Kumba To Douala: Stressed Over ATMs

I got up at about 7:30 and headed out to find the SGBC or the Cameroonian branch of the Societe General. I asked the receptionist but she didn't know. I walked down the main drag and didn't see it. A moto-taxi guy asked me where I was going and I told him I was looking for the SGBC bank and he sent me down further. It wasn't there. No banks seemed to have an ATM. I walked back the the moto-taxi driver was still there. He asked if I found it and I said no. He told me to hop and he'd take me someone who would know. We went there and he gave some directions, but when we arrived, it was not the SGBC. He asked another guy and finally this guy said there is no SGBC in Kumba--only in Limbe. They seemed to never have heard of this huge French bank here and maybe this guy thought it was a Limbe bank and not one of the biggest banks in the world. I got off the bike, thanked them, and headed back to the hotel. Along the way I say the Mondiale Express bus station and I stopped in to get a ticket to Douala. CFA 2000 (US$4). I got a ticket and went back to get my luggage.

When I arrived at the bus station, the bus was being loaded. I got my stuff on and found a seat in the back. This is a 5-across bus. That means about 6 rows of people carrying 5 people per row. There was a lot of confusion but after a short prayer and sermon, we took off. The first fifteen minutes of the bus ride was dedicated to getting people change because there wasn't enough change when they bought the tickets. It seems like Kumba sized cities in Cameroon have a bit of liquidity crisis as well.

Then things got fun. The conductor, once he got the change handed out, started telling us he has products for sale and he would use the next two hours talking about his products. But to get us into the mood of listening to him, he hand a buch of candies (he called the bon-bons though he was speaking in English) and he would ask trivia questions. The first one to call out an answer would get a bon-bon. I resolved to get one but no more than one bon-bon. The first question: who is the President of America. Half the bus shouted Bush and half shouted Obama. I'm not sure which he regarded at the correct answer. Then it went into Cameroonian geography and politics so I had no chance. Then to history. I figured I'd count to 4 after each question and if nobody had an answer, I'd shout out my answer. What was the immediate cause of WWI? A kid shouted out "the assassination of Arch-duke Franz Ferdinand". He got a bon-bon. Where? Sarajevo. Bon-bons were flying all over. The crowd was having a rollicking good time. Who ended slavery? Apparently they think the answer is William Wilberforce who was certainly influential in British abolition, but cannot be said to have ended slavery. Next category--arithmetic. What is seven and a half divided by a half? I counted--4...3...2...1... and the shouted out fifteen. Yay! I got a bon-bon. I was happy and done. The next question got no bon-bon--what is the square root of 1? Nobody answered plus or minus one. So no bon-bons. A few simple arithmetic problems and then to biology. I had thought biology would be pretty easy too, but it was all scientific names of Cameroonian cash crops. In chemistry I was pretty impressed that someone knew the formula for hydrogen peroxide. After a few seconds I was about to shout out "H two O two" when a local beat me to it. A few other chemical formulae for Cameroonian exports. Then onto religion. I didn't stand a chance on this. The shortest verse in the Bible? Who knows? Jesus's last words on the cross? Who knows? Now into general knowledge. The first question was pretty interesting. What is the weight of a bag of cement? 50kg? No. Lots of guesses. I guessed his trick. He asked for weight which is force and they were giving mass. He wanted an answer in Newtons, not kilograms. Eventually he said no bon-bons and explained what he was after and I was right. But he used 10 m/s² instead of 9.81 m/s² to say 500N. Next question: name of the only persons to reject the law of gravity? This one had me stumped. Not the astronauts--they didn't reject or violate it. I came up with the answer just as he said it though--Jesus Christ. One man disputed that. He said it wasn't scientifically proven. The conductor said it was the General Knowledge category and not the Science category.

Finally, the bon-bons were gone. Then he whipped out some toothpaste and started talking about it. After that, some soap that causes you to lose weight, then some oil and some tea, and some crystals of something. The woman next to me was buying everything. This guy made a killing selling this overpriced Chinese stuff doing his home-shopping show.

A couple time he got interrupted by police check points. The guy next to me looked Tuareg or something. He showed his ID card to the first police and got hauled off the bus--not an easy feat when the corridor is filled with fold-down seats all filled. After several minutes he came back. The second checkpoint was worse for this guy and some of the other passengers. This time, the police took everyone who papers weren't in order and made them get their bags. The only exception was a mute woman who looked really panicked and could make sounds but couldn't talk. The officer threatened to arrest her because her papers were expired but she tried to explain in sign language and sounds her situation. The officer finally told her to get back on the bus, but they kept a few people back which meant we got finish up the journey in relative comfort.

At about 1:30pm we arrived in the Bonabéri motor park about 5km north of Douala. I hired a moto-taxi to take me to the Hotel Hila for CFA 1000 (US$2). It was along trip. When we arrived, the lobby was packed. Holy crap--I don't need this. But they had a room. Whew! I shelled out 3 of my last 4 CFA 500 notes and deposited my stuff. Then I hailed a moto-taxi for CFA 300 (US$0.60) to the SGBC in the main drag. We got there. I tried my ATM card. My heart was pounding. I was out of money and I don't even know if my parents are reachable. They'll be going to Egypt pretty soon and I don't know when. Already? If I need cash through Western Union, can I get it?

My card didn't work. Dammit! OK, all is not lost. Lonely Planet says SGBC is the most reliable but also mentions Ecobank which never works for me. But it was a block away. I entered my card. Made a selection. My heart was pounding. Then the sound. The beautiful magical sound of a machine counting money. I can breath again.

I had not only money, but source of money. Relieved, I headed another block to the Mediterranean Restaurant where I got 2 draft beers and a pizza. The best meal I've had in days and days. I got a copy of Newsweek and just relaxed. It was nice to relax. I really need some relaxation after the past few days.

Thursday, November 27, 17:30 Cameroon local time

Calabar, Nigeria To Ekok, Cameroon

Morning came and I hadn't packed. Fortunately, I never really unpacked, so recovery wasn't too hard. Besides, they turned on the generator at 6am. So I was out the door at about 6:20. At 6:30 I reached the motor park and headed to the taxis bound for Ikom. The previous taxi had just left. Dammit! I just missed it. Oh well. It was just a 6 seater and it was still early so it would probably fill up pretty fast and it did. A bunch of drivers were gathered around a man in a tie preaching. It was just Jesus this, Jesus that over and over and over. A little after 7am, we were on the road. This is supposed to be a 3 hours trip. I was in the back seat with three women. It was the first time with three women. It was hard because they all had big butts, so there wasn't much room in the seats. I had to sort of scooch forward. It was uncomfortable, but what else is new?

We stopped for gas when we were all fueled up, the driver began to pray. This was the first time in my entire time in Africa that a driver stopped the car to pray. I looked down while he prayed. He kept going on and on. Every time he ended with "In Jesus' name" and the other passengers said Amen, I thought it was over, but then he's start another prayer. He did this over and over and the whole thing took close to five minutes. I don't know if all drivers in Nigeria pray like this or if he is a preacher in training. Finally, we were on the road. But the preaching didn't stop. Oh no, he kept going while he was driving as if he was rehearsing for a part time preacher spot.

The road is not wide and the people on the road pass when they shouldn't. They are almost suicidal. They may pray to the heavens, but they drive suicidally. Jesus doesn't save passengers from bad judgement of the driver and I would rather have a cautious driver than a pious one. I had more close calls from vehicles passing vehicles on this trip than any other trip in West Africa. It was downright scary.

But we made it to Ikom whole. We parked in the motor park and on the way in, I saw the signs on the cars saying they went to the border. So I knew just where to go.

I guy saw me and I told him I was going to Cameroon. He probably guessed that since not many white people show in Ikom with another destination in mind, unless they are going the other way, of course. He tried to take one of my bags but even when I tried to explain to him that I would rather carry 2 heavy bags for balance than one heavy bag requiring my back to work, he didn't listen. He said he would take me to the border for N500 (US$4). OK. But he led me to a private car near the taxis to the border, but there were other taxis to the border. I figured I would be better off with a taxi that already had people lined up than one with nobody lined up, so I asked them. But they said it would be N1000. Nope, I'll stick with the N500 guy. I put my bags into his car. They asked if I needed CFA and I said I did. They took me to a money changer and he was too busy with the previous client so I left. Then they took me to another money changer. We bargained a bit but he didn't offer a good rate. He said his rate would be better if I had larger bills, but €20 bills didn't bring a good rate. I was ripped off (what else is new?) but I accepted CFA 62000 for €100 in 5 €20 bills. Not a good deal--10% off the spot rate of 68800--but I would at least control my destiny for a while. Besides, I expect to lose 3% and this is only 7% more. Oh well. C'est la vie.

The man who agreed to take me into Cameroon said he would wait for 20 minutes and take me alone if nobody came, but when push came to shove, he just shunted me off to another car. I got into this old decrepit car and we headed to Cameroon. It's a few km to Cameroon. But we had to stop for fuel as is often the case.

We soon reached the first Nigerian checkpoint. I got out and gave my passport to the officers. They inspected the passport thoroughly. They asked for my yellow card. The officer said my vaccinations all expired in February and asked why I didn't renew my vaccinations. I explained that I received the shots in February and showed him that the expiration date was in another location. He bought that, but I'm sure he was just looking for a reason to give me a hard time and knew what was what. The only point of asking for your yellow book on your way out is to find an excuse to extract a bribe. He asked more questions about my visas and my trip and I provided all the answers he needed. He asked about Barack Obama and I told him that I voted for him through the mail. It was taking a long time and the other passengers in the car finally came over and watched. Finally, since all my paperwork was completely in order, he had no choice but to enter all my information into a ledger (which took a long time) and send me, and the other occupants, on out way. The main passenger in the car told me I was causing his schedule to slip, but I said it was Nigerian immigration--no other African country takes so long to process people at the border. No, he said, it was me. I figured he was angling for more money at the end of the trip.

Then a few minutes later, we stopped at another fuel station and backed up to a pump. The man in the passenger seat said he needed to pick up some petrol. OK, no problem. Can't take that long. But it did. The gas station attendant kept fishing empty 10 gallon jerricans out of the trunk and filling them and putting them back. There was like a neverending stream of these jerricans. Hmmm... Am I involved in some sort of gasoline smuggling operation? After about a half hour, we left. It still only about 11am.

We reached the second Nigerian checkpoint and again, I had to get out and show my passport. The first time it was 4 men armed with machine guns, but now it was a just a guy. He inspected my passport pages more with a longing than anything else. He stopped for 30 seconds looking at my Japanese entry sticker from a few years ago and rubbed his fingers across it lost in some dream world where he gets to do what I do. He looked at all my stamps and in the end, smiled and gave me my passport and wished me a good trip. I smiled and thanked him and went back to the car.

