Tea Time Tales

One year, 1,600 miles and a few million brain cells later....

2011-01-27T16:11:00.001Z

Well, hi everybody!

I've been a bit quiet of late because my life has been moving at quite a clip! Today's an auspicious day though and I'd like to explain why.

On January 27th 2010 I was out at my usual Wednesday night footie game near my house in Westminster, Colorado. A few minutes into the game, I was tripped by one of the opposing defenders and fell headlong into the plexiglass wall that surrounded the pitch. I was rushed by ambulance to St. Anthony's hospital in Denver where I was fortunate to be seen by an incredibly talented team who acted quickly to treat what would later be termed a severe brain injury. I was then transfered to the intensive care unit where I spent five days, none of which I can recall. I don't remember the impact and have a gap of about six days which is common and known as post-traumatic amnesia. This single event set my life off into hyperdrive.

Deemed stable enough to begin rehabilitation, I was admitted to Craig Hospital - a well regarded brain injury treatment hospital and began one of the most challenging periods of my life. I awoke in a plastic bed and saw my mother at the foot of the bed (this was certainly odd as she lived about 1,200 miles away at the time). I was told on which days I could shower. I had to wear a safety harness when simply walking up stairs as part of physical therapy. I was given exercises that involved circling pictures of dogs, but only when they were next to beach balls (you might think I'm joking about that one...I'm not). I survived on chocolate milk and the Santiago's breakfast burritos and Daz Bog coffee that my mother brought for me every morning. My family was by my side for most of the ordeal and put up with my vicious mood and my extraordinary frustration while managing their enormous fears that I may never be the same as I had been before the accident. My mother flew in from Ohio, my sister from Washington, my aunt from Luton in England and my father and his then-fiancee were there to support me. Zach, Erin, Dreger, Rupal, Brendan, Abby, Kesse, Brendo and Mandy all came by as well. There is a debt of gratitude for those friends and family who were a major part of my recovery that I will never be able to repay. I would crawl over broken glass and swim through lemon juice to be there for them and still, I'd owe them more.

Despite all of the grim news and shock, I knew that I would be alright. My rage at not being listened to (dismissed at the time, but later validated by someone I deeply respect) and my ability to converse in fluent Spanish with the lunch lady, Marta, were hugely encouraging pieces of evidence that I would recover. By late March, I was out of the hospital and staying with my father up in the mountains above Boulder. Never have I been more excited to sleep in a real bed. By June, I was back to work at HP. By July, I'd realized that I wouldn't be living in Colorado for much longer and left Colorado for Maryland in early October. By mid-December, I'd applied to six MBA programs from New York to Washington DC.

Going back a bit...

I made a prediction about 2010 that's turned out to be true. I made it in Scotland in late December 2009. I spent New Year's there with my cousin Helen and a couple of her friends including the wickedly funny David Priorstrom. We recounted our tales of 2009 over hot toddies in the various pubs of Glasgow and came to the conclusion that 2010 was going to be a much better year than 2009 had been.

Less than a month later, I was fighting for my life. The injury set the tone for the first half of 2010. I had to endure challenges, none of which I'd ever faced before. There's something utterly surprising about being spoken to like a six-year-old; being told what days you are to shower, your opinions on matters of significance discounted by the professionals in charge of your care. Surrounded by nurses, physicians and my tremendous family, I still felt like I was fighting parts of a battle alone. When I left the hospital, I was given some "rules" which I was to follow: no alcohol for a year, no soccer for a year (with a request to never play again), bring a "buddy" to any new events like when I was going to head to the grocery store for the first time, no driving until I'd passed a multi-day evaluation and been cleared by my physician, no work for at least 3 months. Much of the sting of all of that has faded, but I look back now and it feels like I've been dropped into an ice bath.

I've been determined to put the injury/recovery behind me and yet, a year on, I see it as a more significant event that I ever thought I would. I don't feel defined by it, but it kicked off massive changes in my life. I returned to a job I didn't like before the injury and pushed towards getting out. On December 15th, I met that goal by leaving sales operations and taking a new role heading up a small team in delivery operations for HP Software Education. All of the disappointment and frustration I've felt are quickly being replaced by enthusiasm. Suffice to say that my professional life has FINALLY improved!

I returned to soccer - the sport that I love. Risky as it may be, this was the right decision and I'm happier on the pitch than off of it.

I also re-started my pursuit of graduate education. I used studying for the GMAT as therapy and on July 31st, I scored in the 92nd percentile. Since then I have applied to six of the best graduate programs in the world and been accepted to Georgetown and the University of Maryland, two of the top 50 schools in the world.

I've also fallen in love with a wonderful woman named Abby. We've known each other for more than a decade and have danced around the idea of getting together for nearly as long. She came to visit me in March when I was just out of the hospital. A lunch meeting ended up with us spending four solid days together and over cups of coffee and hours of chatting and catching up we both knew that there was something we couldn't ignore there. She came with me to Sarah and Gareth's wedding in England in August and we also took the train to Paris and eventually made our way down to Gigaro on the coast. She'd recently graduated from law school at Ohio State University and we were both in need of a real vacation. Today, we celebrate 10 months together.

And so, one year on, I reflect on the most tumultuous period of my life. A year ago today, I came closer to death than ever before. Today, I'm alive and well and chugging happily along a path filled with happiness and successes galore. Without a doubt, the first half of 2010 was the worst of my entire life, but the second half has brought an overpowering light and goodness such that my prediction came true; 2010 was better than 2009. I am endlessly grateful for those aforementioned and the countless others around the world who prayed for me and kept me in their thoughts. You are a big part of why I am able to sit smugly and say that I was able to predict the future. Thank you.

A very special and big shout-out to Kathy Hardin, a speech therapist at Mapleton Rehab Hospital in Boulder for all of her help. Kathy - you listened to me in a way no one else had. You challenged me and called me on my nonsense. You're a cut above and a big reason that I've been able to achieve a lot of this. THANK YOU.

Here's to a year full of happiness and one completely lacking in impacts with plexiglass!

Cheers,

Dom

Where'd I go?

2007-10-23T08:47:00.000Z

It's been nearly a month since I posted anything on Tea Time Tales. First off, allow me to apologize to my faithful readers, many of whom have sent messages of concern.

I'm currently in Nairobi and can only explain my absence from publishing rather than excuse it. Having traveled through stunning lands and having seen truly breathtaking things, I understand how you would expect me to share. The truth is that although such have been part of the experience of GT:Africa, the flip side has been to immerse myself into the trials and tribulations of ordinary Africans. This journey has unveiled the depths of human depravity and its resultant destruction of individuals and societies. I have elected to bare witness to the extreme poverty of some in Ethiopia and the vast suffering of the survivors of the Rwandan genocide.

While my reactions to these events have left me at times enthused and inspired to work to craft solutions to these ills, I have also been worn down by their enormity. Such wear cannot, despite attempts, be refreshed by the various beers of Africa nor by regressing to a time when I was more oblivious, but rather by re-doubled efforts to evoke positive change in the lives of those I have met. I will need you and your friends and families to accomplish this.

In the coming weeks, I'll get a number of new posts up about GT:Africa and my adventures, but there will also be specific calls to action on campaigns that I'll be driving for the end of 2007 and the coming year. The two major projects include a new program for orphans in Lalibela, Ethiopia as well as what I hope will become global support for one Rwandan named Fraterne Bugabo who lost all of his support and most of his family in the horrors of 1994 when the world shied away from their responsibility to project the people of that nation.

I've been through the psychological and emotional wringer, folks, but I've come out the other end healthy and enthused. Africa is a wonderful place, and well worth fighting for. I hope you'll help me do that.

Cheers,

D.

Ethiopia & Uganda pics now up!

2007-09-24T15:37:00.001Z

I've just spent hours in the internet cafe here in Kisoro, Uganda uploading photos. There's another 140 just from Lalibela in Ethiopia to come, but still, there's plenty of new stuff up now.

You can find the link to my Picasa galleries here, or as always, down a bit on the right hand side of this page under the "About Me" section.

As always, comments appreciated as are emails about how you're doing.

Rwanda tomorrow, Rwanda tomorrow...

The Adventures of Amadou Ba

2007-09-24T15:32:00.001Z

Summary: Yuri, Kathy and Dom head off for a three-day, 39km hike up, around, over and through Dogon Country in southern Mali. Dom drinks over 8L of water in one day and pees just once and Kathy gets a well-deserved exploration of perhaps the most amazing part of Mali.

After 7 or so hours on a bus where Yuri carefully selected our seats to offer the best chance for air circulation, we arrived back in Sevaré at dusk. Our once again gratuitous host, Sara, was still 20 minutes from her house, so we scaled the wall and headed up to the roof to watch the sunset. As we chowed down on the “street food” which consisted of a type of fried dough ball and some fried yam chips with some spicy sprinkling, the moon quickly took over from the sun as the main source of illumination over Mali. When Sara arrived, we joined her inside and began to plan the trip to Dogon. Yuri was excited about the trip and it’s only now that I understand how my non-committal attitude early on could have left him a tad perturbed. My “go with the flow” had clashed a bit with his wanting to get stuff penciled in and I’d like to apologize to him for that one. Nevertheless, after some helpful advice from Sara who’d already visited the area, we made a decision about a timeline, a guide and set up our departure for early the next morning. We’d elected to take the more expensive guide of the two on offer as he was supposedly the go-to guy for all the PCVs and came highly recommended by Sara. We all had a good repack of our rucksacks along with some of the vanilla biscuits I’d purchased from some kid while hanging out the back of that pickup truck outside of Gao before showering and getting ready for a night on the roof and under the stars – there was no way I was going to endure a replay of Sevaré heat in a sheltered balcony with no airflow.

I awoke before Yuri and Kathy and pondered cracking open the copy of The Kite Runner that I’d been neglecting. I had good intentions when I picked the book up more than a week ago, but had given it little time opting rather to try to spank the other PCV teams in the spades tourney or watch Mali go by. This morning would be no different as the couple beside me soon slumbered no more and we were up and at ‘em by close to 6am. With Sara in tow, we met our guide at the main road – I was not at all ready. A hefty chap of around 6’2” and a good 230 lbs, I at first had no idea what language Hassimi was speaking in. Figuring a smile was the best option, I threw out a big one which was immediately reciprocated. After a quick road-side breakfast of an egg sandwich and a Malian coffee, we hopped into our ride. For being the “more expensive” guide, I expected some sort of 4WD vehicle and was surprised by the sight of “Grandma”. A once blue 1968 Peugeot 300, “Grandma” was Hassimi’s true love and he beamed with pride as he showed her off. Her doors would open only for him; the door lock knobs were long and there was a definite trick to getting the latch mechanism to release. Her floor boards felt thin beneath the red African dust and the upholstery was certainly from another age. Sitting shotgun, I found a bottle of water at my feet that I imagined was for drinking but, as I would later learn, was for “Grandma” and her tendency to get a little hot under the hood. The main road to Bandiagara, the major town (less than 7,000 people) near the start of our Dogon trek had been washed out and so we would be taking the more difficult and longer “back road”. We’d paid more for this unfortunate circumstance and now all our hopes and prayers were riding on Hassimi and “Grandma”.

As we bumped and crashed along some decently rough roads, I had no idea of the wonders that awaited us; Dogon had been just another few days on my itinerary and wholly Yuri’s responsibility. We stopped in Bandiagara for lunch and chatted with Hassimi about potential promotions for his business and how he could capitalize further on his popularity. Yuri and I were really into it, though I felt Kathy was growing bored of the marketing/promotion lecture. During lunch it also came out that I had yet to receive a Malian name. All the PCVs had them and they were a way of connecting with other Malians. Your Malian surname was shared by many others and there is a defined system of “joking cousins” that can essentially call each other names and laugh it off. The way the PCVs explained it, the system functions as a pressure release and allows for a fair amount of face-saving and playful rib poking. The honor had been given to Yuri, but having little inspiration, Hassimi undertook the task and bestowed upon me the name of Amadou Ba. The surname “Ba” can mean “mother” or “large”, and at 6’2” and 95kgs, I think I fit the bill.

After lunch in Bandiagara, we continued on and reached Sanga, our launch point, in the early afternoon. After Hassimi chatted with some of the locals, we threw on our packs and began walking without any mention of where we were going. As we were parked in close proximity to a number of sleeping establishments, I thought perhaps we’d stay there. Instead, we walked up the rocks that formed Sanga’s base and over to the cliffs that overlooked a magnificent valley. Walking with a number of villagers who had made a trek to Sanga, we began our descent down a decently established path before the path narrowed into a small canyon. At the far end, the canyon opened to a cliffside escarpment of thatched roofs and stone walls. Ahead, the end of the canyon framed a picturesque waterfall and I hoped we’d get a chance to cool off with a power shower. Unfortunately, our path wrapped around through the village and away from the waterfall. We’d been hiking perhaps an hour before I finished my first 1.5L bottle of water. While the locals were happy to drink well water, as was our guide Hassimi, he advised us against it and instead to treat or buy our water. Though I had water purification tabs with me, I figured I’d save them for when it wasn’t possible to purchase water and instead paid the exorbitant sum of CFA1300 (Nearly $3) for a bottle at the first “hotel” we stopped at. It’s very much worth noting that everything in Dogon country is pretty basic - there’s no TV, no internet, no real distractions. For those seeking some time to reconnect with nature, it’s perfect, but it also means that in order to enjoy creature comforts like bottled water, you have to pay for them. While expensive, I thought about the woman who would have had to bring the case of water down the steep cliffs that we’d just descended and I felt a lot better about her making some money for her sizeable effort. After another two hours, we arrived at the village of Koundou – our first stop on this journey.

Right in the valley on the sides of these massive rock walls that very much reminded me of Southwestern Colorado, we stayed on the roof of the largest hotel in town. I was quick to order another bottle of water and polished a good bit of it before heading for a shower and some clean clothes. This would be another 12 hour+ day in the Malian books. I’d been in West Africa for two weeks and had yet had to purchase soap, but as none was provided at our place, I wandered across the road to a little window where despite having maybe 20 items in all, they had 3 different types of soap. Happy with the cheapest at CFA300, I walked back and hoped into the shower, though while cold, was absolutely fine. It was third room I’d tried as of the four communal bathrooms, only two had showers and only one of those was even piped with water. Of course, there was no indication of any of this – I can only presume Malians have plenty of time and just like to leave little challenges everywhere. My throat still very sore, dinner went down with considerable effort and the beer Yuri and I shared offered no relief. Tired, I taught Hassimi a phrase to which he took an enthusiastic liking when I told him that that night I’d sleep very well; “like a ton of bricks”. Hearing a Malian repeat that phrase and putting the wrong emphasis on the wrong syllables and giving it his own timing still makes me smile. As night fell and with no motivation to engage my one distraction in “The Kite Runner”, I crawled into my tent, onto my sleeping sack and fell asleep.

From the valley floor, the cliffs of Dogon Country are certainly impressive, but more so are the mid-cliff dwellings that are spotted along a number of the faces. The rich history of the region includes a people known as the Tellem who existed before the current inhabitants, the Dogon. Lonely Planet tells it like this: “The origins of the Tellem are unclear – Dogon tradition describes them as small and red skinned – and non are believed to remain today, although some Dogon say that the Tellem now live on the plains to the east. The vertical cliff is several hundred meters high, yet the Tellem managed to build dwellings and stores in the most inaccessible places. Most cannot be reached today, and the Dogon believe the Tellem could fly, or used magic powers to reach them. Another theory suggests that the wetter climate of the previous millennium allowed vines and creepers to cover the cliff, providing natural ladders for the early inhabitants.” I heard this story repeated by Hassimi who claims that he was also told that the Tellem were pygmies would had “black magic” powers including the gift of flight. Hassimi later scooted quickly around a frog, no doubt afraid of it.

Day two would see two ascents and one descent. While it's difficult to estimate, we likely covered somewhere in the neighborhood of 15-18km over a variety of landscapes from the flat valley to the rocky cliffs all the way to the top of one of the escarpments from where we got some fantastic views (this is where I took the shot with the CU sticker). In continuation from the previous night and somewhat his trademark, Hassimi laid out a number of riddles throughout the day. Kathy had laid out some good ones herself including something about a bell, a cliff and a guy dying. My best offering was the 4 liters from a 5 liter and 3 liter jugs that I learned from Die Hard with a Vengeance. Hassimi’s cracker was the following: A cowboy walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender points a gun at him and the cowboy says “thank you”. What happened? I’ll let that one stew with you a bit. If you believe Hassimi, it’s really obvious and easy.

Through another village, we saw how local people lived in Dogon and while much of it was hidden from us, it struck me how crucially important water is for these people and how much work they must exert in order to get it. The well for the villages half-way up the cliff is down in the valley a good 3km away. Women walk this multiple times a day in bare feet and carry back the liquid valuable on their heads. Granted, it’s easier than carrying it in your arms, but it’s a serious undertaking any way you slice it and absolutely nothing like turning on a tap. Also noteworthy (and shown in the galleries) is the meeting place for the village men. A 3m structure with a thick roof and very low ceiling, the design is intentional in that one with heated emotions must remain seated and therefore his physical ability to over-react is limited. Essentially, he must sit and try to talk things out rather than get up to rant, rave and perhaps attack he with whom he is having a disagreement. While basic, I liked the idea and wondered what it would be like in Western courtrooms – high paid attorneys in $3,000 suits sitting on the floor, unable to prance around and espouse concocted tales.

We took lunch near the top of the cliffs and by this point I had already polished off 2 bottles of water an ordered 2 more. I removed my pack and then my shirt and was able to wring out a fair amount of liquid from it. I wondered how much was actual sweat and how much water my body had taken from my what I was putting in my mouth and immediately pushing out onto my skin. I mentioned to Yuri that while I was no stranger to sweating, this topped every experience I’d ever had including Japan, Cambodia, and even India. After a plate of spaghetti and a short ziz on a plastic straw mat while covered with my turban, we were right back at it climbing the final 50m to the top of the cliffs. In one proof of worth, we had to scale an 8ft, single pole ladder. The potential fall was a frightening 30m though this was mitigated by a series of logs that had been propped over the gap. I gave the strength of the logs little thought and shot up the ladder with haste. As we left the darkness of the crevasse, the world opened to us. In all directions, Dogon Country laid before us – from the valleys to the cliffs, from this viewpoint we stood in amazement of this truly breathtaking place that seemed to have no business being in a place like Mali. After a number of photos, Hassimi rushed us off, over the solid rock top to the descent of the day. Through another village, we clambered down both rocks as well as decently-worn paths before finally making it to another flat area. Covered with plots of cultivation, it became very apparent that the people of Dogon are subsistence farmers and live a simple life built around community and family. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to live such a life. As a PCV, some had – for 2 years. I tried to imagine no email, no MLS games, no scotch, no electricity and I gave up. Such a life, for such a period of time, was outside of my mental grasp. I wonder how I would endure the simplicity of such a life and how I would control my longing for things that to the people of Dogon hold no significance whatsoever. For much of the one hour walk through the flats, none of us spoke instead opting to absorb.

Our second ascent of the day began at just after 4:30pm and Hassimi’s angst had calmed a bit. Apparently, we’d made decent time through the flats and we would likely make it to our camp before nightfall. While not tired, I’d nearly killed the 2 bottles of water I’d purchased at lunch and was rationing the last ¾ L, not knowing where our camp would be. Much like the morning’s climb, but seemingly easier, we chugged on up the side of the hill from which grew the mighty cliffs of Dogon. Through villages with curious children we passed offering smiles and greetings in the very limited Dogon that Hassimi had taught us. Yuri was the most keen to engage the locals and practiced his Dogon every chance he got with children, old women and even a local dog. About half way up the cliff, we took a break and watched as a massive and gray cloud loomed in the distance over the valley. I quickly pointed out to Hassimi that we’d been done in by not one, but two big storms on the Niger. As the storm approached, I threw out a guess of it hitting us in about 15 minutes. No more than 3 minutes later, the rain started. At first, small, infrequent drops simply caused us to up our pace, but as the rain got a bit harder, we sought shelter under a large boulder that simply wasn’t large enough for the five of us (we’d picked up another guide along the way, apparently Hassimi’s doing). Hassimi encouraged us to push on saying that there was a larger shelter ahead. Walking on steep cliffs is a tricky endeavor, but when you add water to the mix, it can get quite serious and we were all very aware of the implications of a fall in a part of the country where there are no real roads and a rescue is hours away. And so, as the rain soaked our bodies and our bags, we took our time and topped the cliff. I wondered where this shelter was that Hassimi had said was close. We had been walking for 10 minutes and I’d seen nothing resembling appropriate shelter. After another five minutes, I smelled what he was up to as I could see a village in the distance. Through a field of millet and just before dusk, we arrived at our stopping point for the night. A very simple lodge with just covered areas, a pit toilet and bucket showers, we would make it home for the night. After we laid out a few things to attempt to dry, I ordered another bottle of water and quickly made short work of it. Kathy was first to shower with the hot water that the owner of the place had kindly prepared for her. Yuri and I followed, getting a similar courtesy. Bucket showers are an experience that everyone should have at least once in their life. Granted, they don’t compare to meeting Desmond Tutu or rafting the Nile, but to use a bucket, a cup and a bar of soap to clean yourself is an eye-opening experience. You have to get the wetting-yourself quantity correct and quickly lather up before getting too cold. Appropriately soapy, you have to ration the remaining water in the bucket to ensure you get all the suds off. If there’s anything you don’t want to do with a shower it’s to leave still covered in Irish Spring. Furthermore, a bucket of water is no more than 4 gallons - that’s the average per minute flow of a shower in the U.S. – and many people take daily 20 minute showers. Such realizations make to sit back and question the experience and knowledge of politicians who claim that Africans use resources irresponsibly. I had consciously drunk five and a half 1.5L bottles of water that day – and had peed one time; and it was a half-pee at that. Conclusion: Dogon makes ya sweat.

