Tangier to Chefchaouen: An Unforgettable Moroccan Adventure

 

Day 244 - May 28, 2022 – Tangier - Day 1

There are at least ten theories about the origin of Tangier’s name, but my favorite comes from the ancient Greeks who called it Tinjis, a daughter of the Atlas, the titan who supported the vault of heaven near the Gibraltar Straits. Under the Romans the name morphed to Tingis then developed into the Portuguese Tânger, Spanish Tánger, and French Tanger, where it entered English as Tangier and Tangiers. The Arabic and modern Berber name for the town is Ṭanjah.

I love name origins. Don’t ask me why.

On our first full day in the city we walked out the door of the El Minzah Hotel (see Dispatch XXVIII - The Mysteries of Morocco ) to a beautiful day: 70° with a predicted high of 84º. A sweet breeze out of the Mediterranean and not a cloud.

The night before we had prowled the nearby streets filled with Tangerians walking with their children and enjoying the view above the sea. Clusters of young people milled and joked, teasing and flirting the way teens do. Cyn and I found a cafe with Parisian style awnings and small round tables inside and out. The place was brimming with men, smoking, drinking coffee (alcohol is not part of the Islamic experience), discussing and debating in rapid Arabic. There was not a woman to be found, and Cyndy stood out like a rabbit among wolves. But the waiter was kind and we detected not an ounce of misogyny.

Tangier is everything I imagined. Vibrant, but not crammed. Old but not dingy, with the sounds of Arabic music, French conversation, Spanish voices in our ears as we passed scrumptious Moroccan bakeries filled with baclava and tiny, fresh pastries that your palette knows will go perfectly with a cup of hot mint tea — a Moroccan speciality.

The city sits above multiple hills and when standing on one of the them the view of the Mediterranean and the city’s sweeping bay made me feel that, yes, I really was somewhere other than home; somewhere exotic, marinated in history. It was a place I could stay for a long time.

Back in the 1930s, the expatriate writer and composer Paul Bowles thought he was coming to Tangier on a lark. He never left. “I relish the idea that in the [Tangier] night,” he once said, “all around me in my sleep, sorcery is burrowing its invisible tunnels in every direction, from thousands of senders to thousands of innocent recipients. Spells are being cast…” There was something to that. To me Tangier fell in with that small group of international cities that were once entirely independent, a city-state, unencumbered by the nations that surrounded it: Trieste, Monte Carlo, Ephesus, Alexandria. Cities like this take on a flavor and confidence that is more cosmopolitan than most. Bowles called it the navel of the world.

As much as Bowles loved Tangier, he adored travel just as much. While we were exploring the American Legation, I caught another quote of his that captured precisely the attraction that world travel has for me. “I feel that life is very short, and the world is there to see, and one should know as much about it as possible. One belongs to the whole world, not just one part of it.”

We had found our way to the Legation — now officially known as the Tangier American Legation Institute for Moroccan Studies — by way of Tangier’s winding medinas. It and Morocco go way back. Morocco was the first country to officially recognize the United States when Sultan Mohammed ben Abdallah issued the proclamation on December 20, 1777 clarifying for the world that the U.S. was no longer a British colony.  The Legation building was gifted by the sultan to the U.S. government to serve as a diplomatic post, and it remained there for 140 years from 1821 to 1961. It was the first American property to exist outside the United States, and is the only U.S. National Historic Landmark in a foreign country.

The American Legation in the middle of Tangier. Morocco was the first country to accept the United States as a nation, not a colony. (Photos - Chip Walter)

Later in the day, Youssef, our guide, led us through the part of town where local looms turned strung wool into fabrics of all kinds — pillow covers, blankets, rugs and wall hangings. These looms are the pre-industrial variety where wool threads of different colors are strung through the loom one by one. It is hard work, but the results are rich, colorful and unique.

Local looms turned strung wool into fabrics of all kinds.

But that wasn’t until after we first toured the city’s Portuguese battlements where we got an eye-popping view of the straits that sweep in a great white and blue arc along Tangier’s coastline.

