The world is big and full of remarkable destinations. Take a deeper dive into the places we’ve been privileged to explore, all crafted from our own experiences. Use this information along with our Travel Recommendations to craft your dream adventure, Vagabond style if you like.
See more: https://vagabond-adventure.com/destinations
Travel is more than moving from one place to another—it’s
about experiencing cultures, meeting people, and collecting moments that shape
who we are. Every trip carries its own surprises, teaching us lessons that go
far beyond maps and guidebooks. The joy of sitting by a campfire under the
stars, the thrill of hiking to a hidden peak, or even the humor of a missed
train can become part of a lifelong memory.
Stories like these connect us. They remind us that the world
is vast, yet we share the same human curiosity to explore. Travel is not just
about destinations—it’s about the inner adventure that begins when we step
outside our comfort zone. Whether you are a seasoned globetrotter or someone
planning your first trip, there’s always something new waiting to be
discovered.
At Vagabond Adventure, we believe that journeys are best remembered when shared. That’s why our community brings together explorers from every corner of the globe. Through our Vagabond Journal, you’ll find narratives that resonate with the true essence of discovery. If you are searching for the best travel adventure stories, our platform curates authentic accounts from real travelers who have turned moments into memories.
These stories are not written by travel agencies with glossy brochures, but by individuals who embraced the unexpected—sometimes facing challenges, other times stumbling upon hidden treasures. For example, a traveler recounts the warmth of strangers who offered shelter during a sudden storm in the mountains. Another shares the thrill of navigating bustling markets where every corner tells a tale of tradition. These experiences remind us that the most powerful journeys often happen when plans don’t go as expected.
Beyond entertainment, these stories serve as guides and inspirations. They offer insights into local cultures, tips for overcoming travel hurdles, and encouragement to venture into new territories. When readers dive into these narratives, they find themselves transported—walking cobblestone streets, tasting exotic flavors, and hearing the echoes of distant festivals. This connection between the storyteller and the reader is what transforms a travel account into a true adventure.
What makes the Vagabond
Journal different is its authenticity. We value real voices, personal
struggles, and genuine triumphs. Each entry is crafted to spark curiosity and
inspire courage. For aspiring travelers, this collection becomes more than
reading material; it becomes a source of motivation. After all, knowing that
someone else took that leap into the unknown makes it easier for you to do the
same.
The beauty of these adventures also lies in their diversity.
Some are tales of solo wanderers who found confidence in unfamiliar places.
Others are family expeditions where bonds grew stronger under foreign skies.
There are also stories of friends who embarked on journeys and returned with
memories they’ll share for a lifetime. Each narrative, though unique, echoes a
universal truth: travel has the power to change us.
By engaging with these accounts, readers not only enjoy exciting stories but also discover practical knowledge. From learning about budget-friendly hacks to uncovering must-visit local gems, the Vagabond Journal becomes both a guide and a companion. This dual value—informational and emotional—is what makes our platform stand out.
So if you’ve been dreaming of adventures yet to come or
reflecting on ones already taken, the Vagabond
Adventure community welcomes you. Explore the best travel adventure stories on our journal page, and let them
inspire your next journey. Because every adventure, big or small, deserves to
be told—and yours might just be the next story that inspires someone else.
45 years later, Close Encounters of the Third Kind still entertains and thrills audiences. It’s a sci-fi classic with an epic, landmark location that audiences never forget. Steven Spielberg’s choice of Devils Tower for the finale of Close Encounters of the Third Kind remains one of modern cinema’s biggest, mind-blowing final reel moments.
It’s been 45 years since
Spielberg’s blockbuster Close Encounters of the Third Kind hit the big screen
in 1977.
Face it, ever since the UFO
hysteria was unleashed following the Roswell incident back in 1947 the interest
in flying saucers and space aliens has never diminished.
It has sparked our collective
imagination. Are we alone in this
endlessly vast universe? Or does
otherworldly intelligence exist? And, if
so, what would it be like if we ever encountered them?
The question has flashed through
the minds of everyone who has ever peered into the twinkling night sky and felt
that overwhelming sense of awe and wonder.
Hollywood wasted no time in
offering up possible scenarios. In
Howard Hawk’s The Thing from
Another World (1951) the interplanetary traveler is a terrifying
monster. In Robert Wise’s The Day The Earth Stood Still
(1951) he is an emissary with a dire warning, and a nine-foot robot companion
whose mission is to maintain global peace. The Earth and its nations can either
grow up and discard their nuclear weapons or be reduced to a burned out
cinder. You could argue that Gort—the
name of the robot—was the original Robocop.
In addition to these classic
films, there have been a steady stream of flying saucer films over the years.
Many of the early ones were low-budget, drive-in movie fare, featuring actors
in pathetic rubber costumes chasing scantily clad women. They have ranged from
flat-out comedy (Earth Girls
Are Easy, 1988) to splashy, big-budget, effects-driven spectacles like Independence Day, 1996.
Rarely had the topic been treated
very seriously. That is, until Steven
Spielberg made Close Encounters of the Third Kind.
It was a masterful mix of reality
and fantasy—a blend of all the sightings and rumors and speculation that had accumulated
over the years, with a sprinkling of pure imagination and state of the art
Hollywood special effects.
At last, UFOlogists had a movie
they could call their own. Spielberg,
the consummate storyteller, opens the film with a tantalizing moment in an air
traffic control room in which something totally mysterious streaks across the
radar screens, verified by airline pilots who can’t believe what they just
witnessed.
Close Encounters weaves together tantalizing folklore and documented, unexplained accounts of UFOs with unsolved pop culture mysteries like all those planes and ships that disappeared in the infamous Bermuda Triangle. He cobbles together the argument that something is out there, something that we have never been able to account for.
