Real Life (?): The Adventures Continue

While the title of my blog is no longer relevant to anything I’m doing at all, dealing with that confusion is easier than setting up an entirely new blog. Since my last post in Zanzibar, I done got graduated and started my first foray into that mysterious territory everyone disappears into at some point: adult life. Unlike many of my classmates, however, I did not graduate with a job. Or a set path. Or even really a plan for that matter. Yet I don’t regret it in the least. I’ve been out of school for almost exactly a year now, and my journey of self-discovery has seen me at a grassroots organizing workshop in Puerto Rico with the Sierra Club, a month of backpacking in the Wyoming Rockies with NOLS, and a six-month stint trying out that coveted “young and retired” lifestyle in Portland,OR. With an excellent father-son road trip from one corner of the US to the other via Yellowstone capping my “year off,” I’m ready, finally, to get a move on.

Pops’ selfie game is strong in the foothills of the Sawtooth Mountain Range, ID.

Which brings me to the next stage in my life. In three-ish days I will once again be leaving the Low Country and heading for Colorado, accompanied my good friend John. I will be working as a support intern for a wilderness expedition/service learning outfit, which will hopefully open the door to my newest career path of wilderness expedition. If everything goes as planned, the trip to Colorado and my time around Mesa Verde will provide ample material for more blog posts to come. Until then, dear readers.

The Last of the Wazungu

The last two weeks in Kizimkazi Dimbani have been more than I can even begin to describe. I had been warned by my professor that any explanation of what I’ve experienced here will fall well short of doing it justice. I think I finally understand why: village life is different. “Well duh,” you might say. But it’s not just that it’s different. It’s like living on an entirely different planet. Life is so much simpler living in a rural African village, and by simpler I mean a total lack of creature comforts. The first night in our homestay alone threatened the spirit of adventure that made me so excited to begin fieldwork. Sharing a much-too-small bed with Grant, draped in our much-too- small mosquito nets lead to the hottest night of my life, no doubt about it. Our mesh covered window seemed to actually repel any gust of wind, and my sheet felt as though it had recently been through the wash when I woke up. When we stumbled out to breakfast we were faced with the exact same chapati and fish that we had for dinner the night before, eating with our hands on the concrete floor, of course. I spent the morning walking around with our translator, Abas, listening to people yell mzungu (white person) and trying to survive the stifling heat. By the time I returned home I was more than disheartened. Over the next two weeks I ate fish and five different types of bread for almost every meal, bathed only twice by pouring water out of a ladle over myself, sweated what seems to have been my weight in water, woken up at 4:15 every morning thanks to the traditional Muslim wake up call (not call to prayer, just a daily alarm clock) and brigade of roosters and goats outside our window, and sat on hard cement more than I care to remember.

But all of that was more than worth it. The people of Kizimkazi Dimbani – despite blistering heat, extreme poverty, and lack of decent work – are incredibly warm and happy. They are serious workers: the fisherman often get up around 4 to make sure their boats don’t get beached with the outgoing tide and stay fishing for 5 or 6 hours, sometimes coming back with only enough to eat. But they always seem to be joking with each other, laughing genuinely and just enjoying the company. Whenever Abas passes someone in the street he smiles and greets them wholeheartedly.

Eventually, as they came  to terms with me being there and actually trying to assimilate, the kindness was extended even to me. After I went fishing with our translator in his little ngalawa (I caught the biggest fish, by the way), the story spread like wild fire. Here was this mzungu actually fishing, something they had truly never seen before. After that other fishermen often asked if I had gone fishing that day, joking about whether I was the actual boat captain instead of Abas. One day after I had been sick one of the younger men stopped me and asked why I wasn’t at the football pitch the night before, and everyone was asking if I felt better. While many have yet to learn my name – I go by John Michael, Mr. John, Mitchell, and mostly “the Mzungu” – people frequently ask the family I’m staying with about me. Most everyone is incredibly friendly and does not hesitate to greet me on the street.

And that welcoming sense of community has translated into my work. I can’t share details with you, but I can tell you that what I’ve found is incredibly fascinating –  much more, in fact, than I had ever hoped to find. Instead of finding resistance and distrust, I’ve been welcomed (although a little hesitantly) and have yet to be turned down speaking with someone. The people have some pretty strong opinions about what’s going on (again, sorry I can’t be more specific) and all seem very eager to share with me and very excited that someone is actually listening to them.

