Music Extravaganza

This week I returned to London - to the cold and to the awesome music scene. On Tuesday I saw up and coming Perth band The Panics, and on Wednesday Chris Townsend played his first gig with a full band. It sounded great and I'm looking forward to his next one on April 30. www.myspace.com/christownsendmusic

Mordor overlooking Malaga

Portugese Barbequed Chicken

Is it wrong to eat barbequed piri piri chicken twice a day?

Lagos, The Algarve, Portugal

Our Little Patch of Portugese Paradise

Earnest Easter Procession, Sevilla

Sharing the Burden

These giant floats took hours to reach the city centre, having begun the parade at the local church; they strained as they marched to the beat of drums.

A day at the beach in Lagos

Easter Sunday.

On one side of the piazza families are congregated in front of the compact church. On the other side, we take in the ocean view and the sun from the cloudless midday sky, sipping coffees, content. A stroll takes us to a cove of beach which is perfect and peaceful, still in view of the pretty town but tranquil. Stunted oranged rock formations bound our section of beach to the left and the right and we share this 100metres of sun with precious few others.

Breaking the solitude of suntanning and wandering thoughts, two Americans bound onto the scene:
"Shit, the water's cold!"
"My nipples have gone hard"
"I wanna climb this rock and jump off"
"Whoa, check out those two topless girls!"
and so on as they voiced every private thought with an exuberance that seems to come natural to Americans.

The two girls - the cause of the final exclamation - were clearly scandinavian; the boys took their half-nudity as an invitation: "Where y'all from? Australia? New Zealand?" No reply came, and they pressed on: "Sweden?"
"Ja"
With the poise and composure of a schoolboy meeting Elle MacPherson naked, one of the guys uttered something which made me laugh out loud: "Wow, cool! You wanna come and jump off a rock with us?" Smooth.

But already the Swedes were dressing; the American advances had been thwarted and they exited stage left. The girls exited stage right. I remained on the sand, peace had resumed and the breeze now carried just the sound of waves lapping at the shore.

The long road to Lagos

OK, so it's not a laborable (weekday). And it could even be a festivo, although I've never really understood how public transport operators treat the Saturday wedged between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Regardless, we knew the trip between Sevilla and Lagos would require at a minimum a few buses, a river- and border-crossing ferry, a series of acrobatic manouvres and good luck.

While Sevilla slept through a sun-bathed morning, we found our way to a cafe for breakfast, spending a little more than expected on some delightful jamón in a roll and a coffee to start the day. Our first bus brought us to the border of Portugal, the town on the Spanish side being called Ayamonte which has a harbour full of grandiose yachts. The grandiose owners of these yachts were to be found strolling the quaint and probably expensive streets as we made our way to the ferry port. My conversation with the ticket man was my last in Spanish; the last in which I could make myself generally understood. The junk vessel deposited us on the other side of the river, it may as well have been a new world. Or, more precisely, an old world.

In the little port on this side the boats looked more like bath toys, and about as seaworthy. The buildings lining the promenade may have been once grand, but now are seem chipped and weathered. They couldn't have been attended to since Portugal's heyday of naval prowess and colonisation, and are in a state of semi-colourful disrepair. Every second shopfront is closed, and boarded with bricks or wood. It could be charming and pretty but it's not.

It's lunch time and I want lunch. Not in that English "food is for refueling" sense, but a "I'm in a foreign country (European for that matter); on the coast (I'm thinking seafood), in a cheap country (I can afford seafood) so lunch could be amazing" kind of way. But the next hour saw my hopes evaporate as place after place offered microwaved tourist favourites for prices as over-heated as the food would inevitably be. Poor V and Jane must have become irritated as I vetoed every option. In one such option, when I asked for a menu, the waitress instead offered me a burning stare of contempt she must reserve for times when she knew she should be spending Easter with her family rather than serving sweating, heaving masses of tourists.

In the end, I managed only to secure for us 2 bags of plain crisps and came close to missing our 2 hour local bus ride to Faro. All I wanted was another jamon (cured ham) roll.

