Dial M for Malaria

Bakau, The Gambia. It's early, and the sun has just barely begun to creep through the blinds. I can feel the strange burning sensation behind my eyes before I even open them. Oh no, I know this feeling. I stumble to the bathroom to take care of the morning's business before rummaging through my first-aid kit. There is a lot in here: pills, potions, unguents, salves, creams, ointments, bandages, slings, solutions, needles, syringes, and various other instruments used to poke, prod, and otherwise violate yourself back to health. It takes a minute to find what I am looking for. Lying back in bed I pop the digital thermometer into my mouth. I don't even need to look. BEEP! 1020F


Being sick in Africa is a bit like being in an elevator that's plummeting from a great height - things happen really quickly, it's incredibly scary, and without a fair bit of luck most of your organs will probably end up liquefied. African diseases are unfathomably frightening. Reading about them before the trip one almost begins to regret being literate. They are often described like so:

Meningococcal Leptoschistopoliomyelitis
Signs and symptoms are initially nonspecific (fever, skin lesions, rash, edema, or lymphadenopathy) or entirely absent; however, the infection may progress unnoticed until suddenly, one day, while taking a pee, your penis suddenly slides off into the toilet.

Obviously this is a bit disconcerting. For one thing there aren't many toilets in Africa, so your penis might fall into a bunch of poison ivy. Now you have two major problems. What is even scarier about some of these diseases is the banality of some of the initial symptoms when weighed against their eventual outcomes. This is a verbatim passage from Lonely Planet:

Trypanosomiasis (Sleeping Sickness)
Found in most of West, Central, Eastern, and Southern Africa. Spread via the bite of the tsetse fly. It causes muscle soreness, headache, mild fever, and eventual coma.

Self-treatment: none.

An eventual coma is the end result of a headache and mild fever?! It's enough to make even the staunchest critic of hypochondria sit up and take notice. Unfortunately, due to the paucity of health care in most of Africa one of the first things you tend to do is flip through your guidebook and self-diagnose. So it was that I found myself laid up in bed thumbing through a gruesome collection of horrific ailments. My symptoms were definitely vague. Fever aside the only other indication of illness was muscle soreness. However, that could easily be explained by the fact that I had spent the previous day furiously dismembering a coconut. I carefully weighed my options. As luck would have it we were in the one of the most developed regions in all of West Africa, the Gambian coast. The beaches here are spectacular and dozens of resorts have sprung up to gorge on a steady diet of bloated European tourists. I'm not one to criticize, though. Without resorts where would we keep our luggage when we were scuba diving? The influx of euros has allowed the area to develop a bit but it's still in puberty. Amongst the handful of towns around the coast one can find basic hotels, simple restaurants, and several Internet cafes. From time to time there is even electricity to power them. More importantly, there was a British-run medical clinic a few minutes from where we were staying. I checked my temperature again. BEEP! 1030F

I hailed a taxi over to the massive gated campus, where the guards promptly stopped me from entering. It was early Saturday morning and the clinic is closed on weekends, no matter how many severed limbs you are toting around in that garbage bag. I was instructed to come back at 6am on Monday morning if I was still breathing. Wonderful. I headed back to the hotel to write my will. Thumbing through my guidebook again, I found some information on a nearby testing lab. They only tested for malaria but it was a start. I decided to check my temperature again before heading out. BEEP! 1040F

The test came back negative. I can't say it was much of a relief. With malaria at least I knew what I was dealing with. Now I worried that I might have one of those diseases where you die while still trying to figure out how to pronounce it. A touch dejected, I headed back to the hotel room. Xander left to try and find a phone so he could inquire about other health centers. He returned a short while later with directions to a clinic in the nearby town of Serekunda and notice that it would close in thirty minutes for the rest of the weekend. We got there as quick as we could. This was definitely a local's clinic. Dozens of weary looking women toting ailing infants packed the halls, while busy nurses scuttled about and directed traffic. Before long I was sitting in a room with a stern looking man in a white coat and explaining my symptoms. There was no examination. "You have malaria", the man said definitively. I protested, explaining how my tests had come back negative. "You have malaria," he repeated, "they get those tests wrong all the time." He began to rattle off instructions. I had done a lot of research on malaria before my trip, so I was well aware of the various treatment options. At first he prescribed Chloroquine, a treatment that is considered ineffective due to malarial resistance in the region. When I mentioned that I was taking the anti-malarial Malarone he changed his mind and suggested that I take the treatment dose of it instead. After all, I already had the drug on me. I wasn't positive but I was fairly certain that you were never supposed to take the same drug you had used for prophylaxis as a treatment for the disease. This made me extremely skeptical. I had a sneaking suspicion that if I mentioned I also had a bottle of Ibuprofen and several cans of sardines that he would have incorporated this information into his prescription. "Stuff five Advil tablets into the belly of an oil-soaked sardine and swallow whole. Repeat until malaria subsides or you run out of fish." I asked him a few more questions but I wasn't particularly satisfied with his responses. He handed me his card when I walked out the door. In the taxi back to the hotel I took a closer look at it: Dr. Momodou Samateh, Assistant Gynecologist.



Back at the hotel I decided to take the emergency standby treatment of Doxycycline and Quinine, as prescribed by the CDC. I still had no idea whether or not I had malaria but I felt I had little choice. With the British Medical Clinic (BMC) closed until Monday morning and no other clinics around, I had to take matter in to my own hands. My fever was still spiked at a 1040F. Wrapping myself in a wet bed sheet, I turned on the fan, lay back in bed, and tried to sleep. Monday couldn't come quick enough.



By Monday morning my fever had declined to a much more palatable 1010F but I had developed a sore and swollen throat. White pus had appeared along my tonsils. I got up early and headed over to the BMC where the guard proffered a gate pass and asked me to follow him. I was led in the dark down a dimly lit path. The campus was obviously huge, though I couldn't see the breadth of it at that moment. He led me to the triage area, an open-air concrete platform with a corrugated steel roof, and directed me to sit on one of the long wooden benches. Despite the early hour there were already dozens of patients waiting to be seen. We bunched up shoulder to shoulder as the benches rapidly filled up. If I wasn't sick before I was certain I was going to be now. Many of the people seemed horrifically ill. It was an incredibly sobering experience. Horrible coughs, wheezes, and cries abounded. I saw a child with a dreadfully scabbed, pus-filled face dangling limply from her mother's arms, low groans escaping her lips. Another woman was collapsed in a ball on the floor. The man next to me had a rattling cough that shook his whole body and seemed destined to tear him apart. A triage nurse slowly worked his way along the benches, sending people off for tests or treatments. After an hour I was approached and asked to describe my symptoms. I told him my whole story: the fever, my throat, the malaria test, the doctor in Serekunda, and my decision to take the standby treatment. He shook his head disappointing and said, "If you hadn't taken the Doxy I would send you for a blood smear but now we won't know if you have malaria." Taking Doxy obscures the signature that identifies the presence of the bacteria. Wonderful. I was told a second opinion was needed and to wait by a door at the end of the platform.