Our final morning began like the previous with toast, margarine, Nescafé and packing. A short day of hiking with much less vertical involvement than the previous days, we were able to take our time and enjoy the scenery. Over hiking paths, car tracks and even an actual road, we made our way back to Sanga enjoying each others company as well as a few of the local fruits called Zabans along the way. As proof that he’s spent too much time away from Western candy, Yuri tried to convince me they taste somewhat like Sweet-Tarts. In actual fact, the ascorbic acid content in them made the ulcers in the back of my throat hugely unhappy and I limited my intake. As a funny aside, they are somewhat hard to open and Malians have both a song and dance that surrounds the event. Maybe someone’s captured it and put it on YouTube.

After a day that was longer than I expected, we arrived sweaty and dirty back to “Grandma” who graciously took us as far as Bandiagara before she had a problem with her left front brake line that forced us to take a timeout. Luckily, Kathy and Yuri had wanted to buy some of the tasty jam that Hassimi had provided for us on the trip and Bandiagara was the spot. One of the two had also thankfully brought some cards and we sat playing hearts wondering when we might get out of there. In an odd twist of fate, a few minutes before entering the restaurant to play cards, a Toyota Land Cruiser rolled right in front of us carrying the three Spanish girls I’d met and spent the day with in Senegal. They were quick to stop and we quickly exchanged niceties before they mentioned that they were on their way back to Senegal for the wedding they’d mentioned nearly 2 weeks prior. The world can seem like a big place, but when such events occur it’s impossible not to be surprised at the chances.

With “Grandma” feeling better, she took us, once again, over the bumpy roads and through the mud puddles back to Sevaré where Sara was kind enough to put us up for a third night. The next morning it was back on the bus – this time to Segou, Yuri and Kathy’s site, for a few days of doing very little. After the Niger trip and now Dogon Country, I was more than ready.

Oh, and Hassimi's riddle: did you figure it out? Yeah, we didn't either. The oh-so-obvious answer (according to him) is that the cowboy had hiccups and that it's commonly known that you cure those by being frightened. Gotta love Hassimi.

Gao: A Return to the Underdeveloped

2007-09-24T15:27:00.000Z

Summary: We arrive in Gao, not 10km from our final campsite and experience PCV life in Eastern Mali.

After surviving the river hurricane, we were all wholly ready to be back on solid ground and sleeping in relative shelter. We left our final campsite as soon as day broke and after visiting another dune for 20 minutes, we continued on to our off-loading point. Very close to Niger in Eastern Mali, Gao was no more than 10km from our final campsite. Had we had any modicum of additional luck on the boat, we very likely would have made it the night before and been hunkered down inside a house rather than tents and straw mats. Tired and sand-blasted, we pulled into Gao and began to offload our bags and put them on a cart. In Mali, it’s easy to get someone else to do your heavy lifting for you. For about 60 cents each, our bags were wheeled in front of us the mile or so to the house where we’d be staying for the night. PCVs have become accustomed to a further variant of pawning off labor which is known as “cheeing”. Although occasionally occurring within the group, the practice almost always involves local children and entails the kid running off to get you a packet of cigarettes, some sugar, or to tell someone something in the next village. For the effort, they are sometimes, but not always rewarded financially with the equivalent of a penny or two. Many of the locals take pride in the fact that the whites select them for the task and gain a boost of self-value.

It wasn’t even midday yet and even without having to lug our belongings the walk was a warm one. With sweat dripping from our brows and sliding down the smalls of our backs we entered through the gates of one of the largest houses in the neighborhood. Non-descript apart from its size, the brown mansion was home to a PCV named James. Amongst others, Josh had been hugely excited about the prospect of taking a shower and watching 300 on the laptop that he knew was up at the house in Gao. Sadly, we learned that house was without both electricity and running water. Despite having spent a week with PCVs on the Niger, I was mildly surprised about how nonchalant James and most of the PCVs were about not having what most Westerners consider essential elements of a domicile. With a quick phone call, James found us an alternative location in the local bar/hotel. After some time unpacking, organizing laundry and sitting around fanning ourselves, we made a move to what sounded like an oasis in the undeveloped, hot desert of Gao.

Walking through the streets of Gao after a river hurricane is a memorable experience, even by Malian standards. Dirt roads had become muddy bogs; a foul mix of rubbish, plastic, soap, kitchen run-off and sewage. Entire intersections had become small lakes and we were forced to take a number of detours in our trek to a shower and a cold beer. Foolishly, many of the PCVs had brought nothing but flip-flops and were now realizing that the developed world’s usage of shoes certainly has its place. The walk was supposed to take 15 minutes, but with the detours, took just over 25. Sweaty, once again, we arrived to electricity and cold water sachets – we could want for nothing more in the whole world. After calling dibs on showers, we ordered some food and made an attempt with the VCD player; sadly they really won’t play DVDs and I was once again reminded of how inferior they are. With one beer in, it was my turn to shower. The combo toilet-shower was built of mud and straw with a big metal door and one had to be extra careful now to stick a foot into the poo pit while soaping up. With the sun shining strongly from above, I relished the non-Niger cleaning which took at least a few ounces of sand off my body, out of my hair and from in between my teeth and came out feeling truly refreshed.

The food was simple that night; goat brochettes with red onion, fried potatoes and some haricot verts. It was hardly enough to cover us for a night of drinking and after 3 beers, I was feeling both woozy and mildly ill. Not wanting to be a Sally, I pushed on a darkness fell and a deck of cards appeared. I’m not a particularly good Texas-Hold-‘Em player, but at a CFA2000 (about $4) buy-in, who could resist? After two stellar hands, my luck was gone and I was the first out after about an hour of play. By then, Aaron had arrived. You may remember Aaron from a previous entry as the hairy shouldered chap who introduced me to “elaborated” whisky and left me a pool of vomit as a morning wake-up. I’d long forgiven him for the transgression, though and we got to talking about our experiences on the river. I had thought that a river hurricane would have ranked rather high on the tales meter, but Aaron easily topped the story with his tale of what happened when he argued with a Malian taxi driver about a fare that Aaron didn’t believe was fixed. Aaron’s staunch refusal to pay the driver what was rightfully his had earned Aaron nearly 2 whole days in a Bamako jail cell. With no water or food, Aaron sat in a cell with a number of other Malians who eyed him suspiciously and whispered in Bambura, “I wonder what the toubob did”. Retelling the story with a big smile, he told me he had responded in Bambura “You know, I speak Bambura.” The Malians recoiled in fear – if these people are afraid of lizards, a Bambura-speaking toubob must bring the fear of God.

The night finished with a number of us wanting to call it a night at around 9pm. I had wanted to leave even before the Tuareg music had began, but not wanting to be rude, I’d stayed and drank a glass of wine. As a little souvenir of toughing out the night in the front of the boat while being blasted with wind and rain, I had picked up a sore throat that had now developed into a full-fledged ulcerated mess. The alcohol almost certainly didn’t help and the nausea I was feeling was likely a product of illness, exhaustion and poor nutrition over the past number of days. Quite simply, my body was telling me to cut it out and I was ready to listen. The walk back was an even bigger challenge than the journey to the bar as in Gao there are no streetlights. Imagine walking down your street at night, but remove all the cars, all the streetlights and houselights and add a number of foul puddles as well as a couple of massive lakes and you’re still not really going to be rocking it Gao-style. I’ve made my way through some treacherous locations in my life, but the walk home from Shaka’s bar in Gao rates right up there with one of the more unpleasant ventures.

In order to reach our next destination, Yuri wanted to leave Gao early which meant a 4:30am wake up to catch a bus to take us to Sevaré. With a sore throat of rare form, I pleaded with him and eventually threw in the towel saying that if he wanted to go, to do so and I’d meet him somewhere. Ill and exhausted, there was no way a short night’s sleep was going to be a good thing. Without even the motivation to brush my teeth or remove my contacts, I made my way to the roof with my sleeping sack and laid down on one of the foam mattresses that Yuri had brought up; there’d be no need for mosquito tents tonight as they don’t live in the desert. Despite a burning pain in my throat, I was out in mere minutes and slept like a baby until sunrise at around 5:30am. I found Yuri sleeping next to me and the acid-like burn still tearing at my esophagus, but I was well rested and ready for the long bus journey back to prepare for our next adventure: Dogon Country.

DRC looking unlikely

2007-09-17T16:41:00.000Z

I've just gotten off the phone with Alex Mujyambere, a local guide who leads weekly trips to see the mountain gorillas of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). As I mentioned prior to leaving, I would be taking no unnecessary risks on this trip; only calculated ones. DRC has just earned itself a place in the first category.

The area I'd like to visit surronds the border town of Goma. Unfortunately, according to Alex, the government is no longer in control of the area and his outfit hasn't led trips there for the past 3 weeks. He mentioned that this may change, but for now, he's not going. If he's out, I'm way out. I really want to support the community in the DRC, specifically the gorillas, but with this degradation of security, I just won't be able to. The real shame is that now is when these very rare creatures need our support the most.

So, for now, I'll be looking at tracking from here in Uganda or in Rwanda. Keep your fingers crossed though and maybe I'll be able to get to the DRC afterall.

Where're the Pre-Country Synopses?

2007-09-17T16:30:00.000Z

Okay, I started well with the first four and intended to finish up the rest while on the road, but now I've been to Ethiopia and am about half-way finished with Uganda and still no pre-country synopses! I'd like to apologize and also encourage you to have a quick Wiki-read and look at the CIA World Factbook for the lowdown on these incredible places.

As I'm now in Kabale in the far Southwest of Uganda and I'm on an IBM Personal Computer 300GL (think about 10 years+ old), it's unlikely you'll see the pre-country synopses for a while. I encourage you to check out each country, but I'll try to get those finished when I can. That said, I've still got stories to write from Mali, Burkina Faso, Ghana, Ethiopia and now Uganda. They include not one, but two mid-air medical emergencies in which I helped out, a thieving maid episode, and rafting some of the most brutal rapids on planet Earth. Hope that whets your appetite!

Now though, it's time for a steam bath and a sauna...while the internet capabilities of this little border town are minimal, my hotel does have the aforementioned facilities and after a 9 hour bus ride from Kampala, I think I've earned it.

West Africa - Completed

2007-09-05T07:30:00.000Z

It's 7:34am and I'm in a hugely expensive but very modern internet cafe in Kotoka International Airport in Accra, Ghana. in 26 minutes, I will head to the check-in desk of Ethiopian Airlines to check in for my 10:00am flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. We'll stop in Lome, Togo to pick up some more people and then it's off to East Africa!

It's been an adventurous time thus far. Some of the stories I've managed to share, some are still floating around in my head rather than on this blog. I will do my best to get more up soon. In the meantime, I've uploaded a number of photos from Mali, Burkina Faso and Ghana to Picasa. The link is down on the right side of the page, there. Have a gander and comment, if you wish.

Thanks for the emails and the comments on the blog. Also, feel free to forward the address of this blog to anyone you think might be interested. I'm in a very informal race with Yuri to see how many people we can get to subscribe...he's currently winning by 5 (Update: thanks to push from Luton fam - woohoo!).

Right, another load of photos which need captions now.

All the best,

Dom

Gao-ho!

2007-09-05T06:43:00.000Z

Summary: 7 days, 6 nights on the Niger River from Mopti to Gao proved to be an experience that me and 13 PCVs earned. From swimming in one of Mali’s largest public toilets to surviving two sizable storms, our excursion to Timbuktu and beyond was paid for in full – in more ways than one.

At the start of this journey up the Niger, I was aware of three checkpoints. The first was our starting point of Mopti. We’d just left the second, Timbuktu, and the final lay right at the end of the journey. Four or five days from now, we’d disembark our vessel in the eastern city of Gao where we’d link up with one of the local PCVs and crash at his place. Between Timbuktu and Gao, all I knew is that there was a whole lot of river and plenty of time for spades and to crack the cover on the copy of “The Kite Runner” that I’d taken from the Peace Corps office in Sevaré. Someone had brought a large, fold-out map of Mali, but I hardly saw anyone show much interest in where we were. Much like the previous days, cards were shuffled and dealt, people nodded off, and lunch was served. Some decided to take their one-soda-a-day ration during lunch, others split one so as to get two halves a day while some stockpiled in preparation for some giant sugar rush. Watching the process, I was reminded of my father’s lectures about preference and its relationship to pricing; from an early age, and although not enrolled at CU yet, I was still given the occasional economics lesson.

Our fourth evening was nearly delightful. Josh and I donned headlamps, refreshed our vodka & cokes (I was heralded for bringing Absolut on the trip as the alcohol in Mali can easily be confused with gasoline), and headed out in search of marshmallow sticks. Emily had been smart enough to bring some of the fluffy treats and Josh and I had tasked ourselves with making sure we had the tools to prepare them appropriately. Across yet another sand flat, we walked in excess of 1km before finding a spiky bush that looked like it had branches that might suffice. Trees in the Niger delta are decently scarce close to shore as they are a primary source of fuel for cooking in villages. The one tree we did find was more of a stumpy trunk the limbs of which had been crudely hacked off some time before our arrival. Our arrival had brought out some curious locals who, lucky for us, spoke Bambura. While Josh conversed with them, I worked at trimming the spikes off one of the two workable roasting sticks we’d found. There was no mistaking it, we were very much in Africa.

After returning back to camp and eating, most of the group circled around the fire Kareem had built and began to roast marshmallows. Having just come from a land of creature comforts, I was much more interested in the stars above and in the unusually open conversation I’d found myself having with Kali. A striking girl, I’d noticed Kali very early in our journey – I’m a sucker for a brunette. We’d not really spoken much during the trip and were certainly making up for it now. We delved deep into issues of spirituality, purpose and personal history. Well over an hour passed as we sat, playing in the sand and exploring each other’s minds. I’d see more of Kali later including a bit of her fiery side as well one of her toes that had managed to pick up a nasty fungal infection. Always the medic, I assisted in the removal of the very dead nail and advised about the lengthy treatment course that she’d face in the future. I’d wager that there’s a great deal more to her than meets the eye – and there’s plenty on that front.

With clear skies above, concerns about heat won over concerns about rain and I once again shacked up with Yuri. While the temperature was much more comfortable that night, something inside me was very much not right and I was rousted from sleep, panicked. Thankfully, I’d gotten the side near the door and quickly exited before grabbing some TP and shuffling as far away from the camp as I thought I could make it. While it’s not nice to laugh at other people’s misfortunes, it’s completely acceptable to laugh at your own in retrospect and I must have been such the sight that night. I don’t think anyone saw me moving at pace, buttocks firmly clenched, taking the occasional pause to collect myself, but if they had I would have forgiven a hearty chuckle. Having made it as far as I could and with buttocks firmly clenched, I used my foot to awkwardly dig a hole in the sand before unleashing the funk of 40,000 years. Yuri, until he reads this, knows not how close he came to being subjected to a fate far worse than a fart.

The next night saw even more fecal matter, but none of it mine. In contrast to what had become the norm, we arrived at camp about an hour before sundown. At the base of a 35m sand dune, we would spend the night in the middle of what looked like a poo farm. Of course, such places don’t exist (at least I haven’t seen them on “Dirty Jobs” and therefore presume), but the stuff was everywhere. Maybe it had come from goats, maybe cows, maybe sheep, but it certainly wasn’t human. I wondered why there would be such a concentration in this area and if Kareem was perhaps paying us back for complaining in Timbuktu. Past the poo was the much more pleasant dune which most of us hurried to climb. Sitting atop the silica, I noticed something move in the fading daylight. Pitch black and shiny, a dung beetle had climbed up the dune and was now moving with purpose across the sand. Others soon began to notice them and with dinner still to be had, we raced down the dune to eat. Some of the PCVs including Ryan Shaw mentioned wanting to camp on the dunes but were told by our guide Kareem that that's where the spirits live and so you can't stay there. Malians are also leery of frogs and lizards, too, so I wasn't so surprised about the spirits. At the base of this dune, I saw more of the beetles hard at work rolling the poo around. The concentration suddenly made sense, but the revelation didn’t change the fact that we were camped in the middle of a treacherous mine field – or maybe poo field. Most of the PCVs didn’t seem to mind and we spent that night playing a game much like heads-up-7up called “mafia”. Though we made a fire that night, it was certainly only for light as the heat of the day persisted long after nightfall. As discomfort tends to breed ingenuity, I made a combination shelter of my mosquito net draped over the open door of my tent and directed the opening towards the very light breeze coming from downriver. Sweating, I laid down and again, hoped for sleep.

Day 6 saw some swimming, complete with a game of keep away (a difficult concept for Malians to grasp), and we were excited about the possibility of making it to Gao a day early. While life on the boat had been fun, but the appeal of bathing in the Niger and sleeping with dung beetles has a limit. We learned late in the afternoon that Kareem had never been this far on the river; perhaps the crew had been, but I still don’t know. We were being guided by a man who’d never been to this section of the Niger River. Consequently, and with some frequency, we found ourselves bottomed out and the barefoot lads took to the water a number of times to dislodge us. At one point, we all had to jump in and help push lest we spent the night in the middle of the river. The cost of these delays would extend beyond not making it to Gao.

As dusk gave way to nightfall, the crew admitted defeat and motored into a giant sand flat which would be our final camp of the trip. If anyone was disappointed about not making it to Gao, no one publicly voiced their opinion opting rather to quickly offload their gear. An even greater expanse than our first campsite, this sand flat made me feel infinitely small. To the Northeast, we could see a white glow emanating over a dune; Sarah, who was stationed in Gao, quickly surmised that it was her town though we couldn’t tell how close we were. In the opposite direction, the darkness had swallowed everything we’d motored past less than an hour before. Above us, clouds obscured the thousands of stars that had been a source of wonderment for the last 5 days. Soon, the occasional bolt of lightning would light up a distant part of the sky above Gao. As time went on, the occasional bolt had been joined by others and before long, we were surrounded by a full fledged lightshow. Following Yuri’s clever captures on the first night, I busted out my camera and snapped a number of photos and shot some video of this silent lightning. While similar to the conditions on our first night, this night felt more intense with more lightning and increased cloud cover. Instead of retreating, I prepared further by staking down my tent, throwing on my rain fly and staking that as well. As prepared as I felt I could be, I laid in my tent and listened for 20 minutes while Christy and Louie put plastic over their Tropic II mosquito net and Kali and Yuri chatted on their mats having opted to sleep alfresco. We hadn’t even had time to fall asleep before it started.

After one big puff, it came like a freight train. With what I can only estimate at well over 100mph winds, this storm was instantly upon us. Going from near total calm to utter chaos in less than a minute, I did my best to stay calm; I’d prepared my tent and I was going to ride this one out. Like a screaming banshee, the edge of the rain fly near my head was whipping back and forth against the tent and was soon joined by the entire front section which changed the sound from banshee to flag hanging on for dear life. After 2 seconds, the sound had changed once again – my rain fly had been ripped from my around my tent and was being blown back down the Niger; I imagine it reached Senegal after a few minutes. Still, I held my ground. With no rain fly to deflect the sustained winds, my tent was getting the full force of the storm which was now producing some rain as well as a spraying everything like a sandblaster. Hitting the top of my tent, the wind lifted the bottom of my tent just enough to create a small pocket underneath me. Showing no sign of fading, the wind pushed underneath me and began to pick up my tent – with me in it. To combat this surprising turn of events, I flailed my arms and legs out towards the corners of my tent hoping to use my nearly 100kg to keep from launching from the surface of Mali. Meanwhile, all of Christy and Louie’s hard work had been erased and they were attempting to form an evacuation plan without losing more of their gear. It wasn’t long before I gave in and came up with a plan of my own. I’d kept the loose gear inside my tent to a minimum that night, just in case and didn’t have much to pack, but there was still the issue of how to single-handedly take down a tent during 100+mph winds. I knew that as soon as I opened the door, the small pocket that’d been created underneath me would seem miniscule in comparison to the entirety of the inside of my tent and that holding on to some part of the tent would be vitally important. Unzipping just a small section of the top of the door, I reached through and grabbed one of the poles holding the tent up before unzipping the rest of the door. Instantly, my tent became a sail and I was scooted nearly a foot before I was able to reach around the tent and disengage the pole from its strap and get the tent down. Shirtless, I had no time to focus on the flying sand that was pelting me from behind and instead called out to Yuri and Kali who had rolled their mats over them as they sat in the fetal position. “I don’t think this is a maintainable situation!” I hollered. While I was sure they’d heard me, they weren’t moving and so I advised them, again, to pack it in and head for the boat. Yuri got up and came back into the storm towards me to help me fold up my poles while I balled up my tent and stuffed it under the lid of my rucksack. Hefting my pack onto my back, I went to check on Christy and Louie who were frozen over their gear, unable to move lest their stuff blow away. Getting them sorted enough to move towards the boat, we all headed in the direction of the boat. To our surprise, it wasn’t where we’d left it, but nearly 100 feet downstream and about 8 feet from shore. The wind had unanchored the boat and left it adrift before the barefoot lads had jumped in and re-anchored it. Tossing my back onto the bow, I saw Yuri drop his pillow and take off running into the Niger, dropping his mat in the process. Chasing after the mat, I caught it and went around the other side of the boat to offload it before jumping into the side of the boat near the kitchen. There sat Louie, visibly perturbed, but with a seat next to him. Taking the seat, he looked at me and said calmly, “you know, we should have been in Gao by now”. I gave a small chuckle and looked toward the bow where Yuri was attempting to hold one of the mats up over the opening at the front of the boat. Not seeing much progress, I made the decision to hop back into the storm and go help. By this point, I was already completely soaked and jumping into the river was the only quick way to get to the front of the boat. Before I went, Kareem, who had been sitting opposite Louie, grabbed my arm and in his very limited English said “take care yourself” and smiled. Like a navy seal, I rolled under the thatch side and into the river. The wind knocked my maglight right out the holder on my head; thank goodness those things are waterproof as, in the 4 feet of water, I could see it and reached down to pick it up and put it back on my head. After another acrobatic move to get into the boat again, I met Yuri and asked him if he needed some help. He explained his plan and I grabbed some twine from my bag and had someone from the middle of the boat hand me my knife. At least half of the group were engineers and the irony of the two business students perched at the front of the boat rigging up a protective barrier was not lost on me. Shocked were most and by morning, miserable were nearly all. Crammed in a wet boat like sardines, Yuri and I had the seats of dishonor at the front where wind and rain pelted us all night. Yuri was quick to don as much clothing as he could find before grabbing his blanket. He had, like me, run into the river to get into the boat and the blanket had gotten a thorough soaking. “Wool keeps you warm even when it’s wet”, he said unconvinced of the statement’s truth.