All in all my time in Kizimkazi has been worth every discomfort I’ve suffered. If anything the challenges have made it all the more rewarding. I have no doubt that when I return to the States I will come back not only with an incredible experience (emphasized by the fact that I have had the opportunity to do this as an undergrad) but with an entirely different world view. I think village life has inevitably changed me, I hope for the better. Coming back into Stone Town on Tuesday made that clear. Even the smallest things made my day. Having a table to set my things on. Running water to wash my hands. A fan. When it comes time to return home, I believe I will be much more appreciative of the innumerable blessings that I have in life, and unfortunately much more critical of the way we live. But until then, I have just over a week of village life left once I return from Stone Town. Grant will be staying in town for the remainder of his research, so I will be going it alone – the sole researcher, the last of the wazungu.

The Maasai Boma

The last week of our safari through Tanzania was just that – a real, live Serengeti safari. We spent five days traversing through four parks in total: Arusha National Park, Lake Manyara National Park, Serengeti National Park, and the Ngorongoro Crater Conservation Area. We saw countless rather frisky baboons, giraffe, zebra, impala, wildebeest (we were lucky enough to witness the great migration of at least a million wildebeest into Kenya), elephant, gazelle, hyenas, and bushbuck. In the Serengeti we were even surrounded by a pride of hungry female lions so close you could have reached out and scratched one behind the ears – if you didn’t value your fingers. It’s rather incredible to stare into the eyes of an animal that you would stand no chance against should it decide to make you its next meal. All in all, the animal safari was an unforgettable experience. In the end we definitely got our money’s worth, and believe me we paid quite dearly. I imagine Klub Afriko (speaking of which, the drivers – all Maasai men – are phenomenal and have a wealth of traditional ecological knowledge between and the cooks are excellent; I would highly recommend them as a safari company) made off quite well after we came through. But one of the things that stuck with me the most was outside of the parks and effectively outside of the safari industry as a whole.

Between the Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater we stopped along the way to visit a Maasai boma. When we arrived, the men and women poured out of the gates of the boma and began a traditional welcoming song, complete with Maasai jumping. Some of us even got to try jumping and singing along with them. But once we entered the little compound things started to get uncomfortable for me. We visited the “school” if you could even call it that, where a handful of adorable, dusty children sang a song and recited 0-50 in English. The sons of the village chief took us into their homes – tiny little cow-dung huts not even tall enough to stand in – and told us how the Maasai lived. Afterwards, some of the women sold us hand-made jewelry at exorbitant prices (for Tanzania).

It was eye-opening to see how the Maasai really live. My mental images are inundated with this glorious myth of a strong warrior, ready to take down a lion with the swing of his spear, and much of that proud, fascinating culture still exists today. But that image has been tarnished by a huge disparity in income. We paid so much money to go on our safari and even though it was the tourist low season we saw plenty of other people out in the savanna who probably paid just as much. But none of that money ever makes it the Maasai who used to inhabit and utilize the very land we puttered across the day before. If they could own a safari company, or even just get a cut of the booty their standard of living could go way up. According to one of the chief’s sons, it costs almost 900 US dollars each month for that particular boma to pay for the water they have to truck in from Arusha to make up for all of the water used by the safari lodges. A fortune for a village like that, but chump change to even the cheapest safari company. Instead, the Maasai are forced to turn their rich, beautiful culture into a sideshow to even marginally benefit from the tourism industry (we only paid $175 for 15 people).

While I immensely enjoyed the safari and visiting the boma, the situation of the Maasai made it hard to digest the whole experience. On the one hand, tourists like us provide a much-needed source of income to the boma and the experience may be just as eye-opening for some as it was for me. On the other hand, the Maasai people have been so marginalized that tourists like us have effectively turned their culture into a commodity. It’s difficult to say if the ends justify the means.

Conservation: Not Just About the Animals

While the last several days on Zanzibar have been exciting and full of adventure, they have also been very educational. In addition to the wealth of knowledge provided by Dr. Beymer-Farris and Dr. Bryceson, we have had many opportunities to see conservation efforts along the coast of Tanzania first hand. From marine parks to protected mangrove forests, we have Tanzania has made a concerted effort to protect its natural marine resources. Unfortunately, however, we haven’t been able to talk much about the social effects of conservation, a hot topic in the conservation world.

