On A Six-Speed Steed

Palmarin, Senegal. Riding a bicycle through Africa is an extremely liberating experience. This is partly due to the self-sufficient nature of the endeavor, the rider becoming the master of his own direction and velocity, but it is just as likely because it affords the ability to wear tight-fitting, spandex biking shorts. I don't actually have a set with me but I never before understood just how valuable that stretchy,unflattering fabric could be. After six hours in the saddle I often realize that the warm, tingling sensation that has spread throughout my body is not in fact the afterglow from a successful day of profitable peddling, but rather, the pins and needles awakening of my heretofore dead and paralyzed crotch. Still, this is the perfect way to see this vast continent, peddling slowly across the country side, the wind in your hair, your pack jerry-rigged to the back your bike with a half dozen bungis, some accessory cord, and a couple of zip-ties. If God didn't intend us to roll through the world on wheels how else to explain all that smooth, heavenly pavement?


From Dakar we pedaled south along the shore, through a region known as the Petit Cote. Far from the well-paved artery that runs through the heart of the country, we ride the road less travelled, frequently pedaling over broken pavement, hard-packed dirt, or soft debilitating sand. Here the coast is dominated by small, rustic, fishing villages and it is obvious that not many travellers ply this particular route. We are treated with more than a few curious stares, especially when we alight to push our bikes through some of the looser sand. Every child we pass smiles, laughs and screams, "Toubab, Cadeaux!". It's charming at first, though we learned early on that Toubab essentially means white man. Many of them even give chase, completely surrounding us if we dare to slow or dismount. The luster wears off a bit when Xander and I learn that the latter word means gift. So essentially, kids are running up to us, yanking on our arms like slot machines, and hoping to win a prize. Still, they are cute, and I suppose their method beats hearing "Hey cracker, where's my present?" There us a large debate amongst seasoned travellers about gift-giving in third-world countries. While some think in best to give what they can - be it pens, candy, or money - we have seen first hand how it can lead to an absurd level of expectation amongst the natives. It is astonishing that even the youngest of children utter the phrase as clear as a church bell; as if the whole country had completed a mandatory course titled White Man Gift Giving 101.



In the interestingly named town of Toubab Dialo we stay at a hotel directly on the beach for six dollars a night; in reality, a dilapidated house that has recently started to solicit guests. The owners are really trying to fix the place up though and they are incredibly gracious hosts. The second floor sports a terrace with an unobstructed view of the ocean, from which we enjoy several meals. It is here that we are indoctrinated in the age-old traditions of Senegalese tea and food. For meals, a mat is unfurled on the floor and a single, large bowl of food is placed in the middle. We all kneel in a circle around the dish, and using our right hands - for the left is traditionally used for, shall we say, unspeakable things - tear pieces of meat, smash up vegetables, and ball up portions of rice. This is exceedingly difficult for me, since I am a natural born Lefty and prone to spillage regardless of silverware, but I somehow make it work. I can't even begin to fathom how they eat soup. Maybe everyone gets a really long straw, though Matzah balls might present an insurmountable challenge. After the meals we are served tea. The tea set is brought out: an old, beat up kettle; a small, rusty, charcoal stove; the tea itself; and two glass cups a few licks bigger than a shotglass, resting comfortably on a silver platter. Every family in Senegal seems to own the same set, undoubtedly bought at the local Foam Bed, Bucket Bath, and Beyond. Drinking the requisite three cups of Senegalese tea is a leisurely affair, requiring a minimum of two hours and a maximum of about two and a half weeks. Each successive glass is sweeter in taste. We have heard several reasons but the one I like best is this: the first is for Death, the second for Life, and the third is for Love; love being a fair bit sweeter than death. After brewing for a lordly length of time - no tea bags here - the tea is poured into one of the two glasses and the pageantry begins. With incredible skill and dexterity the brewer begins to rapidly pour the bitter liquid from one cup to another, back and forth, again and again, each time from a greater height, so as to create a frothy residue in each cup. When satisfied with his work, the tea is equally split between the two cups and served. The more skillful the tea maker, the greater the height between the two cups and the frothier the head; circumstances permitting, a man might scale the tallest of palm trees to artificially increase the height of his pour, though he runs the risk of being accused of doping - not to mention falling headlong from the top of a forty-foot palm. After each glass, you wait an indeterminate amount of time for the next to arrive. In fact, we have yet to actually see the third glass materialize. We know it exists, it having been described to us on numerous occasions, but despite having been invited for tea a multitude of times, we never seem to get that final glass. Xander and I have sat for hours on end, patiently waiting for its arrival, wondering if we had offended our hosts in some way. To this day, the mystery of the third cup remains unsolved.



