Big Mama's House

We began our journey at 5:30 AM from the village to the regional capital of Ziguinchor. Once there we start a process of sorting through all the voices shouting at us to buy goods ranging from household items to electronics to livestock. While anime Kleenex™ type facial tissues are obviously super tempting, what we actually need is a sept-place to Dakar. 

During the milling around phase of this process we notice a familiar face. It's Big Mama from the ride down from Dakar last week! We exchange pleasantries about our visits, and she informs me there are no more cars to Dakar. She assures me she will fix it and slowly moves off to do what Big Mama does. Through some form of wizardry that only women in this culture wield, she is able to secure a sept-place to a midway city at a fair price. From there, the plan is to find another sept-place to Dakar. She makes sure we all have comfortable seats, and off we go.

Arriving at the midway city of Koalack, our very angry and over aggressive driver just stops the car at the main market in town, turns off the engine, and walks away. The deal was for him to take us to the garage to catch another sept-place to Dakar, not abandon us at the market. Since the market is nowhere near the garage, Big Mama rolls into action. She is obviously not going to walk, so she begins to scold everybody in earshot, starting and ending with the driver, but including 2 shop owners, 2 local taxi drivers, a policeman, and a couple random passersby. After much "discussion" a suitable compromise is reached. All 5 of us climb into an economy car doubling as a cab and off we go in a sweaty heap to the garage.

Big Mama does not like the looks of the first sept-place to Dakar, so she has them bring a different car. We pile into the better seats and are off to Dakar in a few minutes.

Arrival in Dakar usually includes random stops to let people out on the way to the garage. Big Mama insists we come to her house to have some tea and wash up after the long hot dirty trip. We have several hours before our flight, so I agree. Pulling up to her building she tells me to look carefully so I will know where to tell the taxi driver to go next time I am in town.

Upstairs at Chez Big Mama I am told her house is my house. Free Internet, a place to bathe, an English toilet, tea, television...very nice. She offers us some food, but we really need to get going to catch our flight. She calls her personal cabbie to pick us up and take us to the airport for a very fair price. We exchange addresses and other ways to connect, take some photos, and head down to the cab. Big Mama follows us down with a big tear in her eye and makes us promise to let her know when we arrive in New York.

If angels appear as large African women, then Big Mama has some wings tucked under her size XXXL "moo-moo".

Universal Remote

On a long walk through some remote villages, we happened upon a boutique in the very small village of Loudia Diolla. The small store had a few necessities, and an important money making electrical outlet. The shopkeeper was making money by charging cell phones and batteries. We also noticed a satellite dish proudly mounted in front of the shop, and a television playing in the corner. In the midst of earthen buildings with thatch roofs, this place was a technological marvel.

We greeted the shopkeep and he invited us to sit. We spent a few moments talking about the weather and other customary friendlies when a serious topic arose. His universal remote did not work! It had been reset somehow and he did not have the television code. Consequently he was limited to 1 channel of local programing. A real geek shame considering 30+ are available.

I must report I tried and tried and tried to get that thing working. I wracked my brain for all the universal remote knowledge I could muster. I applied that vast experience and knowledge base to the task at hand and worked and worked. Actually I gave up after about 5 minutes. No luck.

We stayed for a little while longer talking about the french word for humid, and then it was time to go. What are the chances of that?

Pedro

On our trip to the small village of Dianten, we met a boy named Pedro. No kidding. Not a typical name for a native of Senegal. He is the only person from this small village any of us had ever heard of, so we decided to find him. We happened upon his house quite by accident. We had spent much of the day walking in the jungle, exploring as we went. We decided at follow an unknown trail that went back in the general direction from which we came. Arriving back at civilization we noticed a group of boys sitting under a tree eating the afternoon meal. We asked if any one knew a boy named Pedro. We were quickly redirected to a man who walked us over to the house of Pedro.

We sat and talked with Pedro and his friends for about 45 minutes, and then Pedro gave us a tour of his village. Pedro eventually walked us out to our car waiting by the road. We were very happy we met. Olé.

Village People

Today we took a walk out to a smaller village close to the bigger village where we are staying. Before leaving the bigger village we noticed an unusual number of students milling around the roadways. We stopped to ask what was going on and were told students from neighboring villages were gathering to protest "L'annee Blanche". I translated that as "The White Year". Soon there was a street march coming down the road at us. Being one if 4-5 white people in town I noticed a bit of concern creeping up in me. We stopped and asked a man about "The White Year". He explained it was a problem with the teachers being on strike for 5 months this year and there being no school. Now the government is saying the students are still responsible for the whole year's worth of material. The students are angry about that. Phew. Not my fault.
We then walked about 3 miles to the smaller village. We were greeted by an older topless and toothless woman who could have really used a bra and some dentures. Welcome!

We met a bunch of really nice people along the way, including the purported oldest man in the Ziguinchor Region. He is around 95 years old. He seems to like peanuts and owns a pig tied up by its back foot. I don't think that pig is going to be around long.

Our day ended being serenaded by children and driven back to the larger village by a 2Pac Shakur look alike. Maybe it was him? He may have checked out for the quiet life here in West Africa.

Meetin' and Greetin'

My first day in the village was spent walking around to renew old relationships with the locals. Reconnecting with old friends is a favorite part of travel as we catch up and share news. We also met some new people with whom we were able to share about our lives a bit. The market was bustling as usual with the hum of unfettered capitalism.

One highlight was seeing the mother of our longtime friend Po. Last we saw her she was very very sick. Deathly ill. Visiting her at her home was a sobering experience at the time. Today she was at the market, full of life, singing and dancing with our friend Lorrie. It was great to see her healthy. In another chance meeting we ran into Po on the other side of town. When he saw me he embraced me for a long time. We spoke for a few minutes and we made plans to meet later in the week. During my first trip here several years ago we met Po and he was the crazy man in town. He walked with a heavy iron staff, sported a super dirty hairdo, and wore army fatigues. It was good to see him today in his right mind and happy.

A cool breeze in the late afternoon is a welcome relief from the heat of the day. Hopefully a cool night is on the way. We'll visit another village tomorrow.