Throughout Tanzania wildlife and plant life abound. The Serengeti holds a plethora of savanna biota, including the famed last great wildebeest migration; East Africa is famous for its bird watching; and the coast is home to sprawling mangrove forests and beautiful coral reefs. In efforts to protect the natural beauty of the country, the government has sanctioned a smattering of protected conservation areas that keep the resources safe from destructive humans. Off the coast north of Dar we visited Mbudja marine conservation area, a coral island completely roped off as a conservation area. Between Stone Town and Matemwe we stopped at Jozani Chwaka Bay national forest, a conservation area that features swamp forest, salt marshes, and mangrove forests. The park got its start when the Tanzanian government bought the land from a successful Indian logger in order to protect the land from deforestation. Eventually, the government purchased more and more land until Jozani grew into what it is today. Our guide, Shobani, knew everything there was to know about the forest. He knew every plant by its Latin name and local name, the traditional and witchcraft uses for each one, and the history of the park. Each of these places was created to ensure the continuation of the species and ecosystems inside. But what we haven’t talked about much is how these parks and conservation areas have affected the lives of the people who depend on those resources for survival.

In the guest lecture by Dr. Narriman, we did touch on the community benefits of conservation a bit. In her project, women in the coastal village of Fumba are able to actually make jewelry from discarded seashells, which they then sell to stores in Stone Town and even in the US. But the women still face problems of over-use. To combat this, what nirruman tried to convince the women to do was set off a small no-use area. For a certain number of months out of the year, the women would agree not to harvest shells from that area. When they did so, they noticed significant increases in yield. Examples like this could serve as a key argument in the conservation movement: protecting resources from overexploitation could make them more plentiful and resilient. In fact, the ecosystems at Jozani and Mbudya are flourishing.

The problem is that conservation often means restricted use or complete loss of resources. Even in Dr. Nirruman’s project the women couldn’t use that patch of seaweed for several months. In Jozani, the land was bought from local farmers and foresters who can no longer use the fertile soils within, and the Red Colobus monkeys living in the park destroy farmers’ crops. In marine parks all around Zanzibar villages were uprooted and forced to leave their traditional lands for the sake of conservation, and on Mafia Island (just to the south of Zanzibar) fishermen have been banned from the best fishing spots and forced to use ineffective hand lines to catch the fish they depend on for food. To many local resources users around Tanzania, it feels as though the trees and animals are valued more than the people who depend on them.

In the end, while the protection of ecosystems around the world is important for ensuring their (and our) survival, conservation groups need to be mindful that people depend on the very resources they’re trying to protect. While everything so far has been very insightful, the sustainability scientist in me does wish that we had been able to focus more attention on the balance between the ecological and the social. In countries like Tanzania, where wealth exists in natural resources, being able to actually use those resources in a sustainable way could open the door to rapid, but healthy development.

Crossing the Zanzibar Channel: Unguja

After a short trip on a puddle jumper plane just big enough to hold our group, we landed in a small, dinky airport somewhere outside of Stone Town (only one room with the waiting area outside under a tree). I could tell almost immediately that it was a huge transition from the coddling environment of White Sands in Dar es Salaam. For lunch we went to the Walking Show for mutton biryani (supposedly the best in Tanzania, eaten with only the right hand, of course). The hotel is simple, to put it easily. The four guys are in one cement-wall room with a couple of bare bulbs sticking out of the wall, but I don’t mind. By Africa standards I think it’s actually pretty nice. We even have our own bathroom with a shower and flushing toilet.

 

But we don’t spend that much time in the hotel. Once we arrived we really hit the ground running. Our days have been filled with a guest lecture by Dr. Narriman, excursions to the wild open-air market, haggling with shop owners, a 6 hour tour of a Zanzibari spice plantation where we watched Mr. Butterfly dance and sing his way up a coconut tree, and plenty of rich Swahili food. From what I’ve been able to see of Stone Town so far, I love it. It is almost exactly what I expected an African city to be like. The hustle and bustle – read somewhat organized chaos – of a perfectly functional town. The only difference is what we define as fully functioning.

As I sit in the on the shaded rooftop terrace of our hotel listening to distant flute and drum music drifting through the air (which has now been replaced by the melodic call to prayer of the mujahidin), I wonder how an old Arab trading center as magnificent and prosperous as Stone Town has evolved into what we see today. The streets – when there are streets – are dirty and full of trash. The old Portuguese colonial buildings are run down and broken, and nothing above the second story seems to be occupied, unless by a hotel. The farmers on the spice farm aren’t allowed to export the crop Zanzibar is most famous for: cloves. Instead they have to sell to government markets for dismal prices. By American or European standards it would be in shambles. But the town is still amazing and bustling with life. Shops are open and running on every corner, the open-air market is packed shoulder to shoulder with people, and fishermen come in and out of port with a constant stream of sea life. Everyone greets the people they meet on the streets earnestly and warmly, even complete strangers. Politically, Zanzibar is incredibly engaged, with the CUF and CCM parties battling over the somewhat forced annexation of Zanzibar by the mainland and Zanzibari politicians earning ministerial positions in the national government. The island itself is beautiful and the people are happy.

