The rest of the weekend- all of Saturday and Sunday that is- were taken up by the hellish trip back to Dakar. If we thought the road from Kedougou to Labe was the worst of it, we were terribly mistaken. Despite our awesome car and the amazing (comparatively- it was still not paved) road to Koundara, the journey was all but easy. Our driver, no doubt ecstatic about his fabulous car, drove way too fast on the winding and potholed road so by the time 8 o’clock rolled around (we left at 6am) I was thoroughly carsick. Most of the day comprised of us rearranging ourselves throughout the car in order to avoid vomiting, but the result was that all of us just felt equally sick. This activity was interrupted only when we stopped at a customs checkpoint, of which there were at least six. And at each one we had to get out, show our passports, and wait patiently while the police slowly copied down our information, make awkward conversation, and proposed marriage. However, at one Guinean post there was a nice female guard who gave us all Pulaar names!
When we arrived in Manda, the little town just shy of the Senegal border, we were immediately surrounded by men who wanted to sell us something, give us a deal, or bring us over the border. For some reason, it was completely overwhelming after a week of relative tranquility in Guinea…anyway, we were directed to a bus that was apparently going to Tambacounda, where we were planning on staying the night, but upon approaching the bus, a group of four girls from the program shouted our names from inside. They had been waiting since 8am (it was 6pm) for the bus to leave for Dakar and planned to ride it overnight all the way back. Somehow- and I still don’t know how I convinced myself this would work out- they persuaded us to join them. So we climbed on the bus and were off. No just kidding, that would have been far too easy. We waited for another three hours before leaving, but there was one very scary false alarm when the bus began to pull away and Jen was still in the bathroom…
The next 24 hours are really just a blur of miserable sticky heat and swirling clouds of dust- both inside and outside of the bus. We must have stopped about every half-an-hour for every imaginable reason: to go to the bathroom, to pray, to eat, to buy water, to stretch, to smoke, or for no reason at all! Around 11pm we arrived at our previous destination of Tambacounda where the gare (station) was full of sketchy people making deals and drivers sleeping in their cars. There was also a man wearing nothing but a towel who followed us around while he smoked his joint. Only in Senegal. Needless to say we literally spent an entire day on this bus and by the end I was so dirty that I was a different shade. When I got home my brother asked me how I arranged to change races in Guinea. Yes indeed, I was dirty. But it was nothing that a nice (cold) shower and a large plate of yassa gannard* couldn’t fix…!
*Yassa chicken is the most delectable Senegalese dish ever invented- better than ceebu jen, the national dish. It is grilled chicken (mmm!) with olives and pickles over a bed of white rice, seasoned onions, and garlic. Can you imagine? No, you can’t- SOOOO good!
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Part XIII: What a Man Won’t Do For Me…
Friday started just like every other day in Guinea- with a search for food. Of course we had- you guessed it!- bread and were quickly on our way. First, we headed to Villa Silli, the summer home of successive Governors of the French colony of West Africa.* The house was not as big as I had expected (while still easily considered a mansion), but it has been left to decay. An unofficial guard and tour guide opened it up for us so we could see inside, and I must say that I can only imagine how beautiful it was when it was well taken care of. The brightly colored paint peeling off the walls would have been fresh and lacquered, the intricately carved concrete walls and furniture would have been dusted clean, and the wrap-around windows would have looked out on a well-groomed lawn and lush green mountains of infinite beauty. As it was, the best word to describe it is pitiful- nothing more than a remnant of past splendor.
Right next door was the Casa des Palabras (I have no idea why the name is Spanish/Portuguese) which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. While this was hard to believe since there was no one else in sight, I am not surprised because it has great historical significance. The building was built, in defiance of French rule, in the manner of traditional round huts. The entire interior- wall, floors, ceiling- is covered with bas-relief carvings which all have significance. The casa was used as a meeting place for colonial authorities and local tribal chiefs. The Governor would sit in the middle of the circular room while 12 chiefs sat at prescribed places around the walls, and they would discuss. The house is clearly falling into disrepair as its historical import is forgotten, but the guide explained that UNESCO came recently to repair the roof, which still looked in pretty bad shape…
Afterwards we headed off to the Association des Coutourieres de Dalaba, a small cooperative known for its traditional Guinean indigo fabric. It was very difficult to find- we had to ask several people before we came across one who had any idea where it was- probably because it was no more than a house next to a three-room school/workshop. When we arrived, the nicest old lady (who insisted that she recognized Margaret while she gave her a gentle kiss) invited us into her living room. A small detail but great point of humor here were the family pictures taken behind very fake-looking backdrops of the Eiffel Tower, NYC, etc. and the outdated map of Africa that listed non-existent cities in Nigeria…Anyway, the woman took us through the building and explained that they train young girls how to dye fabric while they educate them because their parents wouldn’t let them go to school unless they were learning a “useful” trade at the same time. There was a sign in the largest classroom that said “Educating today’s girls is training tomorrow’s mother.” How is that for gender progress? We also met a Peace Corps volunteer from Madison, WI- holler!
Then we headed to the Cooperative des Cordonniers (Leather Co-op) in center city. On the way we ran into masses of young boys heading home from school to change into their Friday best for prayer at the Mosque. This co-op was hard to find too, but completely worth it- they had the most beautiful handmade leather sandals and purses! I found a pair that I really liked, but they were not the right size. As we were leaving that day, we were short on time, but the vendor did not want to lose a sale so he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: he sized my foot, promised to make me a pair of sandals with the design I wanted, and said he would deliver the shoes to my hotel before I left at 3 that afternoon. And that he certainly did- all for $6!
Next we wandered by a sign for the “Galerie des Arts” which, apparently, was not where it said it was. So a few little children led us through winding streets, garbage, and the market to a dark, tiny room with mass-produced, touristy wood carvings, masks, etc. There was also a gun on one of the tables, and we left rather quickly.
The rest of the day was spent in transit from Dalaba back to Labe where we stayed at the sketchiest hotel ever- Hotel de l’Independence. Imagine: no running water, smelly toilets, stifling hot rooms, cockroaches exploring the floor at the food of the bed. It was awful, and I may have slept a total of two hours. But before that, we had gone to find a sept-place for the trip back to Koundara on the border. We had to negotiate with a crowd of drivers, but our car was- and I’m sorry but there is no other word for it- pimp. It had new wheels, doors that actually closed, a radio that worked without skipping, tinted windows, and acceleration! It was amazing. Apparently some of the other drivers thought so too because they were all jumping around (literally), excited that we were taking the car. Although it sketched me out at first, I think we accompanied the car on its virgin journey.
But I don’t want to get ahead of myself because Saturday was another day altogether…
*This colony, which covered an area that today includes Mauritania, Mali, Senegal, Niger, and several other current African nations, was jointly ruled by a French Governor who had jurisdiction over the entire landmass.
Right next door was the Casa des Palabras (I have no idea why the name is Spanish/Portuguese) which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. While this was hard to believe since there was no one else in sight, I am not surprised because it has great historical significance. The building was built, in defiance of French rule, in the manner of traditional round huts. The entire interior- wall, floors, ceiling- is covered with bas-relief carvings which all have significance. The casa was used as a meeting place for colonial authorities and local tribal chiefs. The Governor would sit in the middle of the circular room while 12 chiefs sat at prescribed places around the walls, and they would discuss. The house is clearly falling into disrepair as its historical import is forgotten, but the guide explained that UNESCO came recently to repair the roof, which still looked in pretty bad shape…
Afterwards we headed off to the Association des Coutourieres de Dalaba, a small cooperative known for its traditional Guinean indigo fabric. It was very difficult to find- we had to ask several people before we came across one who had any idea where it was- probably because it was no more than a house next to a three-room school/workshop. When we arrived, the nicest old lady (who insisted that she recognized Margaret while she gave her a gentle kiss) invited us into her living room. A small detail but great point of humor here were the family pictures taken behind very fake-looking backdrops of the Eiffel Tower, NYC, etc. and the outdated map of Africa that listed non-existent cities in Nigeria…Anyway, the woman took us through the building and explained that they train young girls how to dye fabric while they educate them because their parents wouldn’t let them go to school unless they were learning a “useful” trade at the same time. There was a sign in the largest classroom that said “Educating today’s girls is training tomorrow’s mother.” How is that for gender progress? We also met a Peace Corps volunteer from Madison, WI- holler!
Then we headed to the Cooperative des Cordonniers (Leather Co-op) in center city. On the way we ran into masses of young boys heading home from school to change into their Friday best for prayer at the Mosque. This co-op was hard to find too, but completely worth it- they had the most beautiful handmade leather sandals and purses! I found a pair that I really liked, but they were not the right size. As we were leaving that day, we were short on time, but the vendor did not want to lose a sale so he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: he sized my foot, promised to make me a pair of sandals with the design I wanted, and said he would deliver the shoes to my hotel before I left at 3 that afternoon. And that he certainly did- all for $6!
Next we wandered by a sign for the “Galerie des Arts” which, apparently, was not where it said it was. So a few little children led us through winding streets, garbage, and the market to a dark, tiny room with mass-produced, touristy wood carvings, masks, etc. There was also a gun on one of the tables, and we left rather quickly.
