Whenever I meet new people on the road, I try not to mention the fact that I've been traveling by myself for over six months, if only to avoid the inevitable ten-minute repetition of my past two years. (I continually mention my two years in West Africa here both because anyone who reads this can look back and get the whole story in one long afternoon and because you can't ask any follow-up questions!) But for those who are really curious, those whose eyes widen a little bit whenever I mention Mali, Ghana, or Sierra Leone, the inevitable question is usually, "What was your favorite place?"
And my usual gut reaction is "Are you kidding me?" Ask a student of literature for her favorite book. Ask a film historian to name his favorite flick. Ask my friend Patrick for his favorite paranoid, evil personality from 1928 - 1957. Maybe you could help him out by asking him only to focus on Europe, but really, there are just too many from which to choose. Asking me to choose my favorite place in West Africa is about like asking me to choose my favorite digit. My first inclination, I think I'd have to go with right-hand thumb, but that doesn't mean I'd be fine losing any of the rest.
Instead of launching into this diatribe, however, I usually cock my head and ask, "Of which country?" The truth is, I've seen and done a lot in my two and a half years in West Africa. I can't really give a definitive answer, but I can give you my list of my top travel descriptions. Apologies for continuing to neglect Morocco, but hopefully this Cliff's notes version of my trip can help guide any future questions for whenever I return home. Thus, in chronological order, I give you Sterling's Personal Guide to West Africa.
Abomey, Benin - the old seat of the Dahomey Empire, Abomey is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but its red-earth palaces, symbols of a kingdom built on slavery, is slowly crumbling back unto whence they. This is one of the best places, though, to look onto the sadistic side of the African slave trade and examine how this bloody, black institution set tribe against tribe to tear one another apart.
Boukoumbé, Benin - a hike deep into the hills reveals the land of the Betammaribé tribe, who resisted slavery by living independently as family units protected by their small, fortress-like houses. Spend a night with a family in a tata house surrounded by rolling green hills and towering baobob trees and you'll feel like you're in the Shire. Just try not to hit any old hobbit women with your slingshot (or blame it on a kid if you do).
Klouto, Togo - deep in the hills and jungle of southern Togo, Klouto is filled with coffee plantations that you can hike through while on the search for beautiful butterflies. If you don't have an inner lepidopterist, you can always check out the abandoned European castle hidden in the trees...
Green Turtle Lodge, Ghana - an ecolodge working on community development along one of the most beautiful stretches of beach in West Africa. A sure place to meet Peace Corps types and to get crunched by some seriously awesome waves.
Kumasi, Ghana - home of the Ashanti, one of the most well-known West African ethnies, famous for their colorful and highly-prized kente and adinkra cloth.
N'guigmi, Niger - not much there but pure white sand. Too bad the nearest ocean is thousands of kilometers away. Go and you'll feel like you're at the end of the earth, or at least the end of your travels. With genocide to the east, a batshit crazy dictator to the north, religo-ethnic conflict to the south, and general famine all around, you'll definitely start to rethink your privileged status as a developed country national.
Banfora to Sindou Peaks, Burkina Faso - I rented a motorbike and took it the 100km there and back all in one day, and what a day it was. The dirt piste is lined with trees the entire way, and hiking around the peaks is a bit like stepping into the scenery from Fraggle Rock. Those who remember that reference get bonus points for having a great childhood.
Dogon Country, Mali - take the road up from Ouaghiya to the Falaise de Bandiagara and get into some real hiking. This is one of the most unique cultural areas in all of Africa, but due to its location in rural West Africa has remained relatively untouched by mass tourism. And the stars...if only you knew.
Sunset Beers on the Niger - whether it's in Niamey, Mopti, Gao, or Gaya, a cold Flag on a hot desert night is pretty unbeatable with those beautiful African sunsets. And with fresh fish brought in that hour by colorful characters in even more colorful pirogues, you're sure of a good meal to go with your beer.
Festival du Desert, Mali - one of the greatest concerts I've ever been to, bar none. A celebration of Tuareg culture, and a great revenue resourse for a severely impoverished people, the Festival du Desert brings together some of the greatest acts in West African music alongside musicians from all over the world. But the focus is definitely the desert, and you won't ever forget that when you're freezing your ass off on your third night in the Saharan winter.
Yamoussoukro, Côté d'Ivoire - check out the previous post on this one from sometime in January. The city was built to glorify former president Houphouet-Boigny's ancestors, but from the looks of it, the only thing the city glorifies is how much money one man can dump into a swamp.
Monrovia, Liberia - maybe less of a tourist hotspot than a fascinating look into a community still trying to rebuild itself after nearly two decades of civil war. Let's examine the amenities: no electricity, no running water, unsafe tap water, and streets that most embassies have put off limits after 9 pm. But if you dare to brave them (carrying no more than $20 at any time) you can have a great night drinking with awesome people on the streets of this awesome town.
