Through La Porte du Desert and on to Morocco. Well...almost. I have over 1000km of desert to cross, and cross in fashion! I'm in Dakhla, Western Sahara now, and I'm not even halfway home. While I could use this time to write about similarities, difference, and inevitable comparisons with West Africa, I think I'll save those for a later date, especially as even remote outpost Dakhla seems, in many ways, more developed than Dakar. I don't want to make any more comparisons though until I'm well into Morocco and I realize there's little to compare.
For now though, I'll turn back to Mauritania and the wonders of the desert.
I don't know exactly when I fell in love with the desert. It may be as early as the first time I climbed the dune north of my village in Niger. Or it might be as recently as the drive through the smooth, serpentine folds of windswept ochre sand and past desolate, rust-colored, rocky plains from Nouakchott to Atâr in Mauritania. There's something about the desert, its isolation, its indifferent, ever-changing yet immutable character that has evoked retrospection for generations. It's no question that Jesus retired to the desert in search of clarity, and Mohammed, of course, brought his new faith out of Arabia's sands. There's a reason for this: the sense of the infinite, and our place in it, is palpable in great, open spaces such as the desert.
Nowhere is this more evident than in Chinguetti, the seventh holiest city in Islam. Chinguetti was once an important caravan stop, linking West African gold, ivory, salt, and slaves to North African and European markets. In its heyday, the city was a center of great learning, with a population of over 30,000, mostly Islamic scholars and merchants. I doubt that Chinguetti has even a tenth of that number now, but like other scholarly cities, Timbuktu and Djenné, it is still crammed full of ancient Islamic manuscripts, many of them still held by local families in their own homes.
However, with the desert caravan days long gone, I think most of Chinguetti's spiritual energy these days comes from the majestic dunes that encircle the old, stone town. It's easy to walk only a few kilometers outside the city and be amongst the heaped masses of sand, the wind quickly obliterating any footprints and any sign of a world outside the desert's horizon. It's possible, from Chinguetti, to walk over 350km east and see nothing but classic Lawrence of Arabia-style dunes. While this would lead to certain death, it's hard to argue the appeal of a night spent amongst the dunes, under the cool light of a brilliant full moon, with no noise other than the sound of your own heart beat.
It's a wonder then, with my love for the desert and after sweating it out through two hot seasons in Niger that I never fully appreciated the phrase "like an oasis in the desert" until I visited an actual oasis in the desert. God is big. Part of the Sahara's spiritual appeal lies in its extremes, from scalding day-time temperatures to freezing nights. After a few days in Atâr's stifling heat (42C in the shade most of the day), I marveled at the green paradise of the Terjit oasis, the perfect stereotype of all you've seen in Hollywood films: a bubbling spring cutting its way through a desert gorge, watering a vast, shady date palmerie. For all the desert's hardships, the oasis is that much sweeter a reward at the end of a long stay.
But that wasn't quite the end of my time in the desert. I'll have more in another post. Coming soon: Sterling's epic 500km free ride on top of the world's longest train.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Leaving West Africa
So, I fully admit: that last post was a bit crap. I apologize for the confusing, piecemeal nature of it. What I should have written is as follows, and I hope it can help explain the confusion and general anxious strain I've been feeling for the past few days in Senegal.
Today is my last day in Senegal, and looking at it more and more, my last day in West Africa. Mauritania marks my transition from the African world I've known so long to the Arab world I'll be discovering soon enough. Technically, it's still West Africa, but from everything I've heard, Mauritania is really a mix of Arab, Berber, and African all in one enormous expanse of desert. Leaving this place is kind of a hard transition. For almost two and a half years, I haven't known anything other than West Africa, one of the poorest, hardest, grittiest places on earth. And it's difficult to put this leaving into words: what it represents, how it feels, who I'm leaving behind, and when I'll be back.
First, what does leaving Africa represent for me? In that regard, what does West Africa, my Peace Corps experience, and my travels represent? Many things, I guess. I feel as if I'm closing an amazing chapter of my life. I thought I was closing that chapter when I left Niger, and in many ways I was. However, in just a few ways, I think this trip has added a few footnotes to my time there. Peace Corps was a unique experience that I don't think I would have otherwise had. I've grown so much in the past two and a half years that I don't even recognize the person I once was. I joined Peace Corps less than a year after graduating college, which is pretty overwhelmingly true for many other Volunteers in West Africa. At that time, I was lost. I didn't know what I was doing with my life, so hell, why not join Peace Corps? This, I've found, is a common thought amongst those of us who have no idea where life is taking them but who want to do some bit of good in this world.
I think most people end important chapters of their life with a "Now what?" mentality. It's far too easy to encounter the first thing that comes drifting along, attach yourself to it, and hold on tight. It's a way of sleeping through life, and it's a pretty awful way to waste precious time on this earth. But I can't judge. This is exactly how I wound up in Peace Corps. But the difference is that Peace Corps has an expiration date. Two years and you know things are going to end. You'll say goodbye and move on, with clearly-defined memories of challenges and triumphs, failures and rewards. Some people spend their entire lives attached to the first thing that drifted along after college and never experience anything else.
And the key memories in my and several other peoples' service are those challenges. Whether projects, people, or day-to-day life in another culture, we need those challenges to reaffirm our place in the world or to knock us on our ass so we can have the chance to get back up again. We succeed or fail, but I think we often learn more in our failures, and they often make success that much sweeter. I'm thankful that I've had this opportunity to challenge myself so thoroughly. Like iron after it's been through the forge I think I'm stronger, more resilient, and ready to take on more weight, more responsibilities. More importantly, I feel as if the time for drift is over. I may not have a much better idea of what I want to do, but I have to strike out on a path. I can't abide staying in one place, growing old, and losing that edge. Along the way, I've met several others, in all walks of life, who are in the same category, and it feels nice to know that you're not alone. The road is full of those looking for some kind of existential sign.
