Morocco, West Africa, Mozambique

South Africa Part 2 - 07 Jun 08 to 09 Jun 08

2009-08-20T16:58:00.001-07:00

My last stop on my trip was a short stay back in South Africa. I had originally planned to meet up with my good friend Marcilio and hang out with him for a few weeks. Unfortunately, the political situation in South Africa changed matters significantly.

Back in 2008, there was a series of xenophobia riots in South Africa that targeted foreign workers. People were frustrated about the economy and decided to take it out violently on immigrants. There are some conspiracy theories surrounding who might have initiated these riots and why. I don't know.

What did happen is that Marcilio had to flee South Africa back to Mozambique, almost exactly at the same time that I had to leave because my visa expired. So, we completely missed each other.

Below are some pictures of the lines at the border. As I was crossing into South Africa, thousands of Mozambicans living in SA were packing up their entire lives and moving back to Moz. The lines at the border were a day long. On the other hand, the lines going into SA were only an hour or so.

More people fleeing the xenophobia violence

It was sad to see all these people uprooting their entire lives

"Wimpy Burger" -- a classic South African fast food joint

I decided to cut my trip short, since I couldn't see Marcilio. I just had a couple of days to kill in Johannesburg so I walked all over and took some pictures. I found this shop in Chinatown in Joburg.

Another shop across the street in Chinatown

Here is the hostel again where I stayed both times, Brown Sugar. As I said in a previous post, the story is that it was a former mob hideout and that is why they built it like a castle.

The road up to Brown Sugar that I walked on every day

I found a really cheap flight home from Joburg via Dubai, so I decided to take a 2-day layover there at no additional cost. My next and final post of the trip will be shots from my 2 days in Dubai, in the United Arab Emirates.

Mozambique - 08 May 08 to 07 June 08

2009-05-15T14:54:00.001-07:00

Mozambique, Moçambique. From October 2000 until January 2003, I lived here as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the town of Chokwe. So many memories and life-changing experiences happened, my anticipation for returning was running very high.

I had difficulty getting in touch with the people I knew in Maputo, the capital, my first stop, so I stayed one night in a backpackers' with the tourists. This felt very depressing to me but also it was interesting to see another side of the city.

In the backpackers where I stayed there was a collection of old FRELIMO posters from the Mozambican revolution that were quite cool.

After getting my feet under me, adjusting to the new Mozambican money that had dropped at least 3 zeros (no more 25 million meticais notes), and borrowing a phone, I was able to get in touch with Justin, the brother of my good friend Kingston who was a teacher with me in Chokwe. Justin and Kingston are brothers who emigrated to Mozambique from Zimbabwe because of the economic crisis in Zim.

While waiting for Justin to arrive at a restaurant downtown, I purchased my favorite Mozambican snack: Tinziva (below). Each of the little balls you see is a brittle, hard shell and when you crush the shell, you get the sweet-tart fruit inside, which is coated in a sort of dry powder.

Justin came and got me along with another Zimbabwean friend of his. After an interesting discussion of the Zim crisis over lunch, we hopped a ride in the back of this truck along with a bunch of construction waste and made our way toward Matola, Maputo's twin city where Justin lives.

Justin is an English teacher at a Maputo high school and the next day he took me to his workplace to hang out. Watching the guys play ball was a nostalgic moment for me, as I used to play regularly with the team at my high school in Chokwe when I was a volunteer.

There was a club at the school dedicated to traditional music and dance. They were just warming up and this student was the Timbila player. The timbila is the Mozambican marimba or xylophone and is played by a tribe called the Maxope people (pron. Mashope). The center of timbila culture is Zavala and they have a huge festival of traditional music there every year that is attended by people from all over Southern Africa.

Fire-tuning the drums in preparation for rehearsal.

The club rehearsed in a classroom at the school. Here are the drummers.

Dancers crossing the floor.

Justin's school from the front.

Justin and his son hanging out in the street out front of their house at night.

Walking around downtown Maputo, not too much had changed. The city did feel much cleaner, but also less alive. I noticed a huge difference from West Africa: whereas in West Africa there were people selling things on every corner participating in the informal market, here all commerce was confined to official shops or markets with officially designated boundaries. Within the boundaries the markets still felt quite African (beautifully chaotic and organic--my personal impression), but street food was nearly absent. After subsisting on street food for my entire trip so far, I was feeling disappointed in what Maputo had to offer.

A view from the Marginal out over the Indian Ocean.

A detail from an old Portuguese colonial structure downtown. The Algarve is a famous beach region in Portugal.

Back in Matola, these boys were trying to make money by filling in potholes in the road and then demanding money from passing cars.

More nostalgia. These were my favorite Scottish shortbread cookies during Peace Corps service. They are imported from South Africa, along with most of the commercial brands available in Mozambique.

After a few phone calls and some digging, I was able to reconnect with my good friend Malati. While in Chokwe, I had been a part of a traditional music and dance troupe called Kwezi and Malati, myself and another guy called Leonildo were the drummers. Unfortunately I wasn't able to find Leonildo but I heard he was a professional drummer in South Africa.

Malati was living in Matola and he invited me to a rehearsal of his friends' band. They were playing Marrabenta, which is the signature music of the southern part of Mozambique. It evolved in the 50's in Maputo from a fusion of Mozambican and Portuguese influences. I got to sit in and was loving playing the home-made drumset.

Justin with his wife and kids--wonderful hosts.

After Maputo, my next stop was Macia, which is a crossroads town on the national highway. South is Maputo, north is Xai-Xai, the capital of Gaza province, south-east is Bilene, the southernmost resort on a stretch of coastal lagoons that runs all the way up to Inhambane, and north-west is the inland town of Chokwe, where I spent my 2 years in the Peace Corps. While I was there I became good friends with one of the dancers in Kwezi, the music and dance troupe we had, and he asked to name his son after me. My friend's name is Diamantino and I haven't been able to find him since I left in 2003, but I keep in close touch with the family of his son, also named Tober. As he is the "little Tober," we often call him "Toberinho".

In Macia was a billboard talking about sweet potatoes and how healthy they are for you. I had a bright-orange t-shirt that was also from this campaign that has been one of my favorites for years.

That night, Gilda, Toberinho's mom, invited me to go to her church, which was nothing more than an open stretch of sand with 4 caniço walls and tree branches and the sky for a ceiling. It was a magical feeling to be singing in xiXangana with all of her fellow church-goers under the stars.

Caniço (pron. ka-nee-su) is the Mozambican name for the reeds that are used in virtually all building construction close to the coast. Further inland, most structures are made from mud bricks.

Toberinho playing with some friends.

Toberinho, Me, Gilda, her husband Francisco, and Toberinho's sister Mima.

Walking around Macia.

I bought Toberinho a toy transformer plane which he had a great time with. As he is my namesake, we are called Xara. I am his xara and he is my xara (pron. sha-ra).

This big tree in Macia is right outside where my old friend Michael used to live. He was an English teacher in Macia while I was in Chokwe.

I took Toberinho up to Chokwe for the weekend while he was out of school. His aunt, Mana Palmira, lives there. Mana is a term of respect like "Older Sister". She is the eldest sister of Gilda, Toberinho's mom.

Here Mana Palmira is fixing up a little shop in her yard so she can sell some tomatoes and other things to people in the neighborhood. Originally she lived up the river from Chokwe but during the civil war came to Chokwe and settled there. Most of the people in her neighborhood were refugees.

Here is the family of my friend Orlando. He is a Mozambican guy from Chokwe who married the previous Peace Corps volunteer before me, named Aimee. They live in Massachusetts now. While I was a volunteer I used to go over to their house for dinner and also bought all my vegetables from Orlando's mom, Maria, who works in the market.

I had to take Toberinho back to Macia for school. Here he is in his uniform ready to go.

Back in Chokwe, I visited all the old places I remembered. Here is a shot from the Escola Agrária (Agrarian School) where my Peace Corps roommate Blake taught English. The mural symbolizing the Mozambican struggle for freedom seems quite iconic to me.

Front of the school.

Orlando's mom Mariaat the market (on the left).

The entrance to the Kanissanga Discoteca, above the hotel. When I was there this place would open up once a month so people could dance all night, but nowadays it is shuttered. When I arrived in Chokwe, it was in the aftermath of a huge flood which was a major disaster that provoked a huge international response. While the flood was devastating, the abundance of Western aid agencies provided a temporary stimulus to the economy that has since dried up. The other discoteca in town, "Discoteca Dancing", was also out of business and many of the local businesses were struggling. Everybody told me that times were slow.

Mainstreet in Chokwe.

Here is the "cova", or "xikelene" of Segundo Bairo (the big low-spot in the 2nd neighborhood). This natural landform is a big landmark and also where people go to play soccer or practice any kind of recreation. It is adjacent to Mana Palmira's house.

The marking with date on the side of this house shows the highpoint of the water from the massive floods of 2000. I arrived in October of that year.

Finally I made it to my old school, Escola Secundária de Chokwe. I ran into some old professors, had dinner at their house, toured around the school, and reconnected with a place where I spent 2 years struggling and growing trying to teach Biology in Portuguese to 50-70 kids at a time. Here is one of my old classrooms, looking just the way it did when I was a teacher.

Half of the classrooms are in total disarray, like this one, and the other half in the main portion of the school were rehabilitated after the floods and are in much better condition.

The central courtyard at my old schoool.

The desenho (drawing) teacher Txetxema painted this placard naming the school on one of my last days of class. It's still there.

Here is my old house from my Peace Corps days. It is certainly in better shape now. When I lived there, the outside had not been repainted and the high-water mark from the floods was still visible. I lived in the right-hand half and a family of 9 lived in the other half (like a duplex).

The Peace Corps volunteers in Chokwe no longer live in this house; now it is a Mozambican teacher at the school. I knocked on the door and she graciously let me in to see the inside.

During my second year of service, another volunteer named Blake joined me and we lived together for one year. We paid to have the sidewalk outside our house fixed and inscribed our names in the concrete. It was cool to see after 5 years.

Some of my neighbors from when I lived in the house. They were little kids that used to play in my yard; now they are teenagers. Rachide and his brothers and sister.

My other neighbors, the next house over, were very close friends and helped all the Peace Corps volunteers that have lived in the house. The young woman, Violeta, to my left, used to be a strapping little girl running around playing and now she's taller than me. The older two siblings, Dinho and his sister Júrcia, are now off in college. Their mom, Cecilia (to my right), was seeming a little older and tired but happy that she has 3 wonderful children all doing well (Violeta is about to graduate and go to college as well) but mourning the loss of her husband Andre, who died a couple of years after I left.

Me and my other neighbor Lurdes. Lurdes used to spend most of the day braiding hair. Women always had the most elaborate braids, including extensions of various colors.

Back at Mana Palmira's house, her daughter Betinha was practicing her math homework by writing on the window in chalk.

Out past the Agrarian School lies the Limpopo River. There is a small town on the other side called Guijá. When I used to live here, Guijá was only reachable by a small ferry crossing the river and had a very remote, country feel to it. I used to go there when I wanted to get away from it all. Since that time, a brand new bridge has been built connecting the two towns.

Looking up the Limpopo River.

This is the old ferry landing for the boat to Guijá. I'll never forget that old tree with the massive root system exposed.

Despite all the time that has passed, there are still remnants of the civil war present in Guijá. Many buildings were damaged by mortarfire from RENAMO.

The market in Guijá.

Back at Mana Palmira's house again. My mother came and visited me toward the end of my service in the Peace Corps, and we did a little ceremony where we gave the name Tober to the family. As part of the gift, we planted a fruit tree in their yard as well. The tree is now much bigger, growing healthy and strong.

Mana Palmira with her daughter Betinha and son Armando and their neighbor.

Me and the crew at Mana Palmira's.

Sunset on the road to the Ag School.

Another day I went back to the river with Senhor Matavele, who was the vice principal when I was a teacher. He's now the Pedagogical Director. It was great to see him. The news said that the dam upstream let out a bunch of water so we went down to the river to see how much it had risen.

A house and yard in Chokwe. Something about this picture captures the essence of the town for me.

A big wedding over by Mana Palmira's house. Singing and dancing and eating all day and into the night.

My camera battery charger plugged in to the outlet at Mana Palmira's house. I liked something about the juxtaposition of a power outlet mudded right into the wall of a mud house.

The stadium on the outskirts of town past my old house. I used to come hear all the time to work out. They play many soccer games here and a couple times a year there will be a big concert here as well. Matavele and I looking down from the roof.

Finally I met the new Peace Corps volunteers in Chokwe. They were both teachers at the Ag School and were living out by there. I can't remember their names, but the one on the left was dating Dilson, the little brother of my friend Orlando who married the Peace Corps volunteer in Chokwe before me. They were both good people and seemed to be having a positive experience in Mozambique. I, for some reason, look like a British rock star in this picture.

My good friend Claudio. We used to hang out all the time and have philosophical conversations. His family is from Inhambane and they are 3rd generation mulatos, from mixed Portuguese and Mozambican descent. His mom was one of my favorite people, a very insightful and intelligent woman who I loved to talk to. She unfortunately had passed on a couple of years prior.