We drove some more and eventually got to within view of the gated bridge of the river that forms the border. I was almost out of this country. But we stopped short at some sort of post. The passenger guy got into an argument with what I guess was some plainclothed customs officer or something. They argued for about 10 minutes, then the passenger paid the officer N5 (US$4).

We went on a little further--like 20 meters--and came to the third of four Nigerian official stops. This is the one where I would receive my exit stamp. They asked me a bunch of questions about where I was and where I entered while I filled out a paper form with many of these same questions. One question made no sense to me. I was to provide "Evidence as Tourist". What the hell does that mean? Is it even English? I asked and the man said I should write the phone number of my travel agent and gave me the yellow book I got when I got my vaccinations. He pointed at the phone number of the Vancouver Coastal Travel Clinic and told me to enter that phone number. It was crazy, but I figured the best thing to do was to just comply. Finally after several minutes, the man gave my passport to a woman to enter all my information into a ledger. Then they gave me my passport back and I went across the street to the other side.
There, a man asked more of the same questions that I had been answering all along and entered my passport information into a ledger for the third time today. Then when he was done with that ledger, he got out another ledger and entered the information into that second ledger. Holy cow, the Nigerians make border crossings...interesting. That done, all that was left was to cross the bridge over the river. On the way to the car, the gas smuggler informed me that when we reached Ekok, I would buy him a beer. I could use one myself.

Immediately on the other side was Cameroonian immigration. The Cameroonians were a friendlier and chattier group. We talked about my trip, how Cameroon and Canada are the only countries with English and French both being official languages, and, of course, Barack Obama. One of the men then got a ledger. But instead of having columns for the information, he just writes it out longhand as a prose paragraph. He listed all the places I said I planned to visit and basically wrote out, in prose, a description of my passport information. It took quite a while. The gas smuggler was there watching the whole thing.

Finally, one last step--customs. They had already put all my stuff by the customs office. They interrupted a game of cards and asked me what was in each bag and I explained and they had me open each one and show the first few items. They were pretty satisfied and, frankly, anxious to return to their card game. And I was done.

Ekok is a pretty small place. Everything is pretty close. The ticket office for the cars to Mamfe and Kumba is right across the street. I went over. They wanted CFA 15000 (US$30) to take me to Kumba. Whoa! That seems high. How many people lined up for the car? One guy told me just 2 more and then another one corrected him and said I was the first. The first? This can take all day. It was noon and they said the trip to Kumba was about 6 hours. I don't like it at all. So I called an audible. I asked if there was a hotel. Yep. I left and headed down to the Boston Complex Resort Inn whose name sounds much more impressive than the CFA 3000 (US$6) rooms would suggest. There is a bare mattress with a pillow, no running water and the generator would only run from about 8:30 to 11--Ekok doesn't seem to have electricity. I took the room. I gave the guy CFA 5000 and we walked really slowly to another place where he could break the CFA 5000 note into change. What I could have walked in 60 seconds took about 3 minutes. Once at the place with the change, that guy had to go off and get change. Gee, these small towns are bad with liquidity.

Then off to find the gas smuggler. I entered the local bar whose name seems to be Risk Assurance--or is that the name of the previous business? We went to the back where there is a fan, but they had no juice. The gas smuggler offered a liter of gas to run the generator to turn the fan. The man brought me a beer and the smuggler a fruit juice. The beer was room temperature and I tried to stop him but he already opened the bottle. The smuggler and another guy yelled at the bartender and told him it was his error, but I agreed to drink it. It was warm, but still had some refreshing power. I got the whole lowdown on the smuggling operation which was kind of neat.

Then I headed off to my room to rest. The smuggler said he'd meet me at my hotel and have another beer.

I rested in my room until about 6pm. The smuggler didn't come so I figured I'd go out and arrange my transportation. I had, in the interim, asked random people about the cost to get to Kumba and the CFA 15000 is what it costs. So I headed over and asked what time I should arrive in the morning. They said about 7am--I should just come and leave my bags in the Boston Hotel and we'd get them on the way out. Now I was feeling a little easier. I headed back to the hotel to await the generator.

It got dark and no generator. I went out and asked. They said it would started at about 8 or 8:30. Man, that's a lot of time in the dark. I headed down the street and got a mylar bag with 25cl of red table wine. Then headed back to my room and read Veronika Décide de Mourir by my rechargeable lantern. Finally, after an hour, the generator came on and I tried to plug in my laptop. But no luck--the outlet wasn't powered. They said the outlets aren't connected. So I had to move my laptop to the lobby/bar where I typed up my blogs for 3 solid hours in front of an enraptured audience of three who were reading as I was typing.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008 23:50 Cameroon local time

Second Full Day In Calabar

I didn't have much planned for Sunday--just hopefully find an internet cafe. My parents are probably starting to worry a little bit and a blog update would help them sleep a bit better. So I headed out. There is an internet cafe up by Freddy's and the Paradise City and other hotels on the way to the airport. Also, I wanted to see how much the car to Ikom would cost and the motor park is on the way. So off I went. I had to get through this parade of people going to church. Man, Calabar is religious. Insanely religious. If the Africans spent as much time educating themselves in science and math as in God and Jesus, they'd be G7. Though I must say, all religious talk here centers on the same few themes--God loves you, Jesus loves you--not much else really. Listening to these preachers--and they are everywhere so you can't not listen--is really tedious. It's the same thing over and over and over just with slight differences. Tell a preacher here that he can't talk about how much Jesus and God love you, and he'll be speechless.
I got to the motor park and entered. There were tons of cars all with wooden signs on their roofs saying "Calabar to ...". I found the Ikom one without much effort. It costs N1200 (US$10) for the 3 hour trip. I asked if there was a person there who could change money to Central African CFA. They said the bank could do it. Hmm... Really? OK. Anyway, I knew what it would cost to get to Ikom near the Cameroonian border. I went passed the mosque hoping a Muslim Hausa money changer would ask if I needed change, but nobody did. Then I just headed up toward the internet cafe.

Unfortunately, since I left the hotel, one thing was becoming obvious. Calabar shuts down on Sunday morning so people can drink their Jesus juice. I made it pretty far north and turned around and came back. I was out for a few hours in the hot sun and needed a rest. I rested a good while back in my room and then in the late afternoon headed out to the Chester Bar in the Metropolitan Hotel. IT was so delightfully cool and the beer was so delightfully refreshing. I read my French version of Veronika Décide à Mourir. A British sounding guy was reading a Robert Ludlum novel--not of the Bourne Identity ones but another one. So there were 2 white guys sitting at a bar reading in Nigeria.

After 2 beers it was starting to get late and I headed back toward the Nelbee. I stopped in Mac Bite, the local fast food place. I got in the "line" at the register and watched as an electric wire on one of their pieces of equipment started to spark and smoke. That was cool. Then I ordered an order of fries and 2 egg rolls. After I got that I went outside to their shawarma stand and got a beef shawarma. While I was waiting, the girl cooking the chicken sneezed on the beef laying out there, so I was happy that she already put my beef into the pita and was warming it up now.
I was extremely tired when I got back and it took all my effort to eat as much of the cold fries and the beef shawarma as possible. I didn't finish it all. Then I just layed there like a beached whale until the generator came on a little after 6 and I could feel some AC. Once I had a little energy, I rigged up my rope and mosquito net since the Nelbee has mosquitoes.
Then I drifted off to sleep.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008 14:54 Cameroon local time

Second Panicky Day In Kano

Monday morning I woke up. Hopefully, this would be the day I get my Western Union infusion. I went to the internet cafe which is at the other end of the street with all the banks. After some surfing, I headed back and the banks were now open. I went to the GTBank. All the banks in Nigeria have this airlock type system to control access to the bank. You press a button and enter the phone booth sized tube and then a few seconds later, it opens on the other side. I got a form, but their pens sucked and I couldn't write on the forms. So I headed home to get a better pen. Since I was home now, I decided to try a closer bank. I tried the Diamond Bank first but the form for me to fill out didn't say Western Union on it anywhere and it was missing some fields. The guard who helped me get the form tried to tell me to have a seat and he'd get another form, but I decided to try another bank. I went to Intercontental Bank. There I got a form and filled it out, but they told me I was missing the money transfer control number. Great!

Back to the internet cafe to email my parents and ask them to send it. I also had them text it to my phone. It didn't take long. Then back to the Intercontinental. I gave them the form and my passport. Then for the second time in a week, she said that she didn't think that was me in the picture. Flattering, but when my ability to survive depends on her believing it's me, it's disconcerting. I told her I weighed over 200 kg 8 years ago. Then I offered my driver's license. She preferred that. In the end all worked. It took about 15 minutes from when I went in (the second time) to when the teller eventually set down a huge thick stack of N500 notes. Yikes, it's one thick stack. I managed to fit it into my money belt, but it was tight.

OK, I can breathe now. I returned to the hotel and relaxed. I'm ashamed to say, I watched Life With Mikey with Michael J. Fox. At least, they played About a Boy which is much better a bit after that.

In the evening, I headed down to the hotel bar and sat there with a Star thinking about what I'd do. Then this woman came and sat with me. She first wanted to make sure I wasn't married. I'm not sure why. She said she's in town from Abuja for her sister's wedding and was staying at this hotel for a while. We chatted for a while and then she hinted that she's like a Maltina. (In Africa, any beverage whose first 4 letters are "malt" are alcohol free beers). It was only N120 (US$1). Then she showed me how to eat Nigerian food. She ordered some meat from the restaurant for N100 (US$0.80) but it was just cold chunks. She said a rather lengthy prayer over the food. By now it was dark and she started putting food in my mouth. Next she got N200 (US$1.60) and ran across the street to get some suya which is hot, spicy, barbequed meat. She did another lengthy prayer over the food. It was pretty good and there was a fair amount of it. Everytime she told me to eat she did so by saying "chop chop". Finally we shared an African salad which has some sort of sweet vegetable and chunks of what I think was also meat. Again she said a engthy prayer and kept saying chop chop.

Finally, I was pretty tired, so I excused myself to go back to my room. She asked if I wanted an escort. I told her no thanks, but I can find my way. Then I went up and went to sleep.

Tuesday, November 18, 16:01 Nigerian local time

Maradi, Niger To Kano, Nigeria: A Hard Fall And A Collision With A Motorcycle

Well, the day started out fine enough. But I was headed to Nigeria--a country reputed for being hard. Would I conquer Nigeria? Or would Nigeria conquer me? The short answer: after one day, Nigeria has me in a headlock and choked off my oxygen supply.

I woke up and paid my CFA 6500 (US$13) hotel bill. Then for CFA 200, a moto-taxi to the autogare. I got there about 7am and after some shuffling between different cars that seemed more promising, I got a car for CFA 5000. They took me to a man who was willing to change Euros to Naira. I gave him €100 (five 20's) and got 14400 Naira. The internet rate was 14700 so I was pretty happy with the rate. But I was relying on faith that I could find an ATM in Kano. I knew about the one at the Hotel Central, at least. There must be more.