That night was spent wet, cold and wholly uncomfortable as we rode out what was later dubbed Hurricane Batoma while huddled on our tiny boat. We later learned in Gao that a similar storm had, a week previous, killed a U.S. soldier and paralyzed two others. As a final payment for the privilege of motoring up the Niger, we all paid the price of the river hurricane which, as of publication, has yet to be given an appropriate name. We were sure we would arrive in Gao the next day, but it wasn’t until we arrived that we saw just how close we’d been to durable shelter.

Turning 26 in Timbuktu

2007-09-01T18:04:00.000Z

Summary: Timbuktu is not nearly as impressive today as it was long ago, but we still managed to find some worthwhile aspects including Tuareg wares, ancient manuscripts and ouijila.

After a violent windstorm, an ongoing bout of stomach troubles and a rapid initiation into Mali, I’d completely forgotten that it was the 6^th of August. Ready for another day on the river, one which would likely end with our arrival in the historical city of Timbuktu, I was reminded when Yuri piped up. Everyone immediately jumped in to sing me happy birthday as our usual simple breakfast of bread, jam and tea or coffee was ferried up from the kitchen. Being my special day, I treated myself and had a second cup of coffee before continuing with the spades tournament. The day previous had seen less than stellar play on our part, but Sarah and I were beginning to learn each other’s style of play and today would be our day, I hoped. We spent most of the morning battling it out with Josh and Gretchen, two formidable and cutthroat players with a knack for disrupting your plays and usurping the trumps you were sure you’d take.

We reached the landing about 15km outside of Timbuktu just after midday. With a heightened sense of excitement, we picked up our gear which the barefoot lads had offloaded onto shore for us and made our way up a small embankment to a waiting Toyota Land Cruiser. I wasn’t at all confident that it would be possible to fit 14 of us, plus a driver and Kareem into this thing, but the PCVs didn’t give it a second thought and after handing their bags up to the guy on the roof, began to pile in. With 2 guys on the roof and no less than 15 people in this Land Cruiser, we set off on a paved road heading to a city everyone’s heard of but very few people could tell you much about. After passing the gendarme, we made our way through sandy streets, past goats, children and a number of small corner shops known in Mali as boutikis before arriving at our destination. Kareem had arranged for us to stay at a house in town for some nominal fee. After some discussion about dinner and laundry, both of which were arranged, some of us headed westward towards the dunes that surround this hallowed city. Sunset in Timbuktu, we imagined, must be something to witness. After the obligatory photos, we sat on top of a dune and watched the sun fall beneath the horizon; had it been in any other place, it would have been just a mediocre sunset. With dark approaching, we headed towards a light in the distance which Yuri identified as the Flamme de la Paix. A monument to the end of the Tuareg rebellion, there is actually no flame here, but the edifice does indeed cast a yellowish glow on the surrounding ground. It was upon setting off from here that I realized that Timbuktu’s streets all look the same and although arranged in a grid, are numbered in a way that makes nearly no sense. Luckily, someone in our group had taken note of the street numbers near the house in which we were staying and after a 10 minute trek, we were back and ready for some dinner.

Of the options available to us, and with Sarah’s recommendation, we’d elected to have ouijila, a local type of spongy bread and sauce. Sadly, our hosts had gouged us on the price and we had to seek a second round of nourishment. An air of disappointment lay over the entire situation and complaints were whispered, to the dissatisfaction of our guide Kareem who had a reputation to uphold with our hosts. There are different dynamics in Africa that many Westerners find difficult to understand and work with. As we paid for the trip, we feel entitled to some customer service and getting ripped off (albeit by just over $1) is not at all appreciated. We don’t have many qualms about being openly upset and even complaining, but this, in this situation, was frowned upon. Furthermore, the tone of the evening was quickly becoming spoiled and on the eve of my birth, I had hoped for something different. There was, however, a saving grace. Though, poorly timed as I’d already had my one piece of ouijila and was full, Yuri appeared from inside with another piece with a candle planted in the middle of it and began, yet again, to sing happy birthday to me. There, in the very basic accommodation with inadequate food and tired, frustrated PCVs, Yuri managed to restore the mood and, in a simple way, made a lasting memory of my birthday. What a guy. We finished the night with a few beers that we’d had brought in from a local hotel and a few rounds of a game called “would you rather” in which you get to give players a simple choice of one or the other and they must select what they’d rather. Some of the harsher questions included “would you rather kill your mother or your father?” while the seemingly straight-laced Tamara seemed hugely conflicted when I asked her if she’d rather shave her head or pierce her tongue. Yuri, once again, rocked the night when he broke out the Crunchie Bits that I’d brought him from England and generously shared them around. Having grown tired, I set up my cotton sleeping sack on a thin reed mat, tucked a folded shirt under my head and gave thanks that, as there are no mosquitoes in the desert, tonight would be a tent-free sleep. In one of the more remote places on Earth, on a thin mat with a shirt as a pillow, I slept the night through and awoke naturally just before sunrise.

We summitted the dune just as the sun was rising and played with the ultra-fine sand. We were soon joined by a Tuareg who, after greeting us in what I presume was Songhai, sat patiently with us as we took our photos before inviting us to his home. A dome made of sticks and covered with tapestries, 6 of us piled in and greeted an old woman who was working away in the corner of the dome. With a knife, she was putting finishing touches on a colorful leather bag, possibly made of camel skin. The Tuareg made tea and began to show us how he makes pipes. Using a small bench and one of his toes to hold the pipe in place, he carved designs into the small piece. After tea, we were invited into the building behind the dome where he and a few other merchants had a variety of necklaces, bracelets, knives and even a Tuareg sword or two. We all bargained hard and left with some fab souvenirs on our way to find some of the centuries-old texts to which Timbuktu is home. Once a thriving and scholarly city, Timbuktu has one of the richest concentrations of ancient texts in the world - some over a millennia in age. After a long walk through the city, we arrived at the Centre de Recherches Historiques Ahmed Baba and were shown to the one room display where locked cabinets held unknown treasures while two glass-topped cases in the middle of the room showed some of the more impressive finds including one book with painted and gold inlay from over 800 years ago. With the explanation from the aging curator all in French, I tuned out and most of the significance of this site was likely lost on me; nevertheless, it was impressive to see books more than 4 times older than my country. After the museum, we nabbed some amazingly refreshing frozen juice sachets (dobliney in Mali) and some frozen yoghurt sachets (nono) in the 3 story central market building. Therein lies another wonderful benefit of traveling with PCVs in Mali – street juice and yoghurt are almost certainly a no-go when traveling due to worries about all kinds of nasties including Hepititis A, but when you can confirm that it hasn’t made someone else deathly ill it makes it much easier to partake. In the heat of Mali (I want to call it sweltering, but it’s not quite at that level), a frozen sachet of nono tastes like the golden nectar of Zeus – and most travelers miss it fearing that the price tag is higher than the $0.10 you pay up front. Refreshed and feeling that we’d done as good a job of understanding Timbuktu as we would be able to, we arrived at the house to rest and prepare for more time on our pirogue. They would bring tales of spirits living in dunes, hoards of dung beetles and what can only be described as a river hurricane.

A Launch from Mopti

2007-09-01T15:39:00.000Z

Summary: The boat trip begins. This post covers what life was like on the boat as well as what the much more unique nights yielded. Dom performs the first of a few surgeries on the trip and manages to nearly fumigate Yuri – serves him right for not making sure we had enough water for the trip.

The night had been far from a restful one. A number of decisions including doubling up with Yuri in his superiorly ventilated mosquito tent as well as sleeping in a covered area rather than the roof had kept bouts of sleep to a 45 minute maximum. Tossing and turning, I was reminded that you should not let your body touch the side of the mosquito tent as those bastards are plenty capable of biting right through the mesh. With every bite, I wondered if the mossy was kind enough to take my blood and pay me back with malaria. Still, things could have been worse and unfortunately were for Sara. At least four times during the night, we’d all been awoken to her heaving out everything within her; the throes of her agony coming across so clearly that all of us suffered with her.

Morning arrived and the masses began to mobilize. Some began their final packing preparations while other brushed the morning breath into oblivion. Josh, the lone soul to risk being rained on by sleeping on the roof, came down with a grin as Yuri and I dragged ourselves out into the dawn. After 20 minutes, Sara’s compound was alive with commotion and after another 20, the first group left in search of some breakfast. Eating with PCVs in Mali is a wonderful experience as they are not only well adapted to the local foods, customs and prices, but can also order everything in the local language. As I chowed down on an egg sandwich and shooed flies away from my Malian coffee (½ sweetened condensed milk, ½ water, one teaspoon of Nescafé), I marveled at how comfortable the PCVs were. While Emily, Josh, Kyle and Laura, all apparently proficient Bambura speakers, were ordering food, Gretchen was hard at negotiating transport to Mopti where we would meet the boat that would be our home for the next 7 days. Loudly, she fought for every CFA and didn’t seem at all enthused with the result; for the few mile journey, each person would have to pay CFA350 (around $0.75). Having been in Africa not even a week, I would have, in the same position, happily avoided a 10 minute argument for the premium of another CFA50, but apparently PCVs have more time to negotiate than willingness to pay anything more than the best fare imaginable. With the crew at least partially fed, our transport arrived. Nothing more than a pickup with a steel cage over the back, we loaded our packs on top and 14 of us crammed into the back including the long-legged Ryan Shaw sitting on the floor of the bed. The ride was no more than 15 minutes, but when you’re crammed into a small space with that many people you have to appreciate the relative joys of Western travel; a tro-tro in Mali makes a Greyhound bus look like Air Force One.

When we arrived at the dock, our guide was there waiting for us. A friend of Yuri’s named Kareem, he attempted to speak to me in both Bambura and French and settled for a handshake and gave me a big toothy smile. As some of the group who hadn’t eaten sat down at another roadside bench in front of a small stove, others went in search of a market to buy some mats to go under our tents. In typical Yuri style, this, along with other details of the trip had not been planned and last minute adjustments and arrangements had to be made. Of greater concern to me was the quantity of drinking water on board. Kareem had told Yuri that there were 8 cases on board. Having done a number of trips to the desert in past, I knew that if you were going to short yourself on anything, water should be last on the list. With 7 days on the river and with 14 people (not including the crew), I calculated that we were a minimum of 6 cases low. Apparently, nothing had been specified on paper for this trip and Yuri’s faith in Kareem about providing sufficient quantities of everything had been misguided. I explained my opinion to Yuri and he translated some of it to Kareem who got another case on board and said that if we needed it, he’d buy more along the way. Trusting that, Yuri turned to do some business with the fabric seller who’d been hanging around us. With a 5-foot long pole with fabrics in 8 different colors, Yuri explained that this guy was selling turbans and you could select how long you wanted and he’d cut it for you. The minimum length is 3 meters with some Tuaregs rocking a full 12 meters of fabric. We both selected a color and were happy to make do with 3 meters; a well-spent CFA1500 (just over $3) each. Later, in the back of a dump truck and on a trek through Dogon Country, that turban would make me a happy chap.

With the mats purchased, the gang fed and at least some water on board, we climbed aboard our vessel. A typical local boat called a pirogue, it measured about 35 feet from bow to stern and 8 feet across at the widest berth. In the center of a series of benches which formed a rectangle in the middle of the boat sat a 5 foot table which would later become the scene of a lively spades tournament and a number of tasty meals. In front and behind of this rectangle were a few benches that would provide seating for the rest of the passengers and crew as well as the impromptu kitchen. At the stern, a very simple plywood box with a swing door housed our toilet which, in an discomforting sense, dropped right into the Niger River; the one we would be swimming in later.

On 4 August 2007 at 9am, an hour and a half after our scheduled departure, our journey began. Some tucked into their books including a prized copy of the latest Harry Potter installment that Christy’s family had sent her from the States while others took in the sights and still others pulled out a deck of cards. With hours on the boat during the day, and with much of the banks of the Niger looking similar, there was plenty of time to do whatever you could on a boat. I often caught myself daydreaming about people back home, about past adventures or about creature comforts like mosquito-free nights. Truthfully, the days were much the same and writing this a few weeks after events took place, they blend together into a homogeneous mix of card playing, fish buying, village visiting, wound tending and good-natured friendship. For this trip, the nights offered the greatest tales. The first night would be our initiation; our cover charge to this adventure.

After a full day on board, we were all thrilled to reach our first camp spot just before dark. On a giant sand flat with two villages way off in the distance, our only neighbors were the thousands of stars above. Josh and I walked onto the flats wondering how far we could go before running into anything or anyone. It was out there, a few hundred yards from the shore that I first noticed the lightning; far in the distance, it came without lightning’s usual companion – a fact I found odd. Having erected my tent, I found Yuri and we headed off for a chat. In 20 minutes, we caught up on nearly everything we’d been up to over the last year. It was really good to reconnect with the guy; for all his quirks, you could hardly ask for a more loyal or genuine friend. Wanting to talk more, but having to attend to the grumbles in my stomach, I sent Yuri packing and went about the unpleasant business that is often the price of African travel. I was thankful for my many trips to the canyons of SW Colorado in that not having a toilet wasn’t so unfamiliar to me. Feeling better, I returned to a thorough hand washing and after a short while, food arrived. Two bowls of food emerged onto shore and all 14 of us ate together in typical Malian fashion. With 7 people to a bowl, you first wash your hands in a bucket and give them a good shake before digging in with your right hand. Some are highly adept at forming little packets of food, be it rice or pasta or even tô (a millet dish common in Mali), and popping it into their mouths while others simply chomp at their food like a horse, licking the remnants from their fingers before heading back for more. PCVs are, arguably, just as good at this as Malians and don’t hesitate for a second to pick around the fish head that is always included in the bowl to get to the cabbage or even the faranto, a spicy pepper akin to the habeñero. Most Westerners would consider it an uncivilized way of eating, but it’s impossible to deny the sense of community around a giant bowl of food. That night, we had some fantastic Malian pasta and when the PCVs are singing the praises of the cook, you know you’re getting a treat.

With full bellies and weary souls, we all retired shortly after dinner. Some chose to lie beneath the stars before climbing inside their Tropic II free-standing mosquito nets that offered vastly more ventilation than my Vango tent. By this time, the lightning from earlier had blossomed from inland around both sides of us and was reaching out over the Niger. Bolts jumped around the clouds in jagged, semi-circular routes, at first just a few, and then at least one every second before we were engulfed. And yet, there was not a single clap of thunder. While no meteorologist, I did stay awake for every lecture on lightning in my 7^th grade earth science class, and from what I remember, lightning is usual a precursor to thunder. The rest of our group found it equally odd with some claiming that it could be heat lightning, but despite most having heard the term, no one could offer an explanation for what that actually was. Some required no explanation and were happy to pack their things back on the boat to hunker down there for the night. As it was our first night of roughing it in Mali, I wasn’t one to give in so easily and boldly proclaimed that I’d stay and ride it out. This was nothing more than a cool lightshow, I said, remembering Josh’s bravery and spirit from the night previous which had earned him a cool night’s sleep up on Sarah’s roof. Like the head coach of Brazil’s U-17 football team who recently said that his side would win the World Cup only to be knocked out by Ghana in the round of 16, I would be made to eat my words.

Your teeth brushed and contacts out, you climb into your tent, zip the fly and lay down. Three seconds later, off come your shorts and your shirt and you grab at a breath of cooler air from through the mesh of your tent door and think about how lucky the PCVs are to have full mesh shelters. The warmth bears down on your body and a light dew forms on your skin; clinging to the hairs on your arms, legs and head, it begins to bead. Sleep, in such conditions and in sharp contrast to its purpose, requires incredible focus. Flashes of light from above dance on the nylon roof of your tent, but in trying to maintain a semblance of focus, you close your eyes and attempt to cool and calm your body. “Just lie still”, you tell yourself, “and you will cool down”. This is the Malian bed-time routine during the cooler seasons; hot season brings another 6-10˚C as well as harmattan winds and tons of dust – misery, by most accounts. After some time, your body begins to behave itself and you nod off, waking some minutes as your body often fails to keep cool during sleep. You will likely wake a few times to a damp sheet, shift, and attempt sleep once again. All this, and the real show hasn’t even started.

From a paper-thin sleep, one from which you could possibly hear a butterfly flap its wings, you hear a drop of rain hit the top of your tent. The first drop is followed by a second and by the third, the commotion begins as the PCVs who stayed on shore spring to life and begin to take down their shelters in preparation for a move to the boat. For their added ventilation, the Tropic II offers next to no protection from rain and PCVs seem to know that it’s nearly impossible to sleep when you’re wet. A few drops of rain never hurt anyone, I thought, and with a real tent, I’d be fine; I was going to be a rogue and ride this out. The rain gave way shortly after the first round of evacuees had made it back on board the boat and gave way to a few gusts of wind. Short, light puffs quickly became slightly longer, much stronger torrents before the storm that had now totally surrounded us unleashed its full might upon my tent. When wind nearly blows your tent over with you in it, you should consider giving in. I was beyond submission and quickly threw on my shorts and grabbed the various pieces from inside my tent and tossed them into my back before climbing out of my tent to begin the return to the boat. Far from surprised that I was one of the last on shore, I held my tent firmly with one hand and awkwardly began to remove the poles from their straps with the other. Moving quickly lest I be blown into the Niger, and with Yuri’s help, I quickly rolled my tent and stuffed it haphazardly into its sack before slinging my pack on my shirtless back and following Yuri back to the boat. There, clamored together like refugees, the PCVs had donned rain jackets and hats and had arranged makeshift sleeping areas in the limited space on board. As the last to arrive, space was highly limited and I was tucked into a corner between Emily and Gretchen; any further sleep would have to be done sitting upright. After 30 minutes, somewhere in the neighborhood of 3am, most of the group had accepted that any further sleep was unlikely and as such, rolled up the thatch sides of the pirogue to view the weather that we were experiencing. Yuri was quick to grab his camera and fired off a number of long-exposure shots, getting a couple of crackers which are available in my gallery. Together, we welcomed the dawn as it was our ticket out of there and before 5am had reared its head, we were motoring up the Niger – day 2 had begun.

Not surprisingly, most of the group managed at least one nap during the day. Some were lucky enough to get an entire bench to themselves, while others took to the roof and still others put mats down on the floor of the boat and kipped off for a few hours. With a few impressive sites along the way, I spent a good part of the day enjoying the scenery before someone had the brilliant idea of breaking out some playing cards. It wasn’t long before a 5-team spades tournament was formed and for the next 4 days, at least one game was going on during every moment of daylight. Hours of bidding, trumping, frustration, victory and maddening miscommunication made up the bulk of the daylight hours while eating, reading and sleeping rounded out the rest.

The second night, we arrived again just before dark. The crew told us that we hadn’t made it as far as they’d hoped and would have to camp here. Besides Kareem, our crew consisted of a female Fulani cook, a 30-something ‘captain’ and 2 assistants in their late teens or early twenties. The two younger lads mostly helped to get the boat unstuck from shallow areas, moved bags to and from the boat and put the thatch sides up and down as required – and neither ever wore shoes. Getting as close to the sloped bank as possible, the barefoot lads anchored the boat 6 feet from shore and laid the gangway down with one end right into the river. Having undergone an operation on an infected mosquito bite on his ankle earlier in the day, Yuri wasn’t sure how he was going to make it to shore. As not only his surgeon, but his friend and brother, I came back after dropping my bag on shore to piggy-back him to the dry shore; let it not be said that my generosity and size are not used for worthy ends. With the bit of rain from the previous night as fair warning, tonight would see the addition of my rain fly and I would ride it out on shore for the night. I offered the additional space in my tent, which is limited, to Yuri – an offer he accepted. After another round of unpleasantness, I returned to the tent. Though the night was cooler than the one before, the addition of the rain fly had turned my warm tent into an insulated shelter; a hugely unfortunate side effect. Furthermore, I had one of the hairiest chaps known to the human race sleeping not 4 inches from me. Like having a heat-emitting sweater lying next to you, I wondered how on Earth this guy had managed to maintain relationships with some very nice girls including his current girlfriend, Kathy. I suppose in the deep winter chills of Colorado, having a small gorilla next to you would be a comfort, but he’d managed to keep relationships going during the summers, too. One day, I’ll have to get him to tell me his secret. Again, I returned to my calming meditation and managed to find sleep.