Claudio is an accomplished guitarist, and we used to play music all the time as well.

A crew of some of the old friends: Fafetine, Amandio, Dinho, and some others.

Me and Junior, Claudio's little brother.

Mana Palmira had to go to Inhambane to help out with her husband Rui's niece who was going to give birth soon. I decided to travel with her then continue on up to the central city of Beira.

Here everyone is seeing us off.

In Inhambane, live seems more laid-back and easier. It's beautiful there, right on the coast and all the houses are made of caniço or palm fronds.

A big baobab.

We went over to where Palmira's niece was staying and a man there climbed a palm tree to cut down some green coconuts for everyone.

The house where we were staying. They seemed to have everything in real good shape, including the rain catchment system you can see here.

The little boy at the house where we were staying was fascinated by my ngoni.

Walking around the neighborhood.

Down at the beach, I learned about an interesting phenomenon. There are many fresh-water springs in the sand and one can dig holes around the springs which then fill up with the fresh water. Many women were using these springs to do their laundry.

Mana Palmira at the beach in Maxixe.

Maxixe beach in the late afternoon.

After a couple of nice days with the family in Maxixe, it was time to head up to Beira. Titos, my good friend and co-founder of our music and dance group Kwezi, was living there and I wanted to visit him and check out the central part of Mozambique. I'd been to Beira once before on a long trip all the way to the northern provinces, but hadn't spent much time.

Looking out the window of the bus as we crossed the Save river, marking the boundary between the provinces of Inhambane and Sofala.

A short break after we crossed the river.

Me with my main man Titos. As soon as I arrived, we started getting into all sorts of plans. He works at a big hotel that was putting on a concert with a local band that had just one a contest in Maputo and gotten to tour internationally. The band was called "Infite" (meaning "Sorcerer") and Titos hooked me up to perform with them.

Infite had 2 frontmen; one of them, Cadbury, became my friend quickly.

Me and Cadbury chillin.

The hotel's discoteca at night.

Infite performance. The singers came onstage doing traditional dance moves.

I played a couple of songs with them on ngoni. We wrote both songs two days before the performance at a practice session based on 2 of the simple ngoni parts I'd learned while I was in Mali.

I played the rest of the show on djembe along with their normal djembe player.

I had some free time to walk around Beira. Here is the market.

I saw many walls like this one made of stones. Very different from the building techniques further south.

Something about this unfinished building site captured my imagination.

Some kids at the beach wanted me to take their picture.

I liked the side of this building. You can see a partially obscured ad for Manica, one of the national breweries.

In the central square, I stumbled upon a big celebration for O Dia Nacional da Criança (National Children's Day).

Some of the guys from Infite invited me to another performance opening for a Mozambican pop star.

And now, the legendary DJ Ardilles. Most pop stars in Mozambique perform in this way, which they call "Playback" (just the singer with a mike performing to canned music).

A street in Beira.

Me with my bro Julian (center) and one of the guys from Infite. Dig the shirt.

On my last night in town, I finally tracked down Dinho, my neighbor from Chokwe who used to play in my yard and run errands for me. He was now a freshman in college. It was great to see him.

On my way back down south, I stopped in Macia again to visit Toberinho's family. Gilda and Toberinho in their house.

Gilda's husband Francisco took Toberinho and I for a walk. He grew up in Macia and had lived there his whole life. We went out of town down through some fields above the marsh. He told us a story that during the civil war, when the RENAMO rebels used to come into town to terrorize the people, everyone would go out to the marsh below and hide there half-submerged in the water for up to 3 days.

An old pump-house above an abandoned well.

We went past the marsh out to some fields where the family had a little land that they cultivated.

The next day, the whole family went out to Bilene to spend some time at the beach. Here we are riding in a chapa (pron. shapa). These little mini-vans are the workhorses of transport all over Southern Africa and can be found in every country that I have visited, always with a different name, but always crammed full with people sitting and standing, as well as possessions and (often) livestock, radio blaring, barreling down the road. It's a good time.

Mana Palmira, Gilda, and my friend Lucia at Bilene.

The sand at Bilene is a beautiful white color. In the foreground is the semi-fresh water lagoon. The sea lies beyond the hills at the far side. Toberinho was having so much fun racing around.

Gilda and Francisco.

The whole crew.

Mima.

Gilda and Mima.

Tober and Toberinho.

After saying goodbye to Toberinho's family, I trekked back to Maputo and stayed one last time with Justin before my visa ran out and I had to leave Mozambique.

While I was back in Maputo, I tried to collect some of my favorite Mozambican literature and books on the Xangana language. Here is the street in front of the bookstore.

The old Portuguese fort downtown by the waterfront is an interesting place to go.

Lucia aims a cannon.

A sign of progress? This shiny new shopping mall was the new pride of downtown. South African and capitalist influence was the biggest change I noticed in Maputo from 5 years earlier.

The food court at the mall.

My favorite huge old tree at the Maputo Botanical Gardens.

The iconic entrance to the Mercado Central in downtown Maputo.

On one of my last nights in town, I went out with Justin and his wife and Lucia to my favorite dinner spot: the seafood market. All the catches of the day are on display and after bargaining for your fresh seafood, you take it to one of a number of little "barracas" (bars) that encircle the market and they cook up your seafood for you, serving it with rice, french fries and beer. It's the best.

Chillin at the seafood market.

The largest market in Maputo is on the western edge of town and it's called Xiphamanini. It is a beautiful expression of chaos and I love to wander around in there.

Xiphamanini is famous for having a large magic section. This is where you go to get ingredients for the spell that the Curandeiro is going to cast for you. Here is a picture of some monkey hands.

More of the magic section.

We saw my friend Julian again who I'd met in Beira. He was working at a youth center and we went by to check it out.

Redman lives again!!!!

After a tearful goodbye to Mozambique, it was time to head back to South Africa and start figuring out a plan to get home. I had seen most of the people I wanted to see, including Aloshia, but missed my great friend Marcilio. He was in South Africa while I was in Mozambique and the day I left, I later found out, he came back into Mozambique so we missed seeing each other completely. He had to leave South Africa suddenly because there was a huge flare-up of anti-immigrant xenophobia and many people were killed in riots. Being a Mozambican living in South Africa, he was intimidated into leaving along with thousands of others. My next blog post will talk about this a little and show my final few days in South Africa.

South Africa Part 1 - 05 May 08 to 07 May 08

2009-03-29T14:55:00.000-07:00

After all of the wonderful excitement and learning experiences of 5 months in West Africa, I was feeling fulfilled in my goals that I'd had for that portion of the trip. At the same time, my nostalgia for a return to Mozambique was steadily growing. The first step was to transit South Africa, picking up a visa and getting a little R and R in Johannesburg before returning to the 'Bique.

Here is a shot of the hostel that I stayed at in Johannesburg: Brown Sugar. A castle-like building situated on a hill in a pleasant suburb, I was told it was formerly an old mob hideout.

A view of downtown Johannesburg from the hostel's deck.

I walked around Jo'burg a lot, despite the vast distances. One of my favorite things about South Africa is that they post the newspaper headlines on the roadside with really sensational and humorous titles in order to try and sell more newspapers.

The main thing to do in Johannesburg is to go to the mall. You can get all your errands done and catch a movie. In this mall, I think you can even go bowling.

More mall madness.

Another person walking along by the side of the road like me.

"Africa's Greatest Shopping Adventure"

A big divided highway I had to cross in order to get to the mall. Traffic is now on the left like in the UK. Notice the big "2010" sign in the grass on the left with soccer balls for the 0's.....anticipation is building for the 2010 World Cup to be held in South Africa, the continent's first hosting of soccer's quadriannual event.

An interesting shot of the skeleton of an escalator.

A few trips to the mall and an excursion to the Mozambican Consulate......that was about it for my first pass through South Africa. After a few days and a few errands, I took the public transport downtown to the bus station and boarded the bus for the 8-hour trip to Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. Stay tuned for a significantly longer posting about the month I spent in Mozambique.

Lagos, Nigeria - 01 May 08 to 04 May 08

2008-12-15T00:39:00.000-08:00

You're going where? Lagos? You must be crazy!! My uncle went there 5 years ago and they stole a briefcase right out of his hand!! Do you have to go? Why would you want to go there? Don't you know that that place is very dangerous?

These were the type of responses I got from people, even in neighboring Benin, upon telling them of my final destination in West Africa. But something about this pulsing megalopolis, the world's third-largest city in fact, was drawing me in. I scheduled my outbound flight from West Africa down to Johannesburg from Lagos intentionally so that I would have an opportunity to visit this unique place.

I first had to make it into Nigeria, however. Getting the visa while I was in Accra, Ghana had been a multi-day process involving much pleading and cajoling and had cost $100 for a simple transit visa. After I made it through the official customs post, I then had to run the gauntlet of corrupt border officials on the 200-meter or so walk from the border crossing to the motor park where the onward transport waited. I counted how many times I was stopped by different uniformed border officials, who lurked at various spots about every 100 feet or so: 7 times. In Nigeria, when someone asks for a "dash", they're asking for a little bribe to facilitate whatever action or transaction you desire. I could tell these guys were all scoping me out, so I took a deep breath and tried to summon patience.

Seven times I was ordered to stop and show papers, make an explanation of myself, state my purpose, whatever. All the while I could tell these guys were just digging for any small discrepancy to hit on so that they could demand a "dash". My ngoni saved me every time. Invariably, people wanted to know what was this instrument that I was carrying, why, where did it come from, could I play it. After playing a simple melody, receiving a smile and a good laugh, they always let me go. In fact, I passed my entire 4 days in Nigeria without ever having to pay a single dash, which might be some kind of record.

Here is the motor park that I reached to look for onward transport after having run the gauntlet at the border.

Making it into Lagos was a bit confusing. I had to take a car to another motor park on the outskirts, change to a big collective van that took me in to Lagos Island, then get a taxi to take me downtown. It took a couple of hours. I was all jacked up because of all the hype about how dangerous it was, but really, it was just like any other big African city I've visited, and every time things were confusing someone was there who offered me help and advice on how to get through the next stage.

I walked all around the lower downtown for a couple hours looking for a place to stay, but the few hotels in the guidebook were either full or too expensive. Finally, I wandered by luck into an area between Lagos Island and Ikoye (which have now merged) called Obalende, which was an entertainment and residential district packed with people and bustling little streets that had a really cool vibe. I found a run-down old place called the Obalende Guest House run by a blind man and his wife who were very nice and offered me a discounted rate. With a home base, I now had the opportunity to let loose and explore Lagos.

Here is the Obalende Motor Park, located inbetween the islands of Lagos and Ikoye. The central part of Lagos, similar to New York City, is located on a series of islands. The main downtown is Lagos Island, Ikoye has most of the embassies and consulates, and Victoria Island has most of the really rich (from oil money) banks and upscale properties. On the mainland are most of the residential neighborhoods in a sprawl that spreads for several miles.

This motor park seemed to be perpetually submerged in about 4 inches of black, oily water. The cars and busses would just cruise on through, sending black waves splashing up toward the sidewalk so you had to watch out.

I spent the next few days wandering around Lagos Island.

This building had a typical message written on it: "Beware of 419". 419 is the Nigerian code for fraud. It can refer to those mass emails we've all gotten soliciting help getting a large sum of money out of Nigeria, if only you provide your bank details; it can also refer to the practice of breaking into an unoccupied property and then selling it off to an unsuspecting third party.

Evangelical Christianity has a lot of clout in southern Nigeria.

The iconic entrance to Tafa Balewa Square in downtown Lagos.

The entrance to the National Museum. A fascinating place, I spent the whole day here and still hadn't seen it all when they closed the doors.

The licence plates from Lagos State.

Motorcycle taxis awaiting clients in the shade.

While heading uptown toward the market district, I passed this outdoor wedding, very similar to many other weddings I saw in West Africa.

A famous old bookshop in Lagos. I read that there is some Afro-Brazilian architecture in Lagos, similar to Benin, that was built by returned former slaves from Brazil. I thought this might be an example of one of the buildings but I am not sure.

There is a raised expressway called Ring Road which runs around the circumference of Lagos Island. Central transportation centers can also be found periodically along the perimeter.

The downtown Lagos skyline.

The harbor in Lagos.

Getting close to the market district, which takes up the entire northern third of Lagos Island.

Lagos' downtown mosque, with a garbage dump in the foreground.

This building spontaneously collapsed one day. I asked a street vendor about it and he told me that one day a couple of years ago, as everyone was minding their business, they heard a huge crash and looked up to find the building had caved in with no warning. Unfortunately, several hundred people died in the collapse.

A closer view of the collapsed building.

Getting in to the market district.

Masses of people thronging the streets in the market district at the northern end of Lagos Island.

More market and more people than I ever saw. There were streets and streets forever packed with people and stalls selling anything and everything.

Getting near to sunset.

The daily commute home. Lagos is infamous for its traffic jams, called "go-slows". At the end of the working day, thousands and thousands of people were trying to get off of the island back to the residential districts on the mainland. Traffic was at an absolute standstill and many thousands of these people were simply walking across the bridges back home.