 

At first it seemed to me like the shaky skeleton of a European-style town. But as I spent more time there I realized that it was just Africa. Their way of life is so incredibly different than ours that these big, flashy colonial buildings became more of a nuisance than a necessity. The islanders have learned to function with just what they need, and a European town is full of excess for them. It’s not that Stone Town is failing or broken, it’s merely been adapted to fit the unique Zanzibar way of life – a simpler, happier life that makes everyone feel at home.

 

Karibu Tanzania

When I originally started this blog my aim was to keep family and friends posted on my adventures throughout Spain during last semester’s study abroad trip. Little did I know my travels would lead me just a bit farther south. For the next few weeks I will be blogging about my trip through Tanzania, starting in Dar es Salaam, working my way up to the Serengeti, and heading back east to Mafia Island for a month of research on the Mafia Island Marine Park. For now, enjoy my first post.

Somewhere over France or Germany I began to seriously doubt that I would be able to walk down the aisle once we finally got off the plane – if we ever got off, that is. It seemed like we had been traveling for days, but when we finally touched down in Dar es Salaam (after 30 or 40 hours of travel), the exhaustion left me. We had finally made it to Africa.

Walking out of the airport, the heavy, wet air covered us like a blanket. It felt just like the warmest summer nights back in Savannah, only this was supposed to be the cool season. The first things I see are a crowd of African taxi drivers vying for business and a huge bat with a wingspan on at least a foot gliding into a tree. “Oh yeah,” I thought. “We’re in Africa.”

The ride through Dar to the hotel was something else. At 11pm tons of people were still milling about, lining the sides of the highway, darting across at intervals to greet a friend or examine one the many food stands. The main buildings seemed to be well-lit by new, modern street lights, but the street itself was dark and shadowy. The food vendors relied on what appeared to be kerosene torches for light – a small example of the conflict between the new and the old; the rich and the poor; the “global” and the African.

Once I got used to the traffic and suddenly hitting patches where the road simply stopped being a road, I nodded off. When I awoke, we were cruising alongside the Indian Ocean right before pulling into the White Sands Hotel, the self proclaimed “only four star beach resort in Tanzania.” Because of the threat of a potential demonstration in Dar, a last-minute hotel switch landed us at this swanky beach-side resort (built by a former president’s wife and some corrupt businessmen).

But all of that seems like a year ago. Since then there’s been calamari steaks and tangawizi (ginger ale on steroids), boat rides to islands made of elevated coral reefs, fresh caught grilled fish (eyes and all), snorkeling, and listening to the wealth of knowledge Prof Ian has to offer. We learned how German East Africa grew into what is Tanzania today. How the coral sands of Mbudya are different from the silica sands of Dar. How to eat an entire fish with one hand. How the Tanzanians may well be the most gracious and polite people I’ve ever interacted with. In Swahili, the worst response you can have to the question “How are you?” is “Less good.”

Although our landing has been rather cushy as opposed to being thrown in head first, I feel as though I have already learned and enormous amount. I can’t wait to see what Tanzania has in store.

I Am a Jelly Donut

A little delayed, but WordPress was giving me some problems last week, so here it is!.

Last weekend was our first totally free weekend since the beginning of September. As soon as the last class ended last week (or at least the last one we were going to) the Furmanites of Madrid dispersed for the far corners of Europe. Some went to Vienna. Some went to Dublin. I, however, ventured to the heart of Deutschland, to the great walled city where JFK so infamously gaffed his potentially powerful statement of brotherhood, “I am a Berliner.”

At first, I wasn’t sure what to expect. With my limited knowledge of the post-war Germany and almost nonexistent knowledge of Berlin, I pictured it as a kind of sad, gray city. Pretty much your typical German urban powerhouse. As it turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong. East Berlin, having essentially been completely rebuilt in the past few decades is thriving with life. Gone are the days of no-man’s-land and utter hell. Now, East Berlin – where we spent pretty much all of our time – is full of shops (from local quirky to 90-euros-for-a-tshirt designer), restaurants, clubs, currywurst stands, bars, and whatever else you could possibly want. The walkway by the river Spree is lined with flea markets and trees (which happened to be changing color while were there), with old, ivy-covered German buildings watching over passerby. Mitte, the central neighborhood where our apartment was is now the up and coming neighborhood for all of Berlin. Naturally, we couldn’t see all of the city (which is apparently 9 times the size of Paris when you include suburban areas), but what we did see was amazing.