Don't Mess With Big Mama

A sept-place trip in Senegal is an interesting bonding experience. A sept-place is a car that seats 7 people, often used as a transport over distance. The idea is to stuff as many people as possible,  along with their belongings, into a small, slightly elongated hatchback car. This really makes for an intimate setting with complete strangers on a 12+ hour adventure.

Today's ride from Dakar to Ziguinchor featured an interesting crew. There was a no-nonsense girl from a small village trying to make it in the big city, a girl in a fully veiled muslim outfit with only black mesh to see through, the slightly autistic driver, a couple of normal nondescript casting call type characters for car rides, and then there was Big Mama. Big Mama was taking no guff, and established her backseat throne early in the ride. When Big Mama said pull over, we pulled over. When Big Mama wanted to hold a baby, she held the baby. When Big Mama wanted the windows up or down, the window rollers complied. It was absolute rule. Thankfully, Big Mama liked us. She made sure we had a place to sit in the shade while waiting in the Gambia. Her newly drafted Gambian serfs ran errands for her, fetching drinks and food, and even a new pair of flipflops. It was amazing to watch her wield her Big Mama power.

Arriving in Ziguinchor the usual gaggle of drivers accosted us with ridiculously high fares to Oussouye. Big Mama heard such nonsense and immediately scolded one of the younger drivers. In response he took me by the hand and led me to a friend who gave me a fair price to Oussouye. Thanks Big Mama!

Hannah Montana Rocks Dakar

Not Really. I'm not sure her brand of country fried pop is really big in Dakar, but there may definitely be an underground scene I am unaware of. The reason that came up was the piece of designer luggage I saw while boarding the Dakar flight. It was a nice cabin size shiny purple hard case roller bag with sequined clear plastic wheels. Filling the front was an action shot of Hannah Montana in concert, surrounded by yellow and pink splashes of color. As a bonus, the owner had added a personalized sticker that said, "Star!". The real mystery was the owner, a middle aged white lady. I can only assume she's a fan from back in the day.

Arrival in Dakar was the usual fare. There are always so many nice young men eager to help is with our luggage...for a fee. I'm beginning to suspect that they are really not so excited about our arrival and more interested in our money. The cab drivers are very aggressive, so we chose a couple of hapless looking guys who appeared a bit further down in the pecking order. They were willing to drive around looking for the place we were staying. They obviously had nothing better to do. Video games are not that easy to come by. Safely with friends we can sleep a few hours before our early ride to Ziguinchor in the morning.

Sunny Madrid

Wrangled into a bright and shiny airport of glass and steel, morning came much too early for me. Greeted by a friendly "Buenos Dias" disembarking the flight, I was reminded they do speak Spanish in SPAIN. So I brushed up on all my known Spanish phrases: Hello, Goodbye, Yes, No, and Where is the house of Pepe?. Ready.

Budget travel involves lots of waiting by its very nature. Off hour flights, mismatched time schedules, and a general attitude of taking what you can get for the best price is key. So, a few hours in Madrid and then off to Dakar.

Rush Hour Rush

The drive to JFK airport is always a mystery as to how long it will actually take to negotiate the 300 or so miles to New York City. Over the years snow storms, rain storms, ice storms, hurricanes, traffic accidents, construction, auto breakdowns, protests,  sporting events, a chemical spill, and even a factory explosion have directly affected the amount of time required for the trip. What should be five hours of moderate driving has stretched up to 14 hours due to unforeseen events. So, the travel to and from the airport is best when uneventful and mundane.

Today something unusual happened. The travel to New York City was mercifully boring. When approaching the George Washington Bridge to cross from New Jersey into Manhattan, I noticed the time approaching 5 PM. Today is Monday, and we are driving across a major U.S. city. RUSH HOUR! Settling in for the long haul, I checked my snacks, drinks, and potty situation. All good. This is when the unusual part happened...we were still moving, and that at a good clip. We approached construction, but to my amazement no slow down. Clearing the construction we merged with some traffic in a notoriously congested area. No slow down. We passed LaGuardia Airport, Citi Field, and the National Tennis Center and there was still no real slow down. Seeing what looked like an accident ahead I thought...finally! Yet traffic continued to move freely right past. It was amazing. We arrived at the airport right at the 5 hour mark from our time of departure, having experienced a perfect storm of rush hour freedom. What a way to start an adventure.

Frosty Leprechauns

We arose at the early hour of 6 AM local time to start our journey westward toward home. From the bus a hard frost was evident outside of Belfast, especially in the higher elevations. The Belfast-Dublin transport was full to capacity as we picked up riders along the way in small towns and shopping plazas.

One observation of the ride I'll share was of a pre-teen sitting two rows ahead of me with his/her hoodie up and over sleeping against the window. What was remarkable was the volume of his/her headphones. He/she (it) was listening to the radio so loudly that I could clearly hear both the music and details of the speaking two rows behind it. That is a lot of sound coming through a pair of tiny headphones considering a bus full of people is not exactly a quiet environment. What made it even more curious is that it's Mum was seated right next to it, seemingly oblivious to the ear drum damage going on right beside her. Are you serious? Preteens are admittedly kind of stupid, but the Mum should know better...right? I mean, right?

Thank you Ireland for a wonderful visit. Just to think, I was in the same city as David Hasselhoff last night! It is truly a magical place.

You Can't Get There From Here

Today we went to see some new friends we met earlier in the week. The building is situated on a fence line that separates the Hill Road and Shankill neighborhoods of Belfast. These neighborhoods are traditionally the battleground of para-military organizations, angry youth, and home to protests and marches of various kinds. To control the violence, a fence/wall was built. On the road where this building is situated there is a double fence that blocks the road with a 20 meter neutral zone between sides. When we met up with our friends during the week, the fences were open, and we entered from the Falls Road side. This morning we followed our original path and found the fences closed and locked. We backtracked and walked up Falls Road looking for a way around but found none. There was literally no way through. Walls and fences blocked the way - every way. We were forced to go back to the city center to actually go around and walk back up Shankill Road, making us 20 minutes late for our appointment.

For all the advances made in the peace of Northern Ireland, this locked heavy metal fence with razor wire around it stands in witness to the continued issues that exist.

