Andalucid

Andalucid Lite(r)

No solid food, no booze, no caffeine.  No TV.  No makeup.  I didn't even brush my hair once.  I just got back from a week's yoga detox retreat at lovely Kaliyoga near Orgiva, and I can't remember the last time I was so happy.

That's not to say it wasn't challenging.  Last time I was at Kaliyoga, in 2005, I did the yummy yoga retreat for people who eat - three delicious, healthy, colourful Al-Andalus meals to look forward to every day. Then, anticipation helped me flow through morning and evening yoga like a young gazelle.

But last week, mealtimes were more like the Japanese shock-TV series 'Endurance'. 

First there was a glass of gluey glop, fibre and suchlike, into which we mixed a few drops of cider vinegar in a vain attempt to make it edible. I can't really talk about it yet. Next, a cup of barley grass water, which looks and tastes like it sounds. The third course, a delightful linseed smoothie made from....linseed.  Our reward was a freshly pulverized fruit and veg juice, a different blend every meal, dancing with garlic, ginger, bright green and citrus flavours.   

In the evening, we gathered around the big table on the terrace for our vegetable gruel, literally the stock from a big vat of cooked organic veg.  With a sprinkle of paprika, a squeeze of lemon and dollops of olive oil, it was a feast.  Still, I think I was the first of the group to break - by the third day I was hallucinating, identifying exciting wisps of escaped vegetable in my soup bowl. On the last afternoon, we were served a salad with alfalfa sprouts, freshly picked organic leaves, carrots and lots else - it was like tasting everything for the first time in my life.

In between meal ordeals, we cleansed our colons, had morning coffee (enemas), and sessions with various therapists - a homeopath, a nutritionist, a kinesiologist, acupuncturist and others. The schedule is cleverly designed so that you are always just on your way to or from an appointment, massage or yoga, like a White Rabbit in sports gear.  I know I didn't have time for any cravings.  In fact I was relieved to be in a food-free zone, not having to make the closely reasoned choices that usually lead me, with flawless logic, to the bag of Maltesers or Doritos.

What I loved about Kaliyoga was the laid-back, houseparty feeling, the lovely staff and most of all, Rosie and Jonathon Miles, who put so much time and behind-the-scenes effort into creating a relaxed atmosphere where I could sit and chat, read, write, sleep, do yoga and just reflect on my life. 

Rosie and Jonathon, who run the detox weeks in spring and autumn, say the process is life-changing.  I have to agree:  I lost 8lbs and kicked caffeine, wheat, sugar - most things really - all in one go.  A week later, I've managed to stay off the junk food, eating more green leaves than ten White Rabbits.  This is mostly thanks to Fred, who devised a weightless, wheatless, meatless menu that kept me on the path of rightjuiceness until normal eating could be resumed.

I think there are still a couple of spaces left on the next yoga detox retreat, which runs from 11th to 18th of May, so check out the Kaliyoga website and come on down!

Asilah II - A Grand Taxi Ride

Half an hour of walking on this sunny afternoon has taken us right through the concentric rings of wealth distribution in Asilah.  From the hundred heavenly blues of its chic Medina, out through the tourist and commercial town with its pavement cafés and leather shops, to this half-built, half-demolished street on the outskirts. 

Here the shop floor is just that, DVDs and household items laid out on sheets in the dust.  Across the road, drooping vegetables and herbs are piled high on flimsy trestles.  Set back in a dirt courtyard, a display of bathroom taps branches from a set of red wooden stools.  Not much window-shopping as we wait for our taxi to arrive.

Whose idea was it to visit the villages outside Asilah?  Nigel and Zoe's, I guess; they are the property-hunting friends who have kindly brought us with them to this Atlantic coastal town just south of Tangiers.  But a clever person uses your ideas to promote theirs, and Tessa's idea is that Zoe has no more business buying here than Dot from East Enders.  Showing Zoe a 'real' village may help her see this too. But like the canny estate agent she is, Tessa keeps a serene smile between her idea and the clients´.  And even the arrival of the taxi doesn't wipe it off.

The 'country taxi' is the zombie cousin of Morocco's typical 'grand taxis', usually a wallowy old Merc or Peugeot that swallows up to six passengers at a time. Country taxis are the older ones willing to bump along the unmade village tracks, having I suppose very little left to lose. 