Tiwai Island, Sierra Leone - home to eleven different species of primate, including the rare Diana monkey, all on one easy-to-trek island in the middle of the Moa River. Go looking for rare pygmy hippos (good luck), walk through dense jungle, take a river swim (just watch out for the oyster shells), and finish it all up with a fresh-grilled fish caught that morning by your boat guide.
Freetown Beaches, Sierra Leone - by far the best beaches in all of West Africa, and there's something for everyone. Choose any color of powdery sand from pure white to yellow ochre, even sand that turns your feet black. Your food choices may be limited to lobster, oysters, barracuda, and mango, but who needs anything else? And while all the beaches may be beautiful, only a few have phosphorescent water...
Kamakwie, Sierra Leone - So why does Sierra Leone rank so highly? Well, when you have savannah, mountains, beaches, and jungle, it's kind of hard to choose just one place. Kamakwie wins out because it's close to Outamba-Kilimi National Park, but it's really only a good place to sleep if you've got awesome friends who work for a local NGO. Try camping in the park instead.
Doucki, Guinea - it's more than just a great name. Doucki is a village perched on the edge of a cliff in the Fouta Djalon region of Guinea, the ancestral home of the Fula people. This would only be mildly interesting without the incomparable Hassan Ba, who leads some of the most fun trekking I've ever done in this part of the world. Gorges, waterfalls, and more animals hiding in the rocks than you could ever imagine. What more could you want?
Kedougou, Senegal - I have to admit, some of these are brilliant only because of the people I met there. I spent a week laid up in Kedougou after I hurt my foot. It's a laid-back, chill town: the perfect place to see Senegalese/Fula culture on the everyday level. But there's enough nature about (including the nearby national park) to keep you busy even if you don't have the Peace Corps connections.
Bijagos Archipelago, Guinea-Bissau - a unique culture hidden amongst the dangerous currents of the turquoise seas surrounding the islands. White powdery beaches and a Portugese influence makes this country unlike any other in West Africa.
Chinguetti, Mauritania - stuck right in the middle of the desert, and one of the holiest cities in all of Islam, Chinguetti is a great place to start your camel trek, be it two days, four, or fifty (if you're keen to take it all the way to Timbuktu). If nothing else, a trek into the desert will provide one of the most beautiful sleeping experiences you'll ever have, especially with a full moon.
Chôum to Nouadhibou Express - the ultimate travel experience. Sixteen hours on top of an iron ore hopper through the desert. It doesn't get much hardcore than that. If you're brave, you can hop off for bathroom breaks whenever the train stops, but make them quick, because this train don't wait!
So there you have it. It may be a bit cheap to do a "best of" list, but the well of ideas was pretty dry there for a while. I think the rains may have come, however, with my first full day in Tangier. I'll have a really good post again soon. I promise.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The Failures of Documentation
An inexcusable lack of updates from Morocco. If you follow this blog at all, you may have wondered, "Did he fall off the continent? Kidnapped by Berbers? Lost in some haze of a hash dream?"
No. The real answer to "Where have you been?" is probably just "Around." I don't know how to describe my lack of any creativity in the six weeks I've been in Morocco. I've had unprecedented access to the Internet (well, unprecedented for someone who's spent the last two years in rural, sub-Saharan Africa.) Perhaps one of the best explanations is my inability to find the time to write is this: for the previous six months, I've traveled in places where bedtime is around 8:30 pm. If you have a headlamp, that can get extended to about 9:30 or whenever you feel like you can't function solely by the light of an LED anymore. In Morocco, I've regularly been up until midnight or later. The biggest difference is Daylight Savings Time, which Moroccans hate and which, frankly, makes little sense in a Muslim country dominated by prayer calls attuned to the sun. Well, that and I've noticed that Moroccans don't really get going until about 9 in the morning. For someone who's used to getting up at 7, this leaves me with about two hours of boredom and wandering around deserted streets. (It just occurred to me that maybe I should use that time to write, and this thought has now destroyed my attempted apology regarding a lack of communication. Well...damn.)
I think I'll use the time I have today on the train to Tangier to pound out a couple of blog posts that I can hopefully post in the next few days. For those of you who know your geography, you know Tangier as the "Gateway to Africa." It sits just right across the Strait of Gibralter from Spain and has been known as a seedy, character-filled transit town for generations. Think of the cantina scene in Star Wars. Now replace Obi-Wan with a grizzled, heroine-addicted William S. Burroughs, Greedo with Paul Bowles, and the alien band with the Rolling Stones. Oh, and while we're at it, the bartender is Truman Capote. Why not. I haven't been there yet, but that just sounds fun.
