Editor’s note: Hank Claycamp, creator of Mount St. Helens volcanic glass, is a colorful Centralia personality who spends much of his time traveling with paintbrush and pencils in hand. Instead of taking pictures, Claycamp collects stories and creates art based on what he sees. The Chronicle profiled him on Dec. 17 in a piece called “Painting the World.” Claycamp now offers this travelogue in words and images of his ongoing trip to Europe and Africa with his wife, Linda.
Coming in for a landing at the Madrid airport after a five-hour delay at New York, the pilot gets on the horn and says, “Hey folks, since we’re so close I think I want to go to Paris.”
Considering the alternative at 250 mph, we all thought it was a good idea so we got some altitude and toddled off to Charles De Gaulle Airport.
We landed in a snowstorm, then they took us by bus to the Paris Hilton, where they gave us $700 per night rooms with meals and wine, all thanks to American Airlines and the Spanish air traffic controllers union terrorist strike, the bums!
They held the whole nation hostage until the army stepped in and forced them back to work. And Linda — you remember Linda? — she was sleeping on the conveyor belt at Madrid. She says I’m the only person who could fall in a bucket of mud and wind up at the Paris Hilton. Not much sympathy for problems.
So here we are in Madrid. I have never been so crowded in my life. It was the Christmas season rush. No one could get home because of the strike.
Anyhow, while there we went to the palace (nice digs), then on to the Prado Museum (world-class for art second only to the Louvre in Paris).
We left Madrid by bus for La Solano and home. La Solano, a sleepy place — very sleepy place — so sleepy they are just getting ready for last year’s storms type of town. Linda’s job is assisting the English class in the grade school. They have incorporated me as the art director at the high pay of $0 per month, but all the graham crackers I want.
This is the high plains of La Mancha, immortalized by Cervantes’ Don Quixote. Every where you go there are signs, “Don Quixote slept here” or “Donny married all my daughters at once.” You know, the normal stuff considering he was not real. Tell them that and they shout back, “Neither was Elvis Presley or Karen Carpenter, whoever they were.”
In the town’s plaza, there are 12 bars in a 300-foot walking distance. Tower Crawl, eat your heart out. One thing I’ve noticed about ol’, oops, Linda: There is no moss growing on her. So we took off for Marrakesh in Morocco, so move over Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, take another train, you’re such a dork! The big L and I want to blow smoke rings from the corners of my mouth.
We traveled from Madrid to Marrakesh for 27 euros round-trip on easyJet. I honestly didn’t think they had any jets; I thought they just moved you from gate to gate.
Marrakesh sits about 150 miles from the north coast of Africa. It would be a desert if not for the Atlas mountains. What are the Atlas mountains? I’m glad you asked that.
The Atlas range stretches from the Atlantic Ocean to somewhere in Algeria. Its average height is 12,000 to 14,000 feet, and waters north Africa with its snow.
Anyhow, we got a room for 15 euros per night right by the Djmaa el fna, or city center. The night before, we sat at a cafe on the street corner and sipped green mint tea and watched the world go by, and what a world it was. I have never seen so many mystical, exotic and downright strange people in my life.
Now I cannot and will not dispense with my Moslem phobia since 9/11, and will always believe they should carry a little guilt for the death and destruction. But here I’m not sure they know of the world problems let alone feel responsible.
We awoke to the muezzins calling the faithful to prayer. They could use some singing lessons from Bozo the Clown. Geez, honey, let’s get some coffee and pour it down our ears. This whole Moslem experience is going to throw a monkey wrench into my bigotry.
In the two cities we went to, Marrakesh and Essaouira, they were both filled with shops containing everything in the world — spices, figs, dates, shoes, pottery, textiles, brassware, all ready to be sold.
But to whom? No kidding, how does the economy work? No one could sell enough from their store to make a living, but they are, doing the same thing every day that’s been done for a thousand years, Somehow it seems to work. I just don’t know how.
Well, we came down from the valley back to Marrakesh. The art above is of a swami who was toodle dooing to his pet cobra in the giant square. I somehow got the nickname of “Mustache” and it stuck throughout the medina.
I couldn’t walk anywhere without someone saying, “Hey Mustache, come buy my dates, come buy my toadstools.” So shaddup, already!
Our last stop was a rather large beach city with palisades fortified with cannons called Essaouira. It rained so much we were drowned rats. A little Berber man came up to me and quoted from Khalil Gibran’s book “The Prophet,” and I quote, “Do not mourn the mud on thy blue suede shoes when all the heavens coalesce to bring us life, oh, for shame thou foreign dog.”
Yep, right out of ol’ Khalil’s book. You know, he was right, so while I was making some good old ugly American guilt, he stole my wallet.
That’s about it for this installment, and if you think any little part of this isn’t true, you rip that part out, mail it to The Chronicle, and they will send you double your money back.
Just imagine if the truth sounds good, what’s it like after I get a hold of it? Well, packing for Egypt on Friday. Talk to you later.