So how does it feel? Leaving again? Well, after all that I've just written, better, but still kind of horrible. It's hard to transition any chapter of life, and being young, an experience like this takes up a greater proportion of my life. I'll apologize now if this gets overly romantic or dreamy. Just bear with me. I've given myself to this place for a long time, and it's returned my investment tenfold. But, there's no denying that there are some things you can't get back. I once wrote about taking a hammer to my sanity, throwing the pieces to the wind, and collecting them at a later date. Those pieces that I found were all I needed in life, and the important ones would, obviously, be the easiest ones to pick back up. It was a pretty mentally challenging part of my service, which may go a way to explaining the violence of the imagery. Well, I did that. Metaphorically. I did not take a hammer to my head; I just smacked it a few thousand times because I never quite realized the extent of my own height. I went a little crazy, learned what was important, and have pieced myself back together pretty thoroughly. However, now I feel as if I've left a piece behind in Africa, and it's important. It feels as if this is an integral piece. And it's not coming back. It's taken up residence here, and I can't lay hands on it to collect it again. The problem seems to stem from the realization that this piece is everywhere and nowhere all at once. I can't relive my life and pinpoint the place where I left that small piece of myself, but I can catch glimpses of it: in the photos I've taken, the lines I've written, and the people I've met. It's there in every memory, like the creepy guy at a bar.
But it's not as if I have some hole within myself where this piece is missing. Instead, I have an assorted conglomeration of friends and images that have taken its place. That's why that piece of me is so impossible to reclaim. It's because it has also been smashed into ever smaller pieces which are now distributed all throughout this chunk of the continent: in my fields, my house, my favorite overlook on the mesa, in Dogon Country, in Monrovia, in the Fouta Djalon, in all the PCV friends I've made in Niger, Burkina, Mali, and Senegal, in Emilie and Charles, Knut and Bianca, John and Karen, Sangeetha and Becca, the Inter-Aide crew, in Annarita, in all my village friends, and even in Pip, who should have worked his way up to King of the Bush Cats by now, Insha'Allah. Hats off to one of the cutest cats ever. He probably won them over with his charm.
And when will I be back? That really depends on when God wills it, but I know that one day I will return to West Africa. And I will probably realize that I never really left. Because until then, there are pieces of me bouncing all around this part of the world, and I'll always be able to catch a bit of Africa's sun whenever I see old friends from these two years. Part of me will never leave. I'll always feel the absence of a place I love, but this loss will hopefully be tempered by new places to love, new adventures that await. It won't be too long before that happens either, because as soon as I've left West Africa, I have Morocco and North Africa, a whole new world of which I know nothing. After that, who knows? I will eventually go home (much to the relief of my aggrieved parents), but I doubt I'll be there long (sorry Mom and Dad). There's just too much of the world that I want to see. Too many people to meet and an infinite amount of adventures just waiting outside the door. Life's too short to experience them all, so we might as well try to find as many as we can.
And that's exactly what I do tomorrow, when I cross the border to Mauritania, en route to Morocco and another stretch of road. Until next time, kala han fo West Africa. I will miss you terribly.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Lost and Found
I've left West Africa. I took the boat up from Ziguinchor, and it was supposed to dock in Dakar, which I'd heard was the cultural capital of West Africa. Where I am now is a cosmopolitan city the likes of which I haven't seen in over two years. Not even Abijan can compare to the wealth of this place. Downtown Dakar feels positively European, and it doesn't hurt that the peninsular city's sea breezes have made the weather not only tolerable, but actually beautiful. It's spring in Europe and America and in Dakar as well, with temperatures holding steady in the mid-70s and a chilly breeze at night. I'm not used to a place that combines mild weather, tropical sun, and virtually no humidity. Where am I?
The answer, for me, is that I'm slowly making my way north, away from sub-Saharan West Africa and the home I've known for so long. I guess, in a way, that this was the goal of the whole odyssey. I've been on the road over four months now, and I've traveled the length and breadth of West Africa. The places I've seen, the people I've met, the things I've done, they all fade into a past that is difficult to remember without the aid of my journal. At the beginning, my primary goal was one of slow readjustment to the Western world. Most immediate at the time was to avoid winter in the States. After two years in one of the world's hottest countries, I didn't think I could handle anything below 60 degrees. Here in Dakar, that's been confirmed and refined: I now can't handle anything below 70 degrees. Seriously.
More importantly, I've been hiding from the frightening readjustment to a life I've forgotten. Time is a commodity in the West. In West Africa, it's a quaint idea, kind of like treasuring silence in the vacuum of space. I've been hiding from the stress of a recovering economy, a career, grad school, and any number of responsibilities that one loses on the road. I'm slowly starting to pick up those pieces of life again. Sounds scary, but they've finally found me after two years in Africa. Responsibilities are a bit like the mafia, they'll always find you.
And it's actually a bit alright. They haven't broken my kneecaps yet, and, with luck, I'll be able to pay off that two-year debt I've accumulated in my absence from the West. After four months on the road, I'm starting to get a bit tired. Maybe it's just Senegal. After backpacking through Côté d'Ivoire, Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea, this place just seems too easy. Easy but expensive. There's quite a bit to see and do, but I just feel like a tourist now. If I have to pay $15 for a hotel room, I appreciate that I have hot water, electricity, clean sheets, and a pillow, but more and more I'm realizing that I don't actually need any of that. I slept on concrete floors in Liberia! And it was free. And I'm fine with that. I used candles to illuminate my room in Guinea, and, eventhough the risk of an open flame in a thatch-roofed hut is very real, it's also very soothing and atmospheric. Much better that than some impersonal flourescent light.