On the road to Palamarin we pass dozens of small villages, most full of lively children. Watching Senegalese children play is astonishing. Their games go something like this: up to a half-dozen children between the ages of two and eight, completely unsupervised, run around in the dirt - amidst garbage, broken glass, goats, chicken, and/or fecal waste - chasing each other with rusty pieces of metal, tackling one another, with great mirth, until, inevitably, a loud wail erupts as someone is fitfully wounded, at which point the anxious parents, obviously concerned about the well-begin of their progeny, continue brewing that stubborn third cup of tea. At one beach encampment we stayed at, a little girl ran around with a small lightbulb in her mouth like it was a lollipop while we conversed with her mother. Obviously bored with the taste, she took it from her mouth and smashed it under a rock. Concerned, I took the now jagged base from her hand and passed it to her mother, who, eyeing it curiously for a moment, threw it into the sand next to us and continued the conversation. This despite the fact that all present were barefoot. Amazed at her nonchalant attitude all I could think was this: we Americans truly are a bunch of pansies.

Dakar Noir

Dakar, Senegal. Our transport to Dakar, the capitol of Senegal, is a rickety old Minibus with a thick spiderweb of cracks in the windshield. Inside are three bench rows, each comfortably seating four people; which is strange, because I am certain that with a little Vaseline and a crowbar would could easily fit another fifteen. Many woman here are decked out in brilliant attire, intense primary colors that contrast wonderfully with their dark skin. The woman directly in front of me is wearing a brightly colored purple dress and a bouffant head wrap cut from the same cloth, making her look a bit like a birthday present. Though one should think twice about attempting to unwrap such a tempting gift; I would have a one in three chance of contracting any number of exotically indescribable venereal diseases, like SyphaHerpatitis Simplex B.


The Minibus drives deep into the Sahel, the semi-arid region characterized by frequent periods of drought. The grass is patchy, dry and yellow, the bushes and trees widely spaced, like a receding forest hairline. Random goats and herds of zebu graze lazily. I seem to have a penchant for sitting on the sunny side of the vehicle and I am baking in the heat. For some incomprehensible reason the windows are never open on these rides. It's 150 bijillion degrees out and the drivers seem either unwilling or unable to manipulate the muscles which control the arm, which, when sufficiently torqued, can crank in such a way as to roll down a window. Maybe they don't want the car to fill with the dust that kicks up on the sandy roads, but I would gladly inhale lung-fulls of dirty air, like a Hoover, for a chance at the faintest, cooling breeze. I settle for placing a jacket across the window, which partially obscures my view. Ancient baobab trees start to appear. Their thick trunks and stumpy, leafless branches look completely unnatural, like a tree planted upside down. We pass countless wrecks on the side of the road, the obvious victims of high velocity collisions. On several occasions we stop, and the vehicle is swarmed by woman selling nuts, fruit, fried dough balls, and small plastic baggies filled with chilled water. The water bags are the best - you either bite off a small piece of plastic from the corner, careful not to spill a precious drop, and sip the contents; or you hurl them at your friends, which is equally refreshing. If I were a budding African entrepreneur I would add a goldfish to the bag, providing not only a hydrating beverage but a nutritious snack. The drive continues. A little girl sitting nearby spends the entire trip just staring at me, her large brown eyes soaking in my countenance. As the middle child in my family I've been ignored most of my life, so it's interesting being the center of attention. Large buildings, completely incongruous in this rural landscape, this land of thatched hut villages, appear on the horizon.