The rest of the day was spent in transit from Dalaba back to Labe where we stayed at the sketchiest hotel ever- Hotel de l’Independence. Imagine: no running water, smelly toilets, stifling hot rooms, cockroaches exploring the floor at the food of the bed. It was awful, and I may have slept a total of two hours. But before that, we had gone to find a sept-place for the trip back to Koundara on the border. We had to negotiate with a crowd of drivers, but our car was- and I’m sorry but there is no other word for it- pimp. It had new wheels, doors that actually closed, a radio that worked without skipping, tinted windows, and acceleration! It was amazing. Apparently some of the other drivers thought so too because they were all jumping around (literally), excited that we were taking the car. Although it sketched me out at first, I think we accompanied the car on its virgin journey.
But I don’t want to get ahead of myself because Saturday was another day altogether…
*This colony, which covered an area that today includes Mauritania, Mali, Senegal, Niger, and several other current African nations, was jointly ruled by a French Governor who had jurisdiction over the entire landmass.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Part XII: Strawberry Fields Forever
Thursday was a bit of a lazy day. We slept in late, and had a disappointing breakfast of bread and flavorless butter, and oranges of course. But then, after the French couple sitting next to us on the patio left, we stole the remnants of their extensive (and expensive) hotel breakfast- coffee, cheese, and sugar! Then we met our chauffeur in the lobby to negotiate a price for the afternoon and exchanged money at a really bad rate.
Our excursion took us to a very large and unique garden that Dalaba is famous for. On the way, we came upon a huge truck, which our driver honked at incessantly and finally swerved around. Well we thought he was crazy until he shouted something and smiled at the truck driver who, he later explained, is his brother. We also passed lots of women and children carrying huge bowls of vegetables on their heads. Yaya (our driver- isn’t that a fantastic name?) told us they were bringing the veggies to the truck to be sold in Conakry.
When we got to the garden Yaya took us around, showing us coffee trees (the fruit tastes nothing like coffee- it’s actually quite sweet), mango trees (a few fell and almost bludgeoned us), carrots, cabbage, peas, peppers, leeks, chives, parsley, basil, mint, coriander, sage, and all kinds of other delicious spices. There were three or four adorable children in ragged and dirty clothes who followed us around pointing out what everything was. The gardens are most famous for their strawberries, which we bought three panniers (baskets) of and immediately ate- without washing! We also ate fresh carrots- yum!
After the gardens Yaya took us to a little “restaurant” which was really just a woman cooking in the middle of a huge courtyard which was filled with benches. We ate typical Guinean dishes of white rice, cooked without oil (!), and a sauce made of crushed manioc leaf. It sounds gross, I know, but it was so incredibly good. Then we made a quick run to the tiny and rather abandoned market for mangos and peanut butter (strange eating habits, I know) and headed back to the hotel for afternoon nap time.
Around 6:30 we all woke up famished and decided to walk down the road to a little shack Mathieu, our backpacking Frenchman, had suggested. There we enjoyed the cheapest (2000GF = 200 CFA = $.35), largest and most delicious (well not really, but I’m going for superlatives here…) spaghetti ever. Afterwards we trekked up to Chez Habib’s for a couple of after-dinner beers. It was quite an experience- drunk old men dancing to music videos that cut in and out with the bad electricity, a bathroom that was really just a concrete floor (I did not partake in this joyful fieldtrip), and a tired little baby who kept wandering out from the back of the bar (although I don’t know what he was doing back there in the first place). Then it was back to the hotel for another sleepless, 3-to-a-bed night…
Our excursion took us to a very large and unique garden that Dalaba is famous for. On the way, we came upon a huge truck, which our driver honked at incessantly and finally swerved around. Well we thought he was crazy until he shouted something and smiled at the truck driver who, he later explained, is his brother. We also passed lots of women and children carrying huge bowls of vegetables on their heads. Yaya (our driver- isn’t that a fantastic name?) told us they were bringing the veggies to the truck to be sold in Conakry.
When we got to the garden Yaya took us around, showing us coffee trees (the fruit tastes nothing like coffee- it’s actually quite sweet), mango trees (a few fell and almost bludgeoned us), carrots, cabbage, peas, peppers, leeks, chives, parsley, basil, mint, coriander, sage, and all kinds of other delicious spices. There were three or four adorable children in ragged and dirty clothes who followed us around pointing out what everything was. The gardens are most famous for their strawberries, which we bought three panniers (baskets) of and immediately ate- without washing! We also ate fresh carrots- yum!
After the gardens Yaya took us to a little “restaurant” which was really just a woman cooking in the middle of a huge courtyard which was filled with benches. We ate typical Guinean dishes of white rice, cooked without oil (!), and a sauce made of crushed manioc leaf. It sounds gross, I know, but it was so incredibly good. Then we made a quick run to the tiny and rather abandoned market for mangos and peanut butter (strange eating habits, I know) and headed back to the hotel for afternoon nap time.
Around 6:30 we all woke up famished and decided to walk down the road to a little shack Mathieu, our backpacking Frenchman, had suggested. There we enjoyed the cheapest (2000GF = 200 CFA = $.35), largest and most delicious (well not really, but I’m going for superlatives here…) spaghetti ever. Afterwards we trekked up to Chez Habib’s for a couple of after-dinner beers. It was quite an experience- drunk old men dancing to music videos that cut in and out with the bad electricity, a bathroom that was really just a concrete floor (I did not partake in this joyful fieldtrip), and a tired little baby who kept wandering out from the back of the bar (although I don’t know what he was doing back there in the first place). Then it was back to the hotel for another sleepless, 3-to-a-bed night…
Part XI: “Mai ma sama xaalis léegi!”
One of the true highlights of the trip occurred when we arrived in Pita after leaving the village. The driver, who had concluded a deal with our guide for fare from the village to Pita, and a separate fare from Pita to Dalaba, tried to tell us that we would have to pay significantly more. He insisted that he had discussed the price with our guide, but our guide had expressly told us a much lower (and much more realistic) price. Unfortunately we had unwisely paid half of the total sum, which more than covered the short trip from the village to Pita, before leaving the village. Deciding that the best solution was to extricate ourselves completely from the situation and find a different driver, we commenced attempts to recover our extra money from the driver. As the conversation intensified more townspeople wandered over trying to “help” but as the confusion mounted and our frustrations erupted, Kyle yelled loudly at the driver in Wolof: “Mai ma sama xaalis léegi!” (Give me my money right now!) Surprisingly the driver understood, even though he only spoke Pulaar. In fact, he was so surprised and delighted that he actually did give us our money (after he had a good laugh on our behalf).
We got another driver to drive us- all seven of us- to Dalaba in his compact car. (Yes, Morgan I realize that this counteracts my good behavior earlier in the day…) He showed us all kinds of wonderful things along the way though. First, he brought us to his native village; the entrance was right on the side of the road and we walked through trees, bushes, and over a little stream with a log bridge. It was so quaint. His mother was not home so he took us to an orange tree, which he climbed without delay, and began to rain down oranges upon us. Jen (the other one) and I grabbed the containers he had brought for us and put them on our heads, filling them with oranges. I felt thoroughly African. The best part is that when he dropped us off at our hotel, he gave us all the oranges! We also stopped at an amazing little village in the middle of a huge pine grove. I felt right at home among all those tall coniferous trees, and the smell was heavenly!
When we got to the hotel we freshened up and ate enough oranges to give ourselves stomach aches before we set out to find the town. After walking in the wrong direction for about ten minutes, we finally asked someone directions. Then, when we had almost gotten to town, we decided to turn back because everyone was hungry. We were almost run over by numerous motorcycles, always with three people, all of them, including the driver, usually younger than seventeen. And we passed a soccer game letting out- masses of young boys in uniforms and pads, and spectators flooding down the road toward us were definitely a bit intimidating.
Anyway, turns out most of the restaurants in the guide book are no longer in operation, but we did find an auberge-restaurant that made us the best meal we had all vacation: grilled chicken (as fresh as can be- pretty sure that chicken was alive when we walked in…), fries, and a salad with lots of tomatoes and onions. It took an hour and a half to prepare (that’s fast by African standards) but we played 20 questions and interviewed each other on the couches in the covered porch for amusement.
After dinner I retired, exhausted, to our room to read while everyone else talked on the patio with Mathieu, a French tourist backpacking through West Africa. He had already seen Morocco, Senegal, Gambia, and Guinea, and was heading to Mali. Sounds like a good game plan to me…anyone else in?
We got another driver to drive us- all seven of us- to Dalaba in his compact car. (Yes, Morgan I realize that this counteracts my good behavior earlier in the day…) He showed us all kinds of wonderful things along the way though. First, he brought us to his native village; the entrance was right on the side of the road and we walked through trees, bushes, and over a little stream with a log bridge. It was so quaint. His mother was not home so he took us to an orange tree, which he climbed without delay, and began to rain down oranges upon us. Jen (the other one) and I grabbed the containers he had brought for us and put them on our heads, filling them with oranges. I felt thoroughly African. The best part is that when he dropped us off at our hotel, he gave us all the oranges! We also stopped at an amazing little village in the middle of a huge pine grove. I felt right at home among all those tall coniferous trees, and the smell was heavenly!
When we got to the hotel we freshened up and ate enough oranges to give ourselves stomach aches before we set out to find the town. After walking in the wrong direction for about ten minutes, we finally asked someone directions. Then, when we had almost gotten to town, we decided to turn back because everyone was hungry. We were almost run over by numerous motorcycles, always with three people, all of them, including the driver, usually younger than seventeen. And we passed a soccer game letting out- masses of young boys in uniforms and pads, and spectators flooding down the road toward us were definitely a bit intimidating.
