susanhachey@gmail.com, Author at Leightbloomer

June 29, 2019

Road to the Abbey

Grounded, 43 kms from Santiago. My hard-working size 10s gave it their all but the wear-and-tear proved to be too much. So my Camino will, in the final analysis, include two stages in a vehicle.

I am disappointed that I didn’t walk through the streets of Santiago and make my way to the Cathedral of St. James. But I am not disappointed in myself. This unexpected finish in no way diminishes my effort nor how incredible the experience has been.

Very early on the way, a musical theme emerged – a camino playlist if you will -and it became the soundtrack for the walk, flipping back and forth between ditties as called for by the situation. I hadn’t thought of or heard many of these songs in years.

In no particular order, these are the words that sustained me and served as a basis of introspection over the last couple of weeks:

Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time

Carry That Weight
The Beatles

I don’t know why, but this song was the proverbial ear worm of the walk. I didn’t get to this age without my share of hurt, rejection, ridicule and tough times, and maybe I was feeling the weight. Regardless, I’m thankful for mindfulness and for having learned how to live more in the now. It lightens the load.

Oh where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh where have you been, my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains 
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways

It’s A Hard Rain A-Gonna Fall
Bob Dylan

This was literally the backdrop for the 7 km slog in pouring rain on Day 3 going to Balugães. Sometimes life is miserable. But if you wait a few minutes, hours, days, the outlook changes. You cheer up. And your shoes dry.

Mean Mr. Mustard sleeps in the park
Shaved in the dark trying to save paper

Mean Mr. Mustard
The Beatles

The vast majority of people in this world are kind and will do their utmost to help, particularly if you’re a visitor in their country. By singling out the one person we met who doesn’t fit this description, I realize I’m focusing on the negative. He was just so stereotypical though. Unshaven, in his undershirt, adjusting his man parts. I’m chuckling at the memory, and he will forever be my Mr. Mustard.

It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye

The Living Years
Mike & the Mechanics

I am different from every single person I have and will ever meet based on where and to whom we were born, upbringing, schooling, physical environment. Overlay that with our unique personalities and life experiences and there is potential for chaos and deep misunderstanding. Yet I am human and have the ability to reason and to seek out common ground. I do not need to fight to the death, horns locked and dying of starvation, not giving an inch. Look to understand, to see more and speak less.

I can still feel the breeze
That rustles through the trees
And misty memories
Of days gone by

How Can You Mend a Broken Heart
The Bee Gees

Grief from lost love, a parent gone too soon, friendships that fall by the wayside. Memories come and go in waves as the hours pass. Everyone I have ever loved has become a part of me, and I carry them with me. They come out to visit when I am surrounded by the earth’s bounty.

So goodbye yellow brick road
Where the dogs of society howl
You can’t plant me in your penthouse
Going back to my plough

Goodby Yellow Brick Road
Elton John

If only life were as simple as it is on the Camino. Have your bags in reception by 8:30 am and follow the yellow arrows. No wrestling with decisions. Just pay attention and watch for the signs. Oh yeah, and don’t follow random people whom you meet along the way; they may not be on the same path. (This I know from personal experience.)

And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love
You make

The End
The Beatles

Words to live and love by.

June 26, 2019

Pontevedra

It is Day 11 and we are taking our second rest day in this magical ancient town. Our hotel is situated on the edge of the historical centre which is predominantly pedestrian-only. It is overcast and threatening rain but I couldn’t be more content. Lingering over morning coffee is a luxury these days when it’s important to get an early start.

This experience has been like a dream. Walking this route, thinking about the millions of feet that have gone before, some in high-tech training shoes, some in tattered leather sandals, some bare, and still others on their knees…it is humbling and puts my privileged life into perspective. It is impossible to describe the beauty. I have tried to let the pictures speak for themselves but they don’t hold a candle to what my eyes have seen.

I’ve been thinking a lot about pain – physical and emotional. There are so many levels, and the brain is often the deciding factor in what I can and cannot abide. It is a lesson that I hope to remember when this journey comes to its inevitable end.