Dakar is a big, burly, beast. Home to a motley crew of silver-tongued salesman, shrewd swindlers, and cantankerous con-men, it is a city where the people move as fast as the cars and you have to be careful to watch your back. It is bit scary, but still fun, like riding a New York City subway after midnight. After a bit of exploration we settle on a budget hotel just off the Place D'Independance, the city's main square, and a popular spot for getting fleeced. One of the interesting facts about budget accommodations in Dakar, even according to our guidebook, who, with the approval of their lawyers still recommends them, is that they all double as brothels. The sex trade is alive and kicking in this fair city, and it is not uncommon to see a tall, skinny, buxom local, perhaps with a little junk in the trunk, walking arm in arm with a pudgy, middle-aged, white man, who I have determined, using my own internal probability calculator, is probably not her Godfather. We explore the markets and shops, restaurants and bars, patisseries and Nescafe stands. Given the lack of sophisticated cuisine throughout most of the continent, we are surprised at the quality of the food. Dakar is home to both an amazing burger and the most amazing patisserie on planet earth. The burger, a thick juicy patty fried up on an oiled griddle, then placed inside a massive bun that is stuffed with french fries, slathered with mayo and ketchup, and topped with a fried egg, is heart-stoppingly good; so much so that the joint has a full-time doctor on call to help with frequent cardiac arrest. You'd think this bad for business, but when someone hits the ground like a sack of bricks, it frees up the table, which is good for the impatient line of customers waiting outside the door. The patisserie was equally impressive. Stacks of golden baked breads, trays of sweets, and row upon row of the most decadent looking pastries I have ever laid eyes on: chocolate enrobed ganache, decorated in gold leaf; custard filled tarts piled high with glistening fruit; fanciful layer cakes, full of caramel, nuts, creams, and sponge. I was skeptical at first. Those who frequent such institutions know that there is an invariably an inverse relationship between the visual presentation of a showy dessert and its taste, a dissemblingly regal cloak that hides nothing other than peasant bread. This place blew that theory out of the water. I try four distinctly different desserts, each is orgasmic taste and quality.



Just a few doors down from us we have a couple of drinks at the Imperial Bar, a surprisingly classy place. It takes us a few drinks to realize that the bevvy of beautiful women who are draped across the bar aren't there for the beer. From time to time a foreigner leaves the premises with one of these chocolate courtesans and hops in a taxi, presumably heading to my very hotel room, which is currently available since I am busy having a drink at the bar. That night I double-check my sheets to make sure they are clean, which, thankfully, they are. It isn't until the next day that she catches my eye. She is beautiful and sexy, a fiendishly clever seductress. She calls to me and I obey, her wish my desire. I am a weak man, truly I am. Perhaps one of stronger fortitude or sounder mind could resist, but not I. Some might find it morally reprehensible to spend money on such a thing, but then again, some find it repugnant to take a shower without a bathing suit. God have mercy on my soul, I paid the dough and took her for the ride of my life. Xander, obviously jealous, laid out some of his own money so he could join in the fun. We had bought our bicycles. Our new path: Senegal; The Gambia; Casamance; Guinea-Bissau; Guinea; over 700km South. The real adventure has only just begun.

Bleating Heart Liberal

St. Louis, Senegal. At the mouth of the Senegal river lies the remains of a once glorious colonial city. Lorded over by the French, who laid claim to much of West Africa in the late 1800s, St. Louis was once the capitol of the imperial colony. It has a rich and illustrious past - meaning that the French subjugated the locals, destroyed their culture, and established a trade in slaves and gum. Fortunately it's difficult to chew gum and trade slaves at the same time, and the empire eventually collapsed. France tried its damnedest to hold on, granting the natives citizenship and a tempting array of stinky cheeses, but to no avail; the French reign over West Africa was broken. Prior to the fall the capitol shifted to Dakar, several hundred kilometers to the south, and the once great city has since fallen into disrepair. Time has not has not been kind to this aging debutante with its decrepit colonial architecture, a mere shadow of its former self.


Still, it has it's charm. The locals are some of the mostly genuinely friendly people I have had the pleasure to meet, proving once and for all that not everyone who speaks French is an asshole. And forget Milan, forget Stockholm, forget Paris; St. Louis has the most stunning women I have ever laid eyes on. Tall and curvaceous, with flawless onyx skin, they walk through the streets like runway models. Toubabs like myself, distracted by the show, frequently walk directly into telephone poles and other decidedly stationary objects. What can I say, love hurts. Finally, with some dumb luck, our arrival in St. Louis coincided with the start of a thrilling festival known as Tabaski.