After another hour I was sent in to see a doctor. She was patient, thorough, and seemed extremely knowledgeable. Blood work was ordered - a prick on the finger and a smear on a slide. After another hour I was brought back to the doctor. No malaria was present but a bacterial infection of unknown origin was found. She prescribed a ten-day regiment of Amoxicillin, Parcetemol, and vitamin C tablets. Total cost for triage, blood work, diagnosis, and prescription drugs: $6. Not dying of a tropical African disease: priceless.

The Curious Incident of the Coconuts

Bakau, The Gambia. The palm swayed majestically in the breeze, as they do in these types of stories. Atop the ribbed branchless trunk sat an explosion of brilliant green fronds, like a tropical party favor. Dangling in bunches amidst the fronds were the fibrous husks that safeguarded our objective--the hard-shelled coconut seeds. As I squinted up through the sunlight it became obvious to me that coconut is not a food we were ever meant to partake. One needs to scale a tree with no footholds, wrestle the armored fruit from its thick stem, breach the impenetrable husk, then split the indestructible seed, all without spilling the precious liquid within. When picking out a coconut at the supermarket we surely don't appreciate the endeavor. While heavy industry has undoubtedly developed an army of insect robots to scale the trees and deliver the payload, sonic guns to blast the husk cleanly from the shell, pneumatic drills that double as drinking straws to carefully extract the milk, and acid baths that instantly dissolve the casing but leave the flesh perfectly intact, out here it's still done by hand. Without the benefit of those newfangled technologies it would be easier learning calculus blindfolded than trying to pluck a coconut from its perch. It is a Sisyphean effort fraught with immense physical risk, and it's meager reward - some edible white flesh surrounding a sweet milky core - is hardly worth the calorie expenditure it takes to achieve. This is exactly why we decided to try it ourselves.


The palm trees in the courtyard of our meager hotel seemed like a great place to start. Securing permission was the first order of business, a request that was granted with a laugh and, presumably, the setting up of hidden cameras. A quick search through our packs for potentially useful gear found us with two locking cam straps, a length of accessory cord, a Leatherman, and an irrational amount of optimism. And why shouldn't we have been optimistic? Gathering coconuts is de rigueur out here. Little kids routinely scale these trees while wielding machetes in their teeth. True, odds were good that I would slip and inadvertently perform a tonsillectomy on myself, but I had medical coverage. While considering this, two thoughts occurred to me: (1) I probably forgot to get the optional machete proviso on my insurance; and (2) we didn't have a machete. While I was busy working out the details in my head Xander had decided to take action. He slung the cam strap around the base of the tree and secured it around his back, intending to "walk" up the tree by using his body as a counterweight against the loop. Every couple of steps he would briefly unweight himself in order to raise the strap a few inches. Though slow and exhausting he could scale the entire height of the tree, then casually lean back in his rudimentary seat in order to cut down the coconuts. Simple as that.



He didn't fall until he got about five feet off the ground--a worthy, if painful attempt. Xander tittered in his usual way and decided never to try that again, at least when there was no prize money involved. Spying an angular fist-sized rock on the ground a new idea took form. If I tied the accessory cord securely around the rock we could hurl it like a bola, either knocking off a coconut with a direct strike or looping it over the stem and yanking hard to pull it down. This was an excellent idea, despite the fact the scene played out thusly:

Xander: "You want first throw"?

Me: "Nah, go ahead. Aim for that lower bunch."

Xander: (hurls rock)

Thwack! (rock hits hard frond stem)

Xander: "Uh-oh"

Whish! (rock ricochets towards our heads)

Me: "Look out!"

Thunk! (rock hits ground inches from our feet)

Rock: Damn, I missed them.

This scene was repeated until we both felt satisfied that we had seriously strained our arms and that the rock had evil intentions. This was tough work.
Xander finally landed a throw over one of the stems. Now we only needed to tug on the cord and the coconut would come tumbling down. No such luck. We pulled, heaved, and verbally protested but the coconut refused to separate from the stem. As we yanked, the cord dug deep into our hands, leaving deep stinging grooves in the flesh. We needed more leverage. Grabbing a nearby shovel, I wrapped the cord around the wooden handle. This was sure to work. With a solid grip we could apply a greater amount of pressure and not risk severing our hands, which we decided we wanted to keep for sentimental reasons. I gave a mighty heave but the accessory cord merely stretched. It forced me to wrap up the excess, like pulling in a kite. After a few more pulls I gave up and passed it over to Xander. We had stretched the cord to its limit. Xander leaned hard, putting all of his weight into it. I shuffled back, fully expecting the coconut to rocket off the tree at us, a fruity but potentially fatal projectile.
Except nothing happened. The coconuts remained steadfast, mocking our every move. One of the hotel employees, witness to this ludicrous scene, emerged from his hidden observation post and interrupted our effort. After babbling something in an incomprehensible French he disappeared around a corner but materialized with our salvation. We sheepishly accepted the ladder. Within moments we had ourselves a couple of coconuts, but our ordeal was far from over. Getting the coconuts from the tree is only half of the challenge. Now, without the benefit of explosives or detonators of any kind, we needed to split them open. I wanted to fully appreciate the experience, so I decided to use simply rocks and my hands to pry mine open. I can now confidently attest that if I were left in the wild with but my wits and a lone coconut tree, I would most assuredly die. Actually, I did manage to get it open. In the end, my hands cut and raw, my body sore and beaten, it only took about 72 minutes. That was just to take off the husk. Thoroughly worked, I allowed Xander to puncture the shell with his Leatherman so I could sup the sweet nectar. Despite how these stories normally end, it was definitely not the best coconut I ever had. Next time I'm going to spare myself the effort and just buy one from a smiling, machete-wielding kid.

Too Iffy By Sea - Part III

Toubakouta, Senegal. I still wasn't 100% convinced that the man in the room next to us was indeed the nefarious captain of our ill-conceived voyage, despite the Kiss Me, I'm a Pirate t-shirt and his strange prediliction for appraising planks of all sizes. It was exceedingly dark on that moonless eve and it is somewhat difficult to make out the features of a man who is already the color of night. There were many boats around the island and presumably an equal number of men to captain them. Surely there was a chance, even a good one, that this was a different man. As capable and responsible adults, Xander and I had wisely decided to ignore the captain's name during the initial leg of our trip. Lamin. Nope, didn't ring any bells. Certainly my mind was playing tricks on me, what with [the mind blowing fun] of our earlier delta crossing. I began to relax. Even if it was the same chap we felt confident as long as it was a legitimate ferry service with other other passengers and would sail in the false confidence of daylight. The sun may afford no actual protection - what with its skin scorching, wrinkle inducing, cancer causing ultraviolet radiation - but it least you can see the oar the moment before it strikes you in the head.