Having been to more museums and sat through more tours than I can count here in Spain, we kept things of that nature to a minimum.That said, we couldn’t be in a city with an island dedicated to museums without going to at least one. The Pergamon Museum, for example, houses a collection of “classical antiquities” (basically archeological things from like the 7th century B.C) and a sizable collection of Islamic art and architecture. The DDR Museum, while not technically on the island, housed a very different kind of exhibition. Full of memorabilia and history from pre-Mauerfall Berlin, the DDR is actually a hands on museum, where you can try on era clothing, lounge on the couch in a typical Deutsche Demokratische Republik (Communist half of Berlin) living room, or try out the bed in your everyday communist jail cell. It dealt with pretty much every aspect of every day life back then, which was really interesting for someone as Berlin ignorant as I was.

But no trip to Berlin would be complete without seeing the wall, to which we devoted almost an entire day. We started off at Checkpoint Charlie, the American security checkpoint between East and West Berlin, and the adjacent wall museum, where we expected to see the murals that fill almost every Google Image search of Berlin. But no dice. Not yet willing to give up, we followed the bricks marking where the wall once stood throughout Berlin. We passed Brandenburg Gate, the Topography of Terror museum, the Memorial to Murdered Jews, and the imposing (and oh so German) Reichstag. Eventually, we realized we had been going in almost the complete wrong direction, so we hopped on the U-bahn and headed south east to the East Gallery, a mile-long section of the wall dedicated to unification and decorated with vibrant murals. Recently, however, the city commissioned a mural renovation project, and some of the restoring artists took some pretty severe artistic liberties with the original murals. Even still it was an impressive site.

I know it sounds like we mostly just walked around and looked at stuff (which is true) but what would a visit to Berlin be without a venture into its nightlife, whose reputation had far preceded itself. One night, we found our way to what appeared to be an old brewery complex that had been converted into some kind of entertainment plaza with a few clubs and restaurants. The biggest club was unfortunately reserved for a wedding party or something, but we managed to find another, much smaller club/bar thing that didn’t seem all bad. At first they were playing old American rap with throwbacks to Will Smith, Fifty Cent, Jay Z, and the likes. But after about 30 minutes everything changed drastically. I first realized something was up when the oh-so-loveable intro to Limp Bizkit’s 90s hit “Rollin” (can you hear my tongue in my cheek?) trickled from the speakers. This masterpiece was followed by a mixture of Trapt, Stained, and whatever other hard rock band you can think of. It wasn’t so bad at first because at least we knew the words and could playfully sing along. But it didn’t stop there. Before long the German rock made its obviously long anticipated debut. We had no idea what was going on, but everyone seemed to love the gibberish songs that alternated between slow, sensual breakdowns to Irish jig like choruses. Needless to say it was an experience.

The next night went a little bit better. We found a nightclub online that consistently made all of the top club lists in Berlin, and for good reason. Situated on the thirteenth floor of an office building, Weekend is surrounded by giant plate-glass windows that afford panoramic views of the entire city – perfect for catching the sunrise after a long night of partying. The comfy leather couches and powerful sound system make for a great party setting. Unfortunately, fashion in Berlin changes at a Zoolander pace, and it seemed as though Weekend had run its course. Maybe it was just a bad night, but the club never really filled up and the dj played the same house beat the entire time we were there. By about 4 everyone started filling out, and we decided it was probably high time to walk home. It was still a lot of fun though.

All in all, Berlin was an amazing city, but it was one of the hardest trips I’ve made. In Madrid, we can understand what people are asking us, read the signs telling us where to go, and actually have some idea what we’re ordering in restaurants. When I was in France last summer, it was at least close enough to Spanish that I could more or less understand the simple things (with extensive help of a travel dictionary). But German is a different story. Even thought it’s basically the sister language to English, I could hardly understand anything. The similarities are much more obvious when you can hear the word spoken out loud, but when people spoke to us I had no hope of picking out individual words. On our part, communicating involved a lot of pointing, nodding, and indistinct grunting. It was the first time I had been somewhere where I literally knew nothing about the language, culture, or city. But that’s what I loved about it. The groups that went to Dublin raved about how nice it was to hear English for a change and about how they were able to meet so many people without a language barrier. For me, the adventure of being completely immersed and completely lost is half the fun. Finding our own way around the city, decoding signs and menus, and trying to understand the guy who sold us four subway receipts instead of tickets are things I will never forget. It just amazes me how much variation there can be between cultures.