Not far away we found a newly built museum dedicated entirely to Ibn Battuta, one of the world’s truly great travelers, at least if you read his remarkable book, A Gift to Those Who Contemplate the Wonders of Cities and the Marvels of Travelling, more commonly known as The Rihla. The museum is a beautiful, multi-story building with an open courtyard and excellent interactive descriptions of the man’s journeys. Battuta was born in the 14th century and departed Tangier on 2 Rajab, that’s the Muslim year 725 Anno Hegirae, or by the western calendar, 14 June 1325 AD). A descendant of the Lawata Berber tribe, Morocco’s native inhabitants, he was twenty-one when he set off on a pilgrimage to Mecca. Normally that would have taken sixteen months. Battuta didn’t return again for 24 years.

Abu Abdullah Muhammad ibn Battutah - Was he the world’s greatest traveler?

“I set out alone,” he wrote, “having neither fellow-traveller in whose companionship I might find cheer, nor caravan whose part I might join, but swayed by an overmastering impulse within me and a desire long-cherished in my bosom to visit these illustrious sanctuaries. So I braced my resolution to quit my dear ones, female and male, and forsook my home as birds forsake their nests. My parents being yet in the bonds of life, it weighed sorely upon me to part from them, and both they and I were afflicted with sorrow at this separation.”

It’s arguable Ibn Battuta travelled more than any other explorer in pre-modern history, 73,000 miles (and never by jet :-). He passed across northern Africa, deep into Egypt, explored most of the Middle East, headed into Persia, then north into Europe and East toward India and China. If true, his odyssey would have out-explored other great wanderers of the era like Zheng He , Marco Polo and Leo Africanus. Not all scholars agree that Battuta made everyone of these journeys, especially into eastern Europe and the far East. He apparently never kept notes and when he wrote his famous book after decades of travel he very likely fictionalized some encounters and plagiarized others. But even if he did, his book leaves a remarkable record of what much of the known world was like almost 700 years ago.

Near Ibn Battuta’s museum we heard a man playing his Oud, an ancient eleven-string Moroccan instrument, a kind of cross between a balalaika and guitar. We sat with him in a small, room off the square, shared some mint tea and watched his fingers fly over the strings. Big black glasses hung on his weather face. He didn’t speak a word and except for his fingers he hardly moved. He and the instrument were locked, two symbiotic creatures, each needing the other; each better together than apart.

A man plays the Oud near Ibn Battuta’s museum.

Early afternoon — Youssef sat us down for our first Moroccan meal together in a small cafe. We ordered and dug into tomatoes and olives and beets, calamari, and chicken tangine, and shrimp using khobz, coarse Moroccan bread, to place the food in our mouth instead of forks and spoons. It was all delicious. Moroccan cuisine is considered by many to be among the world's finest, and Cyndy and I weren’t going to disagree.  We had already witnessed  delicious food our first afternoon at the Diblu Restaurant, but with every meal the food only seemed to get better. Moroccan cooks specialize in spices, lots of them, including ras el hanout (a blend of 10 to 30 spices), coriander, cinnamon, cumin, saffron, dried ginger, and paprika. The combination of these flavors makes all the difference, IF you get them right.

Tangines are among one of Morocco’s more spectacular culinary gifts — stews of roasted lamb, fish or chicken with vegetables and spices of all kinds cooked in a cone-shaped terra cotta vessel that gives the meal its name. But you’ll also come across couscous with raisins or nuts and Harira cooked in a thick, tomato-based soup with chickpeas and meat traditionally served during Ramadan. During our explorations of the country, we found that every sector has its own specialties. But no matter where we ate, every meal was excellent, and healthy.

Day 246 May 30th 2022 – Asilah - Day 3

Food was still on our minds in the morning when we watched one of the cooks at the El Minzah making pancakes called msemen or rghaif, a kind of crepe you’re meant to enjoy for breakfast after you’ve rolled it with chocolate, honey or butter. One more delicious Moroccan concoction.

A cook at the El Minzah making pancakes called msemen.