It was dark and we were getting hungry. Xander bravely volunteered to stay in the room while I went out looking for food. The village was full of life. People milled about the candle-lit shops trading gossip, purchasing goods, or just relaxing after a busy day. I was completely at ease. Folks were unfailing friendly, never passing up an opportunity to giggle or stare unblinkingly at the Toubob in their midst. I was pleasantly surprised when several people spoke to me in rudimentary English. Each time I made sure to ask about the existance of a ferry service and twice had it confirmed, albeit without any specifics as to days, times, or potential captains. Still, this buoyed my spirit immeasurably as I headed back, my pockets filled with the night's nutritional catch: a piece of bread, some homemade peanut brittle, and a small package of creme biscuits. I was strolling along when a voice called out to me. "Hey friend! Hey friend!" I heard in accented English. Strange, my only friend in all of Africa was at that very moment valoriously squashing a large spider with the heel of his sandal back in the room. I paused, looking for the source of the voice. A man excitedly beckoned me over to his shop, which emphatically declared itself a photo studio in colorful paint above the door, but in reality contained no photo equipment whatsoever. The man had an open, honest face and seemed genuinely affable. He introduced himself. "I'm Oman. Don't you recognize your good friend?" he said, as he nudged the man next to him wearing the Michael Jackson t-shirt. It was dark, but the man's face was unmistakably stern, his large glassy eyes drawn inward. In his hand were a pair of large scissors which he methodically opened and closed, a [clinically sane] barber with no customer. There was a decidedly [friendly] air about him. "This is Lamin, your friend, the captain who bring you to the island." Ding. The transport captain and the purported ferry captain were one and the same. This was [excellent] news. I once again I hadn't recognize him, though he had changed his clothes since I left the compound. Upon hearing his name Lamin broke from his reverie, cracked a huge smile and pumped my hand excitedly, then reverted to a stone-faced golem. Oman chimed back in. "Lamin does not know English. He says you want to take a boat to Toubakouta?" I admitted that we were planning to take the ferry but I was vague on the details. Oman shifted uncertainly on his feet. "Yes, you see, the ferry is not to be running tomorrow. No ferry." I thought I smelled something a little fishy here; then I noticed the pile of dead fish on the counter. Oman continued "You can hire a private pirogue with your friend Lamin. He can take you." I'm a bit skeptical, a feeling buoyed by the fact that I'm standing in a photo studio with no cameras and a pile of stinky fish on the counter. Despite my protestation Oman insists on meeting Xander and I in our room in the next half hour in order to discuss the particulars. As I turned to go Oman tapped my shoulder. "What do you think of Senegal?" he asked with an expectant manner. I tell him that I love it. The people. The scenery. Did I mention the peaceful, goodhearted locals? An odd look enters his face, collapsing the geniality for a moment. "Senegal is very tough. Very rough," He squinted his eyes and pointed a fierce finger directly at his temple, an air of [minty freshness] in his breath. "You have to be very clever....yes, very clever for Senegal."



At that, I took my cue and cleverly left, explained the proceeding to Xander when I returned. Sure enough our two suitors soon arrived. Introductions were made. Lamin, still wielding the scissors, leaned himself across the open doorway as Oman attempted to ascertain our departure plans. Having both practiced for years on a succession of increasingly contemptuous girlfriends, Xander and I immediately adopted an attitude of indifferent non-commital. "You want to leave tomorrow, yes?" inquired Oman. "No ferry tomorrow, but..." I cut him off with a terse but gentle retort. "That's okay, we can wait another day. We are in no rush." Lamin, obviously depressed about missing his calling as a sculptor, began to petulantly carve into the concrete doorframe with the point of the scissors. A [heart warming] expression filled his face as the scrapings bounced and rattled on the floor. It was a very [reassuring] gesture. Ignoring my interruption, Oman continued to explain how we could take a private pirogue - captained by Lamin and crewed by himself - out to Toubakouta. This was an [exceptionally romantic] notion, the four of us drifting [peacefully] through the [densely populated and fastidiously policed] delta. Now came the crux. "You give us money for fehl". We must have given him a quizzical look. "Fehl, Fehl." he repeated, "For the boat." I finally got it. Fuel. He explained that they needed money for fuel, tonight, so they could prepare the boat for an early departure. With a genial grace and an exceedingly wide smile I duplicitously expressed our desire to stay a little longer. But I assured Oman that we would come to his photo studio to discuss it again tomorrow. Satisfied, the men took their leave.



At this point we didn't know what to believe, though [we trusted all of the townfolk implicity]. Was there a ferry or wasn't there? Was Lamin the only captain in town? Could the whole town be involved in some sort of tourist trap? And what the hell is this rash that's spreading across my leg? All good questions, all unanswerable. As we laid down to sleep we [confidently and optimistically] discussed our options: we could phone a hotel in Toubakouta and see if they would be willing to send a boat, though we weren't certain the island had phones; we could hike out and brave a low-tide delta crossing, but we were uncertain of the route; or we could learn to walk on water like Jesus, but that involved admitting we had prayed to the wrong deity our whole lives. We decided on covert action. We would set our alarms for the crack of dawn and just before the sun cracked the horizon, Xander would serruptitiously slip out and head to the docks to try to find a local fisherman who might be persuaded to take us. Xander was the natural choice, since his French was much better than mine and I would probably end up mistakenly say something like, "Well month today! Would you were like to fry my socks for me?". If we were lucky we would find someone. Our plan set, we settled down and began to drift slowly into sleep before being startled back to life. In the distance, the chilling roar of a jaguar sliced neatly through the air.



Things happened quick. Morning came. Xander snuck out while I patiently waited in the room eyeing the clock until he returned. He walked back in, an exasperated look in his eyes. Oman was at his tail. He bumped into him near the docks. Xander was just taking a walk. We weren't leaving today. We would visit him later. Oman left. A minor success. Xander explains that he talked with several elderly fisherman and found someone willing to take us, or at least someone willing to fry up some socks for breakfast. One hitch. The men who agreed didn't own the boat. They still needed to get the captain. Impossible. It couldn't be Lamin again. No way. We both headed over to the dock to meet the captain, who turned out to be an elderly gentlement with a crooked grin. It seemed legit. We weren't free yet. We quickly headed back to the compound and packed up our stuff. Strangely, improbably, luckily, no one was around. No Lamin, no uncle, no spying children. We hurriedly walked our bikes along a back road, far from the main drag, eager to avoid Oman's shop and prying eyes. We wait on the shore while the boat is prepped, eager to shove off. We hopped in. Everything is going smoothly. The boat pulls away. We are free. The ride to Toubakouta takes two hours. We nearly kiss the captain when we disembark. He smiles his crooked grin, laughs, and shakes what seems a knowing head. I get the impression this isn't the first time he has helped someone. We hoped on our bikes and sped away from the past.

