Travel Photography, Writing and Photoblog from Matt Feldman

Amongst guidebooks' most frequently offered safety-conscious tips: "Avoid large crowds and gatherings." Whatever. I was touring Lisbon's Castello de Jorge the other night when the horns started. Yelling crowds, swelling in numbers, swarming the streets. Cars honking in continuous blasts. Then more cars, building to a cacophony of earsplitting proportions. Crowds swelled and the streets clogged with a sea of red shirts. People splashing around in public fountains, climbing monuments, waving flags and towels and singing songs and chants and letting loose with serious celebration.

The red team won.

In the ensuing madness, I gradually figured out that the red team is S.L. Benfica, Lisbon's football team, who only minutes before had defeated F.C. Porto and won the national championship that sparked what would be a nationwide parade that night. When The Detroit Red Wings earn so much as a tie in the playoffs, there's a celebratory bloodletting in the streets, but the people of Lisbon weren't even drinking. I've never high-fived that many total people in my life as I did in those few hours after the game. And when I thought the festivities had reached a fevered pitch, the team's tour bus entered the fray, parading up a main avenue with the players hanging out the roof and doors and inciting even more mayhem. And this isn't even the Europe 2004 international cup that begins here in Lisbon in June. Go team!

That's it for now. Send me your updates, your hate mail, your money, your itineraries if you want to come over. Just be careful where you put your wallet.

Matto Polo

Despite the theft of my wallet and the ensuing hassle that caused, Lisbon (are its residents called "Lisbians"?) was nice. Any city moves up in my rankings when it can offer me an enormous meal of a whole fish, soup, potatoes and vegetables for less than five dollars.

The wealth of dinner options notwithstanding, I moved south to the Algarve looking for sun and sand in Lagos, but found irritating North American backpackers who bring their own beer bongs for the time-tested traveler's ritual of getting through a case of brew before breakfast. But they "Loooooooove seeing Europe, dude!" despite having not ventured beyond the bars within stumbling distance of the hostel for the past two weeks.

Set amidst the narrow cobblestone streets and whitewashed walls of Lagos, the hostel is a gem. Its courtyard is perfect for lounging and plenty of clubs and restaurants are nearby. But the real attraction, golden beaches with strangely arching rock formations and warm sun, are just up the road. Three days float by.

Going east across the south of Portugal toward Spain is a bit like a return to civilization. Behold: paved roads! But in Seville I realize two important things: that I am extremely underdressed and that my Sesame-Street level of Spanish language skills are wholly insufficient. As long as the numbers stay below 8, Big Bird and I will still be on speaking terms.

It is a rocky start in a beautiful city — a non-existent pension that I spend three hours not finding, a funeral dirge and a missed connection with hostellers from Lagos. I resign myself to the bottom rung of backpacking accommodation: an expensive and dull HI hostel complex just outside of the downtown core. I'm surprised at how few people speak English and how expensive Seville is. Until I see the guidebook paragraph about how not to be surprised at how few people speak English and how expensive Seville is.

While not the city that originally spawned bullfighting (Spain's national sport), Seville is the sport's most historic and most celebrated home. For hundreds of years, in the stadium at the center of the city, each Sunday night has seen a battle of Man versus Beast. And this Sunday would be no exception. After a morning tour of the stadium, with a guide outlining the history of the sport and its celebrated venue, I queued and bought a €35 ticket for a seat 20 rows from the ring, brought my cameras and waited to compare the scene to my only prior bullfighting reference: the classic Bugs Bunny cartoon "Rabbit of Seville."

Mano Y Beefo it is not. A more appropriate name may be Progressive Torture of A Helpless Beast of Burden and Other Assorted Acts of Violence Against Animals. Even Bugs Bunny had a reasonable adversary. But at least the bullfighting is conducted by men wearing tight red pants and enough sequins to set Elton John's heart aflutter.