And it's only by writing some of this out that memories come back to me from some of the other famous Moroccan cities I've visited already: Fes, Meknes, Rabat, and, of course, Marrakesh. I've been running around so much lately, as well as looking to a return to America in the next few months, that I haven't seen the places I've been. I don't mean I've been sleepwalking through these places. That's almost impossible to do when you're traveling by yourself and you have to manage all of your own meals and accomodation. But, the time has come for some serious reflection, which means finding a low-impact city and taking some time for myself in a cafe. Not sure if I'll be able to find that in Tangier. My bet is no. However, for now, I have a train to catch and pages and pages to write. Watch this space: there will be new mind-expanding entries here shortly. 'Til then.
No. The real answer to "Where have you been?" is probably just "Around." I don't know how to describe my lack of any creativity in the six weeks I've been in Morocco. I've had unprecedented access to the Internet (well, unprecedented for someone who's spent the last two years in rural, sub-Saharan Africa.) Perhaps one of the best explanations is my inability to find the time to write is this: for the previous six months, I've traveled in places where bedtime is around 8:30 pm. If you have a headlamp, that can get extended to about 9:30 or whenever you feel like you can't function solely by the light of an LED anymore. In Morocco, I've regularly been up until midnight or later. The biggest difference is Daylight Savings Time, which Moroccans hate and which, frankly, makes little sense in a Muslim country dominated by prayer calls attuned to the sun. Well, that and I've noticed that Moroccans don't really get going until about 9 in the morning. For someone who's used to getting up at 7, this leaves me with about two hours of boredom and wandering around deserted streets. (It just occurred to me that maybe I should use that time to write, and this thought has now destroyed my attempted apology regarding a lack of communication. Well...damn.)
I think I'll use the time I have today on the train to Tangier to pound out a couple of blog posts that I can hopefully post in the next few days. For those of you who know your geography, you know Tangier as the "Gateway to Africa." It sits just right across the Strait of Gibralter from Spain and has been known as a seedy, character-filled transit town for generations. Think of the cantina scene in Star Wars. Now replace Obi-Wan with a grizzled, heroine-addicted William S. Burroughs, Greedo with Paul Bowles, and the alien band with the Rolling Stones. Oh, and while we're at it, the bartender is Truman Capote. Why not. I haven't been there yet, but that just sounds fun.
And it's only by writing some of this out that memories come back to me from some of the other famous Moroccan cities I've visited already: Fes, Meknes, Rabat, and, of course, Marrakesh. I've been running around so much lately, as well as looking to a return to America in the next few months, that I haven't seen the places I've been. I don't mean I've been sleepwalking through these places. That's almost impossible to do when you're traveling by yourself and you have to manage all of your own meals and accomodation. But, the time has come for some serious reflection, which means finding a low-impact city and taking some time for myself in a cafe. Not sure if I'll be able to find that in Tangier. My bet is no. However, for now, I have a train to catch and pages and pages to write. Watch this space: there will be new mind-expanding entries here shortly. 'Til then.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Respect Your Elders
Writing about Rabat. What can I say? I spent nearly a week in Morocco's capital city, and I've seen just about all that it could offer someone who doesn't live there. But I spent most of my day preparing for the night, as the 9th Annual Mawazine Festival of World Music was on for my week there. F***ing fantastic.
This was one of those moments where luck and good timing led me to the right place. I'd heard of the Mawazine Festival as I passed cafés and restaurants with television usually tuned to football or National Geographic Abu Dhabi (they really watch a lot of National Geo here, I don't know why). But I had no idea who was playing, where the concert was, how much it cost. Then, walking the streets of Marrakesh, I saw an enormous billboard featuring a man in a fedora and black jacket, head bowed to the camera: Carlos Santana at Mawazine. Tickets on sale for 600 dirham (about $70). I froze. Immediately thoughts of "If only" and "Can I afford that?" began to sweep through my head. I knew some other Volunteers would be in Rabat for their mid-service medical appointments around that time, so I thought, "Why not join them and see how the spirit moves me."
As the week of the festival drew closer, I saw more and more coverage on the national channel: Julio Iglesias, Sting, Carlos Santana, BB KING?! BB King is 84 years old these days. I decided then and there that even if it meant dropping $70, I had to see him. It might be my last chance.
I met up with a Volunteer who'd been evacuated way back in the day from Madagascar, a friend of a friend kind of thing, for a beer. He was off to see Seun Kuti that night. It was a free show, I was welcome, why the hell not? I'd never heard of him, but boy, do I know him now. Seun Kuti's father is Fela Kuti, the Nigerian musician who pioneered Afrobeat, a mixture of African rhythms, highlife, jazz, and funk. The show rocked. It reminded me of everything I love about Africa. At one point Seun said something along the lines of "I want you to shout out as loud as you can, because in Africa, we don't talk small. We shout out with every part of our soul!" I'd never thought about it before, but he was right, and it's what I love about the continent. Africans tend to make everything big. Anyone who's ever been in a group of Africans know how loud and boisterous they can get, throwing around jokes and stories like no others. And as I look to some of my favorite artists: Howlin' Wolf, Etta James, Muddy Waters, I think that tendency to pour your soul out in one loud cry crossed the Atlantic and defined American music of all stripes.
