More on a Summer in Spain

The Alcazar, Sevilla.

I now truly know what it feels like to fall in love at first sight. The Alcazar is one of the oldest palaces in Spain and it is wonderful.
    Nothing, no part nor function has disintegrated with time. The natural spring fountains still gurgle with water, the mosaics still liven the place with colour and a cool convection of air. Big windows overlook the beautiful gardens, cascading water and bird song meditate a feeling of utter tranquillity as you float around this intricate maze of a palace. All the buildings are decorated with incredibly delicate Arabic decor and painted in deep reds, oranges, golds and terracotta. Again, it’s hot. The kind of heat that is truly impossible to describe because, well, I can’t find the words to do the power and strength of sun justice. My mind can’t connect to the pen.  It feels like my blood is slowly congealing and I am slowly, ever so slowly, turning into a statue unable to move at all.

Ronda

I’ve just arrived in Ronda and the first word that comes to mind to explain this place is “underwhelming”. I say that for two reasons: I have no plan whatsoever, I was just hoping to arrive and have a historic route laid out in front of me but alas, getting off at the bus station held no indication or sign of where to go or what direction to head in. Secondly, I was expecting an ancient, picturesque and ornate little city on the top of a mountain. Instead, the old ancient city has been swallowed up by a modern metropolis. Swallowed up, reconstructed in concrete and regurgitated- meaning that you only come across historic gems by chance and by surprise. But hey, I’ve only been here for thirty minutes. Perhaps with more exploration and with the city rousing from it Sunday slumber, I will change my mind.

      As I had hoped, Ronda is truly spectacular. The Plaza De Toros is historically stunning with its beautiful Arabic red stone, its hidden passages and its catholic ideology adorning every curve. As the pamphlets boast, the bullring is recognised as the first purpose-built space for fighting bulls in the world and also one of the most picturesque. The Churches are impressionably stunning. Wealthy, and not afraid of a little ostentatious display, the buildings are draped in gold and silver furnishings and the sheer size of the structure and icons are enough to dwarf anything by comparison. But the most impressive of the lot is El Tajo (the bridge adjoining two cities either side of the gorge). The pure magnitude of the arches under the bridge, which scale at least 200ft, is just unequivocal. The art in the ironwork of the barriers and the seating places display breathtaking workmanship.

     I love that all the buildings in this pueblo are reminiscent of the colonial times, just like those in major cities of South America. They are brightly coloured and have exquisitely crafted wooden shutters on the windows, as well as  ornately moulded iron bars cradling the composition.

Granada

     This is Dante’s paradise.  A different legend etched into every stone of this monumental Arabic fortress. Mystical waterfalls burst through every wall, over trees and over paths worn out over the years which provides the visitor with a tantalisingly tranquil soundtrack to the day.
    The long and drawn out battles of 1492 echo from every room of this place- the celebratory cries of the triumphant Catholic Kings and the sorrowful woes of the surrendering Moors.

    “Impressionante.” Really, the only word I can possibly think of right now is impressive- in every sense of the word. The colours and smells of the flowers, the citron scent spiralling from the orange trees roasting in the sun, the impeccable attention to detail in the sculpture work, the symphony of cascading water that accompanies your every move within the city’s walls. The water tumbles through trenches made in the banisters, cascades from beautiful fountains and surges through the trenches in the ground that network through the palace and its grounds. Ready for you to scoop up whenever and freshen yourself from the blistering 40 degree heat. It’s incredible. Outstanding and impressionable.

     I’m literally sat here under a tree, on a beautifully aged oak bench, protected from the sun somewhat by the shade of an orange tree. I’m cooling myself further by dangling my feet into the flowing river that cuts through the walkway. Serenity fulfilling a manmade definition.