We had been seeing them all week, the rams and the goats. They were tied up on roof racks, shuttled in trunks, motored on laps. In fact, our ride to St. Louis transported several live rams. All were stuffed into potato sacks, in a kneeling position, with only their heads exposed; two were strapped under the cargo net on the roof with the luggage and the third was literally dangled from the side of the car with a rope. Call me a bleeding-heart liberal, but I'm not sure this a particularly humane practice - a goat would provide little personal protection in the event of a side impact crash. If they really cared about their passengers they could at least install something safer, like a passenger-side rhinoceros or something. The rams were all blissfully unaware of their date with destiny; their fate, the Festival of Tabaski. Biblical in origin, this festival celebrates the gesture of Abraham, to whom God had ordered to sacrifice his son. In the olden days God did this sort of thing all the time, it being better than watching reruns of Survivor- Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham, knowing that his son was doomed to a life of a boredom and inequity anyways, immediately takes God up on the offer - which totally ruins the joke. So God has to put on the brakes and provide a ram to sacrifice instead. In effect, thousands of rams and goats are slaughtered every January 11th to commemorate the Almighty's surprisingly underdeveloped sense of humor.



The air-raid siren sounded at exactly 10am. The long, wailing cry a harbinger of doom. The posse walked rapidly through the streets,butcher knives in hand. Blood dripped from their palms, stained their clothes, splashed on the ground. It pooled on the pavement, forming crimson lakes, congealing in the sun. The smell of death hung thickly in the air. They were an tirelessly efficient death squad. One man dropped the victim to the ground, a second pinned his legs, while a third twisted his neck viciously and went to work with the knife. It took about ten seconds for the dull blade to cut through the thick, rubbery windpipe. A horrible gurgling noise emitted from his throat as he bucked and kicked under the weight of his assailants. The posse moved on to its next victim, each helplessly tied up to a post outside each and every door. The Silence of the Rams had begun.



The people were exuberant. The goats were skinned, gutted, and dismembered with extraordinary skill. It was a lot like dismantling an engine, though I would think twice before trying to put a dismembered goat back together. Walking through the streets, past open doors, one could spy the most gruesome of scenes. Organs spilled on the ground, carcasses hung from hooks, pelts littered the pavement. It was worse than a Republican fundraising event. Truly, it was fascinating. Many people invited us to join in this joyous event and we took them up on it. We got to watch the whole thing. No part goes to waste. If anyone wanted to know, it takes about 45 minutes to remove the skin off the head of a goat with a razor blade. It took a bit longer to split the skull with the dull axe they used. We all sat in a large circle on the floor, where large trays full of smoking, hot ram meat were served to us. We gorged ourselves silly on the freshest meat one could possibly have. Whole Foods ain't got nothing on this. Bon Tabaski.

The Derka Derka Sand Witches

Nouackchott, Mauritania. For the life of me I can't image why, in the sun drenched desert, where temperatures routinely hit quadrouple digits, the local populace insists on burying themselves beneath several layers of clothing. Long pants, long shirts, a turban, and a billowing robe are draped across the runway models of Mauritania. Given the intense heat, it is a tad perplexing. The best I can figure is that the blistering sun has reduced their brains to tapioca. Come mid-day, when the sun hits its peak, I've debated peeling off my skin as if it were just another shirt. I think the robes might be religious in nature, but Hell, choose another religion - something more appropriate for the climate, like the Church of Club Med, where you are encouraged to wear shorts and they serve pina colodas during Communion.


Mauritania was actually a bit of wash for us. You see, one of the problems with this official Islamic Republic, besides the sandy tasting food and the I Heart Osama t-shirts, is that they are officially required to hate us. At our first stop in country, at the port city of Nouadibou, a Senegalese man pointedly warned us not to discuss our nationality. They hate us, he said emphatically. Americans had always been tolerated out here but a mistakenly released copy of Team America, World Police may have pushed them over the edge. We definitely took his advice to heart. It was kind of nice being Canadian for a change. I miss my dog-sled and my hockey sticks but at least I have good health converage.