Anyway, turns out most of the restaurants in the guide book are no longer in operation, but we did find an auberge-restaurant that made us the best meal we had all vacation: grilled chicken (as fresh as can be- pretty sure that chicken was alive when we walked in…), fries, and a salad with lots of tomatoes and onions. It took an hour and a half to prepare (that’s fast by African standards) but we played 20 questions and interviewed each other on the couches in the covered porch for amusement.
After dinner I retired, exhausted, to our room to read while everyone else talked on the patio with Mathieu, a French tourist backpacking through West Africa. He had already seen Morocco, Senegal, Gambia, and Guinea, and was heading to Mali. Sounds like a good game plan to me…anyone else in?
Part X: The Porto Parade
On Wednesday we woke up early in our hut and stumbled outside to see a group of villagers loitering there. There was a split-second of awkward deer-in-headlights staring before we remembered that we were White- porto is the word in Pulaar- and that we would necessarily be stared at. They watched us while we washed our faces and brushed our teeth; even our guide loomed over us, although he did come in handy when we needed someone to pour water on our hands. The number one rule with bucket washing is that you never under any circumstance put your dirty hands in the bucket!
We had a wonderful leisurely breakfast of citronelle (lemon tea) and coffee (coffee!), bread, peanut butter and honey, bananas, ananas (pineapple) and papaya jam, and oranges. Then we purified village water, took the obligatory pictures with villagers, said goodbye to the French and Italian tourists we had been running into for the past two days, and set off on our two hour walk in the sun and heat to the market at a nearby village. I don’t have much to say about the Porto Parade- because that is without a doubt what we were- except that it was very long and very hot, and we were constantly passed by women wearing sandals, carrying babies on their backs, and wares on their heads.
I felt awful by the time we got to the market- hot, tired, and nauseous. There were so many people and no neat pathways like in Dakar- we had to squeeze between stands of peppers and bags of rice, and around brightly colored umbrellas opened everywhere to protect from the searing sun. Lunch was ready for us when we arrived but the heat in that little room and the sight of such an enormous amount of salad made me feel sick so I sat outside until everyone else was done. I will admit though that I enjoyed the amount of concern our very cute guide showed…
After lunch our guide took us to a bar for sodas, where we were again forced to take pictures with curious strangers. They ogled and the cook sandwiched himself between me and Margaret, trying to put his arm around me. So I said I had to go to the bathroom. A little boy- who couldn’t have been more than 4 years old led me through winding food stalls and dilapidated buildings to a very new and neat outhouse. He waited patiently outside and brought me back to the bar, where I noticed upon re-entry the random American posters hung on the walls- the “Afghanistan War,” Sylvester Stallone, and various soccer players.
We parted ways soon after in a torturously slow car that squished far too many inside when they could have ridden on the roof. (Do not worry Morgan, I sat in the back, with all hands and arms fully inside the vehicle.)
We had a wonderful leisurely breakfast of citronelle (lemon tea) and coffee (coffee!), bread, peanut butter and honey, bananas, ananas (pineapple) and papaya jam, and oranges. Then we purified village water, took the obligatory pictures with villagers, said goodbye to the French and Italian tourists we had been running into for the past two days, and set off on our two hour walk in the sun and heat to the market at a nearby village. I don’t have much to say about the Porto Parade- because that is without a doubt what we were- except that it was very long and very hot, and we were constantly passed by women wearing sandals, carrying babies on their backs, and wares on their heads.
I felt awful by the time we got to the market- hot, tired, and nauseous. There were so many people and no neat pathways like in Dakar- we had to squeeze between stands of peppers and bags of rice, and around brightly colored umbrellas opened everywhere to protect from the searing sun. Lunch was ready for us when we arrived but the heat in that little room and the sight of such an enormous amount of salad made me feel sick so I sat outside until everyone else was done. I will admit though that I enjoyed the amount of concern our very cute guide showed…
After lunch our guide took us to a bar for sodas, where we were again forced to take pictures with curious strangers. They ogled and the cook sandwiched himself between me and Margaret, trying to put his arm around me. So I said I had to go to the bathroom. A little boy- who couldn’t have been more than 4 years old led me through winding food stalls and dilapidated buildings to a very new and neat outhouse. He waited patiently outside and brought me back to the bar, where I noticed upon re-entry the random American posters hung on the walls- the “Afghanistan War,” Sylvester Stallone, and various soccer players.
We parted ways soon after in a torturously slow car that squished far too many inside when they could have ridden on the roof. (Do not worry Morgan, I sat in the back, with all hands and arms fully inside the vehicle.)
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Part IX: When I Was Your Age I Used to Walk an Hour to School…Uphill Both Ways!
Once we arrived at the village, we were immediately surrounded by curious children and village leaders who wanted to welcome us. The village is a registered tourist encampment, but you would have thought they had never seen a white person the way they treated us. We organized our things, took a quick bathroom break, and saw the kitchen where they were preparing our meal- a salad! Just before we left for our hike, a white man burst into the kitchen speaking French and Pulaar. He fulfilled every stereotype of Americans- big, loud, overly-friendly, but it turns out he was a Quebecois who speaks almost no English! He had just arrived in Guinea a few weeks before, and had been in the village only a few days, but he planned on spending a few months there to standardize tourist stays.
Our afternoon “hike” was an absolute marathon of walking, all which somehow seemed to be uphill. First we went to the Pont de Dieu, a natural stone bridge that arced over a small bubbling waterfall and a tranquil little swimming pond. A young boy from the village accompanied us to this location, carrying our lunch on his head. He carried the huge (and heavy- I felt it!) platter of salad about two miles so we could enjoy a scrumptious meal amongst the beautiful scenery. While swimming by the falls, I discovered a little cave which we climbed into. It was small, wet, and mossy, and we only stayed for a minute or two, but it’s probably the closest I’ll get to spelunking here so I relished it.
The rest of the afternoon was spent hiking through brush- tall grass, tropical trees, vines, rocks, etc. in search of three other waterfalls. While the walk was long and hot- so, SO hot- it was always seemed worth it upon arrival at one of the amazing chutes. They were enormous, majestic, indescribably beautiful. Even pictures cannot do them justice. Apparently they were kind of puny in comparison to how they look during the rainy season, so I cannot imagine how huge and powerful they are then. We couldn’t swim at the first two because they were too craggy and dangerous, but we took some funny pictures. The third one was more inviting and we swam over to the foot and climbed up the falls to find that it had a natural Jacuzzi! There was a little pool hidden between some rocks that was naturally warmed by the sun, and it even had a ledge to sit on. Oh the luxury! We also ate papaya on the edge of the rocks and pumped and filtered water from the falls to drink. So now I can say that I drank waterfall water from Guinea!
The way back was a bit more tiresome because we had already walked so much, but we heard some monkeys and saw a cow skull picked clean by vultures. There were cows wandering all over- I have no idea who they belong to, but they were all branded. We also had a tense moment or two when our guide heard someone cutting down trees (which is VERY illegal in the quickly disappearing tropical rainforests of the region) and yelled fiercely at him. We also got an explanation for the miles and miles of charred earth: apparently, village elders decided when and how much land to burn around the perimeter of the village so that if fires spontaneously start during the hot, dry season, they will extinguish themselves before they can destroy the huts. It was still sad to see, especially when we came across a still-smoldering tree.
It was dinner time when we returned and let me say that the money we paid was well worth it if only for the food. We had a couscous feast with fish, beef, egglplant, carrots, squash, tomatoes, and all kinds of other vegetables. And afterwards we had ataya (the amazingly strong and sweet after-dinner tea that Senegal is famous for) and citronelle (lemon tea) while children from the village sang and entertained us. I admit this part felt a bit phony and exploitative, but they were mostly there for the French and Italian tourists who clapped and joined in the dancing. At one point the French women started singing a popular French song, and we responded with a rousing and very American round of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”
Finally, we retired to our hut, which was, to our credit, within the village proper instead of in the tourist encampment. That is, they gathered that we were assimilated enough into West African culture that we could handle a hut with no niceties, a Turkish toilet instead of a western one, and bucket showers. (For the record, we ate dinner out of a communal bowl as usual instead of off of individual plates.) The Quebecois man, whose name was Michael, came to visit us with a bottle of straight gin, which only the boys indulged in. I was exhausted and went to bed right away while the rest of the group stayed up late playing games and talking about strange things. I think the last thing I heard before I drifted off to sleep was a conversation about chest hair…
Our afternoon “hike” was an absolute marathon of walking, all which somehow seemed to be uphill. First we went to the Pont de Dieu, a natural stone bridge that arced over a small bubbling waterfall and a tranquil little swimming pond. A young boy from the village accompanied us to this location, carrying our lunch on his head. He carried the huge (and heavy- I felt it!) platter of salad about two miles so we could enjoy a scrumptious meal amongst the beautiful scenery. While swimming by the falls, I discovered a little cave which we climbed into. It was small, wet, and mossy, and we only stayed for a minute or two, but it’s probably the closest I’ll get to spelunking here so I relished it.
The rest of the afternoon was spent hiking through brush- tall grass, tropical trees, vines, rocks, etc. in search of three other waterfalls. While the walk was long and hot- so, SO hot- it was always seemed worth it upon arrival at one of the amazing chutes. They were enormous, majestic, indescribably beautiful. Even pictures cannot do them justice. Apparently they were kind of puny in comparison to how they look during the rainy season, so I cannot imagine how huge and powerful they are then. We couldn’t swim at the first two because they were too craggy and dangerous, but we took some funny pictures. The third one was more inviting and we swam over to the foot and climbed up the falls to find that it had a natural Jacuzzi! There was a little pool hidden between some rocks that was naturally warmed by the sun, and it even had a ledge to sit on. Oh the luxury! We also ate papaya on the edge of the rocks and pumped and filtered water from the falls to drink. So now I can say that I drank waterfall water from Guinea!