The dispirited town of Faro did little to improve the journey. I may yet succumb to food poisoning from an odd item I found at a bakery. The girl serving me was pleasant enough and even wished me a buena pasqua (Happy Easter), although I hope she didn't witness my face contort as I took my first bite.

But Lagos made our worries melt away. Here stands a pretty town of white-washed walls in the South-Western corner of Portugal with coastline jutting into the Atlantic ocean. A sensational local-style meal of octopus, steak, beer and red wine was delicious and cheap and repaired our spirits.

The coming days would relax and colour us as we lay on the beach in a bath of sun.

Semana Santa: Jueves

Jueves Santa. Easter Thursday.

Together with half of London I board at Gatwick, destination Malaga. "I need sun and I need beach" were V's only rules for this Easter Break. Next to me, a guy with a lopsided mouth and a toothy grin engaged a scrubby and fat man reading the sports headlines: "Tottenham supporter eh?" The toothy grin guy went on to explain he could tell by the fat man's smile as he read of Tottenham's upset draw with Chelsea last night. I wondered if it was rather his unwashed appearance, his strong north London accent or his strong body odour that gave it away. Regardless, it seemed to me that this Easter I might not be escaping London after all...

Mercifully, the Brits must have made their way to countryside villas, nearby Marbella or straight to the monstrous condominium-hotels which destroy Malaga's coastal view, because I could no longer here English spoken. From this point, all I could hear was Spanish and that was great!

Conditions on the beach were less merciful. Gale-force winds buffeted Anthony and I as we shivered, lying on benches, stubbornly hoping to catch the sun as it peaked from behind the clouds now and then. Just as stubbornly we'd changed into thongs (flip flops) too - this is our beach break damn it!!

Looking west along the coast was ominous - an unbecoming dark mass wrapped and swirled around the mountainous outcrops and gave the appearance of Mordor. We had beach but not sun. Our plan to make up for last night's 3 hour sleep by siesta-ing on the beach was in tatters. Instead, we returned to the hostel to practice our pronunciation of "c's" as "th's" and of "z's" as "th's". Everything with a lisp that would be regarded as queer anywhere but in Spain.

It seems an opportune time to allow ourselves that great Spanish invention Churros - long sticks of doughnut dripping in hot chocolate. "How many do you want?" is probably what the bartender asked us. At this stage I'm uncertain. How big are they? And which numbers do I actually know in Spanish? Cinco was the first number that came to me. Five. And we amuse ourselves with this opportunity to refine the lisp: "thin-ko". The churros conspire to be small, and we need more: "Seis mes por favor"
"No entiendo" retorts the barman. I don't understand.
"Umm... seis mes" six more
"Six years!" he laughs
Sheepishly: "Oh... seis mas" Whoops.

Content from our unashamed lashings of chocolate we proceed to the old town to see the views from the castle and alcazabar. Walking up the steep steps, the path turning back on itself as we ascend to the hilltop castle, we only hear and see Spanish. We have avoided the package Brits... or have we? Like too many parts of the Mediterranean, what would have been a spectacular view had been given over to unsightly, touristic hotel developments, each in turn uninspiring and uninviting. We shift our gaze westwards and see Mordor still brewing in the distance. Right now, sun prevails, but we cant be sure armies of dark cloud wont be sent to invade. Our gaze drifting closer to the foreground, the cathedral dominates the view of the old town and that is where we plan to head.

Impressive, intricate and imposing, the cathedral is set within a tight and picturesque piazza. We get lost in the neighbouring narrow streets, and then what's this? Being in Spain at Easter, we have stumbled across the festivities of Semana Santa (Holy Week). For perhaps a mile, chairs and barriers demarcate a path for a procession of draped figures dressed eerily similar to the klu klux klan - many hundreds of them- as well as large flotillas hoisted by maybe 100 even larger men. Jane seems mortified. These ostensibly scary characters wear a tall, thin, conical hat which drapes down over the face, down to the chest. Two eye holes in the dark cloth remind of a medieval executioner. They are catholic penitants continuing a centuries long tradition, and as the story goes, only God can see beneath the mask. To us they are anonymous. Except for one tiny little fella, who has clearly lost his mask - or just given up wearing it - he marches with the rest with a beaming smile that tells he's just happy to be part of the parade!