And so, when strange things start
happening to the main characters in the film, we’re all in. They are not just crackpots (though they are
treated as such, as they always are in movies like this), they are a selected
few being invited to witness the greatest moment in the history of mankind—our
mind-blowing encounter with beings from another world.
Close Encounters is a hugely
successful film, one that is delightfully entertaining in a style that has
become Steven Spielberg’s trademark. It
stands the test of time.
Part of the success of this film
is, of course, the setting. I’m speaking
of Devils Tower, Wyoming. It’s the
iconic, one-of-a-kind natural setting that cannot be mistaken for any other
place on this planet. It’s the place
where the characters need to go.
Collectively, they become obsessed and driven by some overwhelming
mysterious psychological motivation that drives them there. But what is the
obsession? They sketch it, they make sculptures of it with mashed potatoes and
finally piles of wet mud. They know, and
we know, that where they are being brainwashed and programmed to go is a wild
place they can’t resist. But again, why?
Devils Tower is a character in
this film as much as any of the rest of the cast. It looms large, very literally. Its size is overwhelming and awe inspiring,
until of course, the alien ship appears above it, completely and dramatically
dwarfing it. It’s the OMG moment that a
movie like this requires to knock you out of your seat.
Devils Tower is to Close Encounters what Mount Rushmore was to Hitchcock’s North by Northwest (1959). Spielberg was heavily influenced by Hitchcock, as his suspense-driven blockbuster film Jaws (1975) revealed. He knows what you can milk out of a famous, well-known location in the way of anticipation and thrills.
Interestingly, it was David
Lean’s film Lawrence of Arabia
(1962) that inspired Spielberg to become a filmmaker. Who can forget the famous cut early in the
movie between the closeup of a match being ignited and the vastness of the desert
in which men on camels appear to be tiny ants on a massive anthill?
For Spielberg, size matters. Scale matters. The choice of Devils Tower became the perfect
choice because of it instant recognizability and its staggering size.
Its name should appear in the
final credits along with the rest of the stars, and maybe it should have
received a special Academy Award for a category called something like Natural
Wonder in a Supporting Role.
It deserved it.
Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/remembering-close-encounters
Waking
Up in Arcade. Breakfast and the Locals
We awoke from our single beds
refreshed even though it felt like a vintage Camino Way guesthouse out of Lucy
and Desi’s 1950s sitcom (see
The Lucy Show). This, we assumed, was because single beds were for people
who weren’t necessarily partners. You saw a fair amount of that on the Camino
Way. Personally, Cyn and I like to sleep in the same bed. You don’t necessarily
get more rest, but it’s a lot more fun!
Once awakened and sensible, we
descended to the restaurant downstairs for breakfast. A group of middle-aged
men sat by the bar, sipping espressos, with buttered croissants, jacked on
caffeine and talking in rapid Spanish over whatever newspapers they had clasped
in their hands. It was a lively but good natured discussion, obviously a daily
ritual, and I wished I could have gotten involved, but my Spanglish was no
match for the latin phrases pouring so swiftly from their mustachioed lips.
Breakfast was served at the same
table we had supped the night before: coffee and tart, pulpy orange juice with
eggs over easy were placed in front of us along with spicy sausage, thick white
toast and rice. We inhaled it, drank some more coffee and surveyed our
situation. Next on the Camino Portugués route, our destination was the historic
city of Pontevedra, a short seven-mile walk compared to the 14 mile Trail of
Blisters we managed to survive the day before.
After breakfast, and back in our
room, we re-stuffed our daypacks, I nursed my blisters with a couple of
bandaids and we headed outside to bid the wood-sculpted pilgrim at San Salvador
de Soutomaior, the church across the street, good-bye. He said nothing in
reply. Apparently taking a vow of silence.
Statue
of pilgrim of San Salvador de Soutomaior in paved courtyard
The
Walk Begins: Roman Bridges and Morning Heat
We saw other pilgrims as we
walked through the town, but there seemed to be less of them than the day
before. They strode along the path in the sunshine with their backpacks
strapped on, some with walking sticks or staffs, others hoofing it old
fashioned way. Groups spoke excitedly in various languages, and loners moved
over the cobbled stones quiet and determined. The morning was gorgeous but you
could already feel the heat. At the edge of the town we crossed a long and
beautiful stone bridge, the Ponte Sampaio, one of the most iconic crossings on
the Portuguese Way of the Camino de Santiago, with its ten elongated arches.
The bridge was originally built by the Romans with masonry that would have done
the castles of Camelot proud.
Meeting
Father LaSana and His Students
Beyond the bridge, we made our
way north, skirting the Rio de Vigo before heading into trees and hills away
from the town. Rivers or streams always
seem to be near the Camino because once upon a time there was no running water,
no hotels, no restaurants. It was nature or nothing. The streams also have the
advantage of being relatively flat, having cut their way through valleys and
passes over the eons. Not that “The Way” is ever utterly flat. There were
always hills and valleys, ups and downs, much like life.
As we approached the woods, a man
walked up to Cyndy speaking perfect English and asked if she was from
Pittsburgh. Yes, she agreed, she was. The man knew because Cyndy often kept a
sweatshirt stuffed like a little billboard on her back under her day pack that
had the word PITTSBURGH emblazoned upon it. He knew the name because he was
from Delaware, but currently living in the Philippines.
He was a tall man with a big
smile. How he had ended up in the
Philippines and why he was walking the Camino Way was a little complicated. He
was a priest—just one of many unexpected encounters you have when meeting
people on the Camino. He had asked his bosses to move him from his previous job
in the United States to a place closer to the East Coast so that he could be
near his family.