Yuri woke me the next morning with a complaint that I had unleashed a fart so bad it had rousted him from slumber. He had chosen the side away from the door of the tent, too. In one sense, I felt bad for him, but then again, I giggled at the payback for all the nonsense he’s put me through over the years. We exited the tent to find that despite being barely past 5am, we were the last tent on the shore. Under cloudy skies, we packed up, shooed the mouse from under our mat and headed back for another day aboard the boat. Today was a special day, though I had totally forgotten about it until Yuri remembered just before breakfast.

Senou IS paved - Mali: Arrived

2007-08-31T05:41:00.000Z

Summary: Dom flies to Bamako, Mali and meets up with the Peace Corps gang who will be his companions for his time there. Booze did flow, dance moves were thrown and a hangover was earned.

Soaking up the remaining moments of relative luxury on board the Dakar-Bamako flight, my window seat gave me a perfect view of the lush, green, hilly West country of Mali; a striking contrast to the dusty brown of Senegal. Despite being only a 90 minute flight, the courteous and well-presented cabin crew of Air Senegal were not only quick to get everyone seated, but also provided beverages and a small meal. As I tucked into the surprisingly tasty poulet, I wondered what it might have been like had I taken the more arduous route on the train. While I was no doubt missing the experience, I wasn't entirely sure that was a big loss; there would certainly be no A/C on that train and there were no goats in the cabin of this plane.

I was daydreaming when the landing announcement came over the loudspeaker and only picked it up half-way through the Ouolof version; the second of three. I'd joked with my father about not being sure if Bamako's Senou airport had paved runways and after a hard landing, I must admit, I looked out my window to check. Obviously belonging to a less-developed nation, Senou does indeed have paved runways and even a baggage track, but it also has something I've never seen in any airport in the world. After collecting your bag (mine arrived this time!), you are obliged to put them through an X-ray scanner! I suppose I can see a case for it, but it does seem a bit O.T.T. Perhaps Mauritania's Nouakchott airport (which restricts any import of alcohol) allows departing passengers to carry WMDs in their checked luggage and Mali got sick of it; T.I.A. Having passed that hurdle without being subjected to a bag search, I attempted to leave before I was yelled at in French by a hugely perturbed female security agent. Seeing in my eyes that her exclamation did not compute in my brain, she angrily motioned to the baggage tag on the suitcase of some woman whom she was harranging. Giving my tag to the taller, more docile, male security agent, I skirted past the cruel wench and entered into freedom - finally, Mali.

It was never firmly decided who would meet me at the airport and so I scanned the crowd for a sign with my name. From behind a crowd of awaiting Malians, she appeared. Standing at 5'7" with rich brunette hair that clearly contrasted her overly pale skin, I recognized her from a photo on Yuri's blog. "Are you Dom?" she asked, somewhat timidly. "I am. And you must be Kathy," I replied. Kathy had liaised with Satguru travel and had arranged transport to take us from the airport to the Peace Corps office in Bamako. On the 15 minte drive, we engaged in the typical meet & greet conversation interspersed with me cracking jokes at Yuri's expense. I also learned that she'd not been well and that her neck had been very stiff and sore. Here in Africa, that may mean something as simple as just having slept funny or it can be as serious as cerebral meningitis. This was so Yuri. I'd come nearly half-way around the world and Yuri had sent his ill girlfriend to come collect me! Still, I've come to expect such from him. He more than once has called me mere hours before arriving at Denver International Airport asking for a ride. Still, we're brothers and there isn't much I wouldn't do for him.

I still hadn't really come to terms with West Africa yet. People living in what in the States would be considered filthy conditions combined with a general lack of infrastructure still struck me as unusual and uncomfortable; it was obvious that Kathy was already well-adapted as she was wearing open-toed sandals whereas I had on my Salomon Gore-Tex trainers. Through the dark, Kathy directed the driver through the maze of Bamako streets; no streetlights nor streetnames here. I hadn't paid for my ticket from Dakar to Bamako as Satguru only takes cash. Thankfully, after some discussion and help from Yuri, they'd agreed to let me pay them on arrival. Paying the driver, we thanked him for the ride and headed inside the Peace Corps compound. In a back office with the A/C blasting, four female Peace Corps volunteers were hard at work researching grad schools and seeing if their projects had been posted online. I would learn a great deal about Peace Corps during my time here including much about the difficulties they encounter. From the native language of Bambura not having words to express certain key aspects to cultural differences in work ethic as well as financial constraints, Peace Corps volunteers are forced to be some of the most critical thinkers in Mali. I, concurrently, commend their diligence and worry about their mental health. One volunteer (or PCV), Kara, told me about a project she was trying to get off the ground to organize training for first responders. I was immediately intrigued as I'd completed EMT school some years previous. She told me that, due to not knowing how to swim, some emergency personnel had delayed in attempting to rescue some people in a flood and at least one of the victims had drowned. Kara was attempting to organize swimming lessons at a local hotel's pool. Naturally, the hotel wanted to be paid, but so did the first responders. And thus began the difficulties. Funding for Peace Corps projects isn't nearly as available as I had imagined. In FY2007, the Peace Corps budget was $319 million. That may seem like a large figure, but NASA's budget was over $17 billion. So, while finding funding for this project was not outside of the realm of sanity, organizing something as simple as swimming lessons takes serious effort and appeals for funding. Often, it's the volunteer's family and friends who donate to their project. Furthermore, projects frequently require the involvement of someone with some clout. It's relatively easy to ignore a PCV, and the first responders lacked a leader/champion. Kara had a contact, a former general in the Malian army who would be a good fit, but he would not get directly involved as he feared people would figure out that they could find him at the Peace Corps office and try to ask him for money. Kara wanted to climb a molehill, but as she said "had just had her mind blown" as she found a pretty big mountain, instead.

After a PCV from outside of Bamako, a loud, boisterous chap named Aaron burst into the office, everyone decided it would be a good night to party. It was obvious that after a few weeks in a village, contact with Westerners is a welcomed reprieve. A few of us headed to a local hotel where PCVs who come in for medical checkups and other business can stay with vouchers they receive every quarter. Kathy was kind enough to give me one of hers so I could stay the night there. Kathy, unfortunately, would not be staying in the large, 2 bedroom place as her neck pain had earned her a night in the medical office. Our departure the next morning for Mopti in order to start an 8-day riverboat trip was looking more and more like it would be without Kathy; a looming sentence that she was desperately trying to avoid. When we entered the room, Pete LaFrancoise was lounging on one of the beds which seemed to float amongst a sea of mattresses. Mike was sitting on the floor playing a game on his laptop. It was clear that this room had been well used for quite some time.

Over the next couple of hours, I answered all kinds of questions about who I was and about GlobalTrek:Africa as we tucked into the bottle of Absolut I’d donated to the cause as well as some of the local tipple. Something that claimed to be whisky, the label actually described the stuff as “elaborated”. This was the stuff that puts hair on your chest. In Aaron’s case, it’d gone further adding it to his outer shoulders as well as taking it off his head. For a minute, I wondered if drinking it would lead to blindness, but then I tucked in for a good induction swig. Choking back the swig, I knew that this was going to be a fun night in Bamako.

We started, as any good night should, with tequila shots. After that, details become hazy, but there was certainly plenty of Flag beer and plenty of dancing that attempted to look like salsa. We’d done a number on ourselves with the local booze and after a staggered walk back to the hotel, I crashed next to Aaron on a mattress and dreaded the 6:30am wakeup before the 7am arrival back at the Peace Corps office. Ultimately, I made it, granted a couple of minutes late, but I’m happy to blame that on the short delay caused by standing in a pile of vomit that Aaron kindly left for me prior to his early morning departure. Just more than slightly hung over, I passed through security at the Peace Corps office where Josh said he was just calling people to find out where I was. After bringing my bag to the SUV that would take a group of us up to Sevaré, I grabbed a space on a couch, tossed back 600mg of ibuprofen and a good couple glasses of water and tried not to go back to sleep.

The journey to Sevaré took just over 8 hours. We’d stopped a few times to check in with a couple PCVs in towns along the way and also for lunch where I had my first experience with riz sauce. Simple rice with a peanut sauce and, if you can handle it, some spicy sauce called faranto, lunch in Mali can be very basic. Getting out of the air conditioned SUV at the Peace Corps office in Sevaré, I was soon hot, sweaty and disoriented and headed inside where a pretty decent library of reading material proved that PCVs have plenty of time on their hands. I grabbed a copy of “The Kite Runner” and went outside to try to catch one of the couple of lizards I’d seen scampering around the compound. We were soon met by Sara who was stationed in Sevaré. A wonderfully cheery girl, she spoke French without even trying to feign an accent and was most welcoming. We would spend the night at Sara’s house and in the morning, head off for our boat trip – sadly, without Kathy.

A Night on an Island

2007-08-21T16:20:00.000Z

Summary: Dom visits Île de Gorée, a tiny island just off the coast of Dakar. Steeped in history, most of it painful and shameful, it was my final stop in Senegal.

With one full day left in Senegal, and my original plan completely altered due to SN Brussels losing my bag, I decided to take the advice of the many Lonely Planet forum users who said that the little island off the southeast coast of the Dakar peninsula called Île de Gorée. While the Portuguese were the first Europeans to arrive in Senegal, it was the French who managed to take control of this small island that became a serious piece of history. At just under an 1/8 of a mile wide and a 1/3 of a mile long, the island is now home to 1,200 permanent residents including a number of ex-pats, but was once an important clearing house for the hugely profitable slave trade of the 18th and 19th centuries. While locals get to hop on the ferry for around CFA300, tourists pay CFA5,000 for a return ticket and with ticket in hand, I stood at the entrance to the waiting room which was full of people waiting to get on the next ferry. With a small bit of luck in my pocket and a reservation at one of the few hotels on the island, I managed to get on the next ferry and was able to completely relax for the 20 minute journey. Being back on the ocean was comforting and while Semester at Sea definitely gave me the bug, worry not, you won't be hearing tales of me becoming a sea captain any time soon.

Upon arrival, you're met by a number of the local guides who are hawking their services around the booth where every tourist must pay a CFA500 tourist tax. While the tranquil nature of the island is nearly wholly unlike the hassle of Dakar, it would be unrealistic to think that you could completely leave the touts behind. My tout was named Ahmed. I'd weighed using a guide and decided it could be helpful, so I engaged him and negotiated his services for the day and the next morning for CFA5,000. If you plan to go, feel free to explore the island without a guide; it's completely do-able and there are plenty of people to chat to to get the inside story without having to pay a guide. At 50 years old, Ahmed seemed tired and sadly desperate, but was knowledgeable about the island having lived there all his life. He spoke fluent English and German having lived in Germany for 17 years and disliked French tourists as they never purchased his services. After helping me to my hotel, the Auberge Keur Beer, which was no more than 200 yards from where I'd disembarked the boat (this is a really small island), we walked another 150 yards to the Maison des Esclaves. Built by the Dutch in 1786 as residence with storage for slaves on the ground floor, the importance of this building is often inflated by locals who claim that hundreds of thousands of slaves were transferred through the island. The truth is that as few as 300 slaves per year were likely trafficked through this house, but the garish conditions and shame of slavery are still glaringly awful. Having spent enough time there to connect with the horrors of more than two centuries past and to get chills, I left the house to meet up with Ahmed. He was nowhere to be found, but as the island was small, I continued on my own up the hill on the South side of the island. Built as a fortified castel by the French in the 17th century, it continued to be of military importance up through WWII as evidenced by the massive guns that sit atop the castel. Walking around the tranquil island that, today, has no other industry than tourism, it was hard to imagine that this was one of the most fought-over pieces of real estate in West Africa. I wondered how many Dutch, English and French had died in the pursuit of the financial bounties of enslaving the peoples of West Africa and marveled at how much pain the era had produced.

Ahmed and I parted ways just before dinner as I was tired of his pitching his friends' and family's wares to me rather than being a guide. As the sun was low in the sky, I climbed back to the top of the castel and picked a spot to watch the sunset. Later, a local dog came to sit with me and watch the sunset. Though this scrawny pooch was dying for some attention, I wasn't so caring that I was willing to get fleas and was eager to get rid of him. As the sun set, I snapped a number of photos and made my way back down to the port area for a bit of poulet yassa, a couple of Gazelles and some more writing. In a move of pure classlessness, the waitress came during the middle of my meal and tried to sell me some of her necklaces and bracelets. Though offended, I was polite, and took a minute to look and then said “no, merci”. Sulking, she walked away and I went back to my delicious dinner. Satiated, I stood up ready for the lengthy 100 yard walk back to the Keur Beer. As I walked up the stairs the owners wife was there with two other women and her 2 year old son who seemed keenly interested in my copy of Lonely Planet. I gave it to him and then thumbed through the pages like a fan; playing with kids is so simple, but so rewarding. A loud, rambunctious little devil, he kept trying to open the doors to the guest rooms and would yell at random intervals, embarrassing his mother who kept trying to buy me an out by explaining to her son that I was tired; a half-truth. I fell asleep that night with good thoughts floating around my mind and slept the whole night through; the first night I'd done so since arriving in Senegal.

The next day, Ahmed met me again and we made our way to the last remaining attraction on the island. As it wasn't to open for another 30 minutes, we waited outside in the rubbish strewn sandy walkway where a kitten was desperately calling out. I ignored the cries for a few minutes before I had to investigate. Deep inside the leaves of one of the yucca plants that lined the walkway up to the Fort d'Estrées was a small, dirty kitten with a grotesquely infected eye. There was no doubt in my mind that the eye was gone and without some help, this kitten would be dead by the next day. With my knife on me, I was torn between having to endure the cries of an animal in pain and to let nature run its course. I debated for a few minutes, taking into account how it would be perceived for a tourist to dig into a bush, extract a kitten and take it to the edge of the road and end its suffering, and made the difficult decision to leave nature be. A few minutes before 10:00am, the Fort d'Estrées opened and Ahmed and I went inside. A circular fort at the North end of the island, the guns have been replaced by exhibits which chronicle the history of Senegal. As Ahmed walked with me, he paused at one of the exhibits and claimed that his grandfather was one of the close advisors of Blaise Diagne, the first black African delegate elected to the the French national assembly in Paris. Given Ahmed's general apathy, this could have been true or just another tasty exaggeration for the tourists. I moved quickly through the Fort, partially due to everything being in French, partially for it being hot and also that I was ready to rid myself of Ahmed. As I returned to the Keur Beer, Ahmed returned to sit in the port and wait for another group of tourists; his only meal ticket. I felt bad for him, but also felt that he had little passion for his work and was at least partially to blame for his circumstances. As I boarded the 12:30pm ferry back to Dakar, I saw him chatting up a new group of tourists and hoped he might get his fare for the day.

Upon arriving back on the mainland, I grabbed a cab and headed straight for Aeroport International Leopold Sedar Senghor for my flight to Bamako. Checking in was easy as was immigration and a cute Senegalese girl working in the duty free flirted with me and sprayed me with nice cologne and said she didn't want the girls to like me as I was hers. I bought a couple bottles of Absolut for my birthday celebration and made my way to the waiting room which was filled with travelers heading to Abidjan and Bamako. In typical African fashion, nothing was clear and I just followed the crowd. Eventually, I made it only the plane to find my seat taken so I grabbed another one and mentally sealed the chapter on Senegal. It had been a hell of a start to GlobalTrek:Africa and as I peered out onto the tarmac, I wondered what would await me in Mali.

Africa's Plague of Plastic

2007-08-21T15:38:00.000Z

This article on CNN brings up an issue less thought of in Africa, but one that's worth addressing. Coming from Mali and now in Burkina Faso, two places where the street is the only trash recepticle around, this is a phenomenon I've walked through a lot. It's a short article, so take the time to read it and think about all the plastic you use and how much you throw on the street compared to how much you recycle and/or throw away.

Story here.

Senegal – Losing a bag, finding Teranga

2007-08-21T15:17:00.000Z

Summary: A few days in Yoff & Dakar without luggage fail to impede my desire to undertake the Senegalese experience. Cheated, sweaty, dirty and tired, Dom chugs along to determine that Dakar is a city easily avoided in future. Despite all the challenges, one gleaming aspect overshines the unpleasantness – Dom finds Teranga.

Stepping out of the Boeing 737 onto the tarmac at Dakar's Aeroport International Leopold Sedar Senghor, you instantly know that you're in Africa. Baggage throwers creep from their precious spots of shade under fuel tankers to offload non-human cargo while a bus awaits at the bottom of the stairway to take you to immigration control. Saying “merci” to the cabin crew, you step into the African sun and are blasted by Senegalese heat; your near constant companion while on the continent. After a compulsory stamp from an immigration officer, you enter directly into a dusty, warm baggage claim where one noisy baggage track jerks and jolts. At one side, an older gentleman is hard at work grabbing all the bags that are wrapped in plastic and proceeds to toss them into a pile at his side. While the pile grows and grows until it becomes a small mountain and passengers from the flight grab their bags, I don't see my rucksack. Wrapped in a Pacsafe, an anti-theft steel wire mesh cage, my green Lowe Alpine Contour IV 90 + 15 is hard to miss. I went to the window to see if more bags were being off-loaded from our plane, but the cargo hold had been re-sealed. Thinking there might be an oversized luggage area, I started to move to the big pile of bags to have a butchers when I heard my name being beckoned in an African accent. With a few other passengers in tow, the man from whom the voice emanated told us in French to follow him – at least that's what it seemed like. In a back office past a very lax security checkpoint, I was handed a luggage chart and asked to identify my bag. Apparently, in the London/Lisbon-Brussels-Dakar blitz, my bag didn't follow me. I've had bags lost by airlines before, but in Africa, there's no guarantee someone's looking into it and I was mildly concerned. With the help of a girl from D.C. who was in the same boat but who spoke French, I was able to inquire about when the bag might arrive. I was asked when I was leaving Senegal and when I told the baggage agent 4 days from now, he said “will probably be here by then”. I, for the first time in what will undoubtedly be many times during this journey, silently thought, T.I.A. - This Is Africa.

So sans baggage, I left the baggage area with the bag of goodies for Yuri in search of an ATM. The first three countries I am to visit use the same currency, the FCFA (when spoken, called “say-fa”). Within 4 seconds of exiting the airport doors, I was met by five Senegalese guys who were all asking me what I needed. I'd dealt with touts before, so I ignored them and continued around the corner to where Lonely Planet had said there was an ATM. It was then that I realized that my planned ATM stop in Brussels had been missed in the chaos to get on the plane. As it was Sunday, the bank was closed. With the five guys still all over me, I got flustered and my brain accepted that if the bank was closed, so would be any ATM. With that fuzzy logic, the only option was to engage these guys and do some business. With security guards and gendarmes around, I was leery about exchanging money in plain view; a Senegalese jail is not something I want to see – ever. Still, I needed some local currency and these guys had it. So, with the €50 note given to me by Paul & Chrissy for my birthday (thank you, both!), I negotiated a rate of CFA650 to the Euro and some guy used his cell phone calculator to produce a figure of just over CFA23,000. With everything that had happened in London, Brussels and now with my lost bag in Dakar, my brain failed to catch that I should have received CFA32,500. I'm considering it an African tax on pleasures not yet had.

The same chap who'd done my on the currency exchange was also keen to bring a friend with him as he walked me outside the airport to catch a “cheaper” taxi. By now, my spidey-sense was tingling and although jovial chat about footy flowed, I was sure I was gonna get charged an incorrect fee for the ride. My first inquiry to price was met with something I'd heard before in Vietnam: “no money, just friends”. After I heard that, I switched into traveling mode and immediately went full-court press on this guy. I threw out a number and he threw back his “special price” of CFA3,000. This is twice what it should be. Rather than fight him, perhaps physically, I pushed for CFA2,000 and that seemed to work. Arriving at the Via-Via hostel in Yoff to the North of Dakar, I quickly shooed my companions away and told the guy I'd call him tomorrow to help me with my bag. I think I still have the business card of that guy. Maybe if I go back to Dakar I'll go get my CFA10,000 back – I'm pretty sure I could take him.

