter for some unknown reason I thank him, and lie back on the bed which feels like it would be fit for a Sultan compared to last night's rest.

Staring up at the blue sky, my eyelids begin to droop, and the man returns with a jamon sandwich from a nearby restaurant. He waves away my thanks and walks off again. I place it in my kit bag and close my eyes again.

My eyes are closed but the bright sun is illuminating my eyelids, and I am too comfortable to roll to the side. Content, my body rests while my mind wanders. I am aware of people stopping next to me while I rest, murmuring to each other - some in concern, others in more...debatable tones.

I feel like an exhibit, put on display in a shop window for critical commentary by the upper classes of Madrid, like some Tracy Emin statement on modern day homelessness. With this feeling in mind, I decide that this engineered perspective is flawed at best, and at worst a subtle way to allay people's concerns about the vast numbers of people begging and sleeping rough on a day to day basis, the hostels and dormitories full to bursting point. I leave the woman's bed behind, taking nothing but my kit bag.

After a mixed experience, I decide to leave Madrid and head back south, risking taking a train to Cartagena. I manage to sneak aboard, and using some trade secrets I have learnt along the way, I manage to avoid a ticket check for the five hour train ride.

The scenery that flies past the train is astounding, with vast blue skies arcing overhead, framing the majestic mountains that pepper the landscape around fields and barren scrub-land. I am reminded of every good Western film I have seen, and doze imagining riding a trusty steed along dusty paths, in search of the next corral to take a drink and a smoke with bandits.

I wake when two mothers sit in front of me, talking with their children and watch them happily playing with and sharing their toys. After a few more hours, and a Spanish dubbed documentary on Geishas, I walk to the front of the train, and after the doors open at one of the stations, I keep it open, enjoying the thrill of the ground rushing past me, my feet inches from being swept away. I film for a few minutes, and have a cigarette before I spot the guard walking up the train towards me. I close the door and nonchalantly sit in first class and look out the window as he passes, and eventually sleep again until we pull into Cartagena as night fell.

Although I enjoyed Cartagena dearly, it could not possibly live up to my expectations of a frontier smuggler town, rife with cheap rum and unsavoury characters. The Cartagena of my dreams was replaced with a slightly more standard Spanish city, although both beer and food were reasonably priced.

I walked along the wide, straight roads and eventually found a park to sleep comfortably in for the night, after serendipitously finding a outside plug socket with which I could write and listen to music in the twilight.

My sleep was restless, with the dream of my girlfriend (see above) damaging my spirit and severely dampening my mood that dawn. I decide to walk to some old walls that must once have protected the city from invaders, and start the climb in the oppressive heat, the first real temperature I have endured since my departure. Half way through the climb I realise I have no water, and look for some shade to wait in to regain my breath and cool down.

I notice a hole in the eroded ancient wall, and climb up to investigate. I am looking down, watching my steps, my arms holding tightly to my kit bag, worried that if I drop it my laptop will break and my writing lost. When I reach the hole and look up, I am surprised to see a tiny kitten stood on the window sill/hole edge.

She mewls quietly, and I gently stroke her head. I look inside and see a makeshift home - a double mattress, a stove, cutlery, plates, but more importantly - big gallon jugs of water. The kitten springs down into the shade and licks at the dry stains on her food plate.

I try to weigh up my morals; I am in need of water, yet to enter this person's property and steal it would be ethically wrong for me. However, I have some chicken slices in my pack, and decided the owner wouldn't mind me feeding their cat in exchange for a refill of my small water bottle. I lean inside, throw a few strips of chicken meat on the cat's bowl and pick up one of the jugs, then start to fill my bottle.

As if on cue, I hear angry shouts behind me - the owner has returned and sees me stealing his water. "Pace!" I shout, flashing the sign for peace. "Agua solo! Comida en gat!"

He beckons me to get down and I do so, and after a brief explanation he smiles and we shake hands and introduce ourselves. His name is Abu, and he is from Ghana. He introduces his kitten as Mimi, and says he has had her for two and a half years. We walk together to a nearby makeshift car park, and he explains that his job is directing cars to parking places, in the hope that the drivers will give him a small tip for doing so. He says he will go and get us some wine to share, I offer food, but he refuses.

While I am waiting for him to return, I muse upon his lot in life. He is happy, and has most of his needs in the world, perhaps all, for he has a double bed, perhaps he has a partner too. Returning with a carton of white wine, he takes a swig and goes off to work. I watch him and the car owners, drinking slowly. To park in most places there is an extortionate charge, a fifty-cent tip to a kind-hearted man should not cause rancour for the drivers I think to myself.

Pleasantly surprised, about half of the people who he directs to a space give him a few coins, and I feel happy knowing that there is still care for others in this world. We drink some more, and I bid him farewell, with him telling me to call by if I am ever in the area again. I say I will, and walk off, refreshed.