Suspending disbelief, we all clamber in.  Nigel is in front with Choaki, Tessa's Moroccan business partner.  Silent, one eye slightly askew, Choaki is a reincarnated tomb guardian in a woolly cap, straight out of central casting.

The car lurches away from the kerb, but Fred still has most of his body and his camera outside.  A shouted chorus of 'stop!' allows us just enough time to gather him in.  A moment later, we stop again for petrol, which the driver cannot buy until we have paid him the agreed €24.  We're not sure if we have bought the car or the ride.  Zoe muses on the strong possibility of a breakdown (the car's I think).  "Control yourself," Tessa tells her, "you're hysterical."  Sinking down in the seat between them, I bark my shin on the exposed plastic molding of the passenger seat.

As we turn off the asphalt road and head for the village, the car comes to a sighing halt. Sweat trickles down the driver's face, more eloquent than tears.  We all clamber out and start walking.  The ochre dirt track is knotted like a labourer's arm.  Chickens start in all directions as we approach. 

Several houses are set in bare earth yards, some painted, others mud raised out of mud, with corrugated metal roofs slipping over them like skewed tablecloths.  One yard is home to a family of goats and kids the size of springer spaniels.  From the pistachio-green-and-cream minaret, with its megaphones where church bells would be, you can surely see the sea.

Back to the taxi, now pointing downhill along the track.  The driver disappears under the car to remove the rock which is holding it in place.  I notice that Choaki is holding the brake pedal down until the driver can get in and take over.  When he does, we move off and start coasting down the track, too fast.  Can you get him to go slower - Choaki, Chalky, Chucky?  It doesn't matter what we think he's called, he answers to nothing. Zoe's tired voice breaks the silence:  "Nigel, take control."  Slow down, shouts Nigel, slapping the dash for emphasis.  The engine starts.

At the junction with the main road, Zoe says she wants to go back to Asilah.  The driver turns and heads in the opposite direction.  Zoe insists.  We all insist.  Tessa says a few words in Arabic.  The driver stops in the middle of the road and starts a long snaking reverse towards a deepish ditch.  A thick shiny line of oil marks our path - a rock must have holed the sump.

It's the last straw. We all get out.  Nigel walks up to the driver and demands his money back, his voice as tight as a fist. We start walking back to town, five kilometres distant.  Moments later, the driver passes us in the taxi, waving.  Moments after that, we pass the driver, who has now abandoned the taxi and is also walking back to town.  After half an hour, Nigel flags down a small 4x4. All four of us get in, literally on top of each other, and are driven back to the centre of Asilah.  The driver won't accept a single dirham, hand on heart, he was delighted to help.

We drop into wicker seats at the corner bar and order cold beers.  The story gets funnier with each retelling.  I keep seeing the driver, his dream of a day's pay trickling away, beads of sweat running into the frayed collar of his blue shirt.  He never looked at us once.

For more images of Asilah, click on Fred's Flickr site.  And if you want to see any of the photos here in more detail, click on the image to enlarge it.  There's another post about Asilah after this one - with some of the more charming things we discovered. 

Asilah I - Into the Blue

Last week we went with friends to Asilah, about 40 minutes south of Tangiers, on Morocco's Atlantic coast.  Here are a few images of the nice bits.  For more, just click on Fred's well-stocked Flickr site.  And to enlarge any of these shots, just click on the image.

Once part of the Portuguese empire, Asilah languished as a small fishing port until 1978, when two local people started an annual International Arts Festival that now attracts thousands of participants and visitors from all over the Muslim world. 

Adventurous homebuyers from Britain, France and Spain are also being drawn (or is it painted?) to Asilah's chic medina.

Turquoise, forget-me-not, bluebell, sky.  Sapphire, cerulean, lapis lazuli...and a hundred others.  Asilah's Medina homes revel in more blues than there are names for.

The hypnotic colours beckon you around each corner, down narrow alleyways and into tiny squares.

Through the Bab El Kasaba, one of the town's main gates, is the Centre Hassan II des Rencontres Internationales, the venue at the heart of the  Arts Festival held each August.  Last week, roses in every shade and scent of pink were blooming in this courtyard.