Another day, I walked east through Ikoye and across a big bridge onto Victoria Island. Here is a roadside statue as one arrives on VI.

This guy reminded me of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, but I don't think he was a police officer.

A megabank built from millions of dollars of oil money.

Hey everyone, pay up.

Taken from the bridge back to Lagos Island, local fishermen ply the waters.

A view from underneath the raised causeway encircling Lagos Island.

The ruins of this boat were lying at the bottom of a ditch underneath the raised expressway.

The Obalende Guest House, my home away from home in Lagos.

My room in the Obalende Guest House.

The street outfront of the guesthouse in Obalende.

Below is a picture of me and my friend Shuaib Mumuney-Bako. I met him while walking around the Obalende District. He invited me to have a few drinks and we hung out for a while. He was really nice and showed me around Obalende, but at first was very suspicious of me. He was confused about the purpose of my presence in Nigeria and in Obalende (I was the only foreign tourist I saw the entire time I was there). He asked me outright if I was an undercover CIA agent. I have met with this suspicion before in different African countries. Unfortunately, the suspicion is fully justified as the CIA has taken part in many covert actions in Africa in the past, some resulting in the assassination of legitimately elected African leaders such as Patrice Lumumba.

Politics aside and suspicions assuaged, my friend Mumuney invited me to his friend's bachelor party the next night. It was held in a small park almost underneath a raised expressway adjacent to the Obalende Motor Park. There was much drinking and dancing, as to be expected, and I got some leads on some new dance music. Nigeria has a great music scene from the little that I observed and heard.

The highlight of a bachelor party in Nigeria is when everyone is supposed to spray the groom with beer until he is completely soaked from head to toe. Because we were in a children's park, the agreement was that we had to soak him with water instead so the ubiquitous plastic bags of water known all over West Africa as "Pure Wata" were handed out and we all rushed the groom at the appropriate hour and doused every inch of him.

Me and Mumuney.

As evening approached on May 4th, I made the journey via public transport and motorcycle taxi out to Nigeria's international airport, at the north end of the city on the mainland. The whole time it was running through my mind that this was my last day in West Africa. I felt nostalgic already, missing the people and places I'd seen, and at the same time excited and anxious to return to Mozambique and see all of my friends there after 5 years of absence.

The next post will be a short account of my transit of South Africa, followed by a post on my month spent in Mozambique. Stay tuned.

Benin - 18 Apr 08 to 30 Apr 08

2008-06-08T04:32:00.000-07:00

I was quite excited to visit the country of Benin, for a number of reasons. The first one was the good fortune of having a personal connection there. The best travel scenario is usually when you have a local contact that can show you around and give you the insider's view of wherever you are. My friend from Boulder, Olatundji Akpo-Sani, has a large extended family in southern Benin as his father is from there, and for the next 3 weeks I was the guest of the Akpo-Sani family.

The other reasons I was excited to visit Benin all had to do with the wealth of culture and history that this country contains, despite its small geographical size. From learning about the authentic nature of voodoo (properly called vodoun and born in Benin, vodoun is an official religion here), to having another opportunity to come face to face with the harsh historical realities of slavery, to learning about the Dahomeyan kingdom, to visiting a small town built in the middle of a lake entirely on stilts, Benin has a lot of unique and fascinating facets that I was ready to explore.

My first stop on the way from Lome was the commercial capital and largest city, Cotonou. Most of the Akpo-Sani family lives there so it seemed like the place to start.

Cotonou doesn't have a lot of historical or cultural tourist sites of note; most of what's in the guidebook is found elsewhere in the country. But it is full of hustle and bustle, huge swarms of zemi-johns (motorcycles) swarming everywhere on the streets, and more people than any other city in Benin. And it is also home to the large and diversified "Peace and Love" corporation, whose various commercial holdings caught my eye all over the city.

Marguerite and Alime are a wonderful couple who live with their kids in one of the neighborhoods of Cotonou. Marguerite is Olatundji's aunt, and two of their oldest kids (Tundji's cousins) are pretty close to my age so I spent the most time hanging out with them. The oldest son, Taofic, is quite a well-known pop star in Benin so we had a lot in common talking about music. He had a room in a compound just around the corner from his parents' house where I stayed while in Cotonou and we would come back to Marguerite and Alime's for delicious home-cooked Beninese meals.

Here is a picture of Taofic, my host and guide all over the city of Cotonou. As he had a zemi-john, we were able to cruise all around and check out the town, as well as experience the thrill of cruising through Cotonou traffic.

Taofic's next youngest brother is Loukman, pictured here. While Taofic insisted on going everywhere on his bike, Loukman and I cruised around the city on foot. He took me all over Cotonou.

Here is a photo of the neighborhood near where Marguerite and Alime live in Cotonou. Off of the main streets, most of the sideroads are sandy little back alleys where huge mudpuddles form when it rains. People leave strategically placed rocks where the big puddles usually form so that if you know the secret of where they are, you can still get by without having to get your feet wet.

This is a photo of the pinkest church I've ever seen in my life, on the way in between Marguerite and Alime's and Taofic's.

Some close friends of Loukman's. We went over to their house on my first night in Cotonou and they shared a bottle of really good imported German beer with me that they had been saving. It's fortunate that they decided to wear different clothes, otherwise they might be indistinguishable.

After getting acquainted with the neighborhood, I went out cruising with Taofic in order to get a feel for the city. Here we are swarming with the other zemi-john traffic.

Here is the statue on top of the Place de l'Etoile Rouge, the "Plaza of the Red Star". Benin passed through a communist phase shortly after independence and there are many landmarks around Cotonou that attest to this history.

Another place we went was the new parliament building which was still under construction. It reminded me of 1950's architecture, maybe something by Frank Lloyd Wright.

Another sighting of the "Group Peace and Love" empire in downtown Cotonou.

As I mentioned before, Taofic is a big pop star in Benin. Together with his friend Romeric, they have a group called "Weziza", which Taofic told me was recently voted one of the 5 most popular groups in Benin. When I arrived, they were just in the process of releasing their 3rd studio album and they were doing some live shows in clubs around town in order to promote it. Here is a picture from a promo show they played. Taofic is on the left and Romeric is on the far right.

A different day, another one of the uncles in the family (I forget his name) came and got me and we went to visit some different members of the Akpo-Sani family that live around Cotonou.

This man is one of the people we visited. He owns this little quiosque that is right out side of the family compound where he lives. It was a nice little shop and very typical, I think, of the little roadside quiosques all across West Africa. He made me an awesome lunch and we hung out for awhile.

A bunch more family that all lived in the compound by the quiosque

That particular day happened to be election day and the uncle I was with took me with him to the polling place while he voted. Here is a picture of Beninese democracy in action.

We drove by the huge "Marche de Dantokpa", reputed to be the largest market in West Africa. On a different day I came back and wandered around this massive place for a few hours. The building shown in this picture is only the central heart of the market, which also spreads out through the surrounding streets and is really like its own neighborhood. To me, walking around in a big market is one of the most quintessential African experiences, and I tried often on this trip to capture what it's like in photos. I felt like I had little success in trying to portray the nature of these massive, bustling places with pictures. In retrospect, I wish I would have taken some videos while walking through some of these markets.

On another day, Loukman and I wandered all over the city on foot. We passed by this restaurant, which was located in a richer neighborhood of Cotonou where most of the embassies are located and the majority of expats live. As I walked past this restaurant, which was called "The Livingstone", I was struck by the fact that every single person who I could see inside was white, which seemed very odd in downtown Cotonou.

My first excursion outside of Cotonou was a two-day trip to the nearby town of Ouidah. During the height of the slave trade, the Dahomeyan kingdom would capture people and sell them to the Portuguese who would ship them from here to the New World, mainly Brazil and Haiti. In addition to museums recounting the history of the slave trade and the subsequent impact that the people of the African Diaspora have had on culture in the Americas, Ouidah has what is called the Route des Esclaves, a 4 km history walk following the route that slaves took on the way to the beach where they were loaded onto ships bound for the other side of the Atlantic. Ouidah is also the seat of the Vodoun religion in Benin.

Here is the central square in Ouidah.

This historical museum is housed in a former Portuguese fort. The Route des Esclaves starts here, and leads 4 km to the beach where the slaves were rowed out to the waiting slave ships. Following along the path there are many statues and historical markers along the way.

This was the first stop on the Route des Esclaves. Shortly before reaching this point I met some people in a vodoun temple who invited me to come back later and meet the high priest, which I did, but I wanted to walk the Route first.

This is the Place Cha-Cha, where slaves were auctioned off. The full plaque under the statue was buried under several inches of sand; I had to dig it up to read what was written there.

Further along the Route. The big billboard on the left was part of a cell-phone advertising campaign that was ubiquitous in Benin at the time I was there.

The Route des Esclaves was lined to either side with at least ten different statues such as this one, all having significance in the vodoun religion. Because I couldn't afford to pay for a guide to accompany me on the whole route, I missed a lot of the significance of what the statues meant. This one, however was well explained by the plaque.

This spot marks the location of the former "Tree of Forgetfulness". The male slaves were forced to circle the tree 9 times and the female slaves 7 times. This was to attempt to strip them of all memory of their homeland so that they could be more productive workers in the New World.

This compound I saw along the way belongs to a vodoun healer and the sign outside advertised their services.

When I got to about a kilometer before the beach, I encountered this place, which was a partially finished museum celebrating the contributions of the African Diaspora worldwide.

On the grounds, I met this man, named Kuku Fineboy, who was an Ogoni refugee from the Niger Delta in neighboring Nigeria. I was starting to feel like I was missing out on some of the important history of the Route des Esclaves, plus Kuku Fineboy was quite a nice guy, so I decided to hire him to guide me a little. After his tour was over, I also got to hear some of his personal story which was quite interesting.

He first explained that the African Diaspora museum here had run out of money before it could be finished. However, the grounds are partially finished and are used sometimes. There is a small, covered gazebo where Kuku told me there is a ceremony every year that takes place where the "Torch of Forgiveness" is lit and people from all over the world come to reflect on the evils of slavery and ask forgiveness of the ancestors. They pledge to forgive but never to forget. There are also some statues inside, of people like Martin Luther King, Jr., and W.E.B. du Bois, and one of a man I hadn't heard of before, called Litman.

Here is the statue of Litman. According to Kuku Fineboy, he helped in the invention of the light bulb. I looked up the history and although Thomas Edison is given credit for making the first mass-producable and commercially viable light bulb, there are reputed to be some 22 other people who came up with earlier prototypes that influenced Edison's work. However, Litman was not mentioned as one of them. Not only could I not find his name anywhere in Wikipedia, a cursory search of a couple of black history websites also turned up nothing. If anyone knows anything about the history of Litman, please let me know (you can post a comment right on the blog). Perhaps Litman is one of the forgotten geniuses of American history.

Kuku Fineboy showed me around the vicinity of the unfinished museum. Out back was an artistically stylized statue that represented the brutal and inhumane circumstances in which rebellious slaves were kept, as a way to intimidate the other slaves into obedience.

One other thing that he showed me was also a bit of a mystery. I had already seen the site of the "Tree of Forgetfulness". This next tree that he showed me was known as the "Tree of Return". Why the seeming contradiction? Apparently, the Portuguese slave masters were the ones to force the slaves to circle the "Tree of Forgetfulness". The Dahomeyan slave masters, by contrast, then later made the captives circle this "Tree of Return" three times. The purpose was so that even if they forgot Africa in this lifetime, their spirits would return here after death. At the bottom of the plaque explaining the story behind this tree, it states that the return is not "physical but mystical".

After we returned to the unfinished museum where I had met Kuku, he then told me a bit about himself. As you may know, there is a virtual war raging in the Niger Delta over oil and the subsequent degradation of the environment and people's living conditions by the companies who are extracting the oil. Many guerilla rebel groups have formed to fight this injustice and occasionally make international headlines by kidnapping foreign journalists and oil workers. Kuku comes from the small Ogoni tribe, who have decided instead to fight this injustice through entirely nonviolent means. He is currently a refugee from Nigeria trying to make enough money to feed his family and that is why he came to Benin.

Further along the walk, just before I got to the beach, I passed this small stilt village built in the coastal lagoon.

Finally, I reached the beach. A symbolic "Door of No Return" was built here to commemorate the spot where the slaves took their last steps on African soil before being shipped off into lives of bondage and toil on the other side of the Atlantic.

Just down from this monument there is a museum dedicated to the "Return of the Diaspora" which features a large "Door of Return". I wanted to go inside but they had closed it a half an hour early so I had to take this picture standing on a stump and looking over the fence.

Back in the center of Ouidah, I wanted to visit the Temple of the Serpents. This Catholic church was erected in Ouidah by the Portuguese who intentionally placed it directly across from the Temple of the Serpents to counteract what they saw as the demonic nature of the Temple.

The outside of the Temple of the Serpents. As the guidebook states, this vodoun python temple is now more of a tourist trap than a sacred site; it seems most of the important ceremonies are now performed in the new temple I passed earlier and was to return to shortly. However, I had to get my python fix so I paid my money and went inside.

You get to pose with the pythons draped round your neck and held in your hands.