Nouadibou itself held little interest, with the exception of the one place we could find alcohol - a Chinese restaurant, run by Portugese speaking Koreans, who were watching a subtitled, English-language version of Garfield, The Movie. After that scary scene we decided to get out of Dodge. The longest train in the world, a mind-boggling 2.7km of locomotive, slowly works its way east from Nouadibou, deep into the Sahara, termintating at a iron-ore mine some 500km away. Hundreds of open top cars transport iron from the mine to the port, save two, which are reserved for the 600 passengers that fight for a small spot on the open floor. You are allowed to ride in the cargo cars for free. For eighteen hours you can inhale a steady stream of iron-flaked dust, which later allows you to cough up all manner of useful hardware. Need a screw? Haaaacckkk!!!. Still, this may be preferable to the crowded passenger cab, spending the better part of a day with your face jammed into someone's armpit at an awkward angle. We waited at the train station - a small, covered, concrete slab at the edge of the desert - for hours on end. This was what they call Africa Time, a zone where the concept of time doesn't really exist. The train comes when the train comes, or it doesn't come at all.



Now I want to remind those of you reading this - especially my mother - that I am alive and well, safe and sound, and have obviously survived the foolish incident which I will now relate. It can be mind-numbing, these hours in the dry desert heat; the brain stews, crucial details evaporate. I'll admit I didn't walk far, and I mostly stuck to some rocks that were protruding from the sand, but I kinda, maybe, sorta took a few hundred steps through the unmarked mine field that is directly west of the train tracks. If it makes anyone feel better, the view was incredible. But as it turned out, they may have been the least of our problems. Due to a long story I haven't the time to tell, we ended up skipping on the train, and essentially skipping the rest of Mauritania. We headed to the capitol of Nouackchott the next day, then south through the desert, to the border with Senegal. The ride was beautiful, we stopped frequently to help out broken down cars and to face Mecca and pray. The sun was setting, a new day would soon come.

A Crew of Jew

The Road To Mauritania. Some people like to wake up and attack the day; my decidedly more languid approach involves feebly poking at it with a stick. My stomach has been feeling kind of queasy of late; a not uncommon condition for me, due to what one might describe as an intolerant, or rather, racist stomach. The digestables we commonly refer to as food or "essential nutrients" just don't particularly agree with me. Whole grains herald an uncomfortable distension, legumes presage the most unpleasant of pains, and a sampling of dairy tends to induce small villages to flee in terror. In short, I often don't feel particularly well. This worried me a bit as we were about to board our transport, a bathroomless bus that would take us on our 27 hour journey to Dahkla, the final port city in Morocco.


The road to Mauritania is a long and difficult one. Over 500 kilometers of desert stretches south across the Western Sahara to the Mauritanian border. It is barren, cracked, and dry; a sandy skin that no industrial strength moisturizing cream can cure. Since the ride was so long, and the bathroom so nonexistent, I feared a repeat of an earlier disaster. This time I vowed to drink as little water as possible, to slowly dehydrate, to make myself into the equivalent of human beef jerky. This is not the best of ideas. As we headed south, the greenery of Morocco slowly started to disappear. The desert here is not the sandy dune seas of, well, Dune, but rather, the limitless expanse of scrub-brush flatland in Tremors. Both movies have monster worms which erupt from the ground and devour people like pork rinds, but I am sorry to report that I didn't see any. Still, the desert is mysterious. South of Agadir we drove past groves of small, leafy, trees no more than twice the height of a man. There, amongst the shimmering leaves, alighting atop the narrow branches, precariously balanced, like some exotic fruit, stood, unbelievably, incomprehensibly, a dozen or so live goats. We passed many of these trees, so heavily laden with goats as to make one wonder if the trees hadn't popped straight out from the ground fully formed, instantly lifting surprised herds into the sky. Tis true. To you wretched rogues and doubting dullards who question the validity of such an audacious claim, who believe my tales to be embellished or exaggerated, I say get bent, the Magical Goat Trees of Morocco exist. Though one has to wonder what happens come Fall, when, presumably, the fully ripened goats fall from their perch onto the hard desert floor. There are very few hospitals in this part of the world and I suspect they have precious little time for twisted horns and sprained udders.