In all though, it was an intense and mood-filled affair. The men carrying the massive flotillas train for months for this honour. The floats are giant yet intricate ensembles depicting various scenes. The strain on their faces suggest immense pride, or their ignorance at their concept of the wheel. Drums beat at a powerful pace.

Easter Thursday (Jueves Santa) is the day of the Last Supper, and at 8pm it's time for supper of our own, which makes me very happy. I feel that Jesus would be kicking himself if he knew how good his last supper could have been if he had lived in Spain. We search for the ubiquitous tapas bars but can find none bustling with any customers. Churros bars, on the other hand, are teaming with life, and the churros being served are bigger and more appealing than the ones we had 3 hours prior. It's dinner time, but the locals are having doughnuts and coffee as if its early afternoon. To my left, a man shouts in Spanish from behind his bar:
"Churros here. Get your churros! What would you like? Churros? Good, because thats all we have! Get your churros!"
Or equally, he could be saying (for we understand nothing):
"Look at those Australians! They had churros too early! Stupid foreigners, what were they thinking! Now is the time for Churros!"

We acknowledge our mistake, but meekly continue our search for something savoury, something that won't have us leaving the country looking like the Michelin Man at Christmas time.

Later, we pick our way through the crowds and take our leave of the parade. Drums still reverberate with the procession. It's been an interesting day and tomorrow we'll be in Sevilla for Good Friday - a city even more famous for it's Semana Santa celebrations. We nod off to sleep at midnight as the locals are probably finishing their dinners.

Semana Santa: Viernes

Viernes Santa. Easter Friday

We slip away from Malaga in the early hours; see the hilltop castle receding; Mordor is still sheathed in darkness but today is sunny. By the time we reach Sevilla, 2.5 hours inland, clouds and cold are but a memory.

The streets of Seville are winding and disorientating. An extra degree of difficult is established by the procession barricades - both metallic and human. Looking onto the obscure street below our 3rd floor apartment, a river of families dressed for Church flow by. Wherever they were heading, we would follow. The problem was, they were having a good deal of difficulty getting to where they wanted to go as well. Or perhaps they had no destination, perhaps this was just a Good Friday afternoon stroll en masse.

Regardless, we kept finding ourselves back at the same square, dominated by a grand municipal building painted an unmistakable shade somewhere between rose and maroon and inappropriate. The third time we reached the square, we followed Jane's decision to settle with a glass of rioja at a wine bar set back from one corner of the square and take stock of our surroundings. The problem we seemed to be facing is that we were trapped on the inside of the parade. In each direction, we would reach a wall of people, above who's heads was a passing parade of conical hats, just as we saw in Malaga the day before.

Today the heaving floats seemed markedly more sombre, and those trailing carried crucifixes. Yesterday, although he was about to be betrayed, Jesus was to enjoy a big meal, and a meal is a celebration in Spain. Crucifixion on the other hand is ghastly in anyone's language. The passing procession reflected this mood well.

Throughout the night we would take time to watch the parade, with intervals for tapas, a beer or glass of wine. Bar-hopping and parade-hopping as the locals seemed to do. These past two days were incredible to me. Never have I seen such effort and passion invested in Easter-time celebrations. It was moving and fascinating and delicious all at once.

Rainy Sunday

Regent Street by Night

Ice Glasses

Ice Bar

I thought the Ice Bar was only in Stockholm. Not only is it also in London (and many other places too) but Laff's cousin has even opened one in Portland, Victoria! This round of drinks consisted of my fig-flavoured vodka, while the others had "frozen sunsets". Very cool... er... cold

Double Surprise

V turns 26 and Claire turns ..., making me once again the baby of the house. And we celebrated in style: Mark "Laff" Lafferty took one for the team and shopped til he dropped at Oxford Street to keep Claire "Clarence" Frazer out of the house; Anthony "V" Villante was easily persuaded to have some Saturday arvo beers watching the rugby at the Islington Tap. With a hand from Benny "Charcoal" Frazer and Louise "Decorations" Clarke, we had a party on our hands... which only finally came to a close 10 hours after it began.

Together Again

Continentals Lost in London

Besalú

A Medieval Wander