Feet? What Feet?

As I sit in my tent overlooking hills of olive trees, cliffs full of routes, listening the ringing of the goats bells, I can’t help but smile. I know what you are all thinking, and no it is not a luxury tent. Its just a normal two person tent with a single air mattress, no electricity, and the bathroom is a 250 meter walk uphill to the main building. I feel that I am far from actually roughing it though, after all there are hot showers (if you’re fast enough). There is something so peaceful about these hills and this place that I find myself never wanting to leave. This is southern Spain in the dead of winter and the sun is shining everyday, the sky is always blue it seems. I can’t help but wonder why I don’t live here. 

As my life now completely evolves around climbing, all I seem to think about and focus on is where am I climbing next, who am I climbing with, and what can I project. For the record I have failed epically at picking a project. I guess my dislike of falling is partially to blame for that. I also seem to have very little desire to redpoint easy routes I just went the wrong way on. So my goal this year is to fall, and so far that has me on-sighting even harder climbs and finding a way to fight through the real shit holds with nothing more than sheer determination. I’ve been amazed at some of the stuff I am capable of holding on to. It has really brought to light that at this stage in my climbing life there is a big difference between holds I think I can hold on to and ones that I actually can hold on to. Realizing this is really starting to transform my climbing. 

When I started lead climbing I was so afraid of falling that I would find myself near panic when trying to clip the next draw. Especially if my feet weren’t ideal. However the more leading I have done the more I realize I don’t even need feet if I have a good hand. I am becoming a one arm wonder (in my own mind). I find myself doing moves I normally would hesitate to do on lead, because I have learned to trust my hands. Climbing constantly different styles of routes on different rocks has taught me to be adaptable. I have also learned the art of taking time to plan the next three moves before moving. T-Rexing is not sexy and it burns you out faster than anything else. My mantra is straight arms are happy arms, feet, feet, feet, feet! The number of times I repeat this to myself while climbing is rather comical. 

A Little Blonde Fish in a Sea of Humans

Then you blow your nose and your snot is black its a good sign the air quality is sub-par. After nearly dying trying to run around the walls of the Medina, I found myself coughing violently between hits of my inhaler in a near panic attack just trying to breathe. All I can think about is that is it time to go. 

I have one last task for my time in Marrakech. This is to see the city by night because apparently it “comes alive”. Well, that is one way of putting it. The entire Medina was worse than the London Underground during rush hour, ON the train. There I was smashed between people moving at a crawl while the man next to me weirdly rubbed his hand on my thigh. Picture my impressed face. Desperate to escape the man I found myself behind a woman with someone actually pressed up against my back. I didn’t even want to know, so I didn’t look to see if it was a man or woman, I desperately searched the sea of humans for any gap of space. To my dismay there wasn’t one to be found. It took nearly 30 minutes to go the 500 metres to the square (thanks to google maps I new how much further I would have to just be a little blonde fish in a sea of fabric and men. 

The square was something else. During the day there is a whole area of red ground with power spots built into the ground but nothing other then some ladies doing henna, by night there are restaurants. Set up sometime in the early evening transforming the square into a smoke filled yet enchanting scene. 

With piles of fresh produce and seafood near the chef, a man greets you first in French, then English then Spanish, his job is to convince you to eat at his stand. “Special deal just for you my beautiful blonde friend because I like you very much” “You look too skinny you need to eat here ma’am, always sporting you are, slow down have some food” “Please ma’am why do you not want eat here” - the last one was a pizza place so I responded with, because I’m deathly allergic to gluten, but thank you for the offer sir. Now normally I’m such a foodie I would be all over that, but the lack of running water, general hygiene & alcohol (which I like to think would kill the bad bugs in my tummy) screamed no at me. I see tourists “washing” their hands in these buckets of stagnant water, there is no soap, then proceeding to eat with their hands. Just the thought of it made my stomach roll. There is no way my precious Canadian stomach would survive that. The bathroom facilities at my hostel were not nice enough to chance being sick. If I had a private bathroom I may have considered it.