On a lighter note, one if the acts performing for the MTV European Music Awards was doing a sound check at a huge stage near City Hall. All the girls were screaming, guys were running to get pictures. I didn't have any idea who he was. No clue. A sure sign I'm getting old.

Stranraer

Today we had the chance to board a huge, fast, modern ferry from Belfast,  Northern Ireland to Stranraer, Scotland. Before we even left we were told what a waste of time this would be. Horrible, terrible, stupid, and awful were a few of the comments we received when sharing travel plans. So bad was our decision, we were told, that we should forfeit our tickets and just go somewhere else...anywhere else. The Scottish port town was described as devoid of any appeal whatsoever. So boring that ANY other activity would be a better substitute. Undaunted, we stuck with our plans and sailed to Scotland. As it turned out, the sleepy town turned out to be a sleepy little place that was completely unexciting. Not that unexciting is a bad thing. We wandered around the town for hours, took pictures, had tea, and enjoyed the sunny day. I can see why our Belfast friends warned us against going. I would probably do the same. As it turned out, however, boring was good. At least today.

Walking along during the day, my friend found a two pence coin on the ground. Seeing him pick it up, an old woman said, "Better spit on it for good luck." So he did. That was the excitement for the day. I've had worse days.

Irish Resistance

We had an opportunity to attend a book launch gathering at Queens University in Belfast to celebrate four books written by PhD graduates of the school of Irish Politics. All four authors presented their works on various participants in the Irish political process during the 20th century. After they completed their remarks, a renowned expert on the subject ascended the podium to pompously add his thoughts on the matter and close the formalities. During the launch I noticed a man sitting near me who had long greying hair, a super rocking mustache,  and walked with a cane. He seemed to show particular interest in the subject.  At a reception following I was introduced to him and had a short but really enlightening conversation with him. He asked what I thought of the talk, and I honestly said it was outside my areas of study or expertise. He began to recite the names of the men who serve as subjects of the books on-hand for the launch. With each name he recited his personal knowledge of, and relationship with each one in the 1970's and 1980's. He began a recitation of his family history in Ireland going back 100 generations. He also answered questions I had about a variety of subjects. At the end he expressed his amusement and disgust at the distinguished expert in Irish history who spoke, not being Irish at all...he's English. He said, "They speak of Irish resistance as an academic question to be answered. They talk about Irish resistance, " he says, "I am Irish resistance." Indeed he has the scars to prove it. I learned more from him in 20 minutes than I learned from the PhD experts in an hour. There's something to be said for the real deal.

Shankill and Falls

Our travels took us to the Shankill and Falls neighborhoods of Belfast today. These neighborhood represent the broader national divisions which have, in times past,  led to the rise of para-military organizations, hatred, prejudice,  and violence. So bad was the violence that walls and fences were erected to divide the residents. Today, large murals remember the fallen and depict more noble ideals of peace. The areas now look somewhat depressed economically and socially.

While walking we ran into a woman from Toronto currently working in Belfast. She gave us alot of information and some really important insight. It was a key meet up I think.

Words of the day:

Bap - a big fat hamburger bun/roll.

Champ - mashed potatoes.

Derry

Today we visited the city of Derry. It is the site of the Bloody Sunday killings, the home of the Irish volunteers who participated and died in the prison hunger strike, and the center of  many protests and bombings of the 1970's and 1980's. It is a central point of what some Irish call "The Troubles". 

There is a real sense of struggle and an independent spirit that lingers here. Skateboarding punks and musing youth seen throughout the city now seem to fight boredom more than anything else.

There was (at the risk of appearing fixated on this horrible advertising campaign), yet another tasteless Coors Light ad here featuring the wrinkled up, denim clad, grisly Jean-Claude VanDamme. This swill has apparently broken the confines of Belfast and spread as far as the Maiden City. To its credit only one ad was spotted, but did feature VanDamme pictured on top of an ice and snow covered mountain wearing white socks and very expensive nice looking Italian loafers. Truly a tragic footwear choice, and probably an oversight by the crack advertising team in Golden, Colorado.  At least there are classy (if not completely out of place and impractical) shoes in the ad. Let's hope he waterproofed them...

Speaking of Classy

It appears the Coors Light billboard that greeted us in Belfast is an entire ad campaign spread throughout the city. It's on billboards, busses, bus stops, and buildings. There are several ads, each with a dumb saying associated with it. For example a follow up ad to "Bears ate my clothes," is "I was left with nothing except my tight leopard print underpants." Huh? In another strange twist, the guy who I thought was a Kurt Russell look-alike is actually a very disturbing looking (old, wrinkled, grisly, rough, super mulleted, cut off jean shirt wearing) Jean-Claude VanDamme. So disturbing looking it took me two days to realize it is him. How bad do things have to get to hawk Coors Light beer in Northern Ireland? Of course I must report that the ads seem to be working. Last night I noticed a perfectly sane looking Irish couple ordering Coors Light (on their own volition) with many other actually good beers available. Weird. They even seemed to enjoy it. I guess the deceptive influence of small Belgians in denim cut off shirts can't be overestimated.

Contractions

Language is a funny thing. During a conversation with a "secret service" type at the Northern Ireland Parliament the subject came up a number of times. During his unofficial tour of the Assembly Chambers, be asked if we had trouble understanding him. We didn't have any difficulty, but I did mention my amusement at the more lilting Irish speech more prominent in southern areas. I tactlessly refer to it as the Lucky Charms accent. You know what I mean - the little green guy in the cereal commercials? It just really tickles me when I hear it. Normally I'm not quite this immature about such things, but when I hear the sing-song accent I am really amused. Laughing with me, the security guy told a story of meeting his daughter-in-law for the first time and his observations of her being a native of Athens, Georgia. Of course I'm fully aware of my accent as a native of South Carolina, so was able to stay ahead of the sarcasm curve with that. Our "secret service" friend turned out to be a treasure trove of helpful information and funny stories. Toward the end he commented how good it was to speak with some Yanks with a sense of humor, a direct manner, and bit of sarcastic punch. I assured him there is plenty more where that came from.

On another language note we noticed the Irish often contract longer words to shorter easier to say nuggets. For example, one of our favorites so far is Newtownards Road contracts nicely to N'ards Road. That's officially on the map and everything. We're learning.