That said, I was grateful to return to Madrid. Not knowing any of the language – except the curses our cab driver taught us – made me realize how much Spanish I actually knew and appreciate the fact that I could understand what was going on in Madrid. When I climbed the stairs out of Francos Rodríguez, it felt as though I were returning home. It was a strange, yet oddly satisfying feeling.

Visca el Barça

I can’t even begin to recap everything we did in Barcelona. Every day was literally full of so much activity, so many sights, and such excitement that it’s all kind of a blur in my mind. Fortunately, I had already experienced the shell-shock that accompanies your first visit to Barcelona two years ago, so I was able to take a step back this time and really appreciate things. I could listen to the tour guide explain the concepts of Gaudí’s Casa Batlló. I could sit and appreciate Picasso’s interpretation of Las Meninas. I got over the ultra-touristy La Rambla after our first day. Unlike my first trip, I could tuck facts and info away in the pre-existing Barça compartments of my mind and actually comprehend what was going on around me.

That said, one thing that will never lose its powers of humbling even the most cultured men is the Sagrada Familia. The outside, while a little more complete than last time, still looks like Gaudí gathered up everything he had ever thought about, swallowed it, and then threw it up in the form of a building. The mixture of Gothic towers with arab tile work and mocárabe arches literally make it look like a child’s drippy castle. To me it’s fantastic. But the real treasure lies inside. Upon first walking in the door – as much this time as the last – I was immediately struck with awe. Designed by Gaudí to resemble a forest of stone, your eyes are immediately drawn up the central nave to what literally appears to be a canopy of rock. Light pours in through a mixture of translucent and stained glass windows, filtering ever so gently through the forest of columns, making it feel as though you are walking through the woods. The colors, the shapes, then angles, the light, everything is just so much more continuous and precise than Gaudí’s other works. I don’t think I could ever fall out of love with the Sagrada Familia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In terms of night life, everything they say in Barcelona is true. The city is bumping twenty-four seven. The first night, we were all still a little too exhausted from Salmonella Salamanca to go out, but the next night we managed to find our way pretty well, although nothing really seemed to pan out. Given the shear amount of foreigners and students in Barcelona, we were almost from the start pointed in the direction of La Ovella Negra (The Black Sheep), a bar where young people from all over congregate. The first time we went, the four girls in front of us in line were being incredibly annoying. They barely spoke Catalán, Spanish, or English, and whenever the guy opened the door they would try to slip in, despite being blocked out every time. Eventually, the bouncer just closed the door and said “We’re closed. Go away.” The next night however, we made it in without a hitch. Inside, the Black Sheep is lined with long, Harry Potter style wooden tables, and you can buy what looks like the kind of jug a lemonade stand would have full of beer or sangria. Needless to say it was a rowdy place. Most of the the clubs, however, are down by the beach, so eventually we made our way down to Opium – supposedly one of the best clubs in Madrid. But they wouldn’t let us in. The bouncer said you had to be 23, but I’m sure after 2 or so they only let in Barcelona’s finest. Given our restricted luggage space, we didn’t exactly look the part. Instead, we went next door to the reject club, where no one seemed to be dancing at all, and it closed an hour later. Despite all of that, it was still a good time, especially taking a quick dip in the Med and getting caught in the downpour on the way home.
I love Barcelona. It’s a modern, hip, and energetic city. The nightlife is amazing, the sights are amazing, and the food puts Madrid to shame (a nod to the Mediterranean restaurant complete with hummus, felafel, veal, lamb, and hookah). It’s no wonder Barcelona is consistently one of the top places to visit in Europe. But with everything in mind, I would leave it at that: a place to visit. The city itself is overrun with tourists and no matter how hard you try to speak castellano, most people will just talk to you in English. Fittingly, most of the attractions are touristy in nature, and there didn’t seem to be much to do besides site-see and party. In my opinion, living or studying there would get old fast. Madrid, however, exhibits much more of the Spanish culture – something that has almost been wiped away by Barcelona’s industrial boom. If you get bored, you can always take a quick jaunt down to Retiro to relax or Juan Carlos I to take advantage of the free bike rentals. While Sol is pretty touristy, the streets of La Latina, Malasaña, or Huertas are so typically Madrid that you’ll forget Sol even exists. All in all, Madrid is just seems more real, like a place where people actually live, not just a destination. When we got back from the airport, and I walked up the stairs of Francos Rodríguez, I felt as though I were coming home. While Barcelona was amazing, I’m glad to be back in Madrid…at least until I leave for Berlin tomorrow.