“There was a discussion,” he
said, “and after a few hours, my supervisors moved me a little further east
than I originally intended — Manila.” He smiled his big smile. “I told them
that was a little farther east than the location I originally had in mind, but
I took the assignment.“
For the past 7 years he had
worked as the chaplain in a school for students from kindergarten to grade 12.
This explained why he had an boisterous crew of teens clustered with him as we
walked.
Father Andre LaSana was a member
of a relatively new Catholic priesthood — the Legionnaires of Christ. They
sounded unusually similar to the Jesuits – The Society of Jesus — to me —
priests who had taught me in high school. I had contemplated becoming a Jesuit
myself so I was intrigued. The Legionnaires’ goal, said Fr. LaSana, was to
engage not simply within the church, but outside of it – link with the real
world. All members of the order take vows of humility, poverty, chastity, and
obedience. Very much like the Jebbie’s. And like the Jesuits, it takes a long
time to get from deciding to be a member of the priesthood to finally being
ordained. Thirteen years in Fr. LaSana’s case.
Legionaires had been founded in
the 1940s by a charismatic Catholic priest from Mexico named Marcial Maciel. He
grew the Legionnaires quickly and effectively world-wide for over 60 years, but
according to the BBC, a 2019 report found that he had personally abused at
least 60 children, and that another 33 priests of the order abused minors as
well. The total number of children abused by the order since its founding in
1941 came to at least 175, an appalling number and this from a report generated
within the order! Fr. Le Sana was forthright about this history. In fact he
brought it to my attention when we were talking.
The Legionaries of Christ
eventually acknowledged their founder's "reprehensible and objectively
immoral behavior" as head of the congregation. The "very serious and
objectively immoral acts" of Maciel, which were "confirmed by
incontrovertible testimonies", represented "true crimes and manifest
a life without scruples or authentic religious sentiment", the Vatican
said. Maciel was eventually defrocked and the order was required by Pope
Benedict XVI to undergo a process of “purification.” Fr. LaSana told me he
thought things had changed, but after 70 years of abuse, many questions remain
about the church’s early efforts to hide the facts.
We walked on through the morning
and I talked with some of the young men in the group. There was Miguel, Emilio,
Nick Reyes, Nico and several more, but Fr. LaSana said most of them had
Filipino nicknames like BongBong and TenTen, and Jell-o (for Angelo). They came
from well-to-do Filipino households mostly. Very bright with excellent English.
One student planned to be a doctor, another a lawyer, maybe. He said he wasn't
sure just yet which made sense to me. He was only 15. It's early, I told him,
and suggested he keep his options open. He looked at me thoughtfully and then
said, “Of course. That makes sense.”
I asked them their favorite foods
and almost universally they told me it was the Filipino version of McDonald's –
fast fried chicken with rice or french fries. They were big fans of American
movies but didn't have much to say about the Camino Way, at least the religious
aspects of it. According to them, it was just a cool opportunity, and a great
way to see a part of the world they might never see again.
Through
Forests, Rivers, and Reflections
In time, we split off from Fr.
LaSana and his brood, and climbed into low mountains through green forests that
provided some relief from the rising heat. You find your mind undertakes little
journeys of its own when wandering for hours like this. That was one the
advantages of walking The Way. It becomes a spiritual journey whether you
intend it or not for the simple reason that it gives you to hours to wander the
pathways of your own contemplations. I’ve always found that time expands when I
travel. When home we grow accustomed to the same things day after day, but when
we travel we cram far more into our day than when we’re home. The first time I
took a long trip to Europe in my 20s, I remembered waiting for my parents to
pick me up at the airport and thinking surely I had been away for a year. It
was only four weeks. But I had jammed so many fresh experiences into those for
weeks that I felt time had expanded. This makes travel a kind of time machine,
or at least a time expander, a way to get more out of the limits life normally
imposes. That is surely one reason why I love travel so much and why Cyn and I
were making this journey around the world. The Camino Way was a mini-version of
our larger pilgrimage. We were filling each day with more of everything around
us, which in turn led to more insights and surprise which made life even more
interesting, more joyful, more satisfying, even on rough days.
The route to Pontevedra was
idyllic compared to the day before. On day one our battered feet tramped on more
pavement than dirt or grass and we saw more cars and trucks than birds or
greenery. Today was the opposite. We passed a lovely little chapel as pristine
as a cut diamond, and a small farm thick with grapes and peppers and tomatoes. We found that This section of the Camino
Portugués followed Roman Road XIX, a route nearly 2,000 years old and still
bearing the worn rock and milestones from the era of the Roman Empire. Circles
of yellow sunshine danced through the trees and over moss covered rocks, ferns
and birches. If only these rocks could talk, I thought, what stories they
could; these thousands upon thousands of pilgrims stretched across time and
place in search of salvation and the final resting place of Saint James. At one
point I heard a cowbell as we tramped along, and sure enough, there the animal
stood among the bushes, indelicately scratching her hind quarters with her back
hoof. Clang-clang-clang. I never thought I'd hear that sound in the
21st-century, which shows how much I know about the world.
An
Unexpected Fall Near Pontevedra
After a couple of hours we had
begun closing in on Pontevedra, but my feet continued losing their battle with
the hard ground, and now, not only were my blisters yelping, but Cyn’s had
begun to grow a crop of her own. “I hope not,” I said. “Not both of us. We need
to find a pharmacy, and get some moleskin.”