Too Iffy By Sea - Part II

Betante, Senegal. As an art form, the episodic serial cliffhanger must be given its fair share of respect. Its brilliant use of pacing and peril is a masterstroke of psychological manipulation that would make a Freudian shrink run straight to his mother. It's simple: take a questionable plot; ratchet up the tension; at the last moment place the hero in mortal peril (dangling precariously over a bubbling vat of melted chocolate while the nefarious villain sarcastically quips, "I like my chocolate full bodied. HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!", as he crushes the hero's fingers beneath his boots, sending him to a rich, chocolaty doom); cut film. By this point the audience is hooked. No force on earth could stop them from tuning in next week, except their wives, who would much rather see the laundry done, you selfish-good-for-nothing-bum, my-mother-was-right. So when I endeavored to create my own cliffhanger episode last week it was just an elaborate way of pointing out that you really should make sure to marry a woman who delights at the mention of Adam West, or is, at the least, really hot. Without further ado, I bring you Part Deux of this most lamentable tale.


Still a bit [euphoric] from our [incredible experience] on the boat we were [delightedly] led to the gated compound of the captain's [certainly-not-involved] Uncle. There, we found comfort in the presence of a half dozen children. No matter what the situation it seems nothing bad can happen when there are children around, assuming they are potty trained and don't ask you where babies come from. Weary from our adventure, we were forced to wait patiently in the dark while a light bulb was found for our room. It was obvious that no one had stayed there in a while. Drab, dilapidated, and dimly lit, the room was dominated by a large foam bed set in a warped wooden frame - leaving little room in which to maneuver. A single paneless window, set in the concrete wall opposite the door, was shielded by a series of hinged metal slats; they shrieked when I yanked them into the open, horizontal position. In one corner was a scattering of goat droppings, which perfectly rounded out the scene. Exhausted, we laid down for a [relaxed and peaceful] nights sleep.



In the morning we were expected to rejoin the [happy-go-lucky] crew and complete the journey to Banjul, but when the knock came on our door we deferred, hoping to make an alternative arrangement. We knew it probably wouldn't be that simple...and we were right. We laid in our room until a full two hours after the boat was supposed to have left. It was 10am when we poked our head out the door, confident that we could proceed unimpeded. The captain's Uncle, our host, was sitting languidly on a chair in the courtyard outside our room. Since we had the [utmost trust] in him we thought it prudent to [maintain an open and honest dialog] and queried about other transportation off the island. Anywhere on the mainland, we said, preferably right away. "No est faisable jusqu'a demain. Il est tard." said the Uncle. This is not possible until tomorrow. It is too late. This seemed hard to believe at 10am but we took him for his word, and left the compound to ask anyone else we could find. Trailing us out the door were two of the children who, despite our repeated entreaties to go away, followed us everywhere that we went; though I hesitate to say that they were spying on us. So Xander and I, along with the spying children, walked around town to get our bearings. Betante' was spectacularly beautiful. The small village, obviously constructed with care, was set amidst coconut-laden palms and leafy green trees. Thatched roof huts lined narrow sandy streets and the main drag had just enough small shops selling bread, nescafe, and sardines to keep us alive. The locals were exceedingly gregarious; it was obvious from their greetings that they have very few tourist here. "Bonjour Toubab! Tres peu de touriste ici!" Hey White Man! Very few tourists here!. We wandered over to the docks and were astonished to find that the ocean had mysteriously vanished, siphoned away in the early morning hours by Poseidon's will; or maybe the "gravitational pull" of the moon, if you believe that sort of mystical mumbo-jumbo. As far as the eye could see was a thick morass of impenetrable mud. We soon learned that the tide in the delta recedes extremely early in the morning and doesn't return until around sunset, confirming the Uncle's earlier comments. No longer keen on taking boat rides in the dark (except Disneyworld's Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Yaaarrr!!!) we had no choice but to wait until morning. We talked with a few more locals but received scant information about other ways off the island. There are rumours of a local ferry, but our poor French combined with actual lack of local knowledge made it impossible to confirm. The transport vessel - the same one we arrived in - returned every three days but [our love was so intense] for the crew were [afraid our heart's would burst with joy] if we had to face them again.



It was time to entertain other, more drastic, options. We realized that it might be possible to hike off the island, despite both knowing the definition of the word island. After carefully examining our map we noticed that we were close to the mainland, separated by what looked to be a small river. We hypothesized that we might be able to slog through the muck when the tide was out. An exploratory survey was in order, so we trundled off into the brush with our shadows (who had somehow multiplied from two to four) at our sides. The town was located near the southwest edge of the island and we needed to traverse what we believed to be the 7km width. The children - around seven to ten years of age, all male - were intent on holding our hands as walked along. It was a bit like being a camp counselor, albeit a camp where the children have a better chance of surviving a walk in the brush than their pale leaders. Unfortunately, the copse was too thick to hack through without a machete so we had to stick to the paths we found. Despite the heat of the day the children, undoubtedly hungry and definitely dehydrated, refused to turn around without us. After two hours out we decided we had to head back. We had hit numerous dead-ends but kept the plan alive as a backup. [We declared our exploration an unmitigated success!]



Back in town we ran into an English-speaking local who brightened our spirits. He told confirmed the story of a local ferry that could shuttle us to a nearby mainland town. In fact, he even knew the captain, and would be delighted to introduce us. We chatted for a while, explaining where we were staying. He was very familiar with the place, he said, and his sister worked for the Uncle. Happy to have found someone to talk to we walked back to the compound, a spring in our step. The ferry captain was on a run so we waited patiently for his return. "Ah, here he is," said our new friend as the captain walked into the courtyard. "This is Lamin. He is the captain of the boat". We all shook hands. Then man looked somewhat familiar to me, but for the time being I bit my tongue. Our new friend chatted with the captain in Wolof for a few minutes before the captain entered in the room next to ours. Our new friend explained the price, when the boat would go, etc. Xander and I were very relieved. After figuring it all out Xander went to lay down and I continued talking with our new friend. When we were alone, he leaned towards me, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, "[Don't worry about a thing. The captain is the best and the crew is top notch. They are professional and sincere.] I just wanted to let you know". The good feelings I had a few minutes earlier were replaced [by an even better feeling]. It had been dark last night, so I wasn't certain, by now I was sure: the man in the room next to us was none other than the transport captain who had led us here.