As it turned out, the bus ride was easy. We glided along the coast with reclining seats and plenty of leg room, we made frequent stops for food, and I had managed to dehydrate myself to the point of delirium. Before we knew it we were in Dahkla. On the edge of nowhere, between the endless desert and the expansive sea, this large port town was incredibly quiet. The roads were lifeless, the buildings weather-beaten, and it had an eerily abandoned feel. We ambled about, this way and that, until we accidentally - and I stress the accidentally part - wandered onto a military air field. I took us a while to figure out why the men near the small wooden shack in the distance were avidly waving their arms and blowing on a loud whistle. Unfortunately we had walked quite a ways since stepping over the knee-high pile of rocks that apparently constituted their "security perimeter". We had already turned around, but we were still fifty yards from the barrier when the uniformed soldiers in the six-wheel convoy truck came roaring down the street at us. Somehow we managed to cross back over just before they intercepted us. God knows what would have happened if we were still inside but - since there was a bit of a language barrier - the soldier in charge pantomimed getting gunned down with the type of two-handed, mounted machine gun that Arnold Schwarzenegger will likely to use on his constituency we he loses the next election.



That evening, an even more unlikely event transpired - we met three young, pot-smoking, American Jews. Well, one was British, but that makes my preceding triplicate sentence structure more complicated. These young men lived together in a kibbutz in Israel and were also travelling through Mauritania. We decided the cheapest way to go was together so we could split the fair. We arranged for a ride - which is story enough for another whole tale - and in the morning got transported a short distance to a security checkpoint. There were an incredible amount of security stops on this trip, so much so that I debated stapling my Passport directly to my forehead. At the security checkpoint we transferred to another vehicle - a large dilapidated van. Our valiant steed was a sight: rust throughout; the side windows gone, covered in plywood; the interior inlaid with the same thin, oft splintered wood, behind which lay a perplexing layer of Styrofoam; a heavy sliding door which would tend to unlatch itself in the middle of the bumpy ride. If this wasn't enough, the spacious rear - on the floor of which we were seated - was stuffed with jugs, heavy sacks, boxes, and other transportables that forced the five of us towards the front, against a two-by-two hole in the plywood that allowed us to peer into the cab. None of this mattered however, since the car was jacked up, the front passenger-side tire no where to be found. We waited an eternity to a spare to arrive, along with five others, which were loaded in the back, one per passenger, like some sort of desert life-preserver. I can honestly say I think I now have a good idea of what it's like to be smuggled from Mexico, sans the delicious supply of tortilla chips. The ride was tough: it was cramped, dark, and dusty; it took incredibly long, with frequent police checks for illegal sand transport; and we were literally the last car to cross the Moroccan border, the police closing it immediately behind us. It was a great adventure.

Happy New Beard!

Essaouira, Morocco. Unlike the States - where the ringing in of the new year tends to involve a raucous party mixing equal parts alcohol and vomitus - New Year's is not a particularly important holiday in Morocco. In the quite seaside village of Essaouria, one could easily miss it. It is a beautiful town and my favorite so far. Surrounded by towering ramparts which abut a dramatic coastline, the medina is clean and spacious. The western shore is sandless; a heavily pitted, volcanic bedrock. Large, craggy specimens errupt straight from the sea, where waves explode upon their impenatrable bulk, sending geysers of foam and spray into the air. The eastern shore is no less dramatic, but in an entirely different manner. An endless beach arcs from the southern edge of the peninsula all the way around to the mainland, silky sand replacing hard earth. The sand was incredibly fine, like walking on flour. I was surprised when the cake I decided to make from it was gritty. In the distance sit several islands on which one can spy ancient ruins. Surfers, windboarders, and kayakers ply the deep blue water. Like I said, the place is a real shit-hole. At the southern edge sits the fishing fleet, where the fresh catch is brought in daily and displayed proudly on the docks; by which I mean the fish were laying either directly on the floor or in a rusty wheelbarrel. Still, the selection was good: stingrays, shark, squid, shrimp, and a variety of other seafood that starts with the letter S.