Nevertheless, we continued on, in
search of relief if nothing else. We were, at least, walking among shaded
forest, and had found ourselves walking along a creek of cool water. Out of
nowhere among the trees, I stumbled upon a small walled building that seemed to
serve no purpose, except as a kind of artistic canvas because it was festooned
with artwork, including the silhouetted image of another pilgrim determined to
make his way to the grave of the great apostle.
He wore a broad-brimmed
Franciscan hat on his head, clearly determined to complete his journey, but
static, locked in time. I saluted him as I passed and continued following the
stream which must have recently flooded because some of the path was muddy and
rutted. For a second I thought I might sit and submerge my crippled feet in the
cool water, but decided instead to check my GPS to see how close were to the
Pontevedra. That’s when I stuck my foot in a hole and gave it a damn fine twist
…
I
fell like a sack of beans.
Over time I generally outpace Cyn
on our walks. It’s a side effect of having legs considerably longer than hers.
I never mean to leave her behind, it’s just that when I turn around to say
something, she’s not there! But now she caught up and found me sitting on the
damp ground, sock off my left foot, rubbing it as if it were a genie that might
deliver a few wishes. If only. Cyn figured I had decided to dip my feet in the
cool water too, but I was really checking to see how badly I had twisted my
ankle because if it was bad, finishing the hike was going to be a problem. Just
getting to Pontevedra was going to be a problem. It wasn’t as if we could hail
a taxi and text Uber.
We looked the appendage over. It
was nasty, but I had had worse. When I stood up and put weight on it, it wasn’t
terrible, as long as I moved forward and stayed on the level. Any turn to the
right or left, or any uneven slope or rock, and white shards of sharp pain shot
down my leg — thigh to ankle. I
apparently had what doctor’s like to call a high ankle sprain. That was Dr.
Walter’s diagnosis, anyhow. Good news. I could walk. Bad news. It takes a long
time for this to heal. I put the foot in the creek water right away to reduce
the swelling and after 15 minutes, we headed, me limping, into town.
Arrival,
Pharmacies, and Finding Relief
Pontevedra is a charming city,
larger than Arcade, considerably smaller than Vigo. We found our hotel, a very
clean, modern affair located in a part of the town that lay right along The
Way. Before we did another thing, we found a farmacia (pharmacy), easily
discovered thanks to the neon green crosses that mark each store (essential
knowledge if you’re wondering where to buy blister care supplies on the
Camino). Inside we bought a few yards of the Compeed® that the store sold.
Compeed is a clear, almost elastic tape created to fight blisters by protecting
the skin before it’s irritated, or, if it’s too late, after a blister has
formed. Either way it saves the skin from the shoe that wants so badly to rub
your life miserable. The stuff was a godsend and once we showered we slapped it
on with a vengeance. Immediate relief, but still not as good as moleskin in my
mind. But as far as we could see Moleskin is not much sold in Europe.
Showered, cooled and thoroughly
Compeeded, we ate at the restaurant downstairs. I have no notes to explain what
we shoved in our mouths. I’m sure it was good because walking The Way builds
the appetite of a marathoner and anything placed on a plate tastes good.
Afterwards, with our feet feeling less fiery, we walked the neighborhood,
stopped for a couple of cappuccinos as the sun settled toward the horizon and a
listened a raucous flock of birds hidden in a nearby tree make a racket that
would have done Lead Zeppelin proud. We didn’t last long into the night,
charming as the area was. We were fried and sleep beckoned from our air
conditioned single beds ending another unforgettable day on the Portuguese Way
of the Camino de Santiago.
FAQ
Q1: How long is the walk from Arcade to Pontevedra?
A: The stage is about 7 miles (11 km), making it a relatively easy day compared to longer stretches.
Q2: What challenges should I expect on this route?
A: The path includes hills, uneven ground, and cobblestones, which can cause blisters or even ankle sprains. Heat can also be a factor, so start early and carry water.
Q3: What landmarks will I see along the way?
A: Pilgrims pass the Ponte Sampaio, a Roman-era bridge with ten arches, and sections of the Roman Road 19. The route also winds through forests, chapels, and small farms.
Q4: Who do pilgrims typically meet on this stage?
A: Expect to meet a mix of international travelers, locals, priests, students, and solo walkers. Many walk for spiritual reasons, but others simply for culture, fitness, or adventure.
Q5: How can I treat or prevent blisters on the Camino?
A: Local pharmacies sell Compeed
blister pads, which work well for prevention and treatment. Traditional
moleskin is less common in Spain, so bring some if you prefer it. Cooling feet
in streams, wearing good socks, and taking breaks also help.
Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/camino-de-santiago-day-2-arcade-to-pontevedra
Even after these past days of remarkable views, today’s may be the most remarkable of all. We walk among the penguins enjoying their childlike behavior, see a frolicking leopard seal and gaze on the mountains and glaciers gliding along on our zodiacs, and a solitary penguin wandering his own private glacier. The videos and images tell the story.
From Day 525 of the Vagabond Adventure. You can read more about our Antarctic Expedition here: https://vagabond-adventure.com/vagabond-journal/category/Antarctica
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was a breakout hit when it was released in 1969. Over a half century later, it remains an enduring, beloved revisionist western.
There are a long list of reasons underlying its success, starting with the all-star teaming of Paul Newman and newcomer Robert Redford whose career was about to skyrocket. And let’s not forget the casting of Katherine Ross who had appeared as Dustin Hoffman’s love interest in The Graduate (1967). The Oscar-winning screenplay was written by William Goldman, who collected his second Oscar a few years later for All the President’s Men (1976). It was directed by George Roy Hill, Oscar winning director of The Sting (1973). Conrad Hall won an Oscar for his work on Burch Cassidy.
Suffice it to say that there was a ton of talent in front of the lens and behind it.