I walk to a bridge and see mountains close by, and this time having some food and water, decide to climb and explore. There is a small barrio, and as I walk through the voices start again - "Go away."; "You aren't welcome."; "Don't belong."; etcetera. I'm ruffled, but used to hearing worse.

I sit on some steps and decide to have lunch before beginning the ascent. I had some garlic butter to go along with the chicken slices, and when I open the carrier bag within my kit bag the butter has emptied, soaking the chicken and dripping out of the carrier.

My fists clench and my jaws tremble in anger - I have no more money with which to buy any more food, and the tub has split, rendering my last possible legal purchase wasted. I sit with my head in my hands, teeth grinding together as I struggle not to shout curses and start kicking cars and smashing windows.

Eventually I get my temper back under control and I look up. A small dog is trotting happily around me, sniffing at the floor. I sigh, and throw it a small strip of garlic-soaked chicken. The dog sniffs it curiously then wanders off. I can't help but bark a laugh, as I now have even less food and my self-esteem takes a hit as I eat food that dogs turn their noses up at. Just to be clear, not the actual piece from the road.

I see a man up on a nearby balcony, he sees me then turns and walks back into his house. I shoulder my bag and walk further through the barrio, and a shutter closes on a nearby window, while I can hear the same sporadic voices telling me to leave in various ways, mostly unpleasant. I reply in my thoughts that I am leaving, just passing through, but nothing changes.

My anger still hasn't diminished and I start to think how the entire neighbourhood should be ashamed - a thirsty traveller in need enters your area and you respond with fear and petty threats. I walk into the courtyard of the local church, drop my bag and fold my arms, smiling in anger, and restrain myself from spitting on the building. I stay like this for a few minutes before moving on towards the region beyond.

A little while later I come to a crossroads, with some spray paint on a large boulder in front of me. On the left, in blue is a symbol slightly like infinity, with black words in Spanish underneath. I can make out the word "tortura". On the right, in white, is the same symbol although I can't comprehend what the words mean. I decide that picking the easy route would get me nowhere, and I feel like other people want me tortured, so I follow the blue path.

Before long I reach a large abandoned ruined building in the side of the hillside. There are three tunnels leading inside, all have been bricked off, all have been vandalised to allow entry. Feeling nostalgic for the days in my childhood when I used to explore derelict buildings with my school-friends, even going as far as trying to map them out, I decide to venture inside.

Leaving my pack hidden in a bush, I climb through a hole in the brickwork and peer about. I can barely make out my surroundings, though white graffiti is sprawled everywhere, and there is a large iron door at one end that has somehow been taken off the hinges, with scratch marks over the lock. The only way I can think that the door could be removed is by some explosive device, although there is no curve to the metalwork to suggest an explosion.

I squeeze through the gap behind the door and can see nothing except a few stone steps leading upwards. I take a few steps gingerly around, then remember I had a wind up torch - the same girlfriend from my dream reminded me to pack it before I left. I clamber back to my pack and retrieve it, then return through the iron door, and shine the torch around.

Next to the steps is a large hole, with a drop of about 10 feet onto some oil soaked machinery. I thank whomever is watching over me that I didn't go any further. There is some rungs at the other end to climb up and down, but I decide against this and climb the stone steps.

At the top I move into a huge chamber, with a suspension bridge running down the middle, held in place by rusting metal poles. Winding my torch while simultaneously filming and looking around, I shout out to test the dimensions of the room - the echo is tremendous, the chamber must go on for several hundred feet.

Taking a small stone from the floor, I throw it over the side of the bridge, about a second and a half before a dull plop. Putting my torch between the two slats in the floor of the bridge, the light shines against oily blackness below.

My over-active mind starts to wander why they abandoned all this oil behind, and I think back over old horror films where the initial person goes missing, prompting a rescue attempt where they all get picked off one by one. I decide to try my luck and walk across the bridge.

I take slow, faltering steps, talking to the camera like an imaginary friend so I don't betray my nervousness, stopping every so often to wind the torch more, after five minutes or so I can make out two pinpricks of light in the far distance, shining for all the world like eyes. I imagine a Balrog waiting, forbidding me to leave Moria.

Thinking about drums in the deep, I walk on, then test one of the wire cables - flakes of rust fall away in my hands, and the precariousness of my situation hits home. I giggle and continue, until the torch illuminates where the half of the cables have snapped, and the bridge hangs at an incline from one set of cables.
Deciding that those cables couldn't take my weight by themselves, I turn back, disappointed yet strangely relieved at the same time.

I climb back into daylight, and approach the middle tunnel. The initial area is the same, with childish scrawls of different names, who loves who, fairly standard small town writing. Beyond this iron door, there are only steps leading down. They are covered in oil, although there is a banister to hold on to. Peering over the edge I see similar machinery, and decide to take the steps slowly down. One foot over another, slowly but surely, only once sliding before regaining my footing. Suddenly my foot goes through the step and is submerged slightly in the oil and my heart leaps into my throat. The banister continues, showing no sign that the room was half flooded with oil. I retrace my steps back outside.