Every day we trolled the market looking for something new and interesting to eat. On New Year's Eve, we found a wonderful treat - a gargantuan, live spider crab. This collasal crustacean had a carapice that was roughly the size of my face and weighed in at approximately five pounds. When we first spotted him he was busy taking off the arm of a dockworker. After a bit of haggling, in which we successfully argued that something so ugly shouldn't cost much, we managed to secure the operating rights for only 40dh - in more colloquial terms, the price of a Big Mac Meal Deal. One of the most enjoyable aspects of Essaouira is that you can not only get fresh seafood straight from the dock, but they will cook it for you as well. Inside the medina is a central fish market with a small grilling station in the back. Bring over anything you can find and they will gut it, scale it, broil, bake, or fry it for a couple of bucks. Such was the fate of our newfound travelling companion, who, although not much of a conversationalist, was definitely somewhat of a chick-magnet. We sat patiently while he boiled, munching on some bread, till he emerged from his lethal stew, aromatically steaming. Part of our fee goes towards the presentable plating of our meal, so the cook set about carefully dismantling him. The shell of this mammoth crab, both spiny and sharp, presented a problem for the cook, who could not seem to break it by hand. Far be it from me to criticize the use of certain cooking utensils - for I am neither baker nor chef - but I was a bit surprised when he pulled a large, greasy crescent wrench from under the counter and began to bash upon the crab with such force that bits of shell and flesh flew across the room with each swing. Sundered and undone, the crab was delivered on several plates. It was the best piece of shellfish I had ever had the pleasure to dine on, and a fitting meal with which to end the year.



Over the past few weeks, as we explored various cities, we have often heard a tout cry out to us, "Ali Baba!". This would be often be accompanied by a stroke of the chin and a nod at my heavily bearded face. On rare occaisions someone would pass by and exclaim: "Bin Laden!". Though it's true that Bin Laden is actually a distant cousin of mine - thrice removed on my father's side - I hardly think I look like him. Besides, I liked my beard, and after a few months of untamed growth several species of birds had taken up permanent residence. Still, maybe it was time for a trim - though I was going to miss having fresh eggs for breakfast. I picked a salon that looked suitablely clean and sat down. The barber was friendly and spoke a bit of English, which was nice. I carefully explained that I just wanted a quick trim. "No problem", came the heavily accented reply. On the counter was a tape deck, which he popped open. Three cockroaches quickly scuttled out of the tape slot and vanished beneath the counter. The barber laughed heartily. "They live there", he said as he popped some Bob Marley into the deck. God knows how many critters got ground up in the spindles when he hit the play button. He plugged in his electric razor, snapped on the plastic attachment, and took a quick pass across my face. Along the razor's path my beard had been brought low, like a thresher through a field of wheat. Where once stood a proud four inches now meekly lay no more than half an inch. "Is good, yes?" queried the barber, pausing to point to the cut he had made. I nodded yes, for it was too late to go back. Satisfied with the shearing, the barber set his sights on the rest of my head. My hair, also uncut for several months, now looked ridiculously long. I decided to allow him to trim that as well. As he started on my head, a man brought in two cups of tea. It is incredibly difficult to drink a cup of hot tea while in the midst of a haircut; you need to avoid getting sliced when you tilt your head to drink and you are constantly moving your hand around to avoid having hair fall into your cup. With a bit of luck I managed to avoid both. When he finished I looked in the mirror and saw a shorn sheep, naked and cold.



With a signficantly lighter head we headed to the Ville Nouvelle (new town) to check out a mythical story we had heard whispered about - the town had a liquor store. As I've mentioned in the past, this is a very dry country; mostly due to a strong Islamic presence which forbids the imbibing of alcohol. However, one might have noticed - perhaps from the name of the Web site - that I am Jewish, a religion that actually enourages us to get drunk. It being New Years, it seemed a good idea to get as drunk as humanly possible and generally reinforce every negative stereotype people have about us. As it turned out, the store was real, though their stock was limited to a few simple items: wine, beer, gin, and vodka. I'm not sure exactly what one can concoct with such liquors, but it would no doubt go well with a bowl of salted peanuts.



As the New Year approached we ran to the top of the ramparts, where powerful canons once used to defend this strategic port now rust, forever pointing to sea. With us was a Indian couple, and a Moroccan man we had met. We drank vodka and wine; we sang songs in Hindi, Arabic, and English; we clapped our hands to the beat; we toasted the new year and everyone in it; we stared at the sea and the stars; we got horribly drunk and urinated off the edge of the ramparts; we stumbled home without injury. New year, new look, why not?