But that doesn’t guarantee a successful movie or a movie that will stand the test of time.
As with all the great Hollywood films, there is some degree of movie magic that enters in.
It was a movie of the times. It was part of a curious chapter of Hollywood history in which protagonists often died at the end of the movie, as they famously did in Easy Rider, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? or The Wild Bunch, all released in 1969.
You could argue that Hollywood reflected the pessimism surrounding the Vietnam War in the late Sixties.
An interesting distinction regarding Butch Cassidy is that the audience was spared witnessing the brutality of the hero’s demise thanks to the brilliant decision to freeze frame Butch and Sundance as they run out into the courtyard, guns blazing, just before time stops and we hear the sound of the dozens of rifles that gruesomely gun them down.
It was a far cry from the slow motion “Ballet of Death” blood bath that Sam Peckinpah served up at the end of The Wild Bunch.
Aside from the famous ending, Butch Cassidy had much to offer. It was essentially a comedy, a buddy flick about two likeable bank robbers, intent on robbing banks and trains and not killing anyone.
They were good guys who were admittedly bad guys, but entirely forgivable due to their chemistry, charm and abundant good looks. The pairing of Newman and Redford was a stroke of pure genius that perhaps remains unequaled to this day. It was perfection.
Butch Cassidy certainly took some risks. It was based on a true story that had a tragic ending. You knew it wouldn’t end well. And yet, much of it was played for lightheartedness and laughs.
I’m thinking of the famous bicycle scene played to the tune of Burt Bacharach’s “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on my Head” (sung by B.J. Thomas). It’s a quirky sequence that feels like it doesn’t belong in the movie, yet it works despite the strong resistance from studio management at the time.
It won an Oscar for Best Original Song and the movie won another Oscar for Best Music, making a total of four Academy Awards for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
The song forever evokes the sequence of Paul Newman riding Katherine Ross on the handlebars of a vintage bicycle on a sunlit morning—a romantic little romp that ends with the bicycle crashing through a fence and unexpectedly landing in a pen of a snorting bull. It’s the mix of romance and comedy that defines Butch Cassidy.
One of the biggest comedic scenes in the movie comes when Butch and Sundance are chased to the edge of a cliff and realize that they will have to jump to save their lives. When Sundance hesitates, Butch discovers that Sundance can’t swim, prompting the now famous line, “Are you crazy? The fall will probably kill ya!”
The scene of the legendary jump is one of Hollywood’s greatest stunt sequences in which two stunt men jump from an elevated tower into a tank of water. The scene is made to appear real with the use of a “glass shot” in which the cliff was painted on a pane of glass placed in front of the camera, obscuring the tower and tank of water, making it appear that Butch and Sundance were jumping off a cliff and into the river below.
The dramatic element of Butch Cassidy is the relentless pursuit of the unstoppable posse intent to bringing our heroes to justice. They are the dark force always looming in the distance, despite the frolicking and fun. That sense of inescapable gloom and doom might have been another reason that Butch Cassidy resonated with Vietnam era audiences.
Eventually, Butch and Sundance concoct a plan to escape to freedom by fleeing to Bolivia.
It is where they meet their fate, depicted in the famous standoff and shootout in the final reel of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
It’s one of the truly great movie endings. One that you never, ever forget.
In reality, there is still much debate as to whether Butch and Sundance really bit the bullet as the film suggests or whether one or both of them managed to escape. The truth may forever remain a mystery.
In the meantime, the movie version and the Hollywood ending will continue to entertain audiences with its own charming telling of the tale.
55 years later, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid still entertains audiences -- a Vietnam-era revisionist western for the ages, starring perhaps the best talent paring of all time.
The Marrakesh train station is
broad, clean and organized. Cyn and I towed our baggage toward some passenger
seats, tickets in hand awaiting the announcement of our train north to
Casablanca, connecting to Rabat. Outside we could see the long nose of a high
speed train gazing back at us. As we approached I noticed a slim, pretty woman,
perhaps 35; sharp nose, dark eyes and perfect olive skin, sitting quietly on a
string of chairs. She wore a black hijab, and I was certain she was Moroccan
when she turned and out of her mouth came an Irish brogue that would have
shamed a Dublin bartender.
“Hello,” she said, “do yah need me tah move?”
I nearly dropped my day pack.
Once we settled into seats next
to her, I said I had to ask where that Irish lilt came from. Very prim, hands
crossed on her lap, she explained. Her name was Zayneb. “But most people call
me Z.”
Z was part Irish and part Libyan;
a mother and a poetess. Both work and marriage meant bouncing between Ireland
and Morocco, which explained why she was awaiting the same train we were. But
what about the brogue?
It started with her Libyan
father, she said, Mohammed, who was sitting in a bar in Ireland several decades
ago talking with a group of Irishmen curious about Islam. Joanna, a coleen, all
of 17 at the time, overheard the conversation and decided to share a few
thoughts with the men along the lines that muslim women were enslaved and
without rights and should liberate themselves from the tyranny of muslim
men. Mohammed begged to disagree and
asked if she would like to meet some of the muslim women he knew in Ireland and
see how they felt about these things. She agreed and spent quite a bit of time
listening to their points of view. In time she liked what she heard and came
back for more. Joanna was Irish, but not particularly happy with the Catholic
faith; too many vague answers to her 17-year-old questions. Islam, on the other
hand, felt more concrete. Six months more of these explorations with the women
who became her friends and the little Irish girl from Dublin converted to
Islam.
Around the same time, while at the mosque in Dublin, Joanna ran into Mohammed again. He was stunned at her turnaround (who wouldn’t be?). More conversations ensued, and it wasn’t long before they married.