The way back was a bit more tiresome because we had already walked so much, but we heard some monkeys and saw a cow skull picked clean by vultures. There were cows wandering all over- I have no idea who they belong to, but they were all branded. We also had a tense moment or two when our guide heard someone cutting down trees (which is VERY illegal in the quickly disappearing tropical rainforests of the region) and yelled fiercely at him. We also got an explanation for the miles and miles of charred earth: apparently, village elders decided when and how much land to burn around the perimeter of the village so that if fires spontaneously start during the hot, dry season, they will extinguish themselves before they can destroy the huts. It was still sad to see, especially when we came across a still-smoldering tree.
It was dinner time when we returned and let me say that the money we paid was well worth it if only for the food. We had a couscous feast with fish, beef, egglplant, carrots, squash, tomatoes, and all kinds of other vegetables. And afterwards we had ataya (the amazingly strong and sweet after-dinner tea that Senegal is famous for) and citronelle (lemon tea) while children from the village sang and entertained us. I admit this part felt a bit phony and exploitative, but they were mostly there for the French and Italian tourists who clapped and joined in the dancing. At one point the French women started singing a popular French song, and we responded with a rousing and very American round of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”
Finally, we retired to our hut, which was, to our credit, within the village proper instead of in the tourist encampment. That is, they gathered that we were assimilated enough into West African culture that we could handle a hut with no niceties, a Turkish toilet instead of a western one, and bucket showers. (For the record, we ate dinner out of a communal bowl as usual instead of off of individual plates.) The Quebecois man, whose name was Michael, came to visit us with a bottle of straight gin, which only the boys indulged in. I was exhausted and went to bed right away while the rest of the group stayed up late playing games and talking about strange things. I think the last thing I heard before I drifted off to sleep was a conversation about chest hair…
Part VIII: Getting There is Always Half the Fun
Tuesday started much later than we expected- our guide was late, and the car and cook were even later (two hours). What can I say? That’s Africa time. However, during the time we were waiting for our cook, we agreed it would be a good idea to confirm the price we had been quoted the night before. We were told 80,000 GF ($16) for both days of the excursion, a fact which several people verified several times, in several different manners, because by that time we were used to the disorganization and rampant deception in Guinea, which most Guineans try to pass off as misunderstanding and/or a language barrier.
So when our guide tried to tell us that the price was 80,000 GF per day, Chad took the defensive, explaining to the guide in rather harsh terms that we had been told a much lower price. They argued in that vague African way that doesn’t actually seem like an argument, but a lengthy conversation. There was no animosity- they even laughed at times- but it was certainly tense. In the end, we got a “deal” and paid 120,000 GF for the two days together.
Finally the car came and we fit ourselves in like sardines. We took “couple pictures” because the four people in the middle seat looked like they were dating: they had to spoon to fit, and the boys on the ends of the seat had to put their arms around the girls in order to fit shoulders in. Fortunately the roads were AMAZING- paved and smooth!- unlike the hellish trip through the mountains into Guinea. We stopped briefly on our way to the village at a “market” on the side of the road which consisted of a few stalls selling things. There were a few unidentifiable stalls, then an iron-smith attaching handles to a metal door with a blow-torch, then the butcher. Here there were whole, skinned animals hanging from metal hooks caked with blood, swinging slightly in the dusty breeze. It’s a good thing we were far away because I don’t think I would have been able to eat dinner if I had seen the stall up close.
The next place we came to was the cute little town of Pita, where we encountered some very interesting people. There was the woman who wandered by our car and wanted to talk with us, but spoke no French or Wolof (of course) and we spoke very very little Pulaar (of course). There was the Rasta man from Gambia who spoke excellent English and wanted us to know that we human beings are all the same deep down because the same blood runs through all of us. (Just to confirm a couple of stereotypes, he was wearing reggae colors and had a Bob Marley shirt and dreads. Finally, there was the man with a pet monkey on a leash. This poor little monkey was terrified- his owner left and came back periodically, people hit him and threw oranges at him, and he got tangled in the chair he was tied to. As we were leaving, his owner tried to sell him to us...
So when our guide tried to tell us that the price was 80,000 GF per day, Chad took the defensive, explaining to the guide in rather harsh terms that we had been told a much lower price. They argued in that vague African way that doesn’t actually seem like an argument, but a lengthy conversation. There was no animosity- they even laughed at times- but it was certainly tense. In the end, we got a “deal” and paid 120,000 GF for the two days together.
Finally the car came and we fit ourselves in like sardines. We took “couple pictures” because the four people in the middle seat looked like they were dating: they had to spoon to fit, and the boys on the ends of the seat had to put their arms around the girls in order to fit shoulders in. Fortunately the roads were AMAZING- paved and smooth!- unlike the hellish trip through the mountains into Guinea. We stopped briefly on our way to the village at a “market” on the side of the road which consisted of a few stalls selling things. There were a few unidentifiable stalls, then an iron-smith attaching handles to a metal door with a blow-torch, then the butcher. Here there were whole, skinned animals hanging from metal hooks caked with blood, swinging slightly in the dusty breeze. It’s a good thing we were far away because I don’t think I would have been able to eat dinner if I had seen the stall up close.
The next place we came to was the cute little town of Pita, where we encountered some very interesting people. There was the woman who wandered by our car and wanted to talk with us, but spoke no French or Wolof (of course) and we spoke very very little Pulaar (of course). There was the Rasta man from Gambia who spoke excellent English and wanted us to know that we human beings are all the same deep down because the same blood runs through all of us. (Just to confirm a couple of stereotypes, he was wearing reggae colors and had a Bob Marley shirt and dreads. Finally, there was the man with a pet monkey on a leash. This poor little monkey was terrified- his owner left and came back periodically, people hit him and threw oranges at him, and he got tangled in the chair he was tied to. As we were leaving, his owner tried to sell him to us...
Monday, March 17, 2008
Part VII: The Most Beautiful Place on Earth
Monday we indulged ourselves in sleeping late- that means sleeping until approximately 9am- and awoke to a delicious breakfast of fresh, hand-pressed, natural peanut butter with the heartiest, densest bread I have ever tasted. Our car and guide were waiting for us in the hotel’s lounge so we ate in the car, sharing with the driver, apranti, and guide, as our Senegalese habits have ingrained in us the notion that no one may eat anything unless he or she first offers it to everyone in the nearby vicinity…
It was viciously hot so we took turns riding on the roof of the car, which is actually completely safe and very in vogue in Guinee (as you may have gleaned). While on top, we saw a couple of monkeys running through the trees, which were in the forefront of an absolute tropical paradise. After two hours we arrived at the entrance to the falls. Apparently, the site was recently regulated by the Guinean government and we had to pay an entrance fee, but we got a tour from the very eager “park ranger.”
First we hiked around the area for awhile, seeing all the various waterfalls. There were at least five different falls, and the path was pretty rough, but our guides proved chivalrous to help even the boys down the steepest cliffs. When we came to a good swimming pool, we jumped into the icy water (yes, even in Africa) and climbed the falls. We explored all the nooks and crannies (carefully), doused ourselves under the falls, and jumped off the cliffs. After awhile, my curiosity got the best of me and I recruited a few people to follow the river with me. After a treacherous walk through stagnant water and over slick rocks, we came to what I must describe as the most beautiful place I have ever EVER seen.
If, as those wise old scholars of old had thought, the world was flat, I imagine the edge of it would have looked a little bit like the Chutes de Salaa. Where the largest fall toppled over the rocks, there was an enormous gorge that looked it had been scooped out by- dare I say- the hand of God. We could see literally for miles the dense, lush, green mountainsides all around the 90m fall. We sat for a good forty minutes drinking the sight in and taking pictures, all the while knowing full well that we would never be able to capture the essence of a place so real that it vibrates with life, in a picture. Sorry for the melodrama- maybe you just had to be there…
In the afternoon we went to our favorite restaurant (by default, since it seems to be the only one in Labe…) Le Calabasse for a hamburger complet. This is another gift of God that only the Africans seem to have been told about. These delicious little beasts are both the most delicious meal known to man, and the fastest way to induce a heart attack. Here’s the recipe: one beef patty, piled with lettuce, tomato, and French fries, slathered in mayo and ketchup, and topped with an egg, all on a gigantic spongy bun soaked in butter. Oh my goodness, this is making me hungry.
After that we went to the market to buy foodstuffs for the next day: peanut butter, bread, bananas, mangoes, and papaya. Then we hit up a local “bar” which was really just a hole in the wall filled with drunk Guineans who wanted to teach us Pulaar and learn English in exchange. They don’t mess around in Guinea- those men were mixing their whiskey with beer to lighten it up. We had a very interesting conversation about all manner of topics, but when the electricity cut out- as it often does randomly- and people continued to drink by candlelight, we decided it was about time to leave. By the time we left it was dark, which posed a problem since there is not a single street lamp in the city. We stumbled a couple of blocks towards our hotel before the wiser of us (myself included) snagged motorcycle taxis. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see very well in the dark and when I climbed onto the scooter, I burned my leg on the exhaust pipe. Ouch.