Senegal's saving grace for me has been the Volunteers that I've met along the way. And, for me, this has marked an important turning point on this journey. The trip has become less about the sights (although the gargantuan Soviet-era, Social-Realist statue adorning Dakar's Mamelle district is lovely) and more about the experience. I don't feel as if there's been much news-worthy for the past couple weeks, as most of my time has been spent with other Volunteers doing very little other than experiencing Wolof, Serer, or Fula culture, meeting local families, and trying my best to relive parts of my own service. My camera is almost devoid of pictures from this country, my journal absent of my adventures, but I feel as if I'm experiencing more things that are difficult to put in to words. (Which is actually kind of embarrassing, as isn't that the point of a blog?) As the journey has continued to unfold, I find that the stories and experiences I've had just begin to pile up, and when people ask me, "What's been your favorite place?", I'm crushed under the weight of all the places I've liked. There's something in every country to appreciate, but I think what I'm realizing more and more is that it isn't about the place you're visiting, but the experience you have there. I, for example, loved Monrovia. Many have told me that I'm the only person they've ever met who has said that. I think Kedougou, Senegal, might be one of my favorite towns so far, but that is due entirely to the people I met there. I mean, I hurt my foot and was laid up for about a week, and it's not like the town of 30,000 is a cultural hotspot.
I think what I've found over the past four months is that I'm enjoying being a cultural gyspy. And in the process, I've become something for the people that I meet. I don't like to be seen as any one thing, but when people ask you about travels and adventure, it's easy to get caught up in stories and advice. I'm starting to have ideas about what I want to do and how I want to live my life. As much as I've taken from this trip, it's really starting to give back, as I look to transitioning to a different life, not my old one, but a new chapter of the same life. I can already tell that this is starting to go down a slippery slope that is best confined to other forums, so I'll wrap this up. Apologies because I can feel this post is quite scattered and covers many things. I tend not to write much when I'm surrounded by people, and I've been hanging out with Volunteers for the better part of a month now. I'm off to Mauritania at the end of the week (for the love of God, I won't get kidnapped), so I'll have some time again to write and organize thoughts. I promise the next entry will be clear, concise, witty, and whatever else you appreciate about this blog. Til then.
The answer, for me, is that I'm slowly making my way north, away from sub-Saharan West Africa and the home I've known for so long. I guess, in a way, that this was the goal of the whole odyssey. I've been on the road over four months now, and I've traveled the length and breadth of West Africa. The places I've seen, the people I've met, the things I've done, they all fade into a past that is difficult to remember without the aid of my journal. At the beginning, my primary goal was one of slow readjustment to the Western world. Most immediate at the time was to avoid winter in the States. After two years in one of the world's hottest countries, I didn't think I could handle anything below 60 degrees. Here in Dakar, that's been confirmed and refined: I now can't handle anything below 70 degrees. Seriously.
More importantly, I've been hiding from the frightening readjustment to a life I've forgotten. Time is a commodity in the West. In West Africa, it's a quaint idea, kind of like treasuring silence in the vacuum of space. I've been hiding from the stress of a recovering economy, a career, grad school, and any number of responsibilities that one loses on the road. I'm slowly starting to pick up those pieces of life again. Sounds scary, but they've finally found me after two years in Africa. Responsibilities are a bit like the mafia, they'll always find you.
And it's actually a bit alright. They haven't broken my kneecaps yet, and, with luck, I'll be able to pay off that two-year debt I've accumulated in my absence from the West. After four months on the road, I'm starting to get a bit tired. Maybe it's just Senegal. After backpacking through Côté d'Ivoire, Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea, this place just seems too easy. Easy but expensive. There's quite a bit to see and do, but I just feel like a tourist now. If I have to pay $15 for a hotel room, I appreciate that I have hot water, electricity, clean sheets, and a pillow, but more and more I'm realizing that I don't actually need any of that. I slept on concrete floors in Liberia! And it was free. And I'm fine with that. I used candles to illuminate my room in Guinea, and, eventhough the risk of an open flame in a thatch-roofed hut is very real, it's also very soothing and atmospheric. Much better that than some impersonal flourescent light.
Senegal's saving grace for me has been the Volunteers that I've met along the way. And, for me, this has marked an important turning point on this journey. The trip has become less about the sights (although the gargantuan Soviet-era, Social-Realist statue adorning Dakar's Mamelle district is lovely) and more about the experience. I don't feel as if there's been much news-worthy for the past couple weeks, as most of my time has been spent with other Volunteers doing very little other than experiencing Wolof, Serer, or Fula culture, meeting local families, and trying my best to relive parts of my own service. My camera is almost devoid of pictures from this country, my journal absent of my adventures, but I feel as if I'm experiencing more things that are difficult to put in to words. (Which is actually kind of embarrassing, as isn't that the point of a blog?) As the journey has continued to unfold, I find that the stories and experiences I've had just begin to pile up, and when people ask me, "What's been your favorite place?", I'm crushed under the weight of all the places I've liked. There's something in every country to appreciate, but I think what I'm realizing more and more is that it isn't about the place you're visiting, but the experience you have there. I, for example, loved Monrovia. Many have told me that I'm the only person they've ever met who has said that. I think Kedougou, Senegal, might be one of my favorite towns so far, but that is due entirely to the people I met there. I mean, I hurt my foot and was laid up for about a week, and it's not like the town of 30,000 is a cultural hotspot.