The entrance to Via-Via is in an alley off the Rue de Cimetières. Through a small double door, the hostel opens to reveal a pleasant, if small courtyard with a small thatch-covered restaurant. Recommended as a backpacker's favorite, I picked it because it was the best sounding of the cheaper options in an area where most “budget” hotels double as brothels. In French so atrocious it would make Sarkozy order me to never again attempt, I threw out “J'ai un reservation du nom Cronshaw” to a guy I later realized was a gardener/cleaner. He was kind enough to bring me to reception where my reservation was hiding under my first name and further disguised in light pencil amongst a sea of other names. After laughing at perhaps my useless French, my not knowing my own name or a combination of the two, the guy at the desk showed me to my room. A clean but poorly lit single on the 2nd floor, the room named “Missirah” had a bed, mosquito net, mounted oscillating fan and some shelves and in the corner, an en suite bathroom. Seeing the room, I was glad I'd chosen the joint; after further inspection of the bathroom, there was no forgetting I was in Africa. Shrouded by a beautiful black and tan batik, the 1m2 tiled area had a sink, shower with cold water and no curtain and a flush toilet. In all seriousness, the presence of a half roll of TP and a bar of used soap was a pleasant surprise. With but one set of clothes, this would also be my laundry room for at least one day. “Perhaps my bag will be here tomorrow,” I thought with a solid sense of naivety. I was grateful to have shelter and left my things to head to the thatch-covered restaurant where I hoped a cold beer awaited me. With my first gulp, I was sure that this beer, this 1L bottle of Gazelle, had been brewed, bottled, shipped, chilled, and opened just for me. Unnerved, but alive, I had made it to my first stop in Senegal. The rest of day was spent with a Frenchman named Didier Pajot who, although spoke about as much English as I did French, spoke nearly fluent Spanish. A instructor of Djembe who had returned to Senegal to visit friends in Casamance in the South, he and I undertook various tasks together including checking out the beach, hitting an ATM (not closed on Sunday!), and trying to find malaria pills for him. Missions completed as much as possible, we returned to Via-Via for some dinner and to crash. I was 98% toast and twice nearly fell asleep in my plate. With a 5:00am ride to the South, Didier wasn't up for a late night either and we both retired around 9:00pm. Sleep, though, would have to wait – I had laundry to do in the shower.

30 July 2007 .:. Daylight creeps through the curtains bringing with it birdsong and the sounds of children playing. Naked, I crawl out of bed to look at myself in the mirror, ready to slap myself to make sure yesterday wasn't a dream. Seeing the shower, there was no escaping the truth: I was indeed in Africa with no luggage and not enough French to confidently remedy that problem. Rather than shy away from that, I tossed on my shower-washed clothes from the day before and headed down to breakfast under the thatched roof. West African breakfast is very basic and often consists of bad French bread, a bit of confiture and, if you're lucky, a Nutella-type substance. Via-Via also hooks you up with tea or coffee, so, bonus! And so, sipping my cafe au lait, chowing down on cardboard, I continued to write about all of the craziness from the previous day. As I finished what I can only very loosely call bread, I was approached by a girl from Barcelona named Anna Puig. Didier and I had met her and her two traveling companions the night previous at dinner. In my hazy, exhausted state I had said maybe three words to them. Still, this morning, Anna had come by to have a look at my Lonely Planet and chat. Sitting with Anna, I was glad I'd learned Spanish in school; it was becoming oddly very useful in Senegal. The night prior, they were explaining how they'd been scammed upon arriving in Senegal from Barcelona a few days prior. Their bags were also lost, but on the Barcelona-Casablanca-Dakar route and when they left the airport they were approached by a guy who said he worked for the hostel and he'd help them with what they needed. At some point, the girls became separated from each other and then from about €120 when they gave it to the guy to go change money. It sounds foolish, but given that I'd been convinced to get into a cab with two Senegalese guys I didn't know, I suppose strange things happen in Africa. Anna wanted to know where the Malian embassy was in Dakar as they were to travel overland on the Dakar-Bamako train that I had originally hoped to take, but they had yet to obtain visas for Mali. With little to do but wait for my bag, I asked if I could go with them. 20 minutes later, we were off.

Nearly everything is up for negotiation in Africa, especially if you're white (e.g. a tourist). From cab rides to cabbage prices, you can fight for almost every CFA, Cedi, or Birr. Negotiating here is a skill, but unlike in the Western world, it has a few unique facets including the “walk away”. Say you're negotiating a cab to take you and your three friends from Yoff to the Malian embassy in Dakar. You'll likely be approached by a cab, you tell the cabbie where you want to go and you'll be met with a price. Unless you know it's a fixed price (from an airport, for example), feel free to scoff, look offended and offer half of whatever's been said. You will likely get back something lower than what was originally quoted. If you still aren't happy after a bit of this, just stand up and begin to walk up the street. If the guy was trying to milk you and wants the fare, he'll chase you down and yell another price at you. If you like it, you get in. If not, you start the process again with another cabbie. It's not the most efficient process, but after a while, it can be kind of fun. One word of advice is to pick a car that looks like it can make it the whole way there – all of the cabs are old, but some are downright death traps. I'll be writing more about negotiations as GlobalTrek:Africa continues, I'm sure.

With the sun bearing down on my untempered skin, the three Spanish girls and I arrived at the Malian embassy. With little to do while they filled out applications but read my little French handbook that Auntie Rose so kindly gave me prior to departure, I sat in one of the two shady seats available and tried not to get eaten alive by mosquitoes. As it was Monday and the girls were leaving on Wednesday, I wouldn't have been at all surprised if they'd had to delay their departure while the embassy took their time to issue visas, but to everyone's delight, they told them to come back the next afternoon. It all seemed so easy and the incredible hassle and expense of sending my passport to Brussels to get my visa seemed unnecessary now. Still, I had my visa and so the biggest concern for me was to get a bottle of water from the roadside shack outside the embassy; a manageable task even without French. Water is, in my mind, the most undervalued asset in the developed world. Look for a future post dedicated exclusively to water. The rest of the afternoon saw the four of us traipse around Dakar looking for poulet yassa, a cyber and a beach – finding all three without much difficulty but through oppressively hot taxi rides, persistent touts and a lengthy walk. With sweat dripping from every inch of my body, we stopped at a pastissiere for some refreshments. In West Africa, these aren't just places to get bread, but have lavish desserts and are often places you take people you want to impress. With that in mind, I wasn't far off in hoping for air conditioning and was partially correct! As we sat down beneath a massive LG AC unit that was flush mounted with the ceiling, I ordered and large bottle of water; despite it costing CFA1500 (about $3), I was happy to pay three times the street rate for something cold. Sadly, the AC never came to life and so we sat and sweated through the entire experience. Ironically, as we left, it was clear that the air outside was cooler than inside. Tired, sweaty, and ready to call it a day, we hopped a taxi back to Yoff. The return journey was nothing short of astonishing. Perhaps it was the ancient Peugeot we'd found ourselves in or the tired driver who seemed hesitant to make the trip North, but this taxi ride opened my eyes to the fact that in Senegal, there are no rules of the road. Cars move from left to right, taking whatever space is available with little concern for speed beyond avoiding slamming into the car ahead. Buses pull off at random intervals, motorcycles squeeze in between cars that would easily win in a collision. Once we'd left Dakar, we entered the poorer outskirts of the city passing the main stadium and a massive market that looked like something out of Mad Max. Hollow-eyed shadows of human beings atop years of garbage and sewage hawking dirty, greasy pumps seemed to stare directly into my eyes, but without any sentiment at all. I wondered what creatures operated towards the center of this tragic place, what wears they clung to – not out of pride of ownership but of utter necessity for the basics of life. There wasn't much time to be shaken by the situation, however, as our driver quickly tired of the traffic and swung a right down a back road. While the sandy path was a sign we were close to the coast and our hotel, the threat of getting stuck was all too real and I was too tired to push a taxi out of a sand pit. The final intersection was the epitome of gridlock. A 4-way intersection if you count our sandy alley, there were vehicles attempting to travel in six directions and a horse-drawn cart attempting a seventh. We were sitting there for 5 minutes before we got through and walked the rest of the way back to Via-Via.

The thatch-covered patio of Via-Via is a relative paradise after such a ride and while the girls were quick to head up to shower and get ready for dinner, I was stuck wearing the same funky gear I'd arrived in 28 hours earlier. Someone was going to call about my bag, but when I half-way inquired, it appeared it hadn't happened. I was told to wait. I want to say I was cool with it and was able to roll with it, but no. I asked 2 more times, mostly with gestures, before one of the girls who worked there remembered that her cousin was a soon-to-be-teacher of Spanish at the University of Dakar and lives, literally, around the corner. She called him to come over which he did 4 minutes later. A thin and hugely cheerful fellow of 27, Arona was happy to help and advised me to wait until tomorrow and if no one had called, he'd call for me. With my gratitude, he left but not before showing me where to find him around the corner. Given that I had nothing to do the following day, I asked if he would be willing to teach me some French, a request to which he agreed. After returning to Via-Via, I ate dinner with the girls and retired upstairs to once again wash myself and my clothes in the shower with no curtain before nakedly crawling under the mosquito net and falling asleep. The day's verdict: Dakar is a loud, busy city that will quickly shock you into a new mode of thinking and can be easily voted off a trip to Africa.

The morning of 31 July 2007 began at around 06:00am when the heavens opened and thunder and lightning replaced birdsong as a wake-up-call. Although too tired to get up to see it, one flash pierced my eyelids and the vicious crack of thunder soon after assaulted my inner ear. Today, I thought, might be a wash (no pun intended). Even my 10:00am appointment with Arona might be missed on account of this torrent. When I descended at around 8:00am, staff were scurrying about plugging leaks and bailing out water from somewhere behind the bar and the guests huddled under the covered patio. Some brought down headlamps to fight the darkness while others looked on in disappointment that they may be at the hostel all day. Just before 10:00am, there was a brief break and I took the opportunity to get a move on to Arona's. Not 2 minutes away and I didn't make it before another massive downpour got me and I had to run to seek shelter in his courtyard entrance. He was up and ready and we headed to a telecabine to phone the airport to see about my bag. The bag had arrived, so we hopped in a cab and headed to the airport where I quickly popped in and grabbed it – finally, my stuff!! I quickly dropped it in my room, changed my shirt and headed back to Arona's for some help with French. A single story unit down an alley from the Rue de Cimetières, Arona's building had about 14 rooms arranged around a sandy pit no more than a meter and a half wide that flooded during any significant amount of rain. After hopping over the pool, I entered Arona's room where he and three other men were laying on thin mattresses on the floor. With a window opening with no window and a curtain for a door, the 9' by 11' room was home to these four guys. Taking a seat next to Arona, we began to speak a few phrases of French. Despite his selected profession, he had no real method of teaching and the lessons quickly digressed into conversations in Spanish about his life and his family while we drank numerous cups of sweet tea. Two hours passed while I sat and read my little French phrasebook and Arona played with his cell phone. Opting for the chairs at Via-Via, I thanked Arona and his roommates for their hospitality and made my way back to continue writing and reading. I felt far away from home and yet my world was becoming very small. Thoughts of mutual funds and how the Rapids were doing were completely gone, replaced by thoughts about Wolof, sweet tea, and having my bag. When I returned to Via-Via the Spanish girls were sitting with their guide from their previous trip to Senegal and we all went out to dinner with him at a shack down the street where a news report showed that 90mm of rain had fallen in Dakar – nearly four inches in just one day, normal for this time of year. After dinner, the Spanish girls were all under the weather with varying degrees of the Senegalese variant of “Delhi belly” and we canceled our planned round of Butifara, the game they'd taught me the night before. Shame, I'd really been looking forward to that before heading off the next day for Île de Gorée. Still, I smiled as I didn't have to do any shower laundry that night.

Having well over-stayed my reservation at Via-Via, and with them politely encouraging me to leave it was time to head on to my next destination. Originally, this had been Saint-Louis up in the North near Mauritania, but as SN Brussels is basically useless and had lost my bag, that option disappeared. Perhaps, given the experiences thus far, it was meant to be so; inshallah. My only remaining tasks were to pay the bill, say goodbye to the Spanish girls and pay one last visit to Arona to thank him for his help. Through it all, he never asked for a thing. Such is the nature of the people of Senegal and they have a word for it: Teranga. To help others and to be a good host are the basic principles behind Teranga, but there's a warmth to it as well that I wish I had more time to explore. Arona, a true lion of Teranga was a man from Sokoro who helped a man from Boulder and over all the touts, over all the calls of “my friend!”, it is he who forms my opinion of the Senegalese people. Sadly, the pace of this journey leaves experiences to be desired and rather than spend more time with Arona, I could only offer a token of my appreciation for his help. My bag packed, save one important element, I took the item I'd left out and headed to Arona's house. He was there, laying on his mat, enjoying his time off school as I entered. I expressed how much I appreciated his help and gave him my favorite England jersey as well as my contact details and asked him to keep in touch with me. He showed little emotion, perhaps due to his roommate looking on curiously, but I'd like to think the sentiment translated effectively. After popping back to Via-Via to grab my bag, I negotiated a taxi ride to the ferry that would take me to Île de Gorée for the night before my flight to Mali. Senegal was nearly a closed chapter in GlobalTrek:Africa, but there was one solid story left.

SN Brussels: Worst Airline Ever?

2007-08-21T14:46:00.000Z

Summary: Dom runs through two airports to catch the two most poorly operated flights he's ever experienced. He makes it onto the plane to Dakar, but does his bag?

It was wholly fitting that GlobalTrek:Africa should begin with some challenges. Never a destination of blissful ease, the journey to get to Africa is part of the experience; you earn it. For me, earning Africa began at London's Gatwick airport. With a 6:40am flight to Brussels where I'd connect on a flight down to Dakar, I elected to save my dear family an atrocious wakeup and instead spent the night at Gatwick. Earlier this year, I spent an unexpected night at Chicago's O'Hare airport. Perhaps the most uncomfortable of U.S. airports, I'd survived its cold confines on one of the only benches to have three seats free of armrests and hopped a 5:15am flight back to Denver feeling like I'd survived O'Hare. Without question, I could survive Gatwick in summer. With a 27kg rucksack and a handbag chock full of sweets for Yuri, my good buddy in the Peace Corps in Mali, I entered the departure hall. At 9:45pm, level 5 was a ghost town. Two janitors quietly swept in the dark; more filling time than making progress. Descending to level 4, the escalator delivered me to the main lounge. All the shops, save one Marks & Spencers were closed, locked and dark and the only place to grab some shut-eye was the carpeted area in the center of the lounge. With about 30 chairs and benches of various sizes and in cruel constrast to the hibernating shops, the lounge was lit up like it was set for a Paris fashion show. Rest area by day, this was the site of an impromptu shantytown filled with a couple dozen haggard looking Europeans who were paying the price for their bargain tickets; 6 hours attempting to sleep under the glaring lights is apparently worth it savings. Even if I had wanted to endure the bright night, there was hardly a space and so I was left to use my exploratory skills and found a darker corner near one of the exits where I broke out my fleece sleeping sack, my air mattress and got ready for a long night.

Having slept no more than 25 minutes at a time, I crawled out of my corner at around 5:00am to head up to check in for my flight. The ghost town of level 5 had been completely transformed into a bustling center of international activity. Hundreds of people milled past boards with information about where to check in, each dragging anywhere from an overnight bag to 5 giant suitcases. One large school group was gathered by the elevators, perhaps ready for a week's adventure to Paris. Finding my queue wasn't so difficult as it was the longest one on the whole floor. The SN Brussels check-in had two check-in agents; one for “light” and one for “flex”. Apparently SN Brussels wants to be different and the standard economy and business classes are beneath them. For over 200 people, most of whom were flying “light”, one check-in agent was available. I let this go and as it was 5:20am, I wasn't concerned about missing the flight. 30 minutes pass and we're still 100+ people away from the desk. Groggy and with promises from a Gatwick agent who told us that SN Brussels said they'd get everyone on the plane, I just stood patiently in the single line and waited. All in all, I was in the queue for over 90 minutes before I got to the desk where they couldn't find my reservation. Eventually, a supervisor came over and found me on a printed list next to the check-in agent. If I wasn't half-asleep, I might have scoffed or even outright complained about this guy's incompetency. At 06:30am, I was given my boarding pass and told to run to the gate. Using this as an excuse to fly though security is something I will likely do from now on until I die. Just tell security that the check-in agent told you to get priority screening and you will get zipped through like a VIP. Genius. I was nearly delayed en route by the Senegalese family ahead of me at the metal detector who were trying to carry on 3 items for 2 people. Gatwick, like all UK airports, has a strict one bag per person policy so that the screeners don't get overworked. The Senegalese mother had taped two of the bags together and called it good. The best part of the exchange (and I would have waited it out if I wasn't highly likely to miss my flight) was the security agent from the Midlands trying to lecture the Senegalese woman about how “3 is not 2”. I hate security agents and would be happier with monkeys in funny hats – we'd be just as safe and could laugh at the monkeys.

As one of the last 12 passengers, I got on the plane at about 6:55am, 15 minutes after scheduled take-off. Immediately, I noticed that there seemed to be fewer people in this plane than there had been at the check-in. After 20 minutes of Africans trying to haul the bags they'd weaseled through security into the scarce overhead space, a flight attendant apologized to us all and explained that the supervisor at the check-in was new and had allowed too many people to check in and that they had had to scramble to find a second plane. They didn't just oversell the flight, they booked almost 60% more people than they could seat! Even more insulting, the unruly Africans who were trying to fit gigantic bags into the overhead compartments or in between their legs and arguing with staff (one was threatened with removal from the aircraft) were given drinks and food after takeoff. The rest of us were conveniently passed by. Upon landing, passengers connecting to Kinshasa were asked to disembark first. In typical African fashion, nearly everyone in the plane stood up. Queuing is not an African strength.

The chaos continued in Brussels. In a stunning show of poor planning, we arrived at Brussels and were immediately put through a full security screening. Having left an hour late from Gatwick, I now had a very tight connection and this was not an appreciated measure to ensure my safety. After proving I was carrying deodorant, not bombs, I left security en route to the SN Brussels ticketing agent. The check-in agent at Gatwick had not been able to check me through to Dakar, but had been able to do so for my bag and told me to see the ticketing agent on the concourse in Brussels. The woman there took my passport and said that she would have to re-route me as the flight was full. I explained that I had a confirmed reservation on this flight and after checking her computer, she told me that I should not have even been allowed to board in Gatwick and that I had been re-routed from there to Lisbon! After a few minutes and a call to the gate, she told me to run to the gate and that they would help me there. After a lightning-fast pee midway down the concourse, I continued my run (yes, I ran) to the gate where about 20 Africans were arguing with 4 gate staff who were furiously typing into computers and dolling out boarding passes like Wonka's golden tickets. Somehow, I ended up with a boarding pass and scooted through the checkstand to head to the plane where I took my seat. With no breakfast, a mid-run pee and on little sleep, I hoped my bag had moved as quickly as I had and was somewhere below me in the cargo hold. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly given the incompetency of SN Brussels, my hopes were to be unfulfilled.

French keyboard delay.

2007-08-02T12:51:00.000Z

Hello to my faithful 18 subscribed readers and to anyone not yet subscribed!

Quick note that I am alive, but the keyboards in French-speaking West Africa are, shockingly, in French! As such, my fingers can't keep up with my brain and rather than waste hours in a 'cyber' (think see-burr), I'll wait to transcribe my many pages of blog-worthy stories until I reach Ghana around 20 August.

In the meantime, why not catch up on some of my previous posts. Use the tag browser to find stuff you might be interested in or just start at the beginning using the monthly selection.

Thanks also for all the comments you're posting. Those mean a lot.

From Dakar, Senegal on way to Bamako, Mali on a 3:45pm flight,

Dom

Leaving London

2007-07-28T10:11:00.000Z

Starting with a 06:40 flight out of Gatwick tomorrow morning, I embark upon an 85 day excursion that will cover as many as 11 countries and over 15,000 miles. GlobalTrek:Africa has been a work in the making for months and now awaits me; a journey unlike any other I've ever undertaken.

I am well prepared for this journey both emotionally and physically and still, I know this will be an incredibly challenging and revealing experience. I will witness incredible things as well as bear witness to the shame of humanity on a continent vastly different to any other. Rich and inviting, I long for Africa and all that it is to me. I have been awaiting this moment ever since that long hard night on the Maasai Mara in Kenya when I knew that my heart belonged there.

My thoughts are focused around adventures and conscious experiences and yet I also recognize that I will be faced with opportunities for which the rewards are plentiful, but with which come grave risks. The two most concerning to me are possible excursions into the eastern DRC and Burundi. I very much wish to venture here, but the situation changes with astonishing frequency and the decision will be made very last minute. Through all of this, know that I undertake nothing lightly and am fully aware of what I'm doing. I'll leave the pseudo-will for when I'm faced with one of these sorts of choices.

First stop, Senegal where I'll be soaking up the sun on the beaches north of Dakar and heading North towards the border with Mauritania where I hope to see some of the history of this amazing place. Sadly, and like most of the countries I will visit, I have only a few days here. The pace of this trip is, almost without question, break-neck speed, but I've had practice as in 100 days in 2002, I visited 11 countries while on Semester at Sea.

So many thanks are due to my friends and family for their support in the run-up to this trip. I can hardly express the gratitude I wish to convey to you for all that you've offered me and keep as a main aim to make you proud of what I intend to do while in Africa. Special shout-outs to Michael Jungman and Paige Huetteman for keeping in touch on nearly daily basis and to Geremy Kornreich for all the witty comments he's likely to lay out.

And so begins GlobalTrek:Africa. Stay tuned, stay in touch and strap in - this is going to get wild!

Darfur: Our global shame

2007-07-27T08:49:00.000Z

Summary: The time for action in Darfur was yesterday. Diplomacy has failed and yet, the world does not act. This is our global shame.

Update: Farrow calling out Spielberg on the Olympics has encouraged him to act. Well done, sir.

I've put off writing this piece for a few weeks now, thinking optimistically that the intervention force agreed to by the Sudanese government would be quickly mobilized and the atrocities would begin to end. My optimism was foolish and now I am confident that any diplomatic methods employed by any government or the U.N. are mere posturings to maintain operations and economic interests outside of Darfur including the 2008 Olympics in Shanghai.