Okay, so now I'm hooked. Free shows and some amazing new music on my first night in Rabat. Next up: Cheikh Tidiane Seck. I'd seen this guy at the Festival in the Desert in Timbuktu. Crazy to think that that was over five months ago, and here he is again in Morocco. He took me back to my Sahelian roots with his rockin' take on traditional griot music and some of those lovely, full-bodied Malian women, who probably shook it a little too much for a Moroccan audience. That's fine. Let's let the Malians shake things up a bit.
So two shows down, I start to look for who I want to see, who I can see for free. This can't be right. Elton John is playing for free to those who don't mind standing a football pitch away from the stage. I am THERE! Evidently, this show almost didn't happen, as some conservative imams in Morocco cast Elton John as a menace to good Islamic values. But the show went on as planned, rightfully, as the concert organizers noted, as it's a festival to bring people and cultures together for a proper, respectful cultural exchange. As I walked up to the jangling piano of Tiny Dancer, I knew I'd made the right decision to stay in Rabat for the duration of the festival. I have to say though, after the African bands, that I was a bit disappointed by Elton John as musician. The technicality isn't as high quality as those others. And the lyrics aren't all that great, in the end. I mean, are there any other lyrics to Bennie and the Jets other than "Buh Bennie and the Jetssssssssssssssssssss?" But damn. You do have to hand it to the man. He knows how to put on a spectacle. Eventhough he sings everything down an octave these days (I should never be able to sing along with Tiny Dancer in anything but a falsetto), you gotta hand it to him: the songs are catchy, and he knows how to catch your eye.
Elton John turned 63 this year. That's almost as old as my Dad, and I don't think I could see him putting on a show like that. Though strangely enough, I can imagine him in purple sunglasses and a coat and tails, the sleeves embroidered with a rainbow-colored shooting star. That weird? Didn't think so. BB King, however, will be 85 this year, and that just blows my mind. 84 years old and still touring? Not just touring, but touring internationally and taking on a gig in Morocco? I had to see it. I'd heard rumors he was playing from a wheelchair these days. I'd seen Maynard Ferguson, right at the end of his life, and while the old boy could still blow, he usually needed about ten minutes to rest from the minor heart attack suffered after each solo. It's just not the same with a guitarist. Old BB King took the stage and man, could he riff. And his band, a bunch of crusty old guys just like him, well, they didn't miss a beat either. In fact, I think they've all gotten better with age. Of course, they can ham it up with the best of them now. Going into the show thinking that these old guys probably don't have the pads or the chops to rock just lets them blow you even further out of the water. I only hope they come through Indiana while I'm at home, so I can get another chance to see them shine. Damn. I can't write about music and give you the visceral response of being there, but I was dancing the whole night and longing to see him up close.
Last night: Carlos Santana. I've been listening to Santana since 8th grade. Twelve freakin' years! Ya, remember Supernatural? The album that exploded with collaborators like Eric Clapton, Dave Matthews, Wyclef Jean, Lauren Hill, and who could forget Rob Thomas's work on Smooth, that song you couldn't escape for an entire summer. Santana, like Sir Elton, is 63 this year, but I'd like to say, this is one of the best shows I've ever seen. I would have dropped the 600 dirhams on the spot to have the chance to party up near the stage. But...I'm poor. As it was, I crammed in between a bunch of Moroccans who could appreciate the music, but only as a show, not as an experience. There was one other guy, very close by, who, like me, knew all the lyrics, and we were having a time trying to get the others moving. But wow, that cat has only gotten better as the years have gone by. Never have I felt music approach the level of frenetic ecstasy as I had that night.
The continuing theme with these three big acts were these guys who are up there and have been up there now for decades. With all the support I can give to Sir Elton and his band, they're all pretty old dudes who nevertheless have never slowed down. And while they may not have cut their hair since they started touring in the 70s, you gotta hand it to them: when you're that good, you don't have to. Watching BB King was like hanging out with the old guys at the mosque in Niger: they don't need to say much, because whatever comes out of their mouth will have you rolling in the aisles. And it's obvious they just love it. It's a great thing to see guys up there just having fun. Santana brought in some young guys, but when you have to play that hard for that long, you need stamina. I don't know how he does it, but I only hope that I have that kind of strength when I hit 63. These are old musicians who won't fade away, and with this much life, I don't think I'll have to worry about catching the next show.
This was one of those moments where luck and good timing led me to the right place. I'd heard of the Mawazine Festival as I passed cafés and restaurants with television usually tuned to football or National Geographic Abu Dhabi (they really watch a lot of National Geo here, I don't know why). But I had no idea who was playing, where the concert was, how much it cost. Then, walking the streets of Marrakesh, I saw an enormous billboard featuring a man in a fedora and black jacket, head bowed to the camera: Carlos Santana at Mawazine. Tickets on sale for 600 dirham (about $70). I froze. Immediately thoughts of "If only" and "Can I afford that?" began to sweep through my head. I knew some other Volunteers would be in Rabat for their mid-service medical appointments around that time, so I thought, "Why not join them and see how the spirit moves me."
