If I Go, Be Sure to Bury Me in the Clouds

I tend to fall asleep in public transport. Any kind. From iron ore train to crowded bush taxi, bus to boat. It's become quite a talent of mine, and I have to admit, it is kind of nice to wake up from a peaceful nap, look out the window, and see some beautiful new part of Afric... OH MY GOD, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!

Okay, so only sometimes does it happen like that. Today was one of those days. After hiking down out of the mountains, I took a grand taxi back up said mountains from Ouled Brahil to Marrakesh. First of all, there's so much to say about Marrakesh in the few hours I've been here that it will take a completely different entry. This is about something else. The road to Marrakesh weaves through the High Atlas mountains through the Tizi n'Test. This pass is the only way through the mountains without resorting to hours of detours through Ouarzazate to the east or Agadir to the west.

Okay, so now that I have some background out of the way, where was I? Oh yes, death and destruction. It's difficult not to panic a bit when you wake up to the screech of tires and nothing but sky in front of the car. Then it turns, and you realize you've only almost driven over the edge of a cliff at 40k an hour. And then you realize that you still have 140km to go with a Michael Schumacher wannabe in a crappy Mercedes Berliner on a twisty, one-lane mountain road filled with blind turns. It's like the best rollercoaster ever. You know, the one at the county fair that's been shut down across the state for maiming too many carnies? Ya, that one. Anyway, I found myself praying to whoever would listen that we'd make it out alive as we burned up the mountain road, oblivious to any sense of danger or stomach-churning G's. Go ahead, lady in the front seat, throw up; in this case, it's warranted. I'd join you, except I have about a liter of orange Fanta sitting in my stomach, so anything that comes out my nose is going to end up looking like a Nickelodeon advertisement. It's Slime Time!!! Gross. There have been many times in Africa that I've been glad of a broken speedometer. In cases like these, ignorance is bliss.

And Perhaps the Worst of All...

As any of you who have followed this blog for a while know, every once in a while I like to throw my professional demeanor away and engage in some humor. This usually comes in the form of a rant against a traumatic event I've recently experienced. These are always drawn from real occurences, just a bit exaggerated. This one may be the first to be completely true and unaltered. I'll start at the beginning...

Another 16 hours through the desert and along the wild Atlantic coast. This time it was on a bus from Dakhla to Guelmim, and when I think back to those long rides from Niamey to Zinder (here I start the comparisons between North and West Africa), I have to marvel at the decent amount of sleep I managed on this luxury overnighter. I also have to give credit where it's due to Nigerien women, as not once in all my horrific, hair-pulling, death-defying, vomit-inducing bush taxi rides did I ever have a woman get sick on me.

I wish I could say the same about my very first bus ride in Morocco.

Oh sure, it started innocently enough. My seat mate for the next 16 hours was a little, old Moroccan lady, a bit fat, with crinkles about her eyes, and a wart on her big, hooked nose. She actually looked not a bit unlike Yubaba, the witch from Miyazaki's Spirited Away. "Okay, good," I thought as she spread out her blanket for the journey ahead, "at least I'm not sitting next to a small child, wailing his head off for hours upon hours, like the one sitting right behind me, who won't stop kicking my chair... For the love of God, would you QUIT KICKING THE BACK OF MY CHAIR?!"

He stopped kicking the back of my chair...eventually, and slowly, I drifted off to sleep with the rocking of the bus and the barren, rocky desert flying by outside my window. In the morning, I awoke peacefully to the first rays of a soft, desert sunrise, the crash of Atlantic breakers, and the gentle retching of my venerable neighbor. A lovely way to start any day, and, even better, it continued for two hours, until we stopped for morning prayer and coffee. Though I don't pray and I wasn't much up for coffee, I jumped at the chance to extricate myself from my portly, puking companion.

What happened next can only be described as nightmarish. If you're at all squeamish, please turn away as we go into my mind, a pretty scary alternate reality in its own right.

Alright, back on the bus. Let's hope she's got everything out of her system. "Oh, Alhamdulilai, I don't want any bread, thank you." Wait. You're eating bread? You just spent the last two hours vomiting into a plastic jar. Most people choose not to eat if they're liable to get motionsick. You don't need to eat, you're just refueling! What's tha...is that yogurt? Tell me that isn't yogurt. Oh, come on! Haven't you ever thrown up dairy before? No, don't give her a spoon! Well...great. Smile away granny, I have a feeling we're both going to regret this...

(30 minutes later)

Yep, there you go again. Oh, that's disgusting. Yep, goes down yogurt, comes up cottage cheese doesn't it? You done now? Learned your lesson? Ohp, nope, there's an orange. Who gave you an orange? No worries, there's an apple as well. Can't have an orange without an apple chaser, can you? Mmm...vomiting a bit whilst eating eh? Didn't know that was possible. What is wrong with you?! STOP INGESTING FOOD!!!