STAY TUNED for the amazing conclusion in Part III, [My Love For Africa]

Too Iffy By Sea

Some tales are better left untold. The subject matter (as it is called) is sometimes just a little too intense for both younger and older readership alike. The former, due to the fragile nature of the nascent sponge they call a brain, and the latter due to their unfortunate habit of...well, dying when encountering undue shock. You see, I hate to scare my mother, unless it involves rubber spiders or the news that I've married a Wolof medicine woman. Speaking of which, we have registered at the local covered market for those that would like to buy us a much needed dugout canoe or some spare thatch for our porous roof. Nuptials aside I would like inform the readers that certain unpleasant aspects of this particular tale will be censored for the sake of sanity. Perhaps some day there will be an unabridged novel, and bearded fathers will read my exploits aloud while their children huddle silently in front of roaring fireplaces, cups of hot cocoa in hand, eager expressions on their doe-eyed faces. Very Norman Rockwell. In order to maintain a proper cadence I have taken the liberty of creating a literary device, wherein I replace all harrowing and/or life-threatening segments with bracketed pleasantries that are sure not to upset anyone. So starts an [excellent] adventure.


At the northern end of the Sine-Saloum Delta - a lush tidal region boasting verdant mangroves, still lagoons and uninhabited islands - lies a finger peninsula stretching out into stunning blue waters. To the west lies the Atlantic Ocean and a really long swim back to New York, and to the east lies the beginning of a labyrinthine network of waterways that make up the delta. In the middle of this narrow stretch of sand lies the small fishing village of Djieffer and the end of the coastal road. The ocean has been rapidly reclaiming the land in recent years and what little remains can be traversed in a matter minutes. A strong-armed NFL quarterback could undoubtedly throw a ball from one end to the other, though he would probably wonder exactly what penalty he had drawn that landed him in sub-Saharan Africa. We had two options at this point: either backtracking up the peninsula and spending three days tracing around the arc of the delta on our bikes or cutting off the length of the delta by hopping a ride in a boat, getting to the same point in just a few hours. A possible third option involved building a lightweight glider out of palm leaves glued together with snot, powered by a distilled coconut milk bio-fuel, but we as it turns out we knew less about aeronautics than we did about drinking gin and reminiscing about Gilligan's Island. After spending a few nights in the village sobering up we chose the boat. The hand-build and elaborately painted boats known as pirogues are the lifeblood of all of Senegal's coastal villages and utilized in a number of ways: fishing skiff, transport vessel, cargo ship, and finally, underwater observatory, when they inevitably sink. That isn't to say that they aren't well constructed...but truth be told, without so much as a passing thought, I've created bowel movements that have better buoyancy. They have figured a way around the leakage issue though - no matter how small the boat and how short the ride at least one member of the crew is fully dedicated to bailing out water from the seeping hull. So, despite my staunch (though under-utilized) heterosexuality I try my best to pick a boat where the Bailer has a chiseled Fabio-esque upper body.

Since there is no such thing as public transport we arranged passage on a large cargo pirogue, reasoning that the locals would use the most reliable transport for hauling the necessities of life across the islands. If you want to get somewhere you just haggle with a local with a boat and hope you end up on dry land at your intended destination, or at least somewhere with the same time zone. Our chosen vessel, brokered with the help of some English-speaking Gambians, was being used to transport tremendous amounts of fuel: dozens of industrial size jugs filled with petrol and an equal number of metal propane tanks. So it was that we found ourselves the only passengers amidst the seven-man crew. Our intended destination: Banjul, capitol of the Gambia. Our route: south across the yawing mouth of the delta with an overnight stop on one of the innumerable islands. The boat was supposed to leave at 2pm, giving us plenty of time to outrace the sun on our purported two hour ride. At 4pm the boat was still being loaded. Ditto 4:30 when a light breeze began to push at my carefully sculpted coiffure. When we finally pushed off at 5pm the sun had prepared for landing, placing itself in the full upright and locked position, and the wind had started to dance. As we crossed the spot where the ocean meets the delta the waters had begun to churn. A swell - that nautical misnomer that is more closely associated with the words nausea and capsize than feeling wonderful - threatened to spill us into the pulsing waters. We stayed upright but our once-smooth surface was now a dolloped meringue of whitecaps. Four to six foot waves were streaming into us near broadside, robbing our small motor of power as we crested and sank into the troughs. The captain impressed me with his skillful ability to navigate a cigarette into his mouth and light it without blowing up our fuel-laden skiff. As the sun dipped halfway below the horizon the piercing light gave way to soothing shades of red and the winds mercifully died out.

Before long it was dark. The moonless sky was clear, the stars twinkling fiercely in the inky blackness. The boat had no lights, which was great for star gazing but not so great for, say, not running into another boat. Xander glanced over the side and noticed flashes of phosphorescence emitting from our wake. It was somewhat magical, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't [happy as a clam] that we had no lights and no landmass to navigate by. I put my faith in the crew, who I was certain were licensed and bonded by the state. To my relief a light appeared on the horizon and we made a beeline for it. Still far from land the boat began to slow. A [friendly looking crewman] approached us and in a [cheerful] tone [pleasantly asked us for a hug]. We didn't have any [love in our hearts] so we had to turn him down. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as a [heretofore unknown happiness] filled my entire body and a [benignly comforting] feeling settled in my stomach. [This was truly bliss], I thought as the crewmen laughed at our [emotional depth]. Again the crewman [smiled and pleaded for the hug] but we carefully explained that we didn't speak French and couldn't understand what he was after. After a few [peaceful] moments the boat continued on its way. We came to shore on the small island of Betante' where we were escorted [with great enthusiasm] to our prearranged accommodation: the personal compound of the captain's uncle. It was here, on this small unknown island, that spent our first of several [blissful nights]...
Stay tuned next week for the exciting finale: Part II - [The Best Time of My Life]

On The Rode Again

Joal-Fadiouth, Senegal. In a bus or taxi you have an incredibly narrow view of the world. Your have no choice but to swallow the scenery in rough, unchewed chunks as it whips by your window. People, villages, markets, goats, trees, and trees with goats in them all vanish in the blink of an eye. On a bike it is different. You can slowly inhale your surroundings, breathing in each face, every bird, and each blade of grass; though you should be paying attention to the road, so you frequently roll into the grass and crash into birds and people's faces. Pulling feathers out of your drive chain is tedious at best. The most rewarding part of biking is just the ability to divert to something of more immediate interest. As someone who grew up watching the epileptic fits we call Saturday-morning cartoons this is incredibly appealing to me. If ever something catches my eye I can slow, turn, pause, or stop for as long as I like; so long as it doesn't exceed my thirty second attention span.