Enterprises a thousand centuries apart might well be neighbours in the Medina. This communal bread oven is not far from the shop of a young Moroccan designer, whose swirling cotton and linen skirts, tops and trousers are caught up with elaborate fastenings surely invented by a clever spider.

This traditional large corner house in the Medina felt like a semi-detached Sultan's palace, with several rooms set around its tiled inner courtyard.  The charming young woman who owns this enchanted place wants to sell it so that she can leave Asilah and marry her beloved...

Asilah is well worth visiting, a relatively short journey for a long weekend in a very different culture.  And you can read about one of our cultural excursions in the next post!

Family and friends descend on Lanjarón

Sleepy little Lanjaron played host to an historic visit this Easter weekend. My triplet brother Vartan, his long-suffering partner Jackie, and our old, old friend Carlos, who with us has been laughing at my brother's antics for decades, came to 'do' Granada and the Alpujarras. 

My (other triplet) sister Sosi has been a homeowner here, and having visited so often, she now attracts as much attention as an air-cured jamon leg at Arca de Noe.  But Vart, once heard to sum up Our Town as "two old men and a donkey," my prodigal brother Vart merits a blog.

Carlos survived three nights at tourist tomb Hotel Central, where old men with faded eyes and flat caps play savage games of dominoes at little tables in full view of the street.  Vart and Jackie stayed at the sybaritic Hotel Alcadima, which makes up in comfort anything it might lack in local character. 

For Granada read Alhambra.  I have steadily resisted visiting this over-hyped site since we first got here, but as it was Jackie's birthday, we all dutifully turned tourist.  The Generalife Gardens were lovely, though even they were planted thick with tourists.  But the Alhambra was all I had expected, and even less. 

Oh I shouldn't moan.  After all, I did discover a new word:  "the arch built across the upper angles of a square room to support a dome or cupola is...a SQUINCH."  Don't you love this word?  Doesn't everyone have a Squinch in their lives?  Anyway,  I earnestly followed the guide book around, staring at ceilings, tiles, gilding and such, only to trip over toddlers on plastic quad bikes, people sending text messages, necking couples, and stony-faced wardens.  In the famous Patio de Los Leones, the Leones were away at a day spa getting groomed, replaced by a large Formica and glass box so that you could see what wasn't there.  The Alhambra is other people.  The picture shows our visitors reviving over mint tea at the Alhambra Palace Hotel. (From left to right, Carlos, Vart, Jackie).

Actually, all our visitors were charmed with Lanjarón.  Vart loved the markets, the price of prawns, barbecuing on our rooftop and ordering café con leche in every café in town.  Jackie enjoyed 'silly shopping' for the Lanjaron look - it's loud and proud and must not contain any natural fibres.  Both of them enjoyed visiting Pampaneira, once they got over vertigo and car-sickness.  And we just spent a lot of time laughing at each other, but mostly at Vart, because he is funny.  See him below with four other donkeys....

On our way to Malaga Airport to dump them - sorry, I mean drop them off, we stopped off at Nerja Donkey Sanctuary just outside the town, which Jackie said was the real highlight of her trip. You are given a bucket, a donkey goodie bag of shredded lettuce, chopped carrot and carobs.  And you just go around doing a meet and let eat, getting to know each donkey's story - often very sad, but it's lovely to see them in clover now.  You can take dog chews to the rescue dogs, too.  There are even two turkeys, Christmas Day and Boxing Day.  They like bread sauce.  Only kidding.

This time when I overheard my brother talking about his stay, he was plotting how he and Jackie could come back and housesit for us in the summer. Get over here, guys!

A Tale of Two Markets

We've been living in Spain for four and a half years, and I last visited Madrid eight years ago.  Somehow it's always been too hot, or too cold to go; we are too busy or too broke.  But recently time and temperatures, money and motive all happily coinciding, we decided to spend a weekend there. 

Motivation came from Fred having a few of his photos included in a showcase collection sponsored by the Junta de Andalucia. Cipriana Soto Toro, who sells Fred's photography at Galeria Toro in Granada, asked if we wanted to meet up with her there. It seemed like fun-with-a-purpose, so we said yes.

