When I'd been asked, before I left, how long I would be cycling for I had usually replied that I would get some work once the weather got cold. Well the weather has taken a turn towards the chilly side and so I have spent the last week or so either applying for or being interviewed for a number of jobs in and around the country. This has involved travelling over a thousand kilometres by bus to attend these interviews.
Spain is not an easy country to traverse with a bike unless you are on it, and even then they have a number of mountains to impede one's progress. I was advised that buses would be my best bet and that all bus companies allowed bikes. This is true, however not that simple. As anyone knows, people that work in public transport must be rude and officious and this is a truism the world over, even for the generally friendly Spanish.
On my first such excursion, to Madrid, I informed the ticket vendor that I had a bike and he charged me an extra 3 euros which I thought very reasonable. The bus driver on the other hand was most vocal about the amount of room that Bike (for that, as I should have already pointed out, is his name) was taking up in the luggage hold. Since I had paid extra for him, I felt no guilt and did what I had done a number of times since arriving here, often to great success and I ignored him. Feeling a little disconcerted by his rudeness I found a seat on the bus unaware of just how rude he would get.
It was approximately 300km to Madrid from Teruel where I had caught the bus and we were halfway before we stopped. The toilet on the bus was permenantly locked and by the time we pulled in to this bus-station I was dying for a piss and so I leapt off and went to the gents. I was there for a while as I had quite a full bladder, but let's face it, it doesn't take that long to urinate; not long enough for the bus driver to come marching in to the urinals and start shouting at you. Which is what he did. Flabbergasted, I took a step back and indicated to him the activity that I was currently engaged in and the instrument that I was using to accomplish it; he quickly retreated. I marched back on to the bus hurling a string of English abuse at him as I went and I was able to discern the English speakers on the bus by the various titters.
After several more journeys I managed to establish a pattern to riding Spanish buses. If the person at the ticket office told you that you that there was no charge for carrying your bike then you could bet that you would in fact have to buy a ticket for it when you tried to get him on board. If you bought a ticket for the bike then nobody would bother checking. If you asked if this bus was going to Zaragoza then it probably wasn't. If you were told you had to take the wheel off and you didn't then that would be alright, but if you were told that you had to take the wheel off and the pedals and turn the handlebars and you didn't because you have already travelled on umpteen buses and this has never been the need or the case then that would be bad and you would not be allowed to board and you would definitely miss your bus and be very very pissed off. Basically it's a Kafkaesque nightmare that you enter and you'd better be prepared for anything and everything. It is, however, miles ahead of the British transport system; apart from any part, of course, for which Anne is responsible for.
No news is good news and bad news makes good news; if you know what I mean. Which is why this journal is usually concerned with the various predicaments and irritations along my way. In other words I moan a lot. So to balance things out I'd like to tell you some of the things I love about Spain and the Spanish:
1. Those of the population that are not engaged in some aspect of the public transport industry are invariably friendly and easy going. And in all fairness I did engage with one employee who was very helpful; he'll never last.
2. I think I may have mentioned the scenery.
3. I like a bit of variety and surprise in my life and so going in to a bar here, apart from the obvious attractions, is always interesting. The question on entering is, is it table service or do you have to wait at the bar English style? And if you do go to the bar and order, do you wait to be served there or return to your table and wait for it to be brought to you? I've got it wrong frequently and been waiting at my table for several minutes for a non existent waiter/barman, and I have also been ignored for a considerable amount of time before I have got the message and sat down. Conversely I have also ordered at the bar and waited before being told that my order will be brought to me, and also sat after having ordered and discovered later that my drink is collecting flies on the bar. I do really enjoy this little game, and on the subject of bars...