Back at the hotel we had a mango and papaya picnic while Mama Rama (that’s me) did laundry. Until the water ran out. Good thing I had already taken a shower…but unfortunate for everyone else…
It was viciously hot so we took turns riding on the roof of the car, which is actually completely safe and very in vogue in Guinee (as you may have gleaned). While on top, we saw a couple of monkeys running through the trees, which were in the forefront of an absolute tropical paradise. After two hours we arrived at the entrance to the falls. Apparently, the site was recently regulated by the Guinean government and we had to pay an entrance fee, but we got a tour from the very eager “park ranger.”
First we hiked around the area for awhile, seeing all the various waterfalls. There were at least five different falls, and the path was pretty rough, but our guides proved chivalrous to help even the boys down the steepest cliffs. When we came to a good swimming pool, we jumped into the icy water (yes, even in Africa) and climbed the falls. We explored all the nooks and crannies (carefully), doused ourselves under the falls, and jumped off the cliffs. After awhile, my curiosity got the best of me and I recruited a few people to follow the river with me. After a treacherous walk through stagnant water and over slick rocks, we came to what I must describe as the most beautiful place I have ever EVER seen.
If, as those wise old scholars of old had thought, the world was flat, I imagine the edge of it would have looked a little bit like the Chutes de Salaa. Where the largest fall toppled over the rocks, there was an enormous gorge that looked it had been scooped out by- dare I say- the hand of God. We could see literally for miles the dense, lush, green mountainsides all around the 90m fall. We sat for a good forty minutes drinking the sight in and taking pictures, all the while knowing full well that we would never be able to capture the essence of a place so real that it vibrates with life, in a picture. Sorry for the melodrama- maybe you just had to be there…
In the afternoon we went to our favorite restaurant (by default, since it seems to be the only one in Labe…) Le Calabasse for a hamburger complet. This is another gift of God that only the Africans seem to have been told about. These delicious little beasts are both the most delicious meal known to man, and the fastest way to induce a heart attack. Here’s the recipe: one beef patty, piled with lettuce, tomato, and French fries, slathered in mayo and ketchup, and topped with an egg, all on a gigantic spongy bun soaked in butter. Oh my goodness, this is making me hungry.
After that we went to the market to buy foodstuffs for the next day: peanut butter, bread, bananas, mangoes, and papaya. Then we hit up a local “bar” which was really just a hole in the wall filled with drunk Guineans who wanted to teach us Pulaar and learn English in exchange. They don’t mess around in Guinea- those men were mixing their whiskey with beer to lighten it up. We had a very interesting conversation about all manner of topics, but when the electricity cut out- as it often does randomly- and people continued to drink by candlelight, we decided it was about time to leave. By the time we left it was dark, which posed a problem since there is not a single street lamp in the city. We stumbled a couple of blocks towards our hotel before the wiser of us (myself included) snagged motorcycle taxis. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see very well in the dark and when I climbed onto the scooter, I burned my leg on the exhaust pipe. Ouch.
Back at the hotel we had a mango and papaya picnic while Mama Rama (that’s me) did laundry. Until the water ran out. Good thing I had already taken a shower…but unfortunate for everyone else…
Part VI: British Expats in Africa: “Belgium Should Be Wiped off the Map!”
After our slightly awkward and mostly sleepless night, we arrived early Sunday morning in the town of Labé completely exhausted. The driver took us to our choice of lodgment, the Hotel Salaa, which is famous for its talented cook and wonderful hospitality. Well let me tell you, guidebooks can be wrong. As we filtered into the hotel’s courtyard, the woman sitting by the well ignored us as a boy wandered out of some room. The first thing he said was “Le cuisiner est malade” (the cook is sick). Therefore, no gourmet meals for us, in fact no meals at all. This we were willing to accept, but the lack of running water was a deal breaker. Now understand that usually we are not picky- bucket showers are quite common and can be a thing of beauty- but after two full days of sweat, dirt, and grime, it was an absolute necessity.
Hence, our new friend Hadij- who had slept with us the night before and who we affectionately called Spidey after his Spiderman backpack (the kind Kindergarteners covet)- took us to Hotel Tata, the nicest hotel in town. Here not only was there running water, but a beautiful, freshly tiled bathroom! Ah, the wonder. But before showers could happen, we had the most confusing conversation with the owner, who insisted that there was no room for us. First she said there was no room for us and we would have to stay with the other four Americans (girls from our program who had traveled separately from us, and who we came upon by happy chance) in their tiny little room. Then she said there was one room with one bed for us all. Then she said there were three rooms. Finally, we had her show us the spaces and it ended up being practically a compound, completely empty, all for us. Then we talked about prices and she tried to charge us 50,000 GF more than the other American girls. When we asked why, she replied, as if it were completely obvious, that we had to pay more because we had boys with us. Remember, there is no truth in Guinea…
At least the boys came in handy when we sent them to exchange money. It turns our friend Spidey’s father is in the money-exchanging business (we didn’t ask questions- no one is actually authorized to do anything in that country…) so we elected the boys to be our financial representatives. Only two people could go because there are no cars in Labé. Instead there are motorcycle taxis, which only one person at a time can ride. So instead of paying for seven moto-taxis, we sent the boys, realizing only after they left that they could disappear forever with all our money. But of course everything turned out fine- Spidey is a trustworthy fellow- and they returned with 3 million (yes, million) GF to split among the seven of us. Needless to say, we carried around wads of cash for the rest of the week…
The rest of the day passed quickly- the blissful enjoyment of a shower, a foray into the charming market (where I bought the most beautiful purple fabric which is to become a formal dress), a quick lesson in Pulaar (the language of the Futa Djallon, the region of Guinea we were in) and Guinea culture (they do not like to haggle like the Senegalese), and the most delicious schwarma lunch EVER. If you do not know what schwarma is, find out. If you have not ever eaten it, do so immediately. It is très à la mode here in West Africa, but I have never tasted a more deliciously spiced specimen than at Le Calabasse!
After a late afternoon snack of handmade guacamole (the girls bought a knife, a bowl, and the necessary ingredients) we decided to have a late dinner at the hotel. They had all kinds of typical Western dishes- spaghetti, pizza, etc.- on the menu, but it took FOREVER for the food to come. Literally, we waited for over an hour. In the meantime, we were entertained by the pompous and condescending ravings of a Brit working for the International Committee of the Red Cross. Who knows what exactly they do- I stopped listening to him after a few minutes, right after he said that the Red Cross was responsible for keeping Africa in order. After all, who comes in and cleans up all their messes when they spiral into war and self-destruction because of the perpetual ignorance and rampant corruption? Also, Belgium should be wiped off the face of the earth because Belgians are stupid and horrible- just look at what they did to Rwanda- but the French of course are a wonderful people because they civilized Western Africa. He had a house in France, and couldn’t say enough good things about them, despite the fact that we were in Guinea experiencing firsthand the poverty and lack of infrastructure caused, almost single-handedly by France’s complete withdrawal of aid after Guinea chose independence over patronage. Quel hypocracie!!!
After that it was an early night to bed in preparation for our Monday adventures…
Hence, our new friend Hadij- who had slept with us the night before and who we affectionately called Spidey after his Spiderman backpack (the kind Kindergarteners covet)- took us to Hotel Tata, the nicest hotel in town. Here not only was there running water, but a beautiful, freshly tiled bathroom! Ah, the wonder. But before showers could happen, we had the most confusing conversation with the owner, who insisted that there was no room for us. First she said there was no room for us and we would have to stay with the other four Americans (girls from our program who had traveled separately from us, and who we came upon by happy chance) in their tiny little room. Then she said there was one room with one bed for us all. Then she said there were three rooms. Finally, we had her show us the spaces and it ended up being practically a compound, completely empty, all for us. Then we talked about prices and she tried to charge us 50,000 GF more than the other American girls. When we asked why, she replied, as if it were completely obvious, that we had to pay more because we had boys with us. Remember, there is no truth in Guinea…
At least the boys came in handy when we sent them to exchange money. It turns our friend Spidey’s father is in the money-exchanging business (we didn’t ask questions- no one is actually authorized to do anything in that country…) so we elected the boys to be our financial representatives. Only two people could go because there are no cars in Labé. Instead there are motorcycle taxis, which only one person at a time can ride. So instead of paying for seven moto-taxis, we sent the boys, realizing only after they left that they could disappear forever with all our money. But of course everything turned out fine- Spidey is a trustworthy fellow- and they returned with 3 million (yes, million) GF to split among the seven of us. Needless to say, we carried around wads of cash for the rest of the week…
The rest of the day passed quickly- the blissful enjoyment of a shower, a foray into the charming market (where I bought the most beautiful purple fabric which is to become a formal dress), a quick lesson in Pulaar (the language of the Futa Djallon, the region of Guinea we were in) and Guinea culture (they do not like to haggle like the Senegalese), and the most delicious schwarma lunch EVER. If you do not know what schwarma is, find out. If you have not ever eaten it, do so immediately. It is très à la mode here in West Africa, but I have never tasted a more deliciously spiced specimen than at Le Calabasse!
