Where's The Free Beer?

Versatile Vodka

My second shift at the new job was student night. The school and university year has just kicked off in The Northern Hemisphere after summer holidays, and the city is filled with fresh faced kids starting their higher education. Not that they are too concerned about learning right now; drinking and the opposite sex are getting far more attention than the books.

My workplace has taken it upon itself to fleece the kids of their pocket money by overcharging for horrible vodka (when the back label of a vodka bottle proudly boasts that it is a "versatile vodka" you should be wary). One of my workmates commented that you certainly wouldn't get away with serving that rubbish to the gay crowd on Sunday nights.

But the kids are ignorant. They lap it up. Some of them had that rabbit in headlights look in their eyes as the approached the bar - I had a sneaking suspicion that this was their first bar experience.
"Can we have some free shots?"
I reply with an impassive stare.
"Well?"
"No"
"... how about some 2 euro beer then?"
"No"
"Oh well, it was worth a try."
"No it wasn't."

Some of them are fast learners though, and they figure out that being friendly to bartenders and/or giving small tips gets you much better service (and serves). One might think that they are too poor to give a fifty cent tip, but that tip can guarantee that you get a better-than-50-cent top up next time, ahead of everybody else. And when it is all about getting as much alco-pop for your money as possible that is worth keeping in mind.

Contemporary Cave Living

I met a French guy named Fred on the beach, sometimes labelled Fredo Frog, or Fred the Feelthy Frenchy. A funny guy, who had been living in Granada for the last sixteen years, working as a teacher and organising school trips for children around Andalucia. We struck up a good friendship, and I went to spend the last week-and-a-half at his place in Granada.

He had a place in a little village named Pueblo Monachil, right on the edge of Granada. It is typical of the Moorish Spanish towns that one sees on postcards - whitewashed little houses clinging to either side of a valley with a river tumbling (a colourful verb like tumbling is required) through the middle of town.

Many of the houses, such as Fred's, are extensions of caves that have been dug into the side of the valley. The front of the house is like a normal Spanish house, and the back half is a soundproofed, irregularly shaped and naturally insulated cave dwelling.

The mountains of the Sierra Nevarda - the tallest mountain range in peninsular Spain - tower over the town. It is around thirty kilometers from Fred's house to the top of Los Tres Miles - a line of mountains all over three thousand meters high. I know exactly how far away they are because I had to walk all of the way back from them to Fred's house due to the unwillingness of Spanish people to assist hitch-hikers.

Getting High

on my back and started up the road from Fred's house to spend a couple of nights in the mountains - the first time in some real hills since my adventures in Nepal. I spent the first hour working hard to climb the hill, cursing every car that wouldn't give me a lift, and stopping under every fig tree to gorge myself on fresh figs. I finally got a lift from and English guy who had just bought land in the area. We had a good chat, and he took me to the top of the first rise, from where I could make my way to the main road up the mountain.

Once on the main road I found it easy to get a ride from a jovial German fellow (note that none of my rides were from Spaniards) who was test driving for Volkswagen. The road to the top of the sierra is the highest road in Europe, and as used by all of the European car manufacturers for testing their new engines. I lost count of the number of prototypes that I saw driving up and down the mountain. The prototypes were covered in big blag bags so that one couldn't see what make or design the car was, and they looked fairly sinister racing up and down the twisting mountain roads.

The road cut out at 2500 meters, and from then on I had to start climbing on foot. Last time I was at that altitude I had worked my way up to that altitude slowly on foot and had been in much better shape. This time I got a ride to the top, and wasn't much chop after some months of fairly epic idleness on the beach and in England. My body, and in particular my lungs, let me know what a silly idea that was. Still, I managed to get myself to the top of the ridge that runs along the range, and setup camp near some beautiful high-altitude lakes.

There is something very special for me about high mountains. Once I started to get up into the barren landscape with clouds rolling around and below me I had a big smile on my face and a great sensation of freedom. Unfortunately the altitude was affecting me quite strongly, and I wasn't able to sleep very well that night.

Disaster struck that evening when I went to cook on my camping gas stove. I had packed two lighters in separate parts of my bag to ensure that I would not forget them, but somehow I had managed to unpack both of them before leaving. There were some neatly chopped onions and garlic, tins of tomato and packets of pasta ready to go and no fire to warm them up. I was reduced to trying to get sparks by hitting rocks together. My attempts at bushtuckermanning (not a real verb kids) were unsuccessful, then I had the genius idea of using my knife with a rock to make sparks.

Thirty seconds the blade of my knife had been broken in to several pieces and I was mighty pissed off. That knife had travelled around the world with me, cooked countless meals, cleaned fingernails, opened tins, impressed chicks, sliced fruit, made flutes and carved my name into trees. I had lost, then refound, it countless times. But I put it behind me and ate raw onion with sausage and bread.

The next day I rose early and struggled my way up Mulhacen, the tallest mountain in Spain. It was a struggle, and the top was covered with clouds for the length of my ascent and descent, but the feeling of height and solitude was still overwhelming.

I decided that a second night at high altitude was not very desireable, so I put in a long hike to get back to the ski resort. From their I planned to hitch a ride back down to Fred's, but as I stood beside the road with the light failing and bad weather rolling in the Spanish drivers were true to form and wouldn't give me a ride.

As it started raining I found a flat bit of grass just out of sight of the road and pitched my tent in record time. I got a great nights sleep, back down at a more sensible altitude of 2400 meters. When I emerged from my tent at sunrise the next day I was rewarded by crystal clear skies and perfect views of the Tres Miles. I started to walk down the national trail that followed the same ridge as the road, and since it was such a nice day I walked all the way back home, also avoiding any further hitch-hiking-rejection embarresment.

Is That a Sausage In Your Pocket?

If you were living in a hippy community in Australia you would expect the majority of people, particularly the women, to be vegetarians. But sit around a campfire a group of peace-loving Spanish folk and get out a chorizo (spicy spanish sausage pronounced choritho) and nobody will refuse to eat a bit, particularly the women. God bless 'em.

My Sister Isn't Gay

I was working on the top bar in the club on Sunday, gay night. A girl and boy walked up to the bar, and the boy asked in an effimanate accent
"I have to ask, are you gay?"
"I'm afraid not"
"Oh well, hmph."
He looks to the girl at his side who smiles and he says,
"Well, my sister isn't either"
She picks up the converstion
"So, where are you from?..."