At 7:30, we were off with 8 people. At about 8:30, we reached the border. I got my exit stamp without any problem. The official copied a bunch of information from my passport into a ledger. There weren't any columns, just comma separated fields over 2 lines. I got my Nigerienne exit stamp. Then back into the car for a while until we reached the Nigerian border. I was looking forward to this. First was immigration. I went in and got a blue sheet to fill out. It asked all the typical questions. The only one that worried me was the address in Nigeria. I forget the name of the hotel and I didn't have my Lonely Planet. The only thing I remembered was that there was a Hotel Central that has an ATM that takes Visa. Then on the back of the blue sheet, the officer wrote out the names of fields like "Date of Issue" and "Place of Issue" with the information on my passport. Not the most efficient operation. He gave me my stamp. I was wondering if I'd have to pay a dash. But no. He didn't ask for money.

So immigration was relatively painless. So far so good. Next we went to the customs building. A guy saw me and called me into the customs area. He sat down and asked for my vaccination form. I produced it. This is a usual trick--if you can't produce it they don't refuse you entry but rather they request a dash. But mine was in order. So I went back out the car. This was painless.

Just as I was getting in, another guy snagged me. He brought me back into the building and led me upstairs to an office labeled the SSS office. He had me fill out another form with much of the same information as the blue form. But we wanted exact dates I'd be in the various cities I'd go to. After some explanation he agreed to let me just list the cities. I was wondering if he was fishing for a dash. When I finished, he took my passport and inspected the visa carefully asking me questions about it that were printed right on the visa in my passport. Then he flipped to the picture and details page. He looked at the picture. He looked at me. He looked at the picture. Then he looked at me again. "I don't think this is you." I explained that 8 years ago I weighed 235 lbs and now I'm about 150 lbs. I tried to push my cheeks forward to look more like the picture. "It doesn't look like you at all." Actually, I'm a bit flattered. I look much better now than I did then. Much better. He didn't say that exactly, but I'm sure he agreed as well. The driver of the car was there too. He asked the driver if he thought it was me. They chatted for a bit in their native language. I was getting nervous. I was actually afraid something like this would happen since I look so different now. People have commented on it before, but nobody has ever thought it wasn't me. And this is a government guy, so he has to thing it's me. Otherwise, who knows what might happen. Finally, he decided that it looked enough like me that he wouldn't treat it as a fake passport. His final question was about my goal. I said it was just tourism. He didn't buy it. But I told him that I had some money saved and just wanted to see West Africa. Finally, he handed me my passport.

We headed back downstairs and when we got to the lobby about to leave the building to go to the car, another guy called me into his section. A currency declaration form. I had to fill it out and then I counted my currency out. I had a bit less than when I went through the customs in Guinea when they stole my money. I counted out my euros (320), dollars (only 23), and CFA (30000). He eventually told me I could approximate. I guess they are only interested in amounts over $5000 since I had to check a box to that effect. That done, we headed out to the car. I got in. Was somebody going to come? Whew! Nobody else came. That whole thing must have taken 20 minutes. I felt sorry for the Nigerians in the car who just had to wait while all this happened. The nice thing is that they never asked for a dash. I did the whole border procedure without paying a cent.

Then it was a 4 hour ride to Kano. My right but cheek was on the thick wire that forms the outline of the seat cushion. It was painful as hell. There was no room to shift because there were 3 other big guys in the back seat. I just had to endure it. No choice.

Finally, we arrived and I found myself is chaotic moto-park that seemed to have no exit. Finally, I saw traffic and headed that way. I had no idea where I was. As I was leaving a man on a moto-taxi asked me if I needed to go somewhere. I asked if he knew La Mirage Motel. He didn't, and he didn't really even speak English. But there was a sort of moto-taxi dispatcher who knew and explained to the young man where it was. The price would be 200 Naira. It was a long way. And anyone who had ever ridden on the back of a motorcycle with a heavy backpack knows how uncomfortable that is. Pretty damn uncomfortable. As we got closer, the young man started asking locals for the hotel, except he had the name all wrong. Even after I corrected him on the pronunciation he continued to get the name wrong. But I was there to say the name and they all knew it. After about a ten minute ride where my waist muscles were literally shaking because of trying to hold my backpack on (prompting one guy to ask me if I was cold, even), we made it. I practically fell of the back of the motorcycle. My muscles were completely fatigued. The driver wanted 300 Naira and I was just happy to be there so I didn't argue. I just paid it. I went in. Lonely Planet put their prices at 1300 Naira (US$11) to 2500 Naira (US$20). It's gone up a bit. The cheapest rooms are 2000 Niara (US$18) but there weren't available. The next cheapest was 2800 Naira (US$23). That's more than I wanted to pay, but oh well. The room is pretty nice if a little unsecure looking. There is fan, AC, TV, and minifridge--though the power comes and goes. There is a private bath and toilet and they even provide a towel and toilet paper. But it's more than I want to pay.

So I'm in a new country with a new currency and task #1 after finding a room is finding an ATM. Fortunately, Murtala Mohammed street is filled with just about every Nigerian bank in existence. I headed down that way.

Along the way, I slipped on a slanted wooden plank covered in sand. I fell and I fell hard. I banged my right knee and got scraped pretty bad all along my right arm. But no time for that now.

I tried a bunch of ATMs. They either didn't work by giving some error message indicating they were unable to connect to something or they just said "No Useful App". I looked for the Central Hotel which is supposed to have a Visa ATM in its lobby, but when I found it after getting a little lost, it was under full renovations.

Semi-defeated I headed home. I figured I'd wait a little while and try later. Meanwhile, I had to clean up my bloody arm and hand. It stung a bit, but I got it all cleaned. It was sore and I needed a little rest.

Then at about 3:30, I headed out again. I hit the same ATMs that sort of worked. But still no luck. I popped into the Friends Internet Cafe and Bakery where I paid 250 Naira for an hour of internet time. I checked email, facebook, and some other stuff. Then, as it was going to get dark soon, I started to head home. At the roundabout at Murtala Mohammad and Bompai, I wanted to get from the north side of the street to the south side and then from the east to the west to get to the GTBank which said it couldn't access the issuer or switch (whatever than means). I got across the west bound lanes and to the median strip. Then there was a lull in the east bound traffic--about 3 lanes wide. I started going across. About half way, a wave of moto-taxis came around circle. I went a little further but they were coming fast. One was headed right for me.
I froze. I watched to my right as it came. It didn't look as if it was going to miss me but rather hit me dead on in my right side. I was frozen just watching it come right at me. I watched for about a second. Then, impact, dead on. For the next, what I think, was 3 seconds, I felt myself carried along by the front of the motorcycle thinking something along the lines of "I can't believe this is happening, I can't believe this is happening, I can't believe this is happening." Then there were I was on the ground, the driver was on the ground, a passenger was on the ground, the bike was on the ground, and various parts were scattered about.

The passenger in a Muslim style outfit got up and come over to me and led me to the side of the road and sat me down. Then he went over and helped the driver over. The people hanging out on the corner came over and gawked. The passenger brought the driver over. I apologized taking all the blame. The driver had a bloody lip and spit blood every ten seconds or so. But nothing else seemed out of line. He never said a word. The Muslim passenger did all the talking. They were about both about 25. After establishing that we all had nothing seriously wrong, he went and retrieved the headlight and a part for starting the motorcycle. I went out and retrieved the headlight casing which was pretty much a loss. I apologized again. I had no idea what was going to happen. But we were all pretty much OK. There was some minor damage to the bike. I asked how much it would cost to repair the bike. The Muslim pointed at the headlight and the casing. He said about 1500 Naira for one and 1600 Naira for the other. And about 500 to reattach the starter lever thing. And 500 Naira for the driver's lip. Finaly he said 2000 Naira for the bike and 500 for the lip so 2500 Naira. I pulled out a €20 bill and said that it was about 2800. The kids around there told him it was 2900. He seemed happy with it. But then I went into my dwindling Naira stash and pulled out 2 500 Naira notes and gave them to him as well. He seemed happy. Everyone tried to shepherd me off after I did that. I guess they realized that I thought I had more leverage than I thought and they wanted to save me from myself. In the end I got off pretty cheap money-wise: €20 and 1000 Naira (US$8). I assume it was my fault for being in the intersection, but what responsibility does a motorcycle have to not hit a pedestrian head on? It was a bit costly and I certainly got bruised and scraped.
I limped home. It was already dark by the time I got back. I wanted a Star beer because I'm collecting the back label of the Star beers from the Anglophone countries. My hotel bar only had Gulder so I went next door. There was no light. I had wanted to write into my journal, but that wasn't going to happen. I got my 60cl Star for 200 Naira (US$1.80). After that, I went to the restaurant of my hotel and got a meal very reminiscent of the meals I had on the Comanav ferry from Timbuktu to Gao for 400 Naira (US$3.60) though I think they overcharged me--it was supposed to be 300 Naira (US$2.70).

After that, I limped back to my room and watched a horrible movie called Camp Rock. Then a horrible movie about trailer trash flight attendants came on and I was watching it when the channel starting changing on its own and eventually turned into a soccer match commentated in Arabic.

Eventually I just turned off the TV. But I kept turning options over in my head. I was in the position where I have to call audibles. It's second down and long, and I got sacked hard.
I was panicked. I turned out the lights but kept turning on the lights to check things in the Lonely Planet. I did that until past 3am. I kept doing it. I couldn't find a comfortable position, either. I was pretty battered and bruised. My two incidents but pretty tender sections on my right arm and left arm respectively. I was pretty sore where the bike parts impacted my right side--especially where my rib cage broke off the headlight and where my right leg hit the frame.
So that was my first day in Nigeria.

Sunday, November 16, 2008 19:48 Nigerian local time

Parakou To Malanville: It's Like Guinea-Conakry Again!

I got up and headed down to the gare routière near the traffic circle of the prefecture. I was quickly shepherded to the car to Malanville, the city right on the border with Niger. CFA 4500 (US$9) would get me to Malanville in a sept-place that would carry 9 people. I got there perhaps a bit late since there were still quite a few places to fill. If I had been an hour earlier, I probably could have gotten a previous sept-place. Oh well. It was about 8:30 and even when I'm early, we often wait until nine. I chatted with a woman named Martine who works for PAM which is the World Food Program. PAM is probably Programme d'Alimentation Mondiale, but that's just a guess. We were there a long time and Martine was as anxious to get on the road as I was. We finally left at 11:20am. I got a supremely uncomfortable back seat but it's better than the even worse front seats. The two people in the front seat were a big woman and a big man. But the driver objected and swapped the big man with a skinny man so he would better access to the stick. Then we were off. We didn't get very far when we stopped for gas as is usually the case.