“Ever since they have been
inseparble.” Joanna and Mohammed brought 14 children into the world, one of
them was Zayneb … “all while my mother ran an international development company
with holdings as far away as Turkey.”
“She was quite a woman,” I
offered.
Z nodded, dropped her eyes. But
now, she explained, her mother and father had been separated, and so were the
other 13 children, at least from their mother. Two months ago Joanna fell while
cleaning gutters at her house and broke her wrist. The x-ray of her arm led to
revelations that there tumors in her liver and heart. Inoperable, terminal cancer, and not a thing
to be done about it. The family never told Joanna about the disease.
“She was gone in a couple of
weeks.”
Cyn and I told her how saddened
we were. Zayneb smiled a sad smile. She nodded. I had so many questions, but
the announcement told us it was time to board. We shook hands and promised to
stay in touch and then Z was up, adjusting her hajib and walking regally,
roller suitcase in hand, to a coach somewhere other than ours. What a fine
woman, I thought.
The
Train to Casablanca and the Roots of Hatred
The ONCF train we boarded was a
Harry Potter style affair, very British, except without the mahogany wood
interiors. Multiple compartments, with sliding glass doors that opened to two
long benches on each side. Room enough for six.
The six of us sat elbow to elbow, bags crammed in the compartments above
our heads, or wherever we could fit them on our feet.
We were a quiet crowd as the
train rattled out of the big station north toward Morocco’s largest city, the
one famous for Rick’s Café Américain and the celebrated (if inaccurate) phrase,
“Play it again, Sam.” Seated among us was a young man, slim, a black headset
clapped over his equally black hair, phone in hand, smiling at whatever he was
looking at on the phone. His mother sat beside him, wearing a turquoise caftan,
gripping her leather purse for dear life. Her COVID mask was as firmly fastened
to her ears as her ears to her head. She is silent. Also in the compartment is
a strong, stocky black man around 40, and next to him a woman with shortish brown
hair tinged with blonde highlights directly across from me, around the same
age.
The train accelerated past apartments seven stories high, and swinging cranes busy stacking new apartments like Legos. Next came the suburbs and then beyond mud huts trimmed with plastic roofs sitting among flat, scrub, and dry rocky land the color of Caucasian skin. I watched a donkey lying on his back rubbing the dirt like a dog with an itch. Here and there, thirsty trees sprouted from the dust. Beyond lay low mountains. Morocco’s summers are scorching, but luckily the train’s air conditioning was good enough to keep the sweat at bay. Once the train found the flat arid land, it made a kind of skating sound as it sped north into the scrub.
In the corridor outside, I
watched a young man in an orange and black uniform pushing a cart of chips,
drinks, and European-style snacks past our compartment. I thought again of
Harry Potter and wondered if he had any Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans,
Chocolate Frogs, or Jelly Slugs handy. But then I was pretty sure this train
wasn’t headed to Hogwarts.
All of us in the enclosed room
tried valiantly to shoo a pesky fly out of the cabin. It was interesting. No one wanted to kill it, just send it
elsewhere. I took this as a good omen. The stout man directly across from us
sat in tan shorts, a red check shirt, black baseball cap beneath a handsome
ebony face. His arms were thick and so was his beard, striped with gray at the
chin. The woman with the brown hair, glasses perched on her perfectly upturned
nose, often spoke in English to the man who turned out to be her husband. Her
accent was Dutch or German, his … I wasn’t quite sure … British?
It was the obstinate fly that got
us all talking. We had to laugh at six humans who couldn’t outfox a single bug.
The woman across from us was named Corinna and her husband was named Mutawakilu
Samori, from Ghana. I loved the sound of his name, but he said, “Just call me
Muta.”
Corinna has been working with
Lufthansa since she graduated college — managing employment and human relations
for the big company’s far-flung North
African operations. She grew up in central Germany and loved the trips her
family would take to Poland and Hungary. She won a masters degree in geology,
but quickly found she made a better living at Lufthansa. She and Muta met at a
disco 20 years ago, each was just out for the evening, but while they were
talking they found they were both about to travel to Ghana. So they decided to
make the flight together, and fell in love.
All sorts of discussions then
ensued and soon even the young man with the headphones joined in. His name was
Tariffi and he couldn’t have been much more than 25-years-old. Soon we were all
talking politics, Facebook and its algorithms, the importance of face-to-face
encounters vs. social media and how conversations like this one knock down echo
chambers and make it difficult to demonize others. Here we were, six people
from five countries, openly exploring our thinking and no one once yelled at
the other, or called them names (like a certain former American president
routinely did). This then drifted into chats about the importance travel and
other countries. Tariffi mentioned the ongoing border problems between southern
and northern Morocco, not to mention Algeria, just to the East. I had to admit
I didn’t know much about these disputes, but there is history among the people
of the south. This part of the world was once known as Spanish Sahara and goes
back to the end of 1975 after Spain relinquished control of the region. Morocco and Mauritania divided the territory
between themselves, but the pro-independence Polisario Front, backed by
Algeria, proclaimed a Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic and launched a military
struggle against what it viewed as two occupying powers. Mauritania withdrew
from its part of the territory in 1979 after a series of military defeats at
the hands of the Polisario, leaving it to Morocco to deal with the conflict.
Meanwhile Rabat (Morocco’s governmental seat) consolidated control over most of
the south. The Polisario still wants to be recognized as the world’s 196th
nation.
This seemed to lead to views that conflicts like these can be resolved IF we aren’t so bent on hating people we don’t really know. “So many people don't think! Because it's hard to think for yourself,” said Musta, a sentiment that Cyndy and I heartily agreed with. “And people don't think they make mistakes, but they make them again and again.”