What's spurred me to lose all optimism is not a single event, though while enjoying my crumpets and tea a few days before I am to explore Africa, I read an interview in the July 30th issue of Newsweek where Mia Farrow pleads for action. Acting as a goodwill ambassador for UNICEF, Farrow recently visited Darfur to bear witness to what is happening and returns with a rightfully scathing opinion of the world's response.

As referenced in my overview post about Sudan & Darfur, I again refer to Dr. Eric Reeves, an expert on the conflict:

"There is no effective leadership of the international effort to provide a meaningful peace process in the wake of the disastrous agreement that emerged from Abuja, Nigeria last May. To be sure, there has been a welter of “conferences” and “initiatives”---in Paris, in Addis Ababa, in Accra, in Cairo, and several in Tripoli (the most recent this past April, the next scheduled for mid-July). But there is no plan, no “roadmap,” although a flimsy two-page document does exist with the absurdly overstated title of “Joint AU-UN Framework for a Road-map for the Darfur Political Process, DRAFT 10 May 2007: Work in Progress.” But this document is nothing more than a hasty assemblage of generalized exhortations and vague goals. It is holds no party accountable in any meaningful way, either in observing a cease-fire or seriously committing to peace negotiations."

None of the senior U.N. negotiators even reside in Sudan.

Two days ago, a draft U.N. resolution was circulated related to the joint AU/U.N. force that was already agreed to by the government of Sudan. The draft is a "watered down" version of one previous; it "drops the threat of sanctions if Sudan fails to comply with the resolution" and puts the insertion of the force back until the end of December. FIVE FULL MONTHS FROM NOW. Still, Sudan's UN ambassador Abdalmahmood Abdalhaleem protested the new draft claiming that it still included "hostile language".

This comes from a man who represents a government that has, to this day, continued to use air raids to intentionally bomb civilian populations in Darfur - many times disguising their planes to look like U.N. aircraft.

I'm done listening to efforts of diplomacy. Mass killing continues in Darfur, and those in power tip-toe around Sudanese officials for no other reason than fear. Such is not the way in which my great nation was intended to act in the face of a just cause. Like Carl Wilkens, the only American to stay in Rwanda during the genocide of 1994, I am so angry at America; "America the beautiful, America the brave". Like Wilkens, "I [am not] angry with America, America's people, like that. I [am] angry with our government. I [am] angry with people who [can] do something, even the simplest things, and they [don't]."

Our leaders cower in the face of an atrocious regime that has time and again shown they have no intention of attaining a peace. Farrow notes:

"Intervention should have happened in 2004 and it didn't. So should NATO come in? Anyone should come in! The United Nations and all member states should [act] in a matter of days when we see a government slaughter its own people. That should be an automatic trigger; it shouldn't be deliberated for years."

I, Dominic Cronshaw, as a citizen of the world am calling upon you to act. Be you Michael Jungman or Geremy Kornreich; be you busy director or inquisitive student; be you wealthy or be you poor; be you political or be you conveniently apathetic; be you international or be you homebody - I'm calling on you to be a catalyst for the action needed to end the murder, rape and torture in Darfur.

Take the time to read Dr. Reeve's recent article. Get on the phone and call your representatives. If asked to, leave a message and then call back until you've gotten him/her on the phone. Exclaim: "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not gonna take this anymore!". Grill your representatives, hard, on why they have not achieved their stated goals in relation to Darfur. Tell them you are ashamed of them and they have failed you; abused your confidence and neglected your objectives.

Sometimes, as sadly found by Paul Rusesabagina at the Milles Collines in Kigali, shaming them into action is the only way to make anything happen.

Sources / Pic credits: BBC News, Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Time Magazine

GT:Africa .:. Pre-Ghana

2007-07-24T10:44:00.001Z

4th Stop
Planned Attendance: August 23rd - September 5th, 2007

Ah, Ghana - land I long for. I've wanted to visit Ghana for over a decade due to their vibrant love of soccer and the astonishing landscapes I've seen in magazines.

Present-day Ghana has been inhabited since at least 4,000 B.C., but little information remains about these early societies - more is known about the kingdoms of the 13th century. Influenced by the Sahelian trading empires to the North including the empire of Ghana (again, not the country), a powerful kingdom known as the Ashanti came to inhabit central and southern Ghana. Fueled by gold, trading networks flourished and the Ashanti expanded further into the South where they encountered and often found conflict with the Fanti, Ga and Ewe people of the coast. Here, they also encountered Portuguese traders interested less in gold than in the human commodity.

Initially lured by gold and ivory, the Portuguese took advantage of the building of plantations in the Americas during the 16th century by refocusing their economic efforts on the slave trade. Their successes lured the Dutch, British and Danes to join in and the slave trade exploded with the Ghanian coast being the site for a number of forts and strongholds of various European powers. The native kingdoms also grew rich as they were an essential link in the chain - capturing and delivering members of rival tribes to deliver to the Europeans.

By the time slavery was outlawed in the 19th century, it was the British who held the best hand and gained the dominant position on the coast. The Ashanti attempted continued expansion into the lands of the Ga, Ewe and Fanti who sought protection from the British. A number of wars between the Ashanti and British saw the sacking of Kumasi, the Ashanti capital, in 1874 and the occupation of the city in 1894 after the Ashanti continued the fight. The British established a protectorate over Ashantiland in 1901 and exiled their leader to the Seychelles (well off the East coast of Africa, South of India).

Under British rule, cocoa became the backbone of the economy and in the 1920s, the Gold Coast (as Ghana was known back then) became the world's top producer. By WWI, cocoa, gold and timber had made the Gold Coast the most prosperous colony in Africa. By independence (March 6th, 1957), Ghana was flying high with the best schools and civil service in Africa. Imprisioned by the British in 1951, the first President of the Gold Coast was Kwame Nkrumah who, when released in 1957 to lead the country, immediately changed the country's name to that of the mighty empire of centuries past - Ghana.

Nkrumah's time in power is marred by overly-ambitious schemes, reckless spending and unbridled corruption. While on a trip to Hanoi in 1966, the army staged a coup and ousted him. He died in exile six years later in Guinea. In 1972, after the army and a civilian government failed, another coup was headed by a Colonel Acheampong. Under his leadership, everything got worse including massive devaluation of the cedi and food shortages and he was ousted by the coup of 1979 which saw a 32-year old, half Scottish air force flight lieutenant rise to power. Jerry Rawlings quickly became adored by the people - he had Acheampong executed and after the civilian government he allowed to take over failed, he took power again in 1982 and stayed for two decades.

Since 1992, Ghana has had its ups and downs. It has seen one of its citizens, Kofi Annan, head the U.N., it has faired decently in international footy and it has seen some improvement in world opinion. It has also seen lack of improvement in social services, rising inflation and increasing corruption. The party in power's slogan is "So Far So Good". I am very much looking forward to experiencing Ghana first hand and will let you know what I find.

The Stats:

Land Area: 239,460 sq km (bit smaller than Colorado)
Average Temp: 22 / 27 (Low/High, Accra in August)
Average Humidity: 97 / 77 (am/pm, Accra in August)
Precipitation: 15mm (Accra in August)

Population: 22,931,299 (July 2007, est.)
Infant Mortality: 53.56 deaths per 1,000 live births
Life Expectancy: 59.12 years
Fertility Rate: 3.89 children born per woman
Literacy: 57.9% overall, 66.4% / 49.8% (Male/Female, 2000)
HIV/AIDS Prevalence: 3.1% (350,000 living with, 2003)
Infectious Diseases: Hep A, typhoid, malaria, yellow fever, meningococcal meningitis

Major Religion(s): Christian - 68.8%, Muslim - 15.9%
Official Language(s): English
GDP per capita: $2.700 (2006, est.)
Occupation Distribution: 60% Agriculture, 15% Industry, 25% Services (1999, est.)
Unemployment: 20%
Pop. below poverty line: 31.4% (1992, est.)

Sources: Lonely Planet West Africa, CIA World Factbook, Wikipedia

GT:Africa .:. Pre-Burkina Faso

2007-07-23T18:24:00.000Z

3rd Stop
Planned Attendance: August 20th - August 23rd, 2007

One of the lesser known countries I'll be visiting, Burkina Faso is home to some of the most fun-to-say names in Africa. I'll hit at least two of them in Ouagadougou (Wah-ga-do-goo) and Bobo-Dioulasso in my few days here. I have a feeling I'm going to wish I had more time here, but alas, I want to get a full two weeks in Ghana.

After the French arrived in the second half of the 19th century, they could never really figure out what to do with this land. Upon arrival, they broke up the structured, traditional Mossi states and threw the entire country into the Colonie du Haut Sénégal-Niger. In 1919, they broke it out as a separate colony which they dubbed Upper Volta. In 1932, for "purely commercial reasons" (according to Lonely Planet), the French sliced it up and grafted more than half onto Côte d'Ivoire and the rest onto Mali and Niger. Then, after WWII, it became Upper Volta once again. Throughout its command of Upper Volta, the French consistently elected to focus on its other colonies and did little to develop Burkina opting to treat it as a "repository for forced labour" (Lonely Planet).

After gaining its independence in 1960, Upper Volta saw a few ineffective, autocratic leaders
and no less than five coups before 1983. The last, in 1982, was the most notable and lead by an ambitious left-wing military star - a Captain Thomas Sankara, also called Thom Sank. In 1984, Sankara renamed the country Burkina Faso which means 'Land of the Incorruptable' and immediately went to work to promote self-relianace in rural areas. He was determined to stamp out government excess; made Renault 5s the official car of the president and ministers, cut government salaries by 25%. In 1985, he even dismissed most of his cabinet and sent them to work on agricultural co-ops.

In one 15-day blitz, his government vaccinated 60% of Burkina's childrend against measles, meningitis and yellow fever. Sankara's government sent representatives from each village for training as paramedics. From 1983 to 1986, more than 350 communities built schools using their own labor - an effort which saw education of school-age children rise by a third, albeit to 22%. Sankara's government kept accurate financial records, kept debt financing to a minimum and enabled Burkina to be one of the few African nations who's per capita GNP increased during the 1980s.

Not everyone appreciated the steps Sankara took for Burkina. While endeared by ordinary Burkinabés, those with other vested interests including trade unions, landlords and the USA and France were less enthused. Sankara's mandate that all rents be handed directly to the government (and his statements calling rich people 'thieves') did not help his longevity. In 1987, a group of junior officers seized power and took Sankara to the outskirts of town and shot him. His grave resides in the rubbish-strewn outskirts of Ouaga and remains a place of discreet pilgrimage.

His successor, a former friend named Blaise Compaoré, unsuccessfully attempted to discredit Sankara with a "rectification" campaign. In power since 1987, Compaoré has been victorious in questionable elections with low turnouts. That of late 1991 was particularly suspicious when the leader of the opposition was assassinated a few weeks after the election. Furthermore, Compaoré has been accused of involvement in the trade of illegal diamonds and of meddling in the conflicts of Sierra Lione and Côte d'Ivoire.

And yet despite this unpleasantness, Burkina is quite stable. I wonder what I'll find when I hit the ground.

The Stats:

Land Area: 274,200 sq km (about the same size as Colorado)
Average Temp: 22 / 31 (Low/High, Ouagadougou in August)
Average Humidity: 81 / 67 (am/pm, Ouagadougou in August)
Precipitation: 277mm (Ouagadougou in August)

Population: 14,326,203 (July 2007, est.)
Infant Mortality: 89.79 deaths per 1,000 live births
Life Expectancy: 49.21 years
Fertility Rate: 6.41 children born per woman
Literacy: 21.8% overall, 29.4% / 15.2% (Male/Female, 2003)
HIV/AIDS Prevalence: 4.2% (300,000 living with, 2003)
Infectious Diseases: Hep A, Typhoid, Malaria, H5N1 (remote)

Major Religion(s): Muslim - 50%, Indigenous beliefs - 40%
Official Language(s): French
GDP per capita: $1,300 (2006, est.)
Occupation Distribution: 90% Agriculture, 10% Services (2000, est.)
Unemployment: Unknown
Pop. below poverty line: 45% (2003, est.)

Sources: Lonely Planet West Africa, CIA World Factbook

GT:Africa .:. Pre-Mali

2007-07-21T22:48:00.001Z

2nd Stop
Planned Attendance: August 2nd - August 20th, 2007

Mali is full of ancient history. Rock paintings and carvings in the regions around Gao and Timbuktu suggest that northern Mali has been inhabited since 50,000 B.C. when the Sahara was fertile grassland with an abundance of wildlife. Fast-forwarding to the 6th century A.D. sees a lucrative trans-Saharan trade in gold, salt and slaves; all of which contributed to the rise of Mali's three great empires - The Empire of Ghana, Mali and Songhaï.

The Empire of Ghana (not the country) offers legendary tales of riches in the form of gold. It is rumored that the streets were paved in it and that the emperor of Ghana routinely tied his horse to a nugget of pure gold. The Empire of Mali saw the peak of the trans-Saharan trade and the development of major financial and cultural centers including Timbuktu. Islam is embraced. Later, the Empire of Songhaï sees emperors travel to Mecca with 300,000 gold pieces and the creation of a professional army and civil service. What is today known as Mali was at the center of all three empires.

Invaded by the French in 1880 and set up as a cheap source of cash crops like cotton and rice, Mali became a shadow of its former glory. Gaining independence on August 5th, 1960, Mali saw 20 years of government mismanagement, frequent droughts, and from 1970 to 1990 five coup attempts.

In 1990, a group of nomads called the Tuareg began to fight back against the Malian forces in Gao. The Tuareg uprising, as it is known brought about (through a number of events) the election of Alpha Oumar Konaré in June of 1992. Konaré quickly implemented reparations to the Tuareg, appointed opposition members to his cabinet and even stepped down from power in 2002 to allow for elections.

The Stats:

Land Area: 1.22 million sq km (just under twice the size of Texas)
Average Temp: 22 / 31 (Low/High, Bamako in August)
Average Humidity: 94 / 73 (am/pm, Bamako in August)
Precipitation: 348mm (Bamako in August)

Population: 11,995,402 (July 2007, est.)
Infant Mortality: 105.65 deaths per 1,000 live births
Life Expectancy: 49.51 years
Fertility Rate: 7.38 children born per woman
Literacy: 46.4% overall, 53.5% / 39.6% (Male/Female, 2003)
HIV/AIDS Prevalence: 1.9% (140,000 living with, 2003)
Infectious Diseases: Hep A, Typhoid, Malaria

Major Religion(s): Muslim - 90%
Official Language(s): French, Bambara
GDP per capita: $1,300 (2006, est.)
Occupation Distribution: 80% Agriculture, 20% Services (2001, est.)
Unemployment: 14.6% (2001, est.)
Pop. below poverty line: 64% (2001, est.)

Sources: Lonely Planet West Africa, CIA World Factbook, Wikipedia

GT:Africa .:. Pre-Senegal

2007-07-21T21:21:00.000Z

1st Stop
Planned Attendance: July 29th - August 2nd, 2007

From the 8th the 16th century, Senegal was part of the great empires of Ghana (not the country), Mali and Songhaï and was the first section of Africa to be reached by Europeans as Portugese explorers entered the mouth of the Senegal River in 1443. The next year, they settled near present-day Dakar on Île de Gorée where they set up a vital trading base. By the 16th century, the Dutch and French had also found their way to Senegal in search of their piece of the lucrative trade in gold, ivory and slaves.

After the slave trade was banned in 1815, the French powers forced locals to grow groundnuts (peanuts). After nearly 400 years of French rule, a marabout (Muslim holy man) known as El Hajj Omar Tall who has established a vast empire with Segou (today in Mali) as its center began to clash with French forces. Defeated in 1864, his followers continued in his footsteps setting off the Marabout Wars which lasted another three decades.

In 1884-85, the Berlin Conference saw the division of much of Africa amongst the colonial powers. Not surprisingly, Senegal was allocated to France. In 1887, France granted many Senegalese limited French citizenship. This opened the door to election to the French national assembly in Paris, an opportunity first taken advantage of by Blaise Diagne in 1914. A shrewd teacher and writer named Léopold Sédar Senghor was elected as Senegal's representative to the French national assembly. Senghor made secret deals with the marabouts in order to attain their support and prepare for the push for independence which was earned on June 20th, 1960.

The Stats:

Land Area: 192,000 sq km (about the size of South Dakota)
Average Temp: 24 / 31 (Low/High, Dakar in July)
Average Humidity: 84 / 66 (am/pm, Dakar in July)

Population: 12,521,851 (July 2007, est.)
Infant Mortality: 60.15 deaths per 1,000 live births
Life Expectancy: 56.69 years
Fertility Rate: 5 children born per woman
Literacy: 39.3% overall, 51.1% / 29.2% (Male/Female, 2003)
HIV/AIDS Prevalence: 0.8% (44,000 living with, 2003)
Infectious Diseases: Hep A, Typhoid, Dengue Fever, Yellow Fever, Malaria

Major Religion(s): Muslim - 95%
Official Language(s): French, Wolof
GDP per capita: $1,800 (2006, est.)
Occupation Distribution: 77% Agriculture, 23% Services (1990, est.)
Unemployment: 48% (2001, est.)
Pop. below poverty line: 54% (2001, est.)

Sources: Lonely Planet West Africa, CIA World Factbook

1000 Words: Prince Charles & Army Breasts

2007-07-13T21:36:00.000Z

Prince Charles doesn't spend time on any social niceties when he's got the chance to marvel at the "assets" of the Army Air Corps - he just slaps on a smirk and prepares for battle. Bit of the story here.

The Star Spangled Banner .:. Remix .:.

2007-07-04T08:44:00.000Z

Well, the 4th of July has arrived and what better way to celebrate than with a creative version of our national anthem. This one's sung mostly by guys who, in some felonious way, have acted in violation of our ideals and values!

Enjoy and Happy Independence Day!

Itinerary Confirmed for GlobalTrek : Africa

2007-07-02T18:20:00.001Z

Well, there's a new design to Tea Time Tales today in celebration of the finalization of an itinerary for my upcoming trek through Africa. The latest in my GlobalTrek, this phase begins on July 29th and will be a two and a half month venture with excursions in 10 countries including:

Senegal
Mali
Burkina Faso
Ghana
Ethiopia
Uganda
Rwanda
Burundi
Tanzania
Kenya

On the recommendation of my uncle, Paul Cronshaw, I used a travel agent called Trailfinders here in the UK to book all my flights. They are a fantastic company with very creative and skilled representatives; should you require any travel assistance, I highly encourage you to get in touch. I was lucky enough to reach Dee at Trailfinders who had just come back from over 2 years abroad herself and managed to save me hundreds of pounds on the cost of the following flights. I've got 4 flights booked with a 5th in the works:

London to Dakar, Senegal (via Brussels) - Air Brussels - 07.29.2007 @ 06:40
Dakar to Bamako, Mali - Kenya Airways (In the works)
Accra, Ghana to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia - Ethiopian Air - 09.05.2007 @ 10:00
Addis Ababa to Entebbe, Uganda - Ethiopian Air - 09.10.2007 @ 10:00
Nairobi, Kenya to London - Air Brussels - 10.17.2007 @ 20:55

On this journey, I'll operate using some of the most basic facilities of life all while facing some of the most grueling terrain on the planet. I will dig deep into issues of genocide, poverty, HIV/AIDS, foreign influence and globalization. I will play footy, I will eat the local grub and do my best to soak in that which is Africa. I will do my best to stay safe while pushing to understand a part of the world that holds a large piece of my heart.

Stay tuned....this is going to be a wild one.

Man beats up 'vampire' peacock

2007-07-01T18:09:00.000Z

I simply cannot one-up the original on this one. So, I'll just post it in its entirety. Oh, and I couldn't resist spending 5 minutes photoshopping the above pic.

A peacock that roamed into the parking lot of a Burger King in New York City was beaten by a man who insisted it was a vampire.

Animal control officials in Staten Island say the bird was beaten so fiercely that most of its tail feathers fell out and it had to be euthanized.

The seven-year-old male peacock wandered into the restaurant parking lot and perched on a car hood last week. Charmed employees had been feeding it bread when the man appeared.

A restaurant worker says the man grabbed the bird by the neck, hurled it to the ground and started stomping it. She says when he was asked what he was doing, he responded, "'I'm killing a vampire!"'

Employees called police, but the man ran when he saw them.

"Sicko" brings the pain

2007-06-27T18:49:00.000Z

I like Michael Moore's movies. I don't agree with his points all of the time and I don't think that he offers many viable solutions to some of our nation's many problems, but that's not his job. That's the job of the politicians and the elected representatives of your hometown and state. Watching Sicko will make you realize how woefully inadequate a job they're doing for you and your family.

Moore's latest sees him take a layman's perspective and simple curiosity to investigate how different societies approach health care. From a couple in their 50s who had to move in with their daughter and her family in Colorado Springs after they exhausted their life savings paying for care for the husband through 3 heart attacks to a French mother who has a government paid helper come and assist her with cleaning, cooking and laundry - at no cost to her.

While it's easy to see how & why pundits attack Moore (he feigns being surprised a lot - undoubtedly for effect), it's undeniable that America handles the care of its citizens in very different way to the rest of the civilized world. If you can't pay, you'll very likely get worse care, if any at all.