As the week of the festival drew closer, I saw more and more coverage on the national channel: Julio Iglesias, Sting, Carlos Santana, BB KING?! BB King is 84 years old these days. I decided then and there that even if it meant dropping $70, I had to see him. It might be my last chance.
I met up with a Volunteer who'd been evacuated way back in the day from Madagascar, a friend of a friend kind of thing, for a beer. He was off to see Seun Kuti that night. It was a free show, I was welcome, why the hell not? I'd never heard of him, but boy, do I know him now. Seun Kuti's father is Fela Kuti, the Nigerian musician who pioneered Afrobeat, a mixture of African rhythms, highlife, jazz, and funk. The show rocked. It reminded me of everything I love about Africa. At one point Seun said something along the lines of "I want you to shout out as loud as you can, because in Africa, we don't talk small. We shout out with every part of our soul!" I'd never thought about it before, but he was right, and it's what I love about the continent. Africans tend to make everything big. Anyone who's ever been in a group of Africans know how loud and boisterous they can get, throwing around jokes and stories like no others. And as I look to some of my favorite artists: Howlin' Wolf, Etta James, Muddy Waters, I think that tendency to pour your soul out in one loud cry crossed the Atlantic and defined American music of all stripes.
Okay, so now I'm hooked. Free shows and some amazing new music on my first night in Rabat. Next up: Cheikh Tidiane Seck. I'd seen this guy at the Festival in the Desert in Timbuktu. Crazy to think that that was over five months ago, and here he is again in Morocco. He took me back to my Sahelian roots with his rockin' take on traditional griot music and some of those lovely, full-bodied Malian women, who probably shook it a little too much for a Moroccan audience. That's fine. Let's let the Malians shake things up a bit.
So two shows down, I start to look for who I want to see, who I can see for free. This can't be right. Elton John is playing for free to those who don't mind standing a football pitch away from the stage. I am THERE! Evidently, this show almost didn't happen, as some conservative imams in Morocco cast Elton John as a menace to good Islamic values. But the show went on as planned, rightfully, as the concert organizers noted, as it's a festival to bring people and cultures together for a proper, respectful cultural exchange. As I walked up to the jangling piano of Tiny Dancer, I knew I'd made the right decision to stay in Rabat for the duration of the festival. I have to say though, after the African bands, that I was a bit disappointed by Elton John as musician. The technicality isn't as high quality as those others. And the lyrics aren't all that great, in the end. I mean, are there any other lyrics to Bennie and the Jets other than "Buh Bennie and the Jetssssssssssssssssssss?" But damn. You do have to hand it to the man. He knows how to put on a spectacle. Eventhough he sings everything down an octave these days (I should never be able to sing along with Tiny Dancer in anything but a falsetto), you gotta hand it to him: the songs are catchy, and he knows how to catch your eye.
Elton John turned 63 this year. That's almost as old as my Dad, and I don't think I could see him putting on a show like that. Though strangely enough, I can imagine him in purple sunglasses and a coat and tails, the sleeves embroidered with a rainbow-colored shooting star. That weird? Didn't think so. BB King, however, will be 85 this year, and that just blows my mind. 84 years old and still touring? Not just touring, but touring internationally and taking on a gig in Morocco? I had to see it. I'd heard rumors he was playing from a wheelchair these days. I'd seen Maynard Ferguson, right at the end of his life, and while the old boy could still blow, he usually needed about ten minutes to rest from the minor heart attack suffered after each solo. It's just not the same with a guitarist. Old BB King took the stage and man, could he riff. And his band, a bunch of crusty old guys just like him, well, they didn't miss a beat either. In fact, I think they've all gotten better with age. Of course, they can ham it up with the best of them now. Going into the show thinking that these old guys probably don't have the pads or the chops to rock just lets them blow you even further out of the water. I only hope they come through Indiana while I'm at home, so I can get another chance to see them shine. Damn. I can't write about music and give you the visceral response of being there, but I was dancing the whole night and longing to see him up close.
Last night: Carlos Santana. I've been listening to Santana since 8th grade. Twelve freakin' years! Ya, remember Supernatural? The album that exploded with collaborators like Eric Clapton, Dave Matthews, Wyclef Jean, Lauren Hill, and who could forget Rob Thomas's work on Smooth, that song you couldn't escape for an entire summer. Santana, like Sir Elton, is 63 this year, but I'd like to say, this is one of the best shows I've ever seen. I would have dropped the 600 dirhams on the spot to have the chance to party up near the stage. But...I'm poor. As it was, I crammed in between a bunch of Moroccans who could appreciate the music, but only as a show, not as an experience. There was one other guy, very close by, who, like me, knew all the lyrics, and we were having a time trying to get the others moving. But wow, that cat has only gotten better as the years have gone by. Never have I felt music approach the level of frenetic ecstasy as I had that night.