4. Tapas are the best thing in the world ever, after cheese and anchovy sandwiches, and if I ever find a bar that has little tapas sized morsels of this food of the Gods, speared with a cocktail stick, I'm not leaving. I'm sure everyone knows what tapas are but just in case... Most bars throughout the day will have a selection of different foods on the bar, sometimes cold, sometimes hot and can range from just olives or anchovies by themselves up to a bewildering array of gastronomic delights: meatballs, tortilla (potato omlette, not to be confused with the Mexican tortillas which we all know), sausages of all kinds, seafood, lambs intestines (yes...), cold meats etc. In some of the larger towns, the tapas bars will have their own particular specialities for which they are well-known; the idea being that you go to a bar, have a drink and a tapas and then move on to the next bar. I know it sounds awful doesn't it? I've been living on them for weeks. I was caught out in Madrid though; I was quite hungry and went into a bar, ordered a glass of wine and some enticing looking potato salad which the barman duly began to dish up for me. While he was doing that I was eyeing up some other tasty dish which I pointed at. "No," he said and shook his head "No more." Imagining I had been misunderstood, I asked again and pointed animatedly at this large and full dish of meatballs in tomato sauce. He shook his head again and handed me my wine and salad; I sat down, not a little bewildered. Shrugging and putting it down to a minor glitch in the space/time continuum, I finished my dish and wine and ordered another glass. As I returned to my seat, the barman called over to me and indicated to the tapas that I had previously wanted but had been so cruelly deprived of; he asked if I would like some. Glancing around to check that I hadn't inadvertently entered some kind of sado-masochistic establishment, I nodded hungrily at him. He began dishing up my meatballs. "OK," I said giving up on understanding the rules to this particular game, "No comprende." He grinned at my confusion and explained that it was a Madrid custom to serve a free tapas with every drink; two would be rude. Delightful as this custom is, and believe me I took full advantage of it, I couldn't help thinking it a bit odd. Firstly, surely you should be able to order more if you want to and are willing to pay for it. Secondly: I went out one night in Madrid, desiring a meal and went into a restaurant/bar. I ordered a drink while I decided what I wanted and was brought tortilla with it. By the time I'd finished I wasn't hungry anymore so I left and they lost out on me ordering a full meal. Anyway...
5. The women.
6. The Spaniard's capacity to stop and have a chat no matter where he is or what he is doing, is in my opinion second to none. I have conversed at length with countless strangers, about what I have no idea, as neither of us have ever had the slightest idea what the other was saying. Only today while cycling, I stopped and chatted for ten minutes with a sheperd. His sheep waited patiently in the middle of the road while we had a ten minute chat 90% of which I didn't understand. I have no doubt that should a car have come along the road it would have affected the length of our conversation not at all and I would wager the driver would probably have joined in.
7. Their flagrant disregard for the health and safety laws which choke England and their flagrant disregard for health and safety generally. What other nation would allow bulls to go chasing people through the streets of even the smallest villages; or allow their children to play and jump over the fires that they decide to build in the middle of the street at fiesta time.
I shall be coming back to this list later, after I feel I've done enough whinging.
Mid November 2006
I have uncovered further proof that all the Spaniards are loco, as if Henry wasn't proof enough. I was in Mora de Rubiellos the other night where they hold a festival which they called the Vaquillas. Vaquillas are small bulls that are let loose in the streets several times during the summer and you are expected to get out of the way. In the interests of having something to report to you, I thought I'd better take part. The things I do for you.
The action takes place in the central plaza with four streets leading off from it. At unnervingly distant points down these streets, iron gates with vertical bars are positioned. The distance between these bars is enough for most people to squeeze through, but not, hopefully, for a bull. The idea of course being that the people daft enough to let bulls chase them, can escape if necessary behind the bars.
When I arrived I found a large crowd in front of the safety bars (children too) in the central plaza, laughing and whooping at a bull that I could not see; utter madness. But as I peered nervously through the gate I discovered that I had been duped; this poor bovine infant had barely learned to walk. Although the children were darting out of it's way, it was small enough to bounce off the adults, which is what it was doing. I was expecting it to have horns at least. Boldly squeezing through the bars now, and striding in to the square, I took a few photos painfully aware that it didn't look anywhere near as impressive and dangerous for the website as I had hoped it would. But then, using those particulary amazing telepathic powers that the Spanish seem to all have, without any discernible signal, everyone moved back; many to behind the bars, and the calf was whisked away. Usually a little slow on the uptake, this time I wasn't, and I ran back to the safety of the bars just in time to see, well rather hear at first, the thundering of an enormous beast as it exited fom the town hall. Yes, the bulls were kept in the town hall building; not the first and certainly not the last time that bullshit has been detected in such a place.
I have to tell you that I almost had a bowel movement. This thing was huge, I mean really really big and really fast and it had horns and it was not at all plesed to be here. If this was a young bull and not fully grown, then I had a new respect for the nutters that stand up and wave coloured bits of material at the grown-ups. The bull, after an initial charge at anything in particular, would then stop and look around furiously as if it wanted to find the culprit who had dragged him away from his Scottish grass cuttings and hareem of heffers. At this point the braver or more foolish of the crowd would then start waving their jackets and shouting at him. This would really piss him off and he would then direct his massive bulk and base intentions at them. It would chase this screaming gang of people down a street until they managed to dart into a doorway, behind a wheelie bin or slip through the bars of the gate. Often, a budding matador would swirl his jacket over the bull’s head, twist out of the way and touch the horn.