The film also, in brief, brings to light the fact that insurance companies have come to rule health care in America. If the amount of detail in how this came to happen were represented by the Sahara, we get about two dumptrucks full; and yet, it paints the picture. Starting with Kaiser Permanente, medical care became a for-profit business with patient care being only one of the major concerns. Over time, patient care has taken a back seat to growth and rising profits; with many neglected customers left dying with letters denying their claims for benefit. While I'm not dying, I feel this personally. In January 2006, I ruptured my left ACL and medial meniscus while playing indoor soccer. Luckily, I was insured and the whole episode including surgery and rehab cost me about $600 out of pocket. Even at hundreds of dollars, I felt relieved. When I applied for and got new insurance in October 2006, I was told that coverage for ACL injuries would not be covered as it was a pre-existing condition. They did not specify which knee. Should I be injured again, I have no doubt I'll have to fight in order to be cared for.

For his effort in making the film, Moore's being investigated by the U.S. Treasury department due to part of the film being made in Cuba. Strict regulations are still in place regarding travel to Cuba and what one may and may not do while on the island. Moore went to the main hospital in Havana and arranged treatment for 3 9/11 rescue workers. Later, they were received at a firehouse where all its members stood at attention in honor of their service.

I've been to Cuba. I've listened to Castro speak, at length, about Cuba's relationship with the U.S. and how he would love to have diplomatic relations with his neighbor to the North. I've sat, spoken with, eaten with, drank with and enjoyed time with Cubans and can say with confidence that they mean us no ill. They are no threat and yet for 45 years, our government has forbidden us from interacting with these people. It is our shame, as Americans, to bear for not having engaged our representatives to end the embargo.

Sicko brings to light one of a few 800lb gorillas lurking in American society and in a brief fashion, illustrates the implications of our attitudes toward and systems of health. The resulting impression is frightening, astonishing, shameful, and unacceptable.

For too long, corporate profits have come before care for the people; for too long the few have chosen what the many will be allowed.

We, the people, shall endure it no more.

Sicko opens in cinemas nationwide on June 29th.

Most Expensive Movie Ticket...Ever?

2007-06-27T16:37:00.000Z

London is expensive. For as long as I can recall, it has been so and I always feel a sting when buying just about anything here. I'll happily cough up for fish & chips, real sausages or stuff I can only get here, but this past weekend I had a taste of how much pain your wallet can feel in this city.

Now, I've been here before and have been living in London off and on for the last month, but have a gander at the following and keep in mind that the pound is worth $1.997:

A bus ride is £2.
A single ride on the underground costs £4.
A pint can go for £2.75 or more.
A Ghanian multiple-entry, 6 month visa costs £40.

Okay, so the last one's not really fair to include and I'm happy to pay that. Furthermore, there's a cool discount card called Oyster for the transport bits that gets you about 50% off. Yet, there's one more I have to rant about. Movie tickets.

It's not just the ticket price, it's the whole event of going to the cinema in England that still seems so odd to me; like a fancy night out that's been stripped of its tux and ushers with ice creams. In many cinemas here, you still get assigned seats. At the ticket booth, they give you a seating chart and you have to select your seat. And not all seats are the same! Some are sold as "premium seats" and cost, at least in Leicester Square's Odeon Theatre, £15 (yeah, it really is about $30). I was seated across the aisle from them and saw no difference at all; just another way to snake an extra £2.50 out of you. So, that's just for the movie. Popcorn is like £4.50 for a medium and don't even ask about a Coke. Thank goodness I was totally full having just come from Wagamama; again, happily coughed up £7.95 for some ami udon noodles and £2.95 for an Asahi Special Black there.

So, I spent almost $25 to see Zodiac. At that price, it should be clear that I'm a sucker for serial killer flicks and I enjoyed this one. It was no Silence of the Lambs, but if it had turned out like Hannibal or Hannibal Rising, I think I would have eviscerated the ticket booth attendee.

Maybe I need to eat more fruit, or something.

Pearl is back in "Good Cop, Baby Cop"

2007-06-27T16:05:00.000Z

Remember The Landlord? Pearl's back and this time...she's not taking any flack.

Good Cop, Baby Cop

Hillary Clinton shows no sense of originality

2007-06-20T16:26:00.000Z

Hillary, come on. The fact that you would sign off on this poorly scripted ripoff makes me trust you even less. The "I'm looking out for you" line you served up to Bill with the bowl of carrot slices alone makes me wonder if you're trying to call me fat.

I think I'll try to pin Obama down for dinner, instead.

Oh, and I don't know what you did you get Johnny Sack so miffed that he'd come back from the dead, but you'd better tell the Secret Service that he's in the john. (Click video to start)

Colbert on robots, bears and robot bears

2007-06-18T13:26:00.000Z

It's simple. I saw it first. Colbert's copying me. I'm putting you on notice, Colbert!!

Sudan & Darfur: Then, Now and ...

2007-06-12T23:15:00.000Z

Summary: This post is as distilled a version of the conflict in Darfur as I can adequately produce without trimming critical detail. Genocide, despite vows of the developed world to act, continues today. Take copious notes and bare witness.

Darfur is an area in Western Sudan, the largest country in Africa and 10th largest in the world. Most of the Western world has had little reason to pay much attention to the hot, arid nation through the middle of which runs the grand Nile. My earliest exposure to the Sudan came in the early 90s when, during my avid basketball card collecting, I came across the massive center for the Philadelphia 76'ers, Manute Bol. At 7'7" and only 200 lbs, Bol was unlike any other human being I'd ever seen; a giant with skin so dark it seemed he was always in the shadows. Beyond Bol, Osama Bin Laden spent five years in the Sudan after his departure/expulsion from Saudi Arabia in 1991; under international sanctions, Sudan offered to expel Bin Laden back to Saudi Arabia provided that the government pardon him; a condition the Saudis refused.

Sudan has a long and utterly fascinating history of influence and conflict. As with any place, history adds rich detail to the comprehension of current events, but I shall leave most of it for your own private study. One intriguing fact: in the North of Sudan, researchers found what is thought to be the world's oldest evidence of warfare dating back to the 12th millennium B.C.

Skipping 12,000 years of history, we fast-forward to the 7th century A.D. when the well-established split between northern and southern Sudan came to be and led to not one, but two vicious and bloody civil wars.

The source of the divide between North and South can be traced, in part, to religious influence. If asked what religion features prominently in Sudan, many would likely say Islam. Despite this being true, Islam didn't arrive in Sudan until around 651 A.D. when the governor of Egypt raided northern Sudan and, not finding much of value, continued towards the Red Sea; an area rich in gold and emeralds. Subsequent to the discovery of riches, an influx of Arab miners began as well as a transition of the economic structure to feudalism. Slavery became a critical aspect of the economy and a shameful piece of Sudanese culture. During the 18th and 19th centuries, the British, French, Belgians and Egyptians all laid claim to various areas of Sudan and led numerous missions to back up their claims.

Due to the size and ecological hostility of Sudan, most of the activity of foreigners occurred in the North leaving the semi-nomadic tribes in the South relatively uninfluenced. This aspect becomes critically important after 1898 when the British, through concessions from the Belgians and French, essentially ruled the entire of the Sudan (though their influence was limited in the South).

In 1943, the British began preparing the North for self-rule by dividing the area into six provinces. Three years later in 1946, the British reversed this decision and announced that the North and South would be ruled under one government situated in Khartoum in the northern part of the country. On top of the vast geographic separation from Khartoum and while most of the bureaucrats and politicians from the South had been trained in English, the new government's official language was to be Arabic. Of the 800 governmental positions vacated by the British in 1953, 4 were given to southerners. This neglect and unfair treatment of the South brought about the first civil war.

Though there is much information about the first civil war, which began in 1955 and continued for 17 years, I shall not cover it here. While it undoubtedly influenced the climate and saw the first calls for southern secession, it is the 2nd civil war that offers more insight into the Sudan of today.

In 1989, and with the backing of the same Islamic fundamentalist party (NIF) who had protected Bin Laden during his time in the Sudan, a coup brought to power a military junta that, unlike previous coalition governments, was wholly unwilling to compromise with the South. The leader of the coup was then Colonel Omar Hassan Al-Bashir who immediately made himself not only a General, but President, Chief of State, Prime Minister and Chief of the Armed Forces. In 1991, Bashir's government introduced a new penal code based on Shar'ia law which included amputations and stonings as punishment. This, however, is only the beginning of the horrors seen in the 1990s.

On the pretext of fighting the southern rebels, the National Islamic government of the Sudan deployed its regular armed forces as well as its militia to attack and raid villages in the South and the Nuba Mountains and take cattle and slaves. Food and supply shipments were systematically shut off by the North. Along with an estimated 2M civilians killed since 1983, over 200,000 southern women and children are thought to have been taken as slaves. The strife and following lack of investment in the South has led to what human rights organizations call a "lost generation" which lacks educational opportunities, access to basic health care services, and has few prospects for productive employment. In 2002, the U.S. accused Sudan of genocide for acts committed during the civil war.

In 2003, as international aid poured in, a second conflict was beginning; one which would grip the world's attention and bring about more mass killings of civilians in Sudan. Much like in Rwanda in 1994 where over 800,000 people were killed and with an estimated 400,000 more Sudanese dead, governments and various groups argued back and forth over whether a genocide was occurring. World leaders chastised the Sudanese government and evoked ineffective sanctions while the world asked, pleaded and demonstrated en masse for immediate action. To this day, it has not come. The following is the story of Darfur.

Situated in Western Sudan, Darfur covers an area comparable to the State of Texas. From the 14th century, Darfur saw foreign invasions similar to those seen in northern Sudan including a Turko-Egyptian invasion which was quashed by Muhammad Ahmad's Islamic Mahdist rule. In 1898, a British Field Commander worth checking out named Herbert Kitchener ended Mahdist rule and brought about an Anglo-Egyptian co-dominium which would rule all of Sudan until 1955 when Sudan was granted independence (see above). In the face of disproportionate development and support of the Nile Valley, disenfranchised Darfuris were preyed upon by various political groups and factionalism took root.

After independence, three major groups inhabited Darfur: camel herders in the North, Arab cattle herders known as the Baggara in the East and South, and sedentery farmers known as the Fur in the central region (Darfur means "land of the Fur"). Beyond their lifestyles, the Baggara and Fur are markedly similar. Both have similar physical features and both practice Islam. In the late 1960s, periods of severe drought forced the camel herders and Baggara into the more fertile central region of the Fur. As competition for access to water and pasture intensified, small-scale raids turned into persistent battles among the different groups. Numerous attempts to create a peace failed.

Early in 2003, two local rebel groups known as the Justice and Equality Movement (JEM) and the Sudan Liberation Movement (SLM or SLA) accused Khartoum of oppressing non-Arabs. While the actual date of the beginning of the conflict varies by source (some as early as 2001), a commonly observed early major event was the raid on Al-Fashir in the southern part of Sudan. In the early morning hours of April 25th, 2003, a joint JEM-SLA force raided a government garrison and destroyed a number (4 or 7 depending on source) of bombers and gunships as well killing 75 soldiers, pilots and technicians and capturing another 32 including a Major General. The raid was a massive victory and unlike anything accomplished by another foe of Khartoum, the Sudan People's Liberation Army (SPLA) during the 17-year civil war in the South. Khartoum had been completed surprised by the attack and was embarrassed.

During the middle months of 2003, the rebel groups used hit-and-run techniques to continue to strike at government installations winning 34 of 38 engagements. In the face of these numerous defeats, which added to the embarrassment and threatened control of Sudan, Khartoum altered its strategy from direct confrontation with the rebels to systematic attacks on the civilian populations from which the rebels came. The new approach added the use of the air force and a group of armed Baggara herders known as the Janjaweed (roughly translated, it means "devil on horseback") against non-Arab civilians. Note: Various other groups also inhabit Darfur and have been targeted by the Sudanese government and the Janjaweed militias.

Equipped by Khartoum with communication equipment and some artillery and with no rules of engagement, around 20,000 Janjaweed quickly and viciously lashed back at non-Arab villages while ignoring Arab villages. By the spring of 2004, thousands had been killed and over 1M Darfuris had been driven from their homes; their wells poisoned, crops uprooted, fruit trees cut down and their villages burned to the ground. Upwards of 100,000 Darfuris fled across the eastern border of neighboring Chad chased by members of the Janjaweed who clashed with Chadian forces at the border. Beyond more traditional means of violence, the Janjaweed have used rape as a weapon. Culturally in the region, raped women are considered unclean, and are ostracized. Women are even raped in open, public places to increase humiliation for them and their families.

The fleeing Darfuris have congregated in over 100 camps in both Darfur and Chad. These overcrowded camps for displaced persons are now home to more than two million people. They face serious shortages of sanitary facilities, medical supplies and, at times, even food and water. The threat of waterborne disease including cholera and dysentery adds an additional horrible element to an already hugely challenging life in these camps.

And so it has continued, amidst negotiations and sanctions, two-faced politics and private interests for three long years. The African Union has 7,000 poorly equipped and underfunded troops in the region; most accounts detail that they can do little but record atrocities and have little capacity to effect much, if any, protection for civilians. In late 2005, the A.U. said they had plans to increase the size of the force to 12,000 by spring 2006; the force remains at 7,000 poorly equipped and underfunded troops whose leaders are saying they cannot fund them much longer.

Just today, the government of Sudan has agreed to a much larger U.N. peacekeeping force to be deployed to Darfur. Al-Bashir had previously categorically ruled out such a force and his agreement to this latest U.N./A.U. force is contingent on all troops being from Africa. U.N. officials say this will make fielding the force difficult, but beyond the difficulty Al-Bashir and the NIF have a long history of reneging on agreements; this force may be actively delayed until hundreds of thousands more are dead.

Today, Omar Al-Bashir is still the President of the Sudan and despite being head of state during two separate mass killings which have left over half a million Sudanese dead, is still being engaged in diplomatic conversations as well as receiving political and military support from countries including China and Russia. The U.N. has passed 16 resolutions on the Sudan. The New York Times reported that 'a confidential United Nations report says the government of Sudan is flying arms and heavy military equipment into Darfur in violation of Security Council resolutions and painting Sudanese military planes white to disguise them as United Nations or African Union aircraft.

Quite simply, the A.U. is ill-equipped, under-funded and sadly incapable of ending the killing. The structure of the U.N. security council (as well as its historical pattern of failing to protect civilians from genocide) means that China can use its veto power to squash "overly-aggressive" resolutions. President Bush, in the face of all the evidence, on April 18th of this year threatened only sanctions. European leaders have also failed to bring an end to the violence.

What is absolutely, inarguably, completely and shamefully clear is that our leaders have the ability to stop the killing in Darfur.

They are simply choosing not to.

}---{}---{

Image courtesy of America Abroad Media. Various sources including Wikipedia, BBC, SaveDarfur.org, Africana by Robert Fay and a very good article by Dr. Eric Reeves. His site is a fantastic resource for research and commentary on U.S. and international responses to the crisis.

Teddy BEAR for soldiers with owwees

2007-06-07T13:12:00.000Z

War must be tough. From the frequent threat of bodily harm to finding a camel spider in your trousers to having to endure politicians renaming part of your dinner to "freedom fries", war is no cake-walk. Surprisingly, considering their recent infatuation with armed conflict, the U.S. government has given the green light to a project aimed at aiding soldiers in need.

Ensuring rooms at VA hospitals don't have mold all over them? Ah, not this time. Allocating adequate funds for the pensions of injured soldiers? Um, no. Immediate shipments of up-armored Humvees, body armor with a bonus of shortened tours? Seriously, stop asking.

Rather than any of the above, the U.S. military, long a black hole for financial resources, has added another "you've got to be joking" project. They've developed a prototype called the Battlefield Extraction Assist Robot (BEAR), a 6-foot-tall robot that will be used to carry injured soldiers out of areas too dangerous for other soldiers to venture. In principal, this sounds like a fantastic idea. Then again, I saw the trailer for iRobot and if you get a bad batch of robot in a combat zone, you'll get precision RPG fire and fearless killing machines running amuck.

Furthermore, have a look at the image at right and more specifically, look at the #1 feature. That's what they feel is the MOST important piece of this massively technological project.

New Scientist magazine reports that the "friendly appearance" of the robot is designed to put the wounded at ease.

Call my a cynic, but I imagine that hardened soldiers that carry automatic weapons, use high explosives, arrest people in perhaps the most dangerous environment on Earth and have just been shot/blown up/etc. MIGHT be more concerned about the robot getting them to a surgeon quickly and without dropping their ass on a mine. But hey, I've never been in a warzone; maybe a teddy is just the ticket.

Full story here.

What the World Eats - from $1.23 to $500.07 a week

2007-06-07T09:36:00.000Z

Here's a photogallery showing what 15 families from around the world eat in a week. From the 6-member Aboubakar family of Breidjing Camp in Chad (above) who eat mostly beans to the 4-member Melander family of Bargteheide, Germany who enjoy a variety of meats, cheeses as well as beer and ice cream.

My VisualDNA

2007-06-06T17:35:00.000Z

Who am I? What drives me? How can I express some of that? Enter: Visual DNA.

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Google does it AGAIN with Streetview

2007-06-05T10:53:00.000Z

Update: ET found in New York!

Google maps are really helpful for directions. Google Earth is super slick with its integrated news and photos. Now, Google's ramped it up another notch with virtual walk-abouts through 5 major cities in the U.S.

With a decently high-speed connection, you can plop down on any street and have a look around and walk down the street.

You can explore San Francisco, Las Vegas, Denver, Miami and New York.

If you look hard enough, you can find social deviants!! (Loads in new tab/window)

Wim Hof hates sweaters

2007-06-05T08:48:00.000Z

Wim Hof is:

Dutch
A fine swimmer
Not afraid of catching a chill
Seriously hardcore

This guy has previously gone to the North Pole, cut a hole in the ice, jumped into the water and held his breath for 6 minutes and 20 seconds. Already in 2007, he's run a half marathon (that's 21km or 13.125mi) above the Polar Circle in Finland where the ground temperature was -30°C and made an attempt at Everest's summit dressed only in shorts and sandals.

Read more about him here. (Loads in new tab/window)

All Praise Fox!

2007-06-05T07:48:00.001Z

Well, at least for their recent victory against another 'evildoer' of the airwaves. Yesterday, Fox won a verdict against the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) in a case which centered around Cher and Nicole Richie blurting out expletives at the 2002 and 2003 Billboard Music Awards which was shown on Fox. The FCC had ruled that the expletives had violated "decency regulations". Fines for such violations can lighten the offending network's wallet to the tune of $325,000 (and possibly higher for other, Janet Jackson-esque behavior). Apparently, no fines were imposed for the violations at hand.

Fox had challenged the FCC's decision to the appeals court, arguing that the government's decency standard was unclear and violated free speech protections and that the rulings had contradicted findings in past cases.
The three-member appeals panel focused on whether expletives were used repeatedly or were only uttered fleetingly. The FCC had argued that, under certain conditions, one utterance of an expletive can rise to the indecency standard.
...
Fox said it was "very pleased with the court's decision" and that it believes "that government regulation of content serves no purpose other than to chill artistic expression in violation of the First Amendment."

Whole article here. (Loads in new window/tab)

This reminds me of a senior prank of which I was a part back in high school. 10 of us (with the financial backing of well over 100 others) acquired 10,000 4 oz. Dixie Cups and piled them into the hatchback of our buddy John Dias. We then used some 007 maneuvers to enter our school through the roof, block out the motion sensors, set up a network of water hoses and logistics and begin to fill the student center with cups of water. We got just over 1/2 way when the cops showed up with guns and expressed their discontent with the whole shebang. We, quite obviously, were suspended by the school for 5 days. Apparently, someone in the administration decided that was a cakewalk, so they petitioned the Boulder Valley School District and got an additional 5 days tacked on under a "habitual offender" clause.

For about a year prior, one of the other cup-layers named Loring Harkness and I had volunteered as defense attorneys for the Boulder County teen court. We very much wanted a hearing about the extra 5 days where we could plead our case, but our parents shut us out of everything. Loring's mother is an attorney, my father was an esteemed professor and the district barely paid them any mind. Nevermind that 9 of the 10 miscreants were honor students and had never so much as chewed gum in class, we were permanently labeled habitual offenders.

The FCC has, is and will continue to try to pull this sort of thing. They will attempt to make the utterance of one four-letter word "indecent" and will continue to impose their will and censorship on what comes across the airwaves. In the case of Fox News and their campaign of slanted, bigoted chickenhawkery, such censorship may benefit the American people but at a cost of limiting the creative expression of our culture.

So, in this very odd twist of events, let us stand and raise our glasses to the victors, the Fox network. Now, if only the FCC can nail 'em for the pile of bollocks that is Fox News.

Oh, and we got our revenge on the Fairview High School administration. From 10 guys returning to class in wife-beaters with prison numbers and "habitual offender" scrolled on the front, to a hedge trimmed in a the shape of a phallus to my very visible snubbing of the vice principal as she demanded I remove my offensive attire. My response:

"What are you going to do? Suspend me?"

Africa: I'm coming home

2007-06-04T09:28:00.000Z

Summary: A snippet about my first two ventures into Africa in 1983 and 2002.

I have been exceedingly lucky in that this will be my third visit to the dark continent. At the tender age of 2, my parents brought me to visit the Shaws in Botswana. Even at that age, I recall our truck being chased by elephants and can still feel that thrill. I was baptized in Botswana, as well; thrown in by my mother as a "why not" gesture when my cousin Tom was receiving his dousing. Mum neglected to tell me this until I was 21. Perhaps it was this event that explains what happened when I returned to Africa in 2002.