The gas stations in Benin tend not to be the Western style gas stations but people on the side of the street with old bottles of Pastis and whatever other alcoholic beverages filled with gas sitting on a rickety table. Also, they usually have one or two large ~3 gallon spherical jugs. When we stopped, the gas man put a funnel in the gas tank and laid a cloth across the funnel. Then, he glugged 2 of the big jugs into the funnel. I'm not sure what this system is. Maybe it is tax free illegal smuggled gas from Nigeria, Benin's next door oil rich neighbor? It can't be too illegal because these gas stations abound and they are pretty damn unregulated--being nothing more than a wooden table and a dozen old liquor bottles and a couple of big jugs. They don't even have caps on the bottles usually. When you walk by one of these it always smells like gas.

The road between Parakou and Malanville has roughly two halves. The first is pocked with potholes. We were swerving and trying to pass trucks that were also swerving to avoid potholes that they could see but we couldn't. It was pretty bad in the back seat which is right over the rear axle. On top of that, the driver usually erred on the side of hitting a pothole on the passenger side to reduce his own level of discomfort. The air coming in wasn't refreshing at all, but hot. It was just like being back in Guinea-Conakry. Overcrowded, hot, uncomfortable, and miserable for 5 interminable hours. But that's the Africa I like. That's why I came.

We passed many many trucks overturned on the side of the road. I see trucks overturned from time to time, but there must have been half a dozen on this 300km stretch. Unbelievable.

Finally, we passed a police checkpoint and that marked the change in the road from potholed as hell to paved as heaven. We only had to slow down when passing stalled trucks with oncoming traffic. But after that it was smooth. The breeze from the window was still hot. The few times we stopped for a bathroom break or to let someone out, it was actually somewhat pleasant outside. But the wind was just hot.

The architecture started changing to the familiar architecture of Mali. I'm back in the Sahel. I'll try to blow through Niger pretty fast since the Sahel doesn't agree with me. Besides, I have one month till I board a plane to Accra. That's only 30 days to get through Niger, Nigeria, and Cameroon. And I need to get a visa in Lagos and avoid the Niger river delta area so I'll enter Cameroon from the north. I have to play it safe and pad some margin into my schedule and blowing through the Sahel seems like the most agreeable way to do that.

A little after 5pm we arrived. I got out and took a moto-taxi to the Rose des Sables hotel. It took a few tries to get a room in my price range. The first room he showed me was an air-conditioned bungalow. The second a fan cooled bungalow. Finally the third, a death-row inmate cell. I took the prison cell for CFA 7000 (US$14). Sadly they didn't have beer there so I had to walk to the other, more expensive hotel, to have a beer and a big bottle of water. I also had Sauté de Lapin à Provencial. Then I headed back to my hotel just up the street and got ready to wake up and head to Niger.

It will be good to be in Niamey because I need to get to the internet. My parents are probably starting to freak out since I haven't been online or made a withdrawal since the election.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008 20:42 Benin local time

Abomey: There Are Days You Get And Days You Wish For

I woke up. Sniffles. Dammit! I don't want sniffles again. I'm sick of this cold! I waited in my room until about 10am. Then I figured I better go out an tell them that I planned to spend one more day in Abomey since I had a cold and didn't want to travel to Parakou with a cold. I looked a few times and there wasn't a man working the grounds when I looked. Finally, after an hour of looking from 9am, I headed out and asked a woman "ou se trouve the gerant?" She didn't quite understand me. But she pointed to the man at the gate. I went to him. I told him that I wouldn't leave today because of my cold and gave him CFA 10000 for the room. He took the money but I didn't recognize the guy. Anyway, I headed out to see some of the other temples and palaces. They were all pretty much on the same model--big square buildings with walled courtyards and reliefs of animals and symbols of power.

I went back to make sure I gave the CFA 10000 to the right guy. I guess I did. I asked for the change so I could have some small money, but he said he didn't have change and just gave me the CFA 10000 back.

Then, I headed to Chez Monique. This is a hotel on the north side of town. It has a nice outdoor seating area and cold beer. At about 2:30 in the afternoon, about 20 white people all came out and sat at a table and ate. Some had T-shirts that said STAFF on the back. Some French humanitarian mission--IFVSVP or something like that. After they ate, one woman who was holding a sleeping African child sat near me. I asked "est-ce que il est malade?" but she said he wasn't--just fatigué. She explained why he tired, but my French wasn't good enough to understand. Then a really cute 35-ish staff woman came and brought tea to the woman with the tired child. She sat down and I was happy about that. But, in the end, they all went back until dinner when the all came out en masse again. After a while I met another American woman working for UNICEF. We talked about the election, mostly. She got roped into watching a voodoo ceremony so she went off to see that. The guy who took her tried to convince me to come as well, but it sounded too expensive. Like many hotels that cater to tourists, they have artists who sell stuff there. I bought a little cloth map of Africa. It was kind of fun because there were a bunch of maps and there were some errors. I helped them. One had Nigeria listed as Cameroun and Cameroun as Cameroune. One had Guinea-Bissau and Gambie swapped.

Finally, it was late and I started to my hotel. A few steps outside, I met a guy who sells stuff at the Motel d'Abomey. He asked how much I paid for my map (I'm not sure how he knew I bought the map) and told me he would have sold it to me for half the price. He kept asking how much I paid and I kept saying "je oblie." Finally he told me to hop on his motor-bike and he'd take me to the Bar Vulcain. When we got to the fork where he should have gone right, he went left though. I told him he took a wrong turn, but he said he didn't. I was starting to get worried. I steeled myself to possibly defend myself if this was a crime in progress. Finally he stopped in front of some place downtown. I told him that it was not the Bar Vulcain. Then he took me to the Bar Vulcain. He drove right into the courtyard where the owner was with his wife. Then he got off and sat down. He said the owner was his little brother. I asked him why he took me to the wrong place if he knows the Bar Vulcain so well. I didn't get a satisfactory answer.

Anyway, I decided to sit down with the owner and this guy and the wife. We started drinking palm wine in which pieces of wood were soaked. Pretty strong stuff. They asked me what all African men ask me. If I'm married and have kids. No and no. The motorcycle guy said he has 5 women. The owner said he has 2, "elle" he said pointing to the one next to him, "et elle" he said pointing to another woman. She eventually joined us. They asked me how many women I wanted. I said one. At that the woman who was the first wife of the owner started on this rant against the guy with 5 women. I don't know what it was about, but I can guess. I had a little bit of this crushed paste stuff in a fish sauce. And we all had more palm wine. The owner asked me how much a small computer would cost. I tried to tell him that big ones cost less than small ones but he didn't understand that. I started to explain that "la probleme est avec le chaleur. Une ordinateur petite est dificile à controller le chaleur...." But I figured that he wasn't going to understand me even if I could find the French to explain the thermal problems of computers and how smallness is harder to manage because you have to get the heat out.

His wife situation was interesting. The first wife was more well put together--her hair obviously done professionally. The second wife was more educated and when he wanted to make sure I understood something, he had her write it out on a tablet in French. I got the idea that of the three, only she could write French.

By the time I went to sleep, my sniffles were gone.

Monday November 10, 2008 8:25 Benin local time

Full Day In Abomey

I got up a bit late since I still have a mild cold. I finally left at about 10 and walked downtown and then headed north to the Musée Historique d'Abomey. But when I got there, I had a problem. I did have a CFA 1000 and a CFA 2000 bill, but I wasn't willing to use them because after those, I had nothing but CFA 10000 bills left. Already one place didn't want the CFA 10000 because he couldn't make change. So I went in and when the ticket woman came, I handed her the CFA 10000 bill. She said she didn't have small bills. I told her I didn't have any either. Finally I said I might came back later. I left. I wandered around the downtown looking for places where I change the CFA 10000 into something smaller. The gas station guy wouldn't do it. The banks were closed because it was Saturday. Finally, I went back to the Motel d'Abomey and ordered a beer. As the expensive hotel in town, it would have larger amounts of all denominations. I ordered a small Castel beer for CFA 850. That gave me a CFA 5000 and 2 CFA 2000 notes.

I headed back to the museum having lost an hour. I still wasn't going to pay the CFA 2500 entrance fee with with of my CFA 2000 notes. I was back an hour later and I gave her a CFA 5000 bill. She wasn't happy. But she took it and wrote that they owed me CFA 2500 on the back of the ticket. I went in and a tour had just started. It was in French and I didn't get much but I got some. It's an interesting museum. It was the palace of some of the Dahomey kings. They were a blood thirsty lot. There are several buildings with these high relief depictions of various things. One king has decapitations, killings, torturing, and other such bloody scenes. The last one we saw was of a horse with a necklace with the head of the enemy hanging in front. The tour guide and a couple of the women in the large tour group sang a song that is probably about that event. There would be another depiction of a horse with the enemy head necklace in another place as well. We saw all sorts of things. There is a throne on top of 4 skulls of vanquished enemies. The tour guide kept telling jokes but I didn't get them. But the people on the tour were having a good time. We went to the mausoleum of one king. We had to take off our shoes and socks and went in. There was a bed and just to the right of the bed, a cloth on the floor. Another smaller cloth was a meter of two away from the larger cloth in the ground. I assume the cloth covers the grave. I'm not sure what the smaller cloth is for. The tour was quite long. Over an hour. But it was interesting.

At the end, I went to the front desk and presented the IOU. The tour guide was there and she had to come up with the CFA 2500 from her personal cash. This museum really needs to be able to make change for tickets. It is a UNESCO World Heritage site and gets lots of visitors.

I was pretty wiped out since I still am fighting a cold so I went to have a water and a beer at the local place I went to the previous night. I sat there and after a while a 20-25 year old cute Asian girl came in. She looked for the owner who was sleeping. I tried to get her attention to point him out, but she got on her phone and started talking with someone. I heard her say "moshi-moshi" as she walked over to a table on the other side of the place. She made some more phone calls and then started writing stuff into an organizer.

I decided that I would try to talk to her. But I'm not good at approaching random women and just starting to talk. I suck at it. I was trying to figure out what to say. I was trying to remember the word for "to reside" but I couldn't. Then, as if it wasn't me, I observed myself get up out of my chair and start to walk over. It was like a part of me was acting while the other part was still trying to figure out what was happening. There is a small wall between her and the area I was in. I leaned on the wall and said "sumimasen, Nihon no kata desu-ka." She turned to me, a mixture of shock and delight on her face. That put me at ease. Certainly the last thing she expected was some random white guy coming up to her and speaking to her in Japanese in Abomey, Benin. She is a JICA volunteer. It's like the Japanese Peace Corps. I got the lowdown in it from some Peace Corps people. JICA is better funded and the qualifications necessary to get into the JICA program are much stricter for the volunteers, so they are the cream of the crop. We chatted for a while. There are 3 JICA volunteers in Abomey. She works with handicapped children and is 2 months into a 2 year stay. I told her about where I lived. She is from Nagoya, so we lived in the same area. I have been to Nagoya many many many times. After a while she had to meet other people so we parted. It was nice to have another chance to speak Japanese.