 

A band announces the entry of the bull, whose statistics (mainly his weight) are displayed on a board above the entryway. Earlier, the tour guide noted how before entry into the arena, the bull is caged in its holding area and poked and prodded to achieve extra agitation. With the final blast of a horn, the beast is released and thunders down the tunnel into the arena, to the collective oohs and aaahs of an anxious crowd, evaluating the bull for its degree of pissedoffedness. And then the "game" is on.

The first sequence is to tire the bull. Four peones (footmen) wave their flags and provoke a charge, but they retreat behind a wooden barrier in time to escape the oncoming horns.Mano Y Beefo it is not. A more appropriate name may be Progressive Torture of A Helpless Beast of Burden and Other Assorted Acts of Violence Against Animals. Picadors, armed with spears, enter on armored horses (yes, armored horses), their goal to stab the bull as it charges and rams the horse. Historically, the entire bullfight was conducted on horseback, a particularly gory process responsible for killing at least as many horses as bulls, but the practice has since been ended in favour of the current, mild equine beating. Banderilleros are next in the ring, with their short spears to harpoon the bull in three series of direct attacks. The end nears with the celebrated entrance of the Matador, who further tires the bleeding, panting bull before dealing it the fatal, sword-inflicted blow. Each of three Matadors gets two fights per night and at the event's conclusion, a particularly skillful Matador may be presented with a bull's ear, should his performance be exceptional and warranting reward. But well before the Matadors killed the sixth bull of the night, I was rooting for the (understandably) angry, black beast, hoping he would (at minimum) send brave El Toro for a loop. Too bad it only happened once.

I suspect I'll prefer Tomatino.

Plans coalesced on the beach in Lagos. Ready for a larger leap between cultures, I intended to cross the Strait of Gibraltar to spend about one week in Morocco. My guidebook had a seven day itinerary that sounded, like most other week-long guidebook itineraries of places I've never visited, to be a reasonable balance of perspective and breadth, considering the brief duration. Yet while I prefer to travel alone for most of my voyages, something about Morocco — in what would be my first visit to a Muslim country and vastly different from any place I had ever landed — led me to seek a travel partner.

On my last afternoon in Lagos, at the beach with several other hostellers, I met Joe. Seeing Europe after leaving his home base in Minnesota, he was another solo traveler with similar designs on Morocco. After about five minutes of conversation, we agreed to reconnect in Seville in four days for the trip to the port city of Algeciras and the ferry to Africa. I would work out the bus and boat schedules and get back to Joe. Neither of us were particularly worried about our safety in Morocco or any potential language barrier or any other tangible reason, but moreso than other destinations either of us had visited, uncertainty convinced us to team up. Meanwhile we went our separate ways as I headed east by bus.

After some internet research in Seville the following afternoon, I'd written Joe with the updated plan: in three days, we would meet at the Seville bus station for a 1 pm departure, putting us at the Algeciras ferry terminal in time for an evening boat across the Strait of Gibralter.

But days passed in Seville and there was no reply from Joe. I couldn't wait — I was ready to move on, alone if I had to. I made my way to the bus station, bought my ticket to Algeciras and walked out to the platforms. And on the bench in front of Platform 18, sitting with his backpack, Joe was reading his guidebook. He never saw my email and based on our earlier plans, came to Seville and just hoped he'd run into me.

We were headed to Africa.

I'm struck by the kind of last-minute thought that precedes a departure for a week in an unfamiliar developing nation: before boarding, we need to steal as much toilet paper as we possibly can. Three hours under a grey and rainy sky brought us here to Algeciras, where the only reason to visit seems to be to leave. A major transport hub, huge ships move massive amounts of cargo and people between Europe and Africa, separated by only 13km at the narrowest point.

Tickets in hand, we wait in the ferry terminal lounge overlooking the port and stare at the flow of traffic. Forklifts, trucks and cranes shuttle cargo containers between ships, trains and even more trucks. Watching the multicoloured swarm on the pavement below, I'm struck by the kind of last-minute thought that precedes a departure for a week in an unfamiliar developing nation: before boarding the ship, we need to steal as much toilet paper as we possibly can.