In the meantime, we are going to wash our clothes, pay our usual trip to the pharmacy and try to figure out how to get from Santiago to Bilbao without taking out a major bank loan. Life, as they say, good.

June 20, 2019

Rest Day

It is Day 5 of our Portuguese Camino Central walk, and we are taking a break, doing some laundry and relaxing a bit before a more strenuous day tomorrow. As much as I’ve enjoyed every step so far, I’m also rejoicing in the luxury of sleeping in until 7:30 and lingering over coffee.

Once again, our accommodation is amazing. A huge apartment with two bedrooms, living room and full kitchen. It is a period house…which period I don’t know.. but it is old and gorgeous. The woman who prepared and served us breakfast this morning has worked here for 26 years. She doesn’t speak English but we have Google translator and with my limited Spanish (which she seems to understand) we get along.

The Walk has been fabulous. Difficult at times when it’s pouring rain and there’s an inch of water in your shoes but mostly beautiful through calm countryside with orchards, vineyards and the occasional flock of sheep. Our first few days we walked in the company of a small group of Americans and two German women, passing each other along the way and meeting up in cafes and our lodgings for the night. Sadly, we will lose them today because of our stop but we will meet new people tomorrow. I heard from an Australian man yesterday that there is a large contingent of Nova Scotians on the path. Perhaps I’ll meet their acquaintance on the next leg.

The main part of the inn where we have breakfast. We have the entire place to ourselves. Our once in a lifetime chance to be upper crust!

Our arrival in Ponte de Lima yesterday coincided with a cultural celebration called Vaca de Cordas. It dates back at least to Roman times, possibly earlier, and features a kind of bull-running in which young men goad a bull restrained by a long rope as it runs through town to the beat of loud drumming. We had stopped for a drink before dinner and had to move because, as the young waitress explained, “the bull was coming”. As we left the restaurant later, thousands of people were in the streets, the crowds running this way and that in order to stay out of the way of the poor animal. We left – quickly – making our way to the new bridge to avoid seeing what was happening. Perhaps some traditions could be replaced with more humane activities…

I can’t say enough about the company that arranged this journey. Our information package was extensive and has answered every possible question, the hotels and recommended restaurants wonderful and our luggage is waiting in our room when we arrive. After four or five or six hours of walking, all of this is incredibly important and so far they have delivered in style!

June 9, 2019

Cats

No, not the Broadway play. Real live cats…the ones I’m allergic to…everywhere. I thought Lima was bad but it doesn’t hold a candle to Essaouira where they are underfoot at every turn.

I went out to a recommended restaurant to eat a couple of nights ago. A magnificent place, cavern-like with tables tucked away in nooks and crannies and at different levels. There were a couple of tables at the top of a narrow set of stairs next to me. I looked up at one point and a cat was bounding down the stairs. It paused momentarily, looked around the room, then jumped up next to – of course – me. And it was quite insistent about staying there until I explained my position with a series of hand gestures…

Today at brunch in a small, sunny square, same scenario. Cat jumps up on the seat next to me. I explain in two languages to get the hell away from me. Kindly, of course, but I can’t risk what’s happened to the guy at the next table…

In other medina news, I was propositioned by a shopkeeper today…a guy in a stylish, brocade-covered dress. It always starts off so innocently. In this case, “I like your bracelet” turns into tea in his shop followed by him offering to cook me dinner at his place tonight. This is not someone my age. He has a three-year-old daughter which could make him anywhere between 16 and 55. I’m thinking early 40s. He says I have eyes like a Berber woman…if that means sick and tired of male bullshit, then I’ll take that as a compliment.

As much as I’ve enjoyed this little break, I’m ready to leave Morocco. Being vegetarian in most countries isn’t an issue but I’ve really struggled here. Not only with meat dominating menus, but with the markets where the sights and smells of slaughtered animals are impossible to avoid. The taste of meat seems to be in everything whether it’s actually present or not. And then there are the cats…

June 4, 2019

Identity crisis

So I arranged with Lahcen the property manager to do laundry this morning, and we were chatting on the rooftop (in French) about stuff. I tried to tell him how important it is to be able to wash clothes when you’re traveling for months on end. And then he asks me if I’m from Spain.