As part of my university education, I participated in a study abroad program hosted by the University of Pittsburgh (since moved to the University of Virginia) which took around 600 students from about 100 universities and put them on a "small sliver of steel" for a voyage of discovery. After departing from Vancouver, Canada and visiting Japan, China, Hong Kong, Vietnam, Cambodia, Malaysia and India, we arrived in Mombasa, Kenya. From the first breath of African air, my heart felt that it had found home. I have a number of journal entries from the entire journey and I may post some of the more interesting ones in Tea Time Tales, but for now, I'll post just a short piece from 5 Nov 2002 that I wrote about my time in the Maasai Mara of Kenya.

I wrote a few thoughts in reflection of my time at the camp on my final night. I was pretty tired, but more than that, I was breaking down. I had messed up my eye on safari and it was really hurting me. But I stepped away from the pain. I felt a great connection to this place and the new friends I had made in the small, hot kitchen and did not enjoy much of the time I was around the rest of the SAS crew. I was annoyed by them and in part embarrassed by a great deal of their behavior. They were being loud and I would bet that they missed a vast amount of Kenya that I saw. Here is what I wrote:

Sore eye. Transformation to lion. Don't want to leave Kenya. Kindred spirit was born here and I see it in the eyes of the people. Jones, Mustafa, Meena, Gregory. They all seem like family. We cook together and they teach me about their lives, about cooking, and about Kenya.

Feel defeated. Feel like I'm starting over this time as a full-grown lion. I am so outside of the group. Quiet, contemplative, observant while trying to break away from tourism. I have left a piece of my heart in Kenya.

I wish I could explain all of that, but some I don't want to and some I don't understand myself.

Today, I sit four and a half years after writing that, poised for a return.

A return as a lion.

Leaving Las Palmas

2007-06-04T08:46:00.000Z

Summary: 4 months in Las Palmas left much to be desired, but did provide one gleaming gem of conviction.

I've yet to meet someone who enjoys the process of moving. Whilst trying to put your life into a few bags, scrubbing and mopping the last few remnants from what was your home and tying up the inevitable loose ends, one seems drawn to recount for their time.

Writing from London where I've been for just under a week, Las Palmas shall survive only in fragments; there were no great lessons, no life-changing experiences, and very little splendor. There were laughs, friends made and many-a-beer thrown back while spouting about 'living life'. In the strictest sense, that was likely true and yet, I don't feel much better for having been there. There were vicious fights between some; callous and cruel indications of the divide between people unwilling to empathize with one another. There was tortilla española, acetunas, fútbol and Carnaval, but one of our last meals was astonishingly overcooked tuna. There were a few nice locals, but mostly they seemed cold and uninterested in my attempts to connect. Perhaps I failed Las Palmas or perhaps the opposite is true, but the sentiment of dissatisfaction permeates all contemplated variants.

There was, however, one revelation that was born in the sands of Las Canteras beach with the aide of Nick Warren's GU030:Paris. I am to continue my journey; a leg who's path will lead to either an indelible, lasting effect on my life or bring about my early demise.

I am to return to Africa.

A Global Underground Guide

2007-05-18T15:41:00.000Z

It's not often that one company becomes an icon of an entire global movement, but it does happen. Global Underground has been a pinnacle of global dance music for over 10 years and continues to produce some of the best mixes in the world. With 30 (soon to be 31 with Adam Freeland's mix from Mexico City launching June 12th) mixes from world-class DJs as well as a few other series that expand on new territory, Global Underground is always in constant rotation in my iPod.

Here's a few thoughts for anyone interested in quality dance/house/trance.

Groundbreaking:

GU001: Tony De Vit - Tel Aviv. The first GU, you feel the underground with this.
GU023: James Lavelle - Barcelona. A completely new sound with plenty of gems.
GU030: Nick Warren - Paris. His 7th installation, arguably his craftiest.

Classic:

GU007: Paul Oakenfold - New York. Got me into the series, still a big fav.
GU011: Nick Warren - Budapest. Made famous a lot of tunes, this one rocks.
GU013: Sasha - Ibiza. The gold standard of the series. Worth 20x its price.

House Variants - From Bangin to Beauty:

GU005: Tony De Vit - Tokyo. Bangin, dancin hard house
GU009: Sasha - San Francisco. Creates an envy of both the DJ and the crowd.
GU012: Dave Seaman - Buenos Aires. High class, progressive fuel for long flights.
GU015: Darren Emerson - Uruguay. Hit play, dance for 2+ hours.
GU027: Danny Howells - Miami. Disc 1 is THE sexy mood setter. Great with wine.
GU028: Nick Warren - Shanghai. Covers a lot of ground and gets into your soul.

Soundtrack to being As Cool as Possible:

GU018: Nick Warren - Amsterdam. Dark, funky, get-into-trouble stuff.
GU020: Darren Emerson - Singapore. Even darker. Best with scotch or highways.
GU025: Deep Dish - Toronto. Few will recognize what you're playing, but they'll all be on board.

Global Underground has also launched a few new veins over the years. The NuBreed, Prototype, and the Afterhours series have a few absolute crackers. Try on NuBreed 004 - Sander Kleinenberg for size (SK's Scorchio Remix is ooowee-good). Also, for the drive home or the very late snugglefest, be sure to have some Afterhours handy; Afterhours 3 brings me back to center.

More info, tracklists and general GU stuff at their site --> Here. (Launches in new window/tab)

CU vs. Arkansas - One Day Left

2007-05-18T08:25:00.000Z

Update: Looks like some hog fans ramped it up. Arkansas beats CU 52% to 48% and wins the region. I'm done following this story.

Once again, it's college mascot rival time and good ole' Ralphie is in the regional finals! There's only one day to vote, so get at it!! Ralphie's already taken down the CSU Ram (yeeeeaaahhh buddy!), the Maryland Terrapin (I had to Wiki it to find out what it is - apparently a turtle), and the Richmond Spider (pretty easy win, I would think).

Vote here (Loads in new window/tab), and don't forget to read the short article to make sure you adequately know both of the candidates.

As of time of post, and with my money on Ralphie, the score stands at 51% for Ralphie & 49% for that Hogzilla-lookin' thing; (66,599 votes).

More Bad News for Zimbabweans

2007-05-16T19:21:00.000Z

Summary :: Zimbabwe is experiencing the worst economic crisis in the world, but at least they've been named head of the U.N. Commission on Sustainable Development.

With just two weeks left in the planting season, the Agriculture Ministry of Zimbabwe's government has admitted that less than 1/10th of the wheat crop targeted for the year has been planted. The ministry has warned that shortages of bread and flour would worsen as a result. Apparently, corn is far more important a food source for Zimbabweans than wheat and as such, mass starvation appears unlikely - for now.

The government is claiming that acute shortages of cash, fertilizer, tractors and gasoline are to blame for the planting shortfall. 240 of the less than 1,000 tractors used in the country are broken down and farmers have received less than half the gasoline required for the working equipment.

For many who've been paying attention, this is not unforeseen. Official figures show that inflation is at a staggering 2,200%. This figure does not include data from the thriving black market where rare commodities such as sugar fetch up to 10 times the government-fixed price. Some estimates put the figure upwards of 5,000%.

The central bank estimates that 3.4M (of 12.3M, according to the CIA World Factbook) Zimbabweans have fled the economic crisis; most who find work end up in menial jobs as housecleaners or day laborers despite higher abilities. Earlier this month, the Zimbabwe Health Services Board declared that 42% and 35% of locally trained doctors and nurses, respectively, had left the country seeking higher pay and better working conditions.

What makes this all the more tragic is the lack of effective condemnation of the government's economic management. Just last week and by a vote of 26-21, Zimbabwe was made head of the U.N. Commission on Sustainable Development. The U.S. and various European nations as well as numerous NGOs have condemned the result.

Considering that Zimbabwe is very much in the throes of the worst economic crisis in the world, one can only stand in awe of what this means. I couldn't have imagined anything occurring that I would find more inappropriate than the nomination of John Bolton for the U.S.'s ambassadorship to the U.N., and yet it has happened.

Quite simply, putting anyone from the Zimbabwean government at the head of the Commission on Sustainable Development is much like making George W. Bush chair of literature and culture at Harvard.

What happened on XX/XX/XXXX?

2007-05-14T15:41:00.000Z

I've always been interested in history and the peculiar conicidences it seems to reveal. I recall pundits claiming that April 20th was an "evil" day for the pain it has spawned.

I personally feel some of this as on my birthday, August 6th, the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan. I think of that and have observed a moment of silence every year since I was 9. I was up a tad late last night, watching Cry Freedom and looking for more info on Steve Biko and found an interesting resource offered by the New York Times.

It lists major historical events on any given day. I found it interesting that I share my birthday with some influential characters including:

Andy Warhol
M.Night Shyamalan
Lucille Ball
Sir Alexander Fleming
Dutch Schultz
David Robinson

I'd never known that before. Perhaps you'd like to see what happened on your birthday, or see if you can find that "good" day.

New York Times' On This Day Archive

A Big Step Against HIV/AIDS

2007-05-11T22:54:00.000Z

Summary: The Clinton Foundation strikes a major victory and I lay out some figures to show how we can and should stem the tide of global HIV/AIDS. We need your support.

On Tuesday, Bill Clinton announced that his foundation had negotiated significantly lowered prices for first-line drugs to less than $1 per day.

The big boost here comes in the reduction for the once-a-day pill which is the staple of first-line drugs. The pill includes tenofovir (Viread, NtRTI), lamivudine (Epivir, NARTI) and efavirenz (Sustiva, NNRTI). The new price of $339 per patient per year is expected be 45 percent lower than the current rate available to low-income countries and 67 percent less than the price available to many middle-income countries.

As of December 2006, nearly 40 million people were estimated to be living with HIV/AIDS; nearly 25 million of which reside in sub-Saharan Africa. 2.9 million people died in 2006 due to HIV/AIDS; 2.1 million of which resided in sub-Saharan Africa.

The lowered prices are the fruit of negotiated agreements with generic drug makers Cipla Ltd. and Matrix Laboratories Ltd (Interesting chemical models here) both of India. Both collaborated with the foundation to lower production costs, in part by securing lower prices for raw materials.

Prices for second-line drugs were also significantly lowered during negotiations. These drugs are essential for patients who develop resistance to first-line drugs and were previously out of financial reach even for funded projects.

Clinton said Tuesday,

"I believe in intellectual property and ensuring that manufacturers earn the profit margins they need to keep the discovery and supply of AIDS drugs sustainable. But that shouldn't prevent us from getting essential life-saving medicines to those who need them in low and middle-income countries alike"

Reading that makes me think of what Nobel Prize winning economist Muhammad Yunus wrote in his book "Banker to the Poor - Micro-lending and the Battle Against World Poverty". Yunus summarizes his view of poverty and how we ought to proceed:

"Poverty does not belong in civilized human society. Its proper place is in a museum. That's where it will be. When schoolchildren go with their teachers and tour the poverty museum, they will be horrified to see the misery and indignity of human beings. They will blame their forefathers for tolerating this inhumane condition and for allowing it to continue in such a large segment of the population until the early part of the twenty-first century.
I have always believed that the elimination of poverty from the world is a matter of will. Even today we don't pay serious attention to the issue of poverty, because the powerful remain relatively untouched by it. Most people distance themselves from the issue by saying that if the poor worked harder, they wouldn't be poor.
When we want to help the poor, we usually offer them charity. Most often we use charity to avoid recognizing the problem and finding a solution for it. Charity becomes a way to shrug off our responsibility. But charity is no solution to poverty. Charity only perpetuates poverty by taking the initiative away from the poor. Charity allows us to go ahead with our own lives without worrying about the lives of the poor. Charity appeases our consciences.
The real issue is creating a level playing field for everybody - rich and poor countries, powerful and small enterprises - giving every human being a fair chance. As globalization continues to encroach on our socioeconomic realities, the creation of this level playing field can become seriously endangered unless we initiate a global debate and generally agree on the features of a "right" architecture of globalization, rather than drift into something terribly wrong in the absence of a framework for action. This framework will no doubt have many features, but we can keep in mind the following: The rule of "strongest takes it all" must be replaced by a rule that ensures everybody a place and a piece of the action. "Free trade" must mean freedom for the weakest. The poor must be made active players, rather than passive victims, in the process of globalization."

Poverty and HIV/AIDS are closely linked, but to avoid writing a thesis, I'll allow you to investigate as you wish. Instead, let's return to the fight against HIV/AIDS.

While we return, it is important to understand that treatment is only one facet of the fight. UNAIDS (widely recognized as the most accurate source of data and estimates) in their 2006 report stated that for low- and middle-income countries, the entire funding requirements for treatment in 2006 was $3B, and an estimated $12.3B for 2006-2008. Furthermore, to financially cover prevention, care and treatment, support for orphans and vulnerable children, program costs, and human resources in low- and middle-income nations (essentially all aspects of the fight) for 2006-2008 is estimated to carry a $55.1B price tag. (Chapter 10 - From here)

For a sense of how much this is, NASA has a budget of over $16B for 2007 alone. Those nearly wholly incompetent TSA agents at airports and their department have over $6B. Estimates of the cost of the Iraq war easily exceed $400B.

As a world, we can easily fund this effort many times over, and yet we don't.

It's easy to turn a blind eye to this and go on watching "Lost". I can't. You shouldn't. I implore you to phone your friends and representatives, lift your voice and together, let's put an end to the greatest global health crisis the world has ever known. Never has it been clearer stated than by International AIDS Society President Dr Joep Lange:

"If we can get cold Coca Cola and beer to every remote corner of Africa, it should not be impossible to do the same with drugs."

Will Ferrell Meets His Landlord

2007-05-11T22:42:00.000Z

This went around a while back, but you know you want to watch it again. If you haven't seen it, you're in for a treat.

The Landlord

Mock The Week - Headliners

2007-05-11T22:06:00.000Z

A bit of British comedy for ya. 7 of Britain's best rip on Beckham, Scientology, America's Iraq Policy, and Frankie Boyle lets loose some previously classified info about tramps. Plenty more on YouTube if you need a break.

Carnaval

2007-05-03T19:45:00.000Z

Summary: Carnaval is what Las Palmas does in February. For all of February.

You've undoubtedly heard of it. Most likely, you're thinking about Carnaval in Brazil; costumes, drum beats, all night parties. I haven't been fortunate enough to experience that one as my trip to Brazil was in November and too late for Carnaval. After participating in Carnaval Las Palmas style though, I've got enough to report on. And plenty I can't report on without making this waaay NC-17.

I arrived in Las Palmas on the 5th of February not knowing what to expect beyond a beach, a bed and a few beers. After about two hours, I was briefed by my roommate Steve and his ex Alicia about what I'd already missed and what was upcoming. You see, here in Las Palmas, the entire month of February is dedicated to Carnaval. Carnaval goes for 4 full weekends and without any apparent reason. I asked about every motive I could think of from religious to excess alcohol production, but all I could ascertain is that the people here think February is for SERIOUS partying.

This plays on many levels. There are at least 4 major pageant shows; Queen, Drag Queen, Elderly Queen, and Kiddly Queen. There is a huge parade where anyone and everyone is expected to join. There are concerts on the main stage each night as well as a DJ in a VIP area playing until well into the morning. There is an amusement park erected with a ferris wheel and a rollercoaster. There are people from 12 to 80 out at the same time all over a major park near our place. But these aren't just regular people.

No, these are hybridized fantasy characters who come up with lavish, bizarre, sexual, outrageous costumes. Some have been planned for months with many including wire frames and lots of neon colors and feathers. I saw women dressed as birds, men dressed as women, and a few men who actually became women. There was a 6'5", perfectly shaved chap dressed in a leather bustier, fishnets, and a gimp mask who was dolling out lashes with his 8 ft whip. This is no normal street party.

Add to that kind of madness alcohol and food and you've got something really special. But don't just have a few beer stands, oh no...if you're gonna do this, might as well do it right. There are over 30 bars on the grounds, each serving up anything you want to almost anyone. It literally felt like a Hunter S. Thompson escapade and plenty of people were giving booze to these goddamn animals.

From 10pm on, they crawl out from the concrete jungle; some in pairs, others in groups of 5 or more. They meander around, seeking a good spot to post up and let loose the fury of Carnaval. As the DJs rock on and the 'ron con colas' flow, people become groups and groups become masses and the masses form one swollen, swirling collective full of half naked people high on life, hash, alcohol and pheromones. 2AM comes and goes meaning absolutely nothing to this beast. 3AM arrives; everyone is your brother and digital cameras aiming to record the madness can grasp only fragments.

Mere mortals like myself in need of sustenance needed only to walk to the plethora of churro stands and mini restaurants serving up all sorts of guilty pleasures in order to juice up. Fries, bocadillos (sandwiches) with pork, chicken and sauteéd onions, churros filled with chocolate cream, hamburgers, candy, kebaps, jamon serrano - a smorgasbord of party fuel.

And fuel it was. I never left the grounds until 5AM. I was annihilated, but the collective had just begun to lose its first scales.

Any attempt to fully detail this event is doomed to fail and as such I shall finish here. For some pictures to enrich the story, head here where I've thrown together a gallery. (Loads in new window/tab)

Get some Z-Trip

2007-05-03T10:30:00.000Z

If your ears and soul haven't had the pleasure yet, it's about time that you treat them to some Z-Trip. Luckily, the dude is really generous with his offerings.

Here's a link to his Motown Breakdown Part 1 (Just under 9 minutes).

Here's a link to his download page with much more including the legendary Uneasy Listening album. (Loads in new window/tab)

Must see TV - "Buying the War"

2007-05-02T17:34:00.000Z

If you are going to spend only 90 minutes watching something this week, make sure it's Bill Moyer's recent program "Buying the War" which details the media involvement in the rise to war in Iraq. The program is available in its entirety on PBS' website and split into 5 pieces - perfect for making tea or grabbing a notepad.

You may need that notepad to jot down all the unbelievable things we missed after 9/11. The majority of our media completely failed us and of those few reporters that didn't, most of their stories ended up buried on page 18. Furthermore, this story is far from over.

Forget NBC. This is the real Must See TV.

.:. View it here .:. (Loads in new window/tab)

The Final Month Begins...

2007-04-30T11:08:00.000Z

Entering my final month here on Gran Canaria, I hope you'll forgive me for my relative absent communications. My time here was always meant to be spent reforming, relaxing and generally enjoying myself rather than cataloging my experiences for review.

Mission Accomplished.

And so, the final month begins and with it, I want to give you the highlights of the last 3 months as well as some of the plans going forward.

Some facets for this blog:

I'll add a summary to longer posts so you can get the idea quickly.
I'll cover both local & global topics of menial and important natures.
I'll look for comments and hope you'll leave many.

And so it is.

Sunset as seen from Las Canteras Beach, 50 ft from our apartment

Where am I?

2007-04-28T14:35:00.000Z

Summary: Where Dom is and what he thinks of living in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria.

Of my friends and former colleagues, there seems to be two types when it comes to understanding where I am. The first group have no idea where the Canary Islands are; some even ventured a guess that they're in the Bahamas. The second group appears to envision an idyllic wonderland filled with golden sand, perfect weather and nothing to worry anyone.

I've seen bits of the latter, but I'd like to clear a few things up. First up, the Canary Islands reside off the Northwest coast of Africa.

The weather varies by the island and by part of the island. Where I live, on Gran Canaria, the weather is almost always better in the South where the majority of the tourist traps are and cloudy up on what I call the bubble on the Northeast of the island. We live right at the skinniest part of that wart which, despite my cruel description, is 50 ft from one of the best beaches on the island. (Map Here)

This was the feature I talked up the most prior to my departure. Being so close to the beach had to be grand, eh? Well, it certainly does allow us to take advantage of the great weather - but only when it shows itself. There are vastly more partly cloudy days than clear ones and days can start great and become nasty quite quickly or vice versa. It's not quite as temperamental as Boulder where if you don't like the weather you can just wait 5 minutes and it'll change, but it's something to consider.

Aside for the weather, the environment is much like any sizable city. We live on the 3rd floor of nice, if poorly planned building that is but a small part of the stone and concrete jungle that surrounds us. Its inhabitants include local Canary residents, Godos (insult for mainlanders), and a variety of Africans and Middle Easteners. While the official language is Spanish, I'm likely to hear 3 or more languages on any given day. Gilberto and his sister, Mary, at the bread shop speak Spanish. Mahamood at the internet cabins/print shop speaks Spanish, Arabic and a sprinkle of French. The Chinese family who operate one of the only two places I've found peanut butter are at least bi-lingual. The Africans speak a variety of dialects and those selling sunglasses are more than willing to speak English with you.

Las Palmas is vibrant and full of history, yet people still urinate in the streets. It boasts art and film festivals as well as infamous drunks who get in the way of the telly when you're trying to watch the match. The girls seem keen to strip off on the beach, but nearly all of them smoke which, aside from its obvious implications, also leaves them with raspy voices. The stunning beach front is littered with cheap all-you-can eat Chinese buffets filled with overweight British, German, and Nordic tourists. Every local or mainland beer we've tried has been worse than Budweiser...and we still drink it. Everything is locked, shuttered and bolted down and there is very little greenery to be seen aside from a fair amount of palm trees.

Las Palmas is no paradise most of the time, but it certainly beats TPS reports, meetings and late nights at the office. Now that you know a bit about where I am, read on about some of the more colorful things I've done here.