After two hours in the Medina by night my screaming headache from the pollution forced me to return to my hostel, it’s not like one is going to tie one on drinking mint tea… 

The Red City

Shifting my gaze between my google maps and the window of the bus I couldn’t help but notice how pretty all the lights looked. I’m not sure what I was expecting. After a quick chat with my bus driver I determined which stop would be the best for me and when we arrived I disembarked and started following the little blue dots. The overwhelming stench of urine and the absolute filth of the road I turned on made me question the blue dots as I found myself on a footpath behind a series of mandarin orange venders, whom it appears merely toss the rinds, bad fruit and rubbish onto this path. There are so many motorcycles polluting the air, plus the smell of rotten fruit, mixed with urine and the fact the ground was wet made me want to vomit. It was a humid twenty degrees, and I found myself questioning if the fruit vendors could possibly be used to that stench. I decided to get off the footpath and walk on the road as soon as I found a gap in the vendor stands. 

This made for its own adventure with so many motorcycles, mopeds, bicycles and cars driving hap-hazardously in both directions on what really seems to be a one way street. I managed to escape the cars and enter the walls of the Medina where to my surprise motorcycles and mopeds still drive like madmen through. I get the feeling humans do not have the right of way in this country. I may be seriously injured at some point in a collision with a moped. 

Not sure I was ready to brave the streets of Marrakech by night I tucked myself into bed with a movie. 

I sit here now late afternoon two days into my adventure of the red city. I managed to find the nice part of town where I reckon most of the tourists with money stay, there is a Chilli’s ffs. However, we very much enjoyed wandering the olive tree lined streets. There were these random derelict buildings that seemed to be hollowed out in the mix and this one that had the most stunning tile mosaics inside. I found myself trying to get a better view of them through the over grown garden and over the high fence, never quite getting to see enough. 

Nearly back at my hostel with my dinner to enjoy roof top, I hear the unmistakeable cries of a terrified dog. Not an angry or aggressive sound, a truly scared sound. I turn around and find a man trying to get a dog out from under a car with a stick. I had to stop and explain to these people that this dog was terrified, possibly hurt. Definitely scared. I squatted down near where she was hiding between the front grill and the tire, I then proceeded to take out some chorizo that I had bought for dinner. This brought another very small pup over who stole it right out from under her feet. So I pulled out another piece and slowly coaxed her out of her hiding spot. She was very gently taking pieces right out of my hand and letting me pet her, the pup was all over all the things with her dirty little paws and heaps of kisses. After the two of them ate my entire package of chorizo and my cheese I found myself trying to call all the local animal shelters. It is Saturday and I am out of luck. It killed me to leave them but they also wouldn’t follow me. This is when for the first time since I squatted near the car my attention broke from them, I realized over fifty men were staring at me. What a sight I must have been showing love and affection for these two pups. In a tank top with my long blonde hair. I can only hope that maybe they will show them the same kindness. My bag is now well stocked with cat & dog food as well as some treats. Stray dogs are rare in this city, cats seem to rule the streets. Both break my heart it seems, particularly the tiny little sick looking kittens. And I don't even like cats...

Portugal, An Adventure In Wine

I couldn’t help but laugh as we literally ran into the store two minutes before they closed. The lady told us they were closing soon, a fact we were already aware of when we realized that we only had ten minutes to get to the store that was three minutes away. 

I considered trying to sort out how many bottles of wine had been consumed since my bestie and her man arrived to meet me in Lisbon, but I am uncertain I can correctly calculate that data. There were definitely only three boxes of wine consumed totalling thirteen litres, a bottle of Ginja (a sour cherry liquor they practically give away for free here). Those of you that know me, must already know we clearly made sangria. A giant salad bowl of sangria to be exact. After all we had to do something with all that wine. Really the whole idea was because one of the “famous” bottles we opened was so gross there was nothing else we could do with it. 

Oh and there was that bottle of rosé port. Which we later learned they have only started recently making to try to get the “younger generation” ie. not us, into drinking port since it has fallen very much out of fashion. Not that you would know that here, there is literally port EVERYWHERE. Personally I’m not a huge fan, however, I did find a 30 year old tawny I quite liked. $$$. 

We decided last second in the Pingo Doce that we needed to have bubbles for our breakfast the next morning, come the next morning there I am laughing hysterically as I realize the bubbles we have bought were red! So that accounts for our one and only bottle of red brut. As for the normal brut I think we did much better here than in France as we only had two bottles. We did go to an espumante house, and learned that Portugal in fact has an entire region of sparkling wine. 