“It’s okay to make mistakes, “ I
added. “But not repeat them. I remembered Buckminster Fuller writing somewhere
that all of civilization was nothing more than the sum total of its mistakes.
But we only grow if we learn from those mistakes. So often we don't.”
“People hate others without
really knowing who they are, or where they come from,” said Corinna. “Without
really seeing what we have in common, but only assuming that we are enemies.”
She told the story of how South Africans would say when she traveled, “‘You're
going to Nigeria? You'll die!’ And Nigerian would say, ‘South Africa? They will
kill you.’” Yet, she said, here she was, still alive. “People are mostly good,”
she said.
We even touched on women’s
rights. Corinna said that she’s always loved the different phrases cultures
come up with. I thought of the Navajo
shaman we had met in Monument Valley. “How much weight can you carry.” In
South Africa, they say, “a strong woman can carry a lot of water.”
“I love that,” said Corinna. I
knew that was true. Cyndy was proof every day, and so were each of my three
daughters, and so many more women I’ve met.
With that, the train began to
slow and we came to the Casablanca Station, just long enough to thank Corinna,
Muta and Tarrifi (and his very quiet mother who didn’t understand a word of our
conversation) and wish them well on their safari (Swahili for ‘journey’). We
then waved in the general direction of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman,
and caught the next train to Rabat where more adventures awaited.
Rabat
- Exploring A Moroccan Treasure
After a quiet ride of an hours or
so, we walked out of the Rabat train
station completely clueless. My Arabic consisted of phrases like Salaam,
Inshallah and Yella in an entirely Arabic speaking nation, and we had no more
idea where we would be laying our heads this night than a blind man plopped in
a Moroccan medina. Our cell service was non-existent, but I had preloaded a map
of our route to the riad on my iPhone and it told us we were about 12 minutes
away. All we had to do was get a taxi to
the right hotel.
Outside the station a cluster of
taxi drivers clambered up to us ready to take us anywhere we wanted to go. A
small boned driver with a black mustache elbowed his way to us. “Yella, yella!”
He said. Let’s go!
“How much,” I asked, rubbing my
thumb and forefinger in the universal signal of cash.
He spoke in rapid Arabic but I
thought I caught the word for eight, and I had also roughly calculated that the
trip would cost about 80 dirham. So I figured this was our man. That was my
first mistake.
We loaded our bags into the
small, battered taxi and crammed ourselves in the back. I noticed his meter
wasn't running, but I figured we had settled on the price so off we went.
Through some internet magic, even without cell service, we we were able to map
our location on our phone, and the taxi seem to be heading in the right
direction. Then suddenly it wasn't. Soon we were well past 12 minutes, pushing
20. I knew our riad was in the ancient section of town, the sorts of areas we
always stayed in. But as we looked
around there wasn’t a hotel or riad to be found. We were in a nice residential
area, nowhere near a medina. Cyndy and I were not feeling confident.
Finally, the taxi driver looked
around then stopped the car. He pointed his finger outside. “Here,” he said.
He looked oblivious. I jabbed
again at the phone with the name of the riad. "Riad Kalaa,” I said, maybe
a little too loudly.
The mustached driver got out of
the car and wandered around a bit. He seemed to agree that there were no hotels
and got back into the car. He was
clearly lost, but I saw he had another idea. He put the taxi back in gear and headed
off we knew not where.
Clearly we’re in a pickle. Our lack of Arabic isn’t helping. At one point the driver stopped, and invited a woman on the street who also apparently needed a taxi. WTF was this? Did he think she could help? Was he looking to make more money because he was losing money on all our fare? Five minutes later, he stopped the car and she got out. I punch the phone some more and called out the name of the riad. By now I’m fuming and he was getting rattled. He was now desperate, driving nowhere in particular. He pulled his ball cap off and wiped his shiny head with his sleeve. I felt badly for him. Here he was thinking he had a nice ripe fare from some American tourists and now he was thoroughly lost, stuck with an angry white man jabbering in a unknown language whose decibel levels seem to be rising every block. But we had now been driving for 45 minutes!
At last, the taxi driver stopped
at a gate outside of the big building and walks out toward a man in a uniform.
Many questions. The uniform points down the road and indicates a few turns. He
seems to know his stuff. Back to the
taxi. Three minutes later we are standing in front of a very ritzy hotel. The
taxi driver motions for help and gets out. I get out too. I show a man who
works outside the big hotel the address of our riad. He nods. He turns to the
driver and explains where the location is. The taxi driver shakes his head no.
Yes, says the man at the hotel. Again, the taxi driver begs to differ. He’s
defensive now. The hotel man waves his arms vigorously to clarify in no
uncertain terms that he's wrong and I hear the word “ancienes,” the French for
old. Again, he says it. A lightbulb goes off at last in the taxi driver’s head.
He lowers his head in submission. Maybe he had the right address, but he is in
the new part of town, not the old sector.
“Okay, I say to the ritzy hotel
man, does he know where to go, really?”
He then pulls the taxi driver
over and speaks rapidly. He turns to me.
“Yes, he knows.”
I get back in the car, and the
taxi driver puts the old car in gear.
“Does he know?” Asks Cyn. This is
now the universal question.
“I think so,” I say. But who could
say. This might be one of the world’s great riddles, like the mystery of the
Holy Trinity or the location of Atlantis! To be extra certain, Cyn turns on her
cell phone service. It’s expensive in Morocco and mine was out, but we figure
it’d be worth it if we could find our beds before midnight. She dials the riad.