After a late afternoon snack of handmade guacamole (the girls bought a knife, a bowl, and the necessary ingredients) we decided to have a late dinner at the hotel. They had all kinds of typical Western dishes- spaghetti, pizza, etc.- on the menu, but it took FOREVER for the food to come. Literally, we waited for over an hour. In the meantime, we were entertained by the pompous and condescending ravings of a Brit working for the International Committee of the Red Cross. Who knows what exactly they do- I stopped listening to him after a few minutes, right after he said that the Red Cross was responsible for keeping Africa in order. After all, who comes in and cleans up all their messes when they spiral into war and self-destruction because of the perpetual ignorance and rampant corruption? Also, Belgium should be wiped off the face of the earth because Belgians are stupid and horrible- just look at what they did to Rwanda- but the French of course are a wonderful people because they civilized Western Africa. He had a house in France, and couldn’t say enough good things about them, despite the fact that we were in Guinea experiencing firsthand the poverty and lack of infrastructure caused, almost single-handedly by France’s complete withdrawal of aid after Guinea chose independence over patronage. Quel hypocracie!!!
After that it was an early night to bed in preparation for our Monday adventures…
Friday, March 14, 2008
Part V: Sleepovers Aren’t Just for Little Girls
The events that transpired after we left that sous-prefecture are, somehow, both hazy and absolutely vivid. We pulled out of the village with a record eleven people on our roof, all of whom had to descend multiple times during the night in order for the car to continue forward. The first time, it was a mini river that we plowed through at top speed in order not to get stuck. The second time, it was a craggy cliff like the one that baptized our voyage, except that everything is much scarier when you are in the dark in the middle of nowhere. We had all the same theatrics: men shouting and bailing off the car like it was a nose-diving plane, that terrifying split-second when the car stops moving forward and you know it is going to begin moving in the opposite direction, and the panic that ensues when you start picking up speed. The driver, apparently used to this kind of thing, quickly turned the wheel so the car slammed into the side of the mountain.
While I was convinced that the car would not start and we would be stuck in that place until morning, the eleven men made themselves useful, shimmying the car off the huge tree root it had been caught by. For their efforts, they were rewarded with a two mile hike up the rocky cliff that the car could not make it up while their weight made it top-heavy. Inside the car, we reacted differently: giggling, crossing finger, holding hands, nervously chattering. I prayed the rosary. Repeatedly. Until we had reached a flat plateau big enough for the car to stop. Then we all gratefully climbed out and thanked God for our lives. The stars were incredibly bright and clear so we tried to name as many constellations as we could while we waited for the other riders to catch up. A few curious villagers came with their flashlights to see what the ruckus was about and spoke to us through the driver’s simple translation.
Needless to say, the men were not happy when they reached us. They panted heavily and grumbled as they climbed grumpily back onto the roof. I’m sure they were all just exhausted because I can’t imagine that fitting eleven people on top of that tiny car was easy or comfortable. A bit later, a fight broke out when the apranti found out that one of the passengers had not gotten off the car and walked the two miles like everyone else. He went absolutely crazy, shouting and jumping and hitting the man, who still refused to come down from the roof, probably because he knew he would get beat up. Reactions were mixed: most of the guys just laughed, but a few tried to calm the apranti down or restrain him. Our driver was in hysterics in the front seat, laughing uncontrollably. We sat safely inside the car, shocked and uncertain of what to do except to roll up the window when the apranti starting lashing at the man on the roof with branches that he snapped off a nearby tree. Eventually, the apranti cooled off and we continued on our merry way as if nothing had ever happened.
Around midnight, the driver was too tired to continue so we stopped in yet another sous-prefecture called Koubia. Incidentally, our apranti lived in the village so we slept in his house. I don’t have much to say about it, mostly because we were all so tired by the time we got there that all we were worried about was where to lay our heads. I do remember the apranti kicking his wife (who honestly looked about 15) out of their bed so that we could sleep in it (we packed four girls on it), the outhouse infested with giant jumping cockroaches, and the bugs crawling all over the floor of the house. At that point though, I was so desperate for a toilet, and so tired, that I braved the cockroaches and laid my head down upon that pillowless bed. But I certainly didn’t sleep much…
While I was convinced that the car would not start and we would be stuck in that place until morning, the eleven men made themselves useful, shimmying the car off the huge tree root it had been caught by. For their efforts, they were rewarded with a two mile hike up the rocky cliff that the car could not make it up while their weight made it top-heavy. Inside the car, we reacted differently: giggling, crossing finger, holding hands, nervously chattering. I prayed the rosary. Repeatedly. Until we had reached a flat plateau big enough for the car to stop. Then we all gratefully climbed out and thanked God for our lives. The stars were incredibly bright and clear so we tried to name as many constellations as we could while we waited for the other riders to catch up. A few curious villagers came with their flashlights to see what the ruckus was about and spoke to us through the driver’s simple translation.
Needless to say, the men were not happy when they reached us. They panted heavily and grumbled as they climbed grumpily back onto the roof. I’m sure they were all just exhausted because I can’t imagine that fitting eleven people on top of that tiny car was easy or comfortable. A bit later, a fight broke out when the apranti found out that one of the passengers had not gotten off the car and walked the two miles like everyone else. He went absolutely crazy, shouting and jumping and hitting the man, who still refused to come down from the roof, probably because he knew he would get beat up. Reactions were mixed: most of the guys just laughed, but a few tried to calm the apranti down or restrain him. Our driver was in hysterics in the front seat, laughing uncontrollably. We sat safely inside the car, shocked and uncertain of what to do except to roll up the window when the apranti starting lashing at the man on the roof with branches that he snapped off a nearby tree. Eventually, the apranti cooled off and we continued on our merry way as if nothing had ever happened.
Around midnight, the driver was too tired to continue so we stopped in yet another sous-prefecture called Koubia. Incidentally, our apranti lived in the village so we slept in his house. I don’t have much to say about it, mostly because we were all so tired by the time we got there that all we were worried about was where to lay our heads. I do remember the apranti kicking his wife (who honestly looked about 15) out of their bed so that we could sleep in it (we packed four girls on it), the outhouse infested with giant jumping cockroaches, and the bugs crawling all over the floor of the house. At that point though, I was so desperate for a toilet, and so tired, that I braved the cockroaches and laid my head down upon that pillowless bed. But I certainly didn’t sleep much…
Part IV- “There is no truth in Guniea.”
After the border fiasco, we continued without mishap until our driver pulled over in a sous-prefecture (a village of governmental import- usually a larger village with educational or medical facilities) for lunch. After we stretched and gulped down half of our water, we found our way to the only restaurant in the town, which was really just some woman’s front yard converted into a picnic area. The food, however, was phenomenal! Imagine white rice- the first batch of rice not cooked in oil since I left the United States- with a delicious creamy tomato sauce and tender pieces of miraculously boneless fish on top. My mouth is watering right now just remembering how good it tasted. And three bowls which the seven of us shared only cost 9000 Guinean francs (GF), approximately $2.
After lunch we stepped over to the general store (next door) for some refreshing sodas. For some reason I crave soda here when I usually hate drinking it in the US. There is just something about cold carbonating drinks in the hot dry weather of Africa that can revive the weariest traveler. Anyway, the drinks were not cold, and I think the Coke had been sitting there for awhile because it burned my throat at the first sip. Nevertheless, I got a jolly laugh out of the store’s decorations: posters of Mike Tyson- who apparently is a devout Muslim despite his ear-biting days- Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Ashanti pasted onto the walls. I also thoroughly enjoyed the debate over how far our final destination, Labé, was from the sous-prefecture. I heard every number from 80 to 180 miles, and from six hours to twelve hours away. Not to mention the fact that the everyone at the gare we left from in the morning had different answers- 8 hours, 12 hours, 24 hours. And for some strange reason, people kept telling us that every destination was simply 45 minutes away! Hardly. It was this extreme confusion (and perhaps language barrier) that caused us to coin the phrase, which we employed quite frequently during the remainder of the trip, that “There is no truth in Guinea.”
We stopped again around seven in another sous-prefecture to drop off passengers, pick up new ones, and of course, to eat. We bought copious amounts of oranges, which we were too lazy to peel and divide up- these things are literally a 15-minute project- but simply cut open with a pocket knife to squeeze the juice and pulp out. When we were finished we threw them on the ground, which is the proper garbage in most parts of Africa. The cows and sheep that wander the streets munch on anything that is edible and the rest eventually gets burned. In fact, funnily enough I have come to appreciate, if not enjoy, the smell of burning garbage (I promise it doesn’t smell nearly as bad as you’re imagining), and I am sure that I will forever associate it with Dakar. Anyway, the animals in this village were vicious; I actually saw one young male cow (typical) head but a little sheep to get his orange carcass.
After lunch we stepped over to the general store (next door) for some refreshing sodas. For some reason I crave soda here when I usually hate drinking it in the US. There is just something about cold carbonating drinks in the hot dry weather of Africa that can revive the weariest traveler. Anyway, the drinks were not cold, and I think the Coke had been sitting there for awhile because it burned my throat at the first sip. Nevertheless, I got a jolly laugh out of the store’s decorations: posters of Mike Tyson- who apparently is a devout Muslim despite his ear-biting days- Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Ashanti pasted onto the walls. I also thoroughly enjoyed the debate over how far our final destination, Labé, was from the sous-prefecture. I heard every number from 80 to 180 miles, and from six hours to twelve hours away. Not to mention the fact that the everyone at the gare we left from in the morning had different answers- 8 hours, 12 hours, 24 hours. And for some strange reason, people kept telling us that every destination was simply 45 minutes away! Hardly. It was this extreme confusion (and perhaps language barrier) that caused us to coin the phrase, which we employed quite frequently during the remainder of the trip, that “There is no truth in Guinea.”