Greasy Fish

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, just as "good" fish and chips, as judged by Belfast standards, slip through the greasy paper soaked fingers of native connoisseurs. I mean, I like a greasy chicken wing like the next guy, but when something is so greasy you feel the blood slowing down in your veins, it may be excessive. It seems news of the on-going fight against cholesterol hasn't reached here yet. The floor in the restroom is so grease covered from patrons trying to cleanse their hands, it is a fall hazard.  Before I left on the trip I forgot to waterproof my boots...no worries now. Disturbingly, it literally felt like I had lip balm on after the meal. Are you getting the picture? I feel like I need to guzzle a bottle of Dawn Liquid Detergent soap just to make it through the night. Wow. They really were some good fish and chips though.

The Emerald Isle

We arrived this morning (Delta Airlines style) to a traditional Irish breakfast of Honeynut Granola Bars, orange juice, and a banana. Ugh, okay maybe not very traditional. Formalities were a breeze and all our baggage arrived with us. That's always a good feeling. Our bus to Belfast leaves at 20 minutes past the hour, 24 hours per day. Venturing north, beyond the pale, from Dublin to Belfast revealed a beautiful patchwork of green plots used for farming, cattle and sheep. Between cities the population appears sparse, with quite a bit of open land separating homes.

Belfast welcomed us with a giant billboard advertisement for Coors Light Beer. It features a Kurt Russell look alike (fully mulleted Big Trouble in Little China/Overboard Kurt Russell) standing on a snow covered mountain with a caption that reads, "Bears ate my clothes."  Stay classy Belfast.

The Irish

Snow! On the drive to JFK. While our area was spared the Winter storm, it appears parts of downstate were socked. We are set to leave NYC tonight arriving in Dublin tomorrow morning. From there we hope to catch a bus to Belfast, and as such our adventure begins.

Shotguns and Boarding Passes

If nothing else, the Algiers airport is thorough. The security check with x-ray, metal detector and pat down (enhanced!) entering the airport only foreshadows the security ahead. Considering the black market criminal element rampant inside the building, another check is certainly in order. Heading toward the gate is another security area with baggage x-ray, metal detection, and pat down (enhanced!). After the usual immigration formalities, we were herded into yet another check where there is an x-ray, metal detector, pat down (enhanced!) and a physical search of bags. After clearing customs, we proceeded to the gate where there was yet another security check in the jetway. This included a physical search of our bags and a final pat down (enhanced!). While I appreciate the efforts at ensuring passenger safety, somewhere around the third security check I started to get less confident in the whole process. Then there were the guys outside the airplane on the tarmac walking around with shotguns. Call me uncultured, but the only guys I want to see walking around with shotguns are rednecks during hunting season. That said, the takeoff and flight went great. It'll be good to be home.

Old Friends

Reconnecting with friends from a previous journey across North Africa is a true highlight of this trip. Our Tunisian buddies are fresh off a revolution, and loving every minute of it. One described the times as 'the smell of orange blossoms and change are in the air'. I'm not even sure what that means, but English is his third language. One image will stay with me from the last night we were in Sfax. We stood in front of the burned out headquarters of the deposed dictator's political party. Windows were broken out and the interior burned. Covering the broken windows were dozens of pictures of victims of the revolution - men, women, children, young, old, black and white. It was just their faces, but spoke a lasting message.

In Algiers, our friends were excited to see us. I think it was an obvious disbelief we actually came back. The problem with Algeria is certainly not the giving and friendly people who live there. The difficult unfriendly bureaucratic government is detatched from everyone else we meet. There is certainly a disconnect somewhere.

In both cases, we are treated like family by our old friends. It is always good to find family at the end of a long and challenging route. Good food, rides in private cars, CocaCola™ with REAL sugar served in GLASS bottles, private city tours, and crazy photo shoots are all included. Its good to be connected.

Toilet Confusion

On the way through Algeria on a bus, we made a customary stop for people to answer the call of nature, buy supplies (ie. water, chocolate filled cookies, pink puff-ball keychains), and smoke. Guys have it fairly easy at such stops with the routine call of nature. We can step around a corner, go behind a tree, or even just simply face away from people and go. There's no dropping trou, squatting, or other publically embarrassing requirements. Consequently the ladies are often provided with a toilet facility to use. Now let me say up front that what I'm about to say comes second hand from a female I am traveling with, since I'm safe far away behind a tree.  At our last stop, my friend returns and tells me the women's toilet was so disgusting that the ladies were confused as to where to go. Three stalls so vile that they are milling around saying there is no toilet. Of course most things are a matter of perspective. Clearly these ladies have never visited a public toilet in Niger. We were just there a week ago engaged in some cross country travel. Not only could my friend FIND a toilet, she could tell which one was better than the others.  Of course for me, thankfully, a tree is still just a tree.

Attention!

French speakers have a quirky social custom that seems to be universal across the nations we have visited. It goes something like this:  Pretend you are walking on a sidewalk talking with your friend. Because you are engaged in conversation, you are not watching the sidewalk, trip on an uneven spot, and lunge forward. Immediately your French speaking friend will urgently say, 'Attention!'. In other words, 'Watch out!'. This is also true of other mis-steps such as tripping up stairs, stepping in holes, running into walls, falling off chairs, and bumping your head on low hanging objects. Attention!  Maybe its just me, but telling somebody to 'Watch out!' after he/she has already stubbed his/her toe is sort of pointless. It seems to me a well timed, 'Watch out', before an embarrassing face plant may even avoid the fall, trip, or bump all together. Recently I made sure to tell my French speaking friend in Sfax, Tunisia, that I prefer he warn me BEFORE I get hit by a car, fall off a wall, or run in front of a speeding moped. Fortunately he was very understanding of my strange ways and probably saved me at least once from stepping in front of a truck with a preemptive 'Attention!'. So I'm really thinking of asking some famous French speakers (Celine Dion, Jean-Claude Van Dame, Inspector Clouseau, Pepe LePeu),  to rally behind the Preemptive Attention Movement (PAM).  For the safety of clutzy non-French speakers and the inattentive like me.