I think what I've found over the past four months is that I'm enjoying being a cultural gyspy. And in the process, I've become something for the people that I meet. I don't like to be seen as any one thing, but when people ask you about travels and adventure, it's easy to get caught up in stories and advice. I'm starting to have ideas about what I want to do and how I want to live my life. As much as I've taken from this trip, it's really starting to give back, as I look to transitioning to a different life, not my old one, but a new chapter of the same life. I can already tell that this is starting to go down a slippery slope that is best confined to other forums, so I'll wrap this up. Apologies because I can feel this post is quite scattered and covers many things. I tend not to write much when I'm surrounded by people, and I've been hanging out with Volunteers for the better part of a month now. I'm off to Mauritania at the end of the week (for the love of God, I won't get kidnapped), so I'll have some time again to write and organize thoughts. I promise the next entry will be clear, concise, witty, and whatever else you appreciate about this blog. Til then.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Bliss in the Bijagos
I just returned from a week in the Bijagos Archipelago in Guinea-Bissau. Ever heard of it? Haha, that sounds cocky, but honestly, before I came to Africa, I don't know if I could have told you where to find Guinea-Bissau. Is it Guinea, Equatorial Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, French Guyana, or Papua New Guinea? They're spread out from South America to the Pacific Islands, and no one knows anyone who's been to any of these places.
Well, now you do.
But, after a week away with a friend who I've met on the road, I almost feel as if it never happened. As if the whole thing was a dream, and if I look back at my camera or my journals, I'll find them blank, the memories existing only in my mind.
It isn't so much that the place is so extraordinarily beautiful, which it is, or that it's so little-known and visited that it's difficult to find anyone else who's even heard of this dreamscape, which is also true. No, this particular dream seems unreal because of all the events that seemed to come together from outside our ken to give us an unbelievable experience. Everyone, I hope, has had a moment like this, where forces just seem to align in all the right ways to give you personally, you and only you, one week of true happiness. I fear even mentioning any specifics of this trip as it might mar or change the dream in some irreparable way. There are some things that we have to hold within ourselves to preserve them and keep them pure. If I were to write down all the complexities and adventures, I fear that they would leave me and never return. I can, however, say that the islands are a totally unique, amazing destination: white powder beaches washed by an azure sea, the people of the islands a community isolated by shallow waters littered with rocks and sandbars, dangerous currents, and extreme tides. A place where it's quite easy to spend the entire day on a completely isolated beach with nothing but your thoughts and a bottle of cana, a sweet, spiced liqueur reminiscent of a light Irish Cream. It's also possible to strike inland, as we did, and explore the villages, pick cashew apples under the watchful gaze of women roasting the nuts and making cashew wine, and meet people who are so unused to tourists that they never think of calling you toubab, obroni, annasara, opporto, yovo, or any other of the dozens of names for white people in West Africa.
I can't say enough about this place, but again, I'm conflicted because I feel by speaking it aloud, this gem might lose some of its luster. I can condense it though. We avoided a coup the day we arrived, found a boat that had already boarded all its passengers and took us along anyway, heard about a festival on a nearby island for the Easter weekend, and met the organizers and several of the musicians, one of whom is even a prince whose kingdom extends over 90 villages in eastern Guinea-Bissau. First prince I'd ever met, and truly, a fascinating guy. And perhaps the best thing about the entire trip is that now I share memories with someone who I barely knew before we traveled together. It may seem paradoxical, but I've found traveling with someone you barely know to be the best experience. After one week together,we have a bond that will forever link us in friendship, and a dream that we may never be sure actually occurred.
Well, now you do.
But, after a week away with a friend who I've met on the road, I almost feel as if it never happened. As if the whole thing was a dream, and if I look back at my camera or my journals, I'll find them blank, the memories existing only in my mind.
It isn't so much that the place is so extraordinarily beautiful, which it is, or that it's so little-known and visited that it's difficult to find anyone else who's even heard of this dreamscape, which is also true. No, this particular dream seems unreal because of all the events that seemed to come together from outside our ken to give us an unbelievable experience. Everyone, I hope, has had a moment like this, where forces just seem to align in all the right ways to give you personally, you and only you, one week of true happiness. I fear even mentioning any specifics of this trip as it might mar or change the dream in some irreparable way. There are some things that we have to hold within ourselves to preserve them and keep them pure. If I were to write down all the complexities and adventures, I fear that they would leave me and never return. I can, however, say that the islands are a totally unique, amazing destination: white powder beaches washed by an azure sea, the people of the islands a community isolated by shallow waters littered with rocks and sandbars, dangerous currents, and extreme tides. A place where it's quite easy to spend the entire day on a completely isolated beach with nothing but your thoughts and a bottle of cana, a sweet, spiced liqueur reminiscent of a light Irish Cream. It's also possible to strike inland, as we did, and explore the villages, pick cashew apples under the watchful gaze of women roasting the nuts and making cashew wine, and meet people who are so unused to tourists that they never think of calling you toubab, obroni, annasara, opporto, yovo, or any other of the dozens of names for white people in West Africa.
I can't say enough about this place, but again, I'm conflicted because I feel by speaking it aloud, this gem might lose some of its luster. I can condense it though. We avoided a coup the day we arrived, found a boat that had already boarded all its passengers and took us along anyway, heard about a festival on a nearby island for the Easter weekend, and met the organizers and several of the musicians, one of whom is even a prince whose kingdom extends over 90 villages in eastern Guinea-Bissau. First prince I'd ever met, and truly, a fascinating guy. And perhaps the best thing about the entire trip is that now I share memories with someone who I barely knew before we traveled together. It may seem paradoxical, but I've found traveling with someone you barely know to be the best experience. After one week together,we have a bond that will forever link us in friendship, and a dream that we may never be sure actually occurred.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Shortcut to Senegal
I bought a pith helmet.
Does that statement need explanation? Is it a little too colonial? A little too Heart of Darkness for our modern sensibilities? Well, like everything, there's a story behind it, and here it is.