Using a young pregnant lady and her grandmother as human shields I prepared to take some photos. I have very good camera, with an excellent zoom so I was able to get some good shots that could easily make you believe that I was very close to the action; you'd never have known. However, there was a flaw in my plan; because I have been updating this site using my phone, if I want to put a photo on the site it has to be taken with the phone; the camera on it is rubbish and it has no zoom. If I wanted to get a photo to impress you all I was going to have to get a lot closer.
There were probably close to a dozen bulls unleashed upon a demanding public throughout the evening, all of varying degrees of size ferocity and intelligence. I'd like you to believe that I got close enough to them to tell you what kind of aftershave it wore. But my dedication to this site does not border on lunacy, I did get close enough to get a couple of decent photos and necessitate a change of underwear though.
The whole thing was a recipe for disaster; there was a bar set up under the porch of the town hall, protected by long, judiciously placed lenghts of timber (I was informed that one year, a small bull with only one horn managed to penetrate the defenses and cause havoc; the bar was wrecked. This kind of incident just isn't funny). There were many people drinking and a lot of these were the crazy fools who ended up being chased by the bulls, me being one of them. But nobody got hurt and everyone had fun. Can you imagine this kind of thing happening in Britain? It was brilliant and I liked the fact that the bulls got to have a pop at the general public without any danger to themselves.
See what I mean though? Mad.
So I really like Spain, I’m really enjoying myself here. I like the pace of life and the people; they’re a unique bunch. I’ve seen some fantastic sights: spotted rare mountain goats, gawped at scenery that looks like it’s the painted backdrop to those old Technicolor movies, and visited ancient medieval villages that appear to be trapped in a time-warp. I’ve even stepped into a dinosaur’s footprint, moulded in rock for posterity, just casually there, in the middle of nowhere: no signs, no tourists, no fuss. I’ve begun to feel comfortable here, I’m beginning to understand more and more of the conversation that goes on around me, I can confidently order food and booze at a bar and see no reason to learn anything else. I even ended up being an interpreter for some Americans the other day. What I’m trying to say is that I’m starting to feel quite settled and happy here. Which is why it is such a logical and natural progression for me to get a job in Sumatra.
Much as I liked Spain, it didn’t like me. Not enough to give me a job anyway. I’ve spent the past month trying to get some teaching work but it’s not meant to be. It was partly due to my search for work beginning at the same time as term started here in Spain, and it was partly down to my lack of experience. Spain has had such a long history of people coming here to teach English, that it can now afford to be choosy about who it employs. I was competing for few jobs with many applicants more qualified than me. My idea of cycling around the world job by job had come to an end. And so, reluctantly at first, I began applying for jobs all around the world. I say at first, because after a while I began to get quite excited about it. I applied quite literally around the globe: Russia, Poland, China, Kazahkstan, Kyrgystan, Siberia, South Korea, Colombia (nice coffee), Bolivia, Peru, Sudan, Morocco, Tunisia, Slovakia and Indonesia. It was fantastic. I had no idea where I was going to end up, it was a pan-global lucky dip. After each application I would daydream about the country that I might end up in: I could spend an icy winter in Siberia, holed up with nothing but a stack of books and a case of vodka to keep me going with the possible addition of a fur-coated room-mate called Natasha. Kyrygystan I was paricularly excited by as I had never heard of it before, that coupled with the knowledge that their national sport was a bastardised form of polo; the ball being replaced by a large goat’s carcass. Or imagine the coffee in Colombia, freshly roasted and ground for me by an exotic indian peasant woman who would wake me with a fresh, steaming pot of it in the mornings.
Everyday was a new application and a new fantasy. I was content to keep this up forever, it was much better than actually getting a job. But reality caught up with me and I was forced to choose between the offers that I received. I had had a couple of unscrupulous companies from China offer me work which I may have accepted if I hadn’t checked up on them, on some teaching forums on the net. Many of these companies will offer you great contracts of which they seem to have no guilt in ignoring once they’ve got you there; they’ll pay you less if at all, make you pay for your accommodation depite what the contract said to the contrary etc; thank the gods for the power of the net. I was offered a position in Sudan which I was very tempted by despite and possibly because of the situation there at the moment. I ended up not accepting this one because it’s a strictly dry country and I’ll be damned if I’m going to a hot, war-torn land with a crumbling infrastructure and a possibility of getting malaria without getting drunk thank you very much. I was offered a job in Poland but, if it was going to be cold, I wanted it Siberian cold and not merely Polish cold.
Nope, I was decided on Indonesia. It was technically an alcohol free country, but I knew that it in reality it would be available. Well, it better bloody had be because I’ve accepted the job now. I’m starting in December, which means that I’m flying back to England next week to get a visa and a cheap flight to Medan in Sumatra. I shall therefore be in the pub on Monday night (27th) if anybody fancies a pint.