Loud and Proud

The nature of our journey thus far keeps us well clear of tourists and other more casual travelers. We, in fact, went well over a week without even seeing a fellow dirty, sandal wearing, unshaven, water pumping backpacker. We've really been out there. By there I mean middle of nowhere. Due to a slight issue with the authorities in Agadez (the unofficial capital of nowhere), we were forced to alter our plans somewhat to modify our entry point into Algeria. Our route brought us into brief contact with tourists along the way, and a few things really caught my attention:

1. People in French speaking countries generally speak French. While this is not ABSOLUTELY true, it is a good place to start.

2. Speaking more loudly in a language your hearer does not understand is not an effective communication tool.

3. Even courteous language such as 'thank you very much', or 'yes, please' sounds abusive when yelled into the face of a non-English speaker.

4. The elaboration of any crucial point in English to a non-English speaker may add to the confusion. This is only because they speak a different language (See #1). Loud elaboration does not help (See #2).

5. The assumption that everyone on the face of the Earth speaks English is incorrect. Some people speak Spanish too.

I really hope this helps somebody out there. After the lady I was watching finished yelling at the immigration officer, she walked my way to yell something at me. I just smiled and replied in French that I don't speak Spanish.

Sword Sale!

So out here in the desert country there are guys who wear cloths on their heads that many times cover most of their faces. Alot of times those cloths are black, creating some measure of discomfort for me. I mean I grew up watching Westerns and other shows that teach us to not trust a guy who wears a mask, especially a face covering black mask. Of course there are exceptions, but none of these guys are riding a white horse, leaving Z's behind, wearing tights and a cape, or are professional Mexican wrestlers. For example, the other day a man passed us wearing the full head wrap and wearing a sword on his waist. He didn't go all camel ninja on us or anything, he just politely greeted us in French. Still, a sword? Call me culturally ignorant or insensitive all you want, but I'm keeping an eye on the guy with the sword. Today on the bus, a hooded man returned to the bus after a rest stop with THREE swords, and was walking up and down the aisle looking for a place to stow them. I can only imagine it was a buy two get one free sale at the rest area or something. Good for him I guess. I'm just glad RPG's were regular price.

Pigeon Training Camp

The place we are staying in Agadez isn't really a hotel. We were led here by a stranger in the dark through confusing twisting alleyways. It is called I.R.S.H., which stands for something like Institute for Human Research Studies...maybe. Truthfully, when they led us through the gate that night I was a bit concerned. I mean 'Human Research' sounds a lot like some B-movie lab scene where humans are poked and prodded by nazi uniform wearing freaks until somebody just goes nuts and tears the place up killing the bad guys and saving the mutton fleecin' day. Yeah, so they led us to a nice room beside a toilet room, gave us a good price, and the deal was done. No vintage WW II uniforms to be found anywhere. The next day we were told the facility was actually affiliated with a Nigeran University, and in times past was open for doctoral students to work on their dissertations.  Since Agadez has effectively been locked down and the airport closed, students just do not come anymore. It requires an armed military escort just to get to Agadez - not exactly a garden spot. So with a lack of students to care for, it appears the staff have taken up a couple of new duties: 1. They take in stray white people. 2. The raise and train pigeons. Yes, pigeons. Hundreds of them on the grounds of the Human Research Institute. They have their own house, are free to come and go as they please, are fed and watered daily, are trained to come when a whistle is blown, and (as pigeons do) poo everywhere.  Being somewhat wary of the motivation of this pigeon training camp (see earlier blog post) we asked the purpose of it all. The only reply we received was that the birds are good to eat. We never saw anybody eat one, so we can't really comment on that. Suffice to say if the NSA calls, we'll cooperate.

Dirtbike Bubble Wrap

Agadez is a really interesting place. Really. Lots going on for a small desert town - some good, some not so good - some out of an adventure novel. One thing is for certain, the locals do love their motorcycles. It is like small engine duel sport heaven here, with the young and old zipping around on sidewalks, yards, through construction zones, markets, and even sometimes they ride on the road. Sometimes. One interesting tidbit you may not read in a big name travel guide is that some of these motorcyclists ride around with bubble wrap around their gas tanks, handle bars, seats, and shocks. I'm not really sure if the bikes are shipped that way and the wrap just left on, or if it is some kind of custom job done aftermarket. Considering the unique styling of some of the wrap jobs we've seen, I'd lean more to a carefully considered and planned approach to this nouveau bubble-moto-art form.  If a young man's car is his rolling castle, then maybe a young Agadezian man's motorcycle is his mud and wood structured hut?  But I digress.  Our theory is that the bubble wrap may act in a similar manner as a plastic cover on the good living room furniture. You can't really see the elegance of any of the expensive pieces, but you can rest assured you are not messing it up by sweating on it. So one day after decades of uncomfortable leg sticking summers that setee will emerge from wrap looking fresh and smelling like plastic residue. So here these guys are in the middle of nowhere, protecting their rolling huts from the inevitable decay of  machines in extreme conditions. At 100 degrees in the shade, that plastic must be hot. So remember, no exposed skin on the ride. A skin/plastic stick here may result in some serious burns.  So there we have it, looking good vs. some possible pain...it appears packing material 'fashion' wins this round.

Hotel Moustache

Our accomodations in Niamey were an exercise in spartan living. By spartan I mean dirty, urine stank, broken down, bug infested existence.  Chosen because it was the right price, Hotel Moustache did not receive the AAA™ approval for 2011 as a preferred travel destination.  Rolling up to the place the street sign featuring exotic men with full mustaches, also proudly proclaimed that this is a TWO star hotel. Let me just say, no way. The 'Stache doesn't rate a single star, not even a half of a single star. The dingy lobby featured a picture of the previous owner of the hotel, a man with a truly amazing, face eating mustache that must have scared young children and been a source of true facial hair pride. It makes Magnum, PI, king of 80's mustache glory, look like a sissy.