After two weeks scrambling around the canyons, waterfalls, and plateaux of Doucki, I was exhausted. However, I still had one major challenge before me. In order to meet up with friends in Kedougou, Senegal, I had to take the mountain road down from Mali-ville in northern Guinea. All the guide books said that it was only 50km from Mali to the border post at Segou, and Kedougou was 12k farther along the road. It's possible to hike in 6 to 12 hours, say the guidebooks. All downhill, with shortcuts through the bush and amazing scenery, as if any of these writers had done such a thing. But, exhausted by two weeks of hiking, I got it into my head that this would be a good idea.
I was wrong.
I stopped off in Labé, Guinea to get some supplies and have a rest before I attempted an all-day hike in the middle of hot season. (See any problems with this idea yet?) It was here that I bought the pith helmet, but the shape of the hat, which I found in both Guinea and Guinea-Bissau, didn't really sink in until I was well on my way into Senegal.
The story is this. I hiked about 30k down from Mali through some amazing scenery. The weather wasn't bad, rather cool because of the elevation, and at the end of the dry season, the trees had lost their foliage, making the trip a bit eerie in the ashey haze from the harmattan winds. The beginning of the hike was like a nice, autumn day. But after 30k, things began to unravel. I came off the mountain onto a middle plateau, and the heat and the sun really started to pick up. I'd seen no one for a few hours of this trip, and around about 1:30 in the afternoon, a guy on a motorbike drove by and stopped. "Where ya goin?" Senegal! "Oh, you've missed your road. You can still get there on this road, but it's another 30k." Well...damn. "Jump on, I'll give you a lift...idiot (which is what he must have been thinking at the time)."
It was a good thing I got a ride, because another 30k of hard hiking lay ahead of me, and I did not have the resources to complete the hike. When we got to Loungha, the Guinean border post, he said that he had some stuff coming along in a camion (a huge truck) and that I could catch a ride all the way to Kedougou with them when they came through. Now to explain things a bit, the road from Mali to Kedougou is barely even a road. It comes off the highest part of the Fouta Djalon plateau and is a twisted mess of unpaved, rocky, on-in-four grade track. This guy had done it on a motorcycle, and the 50k had taken him about 5 hours. It was even worse in a truck.
So I waited around this border town until 4:30 in the afternoon. Just when I thought I'd had enough and it was better to spend a little money on a moto into Senegal, I heard the roar of a big truck. Here was my camion. After about two hours in customs (i.e. bribe negotiation) we were on our way. Since I didn't have any money to pay these guys, I was in the back of the camion, which is kind of like a dump-truck when you get right down to it. There was a car seat back there crunched in between two enormous truck axles. Looking at these, I could only help thinking, "If this truck flips...I really have no escape plan," but, I settled in, my head and shoulders just peeking out from the lip of the truck bed and off we went. As we drove away from the border post, waving to the customs officials, I realized what a sight I must have looked. Here I am, dirty, sweat-streaked, in torn clothes (all my clothes are torn now, the shirt and pants I was wearing have each been patched about six times), sitting in the back of a camion like I'm Teddy Roosevelt on my way to the inaugural ball. But, like any good fool, I was smiling, ragged, and looked a mockery of any kind of civility. At that moment, I felt as if the only thing I needed was for Jambe to bring my hammock and my pink gin sundowner. My pith helmet is made of grass. My clothes, patched with bright African pagne fabric are a laughable embarrassment that will be completely replaced when I reach Dakar. My hair has gotten long after four months traveling, and like my first year in Niger, it's become rather sun-bleached. Charlie Chaplin could not have conceived a more ridiculous scene. Arriving in Kedougou, tired, hungry, dehydrated, beat up, and sore, I couldn't help thinking how appropriate it was that I entered Senegal, the last leg of my trip in sub-Saharan Africa, totally wrecked by four months on the road, but grinning like a happy fool nonetheless.
Does that statement need explanation? Is it a little too colonial? A little too Heart of Darkness for our modern sensibilities? Well, like everything, there's a story behind it, and here it is.
After two weeks scrambling around the canyons, waterfalls, and plateaux of Doucki, I was exhausted. However, I still had one major challenge before me. In order to meet up with friends in Kedougou, Senegal, I had to take the mountain road down from Mali-ville in northern Guinea. All the guide books said that it was only 50km from Mali to the border post at Segou, and Kedougou was 12k farther along the road. It's possible to hike in 6 to 12 hours, say the guidebooks. All downhill, with shortcuts through the bush and amazing scenery, as if any of these writers had done such a thing. But, exhausted by two weeks of hiking, I got it into my head that this would be a good idea.
I was wrong.
I stopped off in Labé, Guinea to get some supplies and have a rest before I attempted an all-day hike in the middle of hot season. (See any problems with this idea yet?) It was here that I bought the pith helmet, but the shape of the hat, which I found in both Guinea and Guinea-Bissau, didn't really sink in until I was well on my way into Senegal.
The story is this. I hiked about 30k down from Mali through some amazing scenery. The weather wasn't bad, rather cool because of the elevation, and at the end of the dry season, the trees had lost their foliage, making the trip a bit eerie in the ashey haze from the harmattan winds. The beginning of the hike was like a nice, autumn day. But after 30k, things began to unravel. I came off the mountain onto a middle plateau, and the heat and the sun really started to pick up. I'd seen no one for a few hours of this trip, and around about 1:30 in the afternoon, a guy on a motorbike drove by and stopped. "Where ya goin?" Senegal! "Oh, you've missed your road. You can still get there on this road, but it's another 30k." Well...damn. "Jump on, I'll give you a lift...idiot (which is what he must have been thinking at the time)."
It was a good thing I got a ride, because another 30k of hard hiking lay ahead of me, and I did not have the resources to complete the hike. When we got to Loungha, the Guinean border post, he said that he had some stuff coming along in a camion (a huge truck) and that I could catch a ride all the way to Kedougou with them when they came through. Now to explain things a bit, the road from Mali to Kedougou is barely even a road. It comes off the highest part of the Fouta Djalon plateau and is a twisted mess of unpaved, rocky, on-in-four grade track. This guy had done it on a motorcycle, and the 50k had taken him about 5 hours. It was even worse in a truck.