Meanwhile, friends David and Shujata Dry of Los Piedaos had just returned from Madrid.  They raved about the comfort, convenience and economy of leaving the car behind and taking the coach.  We checked out the Alsa site and were sold.  It was easy to book online and get e-tickets straight away.  And €28 for each return ticket was less than the price of one petrol fill-up.  The whole trip, from parking our car right outside the Granada bus terminal, to being dropped outside our hotel in very central Calle Arenal, took about six hours.  Six hours with loads of legroom.  Six hours to read, talk, look at the views.  And instead of arriving exhausted after an extended battle with Spanish motorways and non-existent parking, we were ready to go out and explore.

Saturday morning, we took the clean and efficient Metro to the Arco fair.  The queues were longer than at Disneyworld, but the fascinating mix of punters more entertaining than Mickey.  Ahead of us in the queue, a well-dressed couple handed their nice-looking teenage son his wallet.  On it in big yellow letters, the words 'Fuck You'.  (English logos and legends on Spanish outerwear is a whole other blog I must do soon).  Once in, there was plenty to gawp at as well as walk past.  We were particularly struck with 'Big Ping-Pong' by Li Song Song, sculpted in stainless steel. It certainly raised some important questions, chiefly, 'why'?' After six hours feeding our eyes and on our feet, we literally could not stand any more, and beat it back to our hotel.

Next morning, we set off for the famous Madrid Rastro, or street market.  I was anticipating a delightful stroll through long avenues of antiquey charm, keepsakes, old photos, vintage clothes.  What we got was the usual sad selection available in any Spanish town: belly dancing ensembles in dayglo colours trimmed with dull coins; a row of deerstalker hats on blind-faced dummies, lined up like traitors on Tower Bridge;  acrylic blankets printed with bikini-clad blondes beckoning you to Tahitian seascapes, all done in sludge browns and mustards. 

There was art for sale here too.  Lionesses stalking their prey, leopards draped across tree limbs against impossible sunsets, soft-focus Gardens of Eden set in a parallel world.  All viewed by a constant stream of people, shabby, tired, unshaven and unwashed in the cold grey light.  The most fun we had was playing 'Spot the Pickpocket'.

The best surprise of the day was Cerveceria Alemana, in Plaza Santa Ana  (Metro Sol/Sevilla).  With its wood panelling, plain furniture and worn floors, it can't have changed much since Hemingway was ordering his tapas there.  We got a seat right at the back, the better to see the whole noisy, happy, full house in action.  Even the light coming through the windows was sepia, tea-dipped. Afterwards, you only have to weave across the square to equally antique Cafe Suiza for coffee and cake.

  After we got back to Granada, we agreed that we hadn't seen anything like enough of Madrid.  We'll go back, to stroll through the Retiro Park and visit galleries. And when we do, we'll take the bus.

Small town, simple pleasures

Welcome to Lanjarón, our quaint spa town in the beautiful Alpujarras......

In spite of the increasing obstacles to commercial and social life, the ancient instinct of the hunter-gatherer continues to assert itself.  Stationed behind a completely useless bright yellow barrier earlier this week, I watched local people picking their way through the post-apocalyptic scene unfolding in  Lanjaron's 'high street' - Calle Real.

Abuelas and abuelos on wobbly pins and sturdy canes; young mums with teetering pushchairs, pulling toddlers out of the path of reversing diggers; delivery trucks ploughing like Columbus' galleons through choppy seas of builders´rubble.  There's never a dull moment, and the whole show is something of a  tourist attraction in its own right.

New pipes and cables are being laid, hence the excavations.  But we'd just got used to threading the little mountains of assorted builder dusts (I am defiantly ignorant about building materials) when a new twist was introduced: last week they took away the pavement.  Now we're all weaving around the builders, their rubber-footed robots, and each other in an increasingly elaborate Lanjarón shuffle.  It's basically a rapid sidestep ending in a short leap towards the nearest shop doorway.

But don't let all this talk of roadworks kerb your enthusiasm for a Saturday morning of simple pleasures in our pueblo.  Recently, Fred and I have started a new weekend custom. We choose an interesting recipe, something a little more complicated than we would do during the week.  We walk up to the 'new' covered market (head up the street opposite the church, past Carmen's fruteria and Antonio's pollo asador, and take the next left.  Head up the stairs to the market).

