Cordoba, Southern Spain

With every day we come closer to Africa, Cordoba shrinking behind and an unknown continent looming ahead. To be on the road again feels uncomfortable, calmly moving towns, swapping hotel rooms and generally moving on like a couple of spies. Now we are on our final train, olive plantations passing on the left and freshly plowed fields on the right. A small-whitewashed farmhouse offers visual relief from a stark environment and a hovering bird of prey makes me smile as the sun glints off its dark feathers.

I was watching Motorcycle diaries on my way to Granada and a line of Che’s struck me, “ Por esa vagar sin rumbo por nuestra mayuscula America me ha cambiado mas que queria. Yo ya no soy yo. Por lo menos, no soy el mismo yo interior.” Loosely translated by Steve it reads “But this journey lacking a fixed course through the greater America has changed me more than I intended. I am no longer I. At least I am not the same I on the inside.”

As we continue our journey down through Spain, the more I can relate to the statement you just read. Those who fret about my political stability shouldn’t worry; it is not likely that I will become a communist revolutionary any time soon, at least until I can grow a beard.
I am changing though; my ideas altering from the months spent studying with a fervent idealist like Steve. I am becoming more readily eloquent, able to express ideas in words that used to be confined solely to paper. Combine this skill with something new to say and I feel unstoppable as I turn my attention to things currently bothering me. The major vent for my scorn has been the Christian eradication of Islamic thought in Spain and the negative affect it produced.

We just seen the second of the three Islamic wonders of Spain and like the first it has been converted religiously. Standing in the many-pillared hall of the Mezquita mosque in Cordoba I felt awed at the simple continuation of the whole structure, red and white topped pillars extending like a forest of poplars in every direction. Later, walking into its center I found a church, an edifice of pink marble and candles that was at odds with the surrounding structure and that had obviously been transplanted there.

Why this massive plagiarism, building a church inside a mosque and thereby taking claim to something that is not theirs? The Islamic court in Spain welcomed people of any faith and Christians, Jews and Muslims studied side by side to achieve higher learning. The fact that this, one of histories most tolerant institutions were replaced by an Christian inquisition that would inspire fear from all of Europe for hundreds of years is purely shocking and something for anyone who reads this to think about. I am not saying that you, the reader should change your core beliefs and I am certainly not Muslim, but please do not infringe upon others, however foreign and threatening they may seem.

Cap De Creus, North East Spain

Running feet pausing briefly upon the dirt, taking off again, hurried like worried grouse fleeing death in a far away land. A shoe lands in a miniscule cloud of dust, the earth lifting skywards only to submit to harsh gravity and come down again in a puff of friction.

Running I can see. The sky is purple, heavy hues splashed lightly onto the canvas of ancient rock. My gaze swings between sky and ground, each footfall jolting my vision slightly, sweat stinging at eyes and neck. Ahead on the rocky path is Steve. With little effort my teacher turns neatly round the corner, skipping over dusty brambles before jogging onto the length of a once-used dam. I follow, feet scrambling for purchase, head starting to ache with effort, hands balled into tight fists.

Running, I feel free. The wind blowing and serenading, the sun burning brightly as it launches from the horizon, upwards above the sparkling ocean. My lungs may ache, pain may shoot from my legs, but none of that seems to matter when I run. My feet float almost gracefully and I will everything to give me speed, to hurl me forward into the next turn. Broken buildings, their shells cracked and torn appear to the left before we pass them in a second, the smell of aniseed thick around us.

Running, I forget. Memories are replaced with the present while grudges and fears slide off into the dust behind me. Any problems from the previous days are forgotten as my joints loosen and I can think clearly again. Work and stress, arguments and fights, all is forgotten as I run, the sky the limit, nothing unattainable in those brief moments.

Cloud Forest, Costa Rica

Sweating in the darkness, wandering the rain forest at six in the morning, the crew halt. Above us though the trees, faint rays of sunlight are slowly appearing. Lindsey pulls out binoculars and focuses on far away trees—our teacher lost to the wilderness for a while. Behind me, Chris is asleep on his feet, swaying slightly as we glance around.

There is a second of peace among the trees as the group spreads out with our notebooks drawn. Then, as soon as it began, a howl reverberates through the creepers. The ghostly sound forces Chris’s eyes open as binoculars swing around in search of the culprit.

Through the bush we see movement and a lone howler monkey appears and vanishes among leaves far above. These creatures, with the loudest cry of any animal on earth, are soon serenading us en mass, putting off my attempts to take notes. As Cory creeps past, camera out and ready, I jot down as much as possible.

The howler monkey is small black and racoon sized. They inhabit the upper reaches of trees in Costa Rica and other rain-forested states along the equator. They live in tribes where the younger male is made dominant by killing all the other young. To attract mates, the males have developed their roar, which now brings me back to the jungle and the end of this entry.