That and some coffee and we were off to meet Jebriel and Youssef and head east toward the old town of Asilah where the Mediterranean Sea meets the Atlantic ocean. White beaches darted with colorful little umbrellas ran along the sandscape, but there was hardly a soul around except for a few teens enjoying the water.

Asilah is not far from Tangier and is famous as another fortress expanded by the Portuguese in its hey day, this time after it took the city in a massive sea assault in 1508. The fort is enormous and I could see the proof that Portugal had once been one of the world’s most formidable nations with a massive navy, a global trading system and colonies that extended from South America to the Far East. They remained formidable until the earthquake and tsunami of  1755 struck Lisbon and decimated the empire.

The ancient fortress city of Asilah where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic Ocean; a city lost in time; old double door knockers and local tapestries and artwork. (Photos - Chip Walter)

Though the fortress still stands at the edge of the sea, Asilah now is a tiny town made of walled and winding buildings hundreds of years old, a step back in time. The streets are narrow and both donkeys and the locals use them to navigate their way around. We walked past doorways with big wooden doors surrounded by high adobe walls. The doors, Youssef explained, usually have two knockers. One, larger and higher up at the center of the door and a second that was lower somewhere to the side and smaller. They existed to let people know what sort of person was knocking. Children and women generally clapped the smaller knockers and men usually wrapped the taller ones.

We were wandering the streets and the ancient battlements when I saw a man working inside the basement of one of the buildings. He stood at a big brick oven inside a floor of dirt, taking patted cakes of dough and passing them with a wooden paddle into the oven. He was making khobz, a grainy wheat dough patted with olive oil. Together they create a delicious soft crust as it is slow cooked in the stone oven. I bought a couple and we ate them fresh and hot right out of the oven. If only I could have gotten my hands on some tangine.

Making khobz, a grainy wheat dough patted with olive oil.

Later, we drove back toward Tangier. High hills rose up from the outskirts of downtown. It looked to me like the city was thriving. I checked. Its population is growing — pushing  1.3 million people in the metropolitan area.  I saw new rectangular houses and apartments outside on the city’s outskirts that reminded me of the Mediterranean-style apartments that are crowded everywhere in Athens - cement, square, awninged, brilliant white. In between were older homes where small balconies hung above tiny yards strung with sheets, shirts and dresses that furiously flapped in the dry wind. The people in this little sector of the human race were still living their lives not all that differently than Carthaginian laborers, or plebeians under Rome or sailors who had moved from Portugal or fleeing jews from Spain had in years and centuries past. Looked at the windows as we passed. Each had their own story. Each their own dreams, hopes, joys, sorrows and fears. And every day, the city itself evolved, powered by it all.

Day 247 - May 31st 2022 – To Tétouan, Chefchaouen and Fez

First thing the next morning, fortified with fresh msemen and apricot jam, strong Moroccan coffee and papaya, watermelon, pineapple and kiwi, we and our bags left Tangier behind and began winding by car to Fez, one of Morocco’s largest cities and the nation’s religious capital. Its history dates back 1100 years. But first we would stop by Tétouan, renown for its culture and art and one of Morocco’s many UNESCO World Heritage Sites. After that onto Chefchaouen, Morocco’s famed Blue City, also a UNESCO site. (Morocco has nine of them.)

Tétouan

Tétouan is a city of over 300,000 people that lies in a broad, brown valley that skirts the Mediterranean. Nomadic Berbers settled here, though it’s not precisely known when. Historians only know it was before Phoenician traders showed up 2900 years ago. For awhile, it was part of the Carthaginian empire until Romans arrived in the 4th century B.C and made it a colony under Augustus. The Berbers didn’t care for that and eventually drove them out of the nearby Rif mountains.

Many of the people in Tétouan still speak Spanish, partly because thousands of Spanish jews migrated to the city during the Spanish Inquisition in the 16th century when, under Catholic rulers Ferdinand and Isabella and the Spanish Inquisition, Jews were tortured, forced to be baptized Catholic or exiled from all lands controlled by Spain. The city is still sometimes nicknamed "Pequeña Jerusalén," Little Jerusalem.