So I waited around this border town until 4:30 in the afternoon. Just when I thought I'd had enough and it was better to spend a little money on a moto into Senegal, I heard the roar of a big truck. Here was my camion. After about two hours in customs (i.e. bribe negotiation) we were on our way. Since I didn't have any money to pay these guys, I was in the back of the camion, which is kind of like a dump-truck when you get right down to it. There was a car seat back there crunched in between two enormous truck axles. Looking at these, I could only help thinking, "If this truck flips...I really have no escape plan," but, I settled in, my head and shoulders just peeking out from the lip of the truck bed and off we went. As we drove away from the border post, waving to the customs officials, I realized what a sight I must have looked. Here I am, dirty, sweat-streaked, in torn clothes (all my clothes are torn now, the shirt and pants I was wearing have each been patched about six times), sitting in the back of a camion like I'm Teddy Roosevelt on my way to the inaugural ball. But, like any good fool, I was smiling, ragged, and looked a mockery of any kind of civility. At that moment, I felt as if the only thing I needed was for Jambe to bring my hammock and my pink gin sundowner. My pith helmet is made of grass. My clothes, patched with bright African pagne fabric are a laughable embarrassment that will be completely replaced when I reach Dakar. My hair has gotten long after four months traveling, and like my first year in Niger, it's become rather sun-bleached. Charlie Chaplin could not have conceived a more ridiculous scene. Arriving in Kedougou, tired, hungry, dehydrated, beat up, and sore, I couldn't help thinking how appropriate it was that I entered Senegal, the last leg of my trip in sub-Saharan Africa, totally wrecked by four months on the road, but grinning like a happy fool nonetheless.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Colonial Treatment
Okay, now for a funny one.
I visited Dalaba, Guinea last week, one of the smaller cities in the Fouta Djalon region. The Fouta is an area in West Africa unique to Guinea. The high plateau is called Le Chateau de l'Afrique Occidental because most of the area's major river systems (including the Senegal, the Gambia, and some tributaries of the Niger) are sourced in these highlands. It's an area that can boast some of the best hiking in West Africa plus the unique culture of the Peul people, who dominate this area and are almost single-handedly responsible for the Islamic faith in the region. It's become sort of a recipe for my favorite places to travel: combine awesome scenery with a unique culture and I'm there. So far I've found it in Boukoumbé, Benin with the Somba people and in Dogon Country, Mali. Now I have the Fouta Djalon in Guinea to add to that list. Next up? I could only hope for Niger's Aïr Mountains or the Andes' Incan ruins. I'll settle for the Bijagos Archipelago in Guinea-Bissau next week.
But for now I'll focus on the Fouta. I went to Dalaba for the hiking, but also for the climate and the colonial architecture. Dalaba sits high up on the plateau, making the days hot but dry and the nights cool, even bordering on cold, a rarity in West Africa outside of the desert regions. As a result, Dalaba became a sort of rejuvenation center for the French colonials during their time here. Unfortunately, the only colonial architecture left behind is the old governor's mansion, the Sili Villa. Luckily for me (and you), I got a personal guided tour of the colonial mansion and can share that experience here.
I'd had this kind of thing happen before, in Sassandra, Côté d'Ivoire, and, more memorably, in Klouto, Benin. You wander up a disused paved road (probably the only one in town) to discover a mansion, completely uninhabited, with one old man sitting outside as guard or caretaker. For a small "fee" (negotiable, but usually around a couple bucks) he'll give you the history of the house and a grand tour around the interior. The history usually goes something like this: The house was built around the turn of the century by the French governor (or bought by said governor from some citizen who decided he'd had enough and was returning to France). After independence, the state took over the mansion from an indifferent civil servant ("Fine, go. We never wanted you as a colony anyway."), and turned it into a retreat for a corrupt president and his cronies (or in Guinea's case, a corrupt, paranoid president and his equally corrupt, terrified cronies). The house gets used for various autocratic excesses and bacchanals until the people decide they've had enough and there's a coup.
By now, the new corrupt government wishes to distance itself from the past corrupt government and it rightfully does so by moving away from Presidential playhouses. At least in one's own country. It's the 80s now, and wireless transfers make it so much easier to funnel money out of the country and into a Swiss bank account. So the state-owned villa is allowed to go to seed. Anyway, why would you want a villa in your own country when, with all that stolen money, you can have several in France?
So now the house sits abandoned by all save one guard (I think to be conidered a caretaker the property must have some kind of value of which to take care) in the employ of, presumably, the state. He sits, day in, day out, with not much to do except stare at the marble statue of a horse. So when a white guy with a couple bucks comes along, he jumps at the chance to play tour guide.
"This is a colonial bedroom, where the governor had his bed. Take a picture."
Where's the bed now?
"Oh, someone probably used it for firewood. Take a picture of where it used to be. For a souvenir."
This guy was particularly enthusiastic that I take pictures of everything. "This is a colonial bathtub."
It's made of cement.
"I know. That's colonial cement. This is a lightbulb. A colonial lightbulb. Take a picture. And over here is the colonial sink. And here, the colonial toilet."
And is that a colonial turd floating in the bowl?
"Yes... Take a picture!"
Overall the houses are dilapidated shells just waiting for some enterprising individual to rehabilitate them as a hotel or private residence. But for now, they'll just continue to sit in their decay, year after year, with a little old man watching over as it slowly crumbles into dust.
"But colonial dust."
Take a picture.