(30 minutes later)

Is that ANOTHER yogurt container?! Okay, it's empty. I see. Need something else to yak into? Filled up your jar? Wait...the lid of that jar says it holds 425 grams. Oh Sweet Lord in Heaven. There's nearly half a kilo of old lady chunks precariously perched only two feet away. All it would take is one big pothole and it's all over. I think I'm going to chunder. But wait, into what would I toss cookies ? She's used every available container on the bus. Filled the yogurt cup... You need another?! Wait...that one's not open yet. NO! WHY ARE YOU EATING AGAIN?! Only 400km left...

At the end of this roller-coaster, I could conceive of only two possibilities for this woman's behavior: Either A) She really had taken quite a dislike to me and had set it her goal to make me hurl, or B) She just really loved the feeling of a good heave. Either way, I think I think I'd take the slow-moving iron ore train over the vomit express.

Those Train Travelin' Blues

So, now it's time for the great transport blog, or at least the first leg of it. Two trucks, a train, a car, a bus, and I've covered something like 2500km of desert in under five days. I think I've had more travel time than sleep this month, but now that I'm in Morocco, I hope to make up for it in one long, marathon nap.

But first, let's recount this trip. I awoke in the dunes of Chinguetti with the prayer call at 5:30 am on May 1st. Tromping a couple kilometers through the desert's sands, I was met by a pickup truck, the ever-present Toyota Hilux, on it's way to Atâr. Growing up in the Midwest, I'm pretty used to crazily careening down gravel roads in the back of a pickup, so this was actually a bit of a treat, taking me back to my youth and adding a bit of excitement: Indiana doesn't have roads winding around desert gorges, only inches from free-fall cliff edges. Made it to Atâr in about an hour and a half and had a couple hours to wait to catch the next pickup to Choûm. Four hours through the desert, with the sun beating down and the sand in my face, I still somehow managed to fall asleep. I don't know when narcolepsy became part and parcel of all my public transport ventures, but it does help to make the trip that much shorter.

All this discomfort was rather easy to take, as I was to meet my real goal in Choûm: the iron-ore train from the mining town of Zouérat to the port city of Nouadhibou. It's one of the longest trains in the world, sometimes stretching to over two kilometers and, fully loaded, weighing several thousand tons. Though it's not even offically meant for passengers, but dozens jump the train every day for the 24-hour trip between the two cities. It's really the only means of transport in this stretch of desert, but for me, and for the few other travelers who've done it, it's an adventure impossible to forgo.

I arrived in Choûm around two in the afternoon, hot, dusty, and in need of food. Unfortunately, Choûm turned out to be little more than a train platform in the middle of the desert. "Dix heures, onze heures," the train would arrive, according to some local kids. However, in Africa, I knew this wait would be a bit longer, and unfortunately, Choûm had little to offer other than shade and a woman selling tea. It was the perfect picture of a town at the end of the earth: dusty, wind-swept, barren, with nothing but a few crows croaking from atop the telegraph wires (I don't actually know what these poles were, but I'd just like to take the time to reimagine Choûm as a lawless, Western boom town.)

So, I settled down beside the tracks to wait for the train. And sleep a bit. Wait a bit more. Wander around the six or eight houses in town. Visit the boutique. Can't buy anything because the shopkeeper's passed out on the concrete floor. Sleep a bit more. Five more hours of this? I'd throw myself in front of the train if one ever went by. Around ten at night, I heard the rumblings in the distance, but my neighbors said only, "Nope, not until 2am." And indeed, this train, loaded full of ore and roaring by for what seemed hours passed us without even slowing. Four hours later though, with a screech and a hiss, a train stretching into the darkened horizon pulled in at our lonely little outpost and, not wanting to pay for a seat on the floor in the one passenger cabin, I climbed into an open iron-ore hopper with Moussa and Mohammed, two kids on their way to Nouadhibou to sell African toothbrushes (those of you who've spent time in Africa know these are sticks).

I expected the iron ore to be bound up in rocks, the hoppers full of uncomfortable stone that I would have to, in some way, tolerate for sixteen hours through the burning desert sun. So I was quite surprised, upon landing in the hopper to find myself sinking slightly in heavy, black sand, the iron ore filings which are processed in Zouérat and shipped in Nouadhibou. However, unlike sand, the iron ore stuck to everything. The first thing Moussa did was to put down a tarp, which we shared for the trip, and wrap himself up in a heavy blanket, something I mimicked immediately as the train took off, the wind catching the lighter particles of iron and sending them flying in clouds of black soot.

For all the romanticism of this trip, which so few in the world have ever heard of, let alone taken, the train was pretty unromantically dull. I spent the night getting the best sleep I've had on public transport. Despite the cold and the wind, the iron ore was quite soft and comfortable, and I, cocooned in my sleep sack, had little trouble with the heat come daytime. Sheer boredom was the primary drawback. The desert was beautiful by moonlight, but in the day, the sun baked the iron ore and just made for a generally dirty, uncomfortable afternoon. But, by the time Nouadhibou peeked over the horizon, I knew I'd done something special and, coated in black dust, tired, half-starved, I knew that this would be a memory I'd carry with me for a while: one of those true "African experiences," i.e. one you're glad you've had, but not necessarily ready to ever repeat.

Desert Meditation

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.

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.

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.

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.