     I’m now in a courtyard of the Palacio de Navarros. The walls are painted a deep, blood orange. The arches cutting through the walls are defined by an Arabic flair. Lining the quadrant are mature orange trees groaning heavily with ripe fruit. The centrepiece is a simple fountain which, again, sets the tranquil melody of the day’s compilation disc as the echoes of the falling water rebound against the stone walls.      
    Diamond shaped shrubs encompass beautiful lilac flowers and to finish off, the eucalyptus trees set the scent of the moment. It is so hot that you can taste the simmering air. Eucalyptus mixed with citron slows the blood pressure as you stroll ever more slowly through this beautiful haven. 

Romanticising a Summer in Spain!

Sevilla

LOVE IT! People dancing and singing in the streets; clapping away to the rapid and ornate rhythms of the Spanish guitar. It’s simple. Clap fast, strum fast, move fast, think fast, twirl fast and wiggle your bum like it’s infested with ants. All the music is heavily influenced by the Arabic infused gypsy flair. It sings a very strong rhythm that you just can’t ignore. Your hips move without permission, your arms spring up into the air as if responding to a sergeants order. It’s hot. It’s insufferably hot. You lose all focus, you lose all control over stance and movement- you simply float aimlessly through this gypsy dream which hurries past you alive in colour and rhythm.
    I think I’m sweating from every pore possible. I don’t even know any more. All I’m wary of is that I feel I’ve been locked in a sauna and am rapidly proving the theory of osmosis.

The floor burns, the water of the river literally bubbles from the heat. There’s simply no escape, but you kind of accept that and throw yourself fully into the flames. The rhythm of the music carries you, like a feather over turbulent water kick-starting you back to life every time the chorus starts.

I love how summer nights really are a family investment. By family I don’t just mean in the traditional sense of the blood-family unit but also the society and people of the town as a whole. Everyone contributes, everyone participates and nobody stops. The suffocation of the sun’s heat goes to bed and everyone comes out of hiding to celebrate. They exploit the night and all it’s cool glory. The wind escapes from its captivity and clears all the cobwebs collected through the day. Summer is when it all happens. I can’t imagine what life is like in the winter when apparently the city hibernates. I imagine a ghost town haunted and taunted by the echoes of a vivacious and musical summer.

It slightly reminds me of Peru. The Semana Santa celebrations- the streets lined with food and beer stalls, the streets lively with kids playing and people dancing and warbling. But, there are yummy and cheap mojitos and there’s a kind of seriousness to the way in which people sing and dance here. Everyone joins in but at the climactic point of the song, the accompaniment stops and leaves the sound of guitar resonating in the echoey silence. The people stop, hush to a silence and clear the space for the obvious professional. In this particular instance, it’s an old dude from the bar. He wears Ray Ban sunglasses, black polo shirt and khaki shorts. He looks up slowly with torero grace, grins and then...his hands burst into action, quickly following by his feet, his bum and then his warbling voice. Everyone respects him. Nobody smirks. Nobody giggles. Nobody exchanges awkward glances. They appreciate him, they respect him, they idolise him- the maestro. For that moment, with the twiddle of the guitar, it’s all about him and what he can do. He communicates with everybody there as his grace sweeps the dance floor and catches everyone’s attention. 
     I love how people can define a moment and time and yet have no idea that you even exist. I will never forget that moment and, in that small way, that old man will live forever in a stranger’s memory. Freaky? A little bit. Should he be afraid? Probably. Maybe a little flattered? Probably not..just scared.

   One added extra that may ascertain any ideas that I’m crazy- the legendary lady in the fringe gold dress. She fluttered into my life for all of forty seconds but, I love her! She walked past the restaurant singing gypsy music, walking like a flamenco and artistically fluttering her fan. She wasn’t doing it for show, simply because she felt like it. Legend. 

Trapped inside a Peruvian prison cell...

Have you ever really considered how different circumstances and different social situations awaken different sides of your personality? Every day we immerse ourselves amongst society’s norm, we wear multiple masks that define us for that given moment in time. Our thoughts, our actions, our words, our movements: we allow ourselves to conform to whatever the given social group expects from us.. whether it be the leader mask, the courageous mask, the studious mask, the parental mask, the child-like mask... the list goes on.