Ironically, Spain itself came to control this part of Morocco when in 1913 it became the capital of the Spanish protectorate of Morocco. It remained the capital until 1956, when the region regained its full independence, another reason most Tétouans speak Spanish. It was here in this enclave that Francisco Franco raised his army, brought it in 1936 to Spain where he eventually took control of the country and ruled for nearly 40 years until turning it over to a new monarchy under the current king, Juan Carlos.

Despite its long Spanish history, Tétouen itself looks Moroccan down to its toes with its adobe buildings and broad, oak-lined boulevards. We weren't allowed to take pictures in the souks (marketplaces) but we navigated the tight alleys past cyclists, locals dickering over goods, and donkey-pulled carts, as we eyed the labyrinths of fresh fruit, open bowls of spices, iced fish, meats of all varieties, baskets of apricots, tomatoes, nuts, garlic, onions and carrots — all of it fresh and displayed beautifully by the family members who have been running the businesses here from the time in memorial.

“Through here come women who prepare the days meals,” said Youssef, “with fresh, local produce, meats and fish, herbs and of course pastries made with fresh dough, nuts and honey. It all sounded delicious to me, but time was short and we wanted to explore the city’s intimate Anthropology Institute because the relics inside date back to King Juba II, 200 BC, and later mosaics, sculpture, pottery and metal work, under Quito the Roman head of the region. I particularly loved an ancient sculpture of Hercules battling the titan Atlas.

With a few hundred years of ancient history crammed in my head, it was time to get to Chefchouen. Our car swung us away from the valley into the green hills that rose into the Rif mountains, ears popping. Soon were were passing through small, rolling farms of corn and peas and olives orchards winding generally south.

Chefchaouen

Chefchoan is indeed blue. You can see the village from a mile away, its adobe buildings clinging to a steep hill that rises above the flatlands below. We parked on the periphery and walked along the creek that flanks the east boundary of the town.

Everything about Chefchaouen is refreshing: the deep blue, sapphire, azure, lapis colored buildings and steps; the cold, gurgling creek where a local entrepreneur surrounded by every imaginable fruit expertly sliced chunks of chilled watermelon for us, singing a quiet song while he worked; the countless art galleries, woven tapestries and paintings that hung all around us until we reached the town plaza and the location of the old Kasbah and prison, built to keep Portuguese invaders at bay. Along with the Ghomaras of the region, and the Moriscos and Spanish and Portuguese Jews that settled in Morocco during the Spanish Inquisition, they fought to keep the Portuguese to the north. Ultimately they succeeded.

The Kasbah of Chechaouen functioned as a residence, arsenal, and this dreary prison.

Like Tétouan I could have spent days languorously exploring this intimate village, but we were on a schedule and I could only tag it as a place we would have be sure to return to some day. After another fine Moroccan lunch outside above the quiet square, we departed the Blue City and wound more deeply over and through the Rif mountains, past acres of olive orchards that Youssef explained are valued for the salty tang that makes its way from the sea-tainted ground into the olives you eat.

We drove for five hours through this country. Occasionally I would see a cluster of laughing children in a small village as we passed, or silos of grain, once a mule with a rider holding an enormous bundle of sticks precariously on the animal’s back. I'm not sure what sort of geography I expected to see as we passed through this part of Morocco, but it wasn’t the beautiful rolling landscape I was looking at. I felt at home, at ease, grateful.

Morocco’s salt-tanged olive orchards south of Chefchaouen. (Photos-Chip Walter)

Still, after the long drive, we were happy to see the broad, low buildings ahead, the outskirts of Fez. We passed beneath a long, palm-treed boulevard and then bent toward the old city’s immense ramparts until at last Jabriel and our car took us through them and into Morocco’s holy, Islamic city and then to our rhyad hidden deep within the city’s labyrinthine medinas.