I visited Dalaba, Guinea last week, one of the smaller cities in the Fouta Djalon region. The Fouta is an area in West Africa unique to Guinea. The high plateau is called Le Chateau de l'Afrique Occidental because most of the area's major river systems (including the Senegal, the Gambia, and some tributaries of the Niger) are sourced in these highlands. It's an area that can boast some of the best hiking in West Africa plus the unique culture of the Peul people, who dominate this area and are almost single-handedly responsible for the Islamic faith in the region. It's become sort of a recipe for my favorite places to travel: combine awesome scenery with a unique culture and I'm there. So far I've found it in Boukoumbé, Benin with the Somba people and in Dogon Country, Mali. Now I have the Fouta Djalon in Guinea to add to that list. Next up? I could only hope for Niger's Aïr Mountains or the Andes' Incan ruins. I'll settle for the Bijagos Archipelago in Guinea-Bissau next week.
But for now I'll focus on the Fouta. I went to Dalaba for the hiking, but also for the climate and the colonial architecture. Dalaba sits high up on the plateau, making the days hot but dry and the nights cool, even bordering on cold, a rarity in West Africa outside of the desert regions. As a result, Dalaba became a sort of rejuvenation center for the French colonials during their time here. Unfortunately, the only colonial architecture left behind is the old governor's mansion, the Sili Villa. Luckily for me (and you), I got a personal guided tour of the colonial mansion and can share that experience here.
I'd had this kind of thing happen before, in Sassandra, Côté d'Ivoire, and, more memorably, in Klouto, Benin. You wander up a disused paved road (probably the only one in town) to discover a mansion, completely uninhabited, with one old man sitting outside as guard or caretaker. For a small "fee" (negotiable, but usually around a couple bucks) he'll give you the history of the house and a grand tour around the interior. The history usually goes something like this: The house was built around the turn of the century by the French governor (or bought by said governor from some citizen who decided he'd had enough and was returning to France). After independence, the state took over the mansion from an indifferent civil servant ("Fine, go. We never wanted you as a colony anyway."), and turned it into a retreat for a corrupt president and his cronies (or in Guinea's case, a corrupt, paranoid president and his equally corrupt, terrified cronies). The house gets used for various autocratic excesses and bacchanals until the people decide they've had enough and there's a coup.
By now, the new corrupt government wishes to distance itself from the past corrupt government and it rightfully does so by moving away from Presidential playhouses. At least in one's own country. It's the 80s now, and wireless transfers make it so much easier to funnel money out of the country and into a Swiss bank account. So the state-owned villa is allowed to go to seed. Anyway, why would you want a villa in your own country when, with all that stolen money, you can have several in France?
So now the house sits abandoned by all save one guard (I think to be conidered a caretaker the property must have some kind of value of which to take care) in the employ of, presumably, the state. He sits, day in, day out, with not much to do except stare at the marble statue of a horse. So when a white guy with a couple bucks comes along, he jumps at the chance to play tour guide.
"This is a colonial bedroom, where the governor had his bed. Take a picture."
Where's the bed now?
"Oh, someone probably used it for firewood. Take a picture of where it used to be. For a souvenir."
This guy was particularly enthusiastic that I take pictures of everything. "This is a colonial bathtub."
It's made of cement.
"I know. That's colonial cement. This is a lightbulb. A colonial lightbulb. Take a picture. And over here is the colonial sink. And here, the colonial toilet."
And is that a colonial turd floating in the bowl?
"Yes... Take a picture!"
Overall the houses are dilapidated shells just waiting for some enterprising individual to rehabilitate them as a hotel or private residence. But for now, they'll just continue to sit in their decay, year after year, with a little old man watching over as it slowly crumbles into dust.
"But colonial dust."
Take a picture.
Reflections
It's been about one week since I left Sierra Leone. More than any other country so far, I've gotta say, that place has everything. It's the only country I've been to that combines jungle, beaches, mountains, and savannah in equally beautiful measures. Hell, even the mountains combine jungle and savannah, and Freetown Peninsula has lush green hills for hiking if you want to escape from the beach for a while. The country's a tourist gold mine just waiting for people to come back and discover it. Sierra Leone is safe now. The war is over. Valentine Strasser spends most of his time in the Stop Press cafe, sitting in a corner by himself, remembering his former glory as the youngest world leader of his generation. (Look him up; it's good for you.)
However, even with all that the country has to offer, I ended three weeks with the uncontrollable urge to get out. Why? Chalk it up to some pretty minor setbacks worsened by an existential mid-trip crisis. I tried to hike Mount Bintumani, one of West Africa's highest mountains, and failed for reasons so stupid I won't bother to mention them here. Nevertheless, the failure was palpable, and I've now sworn to return to Sierra Leone some day and rectify my mistake. Vengeance will be mine (channeling Skeletor there).
Failure's always a bit of a bitch, but it has the uncanny ability to teach you things about yourself. For me, the failure of Bintumani was aggravated by an inability to cross into Guinea. For three days I tried to arrange something, but all my attempts kept falling through from Kabala, Sierra Leone to Faranah, Guinea. Eventually, I went back to Kamakwie, where I'd met some awesome French NGO workers who put me up for the night and sent me on my way the next morning. But I couldn't shake this sense of defeat. That is, until I got to Guinea, found a night bush taxi (which I ordinarily avoid like the speed-freak death-traps they are), which raced through the darkness from Kindia to Mamou at about 100 km/hr on the roller coaster roads of the Fouta Djalon. Sometimes you just need to run, and this was one of those times. It didn't hurt that I had Rage Against the Machine blasting in my ears, steadily by my side the whole way.
But back to this malaisem, this existential crisis. What caused it? I think I have to blame the amount of amazing people I met in Sierra Leone and Liberia. That sounds absurd, but hear me out. After 12 weeks on the road, and more than two years in Africa, I felt like I'd lost all sense of self. I have not been home since I left Indiana on January 7, 2008. In my time in Niger, I had no neighbors, which allowed me to really claim my village and my region as my own. However, I left that on September 7, 2009 and only had one week back to say goodbye. That was a pretty traumatic experience already well documented on this blog, so I'll save you any further trauma reliving it.