As I mentioned before, I had previously met some people at a vodoun temple along the Route des Esclaves. They had been drumming and dancing as I passed, which of course attracted my attention. I stopped to watch but the dancing was just ending. A man came up to me and told me to come back later, that I could meet with the high priest then. I didn't really understand, but promised to return anyway.

When I came back, I was ushered into the chamber of His Majesty Daagbo Hounon, the Tomadjlehoukpon II, the spiritual leader of the Vodoun religion, or as he put it to me, the "Pope of Voodoo". I had to prostrate myself on hands and knees as a sign of respect, then we sat down to talk. He told me a little about the history of the Vodoun religion and showed me portraits along the wall going back hundreds of years of all the previous leaders of Vodoun, his predecessors. Each one, toward the end of his life, would perform a special ceremony at the edge of the ocean where the water would open up and they would walk into the ocean to join the ancestors, never to return. The next person in line would then take their place as the Daagbo of Vodoun.

Daagbo was quite an interesting and engaging person, but he wasn't quite sure what to make of me. We had some interesting conversations about culture and politics, and he expressed his wish to travel to the United States and pray for peace, as the Catholic pope has a number of times. He expressed his dismay that he is not treated with the same level of respect as his other religious counterparts around the world. After this, he asked me what I wanted from him and seemed frustrated when I said I didn't know. Apparently, many foreigners come and offer small gifts to him for him to pray for them and invoke the power of vodoun to help them in their lives. After I finally hit upon what he should pray for, we had some more interesting conversation, then he sent me with one of his acolytes to see a vodoun ceremony, which was quite cool. I thought it would be rude to ask to photograph inside Daagbo's temple, so I have no pictures of him or the encounter, but I did take some photographs of the ceremony, which was going on outside in public.

Here are a few pictures of the ceremony. I wasn't sure what the significance was, but the last picture shows someone wearing a python costume. The drumming accompanying the ceremony was awesome, and sounded almost exactly like some of the Afro-Cuban and Afro-Brazilian drumming I have heard, with many simultaneous bell patterns and polyrythmic hand drumming.

After the ceremony, we went to the lead drummer's house and I met his family. He told me that if I ever wanted to come back and study the music they run intensive month-long classes. Anyone want to fund such a venture?

After learning about Vodoun, I didn't have much time left in Ouidah so I just walked around and checked out the town a little bit before returning to Cotonou.

Here is a picture walking around Ouidah. This road is under construction.

This was an old colonial building I saw while wandering around Ouidah.

After my two days in Ouidah, I returned to Cotonou. I decided that the next place I wanted to visit was the stilt-city of Ganvie, which is located in the middle of Lake Nokuè just to the north of Cotonou. It's about a half an hour ride on public transport to the subburb by where the main port is with boats bound for Ganvie. I had to wait around for a couple of hours until more tourists showed up so we could share the price of a boat ride out to Ganvie. Because the only way to get around the town is in a boat, you can't really go there on the normal public transportation, as once you arrive, you would be stuck where the boat dropped you off.

Most of the residents of Ganvie survive by fishing. On the way there we passed several fishermen at work. They cordon off a large area with nets that go all the way down to the lake bottom, then put palm fronds down in the mud at the bottom of the lake (about 20 ft. or less down). When the palm fronds start to rot, fish come to eat them and the fishermen harvest these fish with relative ease as they are already in a contained area inside the nets.

A "fishing field" of palm fronds planted on the bottom of the lake.

Here is a view looking down the "street" coming in to Ganvie.

Another view as we drifted slowly through the town. I didn't get a sense of how big Ganvie is, but I know we only saw a small portion of it. The Lonely Planet put the population at 27,000 people. The reason they live in stilt dwellings in the middle of the lake goes back to the slave-trading era. The powerful Dahomeyan kingdom would capture as many local people as they could and sell them to the Portuguese and other European slaving powers, but the Dahomeyans were prohibited by a taboo to cross over open water. The stilt villages thus were refuges formed of whole populations fleeing the reach of the slavers. Though this time has now passed, people choose to continue a lifestyle their ancestors have been leading for the past 300 years or so.

I was particularly struck by the ingenuity of this house, which was replete with its own floating yard of imported soil.

Reach out and touch someone from Ganvie, Benin.

Our last stop on our tour of Ganvie was a hotel, where tourists can have the novelty of spending a night here. They have an extensive gift-shop that we visited which they politely ask you to peruse before you leave.

On our way out of town I caught a glimpse of Ganvie's mosque's two towers in the distance. I really would have liked to see it up close to see how they pulled off a stone building like a mosque on stilts, but it was not part of the tour.

On the edge of town looking across to the lake's shoreline in the distance.

One last view of the fishermen of Ganvie as we departed.

After returning from Ganvie, I went with Taofic to meet another branch of the Akpo-Sani family who live across the bridge in a different section of town called Akpakpa. This is Mouniratou, Taofic's oldest sister who is now married with her own children.

Next we went to visit Taofic's oldest aunt, Madeleine, who made me a special lunch of delicious salad. We hung out and talked and I got to meet the kids in her household as well.

One of the kids there had on one of my top-ten favorite t-shirts of all time.

The crew over at Aunt Madeleine's house.

Since we were in Akpakpa, we went to visit Taofic's agent who is also one of his best friends and we put a few away. This combined with foodpoisoning (I think from mayonnaise that had been out too long) contributed to my most serious bout with illness on my 6-month trip. The next morning I woke up feeling like crap, but determined to go visit the nearby city of Porto Novo. I made it as far as the bus station, and while sitting in the car waiting for it to leave I started to get really dizzy and puked. I thought I might be coming down with malaria but I'd left my medication at the house. I got a motorcycle driver to take me back to Taofic's. On the way I had to stop and puke again, and the violent contractions in my stomach caused the diarrhea I'd been fighting to hold back to come shooting out with a vengeance.

I spent the next day and a half laying down at Taofic's, so weak I could barely stand except to go to the bathroom. Loukman and the neighbors made me a special folk remedy consisting of the pulp from papaya leaves mixed with water and lemon juice, in order to help clean the parasites out of my system.

I was now running short on time in my itinerary, but I was determined to still see Porto Novo. After a couple of days of fasting the infection felt as though it had passed and I just felt weak from not eating, but generally fine so I dragged myself to Porto Novo for an afternoon.

Porto Novo is the administrative capital of Benin, but is definitely the second city. It is much smaller and has a very relaxed feel. The streets are full of people walking around instead of zooming everywhere on Zemi-Johns. There are also several interesting museums in Porto Novo.

This musem, the Musée da Silva, explors the link between Afro-Brazilian culture and the effects that repatriated Brazilians of African descent had on Benin when they returned here, as many did, at the end of the 1800's.

The main building in the museum is the former residence of an Afro-Brazilian family who returned to Benin and settled in Porto Novo.

Walking down the street in Porto Novo. Notice all of the little bottles on the table. They are filled with gasoline. This is how fuel is sold all over West Africa.

Next I went to visit the Musée Honmé. Pictures were prohibited on the tour, except for here in the courtyard.

The museum is housed in the former palace of one of West Africa's longest-running dynasties, consisting of a line of 25 consecutive kings from 1688 to 1976. It was very bare inside, and luckily the guide was knowledgeable and explained the history and function of each chamber, otherwise I would not have understood much. There were various official burial chambers, an exercise room, a dining hall and so forth.

I thought the exposed root system of this tree outside of the Musée Honmé was quite beautiful.

Porto Novo's market, pretty laid-back by African standards.

One of Porto Novo's colorful mosques.

The last major goal of my excursion to Benin was to visit the home village of the Akpo-Sani family, called Pira. Loukman and Margerite hadn't been to see their family there in a while, either, so we decided to all go together to visit the village and the family and spend a couple of days there. We caught a bus from Cotonou in the late morning and arrived in Pira just before nightfall that same day.

The very first place I was shown upon arrival in Pira was the Akpo-Sani family shrine, where sacrifices are made to ensure the ancestors are happy. Here is the shrine.

This lady in Pira made a local "cheese", which was fermented something tasty and funky (although not milk I think). After fermentation, it is fried in hot oil and served wrapped in a big leaf. I thought the cheese was really good and ended up eating 3 or 4 pieces.

One of the uncles in the Akpo-Sani family. I forget his name but he showed Loukman and I around for a while and was a really great guy. I asked Loukman later how he had lost his arm. Late one night, he was coming back to Pira on his motorbike when he was ambushed by bandits. Not only did they rob him of his possessions, he was forced to fight for his life and lost his arm in the process.

As we were walking around town, we passed this large group of women who were walking all over town clapping and singing the most beautiful music. We went to meet them.

The ladies asked me to dance with them so I did. Loukman was holding my camera and he snapped the action shot.

This woman seemed to be appreciative of my dancing skills.

Loukman and I went around the village and visited many aunts, uncles, great-aunts and great-uncles. Many of them are getting quite old and I thought it would be a good idea to try and get some good pictures for posterity (I gave a copy of all my photos to the family before I left). After a while I started to feel like the family photographer, which was fun. Here is one of the great-aunts with some of her children and grandchildren.

Lots of pots, handmade and handfired in the village.

Margerite cooked for us on this cool little oven which was built right into the base of the wall of one of the houses in the family compound.

On the second day in Pira, Loukman and I went for a walk past the edge of town to see the fields where crops are grown. On the way we passed this massive termite mound.

Piles of cassava (manioc) roots which have been harvested.

I saw the most beautiful and colorful grasshoppers I have ever seen.

On the way back from the fields, we met a man who raised rabbits at his house and he wanted to show them to us, so we accompanied him to his house to see the rabbits.

Here is another great-aunt in the Akpo-Sani family (middle left). The man on the far left showed up just before I took this picture. He was returning from a traditional ceremony and was still dressed for the ceremony.

Sunset in Pira.

On the way back from Pira, Loukman and I stopped by the next town over where his father Alime is from (his mother Margerite stayed in Pira after we left to visit and catch up with family). Loukman went to boarding school in this town for a few years and has lots of friends here still, who he hadn't seen in quite a while.

This bizarre sign was sitting by the side of the road. If anyone can figure out what it means, let me know.

Here is Loukman with one of his cousins in front of a mural of their uncle, Alime's oldest brother. He was reputed to be 110 years old when he passed away.

There are two hills in this town, and we climbed one of them to get a nice view of the area. Here is the other hill across the way. Local legend is that one hill is male and the other female and they are married. Occaisionally they disagree or even fight, which can bring disaster to the village. In order to prevent this, a ceremony is performed every year to ensure harmony between the couple.

I think the hill in the distance is the male hill and we climbed the female hill, but now I'm not sure.

The village from the top of the hill.

Loukman and I then made our way back down in the direction of Cotonou. On the way back, I left Loukman in the crossroads town of Bohicon and he continued on to Cotonou. I caught a Zemi-John for the few kilometers over to the historic town of Abomey.

Abomey was the seat of the former kingdom of Dahomey that was feared throughout the region for their hostile nature (each king pledged to leave his successor more land than he inherited) and participation in the slave trade (southern Dahomey was once known as the Slave Coast). Once very powerful, the kingdom gave its name to the entire country of Benin, whose name was changed to the current moniker only in 1975 by the Communist dictator Mathieu Kérékou.

The first order of business was to find a place to stay in Abomey. I happened upon the Hotel Pussy-Cat and made a deal to stay there for a couple of nights.

Here is a shot of my room in the Hotel Pussy-Cat. I put this picture in the blog because this room is very representative of what the rooms were like in the small hotels I stayed in across West Africa. A room like this costs about 7-10 dollars a night and most of the clients are other West Africans who are traveling on business.

The next day I went to take the tour of Abomey and learn about its long history. Here in the main plaza is a statue of Béhanzin, the last king of Dahomey who fought against French colonization.

There were 12 kings of Dahomey and each one built his own palace. The whole tour around the town is known as the "Dahomey Trail" and encompasses many things to see.

I got a guide from the local tourist office who also had his own moto. We began cruising around the town and checking out all of the sites.

Here is one of the former royal palaces. Notice the yellow fish with the green net on the wall. Virtually all of the palaces have been restored and rebuilt for tourists, but the symbols are authentic. Each king had his own symbol which told an allegorical story representing him and was the symbol of his dynasty.

This unassuming-looking ditch is actually the remains of the moat which used to surround the central area of Abomey. "Abo" means "moat" in the Fon language and "mey" means inside, so this moat is the source of the town's name.

Here is a vodoun shrine where sacrifices are made.

Some local moto-taxi drivers taking a break in the shade.

This was the site of the former "Court of the Amazons", where the female Amazon army of Abomey was trained. The plaque states that the Amazon force was as many as 200-strong at its height.

Here is the Temple Zéwa. My guide didn't know anything about it, but the Lonely Planet said that this temple was built to appease the spirits of a rebellious group of King Ghézo's wives, who he had executed by covering them in red palm oil and letting ants eat them.

Although interesting at first, the tour started to drag on as all of the buildings were reconstructed ruins and the guide ended up knowing precious little about them beyond what I could read for myself on the signs. I started getting anxious for the grande finale of the tour, which was a visit to the Musée Historique d'Abomey.