At the butcher's, we might choose some plump solomillo de cerdo (pork tenderloin) to sauté with an oloroso sherry sauce, (here's a similar recipe on YouTube) or chuletas de cerdo (pork chops) also sauteed, this time with a Catalan prune and cinnamon sauce.  You can see this recipe in The Foods and Wines of Spain by Penelope Casas. 

If we're feeling in need of an Omega-3 boost, we visit the fish stall (run by the Callejon family who also run the very good Los Mariscos seafood restaurant near the Hotel Miramar).  Hake, flounder, shark, prawns, mussels - everything appears to have been polished, and it's all so fresh that there is no fishy fragrance force field as you approach, only the faintest hint of the sea. 

Actually, the old 'Central' market further up the road towards Barrio Hondillo also has a great fish stall presided over by Enrique. (He used to be behind the bar at Los Faroles restaurant).  A couple of weeks ago, we went in search of flounder for Lenguado al Limon, a dish with lemon, ginger and mustard sauce (also in the Casas book).  Enrique didn't have flounder, but suggested pargo, or red snapper. 3 big pieces of fish for €6, and it worked brilliantly with the recipe. 

After all the excitement of shopping, time to stop at Cafe Melilla.  (Come down the steps from the market, it's a small doorway on your right as you head towards Coviran supermarket).  It's been the neighbourhood churreria for more than 20 years, cheerful, loud, authentically local.  Get there before 11.30 when there is a stampede of shoppers from the market. You can order fresh orange juice, get wired on the strongest coffee in town, and soothe your nerves with a media racion of deep fried churros.

Then you can stroll home by way of Carmen's jewel-box greengrocery, pick up some knobbly sweet potatoes, emerald kale, delicate bright orange carrots to go with your protein. 

That's it.  You stroll home, greeting friends on the way. You've spent about €15 on buying dinner and having a great morning, and as you pick your way through the madness of Lanjaron's main street, suddenly it doesn't seem so bad.  The age-old instinct has kicked in, with Nature making sure you forget the pain. 

    

Don Quixotel

Chalkie was a troubled teenager who turned up at the gate one day. He'd been disciplined with knuckle-dusters once too often.  Derek is a little guy with a penchant for punch-ups after suffering many beatings from his previous owners.  Flash was an unwitting gofer in a drug-running operation.  And Woody was an overburdened fairground donkey whose legs gave way under the weight of too many merrymakers. 

They're just four of the 15 donkeys currently in rehab at the Nerja Donkey Sanctuary. just a few minutes drive from the famous Caves.  The Sanctuary is run by the extraordinary efforts of MD Jim Horne and a dedicated team of volunteers --angels in mud-spattered teeshirts.  It's kept open by the tender hearts and open hands of Nerja locals and holidaymakers, and coastal magazines including SolTalk, which regularly publishes advertorials for the Sanctuary free of charge.

The Sanctuary has rescued more than 6,000 distressed donkeys and mules, horses and ponies over the past 12 years and opened its Nerja centre four years ago to try and help even more.  Predictably, they have since then been inundated with fluffy, feathered and furry castaways.  As a result, the Sanctuary is also currently home to 15 dogs, a dozen cats, three pigs, two turkeys and 14 chickens, who all arrived wearing false hooves and tossing non-existent manes to get past the gate. 

That last bit isn't true, but what is true is that mending all these broken hearts and bodies costs the Sanctuary between €5000 and €6000 every month.  "We dread seeing black rubbish bags thrown over the gate," says Jim Horne, "because they will inevitably contain dogs or cats, kittens or puppies."

The good news is that they are making a visible difference in the Nerja region, especially with their outreach project.  When they started it just two years ago, they were bringing medication and care to around 250 animals.  "You'd see animals tethered with wire which cut into their legs," says Jim. Today, their dedication means that only 20 animals within a 50km radius of Nerja need that kind of care.  That's a whole lot of happier animals, and another bill of around €3000 a month.   