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/exploring-moroccos-exotic-cities-tangier-tetouan-chefchaouen

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Blisters and Blessings: Day Two on the Camino de Santiago

 

Waking Up in Arcade. Breakfast and the Locals

We awoke from our single beds refreshed even though the room felt like a vintage Camino Way guesthouse out of Lucy and Desi’s 1950s sitcom 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.

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. LeSana 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

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.

I missed sleeping with Cyn for about 20 seconds, and then I was out cold. I think Cyn was asleep even sooner.

Next up … the mysteries of days three and four unfold.

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/camino-de-santiago-day-2-arcade-to-pontevedra

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Where the Outlaw Lived: The Hunt for Butch Cassidy’s Ranch

 

The Legend of Butch Cassidy

When you’re a fugitive, with the best detective agency in the Americas on your trail, being 16 hundred miles from anywhere important is probably a good tactic.

It was 1901 when Butch Cassidy, the affable leader of the Wild Bunch gang, known for a streak of railroad heists and bank robberies in the American West, took his “winnings” to Argentina, a country that would cultivate a reputation for concealing notorious refugees. Seeking a quieter life, Cassidy and his two companions Henry Longbaugh (The Sundance Kid) and Etta Place (Sundance’s girlfriend and possible wife) settled in the town of Cholila at the base of the Andes known as the Pre-Corderrilla, near the Chilean border. There they bought a homestead and 12,000 acres of land, determined to go straight and lay low.

The Pinkerton Detective Agency, who had been after the gang in the United States, was not directly involved in tracking Cassidy to South America. Pinkerton could not close the deal to finance Butch’s capture. But by 1903 they knew his whereabouts in South America, and there was a bounty of $10,000 on the heads of the Wild Bunch.

The “family of 3” managed to scrape out a living with a few hundred cattle and a thousand sheep, becoming well-respected in the Corderrilla. But two factors made a peaceable life impossible. The first was the bounty. The second, of course, is that trouble finds troublemakers and after five years as a citizen, Butch reunited with some former “colleagues” who found their way to Cholila.

By 1905, the re-minted Wild Bunch was at it again, taking their act to a bank in Santa Cruz and two years later another bank in San Luis. With the increased scrutiny from law enforcement, it was time to go. Etta returned to the States while Butch sold the ranch and made for Bolivia with Sundance.

How the legendary outlaws died is a mystery. Historians favor the murder-suicide theory while the pair were trapped, surrounded by scores of soldiers, in Bolivia. Other legends have them meeting their fate in Uruguay. The most intriguing theory is that Butch faked his own death in Bolivia and simply went home to Utah. A credible account by Cassidy’s sister places him in Circleville, Utah in 1925 and later dying in Washington State. Unfortunately, all attempts to find his remains have failed.

The most popularized fiction has the men dying in a Bolivian firefight, trapped in a building and surrounded by the Bolivian Army. That’s the version told in the 1969 movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Tired, wounded, out of options, the men burst from the structure to meet their fate in a blaze of glory. If you haven’t seen the movie yet, it’s worth a watch. Ironically, however, the movie did not include the gang’s time in Argentina.

As is the nature of folk heroes, following his death, Cassidy could be found fraternizing with Pancho Villa in Mexico, driving model Ts through the American West, prospecting in Alaska, and touring San Francisco, probably with Elvis.

And the fate of the land? Although occupied as recently as 25 years ago by a Chilean family, today the Cassidy ranch is abandoned. Bruce Chatwin, in In Patagonia, described his own hunt for the Cassidy ranch in 1974. “The countryside had not changed much since the turn of the century. The cabins were in decay, but the structures still stood.” Although there isn’t much left today, fans of the movie would be enthralled by this site. That is certainly what drove me and Cyndy to track down the ranch. I wasn’t easy …

Crossing the Chilean - Argentine Border to Bariloche

The border crossing from Puerto Montt to Bariloche is 8 hours, partly because it takes a long time to get through two border crossings: one at Chile and another in Argentina. I have never seen such a border crossing. Each one takes an hour, at least. This turns out to be a more challenging passage than we originally expected. Taking a rental car across the border into Argentina is prohibitively expensive. Even “puddle jumper” service between the cities is absent. The least bad option seems to be a bus.