The continuing theme with these three big acts were these guys who are up there and have been up there now for decades. With all the support I can give to Sir Elton and his band, they're all pretty old dudes who nevertheless have never slowed down. And while they may not have cut their hair since they started touring in the 70s, you gotta hand it to them: when you're that good, you don't have to. Watching BB King was like hanging out with the old guys at the mosque in Niger: they don't need to say much, because whatever comes out of their mouth will have you rolling in the aisles. And it's obvious they just love it. It's a great thing to see guys up there just having fun. Santana brought in some young guys, but when you have to play that hard for that long, you need stamina. I don't know how he does it, but I only hope that I have that kind of strength when I hit 63. These are old musicians who won't fade away, and with this much life, I don't think I'll have to worry about catching the next show.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Travel and Tourism
Hard to believe it's been over a week since my last post. I haven't been plugged into the Internet despite its pretty universal access in Morocco. But more than just technological laziness, I've found it very difficult to write since I've been here. I'm not sure how to describe this issue. Perhaps, like Hemingway, if I may be permitted to use a pretty weak comparison, I find it difficult to write of a place I know while I'm in said place. Only upon reflection can I find my voice, and indeed, with increasingly fragile memory, I do find myself looking back to West Africa. And how could I not? For me, it was home. After two years, I felt as if I knew the people and knew myself within that culture.
But in Morocco, in North Africa, I am a stranger, and though I may hate to admit it, I am, in many ways, just another tourist. I never felt this unique difference in West Africa, despite being typically the only Westerner around. Cultural currents run deep in in the former French Afrique Occidental, so I felt that from Diffa to Dakar, Timbuktu to Tubmanburg as if I belonged, knowing as I did my own persona within an African context. Thus, I was traveler, even sometimes resident, not tourist. Tourist, to me, implies a certain naïvety, often seen as a walking bag of money who may know a bit about a place's people or culture, but often not much more than the superficial. More important than experiencing the place, tourists tend to shuttle from sight to sight, with limited time to check as many "must-sees" off their list as possible.
I wasn't a tourist in West Africa, partially because there are so few people who travel there who fit this description. The Sahelian zone is the poorest, least developed part of the world. Despite hosting at one time some of the richest empires in sub-Saharan Africa, the land left little behind as a testament to African wealth and power. So West Africa remains little visited, and you'd be hard-pressed to find many who know where Mali is, let alone someone who knows it hosted two of the European Middle Ages' wealthiest civilizations.
Tourism, at its best, can change this. Fifteen years ago, who would have known the architectural wonders of Fez, the seedy reputation of Tangiers, or the human pageantry of Marrakesh? Maybe those who read some of the beat poets who took advantage of the anything goes attitude of post-independence Morocco. But others had to wait for cheap flights from Europe. Now it's easy to take a weekend trip to see transvestite belly dancers in the Jma el-Fna or to enjoy hand-rolled cous cous with a view of the snow-capped High Atlas mountains. Hordes have taken advantage of this place's newly discovered accessibility.
Tourism, at it's best, opens up cultures in ways impossible to other experiences. It's one thing to read about slavery in history books or personal narratives; it's quite something else to see the slave castles in Cape Coast, Ghana. Seeing Islam represented as only a young man's hostile antagonism belies the gentle nature of a Moroccan father with his children. Hearing only about repressed, burka-clad women banned from public places in France ignores an upwardly mobile generation of working women who have money and know how to look good. One of the most interesting things I've noticed as someone who studied a bit of gender is the women's revolution modestly moving forward in Morocco. Women in the cities are finding many more opportunities in education and the workplace and are beginning to make their voices heard. Of course, the examples I've cited exist in the West, but as an unvoiced majority, one all too easy to overlook in a culture obsessed with political theatre and posturing instead of news, people interested only in entertainment, conflict, and "talking points." At it's best, tourism opens the tourist to a culture and ideals he/she may not understand at home. It's far easier to see the forest when you're surrounded by the trees.
Of course, tourism, at it's best, is usually simply called travel. At my university, we tried our best to instill the ideal of experiential learning in our travels. But in the end, we were still tourists. I look back now on those days as a learning experience for my present travels, so I guess in that regard, the whole experiential learning thing worked out. (You'd think, as an English major, I would have been able to connect those two thoughts...) I didn't realize how much I'd subconsciously picked up until I came to Morocco and saw the throngs of tourists who've just discovered this land thanks to Ryan Air. They provide a case study of what NOT to do if you want to truly experience a place. Read ahead and hope you're not here described.