The man on the phone says he speaks no English, but wait… Silence. Then a man
gets on the phone and asks in English how he can help. Once again, Cyndy to the
rescue. I explain our predicament and then put the phone in the taxi driver’s
ear. The two men talk. Then back on the phone … OK. The man at the riad
promises to meet us outside when the car arrives - 10 minutes. Ten minutes
later he does. We’ve been driving almost an hour. At last we haul out our bags.
The taxi driver looks like I put a knife in him. I pull the last bag out of our
car and give him 50 dirham — about five dollars. He is absolutely elated, and
hops into his car as fast as a mongoose, thrilled, I am sure to be rid of the
Americans he had so assiduously pursued 60 minutes earlier. That’ll teach him.
Riad Kalaa
The pleasant gentleman who had
been on the phone, guided us through the city’s old medina, by now a familiar
site. Compared to Fez and Marrakesh, though, the cobblestoned alleys were
peaceful except for a couple of children walking by, talking in whispers. Five
minutes later our host escorted us into Riad Kalaa where we met Zachariah,
Alexii and Rayna, and were given a key for a room right off the open air
courtyard common to all riads. It was two stories with steep steps inside that
lead to a large queen bed and a spacious bathroom. Perfect!
Soon we were walking the
building’s many floors where we hiked up to the open-air roof garden to see the
courtyard beneath. The sun was setting and a cool breeze drifted off the
Atlantic. I took some pictures and then we returned to the courtyard for
another spectacular tagine dinner. Fish, this time, because we were so near the
sea.
Afterwards, sleep came fast.
After all, we had spent three weeks cramming a lot of Morocco into our noggins
and we required rest!
We lost much of the day to work
the next day — you know, the quotidian business of paying bills, answering
emails, preparing for our return across the Straits of Gibraltar and into
Europe and Spain where there would be no guides, no tours, no inside
information. We lounged on our bed, ate at the riad and had some clothes
washed. I booked a Hammam, an islamic kind of bath cum massage because it’s
what I felt should be done in an Arabic country. (More on that in a separate dispatch. It was
quite an experience!) But by 7:30 PM, we
were ready to get outside. We donned our day packs and wandered along the same
quiet medina that brought us to Riad Kalaa. Soon we emerged into the broad
street where the taxi driver had dropped us the afternoon before. Below us lay
a broad harbor and inlet, a kind of small lake that led out to the Atlantic
ocean. The atmosphere was festive but not raucous. The marina reminded me of
the melancon in Loreto,
Baja Sur, Mexico, joyful, filled with children, parents and young people.
We saw lots of children wearing
t-shirts and shorts on scooters, the old fashion kind, nothing battery
operated. They swung in great arcs among their mothers and fathers, giggling,
waving. A dark-haired boy of seven, with eyes black as marbles, ran by at top
speed, wand in hand, with his younger sister trying to keep up. His shirt read
“Today Is My Day.” By the look on his face, it looked like it was. Children everywhere scooted along the cement
pavement in colorful, if battered, little plastic cars. These were battery
operated. One looked like a Model T, another like a fairy princess carriage or
a dump truck. They wove in and out as music crackled and blared out of a
speaker the size of a gallon jug. It had seen better days. It's a small world
after all, and If you're happy, and you know it, clap your hands rose into the
air mingling with Moroccan drums and flutes and symbols being played by local
street musicians. A young girl stood with virtual reality googles clamped over
her burkha, gazing into another, virtual world. Everywhere, I thought, American
culture influences the world.
We meandered along the dish-like
cove toward the Atlantic. Small restaurants clustered on our side of the dock.
French, Italian and Spanish cuisines were on the menus along with pre-made
kiosks with families lined up to buy ice cream, teas or cakes.
On the other side of the inlet
lay a broad beach where people languidly soaked up the last rays of summer sun. In the channel, little blue wooden boats are
strung out all along the docks. As many as 10 men members of a family pile in
and its captain, oars in hand, hauls away toward the sea where he will shortly
circle back and re-deposit his cargo to pick up another group. It’s a kind of
working man’s gondola. They seemed to have no particular place to go, but they
are having a good time doing it. Back and forth they plied the still waters,
the sounds of laughter echoing around the wharf.
The people of Rabat seemed quite
content.
After awhile, twilight set in and
we walked back toward the end of the inlet, opposite the sea. Just beyond the
setting sun, lay the gargantuan battlements of yet another old, but renovated,
Portuguese fort. Its big stone jaw jutted out like the ones we had seen outside
of Tangier and Tarifa. Scores of local tourists strung themselves in ant-like
lines walking its breastwork, unaware of the battles fought there hundreds of
years ago.
We swung back into the medina and
found our riad. There would be more to see the next day — a huge jewish
cemetery, clustered with hundred upon hundreds of monuments and tombstones, an
odd site in a muslim country. A fisherman standing on gargantuan rocks, his
long pole extended as the Atlantic crashed around him. Local families on a
broad sandy beach wading into the waves, with a Moroccan flag whipping in the
wind. And back at our riad, Chip’s exciting hammam experience. (Look for a
separate article on that! Just what the doctor ordered after marinating in this
remarkable land.)
This is Dispatch XXXIV in a
series about a Vagabond’s Adventures - journalist and National Geographic
Explorer Chip Walter and his wife Cyndy’s effort to capture their experience
exploring all seven continents, all seven seas and 100+ countries, never
traveling by jet.
If you’ve enjoyed this dispatch,
please take a look at Chip’s other adventures (and
misadventures) … and don’t forget to check the Vagabond Journal and our Travel Recommendations
to help you plan YOUR next adventure.
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Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/train-to-rabat-visiting-morrocos-hidden-gem
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