We stopped again around seven in another sous-prefecture to drop off passengers, pick up new ones, and of course, to eat. We bought copious amounts of oranges, which we were too lazy to peel and divide up- these things are literally a 15-minute project- but simply cut open with a pocket knife to squeeze the juice and pulp out. When we were finished we threw them on the ground, which is the proper garbage in most parts of Africa. The cows and sheep that wander the streets munch on anything that is edible and the rest eventually gets burned. In fact, funnily enough I have come to appreciate, if not enjoy, the smell of burning garbage (I promise it doesn’t smell nearly as bad as you’re imagining), and I am sure that I will forever associate it with Dakar. Anyway, the animals in this village were vicious; I actually saw one young male cow (typical) head but a little sheep to get his orange carcass.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Part III- No Man’s Land is Actually Between Senegal and Guinea
Crossing the border from Senegal to Guinea was one of the most instructive parts of our journey, and it gave me a very clear picture of the differences between the two countries. There is a little bit of history to delve into here, namely that Guinea was the first French colony to gain independence, but at a great cost. The famous independence fighter Sekou Toure stubbornly exclaimed that “On prefère la pauvreté en liberté que l’opulence en esclavage” (Guinea prefers to endure poverty in its freedom than opulence under enslavement) and proudly rejected France’s offer of provisional supervision under the guise of a West African Union of semi-independent states. It was the only French possession in Africa to do so.
Consequently, Guinea suffered exceedingly- especially during the years that it turned to the USSR for monetary support and state-planning advice- and is still recovering. Leaving the Senegalese border, we ducked into a hut (yes, they really do look just like all those pictures in National Geographic…) where a customs official sat us down and went through our paperwork, and stamped our passports with exit information. He spoke to us in the considerable amount of English that he knew, and offered his humble restroom facilities (Turkish toilet mean anything to anyone?) to us. There were other people there waiting in a neat little line to have their documents checked and stamped as well. We were done and on our way in a very timely manner.
After we pulled away, our driver explained that we were now in between countries. I don’t know exactly how it works out, because there must be exact latitudinal and longitudinal measurements for where Senegal ends and Guinea begins (or vice versa) but the area between the customs post in Senegal and the one in Guinea is not policed by anyone, not serviced by any electrical, water, or any other companies, and not really claimed by either country. People live there, lots of them, but they live in villages and have no passports or particular allegiances to faraway governments. It is truly no man’s land.
Anyway, a couple hundred meters away from the customs post, we picked up the rogue passengers who were riding on the roof. You see, another difference between Senegal and Guinea is the laws that govern transport. In Senegal sept-places are, by law, meant to be sept-places- that means seven on the inside, no shared seats or squished passengers, and no roof riders! So our friends up above had to dismount and walk around the customs post- no passport stamps for them- and meet us on the other side. Totally illegal, but totally normal here. Needless to say, we cheered when we found them and they hopped right back up.
The entry into Guinea was a completely different story. Our car crawled to stop right in front if the “gate”- a piece of string with dirty rags tied to it, stretched across the dirt road- and we got out to wait in a haphazard crowd of about 30 others waiting to be allowed to cross the string they could have just easily jumped over. Of course, we were given precedence because we were white, an occurrence that was frequent in Guinea, but never ceased to deeply bother me- why do they still, of their own volition, give more precedence to white people than their own citizens? We did have to wait a good twenty minutes, speaking Wolof with those Guineans who understood it and learning Pulaar from those who didn’t, but we left before most people who had already been waiting when we arrived.
In describing the Guinean customs officials, the only word I can think of to describe them is unprofessional. After they waved us into their makeshift tent, a couple of them made light conversation with us in their halting French while another one yelled insulting and degrading things at a man waiting- quarantined?- in the back of the tent. I didn’t understand much because he spoke in Pulaar, but I did understand when he barked something about the man being a dirty Jew. Incredible. At least he didn’t ask us for a bribe. They handed back our passports, but just as we were about to leave, two babies wandered in. One was a little boy, barely able to walk, the other, a fat little girl who looked about three. Of course, the girls cooed and smiled as girls will do, but then the little boy’s father (one of the customs officers) told us to give him money for the baby and one of the other officers held the little girl up to us, at which point she started screaming in terror. Apparently she doesn’t like white people. We left quickly
Consequently, Guinea suffered exceedingly- especially during the years that it turned to the USSR for monetary support and state-planning advice- and is still recovering. Leaving the Senegalese border, we ducked into a hut (yes, they really do look just like all those pictures in National Geographic…) where a customs official sat us down and went through our paperwork, and stamped our passports with exit information. He spoke to us in the considerable amount of English that he knew, and offered his humble restroom facilities (Turkish toilet mean anything to anyone?) to us. There were other people there waiting in a neat little line to have their documents checked and stamped as well. We were done and on our way in a very timely manner.
After we pulled away, our driver explained that we were now in between countries. I don’t know exactly how it works out, because there must be exact latitudinal and longitudinal measurements for where Senegal ends and Guinea begins (or vice versa) but the area between the customs post in Senegal and the one in Guinea is not policed by anyone, not serviced by any electrical, water, or any other companies, and not really claimed by either country. People live there, lots of them, but they live in villages and have no passports or particular allegiances to faraway governments. It is truly no man’s land.
Anyway, a couple hundred meters away from the customs post, we picked up the rogue passengers who were riding on the roof. You see, another difference between Senegal and Guinea is the laws that govern transport. In Senegal sept-places are, by law, meant to be sept-places- that means seven on the inside, no shared seats or squished passengers, and no roof riders! So our friends up above had to dismount and walk around the customs post- no passport stamps for them- and meet us on the other side. Totally illegal, but totally normal here. Needless to say, we cheered when we found them and they hopped right back up.
The entry into Guinea was a completely different story. Our car crawled to stop right in front if the “gate”- a piece of string with dirty rags tied to it, stretched across the dirt road- and we got out to wait in a haphazard crowd of about 30 others waiting to be allowed to cross the string they could have just easily jumped over. Of course, we were given precedence because we were white, an occurrence that was frequent in Guinea, but never ceased to deeply bother me- why do they still, of their own volition, give more precedence to white people than their own citizens? We did have to wait a good twenty minutes, speaking Wolof with those Guineans who understood it and learning Pulaar from those who didn’t, but we left before most people who had already been waiting when we arrived.
In describing the Guinean customs officials, the only word I can think of to describe them is unprofessional. After they waved us into their makeshift tent, a couple of them made light conversation with us in their halting French while another one yelled insulting and degrading things at a man waiting- quarantined?- in the back of the tent. I didn’t understand much because he spoke in Pulaar, but I did understand when he barked something about the man being a dirty Jew. Incredible. At least he didn’t ask us for a bribe. They handed back our passports, but just as we were about to leave, two babies wandered in. One was a little boy, barely able to walk, the other, a fat little girl who looked about three. Of course, the girls cooed and smiled as girls will do, but then the little boy’s father (one of the customs officers) told us to give him money for the baby and one of the other officers held the little girl up to us, at which point she started screaming in terror. Apparently she doesn’t like white people. We left quickly
Part II: The Craggy Cliff that Almost Claimed our Young Lives- Yes, truly
Saturday morning marked a great start to our travels- I woke up fresh and clean and sat on the veranda with a café au lait, overlooking the river, where hippos were washing in the first light of the sun (seriously). We paid our 10,000 cfa ($20- cheapest hotel ever!) and got a free ride to the Gare Routiere from the proprietaire. There, we bartered with a crowd of drivers and administrators for nearly a half an hour before settling on a car and loading our stuff up. Courtney had just climbed in when someone shut the door and gave the car a shove. As it started to roll away, Courtney panicked, not knowing what was going on, but Kyle, thinking fast shouted “C’est ma femme!” (That’s my wife!) If there’s one thing we’ve learned in Africa it’s that nothing must ever come between a man and his free access to his wife; the men immediately slowed the car enough for Kyle to hop in next to Courtney. They came back a few minutes later- they had just gone to get gas- but how were we supposed to know?
Anyway, the beginning of our marathon drive to Guinea was only a taste of how bad the route would get. As we pulled out of the gare, we witnessed the landscape changing before our eyes from dry and dusty desert Senegal to lush and tropical Guinea. One of the first remarkable events was our fording of the river, Oregon Trail style. The driver didn’t even slow down, he just plunged right in as the women washing their laundry on the banks watched indifferently. Hilariously enough, all of us picked our feet up off the floor, as if that might save us from getting wet if water poured in. Amazingly enough, it didn’t! After that , the road was flat for some time, passing quaint and rather stereotypical-looking villages.
Until we arrived at our first nemesis: the craggy cliff that we named our trusty car after (the car’s name is Rocky- original, I know). This incline was the first that we came to, and it literally went straight up the mountain. The transition from completely flat road to mountain driving was unbelievable, and as we soon found out, un-navigable…Here it is necessary to explain the workings of a sept-place. While the name is well-intentioned, there are never just seven people in one. There are usually ten people on the inside, unless a smaller group buys out the interior seats, which we did. However, the roof is always free game, and usually seats between 1 and 5. We had seven in the morning, and 11 by the end of the night. You can well imagine that with all this weight, it was difficult for poor Rocky to ascend the hill. Indeed, about halfway up, he sputtered and died. For me, this was all enacted in slow motion: for a split second, everything froze and then the men on the roof began to shout and jump off, whether to lighten the load or save themselves I am not sure. Regardless, we continued to bump backwards at an increasingly rapid speed. The little apranti (apprentice) threw rocks behind the car’s wheels until it lurched to a stop, and we piled out.