What are you wearing?! This applies especially to Morocco, but I saw a lot of it in West Africa too. In Muslim cultures, modesty is paramount, especially for women. Like it or not, you stand out and can be borderline offensive when you bare shoulders, legs, and chest. Look around you. If the locals aren't wearing it, neither should you. How can you stand to stand out so? Don't you feel naked? Oh and one more thing: shorts were made for sport and the beach. There is really no other time when they are needed. You look stupid. Especially jean shorts. What is this? Did I miss the memo on reliving 1995? "But it's hot...," I hear you whining. Pants are no hotter than shorts. Get yourself a nice pair of linen slacks, and guess what, they're even cooler, as they block the radiant heat from the pavement, ground etc. I recently met a girl and we played "Guess the Nationality" based on dress and attitude. I hope you weren't one of the many Germans who should have left their lederhosen at home.
Put away the guide book. Lonely Planet. Yes, it's a great resource. I myself have one, and it was indispensible to my travels around West Africa. However, there is never any need to have it out while you're walking. The Lonely Planet: Morocco book has a distinct cover of the Fez palace gates which you can spot a mile away. It just screams "TOURIST!" And while that may not bother you, just think of for whom the next carpet seller is searching...you may just be that sucker.
Why are you taking a picture? It's a door. It's not even a very interesting door. I've seen plenty more interesting doors in my time. Hell, there's even a more interesting door five feet away. There are 5000 more interesting doors in Morocco alone. Are you going to photograph all of them too? Are you some kind of door enthusiast? If so, then I admire your commitment to a fantastically boring hobby. My favorite tourists are the ones who have the guide book in one hand and a digital camera in the other. One of the blessings of the digital age is a nearly limitless capacity to get the perfect shot. One of the tragedies is that most people now spend all their time getting any and every shot. I sometimes miss the days of film, where you couldn't afford to take thousands of pictures of walls, doors, and that speck of bird on the horizon. You had 32 shots, and every one had to count. Now I see tourists just walking and snapping as they go. I don't even think they look at what they're photographing. Forget form and composition, I'm wondering what the subject is even supposed to be. No, you can't take a good picture of the bright crescent moon. And no, that little Nikon will not be able to pick up the subtle lighting in an underground mausoleum. And for the love of God, stop taking pictures of artwork. Buy the f***in' post card! This goes to all of you who crowd around the Mona Lisa. Can we just take some time to f***in' appreciate the things in life that cannot be captured by technology?! What do you do with the literally thousands of photos you snap when you get home? Do you print them all out and bind them in an album? There's a good rule: snap only what you would pay to print.
There are more. This might become a recurring theme as I find more and more things that irritate the ever-loving sh** out of me. One thing that I do appreciate, after a long time on the road with French people, are Americans. I realize this is a non sequitor, but please, induldge me. This sounds kind of cheesy, but the child-like simplicity of most Americans is refreshing after so much travel. I'm used to Europeans who have the tendency to take their service for granted. But after meeting Norman and Jeanne in Essaouira, who introduced themselves and had a big, happy greeting for the receptionist at the hotel, I had to remember that that's not something I'm used to seeing. It's nice. It humanizes both the tourist and the local. Not only that, but locals always greet one another, so it's culturally appropriate as well as humanizing. And that's where true experience rests.
But in Morocco, in North Africa, I am a stranger, and though I may hate to admit it, I am, in many ways, just another tourist. I never felt this unique difference in West Africa, despite being typically the only Westerner around. Cultural currents run deep in in the former French Afrique Occidental, so I felt that from Diffa to Dakar, Timbuktu to Tubmanburg as if I belonged, knowing as I did my own persona within an African context. Thus, I was traveler, even sometimes resident, not tourist. Tourist, to me, implies a certain naïvety, often seen as a walking bag of money who may know a bit about a place's people or culture, but often not much more than the superficial. More important than experiencing the place, tourists tend to shuttle from sight to sight, with limited time to check as many "must-sees" off their list as possible.
I wasn't a tourist in West Africa, partially because there are so few people who travel there who fit this description. The Sahelian zone is the poorest, least developed part of the world. Despite hosting at one time some of the richest empires in sub-Saharan Africa, the land left little behind as a testament to African wealth and power. So West Africa remains little visited, and you'd be hard-pressed to find many who know where Mali is, let alone someone who knows it hosted two of the European Middle Ages' wealthiest civilizations.
Tourism, at its best, can change this. Fifteen years ago, who would have known the architectural wonders of Fez, the seedy reputation of Tangiers, or the human pageantry of Marrakesh? Maybe those who read some of the beat poets who took advantage of the anything goes attitude of post-independence Morocco. But others had to wait for cheap flights from Europe. Now it's easy to take a weekend trip to see transvestite belly dancers in the Jma el-Fna or to enjoy hand-rolled cous cous with a view of the snow-capped High Atlas mountains. Hordes have taken advantage of this place's newly discovered accessibility.