Here are the doors to the museum, bolted shut. When we arrived there I was given a rude surprise: The museum was closed for at least a week while the workers there were on strike for better wages and benefits. The crown jewel of my visit to Abomey was shut and would not reopen until after I had left the country. I was bummed.

The museum is a UNESCO World Heritage site which contains most of the artifacts from the Dahomeyan kingdom, including famous tapestries telling the history of the kingdom and a royal throne mounted on human skulls.

The next day, I got up early as I wanted to briefly visit Ouidah again before returning to Cotonou. I actually had to pass through the outskirts of Cotonou to transfer to a car to Ouidah, and while I was waiting for the car I found another couple branches of the Peace and Love Group's commercial empire: The Peace and Love Hotel and the Peace and Love Restaurant.

After feeling a wonderful sense of completion at finishing my collection of Peace and Love Group sightings, I also finished seeing the historical museum in Ouidah and made a quick visit to the Sacred Forest as well. The Sacred Forest was pretty much of a tourist trap but is at least a nice park and was shaded from the brutal noonday sun.

The highlight of the Sacred Forest is seeing this iroko tree, which, as the story goes, King Kpassé, the founder of Ouidah, turned himself into while fleeing from danger.

This amazingly elaborate statue is in a small square near the center of Ouidah.

Finally it was time to return to Cotonou and say my goodbyes. Here is a family shot with my wonderful hosts, the Akpo-Sani's, during my stay in Benin.

Taofic took me to the gare routiere (station) to catch onward transport to Lagos, Nigeria, my last stop in West Africa before flying down to South Africa in order to make my way over to Mozambique. It was the first day of May, 2008.

Togo - 16 Apr 08 to 17 Apr 08

2008-05-07T12:37:00.000-07:00

My next stop on my journey eastward from Abidjan to Lagos was the small country of Togo, which is quite long from north to south but very narrow east to west. Originally colonized by the Germans, Togo was split after World War II and the western third, administered by the British, became part of Ghana. Thus there are many Ghanaian families you will meet whose parents came originally from Togo. The eastern two-thirds was administered by the French and became independent in 1960.

The capital of Togo is the city of Lome. It literally butts up against the border, so after I arrived from Accra in public transport I walked across the border and found a cheap hotel less than half a kilometer from the border. I could still see Ghana from where I was staying.

Here is a market on the beach just adjacent to the border. Lome has a most beautiful beach, but being quite steep the undertow was pretty wicked.

One of the two days I spent in Lome was a bit stormy. April is a transitional month when the dry season is ending and the rainy season beginning, and the weather was starting to change across West Africa.

Local fishermen on the beach in Lome.

Here is one of the central banks for West Africa's common currency, the CFA (pronounced Sefa). This currency is used by all of the former French colonies in West Africa except Guinea, and is used in Guinea-Bissau even though they were not a former colony of France. The symbol you see up high on the building is the official symbol of the CFA and appears on all the currency.

A close-up of the CFA symbol on a gate to the bank.

This is the Place de l'Independance, right across from Parliament and the National Museum. The big statue in the middle of the roundabout is the Togolese independence monument.

A close-up view of the independence monument.

The monument from the front.

Here is Parliament.

On display in the National Museum, this hat from the Moba people is made out of overlapping strips of leather. Something about its look really appealed to me.

This photo shows migratory patterns in the Yoruba Empire. Lome is at the bottom left of the map.

A map illustrating the division of Togo into two parts by the colonial powers. In the center is a traditional hat worn by the Tamberma people who build fortified compounds known as Tata Somba. They live in the north of Togo.

Relics from Togo's slave-trading history on display in the National Museum.

I saw this somewhat bizarre fountain (at least I think that's what it was) on one of my walks around the city.

I also saw this guy wearing a pretty interesting backpack.

A canal choked with water plants. I walked along this canal for awhile, which seemed to demarcate the edge of downtown.

A rather barren and lonely-looking soccer field on the edge of town.

A street scene from Lome.

Another street scene from downtown.

Here is another street scene illustrating the massive amounts of motorcycles and scooters zooming around Lome at all hours of the day and night. Known locally as "Zemi-Johns", many are for hire and they are the quickest and cheapest way to get around town. It can be a pretty exciting ride sometimes. From what I heard, Benin has even more and crazier Zemi-Johns zipping around everywhere, so Lome was a good warm up for what was to come.

Just up the street from where I stayed in Lome.

A very brief visit to Togo. I would like to return at some point in the future to see more of this fascinating country. However, there was only so much time in my itinerary so it was time to move on to the next destination: Benin. Look for it in the next posting.

Ghana - 06 Apr 08 - 16 Apr 08

2008-05-06T13:02:00.000-07:00

My next stop in my journey across West Africa was the country of Ghana. I only had time to visit 3 places, but I learned an enormous amount about Ghanaian culture and even more about history, particularly the history of slavery. I also had the opportunity to meet some of the Mensah family, brothers and sisters of Maputo and Mawuenyega Mensah who live in Boulder.

Here is the river that marks the border between Ivory Coast and Ghana. I got a car from Abidjan to the border, walked across this river and to the Ghanaian immigration post, then found another car to take me onward to Cape Coast.

My first stop in Ghana was the town of Cape Coast. It's a vibrant fishing community about halfway along Ghana's coastline. The centerpiece of the waterfront is the Cape Coast Castle, one of about 137 forts constructed along the coast of West Africa by European powers in the 1600-1800's. Cape Coast Castle was the former seat of the British colonial administration of the Gold Coast (Ghana's colonial name). It is one of the oldest forts on the coastline and, like many of the others, changed hands between various European powers as they all vied for commercial dominance of the region, until being held by the British for over 200 years. When trade turned from gold and ivory to slaves, Cape Coast Castle became the largest slave-trading center in West Africa.

Looking out over Cape Coast from inside the castle. The boats in the foreground are fishing canoes, made locally.

Cape Coast Castle.

A visit to Cape Coast Castle includes a tour of the former dungeons, explaining in depth the treatment of the slaves and the conditions they were forced to endure. I'm going to give a short recap of this tour.

This is the beginning of the tour. This doorway leads down into the Male Slave Dungeon (the slaves were held in separate dungeons depending on their gender).

Inside the Male Slave Dungeon. Our guide explained that the slaves were held here for about 3 months awaiting transport to the New World. In that time, the human waste, including urine, fecal matter and vomit, accumulated to a height of a couple feet deep covering the whole floor and the slaves were forced to stay in their own filth during the entire time they were kept here. I tried to imagine how a person could sleep (not to mention survive) in these conditions.

This is a collection of wreaths left by various African American groups that come to the castle every year in honor of the memory of their ancestors and what they went through.

Here is the Female Slave Dungeon. Although the conditions were similar to the Male Slave Dungeon, the density of persons kept here was not as high.

Female slaves were routinely raped by their captors. The female slaves who refused to endure this atrocity were placed in this special punishment cell for several weeks. This tiny cell would accommodate up to 14 women at a time.

Here is the cell where rebellious male slaves were kept.

These marks on the floor of the cell for rebellious slaves were made by captives who carved them into the stone with their shackles. They were forced to wear the shackles even though they were already locked up in a cell.

Here is the "Door of No Return". Slaves were marched out of this door and into waiting slave ships for the 3 month journey across the Atlantic. Waiting for them at the end of that journey (if they survived it) was a life of captivity and endless labor for someone else's profit.

On the outside of the "Door of No Return" is written "Door of Return" in honor of all of the people of African descent from throughout the diaspora who have made the journey back to Africa to find their roots and witness the historical remnants of slavery in Africa. These "Doors of No Return" are thus transformed into symbols of hope.

On the top floor of the castle are the old quarters of the British governor, considerably nicer and more comfortable than the dungeons that lay 2 stories directly under his feet. There also used to be a church in the courtyard of the castle, built directly on top of where the dungeons were. It was said that after service on Sundays, worshipers who walked out of church could hear the cries of the slaves in the dungeon below them.

An inscription mounted on the wall at the entrance to the Male Slave Dungeon. The tour of the castle ends here.

After the tour was over, I took a little break to try and let the enormity of what I'd just experienced soak in. I took some pictures from the castle walls looking out at daily life going on below me.

Here are some fishermen preparing to launch their craft.

More fishing activity as nets are unfurled and boats are prepared to be launched.

After my little break, I entered the museum portion of the castle to finish the learning experience of Cape Coast Castle.

Here is a map that shows the Triangular Trade Route, which I mentioned in my earlier post from Senegal. For those not familiar, this is the name given to the trading network that developed around slavery. It started and ended in Europe, with European vessels loading manufactured goods and sailing to West Africa, where they traded the goods for human slaves. They then loaded the slaves in place of the goods and set off across the Atlantic. Upon arrival in the Americas, the slaves were sold and plantation goods such as cotton and rum, the product of slaves' labor, were loaded onto the same boats which then returned to Europe and sold these products, bought more manufactured goods to trade for slaves and the cycle continued. The Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade was responsible for displacing something on the order of 12 million African people.

This display in the museum shows shackles and collars that were used to restrain slaves. There is also a branding iron, which was heated up red-hot and then used to sear a mark into the slaves' flesh, signifying ownership.

The business end of a slave branding iron.

This diagram shows how slaves were packed into a slave ship for transport across the Atlantic. It was a brutal journey and many did not survive.

A poster advertising a slave auction from the 19th century United States.

A picture showing a slave who was whipped by his master, with intense scarring on his back.

The museum also featured an excellent display on the traditional cultures of the local Akan peoples of this region of Ghana, explaining everything from domestic life to cultural symbols used by the king.

The next day I walked around town and took some pictures. Most of the small shops in Ghana I saw had names with some sort of Biblical or religious dimension. I saw many stores with names such as "God is Great Electronics". Here is one below.

A dumptruck stuck in a deep pothole.

After Cape Coast, I got a car to the capital city of Accra. Accra is a large city, and quite modern. It is also quite an approachable place, fairly easy to navigate, and full of friendly people. I stayed with Afi Mensah, the sister of Maputo and Mawuenyega Mensah, two drumming and dance teachers who live in Boulder.

Here is a picture of Afi preparing Fufu, which in Ghana is made by cooking yams and cassava, then mashing them together (what she is doing here). The resulting mixture has a consistency like super-sticky play-doh and is eaten with the right hand by dipping in the accompanying sauce. I really liked fufu and Afi made it several times during my stay there.

Afi's kids, Patrick and Ma Mary.

I also got a chance to meet Afi's brother Joseph Mensah. Here he is pictured giving me a kpanlogo lesson. Kpanlogo is a popular drumming and dance style from Ghana.

Here is a view over Jamestown, a densely populated neighborhood of Accra close to the water. I took this picture from the roof of a building shortly after walking through Jamestown to check it out.

A view looking down to the street.

Here is Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park, dedicated to Ghana's first president. He was a very important leader, not just for Ghana but for all of Africa. Ghana was the first African country to win their independence from colonialism and thusly Kwame Nkrumah became the first African president of the modern era. He was instrumental in the formation of the Organization of African Unity (now the African Union), and in setting an example for other nations and leaders to follow.

A statue portraying Kwame Nkrumah showing the way forward.

W.E.B. du Bois, the famous African-American activist and scholar, moved to Ghana at Kwame Nkrumah's invitation and spent the last few years of his life living in this house. It is now a museum dedicated to his memory. Du Bois was an ardent pan-Africanist and was engaged in writing an encyclopedia of pan-Africanism during his final years in Ghana.

This quote from du Bois reads: "One thing alone I charge you. As you live, believe in life. Always human beings will live and progress to greater, broader and fuller life. The only possible death is to lose belief in this truth simply because the great end comes slowly, because time is long."

A book that was a gift to du Bois from Einstein, bearing a handwritten note from him to du Bois.

W.E.B. du Bois' final resting place, constructed in the form of a traditional Ghanaian chief's burial site. On the right you can see two stools. There are a total of seven in the burial chamber, each with an elaborate base carving that represents some aspect of W.E.B. du Bois' life. In Ghanain culture, particularly that of the Akan peoples, these stools are important symbols of authority and are often the property of chiefs and kings.

Here are some shots walking around the city's various neighborhoods. I found some more small shops with interesting names (I don't think these are Biblically inspired).

I wonder if Pepsi knows about this.

This is Rawlings Park, dedicated to one of Ghana's former presidents. Other than the arch, the park pretty much serves as a parking lot and open-air market simultaneously, with parked cars and people set up everywhere hawking all sorts of goods.

This huge arch houses the Eternal Flame of African Liberation, lit by Kwame Nkrumah after Ghana's independence was achieved. It sits in Black Star Square, a huge, empty expanse of concrete next to the ocean.

This is a statue of King Tackie Tawiah I, the 20th king of the Ga kingdom, which encompassed the region around Accra. His reign was from 1862 to 1902.

A view walking around inside the massive Makola Market in downtown Accra. Vast markets like this are divided into huge sections, with a region for produce, another for clothes, another for cooking accessories, another for electronics, etc.

Here is the outside of the National Museum in Accra.

Inside the museum. The displays here were very interesting, explaining everything from the special textiles used by Ghanaian peoples to the ceremonial stools (mentioned earlier) used by chiefs to musical instruments, farming methods, dances, etc.