Along a barren stretch of land on the way to Djiefer we spied a feathery pile of incredible interest: a horde of vultures devouring a lifeless donkey. Having never seen this in New York we pedaled our bikes off the road onto the cracked, dried, mud, dismounted, and slowly approached. There were several dozen of the frightful fowl, some perched in a nearby baobab tree, several on a hillock above the kill, and the rest jockeying for position on the carcass itself. It was truly fascinating. Large, dominant males would puff themselves up, spread their wings, and run down the hillock into the scrum, gaining a bit of loft at the last second in order to plunge their talons into a rival with a better position at the table. I mentally noted to emulate this behavior the next time I fought for crab legs at a Chinese buffet. On occasion, a large bird would hop atop the beast and spread his wings with a menacing hiss, slowly rotating as if to say, I am the Donkey King. My first decree is to...ow! Get off of me you greedy pack of vultures!, as another dove at him to take his place. They strutted and squawked, digging sharp beaks into holes in the flesh, tearing out rich bits of fat and muscle, their evil faces and beady eyes not once betraying their innate cowardice. Despite our relatively soft bodies and complete lack of defense Xander and I easily startled them when we advanced to take a few pictures. Let no man say that I am afraid to slowly walk into a pack of cowardly vultures. My courage, like my waistline, knows no bounds.



That same day we rested our laurels in the dual township of Joal-Fadiouth, a seaside villa with a small island tethered to it by an interminably long footbridge. We were required to dismount from our bikes as no vehicles of any sort are allowed on the island. This lends an air of quite solitude to Fadiouth, which is set firmly in a tidal marsh amidst lush, green mangroves. It is quite peaceful and has the added curiosity of being composed of millions of seashells. The "streets" are merely piles of shells, the homes are decorated with shells, the local art is made of shells. It's all rather fun, though the seashell cuisine is a little tough on the teeth. We decided to stay the night. That evening we were lucky to catch a live wrestling match, considered Senegal's national pastime. The Senegalese eschew the spandex-clad pomposity that characterizes Minnesota's gubernatorial farm team in favor of more traditional sport - that of wrenching the piss out of one another. We walked back to the mainland, bought our tickets, and passed through the large steel gate. A throng of ticket less voyeurs crammed the entryway and scaled the walls in order to catch a peak of the action.



Towering piles of black muscle, clad in nothing but hand wrapped loincloths, prepared themselves for battle. The sounds of thumping tribal drums filled the air with an excitable energy, the type that makes you want to dismember people with your bare hands. I think it was a Metallica riff. Children would dash out from the sidelines in a wild dance, limbs flailing like a marionette, then abashedly rush back to their seats. We had a great seat right up against the cargo net that separated us from the sand covered playing field, which was roughly the size and shape of a hockey rink. There were no scoreboards or announcers, no foul lines or playing rings, and no apparent rules - which is exactly why men love it. Several matches take place simultaneously so you have to stay alert if you don't want to miss a beat.



Directly in front of us a wrestler prepared for a match. First he lifted a large jug of water and poured it over his smooth, shaved head, then rubbed it across his chest, arms, and thighs. This seemed perfectly logical. Proper cleanliness is crucial when you are about to grapple with another man. Glistening in the moonlit sky he next tossed sand across his body, presumably to prevent his opponent from getting a firm grip. Covered in sand, dripping with water, he was a truly fearsome sight - a tribal warrior set to kill, maim, and destroy anyone foolish enough to enter the ring, or steal his beer. He turned, put his ankles together, and hopped forward three times like a bunny rabbit towards his opponent. The two men squared off and bent at the waist, with one arm dangling loosely and one other planted firmly in the sand. They crouched low and slowly circled one another. The BunnyMan grabbed handfuls of sand and tossed them tentatively at his foe but he didn't flinch. His opponent reached out a large palm and lightly clapped it over the BunnyMan's head, as if anointing him, before letting it gently slide off. It is all very ape-like, but mercifully light on feces throwing.



Suddenly there was a flurry of movement. The opponent leapt forward like a coiled spring, hoisted the BunnyMan above his shoulders, then planted him face-first in the dirt like a begonia. The BunnyMan slowly got up, dejected, his face painted in a Phantom of the Opera mask of sand from his head first landing. Other men grappled and tossed each other around the arena. It was sort of like a bar fight but with a lot more chickens running around. The crowd was surprisingly quiet the whole time so we assumed these random matches were only a prelude to the main event. We listened expectantly when an announcer began to orate over a microphone, trying our best to decipher the African dialect. I quickly realized that I would have better luck figuring learning how to lactate. Suddenly the meager lights died out and the drums stopped. Everyone got up at once and within three minutes the entire arena had emptied out. We sat there, dumbfounded, in the dark, with only the trill of the crickets to keep us company. To this day I have no idea what the announcer said, but I figure it was either "Free seashell soup on the island for the next fifteen minutes" or "The rabid vultures will be released momentarily, I hope you enjoyed the show". We most certainly did.
A Special Note: I am alive and well. Sorry for the lack of posts but Africa has an unsurprising dearth of Internet connections. I have settled in Guinea for a while and will do my best to catch up on these posts. To all those who sent notes of concern, or laments about my untimely death death, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. To the rest of you guttural plebeians, those either cheered or unconcerned with my sudden disappearance, I'll have you know I have updated my Will accordingly.

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?

Snow Way, Dude!

Marrakesh, Morocco. Travel writers tend to exaggerate a bit. Flowery language is used to create a picture perfect world; one of far off realms, exotic locales, and endless beauty. They do this because they have to sell their literature in order to make a living, and strangely, romantic notions tend to sell better than ferocious diatribes. Nobody buys the travel book titled The Drunken Hellholes of Mexico. Sadly, hyperbole can become a necessary evil for these dreamy travelers. If they can't manage to sell their poetic pontifications they would just become a bunch of hopelessly unemployable hippies with no travelling money. Unfortunately, this desire to succeed makes for an extraordinary conflict of interest. Case in point, though little is written about it, prior to his career in politics Dick Cheney honed his particular brand of malevolent duplicity whilst writing cheery passages about the Middle East for Fodors. It's a shame really. A typical blurb about Morocco, from Lonely Planet, might read as follows:


If Fes is Morocco's spiritual capital, then Marrakesh is it's beating heart. Follow its twisting arteries to its pulsing energy source - the Place Djemaa el-Fna - a huge square in the medina where jugglers and storytellers jostle for position with snake charmers, magicians, and acrobats. Only in Marrakesh does this medieval pageantry survive.

Now I'm in no position to argue with Lonely Planet, they probably have lawyers. Let's just say that I strongly disagree with their word choice. For example, where they say storytellers, I might choose to precede that word with Arabic; and where they use the term medieval pageantry, I might use the phrase filthy pack of travel writing lies. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy Marrakesh, I most assuredly did. It's just that it really wasn't what I was expecting.