These are some pictures of the Argentine border with its towering mountains (and a flag), desiccated forests and motorcycle enthusiasts who drive through Patagonia. Mostly they come from Germany or France. We’re not sure why the forests were destroyed. Possibly from a volcano eruption about 10 years earlier.

On Our Way to San Carlos de Bariloche

San Carlos de Bariloche, or Bariloche, is a city in Argentine Patagonia, located at the edge of Nahuel Huapi National Park. Founded in 1902, it aimed to capitalize on the region’s natural beauty, attracting European immigrants, particularly from Germany and Switzerland, who influenced its distinctive Alpine-style architecture. The expansion of the Argentine railway system helped make Bariloche a popular tourist destination, especially for winter sports at Cerro Catedral, which opened in the 1930s.

The city also became notable during World War II, serving as a refuge for various expatriates, some with controversial backgrounds. Today, Bariloche is famous for its chocolate shops, vibrant food scene, and outdoor activities like hiking and skiing. With a population of around 100,000, it blends its rich history with a lively modern atmosphere, making it a captivating stop for those exploring Patagonia.

The bus finally got us to the charming tourist town of Bariloche. It sits along the glacial, alpine lake Nahuel Huapi. It is immense and absolutely pristine. It reminded me of Tahoe but prettier, deeper, bigger.

From there we picked up our rental car to begin the search for the ranch in Cholila, 3.5 hours south. They had bought the property with the money they made robbing banks in Montana and Utah. That was when The Union Pacific hired the Pinkerton Detective Agency to bring them in dead or alive. The bounty was over $10,000 for the two bank robbers. More on that later.

Late in the afternoon, we skirted the dusty road of Bariloche and headed South with Nahuel Huapi on our right. The sun was descending as we drove and made the Pre-cordillera mountains fierce and fiery. The sky felt like passion and love.

Very soon afterward, it was dark. Nothing buy us, the winding road and the occasional 18 wheeler.

Arrival in Cholila

Cholila was founded in the late 1800s, primarily as a settlement for settlers drawn to the region’s fertile land. The town became a key location for agriculture and livestock farming, which remain significant to its economy today. Throughout the early 20th century, it developed a reputation as a rugged frontier town. The surrounding area was once home to indigenous Mapuche communities, and remnants of their history can still be found. Cholila's remote location contributed to its slower development, allowing it to retain a more laid-back atmosphere compared to other Argentine towns. This blend of history and natural beauty continues to shape its identity today.

We arrived in the town of Cholila in the dead of night.

Our GPS told us to drive across 10 more miles of dirt roads to get to the place we’re staying - La Pilarica. Mostly fisherman go there to relax and fly fish the nearby river. Bill and Vivian run the place and were there when we arrived close to midnight. Bill had hand built the hostel 19 years ago and he and his wife run it. They did quite a job!

Through bits of Spanish and English Bill told me his family had come to the region early in the 20th century. His grandfather ran a mule team (160 mules) that hauled wool from Cholila to Puerto Madryn on the Atlantic coast. Nasty work. Bill said, he was known as the best mule team operator in southern Chile. And he probably knew Butch. Everyone did, because everyone in the town loved him, Etta and Sundance though they probably didn’t know who, precisely, they were, including the mayor and sheriff. One hundred and twenty years later later the town hasn’t changed much.

The Search for the Butch Cassidy Ranch

After breakfast provided by Bill and Vivian, we began searching for the outlaws. We passed some local gauchos down the road, waved and then bounce onto Cholila. We knew to look for the police because the ranch house is supposedly near by.

On the road outside of town, we found Cholila’s one local policeman. He seemed terrified to see me. I ask if he knew where Cassidy’s ranch was and he indicates up the road to the right but I don’t understand a word of detail and he doesn’t understand any of my English. “Donde esta casa de Butch Cassidy” is the best I can do. We continue into the pampa. See the video for more.