The broken cement hallway leading to our luxury rooms featured a shady entrepreneur type with an ironing business, and, of course a urine smell. The rooms themselves featured a very dirty bed, paint and old wallpaper peeling off the wall, an unusable closet with a broken table in it and a glorious private bathroom. (We were told the rooms with a shared bath were sold out already). Having been forced into the upgrade we were excited to see what we paid the extra $2.50 for. Well, the dirt and urine smell theme continued into the bath, with a dirty sink coming off the wall, a busted toilet with no seat or flushing mechanism, and a shower consisting of a pipe sticking out of the wall. The light did not work in the bath, so all bathroom activities were done either with the door open or under the cover of darkness. Given the creepy crawly factor, the door stayed open for me. Lest you doubt we were in the absolute lap of luxury, the water stopped flowing the second day of our stay, leaving us without bath, toilet, and drinking water. Overall I give the 'Stache no stars, an absolute failing grade in every category of cleanliness and maintenance, and an F- in pleasant odors.

Talibe Trash Picker

Everywhere we go in the West African Muslim world we see destitute children begging for money on the street. Many of these kids are what are called 'Talibe'. They will use the word while begging to alert the potential giver they are students of the mosque. From what we are told, parents will give one of their boys to the mosque in exchange for favor or blessing, and the mosque then sends them out on the street to beg. They are required to beg a certain amount per day to be fed and minimally cared for. They really live a miserable existence,  and are always under- nurished and dirty. Today while walking around Niamey we paused under some trees to rest and drink some water. To our surprise from out of the bushes come three Talibe who proceed to just stare at us. They weren't begging, just staring. Two had small kitchen pots for collecting money, and one had an Aldi™ bag of garbage. Yes, a real Aldi™ bag.  One of the kids with a metal pot was wearing it on his head like a hat. The other had his tied to his neck like a Martha Stewart™ version old school Flav-o-flav™ inspired neck piece. After some concentrated staring, maybe half an hour, the Talibe with the Aldi™ bag began unpacking some of his garbage. The first item surprised me a little, a broken motorcycle helmet. It was busted right in half. Do you know how hard those things are? I've been in a couple motorcycle accidents and never broke one...especially not in half. Wow. The best I could do was a few scratches. Next there were some glass and plastic bottles, scraps of tarps, papers, a broken flip flop, and finally two small unripe mangoes.   The garbage kid begins to eat a mango when he notices the kid with the pot on his head now staring at him. So he reaches down and rolls his other unripe mango to the kid with the pot on his head and they finish them together. Flav, who had lost interest in staring and wandered off, called over to the two still with us and off they went together to beg and stare elsewhere.

A couple thoughts crossed my mind. One had to do with the exploitation of children.   The other was that those Aldi™ bags really do come in handy.

Shakedown Cruise

Our arrival in Gao was not the stuff of tickertape and marching bands. Not that we would ever expect that given there are no marching bands in Gao and I don't even know how to say stock market in French. Instead we were greeted by a small minded greedy border guard looking to cash in on some stimulus rebate residue. Everybody does it. As per usual border etiquette he politely asked to see documentation, carefully read my passport in the upside down position and gathered the rest of the group's documents. After his equally exhaustive examination of the others, he then placed them all in his size XXXX-LARGE jacket pocket. That was no small feat since there was probably a half of a roasted chicken in there too. This move caught me by surprise as the same procedure had been practiced over and over again during this journey, except the guard always hands back the passports. I questioned his intent and he rattled off something about security, immigration,  for our protection, and pass the couscous in really bad French. Our new friends on the bus even chimed in with some hearty teeth sucking and loud questioning - all to no avail. Officer Doofy had our documents and there was nothing this side of a Ho-Ho™ that any of us were going to do about it. He finally assured us he would ride his moped in some circus-like fashion behind the bus and greasy hand-deliver them to the immigration officer in town. This did not make me feel better. We dropped our bags at our guest house and made our way to the immigration office in the center of the city. The officer was a very friendly man and thankfully our passports were laying on his desk when we arrived. He had us fill out some paperwork and requested a 'payment' for his services. We made what is called a counter offer on this payment and quickly settled. All that for a bribe, and to think I would have just paid him at the gate.

Air-Conditioned Zombies

Before leaving Senegal we were told grand stories of magnificent shiny buses whisking passengers into air-conditioned bliss once we crossed the border into Mali. They are quite large and fast, we were told, you will be very happy, they said. Okay. We are about half way across Mali, a very hot and unforgiving climate to be sure, and I have yet to see a bus that is magnificent, shiny, air-conditioned, or whisking anywhere. In fact, our current sweet ride to Gao is rundown, dirty, hot, and a bit stinky...but that may be me. Its built for air-conditioning because none of the windows open, but they are nice enough to open the front door every now and then while we're moving to blow air through. So I was thinking, there seems to be a theme in zombie/apocalypse movies about a mythical  place the people try to get to where everything is awesome. For example in the movie Zombieland™, there was talk of real people being in Ohio or some theme park. In I Am Legend™ Vermont was the place. In the novel, The Road™, they headed toward the coast. Problem is, in Ohio, the theme park, Vermont, and at the beach there are just zombies. More zombies. So, instead of breath-taking modern transportation magically appearing in Mali, it is really more of the same as was Senegal. Of course we didn't really believe all the talk about super-buses, but I do wonder if I should report my findings next time I'm in Senegal. I mean why be the kid that tells other kids that Santa Clause isn't real?

Donkey Kong

The border towns on the Senegal/Mali border have an inordinate number of donkeys per capita. In what amounts to a large truckstop on both sides of the border frontier, donkeys run free and apparently breed at a prolific pace. All night we were treated to sounds of donkey love, and everywhere we went they frolicked in the streets.  As interesting as this was, it was good to clear the immigration formalities and resume travel to Bamako.

Travel to Bamako was difficult with frequent stops. By difficult I simply mean hot, dirty, slow and crowded. We met several people along the way, and were given opportunities to share about our lives and travel. Rolling into Bamako at 2 AM, the mini-bus was momentarily halted by a herd of unruly donkeys. That's right, a herd. I'm even sure herd is the correct word for a bunch of  donkeys wandering the streets. Much like a gaggle of turkeys, a pride of lions, or a flock of seagulls, maybe its a hee haw of donkeys?