Tourism, at it's best, opens up cultures in ways impossible to other experiences. It's one thing to read about slavery in history books or personal narratives; it's quite something else to see the slave castles in Cape Coast, Ghana. Seeing Islam represented as only a young man's hostile antagonism belies the gentle nature of a Moroccan father with his children. Hearing only about repressed, burka-clad women banned from public places in France ignores an upwardly mobile generation of working women who have money and know how to look good. One of the most interesting things I've noticed as someone who studied a bit of gender is the women's revolution modestly moving forward in Morocco. Women in the cities are finding many more opportunities in education and the workplace and are beginning to make their voices heard. Of course, the examples I've cited exist in the West, but as an unvoiced majority, one all too easy to overlook in a culture obsessed with political theatre and posturing instead of news, people interested only in entertainment, conflict, and "talking points." At it's best, tourism opens the tourist to a culture and ideals he/she may not understand at home. It's far easier to see the forest when you're surrounded by the trees.
Of course, tourism, at it's best, is usually simply called travel. At my university, we tried our best to instill the ideal of experiential learning in our travels. But in the end, we were still tourists. I look back now on those days as a learning experience for my present travels, so I guess in that regard, the whole experiential learning thing worked out. (You'd think, as an English major, I would have been able to connect those two thoughts...) I didn't realize how much I'd subconsciously picked up until I came to Morocco and saw the throngs of tourists who've just discovered this land thanks to Ryan Air. They provide a case study of what NOT to do if you want to truly experience a place. Read ahead and hope you're not here described.
What are you wearing?! This applies especially to Morocco, but I saw a lot of it in West Africa too. In Muslim cultures, modesty is paramount, especially for women. Like it or not, you stand out and can be borderline offensive when you bare shoulders, legs, and chest. Look around you. If the locals aren't wearing it, neither should you. How can you stand to stand out so? Don't you feel naked? Oh and one more thing: shorts were made for sport and the beach. There is really no other time when they are needed. You look stupid. Especially jean shorts. What is this? Did I miss the memo on reliving 1995? "But it's hot...," I hear you whining. Pants are no hotter than shorts. Get yourself a nice pair of linen slacks, and guess what, they're even cooler, as they block the radiant heat from the pavement, ground etc. I recently met a girl and we played "Guess the Nationality" based on dress and attitude. I hope you weren't one of the many Germans who should have left their lederhosen at home.
Put away the guide book. Lonely Planet. Yes, it's a great resource. I myself have one, and it was indispensible to my travels around West Africa. However, there is never any need to have it out while you're walking. The Lonely Planet: Morocco book has a distinct cover of the Fez palace gates which you can spot a mile away. It just screams "TOURIST!" And while that may not bother you, just think of for whom the next carpet seller is searching...you may just be that sucker.
Why are you taking a picture? It's a door. It's not even a very interesting door. I've seen plenty more interesting doors in my time. Hell, there's even a more interesting door five feet away. There are 5000 more interesting doors in Morocco alone. Are you going to photograph all of them too? Are you some kind of door enthusiast? If so, then I admire your commitment to a fantastically boring hobby. My favorite tourists are the ones who have the guide book in one hand and a digital camera in the other. One of the blessings of the digital age is a nearly limitless capacity to get the perfect shot. One of the tragedies is that most people now spend all their time getting any and every shot. I sometimes miss the days of film, where you couldn't afford to take thousands of pictures of walls, doors, and that speck of bird on the horizon. You had 32 shots, and every one had to count. Now I see tourists just walking and snapping as they go. I don't even think they look at what they're photographing. Forget form and composition, I'm wondering what the subject is even supposed to be. No, you can't take a good picture of the bright crescent moon. And no, that little Nikon will not be able to pick up the subtle lighting in an underground mausoleum. And for the love of God, stop taking pictures of artwork. Buy the f***in' post card! This goes to all of you who crowd around the Mona Lisa. Can we just take some time to f***in' appreciate the things in life that cannot be captured by technology?! What do you do with the literally thousands of photos you snap when you get home? Do you print them all out and bind them in an album? There's a good rule: snap only what you would pay to print.
There are more. This might become a recurring theme as I find more and more things that irritate the ever-loving sh** out of me. One thing that I do appreciate, after a long time on the road with French people, are Americans. I realize this is a non sequitor, but please, induldge me. This sounds kind of cheesy, but the child-like simplicity of most Americans is refreshing after so much travel. I'm used to Europeans who have the tendency to take their service for granted. But after meeting Norman and Jeanne in Essaouira, who introduced themselves and had a big, happy greeting for the receptionist at the hotel, I had to remember that that's not something I'm used to seeing. It's nice. It humanizes both the tourist and the local. Not only that, but locals always greet one another, so it's culturally appropriate as well as humanizing. And that's where true experience rests.
Monday, May 17, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, May 7, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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