My last stop in Ghana was the city of Kumasi, northwest of Accra in the hilly country at the heart of the Ashanti region of Ghana. The Ashanti are the most prominent of the Akan peoples who populate a large region of southern Ghana and are closely related to the peoples living in the central region of neighboring Ivory Coast. Kumasi was formerly the capital of the Ashanti kingdom and still houses the royal palace and the Ashanti royal family. Kumasi is also something of a cultural convergence zone, with many neighborhoods of primarily northern Ghanaian people, who unlike their southern Christian neighbors are primarily Muslim.

Here is a view looking over the massive Kejetia Market, right in the heart of Kumasi. You can probably buy just about anything you could imagine here.

Walking around inside Kejetia Market.

A narrow thoroughfare through the market's stalls.

These women used the sandals they were selling to play a rhythm, accompanied by a song, to attract customers to their stall.

Here is a shop selling authentic Kente cloth, which is painstakingly handwoven on a traditional loom. The bright fabric is often used in clothes for weddings and is highly prized.

A statue on the street showing a man playing traditional Ashanti drums that were used to announce the arrival of the king.

This seemed to be the place to come if you need anything typed up.

The entrance gates to the old royal palace, now a museum of the Ashanti royal family called the Manhyia Palace. No photos were allowed inside, but they have an interesting collection of artifacts, from traditional stools, swords and guns to Ashantiland's first television, a gift to the royal family from the British. At one point during my visit, some men came in and opened up the cabinet containing the ceremonial guns and removed several of them. Apparently, court was in session that day and the guns, far from being dusty artifacts in a museum, are still used as symbols of authority when the king holds court.

Kumasi is chock-full of museums. Here is another, the Prempeh II Jubilee Museum, which is dedicated to the life of one of the former kings of the Ashanti. One of the interesting things in this museum is a picture of the Golden Stool, the central relic representing the power and authority of the Ashanti Kingdom. A fake Golden Stool was made and handed over to the British and the fake stool is also in the museum.

Here is the Royal Rolls Royce, formerly owned by Prempeh II.

The Prempeh II Museum is housed within the National Cultural Centre. This sculpture, on its grounds, is one of the 54 or so Adinkra symbols, which are pictorial representations of Akan proverbs. This symbol (pictured below) is called Nyame Ye Ohene and represents power or the supremacy of God. My favorite Adinkra symbol (not pictured) is Funtunfunefu Denkyemfunefu, which is an image of two siamese crocodiles who share a stomach. The message of the proverb is that the two heads of the crocodile will only hurt one another if they fight over food, as they share one stomach. Thus, we should have democracy, or "unity out of diversity", a reminder to think of the bigger picture and share with others.

Typical public transport in Kumasi.

Here is a Ghanaian version of the Sword in the Stone. It is called the Okomfo Anokye Sword, and is housed in a small museum on the grounds of a hospital, making it a bit tricky to find. The sword, according to legend, marks the spot where the Golden Stool descended from the sky at the founding of the Ashanti kingdom. It's been in the ground for over 300 years and if anyone ever pulls it out, the Ashanti kingdom will fall.

After a very full ten days in Ghana it was time to head onwards to Togo, the next stop on my trip. Here is a street scene from Aflao, the border town and my last stop in Ghana before crossing over to Togo's capital city of Lome, the subject of my next posting.

Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire - 28 Mar 08 to 5 Apr 08

2008-05-05T03:39:00.000-07:00

My arrival in Abidjan marked a turning point in my visit to West Africa. The first half of the trip was focused primarily on musical study in Guinea and Mali and related travel to better understand the cultures where the music comes from. From Abidjan across to Lagos, I followed a coastal trail through the most densely populated urban region of Africa, taking a quick survey of all the countries and their big coastal cities along the way, which lasted about 5 weeks.

I spent about 10 days in Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire (the Ivory Coast). My original plan was to visit the family of my step-mom's brother's wife, who is from the country. A couple days before I was to travel, I telephoned to confirm my arrival and heard that the entire family had gone at the last minute to a remote village far removed from Abidjan. Their grandmother had also passed away, less than 3 weeks after mine. Being unable to visit them and knowing noone in the country, I decided to just take it easy and see what I could see.

Cote d'Ivoire is still struggling to free itself from the aftermath of a destructive civil conflict that started in 2002. Although there is no more active fighting going on, many unresolved issues remain. Many of the outlying areas of the country, particularly the north and west, are still controlled by rebel groups. The economy, once renowned as one of the strongest in Africa, is now a shadow of its former self. But the people on the streets are still open and friendly, as people are almost everywhere. I decided to contain my visit to the capital city only, as things upcountry are still questionable at this point and I had no Ivoirian contacts to accompany me. So I spent my days relaxing, doing lots of catching up on the internet, getting visas for onward travel and most of all walking everywhere I could, all over the massive city of Abidjan, getting glimpses into life in some of the various neighborhoods. The pictures that follow were collected in my various pedestrian wanderings across the city.

The Abidjan city skyline at night, on my first evening in the country. The city of Abidjan wraps itself around a large semi-coastal lagoon and the central tongue of land known as Le Plateau is the heart of the city, home to all its highrises. Here is a view of Le Plateau from across the water in Blockhaus, the small neighborhood I stayed in for the first several days. Blockhaus is part of the larger Cocody suburb (remember the song Cocody Rock by Alpha Blondy?)

My room in Blockhaus. Aren't those puppy-dog sheets so cute?

Some graffiti around Blockhaus, threatening to beat (frapper!!) anyone caught urinating on this wall. These painted warnings are very common across West Africa, although they usually have a posted value that one must pay as a fine if caught urinating.

The sign reads: "Village Community of Cocody Village. Sacred Site. Entry Prohibited."

My first full day I took a walk from Cocody all the way around the lagoon into Le Plateau. This billboard promises hope for building a peaceful future in Cote d'Ivoire.

One of the fancier houses in Abidjan I saw, this mansion overlooks the lagoon.

A view across the lagoon with Cocody on the left and Le Plateau on the right. The tower on the left is the Hotel Ivoire.

St. Paul's Cathedral, designed by an Italian architect. Abidjan is proud of its architecture, with many unique buildings being found here. The tall figure on the left that serves as the portal to the church is an abstract representation of Paul, and the sweeping robes that follow him are the body of the church.

A stained-glass mural inside the church, depicting the first arrival of European missionaries to Africa, coming to spread their religion and culture in a new land.

On my way into town, I passed a wedding in full swing on the rented outdoor patio of the library. The security guards invited me in to enjoy the festivities with everyone. Here wedding guests are dancing to the DJ's selection.

More architecture in downtown Abidjan. This famous building is called Le Pyramid. It is now unfortunately run-down and in need of renovation, which is supposed to happen sometime soon. Once home to many shops, everything inside the windows I could see was demolished and nothing looked open.

Abidjan's central mosque.

A view of downtown.

Bats circling overhead just before nightfall.

Another day I went to walk around the grounds of the once-majestic Hotel Ivoire, formerly West Africa's top hotel. Things are quieter these days, although the hotel is still open.

The now-empty pool of the Hotel Ivoire.

Anyone for a swim?

I shot this photo looking through a lamp at the evening sun.

This smaller pool on the other side of the Hotel Ivoire complex is still functional.

A view from the Hotel Ivoire grounds of the bridge from Le Plateau across to Treichville.

Another day I walked from Cocody north to Les Deux Plateaux, a retail district that is also home to many embassies. On the way I passed this outdoor barbeque place, once the spot to eat out with friends but now looking pretty empty with only a few stalls open. Notice the Maggi advertising painted all over its walls. Advertising for Maggi and their competition Jumbo are omnipresent in West Africa. Maggi makes cooking stock that is chock-full of MSG, and people put it in everything from soups to sauces to chicken glaze to salad dressing. Their slogan is "Me and Maggi, the secret to goodness".

A more low-rent district of Abidjan, found in a low-spot inbetween the Cocody and Les Deux Plateaux areas.

Another day I went to visit Cote d'Ivoire's National Museum. There were many cultural artifacts from the country's various ethnic groups on display, and a guide gave further explanation as to their significance.

In addition to the displays on traditional life in Cote d'Ivoire, there were a few modern pieces by the renowned 20th-century Ivoirian artist Christian Lattier. This piece is entitled "The Ram".

On my way back home from the museum, I passed through some densely populated central neighborhoods and then crossed over the major freeway back to Cocody.

On the way I bought some street food, which is normally wrapped up in old newspaper. The lady I bought these snacks from, however, used these large leaves.

Freeway-Land, Abidjan.

The last few days I spent in Abidjan I moved across the water to the district of Treichville, on the south side of the lagoon. One day I walked past the outskirts of the neighborhood down toward the port, and got a glimpse of Industrial Abidjan.

Trucks waiting to ship goods all over the region.

Moss growing on a factory gate.

My hotel in Treichville, "Le Success".

A shot from the balcony outside my room.

The internal square of the big market in Treichville. A cool place to hang out. Right outside and across the street are some of the best outdoor food-stalls around. My last night in town I treated myself to a jumbo shrimp-and-turkey sandwich, constructed with freshly grilled ingredients bought from the local vendors.

After Abidjan, I caught a series of taxis to the border with Ghana, my next stop on the Abidjan-Lagos route. Ghana will be the subject of the next posting coming up soon.

Guinea Part 3 - 21 Mar 08 to 28 Mar 08

2008-03-31T10:53:00.000-07:00

I made my way from Dakar back to Conakry for one final week of study there. It was a great final opportunity to be involved in Guinea's rich musical tradition and complete my program of study that I started back in December.

The day after I arrived Sekou took me with him to play for a wedding on the outskirts of Conakry. Here we are playing for dancers.

More playing for dancers at the wedding. The tray on the ground is where they put tips after they have danced their solo.

We videotaped all of my lessons on the last day. Here is the set.

These kids were hanging out while we were videoing, going through the trash looking for anything useful.

The crew.

My lessons in the afternoon were generally held at the outdoor spot pictured above. However, in the morning we usually played at the Gbessia Youth Center, home to a couple of ballets, including Ballet Saamato, and numerous local groups practicing everything from acrobatics shows to breakdancing. Below are a few shots of the Gbessia Youth Center and the murals adorning its walls.

Sekou and friend hanging out.

Some drummers getting ready for ballet practice at the youth center.

Here is a picture of an old-school clothes iron that uses charcoal instead of being plugged in.

Around the Gbessia Youth Center.

Fara's Mom.

That's it for this trip to Guinea. Please check out my earlier posts for more on my time in the country. After my last week there was over, I continued on to Abidjan, Ivory Coast.

Dakar - 17 Mar 08 to 20 Mar 08

2008-03-31T09:25:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Dakar, Senegal at about 5:30 in the morning on the 17th of March. I waited for the sun to rise then set about the task of arranging an onward flight to Conakry, Guinea and another one from Conakry to Abidjan. After that, I went and looked up my friend Cheik Wagne, who I'd met on my last evening in Dakar before leaving for the States. He and his family welcomed me into their home and I spent the next 3 days hanging out with him in Dakar.

I only got a small taste of what Senegal is about, but this included a visit to the isle of Goree, which proved an invaluable learning experience regarding the history of slavery. It marked the beginning of several opportunities to see the remains of this gruesome trade and learn more about both its history and modern effects which are still with us today; more installments on this theme are to follow in my future blog posts on Ghana and Benin.

The first afternoon Cheik and I went walking around downtown. This tree was painted in the design of the Senegalese flag.

I asked to take this woman's picture along with her wares to show the juices she is selling in the little bags. These juices are found virtually everywhere all over West Africa. The red kind is made from a flower called Bissap. The brown ones are really strong ginger juice that I drank everytime I felt my immune system getting worn down; because of them I never got a cold. I forget what the bright red ones are.

Water in West Africa is also sold in little bags. You simply bite off the corner of the bag, suck out the contents and then throw the bag away (usually right on the ground wherever you are as most places don't have trash collection).

These cats scored big time.

I thought this building looked cool. It is a big bank, I think.

My friend Stacey from the United States has many close friends in Senegal. On my last night in Colorado she loaded me up with presents and I arrived with my bag stuffed full of earrings, dresses, knick-knacks and such. I spent most of the next day getting in touch with her friends there, hanging out and handing over the stuff. Below is a picture of the Blaise Senghor Cultural Center in Dakar, the one place I went that day.

On my last day in Dakar Cheik took me to see the Isle of Goree, a small island about a km off the coast of Dakar. Here we are walking down toward the harbor. The huge billboard shows the president of Senegal. I didn't understand Cheik's translation exactly, but it reads something like "count on the Old Man".

The ferry ride out to Goree. As it is a World Heritage site, the island is often visited and the ferry is brand new and really nice.

Arrival on Goree. The whole island is like a living museum, with all period buildings. In addition to studying history, there are many vendors selling paintings and crafts and the sounds of traditional drumming can be heard as people come here to study drumming and dance.

Vendors with their wares for sale.

A view over the island.

The old cannons on top of the fort. When the French left, they cut notches in the end of the cannon barrels so that they could no longer be fired.