Arriving late, with our stomachs empty, Xander and I were hungry for food and excitement. Putting our trust in the infinite knowledge of our guidebook, we headed to the Place Djemaa el-Fna, in the center of the medina. The immense square was packed tight, everyone having obviously followed their own guidebooks. I'll be the first to admit that there was definitely energy in the air. As we entered the fray a traditionally dressed musician danced around us, his castanet-style palm cymbals clashing rhythmically. As he spun, a frilly tassel at the peak of his skull cap twirled skillfully around his head. It was exciting...and it lasted for about three seconds. He stopped, held out his hat, and aggressively pleaded for a tip before hastily moving on to the next set of tourists. We moved on to the celebrated snake charmers, a sight I was definitely excited to see. Now I don't know much about zoology, so perhaps it was merely the chill night air that had created the stupor in these venomous reptiles - or maybe they were dead. Three of these harmless critters lay on a carpet, limp and lifeless, the purported snake charmer playing neither fiddle nor flute. I think he was busy clipping his toenails. Upon our advance, one was quickly scooped up and placed over Xander's neck. They it lay, developing rigor mortis. "Take picture...take picture", crowed the handler, then proffered his hand for the fee of this charming service.



We hoped the food stalls would take our mind off this shameless hucksterism. Exotic smells filled the air, my nose blindly leading my body, as Jewish noses tend to do. There were over a hundred food stalls and visions of succulent meats braised, baked, or fried made my mouth water. The first stall was encouraging: piles of kabobs, fish and squid, salads and olives. We fended off the hoard of hawks who tried to get us to sit and moved on to the next stand. Hmmm....piles of kabobs, fish and squid, salads and olives. I looked further down the row but it was like looking in a fun house mirror, the same scene repeating into the distance. Everyone was selling the exact same thing, we had unwittingly entered some sort of culinary Twilight Zone. Even the prices were the same - too little for too much. In the end we found about a half-dozen unique stalls amongst this throng. Some were decidedly interesting, like the place where you could eat a lamb's face. I respect anyone who can look their food directly in the eye before peeling off the skin, removing the jaw, then happily munching on the cheeks. Personally I'm not much of a face eater, so I set my sights on the other end of the beast. As I gaze absently at a woman who is sucking on the marrow of a skull, I can't help but wonder if she feels the same touch of revulsion when she sees an American chomp down on a rump roast.



As for the title of this Tale, I once again have skirted the entire point. Having tired of this medieval farce, we decided to take a day trip to the Ourika Valley. Deep in the mountains of Morocco, about a two hour ride from Marrakesh, is a town called Oukaimeden; home to the most unlikely sight in all of Africa - a ski resort. After a confusing day of travel, involving, amongst other things, a clown-car taxi ride of eight people, and a late arrival, we found our hidden gem closed. The snow cover was light, as would be expected in Africa, if at all, so, downtrodden, we hiked as high as we could before giving up. As we hiked back down, the ski lift started to move. We could ride it up to the top, they said, sans skis, to see the view. So up we went. The snow cover was thicker at the top of the mountain and there stood a man renting skis. We strapped them on, of loose fit, and ancient age, and took one steep run about 200 yards down an untouched bowl, carving fresh tracks in immaculate powder. I can now say that I have skied in Africa. We were the Lord's of Creation -- that is, until we realized we had to hike back up to give back our skis.

Here's Looking At You, Yid

Casablanca, Morocco. The elevator slows, comes to a stop, and the doors slide open. Our escort leads us down a long, poorly lit corridor. It is painted a dull, drab, beige and is completely silent, empty. The only sound is our feet as we walk, each step echoing lightly. We pass no one in the dusky hall, but this is not particularly surprising given the late hour. Our escort leads us around a corner and through a large door. The room is cavernous, bare, the walls completely unadorned. Not all of the bulbs are lit and much of the room is dim. Long windows grace the outermost wall, but they are tinted, and nothing but a few pale points of light filter through. A few old computers sit atop basic desks, though no one is at the keyboards. There is too much space and not enough to fill it. It feels abandoned, cold, lifeless. There are two men at the far end of the room, tapping away at one of the computers and talking in Arabic. Our escort leads us over and we are told to sit in a set of folding chairs behind them. A rapid exchange takes place between the three, then the escort leaves. As he walks away my eyes follow his weapon, a snub-nosed, semi-automatic machine gun. As the two officers swivel in their chairs to face us, I have to wonder: How in the world have we wound up here, on the fourth floor of the massive Casablanca police headquarters in the middle of the night?


Let me explain. A few days ago we were killing time in Rabat. We were supposed to be in Casablanca getting visas for Mauritania, but it was Friday and the embassy was closed for the weekend. Figuring it was better to explore than continue to sit in one place - unlike that month I spent at home playing video games until my eyes started to bleed - we set our sights on the capitol, though we heard it was a rather characterless place. Rabat was not nearly as dull as I had presumed. In fact, it has both the frenetic energy and motion of a motor rally. The motorized carriages that Moroccans have dubbed CARS (Camels Are Really Slow) race through the street at break neck speed - as do motorcycles, mopeds, bicycles, and thousands of pedestrians. Truly the most fun you can have in Rabat is dodging traffic. Even the most major of intersections have no crosswalks, nor crossing lights of any kind. To make matters worse, the traffic lights themselves are no where to be seen. For the life of us we could not figure out how traffic knew to stop; perhaps a sudden realization that even the most standard of vehicles come with brakes plays a roll. Regardless, the best way we found to cross a busy intersection was by carefully listening to the sounds of the road. If you hear a loud thumping noise, for example, you know that your body was just hit by a car. This means that you shouldn't have tried to cross at that particular moment. Wait a few minutes, and if you can drag your battered body back to the sidewalk, try again. Unfortunately this method gets progressively more difficult. Better to watch what the locals do, I suppose. The pedestrians of Rabat have developed a fiendishly clever way of counteracting this particular menace. It is quite amazing, really. First, people slowly begin to mass at a point on the sidewalk. Like a malignant tumor they grow, rapidly expanding, until - with no audible or visible communication whatsoever - they all step into oncoming traffic at once. The traffic has no choice but to stop or plow into everyone, risking not only extensive damage to their car but a significant increase in their monthly insurance payment. It is a sight to see.
On Sunday night we headed to Casablanca. The name itself evokes strong images of romance and intrigue. In my opinion nothing could be further from the truth; unless you find Hilton hotels intriguing or skyscrapers get your pulse pounding. Still, we had a great time. Casablanca has one thing that all the other cities in Morocco lack - namely, bars. The Islamic religion prohibits the imbibing of devilish liquors like BudLight and Zima, so heretical pubs are few and far between. These have been tough times for us. Those who know my travelling buddy Xander are aware that without a constant supply of liquor he slowly devolves into a thoughtful, well-spoken, intellectual. It's quite scary, really, but we seemed to have dodged that particular bullet.
Early Monday morning we dropped off our passports at the embassy, hoping to have them back by mid afternoon, as our guidebook said. Unfortunately the bureaucrats at the embassy had a better idea - not giving them back until 10am the next morning. Though we were a little disappointed to have to stay another night, we certainly made the most of it. As we hopped from bar to bar we met some fascinating locals. At one joint we met a drunk-as-a-skunk magistrate. Speaking slowly, with a thick Moroccan accent, his words slightly slurred, he gave us a surprisingly cogent civics lesson. He asked what we had done to defend our civil liberties since the institution of the Patriot Act. I could only shrug, surprised that a Moroccan judge could be so passionate about the outcome of a New England football game. This seemed to upset him. With each word getting louder he said "You...are all...contr'lled...by...da MED-IAH". Unfortunately I wasn't paying much attention, an old Pepsi ad was replaying in my head. He repeated it again, this time much louder, a few people turning their heads. I felt...well, I felt like Chicken Tonight, Chicken Tonight! Hmmm, maybe he had a point. I agreed with him, suggesting that I felt the same way about my government and national media that he did. The judge bellowed: "No d'ffrence...between you and govn'ment. No d'ffrence! I can NOT SEPARATE THE TWO". We calmly assured him we did not agree with the current political regime. Once again he barked: "No d'ffrence!". He rotated his chair to face me and - much to my surprise - palmed the front of my skull with one large hand. Spit flew from his mouth as he roared in my face, "YOU BRAIN....IS...WAR!!"
I'm sure you've guessed by now how we ended up at the police station. If you haven't figured it out yet it's because we had left our passports at the Mauritanian Embassy and all hotels require a passport to check in. We had photocopies but these weren't sufficient. When we came back to our hotel in the evening they forced us to get the copies verified by the authorities - which we promptly did, though it was quite late. You didn't actually think I was stupid enough to get into a fistfight with a local judge, did you?