Road Warriors

Travel in Senegal is always an interesting experience. A common form of transport is the sept-place. This is a mini station wagon fitted to the max with seats enough to accommodate seven people plus the driver. Our particular sept-place today had seven adults, two children and the driver, making for a sweltering intimate experience heading east cross country.  It was a scenic tour complete with deep potholes, pieces of missing road, monkeys crossing hand in hand, and a total breakdown of the braking system about 7 hours out. Waiting for the brakes to be fixed a local teen provided us with a news flash - 'the car broke down because it is hot.  Everybody knows this.  Africa is hot'. I'm pretty sure I was equally as insightful at that age. Thankfully things were repaired and we were soon on our way, only to stop in the next town for more brake repair. This time we offered our two cents on how to fix it (which actually solved the problem).  Onward, at least until the clutch went on the sept-place. We had to push the car to start the engine, which was no problem. The real problem was running to catch up to and jumping into the moving vehicle. Not losing my flip flops was the trick. We finally came to a dead stop about 100 feet from the border crossing to Mali, where we slept in the disabled car until morning.

Thoroughbred Bugs

Travel between Dakar, Senegal and points south in the Casamance Region happens in only a few ways. There are daily flights from the international airport in Dakar to the regional airport in Ziguinchor. That is too rich for our budget. There are half broken cars that run the road south from Dakar through The Gambia, and onward to Ziguinchor. That is a crap shoot at best, but certainly an option. Thirdly is the boat. The last boat I had the pleasure to ride on this route was called The Willis. The Willis was a floating open sewer with hard wooden slabs to sleep on. I know, I know, sounds charming...but lacked a certain hygiene and sophistication to which we've grown accustomed. This time around a shiny new boat offered the hope of a new day on the high seas, complete with private cabins, airplane style reclining seats, and huge flat screen televisions. Relaxed into our comfy seats, we settled in to watch some quality French educational programming.  Today's offering was, 'Built To Kill: Miniature'. It was a show about killer bugs with nasty crusher jaws, spiked pinchers, stingers, and lots of eyes and hairy arms.  Just the show you want to see traveling through Africa.  One bug in particular caught my eye. As the narrator described the speed at which this critter attacked its prey, a video of a horse running appeared below the disgusting fast bug in a split screen. The narrator declared in an export voice that this insect moved as fast as a running horse one inch at a time. One inch at a time? Does that count? Am I to understand this miniature Secretariat rules the one inch sprint? Does that make sense? I mean if I ran 10 feet, it would take him 120 seperate moves to reach me. I can walk faster than that. I guess I'll have to defer to the bug expert voice over guy though. I just hope I don't see that little guy. He seemed mean.

Something For Nothing

Arriving at the airport in Dakar can be an overwhelming experience. Thinking back to my first arrival here, it was a very warm day with hundreds of fellow passengers herded into a small transit area for a very confusing security and document check. At the time soldiers in berets and full battle dress fatigues lined the walls and guarded the doors. It was a long and intimidating exercise which left us exhausted, disoriented and dehydrated. My next Dakar experience came years later when we exited the baggage area into a sea of screaming voices, metal barricades,  and hands reaching from everywhere - pulling and pushing us, and reaching for our bags. It was a challenge to just hang onto our bags that night, and eventually figure out where we were going. In all fairness, the airport authorities have made steady improvements over the years to attempt a more visitor friendly environment, but more work needs to be done. Hands still reach from everywhere pulling at us and our luggage. I have learned to ignore most of it, and was able last night to secure a fair price on a taxi, and proceed to put our bags in the trunk. Each of us carried our bags through the airport, outside the airport to the taxi and then placed them in the trunk. Many sets of hands grabbed and pulled, many voices offered baggage services, but we politely refused every offer in both word and deed. After the luggage was in the trunk, the head baggage handler had the gall to ask me if I would consider a tip for the handlers who had 'helped' us. Okay, let's review here: 1. we carried our own bags, meaning we did all the work. 2. To avoid confusion we politely refused all kind offers to help us with our bags, meaning we refused service. 3. Where's the tip? I mean, I love to see capitalism in action like the next Adam Smith fan - but one must actually perform a service to get paid (that's still the theoretical rule right?).  I really didn't have time for an Economics 101 lesson, so I laughed and just said NO.  This produced a complete look of disgust and the expected tooth suck, but I guess I can live with that.

Airport Pigeon

Passing through airport security/screening today at JFK, we noticed a pigeon flying over the TSA screening equipment directly into the terminal. No x-ray, no metal detection, no enhanced pat down..just right into the mythical safe zone. Of course we were forced to remove our shoes, belts, pocket items, toiletry items, and were appropriately screened for metal items and vegetables wrapped in tin foil. I mean, that pigeon shouldn't even be in the building, much less flying around scott free like that. You know people train pigeons for things...I guess. They are more like flying rats to me, but to each his own. By the time we found our gate and started to relax, I had almost forgotten about that pigeon. Almost forgotten until there he was, strutting around all pigeon style right there at my gate...mocking me and my security concerns. If he flies onto the airplane I'm going to have to take a stand.

A Desert Adventure

On Monday March 7th we depart on another adventure to a remote region of our world. Early Monday we leave snowy Syracuse for the Big Apple and a flight out of JFK to Dakar, Senegal.  The plan goes thusly:  A boat from Dakar to Ziguinchor in Southern Senegal.  A car to Tambacounda heading east.  Another car to Bamako, Mali.  Some form of transportation to Gao, and then on to Niger.  More mystery transport to Niamey, Niger, and onward from there to Agadez.  Here's where it gets interesting.  Three out of four people in our group have no visas for Algeria.  If we can obtain visas, then north through Algeria toward Algiers.  If not, well...that remains to be seen.  So, we hope for the best.  One thing we do know...our flight home leaves out of Algiers.  So, one way or another we need to end up there. 