I returned to my room and rested for a while. Then for dinner I decided to got to The Source--a place with cous-cous an chicken. It was a long walk to get there. I didn't think it would be so long. It came with a big helping of cous-cous and chicken in onion and tomato. It was pretty good and with two small Castels, only CFA 3300 (US$6.60). I walked back and fell asleep in front of the oscillating fan.

Sunday, November 9, 2008 Benin local time

Cotonou To Porto Novo And Porto Novo

On Thursday morning, I went out and headed down to the Marché Dantokpa. The taxis for Porto Novo are supposed to leave from there. I found the chaos that is their gare routiére and asked people where the cars are to Porto Novo. They are on a small street just at the intersection with the big street. I looked for a landmark so I'd see it again. It's just across the street from a 2 storey building with Heineken painted on the side. That'll be easy to find again.

So I headed back to my hotel and got a book and went to have one last pastry and coffee at Gerbe d'Or. The news was on and still the big news is Barack Obama. After an hour or so, I headed to a bookstore and got another Paulo Coehlo book, Veronika Décide de Mourir. Then back to the hotel. I packed and headed out.

It is a long hot walk from the Hotel de Crillon to the Marché Dantokpa. I stopped and got a sachet of water for CFA 25 (US$0.05). The salesgirl warned me that "c'est ne pas bien gelée" but it was good enough. I got to the cars. The cost to Porto Novo is CFA 700 (US$1.40) but they charged me CFA 1000 because of all my luggage. Fair enough. These cars are 5 person cars--2 in the front seat and 3 in the back. That means not a long wait. Whew! Only one more person. I got another sachet of water and it was colder. Now I was sitting in the car sucking down the water from a hole bit into the corner and by the time I finished we were ready to go.

The road to Porto Novo is slow and polluted with exhaust fumes. My eyes were stinging. It took about an hour and I arrived in Porto Novo at about noon. I wasn't sure where we were, but I got a moto-taxi and had it take me to the Hotel Détente. The driver had to ask someone and even with those direction, once I could see the sign obviously in front of us, the driver seemed to not see it. I wonder if he can't read. So I had to get the driver to turn around and go down the street with the Détente and even when we reached the building with the sign Détente, the driver passed it. But we made it and I gave him CFA 300 (US$0.60). The Détente had a room me. Whew!

The rooms there are OK. There is a private shower and a shared toilet. The shower dripped, but the faucet was broken so I had to fill a bucket from the sink. The light bulb for the room was red.

As the Détente is also a bar and I was hot, I got a small beer. Then I headed out to the Ethnographic Museum--the one thing I wanted to see in Porto Novo. Entrance is CFA 1000 (US$2) and I got a guide who is studying English. I had a bit of the sniffles--I caught a slight cold the day after the election as my defenses were weakened by my all nighter. So I was a bit tired--a bit too tired for a long tour. And a long tour it was. We started with the door to the place. He described several of the symbols found on the door. In more detail than I needed. Next we went to a wooden map of Benin that showed the cities and language groups. He went into detail on each language group and each city leaving no city or language group out. These were done in the hot sun. Finally, we got to go inside the building--but not before a detailed history of the building which was an orphanage, administrative building, and finally the museum. And not before he described two statues made of metal machine parts welded together showing a king and one of his wives who carries a spittoon because if someone gets a hold of the king's spit, it can be used to lay a voodoo curse on him. Inside, finally.

The museum is organized along the phases of life. There are 3 rooms and 2 halls. The first room is about pregnancy and birth. There was a mock up of a pregnant woman going to the Fa priest. The priest uses 8 pieces of these parts with a flat and a round side strung together. Essentially he generates a random byte by grabbing the middle and laying down the flat/round sided parts to generate 2 random nibbles. Each nibble has a name. There is a wall that shows the name of each nibble. He went through about 6 of them. He also enumerated several other reasons why one might consult a Fa priest trying to make sure he left nothing out. The pregnant woman has a lot of duties during the pregnancy including drinking a certain tea from a certain pot which she must at least do in the morning, though she make it at other times as well. She also has to wear a belt below the baby which prevents bad spirits from getting in. Each month she adds a link to the belt. Then there are things for the baby to wear when it comes out. Then there are some ceremonies--the naming ceremony 6 days later for a girl and days later for a boy, or something like that. Then 1 month after (though it used to 3 months in the past) the introduction to the sun and the moon to harmonize the baby with the vibrations. Apparently, kids who a re troublemakers are said to not be properly harmonize with the vibrations of the moon. Finally, a description of the early life of the child if he happens to be born to a blacksmith. There is a bellows and the kids would operate the bellows while the mother works on pottery because while the husband works on metal, the wife must work on earth. Done. Whew!

Now we went out into the hall where the discussion turned to initiation into a secret society. They had a bunch of masks. There are day masks for happy occasions an night masks for when times are tough. He described each mask. Some of the masks have whole outfits hanging off them like on for twins. He said that in south Benin, twins are considered as gods and explained all the things you have to do if you have twins and all the things you have to do if one twin dies. If a woman give birth to three sets of twins, she is regarded as a queen and has to respected.

Next we went into the marriage room. It has example gifts for the dowry, the tube men on their penises to protect them after their circumcision, a hunter's outfit. One of the dowry items is a white cloth used for the virginity check. If the virginity check turns out OK, the girl's family is sent a full jug of the local tipple. If not, they are sent a half full jug. At least, they are not sent their daughter. The virginity check is not used very often anymore. But the guide seems to think it is good because when it was used, there were fewer STDs. Or so he thinks. Then back into the hallway and to the death room that had a funeral shroud, a stretcher that they use to carry the dead around the village to let everyone know what happened. There were some items used to determine magincally the cause of death in young people (magic items--not CSI items). Back out into the hall where we saw a funeral drum. People whose parents died beat it, with their right hand if they lost a mother, left hand if they lost a father, and both hands if they have lost both. They have to beat it until the drum breaks.

Finally, there were some musical instruments. More masks. And then to the basement. How long with this go on? The basement had more masks. Finally it ended at a craftsman's shop where he had a loom and was making cloth for sale. I watched him a bit, but didn't buy anything. Then, as usual, this is the point where the guide tells me that he doesn't actually get paid--in this case because he is a trainee. So I tipped him and headed out. I went to the Java Promo. It was 3pm and I expected it to be virtually empty. Instead it was packed. In fact, I thought I stumbled into an event. The National Assembly is right across the street and some of the people had the air of being politicians. So I suspect the Java Promo is a place that politicians take visitors. It took them a while to notice me but finally I got a large Flag and a large bottle of water. And I just sat there thinking about stuff. Eventually I ordered a steak and mashed potato dish. After that, I went back to my hotel and took it easy for the rest of the night--trying to get rid of my sniffles.

Saturday, November 8, 2008 9:06 Benin local time

A Day In Gao

Having successfully gotten out of the Atlantide Hôtel without the English speaking guy around I was free to explore Gao. Gao is a small city on the Niger River and is basically in the desert. The streets are sand and only a few are paved. My first destination was to the tourism office, but there didn't seem to be one where the icon was. Too bad because Lonely Planet said it's the best one in Mali. So I wasn't able to check the price of my hotel.

Next I went to find the Museum of the Sahel. I found it but it was closed. The door said it is open everyday from 8 to 12 and 15 to 18 except Monday and Saturday. It was 8:30 but maybe it'll open later. It didn't look like much from outside.

I then headed over to the Tomb of the Askia. It's a mosque so given that it's an Islamic holiday (last day of Ramadan) it was pretty easy to spot--just follow the crowd. I had to shake one guy who wanted to be my guide. The tomb is kind of a neat structure. It's made of mud and logs. There are stairs going around it like a ziggurat. It's not very big and is surrounded by a think mud wall. I'm not sure it's worth coming to Gao to see this attraction, but it was neat. I gave a coin to an old lady in a wheelchair and then some kid wanted a coin too. I told him I only give to old people.

I headed back to the museum. Stil closed. I looked into a keyhole. There was a guy in there. But I wasn't sure I really in the mood to go there so I decided to just skip it.

Next I went to the Bani bus station. I asked what time the bus to Sevaré leaves. They said it won't leave for 3 days. Yikes! What if the end of Ramadan shuts down the busses? I certainly don't want to spend my birthday in Gao. The Gana bus company is right around the corner. They have one tomorrow at 9:30 am. Whew! CFA 8000. I got my ticket. Tomorrow I get the hell out of Gao and after an anticipated nice night in the Via Via in Sevaré, adios Mali! I can't think of a better place to turn 40 than Bobo Dioulasso, Burkina Faso.

I came back to the hotel where I got my clean shirt back. I asked how much. He said CFA 1000 (US$2). Not what I wanted to hear. I mumbled under my breath that I should have set the price up front. I didn't look happy and I just looked at the guy shaking my head. OK, he said, 500. OK. That was the first time I got a price down on a service already delivered. It was easier than I thought. I guess I should have been doing that all along.

Then I went out to find the Restaurant Bon Sejour. It was pretty far. It was actually one of my first choice hotels, but I opted for the one I'm in since it's so centrally located. (Actually the Atlantide is pretty crappy. The plumbing is shot, the rooms are dirty and disgusting by even my low standards. And it is infested with locusts. I killed about 20 in my room so far. Next time, it's Bon Sejour.) I had some chicken, a bottle of water, and 4 beers at the Bon Sejour. A nice lunch/mid afternoon diversion.

Tonight I'll go out and see what the end of Ramadan looks like in the streets. But other than that, I'm ready to just rest and recover and prepare for my trip to Sevaré.

September 30, 2008 17:01 Mali local time

Kabara To Gao: My Faith In Malians Is Restored

I was in my room--room 26. And in a very bad mood. There are actually 11 beds, but 3 are way too close to the ceiling. The ones with the nice mattresses were taken. My mattress had bread crumbs on it, but it had the most headroom. Some of the mattresses were bar pieces of foam. I got my bed and I started to calm down and write into my journal.

There were a bunch of young men in my room--students at a teacher college in their last year. One was a guy named Ousmane Diouf. He was a really nice guy. He probably doesn't have an opportunity to meet too many French speaking Americans. And my French is better than his English. He showed me his lesson plans for teaching young students and his notes and stuff like that. Then he got out his photo album and showed me his girlfriend and his family and his friends. There were some pictures of him in a sketch where he played a marabout (spiritual leader) and talked about AIDS. We talked about prices of computers and I showed him my La route and The Road. He found my Hôtel du Golfe receipt from Guinea-Conakry and said it was very expensive. If was a little pricy--$34, but not ridiculous. Later, I realized he probably thought the price was in Francs CFA which are worth 10 times more than Francs Guinea, so he probably thought it was about $340. He was very intrigued by my fountain pen. He asked if I had another one like it--he might like one. I said I didn't. I didn't have the heart to tell him how much it costs. A Malian can eat for a very long time off the price of that pen.