Take You Wonder By Wonder

Fes, Morocco. It is dark and cold. Two thick opaque blankets cover my head, blocking out all light, sheltering me from the world. The chill air has penetrated my weak defense, seeped deep into my flesh, sent slivers of ice through my bones. The call of the Muezzen has roused me from my frigid slumber, a shrill cry eminating from the top of the minaret; first one, then another, and another. The sounds joined one another, jostled with one another, a rising crescendo, a blaring cacaphony of prayer. Dogs started to howl in solidarity, a barking benediction, or perhaps they just have no way of covering their ears as I had now done. It was pitch black under my woolen shroud, permanent night, and I had no concept of time. I let out a soft groan and pushed the button that lights up my digital watch. The luminous, blue indiglo blinded me and I cringed, trying to focus my eyes. It was 4:48am. Holy mother, mercy, of Christ, Yaweh, Zeus, or Allah. The Quran is very explicit in one regard: the Muezzen does not have a snooze button.


Now I'm not one to criticize another man's religion - unless they wear funny hats - but for a major religious movement, this pre-dawn zeal strikes me as preposterous. I'm not sure who or what god is, if he/she/it even exists, but what otherworldly being, what purportedly benevolent deity, would demand a call to prayer before the sun comes up? Hell, most people can't even put their underwear on straight until they've had a couple of cups of joe. That black, spiritless libation has surely roused more spirits than even the most purified sanctification. Nevertheless, every morning the call begins: "Aahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" and my feeble brain, crushed beneath twenty-eight years of constant media bombardment, finishes for him: "Yeeeaaaaahhhhhhh." In truth it continues in Arabic but I always get a kick out of the beginning. This occurs every morning without fail. Piety in today's world can be refreshing but it would be nice if they took a morning off sometimes. Maybe even just once a month--sleep in, have a late breakfast, maybe read the paper. Afterwards, by all means pray. I'm sure it would help retention rates. I can even imagine the billboard: Islam, Now With More Coffee!" Obviously I jest. The morning call, when not accompanied by the howling canines, is often beautiful. I have lain awake carefully listening to the melodic words, the almost hypnotic tone, appreciating the sanctity of the burgeoning day. Then I roll over and go back to bed.



The medina of Fes beholds a fascinating array of sights, sounds, and smells. Wandering the ancient, medieval streets, one has a sense of being transported back in time - to about 1983. Seriously. People are dressed in one of two ways here: either in traditional garb or in street gear from the 80s. Faded flourescent jackets, old addidas jumpsuits, and worn Nike sneakers pass by at random intervals. One vendor had a pile of mismatched snow gloves and I'm positive I spied a couple of sets of Freaky Freezies atop the mound. I'm not sure where it all comes from but the denizens of Fes have unwittingly attained the heights of retro fashion. We walked for days around the winding streets and endless markets. Clothing, jewelry, art, rugs, a variety of crafts, and an immeasurable array of junk. The junk is the best. Countless rugs are spread out in the street, the vendors selling the most incongruous of items side by side: two dozen watches, a pile of remote controls, some potatoes, a doll with a missing head, three tampons, and a large bolt cutter. Persumably this last item has been used innumerable times to collect the junk on display. It boggles the mind. Food vendors abound: piles of juicy, ripe tangerines; hillocks of potatoes and onions; mounds of artfully arrange dates, figs, and nuts; barrels of beans and pasta; towering pyramids of brilliantly colored spices. Meat vendors display the choicest of cuts and proudly present the pieces we throw out--heads, tails, toes, stomachs, brains, kidneys, livers, and testicles. The only thing that might go to waste is your appetite. I even saw an entire camel head hanging limply from a hook. My personal favorite has definitely been pigeon. Cooked into an unlikely dish containing layers of pastry dough, secret hobo spices, lemon, and topped with cinnamon and powdered sugar, it is amazingly good. If anyone happens to notice a dearth of pigeons trotting around Central Park in the coming months it probably means I'm back home in New York.



Fes is incredibly large and complicated. 9400 twisting streets and alleyways. 350 mosques. Dozen upon dozen of site of interest. Despite our aversion to touts we decided we might need a guide for this one. Couscous (as he called himself) seemed a genial sort. He seemed to know the city, spoke decent English, and had a good sense of humor. Though skeptical at first, he won us over, and we arranged to have him lead us around the next morning. We were mildly surprised when he showed up with a replacement, claiming to be too busy. We hemmed and hawed a bit but agreed to go with the new guy anyway. The price was still too good to beat. The new guy ran us around the back alleys, occaisionally showing us an ornate doorframe or some ancient buildings, claiming all the while we were seeing what very few tourists saw. Our tour was supposed to last approximately three hours. I wasn't the least bit surprised when after sixty minuted he wanted to show us something extra special. You guessed it--his cousin's carpet shop.