¡Hace Gazpacho!: Our Conquest of Salamanca (Or Viceversa)

Well, Salamanca was really something else. The city itself is absolutely beautiful. Home to the fourth oldest university in the world, Salamanca continues to have the feel of a typical college town. During the academic year, the streets are full of young people causing all kinds of ruckus. For example, that weekend also happened to be a weekend of intense hazing for the new college students. Apparently, hazing is a huge tradition in Spanish universities. A few weeks ago here in Madrid, all of the older students lined the freshmen up on a subway platform and just absolutely hosed them with all kinds of condiments, then marched them through the streets, making them drink and perform all kinds of ridiculous tasks. One kid was shoved into an overhead cabinet for like 6 hours or something. And it’s not  just guys either. Literally every new student gets hazed. In Salamanca, we saw all kinds of people wandering the streets in different costumes, from guys in German wench costumes to guys in penis costumes (this may have been something else entirely, but it makes sense that it was hazing right?)

That’s a bold move, Cotton.

But at night was when everything really went down. The upperclassmen (marked with a permanent marker “v” for veterano) literally had free reign to make the freshmen do whatever they wanted: unhealthy amounts of forced drinking, embarrassing tasks – you name it they probably had to do it. And Furman thinks they have hazing problems. It’s so bizarre to think that this is pretty much accepted as the thing to do when scavenger hunts are considered hazing at good old FU. Here’s to the bubble!

Anyway, the nightlife in Salamanca is crazy. What it lacks in big, glamourous night clubs it more than makes up for in atmosphere. Think somewhere along the lines of bars in Athens (Georgia, naturally). Every college student is out in the streets with barely room to squeeze through. Bars sell 80 centavo beers and bump music all night. It was so much fun.

Yet Salamanca’s historical roots provides an interesting architectural contrast to the university life. For me, it was very reminiscent of Oxford, England but with a good bit more pizzaz. Centered around the main Romantic/Gothic cathedral (half was built in the Romantic style, half later in Gothic style) the town is full of impressive old buildings and plazas, from the Duchess of Alba’s swanky palace (in which she still lives) to Casa de los Muertos, where legend holds that a jealous man secretly murdered every last one of his unfaithful wife’s lovers. The main cathedral, however, is definitely the biggest attraction due to its age, the mix of architectural styles, and the astronaut carved into its facade during the renovation after the earthquake in Lisboa. All in all it was an incredibly fascinating place, but I’m afraid I’ve become somewhat desensitized to things like this. We seen so many old things, so many churches, and so many views in the past month that it’s all turning into one big blur. I probably couldn’t pick out the cathedral of Salamanca from the cathedral of Toledo from the cathedral of Santiago from the gazillion other churches we’ve seen. It will be nice to get to Barcelona, where we have much more free time that touring.

But I think Salamanca could sense our indifference. We failed to show the city the love it deserved, and it didn’t let us leave without paying the price. First, on Saturday night three of the girls got their jackets stolen from a bar (which contained a variety of things from cell phones to wallets). Then, almost simultaneously, all but four of us fell violently ill with food poisoning Sunday night. It was one of the worst nights of my life. I woke up almost every hour on the hour to purge myself of whatever food had poisoned me in whatever manner my body deemed fit. And I had one of the milder cases. On Monday the only people that went to class were the four that didn’t get sick. Today, only eight of us were there. Hopefully everyone will be better for Barcelona tomorrow. It would be a shame to miss out on that one.

All in all, I’m sure Salamanca is an amazing place, but after Sunday night/Monday morning, it will take a lot to get me to go back! Fortunately, I did take a decent amount of photos to look back on once my stomach is ready to bury the hatchet.

Time Flies: Short Stories – My Adventures in Brief

First off, I would like to apologize for the tardiness of this post. We’ve been so incredibly busy the past week or so that every time I’ve sat down to write my brain just gave up. But wait no longer, for the gringo is back. I believe the last tale I spun for y’all was of our adventure to Moralzarzol, so I will do my best to recap the time that has lapsed since then. Gentlemen, start your engines.