I have had to recount this story a billion times since returning home. It’s become a source of gossip. It’s gained an air of hype and hysteria, a platform from which the story twists and turns every time it is recounted. Everyone comes up with their own version of events to fit their own fantasy. I just want to say this from the start- it isn’t a myth, it isn’t a fantastical story. This is the living reality of millions of women and men today. The lessons I learned will hopefully stay with me and guide me through the various and inevitable tributaries of life. I cried a lot. I learned a lot. I learnt about the varying considerations of what is and isn’t socially acceptable in different cultures, about how different people react to and live in a small and confined space, about how different personalities react to unfortunate circumstance, how universal comedy tastes are, how different people react to and establish authority within social groups. Most importantly I think, I realised how resilient human nature is to disaster.

It will probably shock most people to know that in Ayacucho prison alone, there were 5 other white women: two Americans, one Belgian and two Australians. When white people get caught up in foreign legal affairs, like the fictional character Bridget Jones for example, quite often it gets documented enough to propel the story onto a world stage. But more often, it doesn’t. If that person has no-one that would recognise their absence, there’s nothing that person can do to negate his/her sentence.

The men wolf-whistle every time you walk past. They grab, they spit, they lick, they masturbate... vile is the only way I can think to describe them. But the women and the men’s prisons are interlinked so that when a woman needs to see a lawyer or a visitor or the social worker or make her way to the kitchens- she must face walking through that animal cage, one of which she is prisoner, on show to be taken advantage of by the audience.

The 8x8ft rooms consist of two bunk-beds, precariously balanced one on top of the other. There are stained sheets hanging down for you to pull across for your own privacy. Other than that, there is a 1x1ft hole in the middle of the room (or the “casita” as the children call it) into which one can defecate. Gates lock at 19:00hrs, lights out at 21:00. If you’re lucky or rich, one is fortunate enough to have a window to the cell, which allows natural light and oxygen to air out the dark, damp and dank room. This is the delightful home of some 750 Peruvian women for the next 25 years of their lives. The rooms encompass a large outdoor quad area where the women can gossip, scheme, work, exercise, play with their children, cook and play games.

They need to look at why these women are in prison; what the core root of the problem is. If my investigation results are right (and I am by no means claiming that they are, but there are no records to certify the exact cause for all women’s sentencing) more than ninety percent of the women inside Ayacucho Prison were there for drug smuggling crimes. I interviewed many of these women, asking the simple, but loaded, question- “Why?” Why smuggle drugs when they know the repercussions are so severe, if caught. The question was always met by the same amused and slightly condescending smiles: “Because already we were prisoners of poverty. We had nothing to lose. At least here we have a roof over our heads and a bed to sleep in at night.”

Nice and light.

Peace out. Hasta luego. Ciao. In a bit

Harriet xx

Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending

I grew up around the world, meaning that my personality and beliefs are influenced by a variety of different societies and cultures from around the world. I have travelled independently and I have studied and worked in the UK, NL, Spain, Peru and Lesotho. I'm now an adult. I define adulthood as being capable of controlling situations, being able to get out of sticky situations and being able to create and do whatever it is you want to do. It's taken me a while to master all points of being an adult: I've been to prison, trekked the Himalayas, couch surfed around Europe, scaled the Andes, studied for 20 years, skydived, swum with turtles, cycled the South of Spain and peed next to a rattle snake in the Rockies. I'm 24 and I've ended up working in Lesotho, Southern Africa, working to mitigate the effects of HIV/AIDS and TB in OVCs.

SO..what's to be expected from my blog? What's the point in it all? I'm going to use it as a way to reminisce on my travels around the world.

I'll try to keep it as unpretentious as possible but keep it interesting and concise.

Peace out everyone. Hasta pronto. Ciao. In a bit

Harriet x