This brings us to the Douro Valley.

We me and the bestie, notorious penny pinchers now after years of travelling the world, spend an absurd amount of money to sleep in a wine barrel. It actually turned out to be literally the best money we have ever spent as the entire experience was beyond luxury. The best part was we got to try whatever we wanted from their portfolio! Landing us a fantastic bottle of rose (also the most expensive wine we bought) to have with our picnic dinner in our room. See I told you were we cheap, I mean frugal. 

The little researcher that she is, the bestie found us a second great restaurant for lunch, and for the second time the octopus did not disappoint. Washed down with a glass of rosé (our most reasonable decision of the entire trip, only ordering a glass that is). 

As it turns out it is actually rather difficult to rock up to a “quinta” and just do a tasting. This time of the year isn’t exactly tourist season, which you would think would make it easier, however most places didn’t do only tastings, you had to book a tour and they generally try to force port down your throat as well. We had very little interest in trying port, we were there for the wine! 

The views however, did not disappoint. Literal mountains of vines, all in their fall coloured glory. Some leaves still holding on to green while others ranged from orange, to rust, to deep red. You couldn’t help but stare off into the distance and just be in this magical landscape. In the Douro they still pick grapes by hand because the hillsides are so steep they can’t use machinery. There is also still a large number of wineries stomping the grapes in these massive granite baths, for lack of a better term. 

Of the unknown number of bottles we consumed there was most definitely three that we didn’t care for. Surprisingly these were not the cheapest of the wines but what seemed to be the most popular, or best value, or the most advertised. Which can only mean our palates are much different than those of the Portuguese. We did discover our new favourite grape though, Touriga Nacional.  

The last bottle we had was a Pinot Noir from the Lisboa Region. It was hands down the best red we had. There was also something so nice about drinking something we are so familiar with. Especially for me, as I love my Pinots. I am keen to get my hands on some more Pinots from the region to try, however I no longer have a drinking buddy which means it is time for the climbing to resume. 

Climb On

Feeling like a legend, full of energy, just dying to climb, I rock paper scissored with Sarah for the onsite rights of our first climb that day. I knew whoever lead first would inevitably get all the on-sites that day.  I won the first round, but she wanted to go best of three... I still won. And, with my nerves buzzing I loaded up my harness, 6 draws on each side, top rope anchor, personal anchor, bailout ‘biner, ATC, and finally I put my chalk bag around my waist. I find gearing up almost a ritual. The way I tie one end of my rope to the tarp before I flake it out, how I load up my harness, the double checking and counting. Most of it truly is unnecessary but in a sport like rock climbing the last thing you want to do is make a silly mistake. In this sport those mistakes can cost you your life. 

Ready to start climbing I say to Sarah “Pollo Fiesto?” Which literally means chicken party. I don’t really know the whole story behind it but I guess check your partner sounded a lot like chicken party in El Salvador. Believe me there are no chickens partying anywhere, but this is to make sure we both did our part properly. Again redundant yet necessary, such is the sport.

Everything was good so I had no other choice but to say “climbing”, wait for the confirmation of “climb on” before reaching up and starting my ascent. It’s a funny thing when climbing, even though I knew I could climb the route, and that my belayer knew what they were doing I still found myself with Elvis leg. For you non-climbers aka Mema this means my leg was shaking. My nerves were still running high because this was not a route I wanted to fall on, easy granite slab with lots of ledges. It was also on rock I had never climbed on, I found myself unsure if I could trust holds and checking to make sure they weren't going to pull off in my hands. On top of that I had never actually been lead belayed by this person who had my life in their hands. I consider myself a VERY good belayer. I pay attention, I never leave too much slack out and I spend the entire time the climber is on the wall assuming they are going to fall, so if it does happen I am ready. Before I knew it I was at the anchor, onsite accomplished. 

I find it funny how “walking” up a route isn’t nearly as satisfying as projecting a route. Maybe that’s just me. I want to climb something so hard I barely make it. I would rather spend my day working through one route, and finally getting my redpoint, than easily climbing a dozen. There is no gratification in easy climbing. This humbles me, and again I find myself filled with respect for the first guy that took me climbing outside for the first time. Because before I became a good belayer, well … squirrel.