One of the little relaxation nooks on the rooftop of my apartment.

Now I know my French is rusty, but Spain?’ Then I realize I’ve been saying “si” to him instead of “yes” since my arrival. The results of seven weeks in South America. Roberto, my Spanish teacher, would be proud! In Marrakech, the guy who looked after the pool asked if I was from Norway And here’s me thinking I’m gradually turning a nice shade of dark white.

Many people hire horse and buggy to get to the daily markets.

I’ve learned three new words in Arabic: thank you, hello/goodbye and please. Smiles are also communication but I have to remember that they can sometimes send the wrong message in this culture.

Various gates leading to and from the walled part (medina) of town.

This afternoon I stopped for mint tea at a place close to my apartment. The owner sat with me and we talked about the resident cat who was born with a deformity – one back paw that didn’t develop and just hangs there. He gets around just fine though (the cat) and has lots of kitten left in him, freaking out for no reason and beating up on the carpet. He didn’t charge me for the tea, so of course I returned tonight for dinner. Such a savvy businessman.

June 3, 2019

Beach Hiatus

First impressions aren’t always correct. When I first laid eyes on my tiny apartment here in Essaouira, my heart sank. It felt dark and dank, not at all what I expected, and I shuddered to think of what the next two weeks would be like. Three days later, I am loving my little pied-à-terre. Sure, it’s a bit noisy given its location in the medina and next to the mosque, but it is otherwise perfect, especially with the rooftop available for reading, sunbathing and playing with the Gigi, the resident cat.

One of the joys of traveling in warm countries is the abundance of fresh fruit and vegetables. Morocco is no exception. My foray into the market a few days ago was highly successful…peppers, tomatoes, red onion, green beans, cherries, bananas, green grapes, avocados, six eggs and a huge round of warm bread, all for $8. I scurried past the dead fish and live chickens; I swear they were ringing their necks on the spot and I didn’t want that memory seared into my brain…bad enough to see people walking through the crowd with limp birds swinging upside down.

No different than choosing your lobster?

I walked along the magnificent waterfront that lines the town for a few kilometres, starting inside the walls of the medina. The beach itself looks clean, the water calm. I noticed a few folks in it yesterday but certainly not crowds which leads me to believe it may not be all that warm. I’ll go back today for a closer look and the touch test.

Camel and horseback riding at the far end of the beach.

June 1, 2019

A seat at the front of the bus

The driver looks rested and happy. It’s only three hours to Essaouira but I’d like to think he wasn’t out partying last night. I am sitting in the first row across from a French-speaking woman of a similar age, and all the young people are chattering away behind us. A few days away from my 65th birthday, and I’m squarely in the seniors’ section.

While I have a great view, it’s also nerve-wracking. Lots of kids going home from school, swerving along on foot and bicycles, men on carts and the backs of donkeys in the blazing desert sun. The driver is wearing ear buds and appears to be talking on the phone.

My thoughts stray to my stay with Hamid, the genteel Moroccan man of French descent who lives life like a country gentleman in the midst of chaotic Marrakech. He seemed set in his ways and routine. Every single item in his home – and there are many – placed with intent and focus and with an expectation that they would remain in place until told otherwise.

Breakfast each morning the same as the last, with dishes placed exactly as they have been for perhaps countless mornings before. I like his taste in music – classical, well-known French songs from my parents’ generation, the Beatles. He sings too, and while the sound is cheerful, there is just a tinge of loneliness…

About 45 minutes into the bus trip, we come up behind a semi tractor trailer with about 10 young men sitting atop the cargo on its flatbed. A series of hand signals ensues between them and the bus driver. Fifteen minutes later, we pull off to the side of the road and stop. The driver gets out, and the woman across from me explains he’s going to buy pastèques from the flatbed. Happens all the time she says. Another WTF moment until some lengthy googling reveals that pastèques are watermelons.