The room, it turns out, has a room monitor who works for Comanav--though it too me a little while to figure out that he wasn't just a passenger. My room monitor also doesn't speak English--just French. He was the nicest guy. When I was alone in the room, he would give me the key and tell me to lock the door if I went out. I mostly stayed in my room fanning myself. He brought me food.

Since I had such a fuss about the food I should mention what the food was. There were 4 meals and 2 breakfasts. The meals all followed the same basic pattern--a starch and a 3cm x 3cm x 3cm cube of braised beef--usually a chunk of it being bone. The starches were 1) badly overcooked short spaghetti with a hint of tomato sauce, 2) millet with a hint of tomato sauce, 3) chunks of some sort of tuber with a hint of tomato sauce, and 4) rice with a hint of onion. The first breakfast was a cup of instant Nescafé with 4 inches of a baguette. The second breakfast was a cup of instant Nescafé with 4 deep fried donut holes. And that was the food. Easily the total food bill would be less than CFA 2000 for the whole thing--easily within the ticket price.

The Comanav ferry makes only the scheduled stops. It's not like the cargo pinasse which stops on demand. Each stop was about an hour or two, perhaps except the last one which was short. When the boat gets ready to leave, it toots the horn 3 times, then a few minutes later it does 2 toots. The scenes at the stops are a sight to behold. People loading and unloading cargo. Naked children--they take off their clothes and hide their parts for a while, then they give up on that just run around buck naked. There are women doing laundry, cleaning fish, sorting vegetables, and whatever else.

As we passed villages on the Niger, the children came out to shout and wave at the ferry. I guess the Comanav ferry going by is the highlight of their week. These people live in pretty remote places. There are a lot of individual and collective settlements along the river. A lot of the sand dunes have a grid--about 10 feet x 10 feet of grass. I suppose it stabilizes the sand dune.

We had 2 storms. The first was the first night right after the students want to sleep. They mostly slept outside, but when the storm came they had to come in to sleep. There was no rain, but very very strong winds bearing sand and dust. The second was the next afternoon. We actually beached for a little while since the visibility was so low. The wind was very strong, again no rain. But there was thunder and lightning.

I mostly sat there fanning myself. I'd write a few lines in my journal and in that time enough sweat accumulated that I'd need to fan myself again.

It was the most educated crowd I'd seen in Mali. People in my room were reading dictionaries and books. Something I haven't seen much of in Mali, or Africa.

There were a few other white people on board, but I didn't see them except when they got off to wander around the stops to take pictures. I suspect they were in the more expensive cabins. Too bad for them. The 3rd class cabin is the way to go. You meet the locals that way. It was so refreshing to meet people who don't speak good English. I'm so sick of English speakers in Mali.

So after leaving at about 6pm on Saturday, we arrived at about 5pm on Monday. I tipped my room monitor CFA 2000 for all he did for me. Then I got off. There were neat little 4 inch long salamanders with yellow and brown stripes down their backs and irridescent aquamarine tails. Unfortunately, I was immediately met by an English speaking man who wanted to take me to the Hôtel Atlantide where I was going anyway. It was a short walk and when I got there, he said something first and they charged me CFA 12500 (US$25). The Lonely Planet price is CFA 10000. I want to know if this guy gets a part of the difference or if it is genuine inflation. They don't have post prices. I'll ask again tomorrow without giving away what information I'm after and I'll see if I can find out at the tourist information center. If it should be CFA10000, I'll raise a stink--I'm good at that now. The guide sat there and watched me fill out my fiche with my information. "Where are you from?" "Seattle, Washington." "Oh, I have a good friend in Washington--a university professor." "Oh, which university?" I asked, though I wasn't interested. He was a bit flustered and finally came up with "a university in San Fransisco." I needed my passport for the date I entered Mali (Spet. 11-how could I forget?). He told me that after this we would go get a stamp. "What?" I asked. He made a stamping motion and said "la cachet." "Huh?" I asked. "For your passport." I didn't know what he was talking about and I was annoyed. "I didn't cross any borders from Timbuktu," I said with some contempt.

I needed a beer and the English speaking guy showed me the place I already knew from the Lonely Planet. But they only had "Guiness" and I don't want that. So he took me to another place. I sat down at a table at the closest chair--specifically not creating a space for him. Then he went around and sat next to me. I got out my journal and starting writing. He kept disturbing me. I had a few beers and came back. I was drunk so I tipped the guy CFA 1000. Tomorrow he gets nothing--he will not be coming with me. I want to organize my life my way. Besides I don't want him there when I ask about prices at the tourist information center.

September 30, 2008 3:00 Mali local time

Timbuktu To Kabara: Anger Builds

I woke up nice and early and somewhat refreshed, but certainly not completely refreshed. I needed a second infusion of cash and to do some interneting, so I headed to the ATM south of town. On the way there, a dog started following me. I was tempted to ask if it had any jewelry to sell me, but I refrained since the only one who would get the joke was me and I had already formulated the joke and gotten all the amusement from it. There is no third person to observe and laugh. I got my money and headed to the library with the internet.

On the way there, a guy asked me "comment s'appel le chien?" "Je ne sais pas. Il juste me suivi," I replied. I went into the internet cafe and got an hour of connection. I had a CFA 2000 note and the guy promised to give me my change later. Yeah, right. I know that one. I'll remember, you asshole--you won't get the CFA 1000 from me! I spent an hour on the internet and when I left, I got my CFA 1000. They told me I forgot my dog. I told them it wasn't my dog.

I went to the Hôtel Bouctou and Ali Baba told me that the boat would arrive today. That we would go at 1 or 2pm to get a good bed for me. OK, no problem. It was close to 11am which meant I could hang out in the bar of the Bouctou and have a couple waters and a couple beers even. And that's what I had: 2 1.5 liter bottles of water and 2 beers for CFA 3500. It was about 1pm and I wanted to pay. I gave the waiter CFA 5000 and he said he needed to go get change. Holy crimeny! Can't any business in Timbuktu handle a damned CFA 5000 note?! It's annoying as hell. I waited and waited. I was expecting Ali Baba to come and get me anytime and I was expecting my CFA1500 in change. At 1:15, neither were here. I was impatient and pacing the place. A guy came in and entered the "Direction" office and came out. He noticed I looked agitated. "Ça va?" he asked. I gave him a sharp "non!" "J'ai payée CFA 5000 pour le facture de CFA3500 il y a longtemps et je n'ai pas deja ma monnaie!" He went out to where the group of hangers-on hangs out and demanded that they give me give me CFA 1500. And they promptly did. He went to the back room and brought out a cod orange juice and said something I didn't understand. It looked like he was trying to placate me with a cold 1.5 liters of flavored drink. I said I had too much luggage.

I noticed that some of the people there were afraid of me. I spent of lot of time writing into my Moleskine with a fountain pen. They kept asking if I was a journalist or a writer or an author. I kept telling them I wasn't but they didn't seem to believe me. They seemed apprehensive that I was going to write about them. One guy told me he was sure that I was writing a book for my home country. I assured him I wasn't. The staff started shoeing the more annoying people away from me.

Around 11 I went and got my stuff from my room and checked out. A kid who had asked me if I needed water for the trip (I didn't) came a half hour later and asked if I needed biscuits for the trip. I assumed the people who threw out my garbage told him I had an empty box of biscuits and told him. All these guys are totally in cahoots. In fact their networks are trans-city. He had earlier claimed that he too was going to Gao. He wasn't on the boat and I suspect he only had plans to go to Gao if I had hired him right there to be my guide and he could get a good price. That didn't happen. Instead I was in dread fear that this guy would be unshakeable on the damned boat and I'd go totally nuts. I choose my traveling companions! They don't choose me!

When Ali Baba wasn't showing up, I started asking about him. Soon a guy (probably his "brother" since they claim to be the brother of the other people there) got on his motorcycle to get Ali Baba. A few minutes later Ali Baba was there. He seemed to think there might not be much time. Well, if you think there isn't much time, why the frickin' hell didn't you can when there was enough time? He said he would take my big bags to the Grande Marché where the shared car to the port waits. I didn't really want to separated from my luggage, but there was nothing irreplaceable in what he took. So I let him. He said he would come back to get me and then I could take the shared car. I'm fine with the shared car. In fact, I prefer to travel the typical African way than the rich white way. I waited 15 minutes. A car came up and the guy motioned for me to get in. I got in. He said he would take me to the port. Now, by this time, I have had several offers to take me to the port from several people. So I didn't know if this was an Ali Baba offer or a random guy wanting to take me to the port. I told him about my bag. I said I wanted to go not to the port but to where my bag was and if he didn't know where my bag was, that I didn't want to go with him. I got out. Now I was pissed off immensely. I stewed and after a few minutes of the car driver telling the hangers-on something in French about tourists, I lost it. I started swearing and I kicked the door of the Bouctou bar. Everyone came to watch. I slammed my hat around and swore some more. The driver came up to apologize but I told him it wasn't him--it was Ali Baba. People started SMSing Ali Baba. Soon a motorcycle came up and he said Ali Baba told him to come and get me.

We headed toward the Grande Marché and saw the shared car leaving. The motocycle guy asked about Ali Baba. The shared car guy didn't know. They called Ali Baba. He was already at the port. So I had to go by motorcycle 12 miles to the port on a potholed sandy road. I was not happy. But we made it. I started to look for Ali Baba.

He grabbed my shoulder and led me to the Comanav office. He seems to have heard that I was angry. He tried to calm me down. Once in the office, there was a ticket clerk. Ah ha! I tried to ask the ticket clerk if food was included in the price of the ticket, but Ali Baba kept talking and trying to run interference. Finally, Ali Baba said he wanted to go meet some passengers and he invited me out. He said maybe he could bring me the passengers and I could recommend the Hôtel Bouctou to them. I was non-committal. Then he left me alone to go find white suckers.

I took the opportunity to go back to the Comanav office. Now without Ali Baba I was able to ask the ticket clerk how much extra the food costs above the price of the ticket. "Gratuit" was his answer. I thanked him and went out to see if Ali Baba was there. After about 10 minutes he came up to me. I had been stewing and seething with anger in the hot sun. When I saw him I pointed and said "You and I are going to go into the Comanav office and you are going to explain the CFA 8000 you charged me for food!" He tried to as we walked briskly to the office.

(Continued in the next post)

September 30, 2008 2:54 Mali local time

An Evening At The Bar Of The Hôtel Bouctou

I needed liquid refreshment so I headed to the bar. The Spanish group that was at the Y A Pas De Probleme was there. I could have come with them on their boat, but decided to opt for the real African (hellish beyond belief) experience. And I got it! They started out there and then went out with the Tuareg and probably hung with them for a while. Most likely an exasperating situation as they will have undoubtedly tried to pry as much money from the comparatively rich Spaniards as possible.

I got invited for tea when I headed to the bar, but I stayed long enough that it was pitch black when I returned to my room in the annexe. Even while I was reading and writing in the bar, about 5 Tuareg people came up to try to sell me stuff. Actually, it was nice stuff for some pretty good (desperate) prices. But I can only absorb so much stuff even if it is priced well. Sorry Tuareg merchants.