In Burkina and Mali, where there's a strong Peace Corps presence, I couldn't feel this loss as acutely as I did later, specifically in the last few weeks. In Liberia, I began to meet and spend long periods of time with new and interesting people. NGO workers, ex-pats, Peace Corps Response Volunteers. After being solitary for so long (throughout most of Côté d'Ivoire), it was nice to be able to share stories and build new relationships. However, the life of a traveler is transitory, and after a few days, I move on, unsure if I will ever see this or that person ever again. Of course, you exchange email addresses and hopes, but the reality is you never know.
So it was with Liberia, so it was with Sierra Leone, so it will be with everywhere I go. I met some awesome people, but slowly, they had to leave, and I had to move on. I think all of this meeting and parting came to a head my final week in Sierra Leone, when fatigue and several setbacks all seemed to jump me at once. I realized that I've been away from home a very long time. I haven't seen anyone from my past life in America in over two years. That was alright as long as I could build a new life in Niger, find new supports. However, I left that behind over three months ago, and now, now I'm doubly removed from any kind of past life. It's difficult to determine where you are without anyone who knows you. And when all your new relationships have to, by nature, end, it's difficult to find continuity.
Sometimes though, all you need is a light heart and some Rage (Against the Machine). I threw off my doubts and my losses with the realization that I'm doing something amazing. That's not to boast or appear proud. I'm just continually confronted by new cultures, new landscapes, awesome people, and challenging situations. And I realized I was complaining about that! It's difficult to continually meet and leave people and places that you're falling in love with, but we always carry these experiences with us, and if we leave parts of ourselves with others, it only means we have more reason to carry us back.
I don't really know the point of this blog. Only that it needed to be written to demonstrate that it's not all candy and rainbows on the road in West Africa. I've been very lucky so far (Ivory Coast excluded), and running through the cool, Guinean night with the Bulls on Parade, I realized how amazing life is, and how much living there is left to do.
However, even with all that the country has to offer, I ended three weeks with the uncontrollable urge to get out. Why? Chalk it up to some pretty minor setbacks worsened by an existential mid-trip crisis. I tried to hike Mount Bintumani, one of West Africa's highest mountains, and failed for reasons so stupid I won't bother to mention them here. Nevertheless, the failure was palpable, and I've now sworn to return to Sierra Leone some day and rectify my mistake. Vengeance will be mine (channeling Skeletor there).
Failure's always a bit of a bitch, but it has the uncanny ability to teach you things about yourself. For me, the failure of Bintumani was aggravated by an inability to cross into Guinea. For three days I tried to arrange something, but all my attempts kept falling through from Kabala, Sierra Leone to Faranah, Guinea. Eventually, I went back to Kamakwie, where I'd met some awesome French NGO workers who put me up for the night and sent me on my way the next morning. But I couldn't shake this sense of defeat. That is, until I got to Guinea, found a night bush taxi (which I ordinarily avoid like the speed-freak death-traps they are), which raced through the darkness from Kindia to Mamou at about 100 km/hr on the roller coaster roads of the Fouta Djalon. Sometimes you just need to run, and this was one of those times. It didn't hurt that I had Rage Against the Machine blasting in my ears, steadily by my side the whole way.
But back to this malaisem, this existential crisis. What caused it? I think I have to blame the amount of amazing people I met in Sierra Leone and Liberia. That sounds absurd, but hear me out. After 12 weeks on the road, and more than two years in Africa, I felt like I'd lost all sense of self. I have not been home since I left Indiana on January 7, 2008. In my time in Niger, I had no neighbors, which allowed me to really claim my village and my region as my own. However, I left that on September 7, 2009 and only had one week back to say goodbye. That was a pretty traumatic experience already well documented on this blog, so I'll save you any further trauma reliving it.
In Burkina and Mali, where there's a strong Peace Corps presence, I couldn't feel this loss as acutely as I did later, specifically in the last few weeks. In Liberia, I began to meet and spend long periods of time with new and interesting people. NGO workers, ex-pats, Peace Corps Response Volunteers. After being solitary for so long (throughout most of Côté d'Ivoire), it was nice to be able to share stories and build new relationships. However, the life of a traveler is transitory, and after a few days, I move on, unsure if I will ever see this or that person ever again. Of course, you exchange email addresses and hopes, but the reality is you never know.
So it was with Liberia, so it was with Sierra Leone, so it will be with everywhere I go. I met some awesome people, but slowly, they had to leave, and I had to move on. I think all of this meeting and parting came to a head my final week in Sierra Leone, when fatigue and several setbacks all seemed to jump me at once. I realized that I've been away from home a very long time. I haven't seen anyone from my past life in America in over two years. That was alright as long as I could build a new life in Niger, find new supports. However, I left that behind over three months ago, and now, now I'm doubly removed from any kind of past life. It's difficult to determine where you are without anyone who knows you. And when all your new relationships have to, by nature, end, it's difficult to find continuity.
Sometimes though, all you need is a light heart and some Rage (Against the Machine). I threw off my doubts and my losses with the realization that I'm doing something amazing. That's not to boast or appear proud. I'm just continually confronted by new cultures, new landscapes, awesome people, and challenging situations. And I realized I was complaining about that! It's difficult to continually meet and leave people and places that you're falling in love with, but we always carry these experiences with us, and if we leave parts of ourselves with others, it only means we have more reason to carry us back.
I don't really know the point of this blog. Only that it needed to be written to demonstrate that it's not all candy and rainbows on the road in West Africa. I've been very lucky so far (Ivory Coast excluded), and running through the cool, Guinean night with the Bulls on Parade, I realized how amazing life is, and how much living there is left to do.
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