We took a rest stop here. It’s so hot that they mist the place.

Finally, the coast comes into view, and Essaouira is laid out before me, Although visibility is limited. Look, a beach!

May 29, 2019May 29, 2019

Morning in Marrakech

It started off well. Fortified by a hearty breakfast at Hamid’s Airbnb, I set off mid-morning to brave the alleys of the Marrakech medina. I had Google maps and Maps Me on my phone. What could go wrong?

For starters, it was 32 degrees at 10 a.m. I don’t give a damn if it’s a dry heat. Secondly, modern technology sometimes fails when it comes up against the old ways. So what started off as complete trust in GPS ended with a technological whimper and a lot of asking for directions. More on that later.

Next time I’ll trust a donkey over Google maps.

My first mistake was following some guy who said he was going to the main market, which is where I wanted to go. Of course, he was not going to the main market; he was taking me to the first place that would offer a commission for delivering an unsuspecting tourist – in this case the tanneries. From the sounds of that, it’s not a place for vegetarians or any animal lover for that matter. When I declined to enter, the merchant refused to pay him, so he asked for a tip from me. Since I wasn’t heading there to begin with, he was out of luck on that count as well.

I stopped for coffee in a small square and got my bearings, walking the rest of the way to Jemaa el-Fna with two young women from France who were more lost than I. We finally reached the shade of the marvellous souks around the square, and I lost them in the crowds and the wonder of my surroundings.

You can walk for days in these alleyways.

It wasn’t long before I fell for scam #2, the old where-are-you-from-I-have-a-friend-in-Toronto routine. This was from two women selling henna tattoos in the square. Before I knew it, one of them was drawing on my left hand and throwing glitter on me. I protested and said I had no money but that didn’t stop her until it finally dawned on her I might be telling the truth (I wasn’t) then she made me promise I’d go back and pay her “whatever I want” after visiting the ATM machine. I did promise, however I lied. I’m learning to play the game.

But the search for the ATM was real, so I continued but not before stopping to get all the @#&%()$# ink off of my hand as it was melting in the sun and running down my arm, onto my backpack, etc. Of course, the glitter was everywhere. And in my panic, I accidentally turned the phone off. When I turned it back on, the SIM card that I bought at the airport was locked and I needed a code to reactivate it.

Full blown panic. I’m in the middle of the medina with no idea how to get anywhere and without my phone which can at least pinpoint my location I’m truly screwed. But first, I need dirhams. Found the bank. First try, machine out of order. Second try (because I’m learning), success! Then a quick visit to a phone shop and I’m back in business. If you’re ever in need of a secret code for your SIM card, it’s 0000. WTF?

Now, to find a vegetarian meal. A little hole-in-the-wall place with a rooftop and sun protection advertised vegetarian couscous. Unfortunately, it was as Evi warned…everything tastes like lamb. I was hungry, and it’s possible that if it had tasted like chicken or even trout, I would have gone ahead and indulged. But baby sheep? Not gonna happen. Thankfully the salad, lentils and bread were good.

When giving instructions for both going to and leaving the main square, folks in Marrakech will tell you to bear right. This can only be true for one or the other scenario. It’s up to you to figure out which.

May 22, 2019

Nazca, Huacachina, Paracas

With the exception of Nazca, I knew virtually nothing about these places when I booked my bus trip with Peru Hop. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, the backpacker crowd knows where the fun is, and Peru Hop seems to cater almost exclusively to the younger set. With a few noted exceptions…

Originally I didn’t intend to stay in Nazca but I changed my mind last minute. Really happy that I did; the flight over the famous Nazca Lines was such a treat! The lines themselves are a mystery although many believe they were drawn for the gods (they’re only fully visible from the air). The 14 that you see on the 30-minute flight are remarkably well preserved, being more than 2500 years old. I fear my own lines won’t hold up so well…

Too high for iPhone to get good shots of the lines.