The thing about the bar I least expected, though, was the number of locusts and beetles. It was swarming with them. I moved away from the door and then a half hour later, the remaining Spaniards (half went to another restaurant) moved to my table away from the fluorescent lights.
Chokoroba came by and recommended some stuff I can't afford on this trip. The guides are geared up for people doing a once in a lifetime Mali trip. I'm doing a West African survey trip. I'm after breadth and not willing to pay much for depth. I have my own objectives and don't countenance people trying to tell me how I ought to travel. They are used to people wanting to experience depth. And that's not me. I'm perfectly happy observing the Tuareg without having tea with them. Besides I'm pretty damn sure that "tea with the Tuareg" is not a real Tuareg experience but an attempt to leverage their hospitality to pry money out of the tourists. Who needs that? Maybe I'm being too cynical, but I never went wrong over-estimating the desire of Africans to fleece white tourists as much as possible. The Tuareg are merchants through and through and see everything as an opportunity to sell using whatever tactics they think will work. The one thing they have really have in their advantage is that the Tuareg are really attractive people. They are good looking and their unique attire look damn good on them. The indigo blue of their clothing is a gorgeous shade of blue.

It's warm in my room. I'm looking forward to tonight though. After two horrible nights, I always have a good sleep. So I'm anticipating a pretty good sleep tonight since the last two nights were among the worst of my trip.

September 25, 2008 22:23 Mali local time

A Lazy Day In Bamako

I woke up yesterday morning and slept in nice.  It was Sunday.  I decided to have another pastry at the Pâtisserie le Royaume des Gourmands.  But they were closed.  Dammit.  Then I headed down the street to see if I could find the Auberge Lafia.  I couldn't.  Then I headed by the Long Ma Chinese place--still closed, but it wasn't noon yet.  Then I found the internet cafe.  Whew!  At least one mission accomplished.  While I was the internet cafe, the annoying guy from the Maison des Jeunes came by.  Jesus, does this guy follow me everywhere?  He's ubiquitous.  I can't escape him.  And every time he appears, he wants to talk--and by talk, I mean spout continuous BS without needing any response from me.  He just talks and talks and talks and talks.  If all I do is say Uh-huh, he just talks and talks.  He doesn't converse--he delivers a long boring fatiguing soliloquy.

I headed back to the Maison des Jeunes and found the Swiss and French guys having a "coffee" in the local coffee stand.  I had one too.  Super sweet, but only CFA150 (US$0.30).  I headed back to my room and asked the French guy about the guy who appears everywhere.  As he was describing his run-ins with the guy, we passed the guy and he of course started to follow us.  He and I exchanged a few words.  He was angry and I was starting to get angry. He tried to call me a racist.  He kept pointing at his eyes then mine saying how differently he sees me nowthat the first night we talked and we were friends, but now I don't have time for him when all we wants to do is help me know and understand his home town where he has lived for 7 years, blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda.  It was stream of consciousness embittered malarkey. 

I made sure my stuff was still in my dorm bed.  All good.  Then I headed out to find something cold to drink--preferably something fermented.  It was past noon and I figured the Appaloosa might be open. Nope--not till 6 on Sundays.  Dammit.  I wandered around the streets and finally found myself close to the Long Ma, so I went to see if it was open.  Yes!  It was.  I went in.  I indulged in an egg roll, sweet and sour pork (if I'm going to eat at noon during Ramadan, might as well go all out and have pork, eh?), eggplant in spicy sauce, a serving of white rice, and 2 large Castel beers.  The whole indulgent bill came to just under CFA10000 (US$20).  It was so much that I couldn't even finish it.  I headed back to my bed and slept it off.

Later that night, my roommate and his friend came back.  His friend speaks English with a very very strong accent.  Gee I hope my French accent isn't as bad as his English accent.  But it would explain why some people don't seem to understand me.  They tried to team up to convince me to go to the American embassy so I could get the guy a visa to come to the United States. I had explained previously to the guy that only a family member can do that.  They couldn't understand why I can't, as a real American citizen, just waltz into the embassy, like I own it, and tell them to issue a visa to some guy I just met.  They don't understand the absurdity of the request.  And they expect to get by in America?  They seem to think that you show up in America and bask in the shower of money.  It ain't like that.  Life is not easy for first generation immigrants.  They are confined to certain jobs that don't pay much unless they happened to have received a good education in their home countries. A person without such an advantage shouldn't come to America hoping to get rich.  They should come to America for their children, who truly and genuinely will benefit from being born an raised in America rather than Guinea or Mali or anywhere else in Africa.

They talked for a while in their native language and every once in a while looked over at me with a look that either bitter or perhaps a sort of jealousy (why does this guy get to be born there and I had to be born here?).  Either way, it was discomforting.  Finally, time ticked by and my Chinese meal was still going through me like a poodle through a boa constrictor.

I had a few bouts of diarrhea.  I ran out of toilet paper and got to learn the local method.  They use these plastic containers that look like teapots. They and short and stout and have a handle and a spout.  I don't know how they use them, but I reached my right hand under my front, and put the spout where my tailbone is and poured water down from above my crack.  Then I used my hand to rub and scrub. It was positively gross, but when I was done, it seemed clean. I sniffed my hand and it didn't smell bad at all--a little bad, but hardly detectable.  I realized then that I should have done that with opposite hands.  Oh well, next time.  I forget my soap so I just rinsed my hand in the sink under a lot of water.  I sniffed again.  Not bad.

Finally, the night came and I drifted off to sleep.

September 15, 2008 10:11 Mali local time

Sierra Leone National Railway Museum In Clinetown

My money supply tight, and being a technology geek who actually has read and enjoyed History of the American Locomotive by Smithsonian Railroad Curator John C. White, I had to head to Clinetown to check out the "free admission" National Railway Museum. Lonely Planet says it opens at 10am. I headed out a bit early. Clinetown is at the far east end of Freetown way down at the other end of Kissy Road. Kissy Road is the road I came into Freetown on. It is an amazing flow of people, goods, vehicles, and energy. You can't help but smile as you walk along this pulsating avenue.

I wanted to go left on College Street but when I got to the roundabout, I found I was block beyond on Ross Street. At least I knew where I was and they connect down by the museum anyway. So I went left and entered Clinetown. Along the way I saw a cafe called Prinvic Cafe. I figured it might have something nice to eat and drink. I passed it thinking maybe I'd find something better. I got to another roundabout with all sorts of signs pointing in various directions labeling the streets. The signs weren't entirely accurate and I went a ways on the wrong street for a while before turning back and finding the real Cline Street. This is a slightly scary part of town. People were begging and calling out to me. I found the museum, but it wouldn't open until 10:30 (another Lonely Planet error-but see below). Since it wasn't open and I didn't see anything that looked better than the Prinvic Cafe, I decided to go back.

The Prinvic has a lace curtain you go through and there about 6 tables with 3 chairs each. I walked in and asked the three ladies sitting in the back if they were open. They looked at me as if I were the only white person ever to set foot into their cafe. She had me take a seat. She had Coca-Cola and a bottled water. I got a Coke. Then she asked me if I wanted her to make me a salad for Le7000 (US$2.66). Sure. It was an interesting salad. A chicken drumstick (cold), lettuce, sliced cucumbers, a sliced hard boiled egg, chunks of some sort of julienned processed meat, white beans, and covered in mayonnaise and ketchup. Despite the odd ingredients, it was pretty tasty. The ketchup, mayo, and beans combined to takes just like baked beans. And the chicken, beans, and canned meat meant it was going to keep my hunger at bay for a while. The Coke was Le2000. With a Le1000 tip, that came to Le10000 or US$3.33. Not bad. The lady was excited to have had me as a customer. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I was leaving Sierra Leone at 5am the next day.

Since it was still early, I decided to check out the ruins of the Old Fourah Bay College building built in 1848--the same year my home state Wisconsin became a state. The shell of the old building is still there in a large walled enclosure. It is surrounded by a little community within the enclosure. The building has no roof and is empty of all but rubble. Its condition is not too dissimilar from the Gembaku Dome--the building that housed the Hiroshima Agency for the Promotion of Trade and Industry until the morning of August 6, 1945. It would be nice for the Old Fourah College building to be restored, though, while the Gembaku Dome must forever remain as it is.

Then it was a little before 10am. I headed to the Railroad Museum. When I got there, the guy told me not to worry about the opening time. He would be happy to give me a tour. He explained how it works, He give me a tour, then at the end I can make a donation and sign the guest book. OK. So we went by a bunch of photographs of Sierra Leone trains and history of the Sierra Leone rail system and the history of the museum itself. Sierra Leone used to have a quite nice rail system until 1975. After that, it was closed down and all the good rolling stock sent to England where a lot of it is still used. Some pictures of the original cars before they were restored. The museum had some pretty slim pickings based on the photos, but they have done a good job so far. They still have a ways to go, and a little visited railway museum that is way out of the tourist beat in Clinetown is probably not a high priority for a strapped national budget. The tour guide was passionate about the train system as it used to be. He showed me the partially restored car that was made for Queen Elizabeth II for her visit to Sierra Leone. There is no furniture or anything. Just a bare car. We went out the back where the queen would have stood to do her twisty wrist wave and we did the wave together imagining our hand covered in white glove, I suppose.

He showed me the diesel engines of a couple of the locomotives--one functional 8 cylinder locomotive and one damaged 6 cylinder engine. I got to climb up into the engineer's cab. It reminded me of the scene in The Road where they find a train and go into the engineer's cab. Then we got the steam engines. Steam engines are my favorite. I especially like the one in the Yaletown Community Center in Vancouver because it has all the parts I remember from History of the American Locomotive and it's fun to figure out the role of each piece. These steam engines weren't in as good shape and a lot of the cool stuff was hidden behind metal casings. But there was still a lot to look at. I sort of wish the guide wasn't there so I could really think about each piece. We saw one of those pump cars where two people (or one, I suppose) pumps the handle attached to a rocker to make the car go. There were a few more utility cars, a box car for carrying money, a small self contained inspection car, and a few other things related to rail maintenance. Finally, there is a piece of track they are working on. They want to put the pump car onto the tracks and let children ride it.

I tipped the guide with one my precious few Le10000 bills and gave another to the donation box. I hope they are able to continue work on the museum. They eventually would like to move it downtown since not many tourists brave Kissy Street and then Clinetown. The trick the museum guides use is to, at some point, find an excuse to tell you that they have been working without salary--5 months in the National Museum guide's case and 2 months for the Railway museum guy--just to make sure you err on the side of giving them a tip.

After that, I was tired so I came back to my room to type this up. Then it started to rain, so I was happy to be indoors.