Anyway, Fred and I are sponsoring two donkeys.  Petra is a feisty young woman who keeps the boys in line with some well-placed kicks.  And Woody is the little fairground donkey who will now flirt for carrots. It costs €25 to adopt a donkey for a year.  And you can go visit them anytime!

The Nerja Donkey Sanctuary isn't the only establishment helping the hoofed.  Nose through this beautifully written article on the SearchIberia website, and find out about Pascual Rovira García and his life work, ADEBO (Associación para la Defensa del Borrico) in the small village of Rute, in Andalucia.

I hope you'll all gallop to your screens and help these chivalric individuals in their bighearted quest to bring comfort to donkeys and other animals in distress.  

      

La Joya-ful New Year

Coming back to Lanjarón to find all the big hotels boarded up for winter was depressing.  I'd gotten quite used to paying around €15 for two coffees and a cookie in London and at least all the cafés stay open all year. But the day after we got back, Fred and I walked into town under a triple-rinsed blue sky.  In the market we bought monkfish and clams from Juani to make a great Moro casserole.  We stopped off for the most powerful cafe con léche in town at nearby churreria Café Melilla.  At Carmen's Fruteria, we used root vegetables to beat our way through the shopping-bags-on-wheels brigade.  Then we lugged our bags back past the knitting shop, past Sebastian's fascinating, overstuffed hardware store, past the pastry shop with its Miss Havisham window display of cakes that have become old friends over the past four years.  Suddenly I realised I was happy to be back...

"Feel free to overdress," said the New Year's Eve party invitation from the L.O.S.T. in Spain team (Lindsay, Orla, Sheila, Tony), and almost everyone did.  Even Fred, the Howard Hughes of Calle Huelva, donned a suit and waistcoat and got in the mood.  He looked impressive, though the giant vat of prawn and pasta salad he was carrying to the party spoiled some of the effect.  I felt cold and croaky, so I compromised by dressing up my top half with anything glittery that came to hand, but wearing big boots under my skirt. You can do that sort of thing in Lanjarón.

When we got to La Joya, even the gardens were wearing evening gowns of coloured light.  In the winter-proofed Corral, vaguely familiar men and women stood around outshining the Christmas tree.  All the women suddenly had Shiny Hair - gleaming bobs and shoulder length layers of silk that made them all look like U.S. senators' wives.  And underneath the hairdos were Shoulders, more bare shoulders than in the whole of The Gladiator, but prettier.  All the men looked like James Bond.  Who would have imagined that black tie outfits lurked in so many expat wardrobes?  

Lanjaron chic tends towards fleecy things and jeans in winter, teeshirts and shorts all summer, the kind of clothes you can mix cement in.   Now here was Jan in scarlet silk , Lindsay in black velvet with a sweetheart neckline, Sheelagh in slinky navy jersey with a cutout back, Hildy elegant as a gold-topped cane in black wool and silk. Best of all, Lindsay's mum Agnes in a black velvet suit with cream silk ruffles.  When we were singing Auld Lang Syne, she seized Bernie's arm and flung him around in what I took to be a Highland Reel.  She is a tiny, 88-year old powerhouse, and Bernie must have realised he was powerless to resist.

Two woodstoves radiated almost as much warmth as the hosts.  Everyone bought their signature party dish and after a couple of drinks, my plateful of curry, nudging prawn-pasta salad and coronation chicken, with a slice of goat's cheese and onion tart and some highly-populated rice on a bed of tiramisu seemed just perfect. Glasses were refilled and plates whisked away as if by unseen hands, (I did drink quite a lot), and suddenly 2007 was over.

At midnight, I gobbled up my twelve grapes as Spanish tradition dictates, though I could never time the mastication to match each stroke of the booming clock.  As a result, it seems I will be rich for five months of the year, then have to busk in the streets of Orgiva for the next seven.  But warmth and plenty and friends and laughter are not a bad way to start 2008, and the party underlined what a great community we have here in Lanjarón, both Spanish and English.  Lindsay and Orla, Sheila and Tony, take a bow.  You help make this a great place to be. 

Fred and I want to wish all Andalucid readers a peaceful, prosperous 2008, wherever you are.  Maybe we'll see you in Lanjarón next Spring?

All the best, Arpi