The most important site on Goree. This place is the old "House of Slaves", where uncounted millions of souls were held captive for many months before being purchased and sent across the Atlantic to start new lives of toil in the fields of the United States, the Carribean and South America. Slaves from all over West Africa were transported here and sold into captivity. Goree is the northernmost of a series of former major slave-ports stretching down the coast of West Africa to Nigeria and beyond, down into Central Africa as far as Angola.

This tiny room was crammed far beyond capacity with people waiting to be sold to the highest bidder. They were not allowed to leave, even to bathe or go to the bathroom. Thus they were made to stay in their own filth. The slaves were often kept in these conditions for many months.

This tiny room underneath the stairwell is where the "bad" (i.e. rebellious) slaves were put as punishment. The tourguides said that when Nelson Mandela came to visit Goree, he went inside this cell and stayed for several minutes.

The "Door of No Return".

Looking out across the Atlantic through the Door of No Return.

Upstairs in the Maison des Esclaves is a museum with informational displays on the economic history of slavery, characterizations of the lives of slaves in the New World, and many artifacts of the time. Below are shackles used to restrain slaves and a rifle. Manufactured goods such as this rifle were used to purchase slaves and formed one part of the "Triangular Trade". This trade route saw goods coming from Europe to West Africa to purchase slaves, then the same boats would load the slaves and take them to the New World. After unloading their human cargos, the boats would then load the agricultural fruits of the slaves' labors from the New World and return with these riches back to Europe, and the Triangular Trade would continue.

Those of us living in Europe and America can reflect on the incredible wealth available to us in our societies and how much of it came from the ill-gotten gains of slavery.

A view from the entryway of the Maison des Esclaves.

A statue outside the Maison des Esclaves celebrating emancipation from slavery.

A view of the Dakar skyline in the distance across the water.

My friend Cheik Wagne checking out the work of a local sculptor.

The soccer field on Goree. Although it is a historical site, people live on the island and of course soccer is very popular. A game was in session when we passed.

Sunset over the island as we were leaving back to the mainland.

The next day I got up early, before dawn, to get a taxi to the airport. Many people were already out and about preparing for a huge celebration: it was the birthday of the Prophet Muhammed. I would have liked to have stayed to see how people in Senegal celebrate the occaison, but it was not to be. My next stop was Conakry, with a mission to finish my study of doundoun music that had started way back in December. Look for a short posting on my last stop in Guinea coming sometime in the near future.

Guinea-Bissau to Casamance to Gambia to Dakar to NYC to Seattle to Bellingham to Guemes to Mexico to Colorado to Dakar - 28 Feb 08 to 17 March 08

2008-03-31T07:09:00.000-07:00

The two weeks represented in this post saw me crisscrossing West Africa and North America in frantic lines, trying to see people in diverse locals with very little time. The first phase was the most critical: I had to get home in time to see my Grandma before she died. I got up early, before the break of dawn and went to the station in Bissau. I got in another car to Ziguinchor, Senegal, a place I had thought I wasn't going to see again for awhile. Luckily, there were no more problems with the ferry crossing and I arrived in good time, only to wait about 3 hours for a car to Dakar to fill. It was a Friday, the holy day for Muslims, and I was told most transport had gone to the holy city of Touba, so patience was the order of the day.

In order to get from southern Senegal to the north, one must pass through a tiny country known as the Gambia. The Gambia takes its name from the river that runs through its center. In the colonial days, the French controlled Senegal but the English had influence and interest in the region of the Gambia river, so they made a deal: the English sailed a boat up the river and periodically shot cannonballs to either shore. Where the cannonballs landed became the borders of a new English colony in the shape of the river at its center. We passed briefly through the Gambia, just long enough to stop and pay a transit tax, cross the Gambia river and then emerge from the other side in Senegal once more.

The border post in the Gambia.

Crossing the Gambia river.

I arrived in Dakar late that night, well after midnight, tired to the bone, stressed, alone and not knowing anyone or anything since I hadn't taken any information with me on Senegal, it not being in my original plans to visit the country on this trip.

The next morning I went to the airport and arranged a flight to NYC. The flights left everyday at two in the morning and the one that night was full, so I had to wait one extra stress-filled day and the next whole day until past midnight, the whole time wondering if I would make it to see my Grandma in time. I met a kid from the area who let me sleep at his house for a few bucks and took me to the beach one day. The next day I met a really great guy named Cheik who I was able to stay with on my return to Dakar.

The beach in Dakar.

I made it home on Sunday, the 2rd of March. I got to see my Grandma for about 24 hours before she passed on the next day. It was almost as if she had been waiting for me. I didn't get to speak with her, as she was already in a deep sleep, but I know she knew I was there.

After Grandma passed, we went out together as a family to a restaurant. Although we were sad about Grandma's passing, she had such a wonderful and full life that we thought it was more appropriate to celebrate so we went out and ate crab, something we used to catch and eat fresh all the time on Guemes Island where Grandma and Grandpa lived for 30 years when they retired.

Two days later we had a remembrance service for Grandma. All the people who knew her throughout her life came together and shared thoughts, memories and prayers for her.

Grandma Mary was Scottish Canadian, born in Nova Scotia and from the MacGillivray clan. Although she married an American and lived in the US most of her life, she never changed her citizenship and never forgot where she came from. It was her wish that her origins be observed at her passing, so we displayed the Canadian flag along with photos of her early years. We also displayed a book of family history that a relative in Canada researched, that included the crest and plaid of the MacGillivray clan.

My dad (center) with friends at the service.

My aunt and cousin at the service.

My mom (left) and Ameryl, an end-of-life specialist who stayed up with Grandma during the night while the family got sleep and helped us all with both the practical and spiritual aspects of losing a loved one.

After the service was over I headed up to Bellingham, the town I grew up in, for a couple of days at home. Here is my sister Kendal.

Here is my sister Allysun.

A family dinner in our favorite restaurant, the North Fork, with my dad, sisters and my stepmom Sonja.

Rainier Beer comes from where??!!

Around Bellingham. Looking across the bay with the Coastal Range of Canada visible in the distance.

Me and my mom Paddy at a friend's house.

Around downtown Bellingham.

Bellingham Bay in the afternoon.

On my last day in the Pacific Northwest, I went up to Guemes Island with the family to spend some time. Here is the house that my Grandma and Grandpa lived in for 30 years and where I spent a great deal of time as a child. It is now owned by my aunt, and various members of our family own pieces of Granma and Granpa's land where they had fields and a small farm. Guemes Island is a small island in the San Juan Archipelago of Western Washington.

The barn where Granpa used to go to putter around.

My sister swinging on a tree-swing.

A view of the ferry-dock on Guemes looking across to Anacortes.

The beach on Guemes Island.

A view across Puget Sound with the Cascade Mountains in the distance.

After a week in the Pacific Northwest, I headed down to Mexico for two days to see my son Ramses. He loves playing with the drumsticks.

Ramses' mom Andrea out in front of her new restaurant, "La Red de Ramses". Her father, Jesus, had a restaurant for over 40 years that was called "La Red" (the Fisherman's Net) and she is continuing the tradition.

Ramses playing at La Red.

After Mexico, I also made it home to Boulder for 2 more days to visit, pay my taxes and take care of other logistics before heading back to Senegal on March 17th to finish my trip. All of this travel, in addition to being exhausting, was also very expensive and out of the range of my already tight budget for my trip. My father, uncles and aunt decided to pitch in and pay for these expenses out of money from my Grandma and I would like to thank them for making it possible to come home and see everyone. It remains a final gift from my Grandmother.

Guinea-Bissau - 17 Feb 08 to 27 Feb 08

2008-03-07T11:18:00.000-08:00

Hello and welcome to Guinea-Bissau. One of the world's smallest countries, smaller than most US states, but still packed with 30-something languages and plenty of interesting history and culture. Having served in the Peace Corps in Mozambique, a former Portuguese colony, I was really curious to see what Guinea-Bissau, another former Portuguese colony, was like. I tried not to have any expectations or make too many comparisons. Of course I made some.

Guinea-Bissau is very much a part of West Africa. Its eastern region was once a part of the Mandeng Empire and its coastal peoples are basically the same people as next door in Guinea-Conakry and Casamance. But the popular culture and especially the popular music is part of the larger Lusophone African culture I'd experienced in Mozambique. Music from Cape Verde, Angola and local Batida, essentially the same as the Passada heard in Mozambique, filled the air and there wasn't a hint of any Mandeng music to be found.

Guinea-Bissau's name is a source of endless confusion. It sits right next to the country of Guinea, much more well-known to the outside world and part of Francophone West Africa. People of Guinea-Bissau differentiate the two by referring to their neighbor as Guinea-Conakry, which works out pretty well except that when someone tells you they are going to Guinea-Conakry, they don't necessarily mean the capital city; you have to remember that they could be going anywhere in Guinea.

I arrived in Guinea-Bissau very excited to speak Portuguese, my favorite foreign language. But when I launched into my first attempts at complete sentences with the border officials and other people around, I found a huge hitch in my speaking ability. My intensive study of French over the past few months had messed with my Portuguese and things were coming out all mixed up!! I tried not to panic. I slowed down and said each word carefully. After about a day and a half in the country and a few long conversations with people, my Portuguese was back as if it had never left. All the time I heard "new" old words that I'd temporarily forgotten or had been supplanted by their French counterparts and my vocabulary and flow slowly returned. It was quite an interesting experience.

Speaking of languages, not everyone in Guinea-Bissau speaks Porguguese, even though it is the official language. Most people speak Crioulo, the unofficial national language, which is a mixture of medieval Portuguese with several different African languages. If I listened hard, I could understand about half of it.

OK. Here are some pictures. Below is the border town of Buruntuma. It sits right at the eastern tip of Guinea-Bissau. There was a serious shortage of onward transport when I got there so I had to wait for about 5 hours to leave, watching several carloads of passengers depart that were ahead of me in line.

I had some time to kill in Buruntuma so I walked around a little. This picture is of a ruined memorial built by the Portuguese commemorating their dead soldiers from Guinea-Bissau's war of independence.

Like I was saying, it took a very long time to get onward transport out of Buruntuma. When I finally left it was in a huge van that was like a broken metal box jampacked full with about 30 people. Every bump in the road we went over it would flex at the seems almost to the breaking point and then come back. It soon got dark and I stared out at the moonlit countryside and talked with my fellow passengers.

We finally got to the first major town of Guinea-Bissau, called Gabu. It was getting on for midnight and I was tired but didn't want to splurge on an expensive hotel. A guy I met, who was from Guinea-Conakry, was helping me out and he finally said, "well, you can sleep in the Magasine". Magasines are the little shops that line the roadsides all over West Africa and there were a couple right there in the station. In the back of the store was a big storeroom and about half of the bus I'd come with was already crashed out on the floor. So I slept that night in the Magasine. My friend invited me to go out and see Gabu a little bit, so I left my bag and we went to the local club where an international hip-hop star called Masta P was performing. We checked it out for awhile then came back to the Magasine to sleep.

Here is the inside of the Magasine.

The next day I walked around Gabu town a little bit before departing for Bafata, the next major town in Guinea-Bissau. Here is a street scene from Gabu.

My next stop was Bafata, the birthplace of Amilcar Cabral, the father of Guinea-Bissau's (and Cape Verde's) independence movement and a worldwide respected leader of progressive revolt and Marxist thinker. Like many of Africa's great architects of independence, he is dead now but his legacy lives on. Here is a picture of the memorial to him in the main square in Bafata.

Some graffiti art around Bafata.

A street scene in Bafata.

A view across the river in Bafata.

A bus imported from Lisbon, Portugal.

Another statue of Cabral with a local goat taking advantage of a little shade to take a break.

After a day in Bafata, I continued on the next day to the capital city of Bissau. After searching fruitlessly for a couple of hours for budget accommodation, I finally found this place and it became my home away from home in Bissau. Corson de Bande means "The Heart of Bande" [the local neighborhood] in Crioulo and the people there were really cool and looked out for me the whole time I stayed in Bissau.

My first day in Bissau, I went for a walk to orient myself a little bit and also look for a cash machine. Below is the Praça da Independência.

As I was approaching the Praça da Independência, I saw a huge crowd gathered and stuck around to see what was happening. All of a sudden a huge police motorcade drove up the main drag, accompanying about 30 people on motorcycles all decked out in leather. They were of European descent so I knew they weren't Bissau-Guinean. What in the world could they be doing?

The crew parked their motorcycles and approached a waiting welcome party in the praça.

After a few media interviews and a speech by the mayor (or somebody important) of Bissau, I finally got the story: they were a group of French Harley-Davidson enthusiasts who were doing a grand tour from Dakar all the way down to Bissau and out to the islands then back to Dakar. Certainly the last thing I'd expected to see that day in Bissau.

The Harley people were nice enough to let all of the locals who were interested pose for photos with their bikes. This guy looked especially psyched to be fantasizing about riding in the wind.

A poster detailing the grand Harley tour. These posters were plastered all over Guinea-Bissau everywhere I went.

Walking around downtown Bissau.