Scary Buses and a Hostel Mystery

As mentioned in a previous posting, traffic patterns and road rules are very unpredictable - changing moment to moment and according to situational need.  Two way roads become one way streets in an instant, sidewalks double for an extra traffic lane, signal lights at intersections hang on to the slightest hint of relevance, traffic cops blow whistles and wave in vain. Bicycles, mopeds, motorcycles, Vespas, cars, trucks, and buses all jockey for position on roads not designed for the volume of traffic they host.  Pedestrians run for their lives with their heads on a swivel, suspicious of the electronic green man trying to convince them to walk in the crosswalk.  It's a safety nightmare and an adrenaline junky dream all packed into one horn honking experience.  Today we rode a bus to Shanghai.  Our friend says, "Shung-high", so we'll go with that.  The bus ride is mainly a boring experience in an ideal world of traffic rules and such, but much more exciting in our world of transportation high-stakes adventure.  There are, of course, the usual freeway pick ups and drop offs where people enter and exit the bus on ramps, bridges, and overpasses.  I sometimes wonder where they go as they jump the guard rail and disappear into the high grass,  but I'll probably never know.  There is also, as per the norm, the usual weaving and bobbing in and out of traffic, cutting off cars, trucks, and other buses, and a great deal of horn honking.  As we approached Shanghai, I noted a large amount of construction in preparation for the World Expo coming to town this year.  There is an annoying blue "Gumby" type guy serving as mascot for the Expo, posted EVERYWHERE.  I'm sure his cartoon word bubbles say equally annoying things, but I am at least spared that  since they are written in Chinese.  With the construction comes weird traffic patterns, congestion, and what appears to be some form of driving insanity.  I'll just describe the final 5 minutes of our journey to give you a taste.  Approaching our exit, we cut across 5 or 6 lanes of traffic in about a quarter mile stretch.  There was a jam up at the exit entrance with a bicycle, moped, three cars, a truck, and our bus all trying to fit into a one lane exit and no one giving way. Squeezing down the ramp, we went around a car in the left turn lane on the right that was waiting at a red light and we turned left while the light was red.  The driver then took a swig out of a Baijiu bottle (translated white liquor), and proceeded up a one way street - the wrong way.  He then ran another red light and turned us into the bus station via the exit. He then drove against the traffic pattern in the parking area, narrowly missing 3 pedestrians.  When he finally stopped the bus, there was a collective sigh of relief.    We gathered our things, thankful to be moving about Shanghai by metro.  Our friend had made reservations at a youth hostel yesterday, so we followed the directions riding two trains and walking a short distance to the address. Leaving the busy shopping district of Nanjing Road, be travelled down a few dark streets toward our destination. It is not the friendliest part of town.  Arriving we found a sign on the door the read, "Closed for Construction".  The place was gutted with building materials strewn everywhere. There were two old guys inside who spoke a lot of Chinese and laughed a lot...at us.  After a few moments of collective brainstorming a young woman showed up offering us a hostel just around the corner. We never did figure out who our friend talked to yesterday or why she wasn't told the place was closed for renovation.  Weird. We were, however, thankful for a place to stay in the big city.  

Eyesight - A National Concern

During a tour of a local elementary school early on in the trip, we took note of a portion of the school day when teaching paused, classical music began to play, and the students engaged in government mandated "eye exercises".  These "eye exercises"  seem to resemble ergonomic eye massage employed by businesses to reduce eye strain.  From what we were told, the Chinese mandate was issued after reports showed poor eyesight to be a national concern and problem here.  Testing this theory, our merry band of travelers needed some ID cards to gain access to a local park yesterday.  Asking around the community of expats, we were able to gather up some random cards to use for the day.  To set the scene, we are 3 white folks with blond/brown hair, 2 with blue eyes - and a female over 5'8''.  The cards we came up with were picture IDs of an Australian bearded man in his 60's, a black guy, and a quasi-dwarf female at a generous 5'1''.  Hmm.  So we went to the park hoping they wouldn't ask for the IDs.  No such luck.  Pulling the Jedi mind trick, we each, in turn presented our picture identification to the official and were waved into the gate.  Thank goodness for a lack of eye care.

Right of Way?

A well documented and reported fact about China is the number of people who use bicycles and other alternative forms of transportation for work and daily activities. On a typical day, mopeds, electric mopeds, Vespa type cycles, electric scooters, bicycles, powered bicycles, and other weird things I've never seen before, zoom by busily on their way down the highways and byways of the cities in the Middle Country.  Over time, the increased use of such vehicles began to clog the city streets -- to the point the authorities decided to build special traffic lanes and signals for the bikes and moped type scooters. This was done, of course, to help eliminate the chaos of shared roads, and to provide clear traffic lanes for cars, bikes, and pedestrians.  Except for one little hitch...no one stays in their designated traffic lanes and pretty much drive wherever they want. For example, at any given intersection, electric mopeds are honking at pedestrians, while being rushed along by cars and trucks.  There are cars in the bicycle lanes, bicycles in the car lanes, and people everywhere.  There are cars on the sidewalks, bicycles, scooters, and motorbikes on the sidewalks, people on the sidewalks, in the bike lanes, and in the street.  Sometimes there are traffic cops with flags directing the pedestrians, bikes, and cars, as the merge everywhere.  Oh yeah, there are buses too.  They are just in the street though.  The other day we were walking down the sidewalk when we heard a motor running behind us.  Turning around, we were not surprised to see a car stalking us down the pedestrian walkway.  Of course when he honked, I had to laugh.  There we were again, in the way of progress. 

Our Rail Angel

We arrived at the massive Beijing Railway Station early last night to catch our overnight ride back to Young Joe.  Given the size of the station, we figured we'd best take some time to make sure we were in the right place.  Seeing Track 2 associated with our train, we went to the corresponding waiting lounge for our track.  It was a poorly lit, overcrowded sea of plastic orange chairs, roller suitcases, duck taped bags, and fatigued Chinese travelers.  About half an hour before our scheduled departure we started to watch for our train to be called on the board of moving red lights. Then something strange happened.  For the first time since our arrival, a Chinese person, other than a salesman, approached us and struck up a conversation.  We exchanged some basic information, and the discussion eventually turned to our planned destination.  When we told her Young Joe, she immediately became concerned, jumped up and ran out of the waiting area to ask someone about where we should be waiting.  Turns out we were not in the right waiting area at all, and our train was about to board elsewhere.  She ran back and fetched us to take us to the correct area, asking and confirming information with officials as we passed them.  She then dropped us at our correct area where our train was being called at that moment.  We boarded and settled in for the night ride down country.  Thanks to our rail angel for seeing to the details.