September 6, 2008 12:03 Sierra Leone local time

Ramadan In Guinea

I woke up this morning and headed out early. I wanted to get to Le Damier early so I wouldn't be eating much during daylight. I got there and was the only one. I ordered the Petit Dejeuner Français (GF44000 or US$9). When I was near done--and after the sun was well up, a woman came in and ordered food. Hmm... Maybe she's not Muslim.

I went out into the street. There were bread vendors and all sorts of food vendors. Maybe people buy the stuff for later that night.

I walked down the Avenue de la Republique. People eating in Le Chelsea. People eating at Gondole. People eating at Cafe Follies. Women were cooking up donuts in the street.

I guess, Ramadan won't be so hard after all. If the Africans eat during daylight, I certainly won't starve myself to prevent causing jealousy. SO I'm a happy camper.

September 1, 2008 15:44 Guinea local time

The ATM Line At BICIGUI

Since I had used a big chunk of my money on the Sierra Leone visa, I decided I better go to the BICIGUI bank and take out a couple of GF200,000 tranches. As I've mentioned, the problem with Guinea is that the largest denomination bill is worth $2 and it's pretty big. I got to the bank at about 3:30 after a nap. There was a long line--maybe 20 people. Each person takes a long time because you have to put your card in (the motor sucks it in really slow), enter your PIN, do the other things you need to do to tell it to give you GF200,000, wait for it to dispense the money, take your card out (the motor pushes it out really slow), and then wait for it to be ready to take the card again. Then you repeat for the next stack of 20 two dollar bills. Repeat as often as needed until you've taken out the number of tranches of $40 you need.

Well, there I was in line and it just wasn't moving. After an initial acknowledgement, I tried to avoid looking at 2 men with polio wearing flip-flops on their hands who hang out the entrance to the bank begging for money. A girl in pink in front of me got impatient and asked me in English to save her spot as she went to run an errand. The line slowly advanced. I met the guy who translated for me at the Malian embassy. Kids were coming by selling books, phone cards, and other sundries. The girl in pink bought a knitted hat and another girl got a pair of sunglasses. The guy from the Malian embassy bought a phone card. That was the most commerce I'd seen transacted with these ambulant salespeople since I arrived in Africa.

After about a half hour there were 10 people in front of me. I had nothing better to do so I continued to stand in line. The girl in pink kept coming and going. Then the ATMs ran out of money. I wondered if this would happen. When the machine is stocked with nothing but think $2 bills and people take out several tranches of 20 each, the stack of cash must go down pretty fast. The security guard peeked into the room with the ATMs every so often to see if they were up yet. Four thirty came and the bank closed. I had hoped to be done before it closed just in case it ate my card. Five o'clock. The ATMs were still down. Then at 5:30, one went up. There were only 5 people in front of me at this point--but there were about 30 behind me. The girl in pink asked me where I was from. I told her and explained my trip. She is engaged to a British man and that is why she speaks English so well. I had though maybe she was from Gambia or Sierra Leone. But she was from Labé. We chatted about Labé since I had spent a few days there. She was impressed with my trip and happy I was enjoying Guinea. Then her turn was up. She shook my hand and went in to draw out her money. When she finished, I went in and got 2 tranches. Everything went well. I got my card back and I got my money.

After that, I decided to eat at an Indian place called Taj Mahal. I was the only customer. I got Lamb Korma, vegetarian samosas, 2 beers, and a sort of condensed milk ice cream. It came to GF90000 or US$18. It was pretty good, though not as good as The Clay Oven in The Gambia. And the beer should have been a few degrees colder. I read La Route while waiting for my food.

When I came home, I folded my money the way the Guineans do. They make little bundles worth GF50000 (US$10). One bill is folded over the top of a stack of the rest of the bills which are rotated 90°. The bills are twice as long as they are high, so when folded like this they form perfect squares. If you line up the corners where both folds come together and keep all the bills tightly compacted, it is easy to quickly pull out multiples of US$10.

August 29, 2008 19:59 Guinea local time

Impressions Of Guinea-Bissau

I got my first impression of Guinea-Bissau riding in. Guinea-Bissau is green. Green and lush. It is mangrove swamp and rain forest. But there are building along the way. Many large square buildings--perhaps 20m by 20m with either a grass roof supported by a pole in the middle or the same shape but in corrugated tin.

The first thing I noticed about the people is that they don't wear as many clothes as in the other parts I went through. In fact, on the way in, I saw three topless women working in their yards or on their porches. And I saw one girl with a long shirt (though not long enough) but no underwear stretching up to reach the clothpins on the clothesline. All this right outside in the open. With traffic going by. Even one guy was on his front porch taking his pants off with some sort of tighty whities underneath.

Another notable thing about the dress here is that there are more women in jeans. After Lululemon or green or gray thin-fabric hiking pants with lots of pockets and snaps and zippers and hooks and loops, jeans are the sexiest thing a woman can put on her legs. So there are a lot more seemingly sexy women here in Guinea-Bissau because there are a lot more jeans.

Islam seems to have less of a hold here. I saw a few Catholic missionaries. I guess the Iberian countries really spent more effort Catholicizing their colonies. I saw a couple people with Jesus shirts. And the buses don't seem to have the connections to Islam. The Red Cross (Cruz Vermilon or something like that) doesn't have the Red Crescent analogue with it.

It is interesting that all the signs and placards turn from French to Portuguese. They actually use it here. If in Brazil, why not here too? It's just funny to me that there would be a Portuguese speaking African nation.

The capital is Bissau. Apparently, Guinea-Bissau was the site of a civil war in the late 90's. And things have never been that great. And it shows. The buildings are old, about half of them boarded up and empty of anything in the way of useful enterprise. The streets are the pothole fixer's nightmare. And there isn't that much stuff. On top of that, tonight at least, parts of the city stank. I eventually saw smoke from my balcony so I realized that somewhere to the west, they were burning something--maybe garbage. The power is extremely unreliable. I don't understand how this city runs.

Morning In The Pensão Centrale, Afternoon In The Aparthotel Jordani

If my experience in Guinea-Bissau and Bissau can be described as hell on earth, my choice of where to spend the night can be described as the 9th circle. OK, that's exaggerating a bit. But I realized concretely what I have been reading in the Lonely Planet when they say "bucket water". That means there is no running water. There is a big rubber garbage container like an American has in his garage. And it's in the bathroom. And it's filled with water and has a cup floating in it. I had a nice pizza last night which meant I needed to get rid of the remains of pizza this morning. That means flushing the toilet. Not by pushing a button or pulling a lever. But by scooping water and pouring it in the toilet.

I tried the shower. Nothing. If you would want to take a shower, it would have to be from the same bucket. Want to wash your hands? Same bucket. And to top it off, the bathroom is between the hallway and the veranda (like every room here). You can close both doors but then it's dark. Or you can open one door and do your bathroom business and hope nobody pops their head in. I kept the one to the veranda slightly ajar.

I headed out about 8:30. I wanted to scope out more of the city and find the best pizzeria because it supposedly has good pastries and coffee in the morning. This time I found it. It was shackled. But I found another place at the southwest corner of the soccer stadium. On the inside it appears to be called the Continental Cafe. I don't remember what it's called on the outside, but it doesn't seem to be that. I saw pastries from the window. I went in and got a seat. I ordered a pastry and a coffee. The pastry turned out to be coconut flavored and it was yummy. I sat there reading The Road/La route.

Now I was finding that I was in a bit of jam. When I first read The Road--started on release day and finished within 48 hours--I cried at the end. When I first read it in French, I cried again. Now I was going to finish it. Would I cry here in the Continental Cafe? I read slowly. When I felt myself welling up, I slowed down. I teared up, but the tears never escaped the confines of my eyes. I sniffled a bit. If the waiter had come at the wrong time I would have lost it, though.

I finished my coffee and pastry, but now I was sort of thirsty. I noticed 4 different fruit juices. One looked like it might be orange juice and one looked like apple juice. I tried to order the orange juice, but he told me it wasn't orange--it was mango. I don't want mango juice, so asked if the apple juice looking one was apple juice. I was asking in French. I don't what he was telling me in Portuguese. So I ordered it and went back to reading. A couple of minutes later, he brought a maroon colored juice that I hadn't seen. I looked over at the 4 juices and the one that looked like apple juice was now maroon. It is papaya? I don't know. The maroon part is a powdery pulp that sinks to the bottom leaving an apple juice colored liquid on top. I just hadn't seen the bottom part where the maroon part was. It was a bit tart and a bit sweet. Not bad, but not what I wanted. I drank it though. Then I tried to pay which was a bit tricky since I thought I had asked for the bill but it didn't come so I just took my 5000 CFA bill up to the register.

After that, I went to another hotel that costs 5000 CFA more (US$10) but sounded much better. They had a room and it looked good. And the desk guy spoke French. So I took it and moved from the Pensão Centrale to the Aparthotel Jordani. Wow! What a difference. The first thing I did was take a much needed shower. Boy did that feel good. There isn't hot and cold running water, but there is running water. Whew! Having gotten myself nice and clean and fresh, I headed out to see if I could find post cards. It seemed like a problem. No place seemed to sell them but I had passed a tourist shop that looked like the best bet. I went in and just as I was about to leave dejected, viola, a basket of postcards. I took 2 and went up to pay. I handed them to the guy and he studied them carefully. Then he wouldn't take my money. He said some things in Portuguese then finally in English "give you". OK, so I got them for free. I bought 2 stamps for 350 CFA. Then headed back to the room.

I got a pen and headed out the local "fast food" place. I found it just to the north of the soccer stadium and went in. There was a Portuguese guy and no other customers. I sat down and ordered a beer--by now I'm reading the French version of Le route only--no The Road to check my comprehension. But then the guy turned on the Olympics. I started watching that. We watched the French women handball team play the Russian team, he switched around a bit to other channels with other events. Then he asked me in English, "English? French?" I told him I could watch either in English giving away my language preference for English. I asked him if the kitchen was open. He said it was until midnight.

So we watched the Olympics for a while. Some customers came and went. Then the guy's family came. He has a toddler and an infant. And this guy turned in crazy doting father. He made baby noises and faces for the next hour. It was funny and goofy. They turned it from the Olympics to Bob, l'Éponge for the kids. That's Spongebob Squarepants for those of you who didn't figure that out.

I decided to order a hamburger with fries. But when I tried to order, I couldn't understand the waitress, so I had the guy help me. I said I wanted a hamburger with "fries", but he heard "rice". Finally, when he said they could do chips, I realized I needed to use the British version of the term for fries and got the order switched chips with no rice. The hamburger came with no bun, but a fried egg on top and sprinkled but not melted cheese. That and 2 beers cost 3000 CFA (US$6).

One of the nice things about this leg in Guinea-Bissau, is that I'm learning what traveling in Africa would have been like if I hadn't spent 3 months in France learning French. I'd be dependent on people who speak English and French to help me the way I am with Portuguese. It would be hell on earth. I would recommend against anyone traveling extensively in Francophone Africa without learning a good bit of French. It would be horrible.

August 19, 2008 16:37 Guinea-Bissau local time