Loved being in this little plane with banking and tight turns so all could get a good view. The two younger passengers got sick…

Huacachina’s claim to fame is that it is surrounded by sand dunes that you can climb, traverse by sand board or dune buggy or slide down. Once you’ve done any or all of these activities, the only thing left to do is drink. So drink they do. Huacachina is quite possibly the noisiest place I’ve ever been. Staying in a tent, the sound is amplified so that you just may want to slit your own throat by bedtime. Thankfully, the management is against mass suicide by the older crowd so they close the pool at 10 pm so as to avoid large teams of forensic investigators roaming the property and ruining the vibe.

Paracas was delightful. The 100 or so Peru Hoppers who showed up for the Ballestas Islands tour on my first morning there were sorely disappointed to find the tour cancelled due to rip tides. But safety comes first. Petra, a German woman who was also traveling solo, and I decided to explore the area on foot.

Huge villas all along the ocean front in Paracas.

Other inhabitants who don’t require quite so much.

Petra was a bit of an enigma. She weighs about 90 pounds soaking wet, smokes like a chimney and would rather drink alcohol than eat. She is also a psychotherapist back in Germany, a picture I found hard to reconcile with the fireball who ignored the pleas of security guards to stop boulder-hopping at one point on our walk. But I digress…the walk was fabulous. We only turned around when we hit the nature reserve which is desert. At high noon, it was deadly hot and 10 kilometres was enough!

We toured the reserve in the afternoon aboard a bus. And the next morning, the sea had quieted down enough so that the Ballestas Islands tours were up and running again.

Lots of arches and caves carved by the sea.

Some sea lions, who are evidently adept at climbing.

So many birds that they collect and export the guano.

Finally, Petra and I hired a taxi to take us back to the nature reserve in the afternoon to see a couple of viewpoints that we didn’t see the day before. All in all, a great couple of days before my final stop in Peru, the massive city of Lima.

Pelicans waiting for a handout at the landing wharf.

Christian, our Peru Hop guide on the Paracas-Lima leg. We were exploring a Chincha site called Tampo Colorado.

The Incas conquered the Chinchas but did not destroy their fortifications.

They just took the best accommodations and made room for their own deities.

May 15, 2019

Chachani, Misti, Picchu Picchu

Three massive volcanoes, one of them (Misti) still active. This is my view from Alvaro’s huge apartment in Carmen Alto, the best in Arequipa!

Chachani, more than 6000 metres high, from the garden.

It isn’t often when my accommodation is so beautiful that I hate to leave it. And Arequipa is considered one of the most beautiful cities in Peru. But Alvaro, his dog Rogelio and his enormous, welcoming home are as big an attraction for his fortunate guests as any I’ve seen since my arrival a few days ago.

Every morning he makes a different, delicious breakfast which we eat at the kitchen table, mouths agape at what we are seeing. We are surrounded by terraced farmland, cows and one sad donkey that brays occasionally, no doubt out of loneliness. Next door, people pay for this view. Mine is included.

Arequipa’s history is so varied and different from the rest of the country’s that I won’t even attempt to explain it. It lies between the Andes and the desert coastland, so it’s a lot hotter here than other places I’ve visited. The 4 km walk down to the old part of town is best done early morning; afternoons are to be spent with the dog near the pool!

Arequipa is known as the white city due to the sillar used in much of the architecture.

Inside Santa Catalina Monastery, a cloistered setting for Dominican nuns. This room is where the young women sat to speak with their families through slatted windows.

And yet, the pull of the historic centre is strong. Yesterday, I trundled down to the centre to take a free walking tour of the city. Our host was hilarious and the tour off-beat. I met a young woman from Germany, and when the tour ended we decided to walk to La Capitana, the most famous and authentic picanteria in town. It was worth the effort; a huge plate of typical Peruvian food – and loads of choice for vegetarians! Since we had no idea how to order, the waitress took us right into the kitchen to see the massive vats of food.

After lunch, Stephanie and I walked to the Yanahuara viewpoint. It features the volcanoes of course, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Alvaro’s kitchen.