Even now I still cannot fathom why all this was left behind, an area this rich with oil must have brought millions to the city, and I spent ten minutes or so in the light pondering this before moving on to the final, left-hand entrance.

This layout is the same as the first area, complete with gaping hole to abandoned machinery and I waste no time climbing the stone steps to an identical suspension bridge. It's just as rickety and rusty as the first, and I move slowly along the centre. There is graffiti along a ventilation duct to my right, this time only names, I imagine someone writing there as proof they had ventured this far. I see the same dots of light in the distance, though the rational part of my brain tells me it is just the exit from the plant at the other side. I pass further than before, across the bridge, and step through the room into - another bridge.

Half way along this one, the graffiti stops, and I picture myself as the first person daring to cross this far. I hear an occasional ominous creak, and the acoustics trick my mind into hearing the noise from behind me, causing me to whirl round, especially with the commentary in my head telling me to turn round, give up, etcetera.

I move slower, trusting that the graffiti has stopped for a reason, putting all my weight on the foot in front before stepping forward completely, trying to ensure the bridge doesn't collapse after all this time laying dormant.

Eventually I make it through the second section of the bridge, and the third, and step into a small cavern, with a natural passageway to the right and glaring sunlight ahead. After taking my bearings, I follow the cave to the right, and find a abandoned dwelling in the cavern - a rotted mattress in one corner, a handmade cabinet made from string and sticks, holding notepads, pencils, some ear-buds, a carrier bag containing the long decayed remains of food save for a sealed cellophane packet of toast, and an empty satchel.

Light at the End of the Tunnel?

I film it all, then step back out of the cavern, seeing a stone pipeline, and plenty more graffiti I walk back over the top of the steep hillside, finding a path at the summit, and exhilarated, run down, my arms spiralling as I try and control my legs that seemingly have a mind of their own as they move faster than they have done in years. I reach the bottom and my pack and rest with a well earned orange before making my way back to the city centre.

Making my way back towards the auto-route (dual carriageway) that leads South-West, I stand near a garage with my thumb extended, although the most interest I receive from passing drivers is either mild astonishment or the ever popular point-and-laugh-at-the-traveller. I swing my kit-bag from one shoulder to the other to try and balance the pain in the my shoulders, and walk back to the centre, thumb still extended despite having that sinking feeling that I will be staying in Cartagena another night.

I walk back to the University and they generously let me use the Internet in their Bibliotecá, and I write back to friends and family, updating them generally, trying to allay their concerns about my state of mind. From there I find the same jardin I slept in the night before, and sleep a little sounder than before.

The next morning I am awoken by light rain, that intensifies as I pack my things hurriedly. Deciding to take Abu up on his offer of visiting him again the next morning, I make my way back to the car park although he is nowhere to be found.

Though Abu is absent, two guys are sat under a natural rocky outcrop on an abandoned sofa, next to a makeshift table holding a few apples, some stale bread and a portable radio, blaring out cheery Spanish pop. They beckon me over, gesturing to a breeze block and I gladly take refuge from the rain. I remove my desert jacket and hood, and nod to them both while we sit in silence, watching the rain pour heavily.

I nod off, my eyelids drooping though I still hear the music, the sound of the rain the perfect accompaniment as I catch up on much needed mind rest. When I wake one of the men has gone and the rain has slowed to a trickle. I wave goodbye before noticing he is also sleeping, and make my way to the train station, deciding hitch-hiking from here is an exercise in futility. Looking at a regional map of Spain, I decide to head to Murcia, and plan further from there.

My luck continued to run low, and I get thrown off the train at a station little more than an outpost, and after another hour of unsuccessfully attempting to auto-stop, I get the next train that passes by, and this time disembark sleepily at Murcia.

Untitled, from a Orange Garden in Murcia in the Setting Sun

We have it drilled into us from a young age to be organised, to carefully segment our lives into neat compartments. This makes us easier to predict and therefore control by anticipation, our future mapped out for us.

Placed into a series of institutions, from nursery, to perhaps university, most accessible employments, the military, prison, retirement homes we are told to follow the system, for our own "good".

Wake at this hour, eat three meals at the following times, lights out, sleep for eight hours.

Our natural instinct as a child is to ask the most important philosophical question of all: WHY?

Most parents will try to subconsciously avoid thinking of the reasons, long since trained into conformity, to feel a sense of belonging within society.

If the child persists in questioning, the parent will become irritable, then angry, answering with the ultimately thought terminating word: BECAUSE .

At one point or other your inner child will still speak to our adult mind, uttering the same questions. People then try many different things to find the answer to this question, be it religion with their own answers to the questions, isolation to try and work out our own answers, or drugs to try and peek at the answers at the back of the book.

All can provide solace in different ways, until each person accepts their own answer that makes satisfies them, for a time.

Many have asked why I travel, for what goal:

The Quest is The Question *