Shaken and in disbelief, we sat on the side of the road (which was not properly a road, but a crooked, twisting, rocky sort of hiking path- definitely what one would consider “off-roading”) as the men shimmied and shook the car free of the rocks and the driver skillfully backed down to the base of the mountain and revved up to crash his way to the crest where we all piled back in without another word. Actually, we had heatedly discussed the pros and cons of abandoning our little junk heap and trekking back to the gare (it was a paltry 15 or 20 miles or so), and questioned the other passengers at length about the condition of the road for the rest of the journey. They assured us that it would only get better. They lied.
Anyway, the beginning of our marathon drive to Guinea was only a taste of how bad the route would get. As we pulled out of the gare, we witnessed the landscape changing before our eyes from dry and dusty desert Senegal to lush and tropical Guinea. One of the first remarkable events was our fording of the river, Oregon Trail style. The driver didn’t even slow down, he just plunged right in as the women washing their laundry on the banks watched indifferently. Hilariously enough, all of us picked our feet up off the floor, as if that might save us from getting wet if water poured in. Amazingly enough, it didn’t! After that , the road was flat for some time, passing quaint and rather stereotypical-looking villages.
Until we arrived at our first nemesis: the craggy cliff that we named our trusty car after (the car’s name is Rocky- original, I know). This incline was the first that we came to, and it literally went straight up the mountain. The transition from completely flat road to mountain driving was unbelievable, and as we soon found out, un-navigable…Here it is necessary to explain the workings of a sept-place. While the name is well-intentioned, there are never just seven people in one. There are usually ten people on the inside, unless a smaller group buys out the interior seats, which we did. However, the roof is always free game, and usually seats between 1 and 5. We had seven in the morning, and 11 by the end of the night. You can well imagine that with all this weight, it was difficult for poor Rocky to ascend the hill. Indeed, about halfway up, he sputtered and died. For me, this was all enacted in slow motion: for a split second, everything froze and then the men on the roof began to shout and jump off, whether to lighten the load or save themselves I am not sure. Regardless, we continued to bump backwards at an increasingly rapid speed. The little apranti (apprentice) threw rocks behind the car’s wheels until it lurched to a stop, and we piled out.
Shaken and in disbelief, we sat on the side of the road (which was not properly a road, but a crooked, twisting, rocky sort of hiking path- definitely what one would consider “off-roading”) as the men shimmied and shook the car free of the rocks and the driver skillfully backed down to the base of the mountain and revved up to crash his way to the crest where we all piled back in without another word. Actually, we had heatedly discussed the pros and cons of abandoning our little junk heap and trekking back to the gare (it was a paltry 15 or 20 miles or so), and questioned the other passengers at length about the condition of the road for the rest of the journey. They assured us that it would only get better. They lied.
Part I: Le Depart
Here it is! May the whole delicious exclusive Spring Break narrative begin…
As we had decided well over a month ago to travel to Guinea for spring break we had plenty of time to plan the trip (as well as plan a back-up plan, and come to terms with the fact that things might not actually turn out anything like we had planned…) so we left in style early Friday morning. Because one of the CIEE students died in Mali during spring break last year (aren’t you glad I didn’t tell you this before I left?) my host mother was veritably terrified of me leaving the Dakar metropolitan area, much less Senegal so she arranged to have one of her personal friends hire a trustworthy “sept place” (literally: 7-place, a taxi-like car hired for lengthy travel) driver to take us from Dakar to Kedougou on the Senegal-Guinea border. He ate dinner with us, slept over at our house, and got up ridiculously early (4:30am) to take us, in exchange for which we entertained him with our nonstop singing- imagine everything from Led Zeppelin to Disney; it was truly magical- and fed him lunch.
The first day of driving was more or less uneventful; besides the millions of potholes on the road, the clouds of dust, and the black smoke that passing busses spat at us, it was great. No really, we dodged so many potholes I felt like we were in a video game, and we were so sweaty and dirty at lunch that I didn’t recognize myself.
Anyway, we arrived safely at the ritzy hotel (by which I mean they had flushing toilets and, miracle of miracles, air conditioning!) in Kedougou just after nightfall. We threw our stuff in our rooms and rushed to dinner before the kitchen closed. Unfortunately there was huge group of French tourists there having a multi-course dinner so consequently we were informed a good 45 minutes after ordering that our salad would be reduced to tomatoes and avocados. No reduction in price of course- how silly of me to ask such a question. At this point I got really annoyed and abandoned food in favor of a lukewarm shower, which was, en fait, magnificent and much more nourishing- to the soul that is- than food would have been!
We fell into bed and slept blissfully until the journey continued…
As we had decided well over a month ago to travel to Guinea for spring break we had plenty of time to plan the trip (as well as plan a back-up plan, and come to terms with the fact that things might not actually turn out anything like we had planned…) so we left in style early Friday morning. Because one of the CIEE students died in Mali during spring break last year (aren’t you glad I didn’t tell you this before I left?) my host mother was veritably terrified of me leaving the Dakar metropolitan area, much less Senegal so she arranged to have one of her personal friends hire a trustworthy “sept place” (literally: 7-place, a taxi-like car hired for lengthy travel) driver to take us from Dakar to Kedougou on the Senegal-Guinea border. He ate dinner with us, slept over at our house, and got up ridiculously early (4:30am) to take us, in exchange for which we entertained him with our nonstop singing- imagine everything from Led Zeppelin to Disney; it was truly magical- and fed him lunch.
The first day of driving was more or less uneventful; besides the millions of potholes on the road, the clouds of dust, and the black smoke that passing busses spat at us, it was great. No really, we dodged so many potholes I felt like we were in a video game, and we were so sweaty and dirty at lunch that I didn’t recognize myself.
Anyway, we arrived safely at the ritzy hotel (by which I mean they had flushing toilets and, miracle of miracles, air conditioning!) in Kedougou just after nightfall. We threw our stuff in our rooms and rushed to dinner before the kitchen closed. Unfortunately there was huge group of French tourists there having a multi-course dinner so consequently we were informed a good 45 minutes after ordering that our salad would be reduced to tomatoes and avocados. No reduction in price of course- how silly of me to ask such a question. At this point I got really annoyed and abandoned food in favor of a lukewarm shower, which was, en fait, magnificent and much more nourishing- to the soul that is- than food would have been!
We fell into bed and slept blissfully until the journey continued…
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The OIC: Martial Law in Dakar
Well I'm back safely from Spring Break and I think I can say without hesitation that it was likely the greatest (and scariest) adventure of my life. Consequently, I will be writing up my memoirs of the epic in the next few days and posting them in installments...
I find Dakar has changed a lot since I left ten days ago. A good half of the ongoing construction has finally been finished, and it's beautiful! The dust has been groomed back from the roads, the streets are clean (in comparison- there's still garbage all over), and cars are driving on the right side of the road. All of the billboards- literally EVERY SINGLE ONE- have been covered with the official OIC welcome poster: it has a huge picture of President Abdoulaye Wade on it and the word welcome in English, French, and Arabic. So funny. The most noticeable difference though, is the presence of soldiers, police, and traffic guards on EVERY street corner. They are literally everywhere, and I don't know if I should be scared of their gigantic rifles or feel safer...
Saturday marked the start of the OIC- the Organization of Islamic Countries Conference that will run through the 14th of March. Important religious leaders and heads of states from Islamic countries all over the world- Asia, Arabia, and Africa- are in Dakar this week, holed up in a ritzy hotel in Les Almadies, the wealthiest and nicest part of town, not actually in Dakar proper. I don't know what exactly they're dicussing, and I doubt anyone does because its so secretive, but security is super tight. Students who live in Ouakam, the town that borders Les Alamadies, have to carry "laissez-passez" (free to pass) cards in order to go home. Numerous roads are closed off and the President announced last week that school is canceled (unfortunately, my program is not included) in order to free up the roads for escorts and motorcades. It's absolutely crazy and the atmosphere is one of controlled frenzy. Needless to say, I'll be laying low for the next week and enjoying the relative quiet of the streets.
I find Dakar has changed a lot since I left ten days ago. A good half of the ongoing construction has finally been finished, and it's beautiful! The dust has been groomed back from the roads, the streets are clean (in comparison- there's still garbage all over), and cars are driving on the right side of the road. All of the billboards- literally EVERY SINGLE ONE- have been covered with the official OIC welcome poster: it has a huge picture of President Abdoulaye Wade on it and the word welcome in English, French, and Arabic. So funny. The most noticeable difference though, is the presence of soldiers, police, and traffic guards on EVERY street corner. They are literally everywhere, and I don't know if I should be scared of their gigantic rifles or feel safer...
Saturday marked the start of the OIC- the Organization of Islamic Countries Conference that will run through the 14th of March. Important religious leaders and heads of states from Islamic countries all over the world- Asia, Arabia, and Africa- are in Dakar this week, holed up in a ritzy hotel in Les Almadies, the wealthiest and nicest part of town, not actually in Dakar proper. I don't know what exactly they're dicussing, and I doubt anyone does because its so secretive, but security is super tight. Students who live in Ouakam, the town that borders Les Alamadies, have to carry "laissez-passez" (free to pass) cards in order to go home. Numerous roads are closed off and the President announced last week that school is canceled (unfortunately, my program is not included) in order to free up the roads for escorts and motorcades. It's absolutely crazy and the atmosphere is one of controlled frenzy. Needless to say, I'll be laying low for the next week and enjoying the relative quiet of the streets.
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