The past couple of weeks seemed relatively tame compared to what we’ve been doing (and the things that have happened to us), but it was still jam packed. Last Wednesday (September 26) I went to the Reina Sofia, Madrid’s modern art museum. What an interesting/terrifying place! I think we accidentally started in the most modern – and thus most avant garde – section of the museum. The first thing I saw was a three minute video of a woman standing naked by a river, pouring blood all over herself, and rolling in feathers for about two minutes. Further into the room was an exhibit of some kind of tropical island, complete with shanties and parrots (yes, live parrots). The next room was cordoned off by a thick black curtain, but on the other side of the cloth was what appeared to be a rave from hell. Bright, colored lights were flashing in no apparent pattern and a pair of large speakers was playing what sounded like a cross between Sigur Ros, The Mars Volta, and every terrifying sound from every nightmare you’ve ever had in your life. I don’t even know if there were any paintings of boxes or incomprehensible sculptures inside. I didn’t linger. The rest of the museum, however, was pretty cool. We say a few things Picasso things (including his famous Guernica) and a bunch of Guerra Civíl era art. There was also a bunch of Dalí’s works, but no matter how hard I try I just can’t wrap my head around modern art.

After that, I was fortunate enough to be able to attend a concert of the National Youth Orchestra (Joven Orquestra Nacional de España). The musicians were absolutely amazing, and most of them probably younger than me. There was also a percussion soloist (Juanjo Guillem, who is apparently pretty famous) that did a Marimba piece that was very cool. He also conducted a piece. Well, I thought he was going to conduct a piece. In the end, it turned out he was doing an interpretive dance on the podium – sans music. It was one of the funniest things I have ever seen. Most of the audience was cracking up, but i was dying. He just look so silly.

Over the weekend we took a day trip to Ávila, which sucked. It was super cold and rained almost the entire time, and pretty much the only things to see there were an old church and a wall). I have seen SO many old churches since I have been here that I honestly can’t tell them apart anymore. The wall actually was pretty cool though. It’s apparently the oldest, best-preserved wall of it’s type and it extends all the way around the city.

But the highlight of the weekend – without a doubt – was the corrida de los toros. As if we didn’t get enough bull-related violence last weekend, we decided we had to go to a bullfight. The season ends in October, and if I came to Spain without seeing a bullfight I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. The fights themselves are held in this big, mudéjar-style plaza, and we somehow managed to get great seats (second row, right where most of the action took place). My madre told me beforehand that I had to look through the violence and see the art in the fight, the juxtaposition of the power and size of the bull against the grace and agility of the torero. I thought nothing of it, but as it turns out, they’re pretty gruesome.

The fight begins with all of the toreros and their cuadrillas (basically a posse) marching out in a nice little parade. Then the madness starts. The first bull they release is usually the smallest and one of the less-fierce. The torero  and his cuadrillo go out and do the little cape thing at the bull. It seems unfair to have all of them out at the same time, but they only do this to study the bull’s movements and tendencies. Then, the picador comes out mounted on a horse covered in padding. Eventually, the bull charges the horse, hitting it in the flank head on. When it does this, the picador thrusts a giant spear into the muscles behind the bull’s neck. It was by far one of the more unsettling parts, because it happens three or four times. Apparently, from this the torero can tell which side the bull prefers to charge on, and it makes the bull keep its head lower when charging – a must for the kill shot. Then the banderilleros come out and get the bull to charge them. When it does, they jump out of the way and stick these two mini-spears into their back. This supposedly wears the bull down, but also pisses it off at the same time. Finally, after a little more teasing, it’s time for the main event: the torero. He generally comes out with much ado, and then does some cape work with the bull. The measure of a good torero is how close he can get the bull to him while it’s charging. One torero actually had the flank brush up against him, leaving a smear of blood across his costume thing. After a while, it’s time for the kill shot. The torero lines up the bull – usually while mumbling something about a good fight – and runs at it, thrusting his sword between the bull’s shoulder blades before it can gore him. The goal is to pierce the heart or spinal cord of the bull, causing an immediate death. This is usually pretty rare, however, and one of the cuadrilla usually has to finish the bull of with a dagger. As you can imagine, the whole spectacle involves a lot of blood. Then they repeat it five more times (each torero fights two bulls). All in all it is quite a show. The grace and nerve of the toreros is beyond impressive, and the age-old battle between man and beast is a sight to see. Once you get used to the violence of the first couple of fights, it’s really something to realize you’re taking part in a tradition older than the United States itself. And sometimes it can be really exciting. The best torero, hit his second bull dead on. The bull dropped immediately to the ground, but not before its horns found purchase in the torero‘s armpit. For a split second I thought he was dead, but he eventually stood up and walked out of the ring himself. It was intense.

This week, not much has happened, but I’m about to leave to go to the Reina Sofia again with class. Hopefully it will be pretty interesting with a guide.