On the search we find a small ranch. I think maybe this is it. But it isn’t. A local, quite toothless but very helpful, sits with me. I suggest a map and we work on that, drawing pictures in the dirt. Then we head off again in a new direction. For miles we bounce along until we hit a creek too deep to risk fording in our little VW. As we prepare to head back, we run into some German tourists who speak English. They give us specific directions. And we head back another way much closer to the police station!! That’s me talking to them in their car.

Found Butch Cassidy’s!!!

We made it! Signs all around saying “Cassidy” confirm our hunch. The grounds are unattended, but we are helped along by arrows pointing to the closed, but inviting gate. We pass through to wander the remains.

The ranch features several original structures, including a main house built from sturdy timber and stone, reflecting practical construction. The house is simple, unadorned, with a sturdy porch offering sweeping views of the surrounding landscape, which is breathtaking. Inside, the layout is modest, with basic living spaces that would have accommodated Cassidy and his gang. It is mostly walls and spaces, however. Little remains besides the structures.

Other buildings on the site include old barns and stables, used for livestock and storage. I cannot tell which were for cattle and which were for horses. These buildings are showing signs of age, the wood weathering and the metal rusting. The remnants of corrals and fencing can still be seen, hinting at the ranch's functional past. It is not much different, I imagine, than what Chatwin saw nearly fifty years earlier.

Please watch the video series to take a stroll of the grounds and enjoy the photos below.

Full playlist of all videos from the Butch Cassidy ranch.

Pretty nice for 1901. Here are some still interiors of the living room, kitchen and a bedroom (I think).

Departing the Ranch

Afterwards we find a bar nearby that has a museum loaded with details about the ranch and the Hole in the Wall Gang that Butch Cassidy ran. That’s where you see the color video of Butch bottom right and Sundance bottom left. The other picture gives you a view of the mountains from the ranch. Looks a lot like Montana where Cassidy grew up. It’s easy to see why Butch would have liked it here.

I am catching up on some notes about tracking down the ranch that Butch Cassidy, the Sundance kid and Etta Place bought in Argentina after they were forced to leave the United States when they robbed so many banks and trains that an elite private posse was created to them down. They bought the ranch in 1901 and lived there five and seven years give or take. They actually became real citizens in the small town of Cholila, Argentina. They knew the mayor and became friends with a former sheriff from Montana (possibly inspired by the sheriff they meet in the movie). They lived a relatively quiet life - until some of the posse began to get close. At the time there was a bounty on each of their heads of $10,000 which was an enormously high price in those days. They sold the ranch, Etta Place returned to the United States, and Butch and Harry (the Sundance kid) headed north to Bolivia. Their time living in Argentina at the ranch isn’t mentioned in the famous movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid but they did eventually work in a mine in Bolivia and they may have robbed that mine, or they finally went back and made a big bank robbery in Bolivia and that was win the Banditos Yanquees were gunned down in that country. Or at least that’s what most people think. But some say that both survived and Butch Cassidy’s sister swears that her brother came back and visited her in Montana in the 1930s.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid - 1969 Movie

 

Of course, our inspiration for taking this side quest into Cholila comes from the love of both history and western cinema that naturally includes the 1969 Butch Cassidy film. If you enjoy stories of outlaws, the wild west, gangs, and heists, it’s probably your kind of movie too. Our contributor Drew Moniot (of Drew’s Reviews) kindly agreed to review of the film for us. Read his review of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and then go watch the movie again!

Lovers of cinema, history and the wild west will also enjoy our Dispatches from Deadwood, South Dakota and Monument Valley, in particular (plus all of those in between). We talk about gunfighters and movie magic. Please check those out.

Recommendations

If you’re planning a trip to Cholila (and check out the Cassidy ranch for yourself), or anywhere else in Patagonia, we have many recommendations for you to consider. These are all personally recommended from our own experience. And please see the full list of our travel recommendations from around the world or these recommendations exclusively for Patagonia.

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/the-hunt-for-butch-cassidys-ranch-in-cholila-argentina

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