I didn't find out what this ruined structure used to be, but it was sitting right in the middle of downtown.

I went down to the port to check out boats going to the islands. It turned out to be the wrong port, but I got some interesting pictures of old boats and mudflats at low tide.

A crew of guys were working on this shipwreck, salvaging raw materials from the interior.

About a third of the public transportation in Guinea-Bissau had these twin Madonna stickers on the back window. Whether it denotes membership in a secret club or they just really like Madonna there remains a mystery to me to this day.

Anyone who's been to Mozambique will appreciate this picture.

One thing I didn't find my first day walking around Bissau was a cash machine. I found one bank where they were actually in the process of installing one, but it wouldn't be ready for another few weeks. Apparently it was the first one in the country since the war 9 years before. Although only 11 months in duration, the war seemed to have made an indelible mark on the consciousness of the people. It kept coming up in conversations I had. People seemed to have been really affected by it, and kept referring to its lingering aftereffects on development in the country and general happiness and wellbeing.

Back to the topic of cash machines; I was in dire need of one. I'd had the remaining backup cash I'd saved stolen on public transport in Guinea when I'd fallen asleep and I was out of money. Everyone said the only way to get money was to go the next day to Ziguinchor, the capital of the Casamance region across the border in Senegal. The people at the Corson de Bande floated my stay there on credit and the next day I got up before dawn to begin my journey.

Everything started off well. I got a car to Ziguinchor and by 9 am we were on the south side of the river which must be crossed before reaching the border. We were 2 cars short of making it on the first run of the ferry (below).

We waited for the ferry to come back. It came back but they weren't loading any cars. We waited and waited. After a few hours I found out that there was a problem with the ramp on to the ferry and they wanted to fix it. There was a crack in the ramp from all the big trucks driving on to the ferry. Everyone was very angry that they stopped the ferry in the middle of the day to work on the ramp instead of waiting until nighttime when the ferry runs were over.

Cars in line waiting for the ferry.

A welder working on the ferry ramp. We waited 7 and a half hours while they worked on it, took a two-hour lunch break and then worked on it some more. Finally, around 4 pm, we loaded up and crossed to the other side.

Actual proof that I was briefly in the town of Ziguinchor. I got a taxi to take me straight to the ATM then back to the bus station.

I got back to the station around 6 pm and the guys there said there weren't enough passengers for the car to go to Bissau that evening (transport doesn't leave on a schedule; cars go when they're full). I said OK, but come get me if enough people show up and then I left with a local guy who was going to show me a cheap hotel. We'd been walking for about 5 minutes when the car for Bissau drove up behind us; some more passengers had showed up. We cruised out of Ziguinchor as the sun set and made it to the border around dark.

For some reason, they'd closed the border two hours early that day and we were stuck. We had nowhere to go so we all slept in the little roadside mosque at the border that night.

The roadside mosque we slept in.

The next day I was really ready to be done with this cash machine adventure. We got to the ferry and miraculously crossed quickly and without incident. I felt like we were home-free....until the rear tire blew out on our van. The jack we had didn't lift the van up high enough to change the tire, so we had to wait until some other people drove by who could help us.

After we changed the tire and were on our way I figured nothing else could possibly go wrong. All of a sudden there were police motioning us to pull over. What could it be this time? I got out and looked down the road. Who was that coming?? Of course!! It was the French Harley-Davidson tour on their way back out of town. I had to laugh.

Finally I made it back to Bissau and paid my debts to the Corson de Bande owner. I chilled for a couple more days in town, then decided to head out to the Bijagos Islands for a few days. The Bijagos are a large arquipelago unique in West Africa that lie off the coast of Guinea-Bissau. Because of their remoteness, they resisted colonization and outside influence from the Portuguese and other European powers until the 1930's. They remain a remote locale with a strongly preserved traditional way of life.

Below is a view of the port where boats called "canoas" (canoe in Portuguese) depart for the various islands.

Late afternoon cruising through the islands. It was very hazy that day due to the Harmattan. I don't know if I mentioned them before, but the Harmattan winds are seasonal winds that blow during the dry season in West Africa. They carry dust and sand from the Sahara Desert into the upper atmosphere and create hazy conditions all over the region.

Arrival at Bubaque. Bubaque is both the name of the island and its capital town. It is the center of administration for the islands and also the transportation hub. You can go from Bissau to Bubaque and back a few times a week on regularly scheduled boats. The other islands, however, are very remote and you might have to wait a month to find a boat going or charter one yourself.

A big tree in Bubaque town, next to the market.

As I said, there is much traditional culture left on the islands. One day I heard drumming and went to see what was going on. This group of women was going around town drumming, dancing and drinking palm wine. I talked to them about seeing some dancing, so in exchange for some money (they said it was going toward more palm wine), they did an impromptu performance for me and allowed me to take some pictures.

Another day a group of friends went out to a beautiful beach to have a picnic. I was invited to come along. Here is the beach.

Here is the crew. There were a brother and sister from Senegal who owned the local discotech, a couple of local people, a woman from Spain who had also been at the Festival in the Desert and me. We had some of the best chicken, freshly caught fish we bought from some fishermen there and an awesome salad.

Fishermen at work.

As we were relaxing for our picnic, a bunch of kids from the local school came down for their PE class (PE is Physical Education, incase you're not from the States).

My PE classes were never this nice!! Knee rotations in paradise.

Another day I rented a bicycle and crossed the island to see some of the forest in the middle and a beautiful beach on the far side. I met some local kids when I stopped for lunch halfway.

An amazing tree I saw along the way.

Here is the beach on the other side of the island. It was very beautiful. I did not do much swimming, however, as I was warned that there are many stingrays living in the sand here.

Another beach I checked out on the way back. There were many beautiful mangrove plants here, whose tough roots hold the soil in place and prevent erosion and damage during storms.

Mangrove plants.

An empty turtle shell.

My friend Lazaro. A very cool guy. Here he is pictured out front of the bar that he owns. Like many people I've met in different African countries, he spent time in Cuba getting training during Africa's Socialist period after independence. While there, he played a lot of baseball and loved talking about the game.

Loading up for the boat ride back to Bissau after my few days on Bubaque were up.

Cruising out of Bubaque town.

Another boat that we passed, also headed back to Bissau.

Me with my friend Marcelino and his wife. Marcelino is the owner of the Corson de Bande bar where I stayed in Bissau and kept my stuff for me at his house while I was away in the islands. He also invited me to dinner several times at his house and showed me around his neighborhood. A very cool guy and an understanding person when I needed credit to live on until I could find a cash machine.

My last evening in Bissau, I went to the internet cafe and called my father. I learned that my grandmother, who had been very sick, had recently revived from a hallucinatory state and was now at death's door. So instead of heading the next day back to Guinea as I'd planned, I immediately dropped everything and headed the next day up to Dakar , Senegal to try and get a flight home. This sudden return trip to the US will be the subject of a future posting.

Guinea Part 2 - 4 Feb 08 to 17 Feb 08

2008-02-27T13:34:00.000-08:00

After leaving Mali at the beginning of February, I returned once again to Guinea. My first stop was the small village of Nyandankoro where my friend Melinda spent her first 2 years of Peace Corps service in Guinea. Melinda was there visiting her host family and friends for the first time since she'd left 5 months earlier. Also visiting was Melinda's friend Alison, on vacation from her current post serving in Peace Corps Mauritania. We hung out together for a couple days in Nyandankoro and enjoyed meeting Melinda's host family and all her friends.

Below is a picture of Melinda (on the right holding the baby), Alison (far left, standing), and a bunch of Melinda's friends from Nyandankoro.

Here is a picture of Melinda's host mother.

One of Melinda's host sisters sporting my hat.

A woman making to, a thick local staple which must be constantly and vigorously mixed in order to attain the right consistency.

The second night we were in Nyandankoro we were invited to attend this ceremony, which was a renewal of the hunters' fetish, the source of their power. The ceremony happens once a year and included much singing and dancing as well as repeated firing of a hunting rifle. The instrument you see is a type of large bass-ngoni, with the "sese" on the top rattling and providing sonic distortion when it vibrates as the ngoni is played.

Melinda took us up on a nearby hillside to see a broad view of the surrounding countryside and the Niger river.

Women watering the fields in Nyandankoro.

The bridge in Kankan. I was here briefly again for a few hours inbetween Nyandankoro and Kissidougou awaiting transport.

Our van broke down about an hour into the trip to Kissidougou and all the passengers were just hanging out while we waited for them to try and fix it.

Here the driver and the conductor are working on the motor.

A roadsign showing the distance to Kissidougou nearby where we were waiting.

The local people around where we were waiting were setting bushfires to clear the land for planting. Some of the fires got pretty big but they seemed to have it all under control.

After about an hour and a half, a big truck came by and all the passengers from the van wanted to switch vehicles as there was no guarantee our van would get fixed. The drivers argued for awhile about how to transfer the fees we'd paid and eventually worked it out. The rest of the trip was in the back of a big truck, looking out at the countryside as we slowly and torturously bounced over concrete chunks in the road that were all that remained of the pavement. I passed the time by talking to some people and playing ngoni.

Here is my hotel in Kissidougou. This town has special significance to me as the West African drumming and dance troupe I play with in the States takes its name from here. My teacher's family is originally from the area and that's why we have that name. I wanted to come and see for myself what the town is like.

Around Kissidougou. Anyone who knows Susu will appreciate this picture.

I met the local youth drumming and dance troupe in Kissidougou and explained who I was and why I was in Kissidougou. They invited me to come and practice with them for the few days I was there. The name of the troupe in French is "Sante pour Tous", which means "Health for Everyone".

Dancers from the troupe "Sante pour Tous".

Here are the directors of the troupe. The man on the right is named Fadama Kante.

Fadama's son is the lead drummer for the troupe. He took me to a wedding and I got some practice playing solo djembe for dancers. I didn't get any pictures of it. This is the end of the wedding right before people started to head home.

Here are some friends I met in Kissidougou. I hung out a bunch at their house and watched cool B movies from Nigeria and music videos from the Ivory Coast.

The market in Kissidougou.

After Kissidougou, I headed back to Conakry for a few days. The car ride there was made exciting by a high-speed flat tire around a curve but our driver was a pro and steered out of it. I didn't have the time to do any more studying in Conakry so inbetween getting my visa for Guinea-Bissau I hung at Fara's family's house and spent some time walking around Conakry and getting better acquainted with the city.

Here is Fara's brother Tamba, who is a teacher, giving a Sunday review to some of his students on the front porch of the house.

Fara's mother Mariama asked me for some Bazeng cloth from Mali so I brought her a bolt of the cloth as a present. Bazeng is shiny and brilliantly colored and it has a stiff, waxy texture. A lot of the clothes you see people wearing at weddings are made from Bazeng cloth.

Here is one of the traffic roundabouts in Conakry. I imagined the elephant coming to life and rampaging around the town, but I waited for awhile and nothing happened.

Fara's brother Sekou and I took a little visit to see the national museum. There were some interesting masks there, but I was reminded of a recent comment someone made to me regarding "preserving" culture: to preserve means to keep something that's already dead around longer. Seeing cultural items displayed in a museum, while interesting, always hammers this point home for me. When there is noone there to use the item, to put it into context, its life has gone.

After my brief stay in Conakry, I had my visa for Guinea-Bissau in hand and I started to make my way up in that direction. I took the route through the Fouta Djalon region of Guinea, a hilly part of the country home to the Fula (or Peul) people. My first stop was Mamou, often called the gateway to the Fouta Djalon. I stayed the night with my friend Mamado Aliou Sow, who was the driver I rode with to Mamou. He showed me all around town and his mother made us a wonderful salad that night.

Here are some kids playing soccer in Mamou around sunset when it's not so hot.

Me and Mamado Sow. I'm about to leave for my next stop in the Fouta, Dalaba.

The Fouta Djalon has some beautiful countryside with a slightly cooler climate. There are lots of streams and natural rock formations, as well as some amazing waterfalls (I'm told). I didn't have much time to check this stuff out, but I did take a little day trip to see the ostentatiously named Bridge of God (below). If you look closely, you will see that it is a natural rock bridge.

The town of Dalaba has a long history when it comes to the French colonial occupation. Because of its altitude and mild climate, many French people built homes here and there was a Victorian-era health spa based around some natural springs, as well as an experimental garden to see which European plants would grow here. An interesting balance to all of this colonial history was the Williams-Bah museum (below), a combination of African-American history and Guinean cultural artifacts, exploring the connection between Africa and the diaspora. They had an extensive discussion of the history of slavery and the civil rights movement, and many interesting books on the African-American experience.

This house once belonged to Miriam Makeba, the South African music legend. She was friends with former Guinean president Sekou Toure and lived in this house during the last few years of Apartheid in the 1980's. The proprietor of the Williams-Bah museum took me over here so I could have a look.

This is the roof of Miriam Makeba's old house. It is built with a traditional Fula technique of weaving the wood together. The effect is quite beautiful I think.

After visiting Miriam Makeba's house, I went to see the ruins of the old colonial headquarters. Here is the gateway to the compound.

Here is the inside of the old colonial mansion, once occupied by a French governor but now abandoned.

This structure is know as the "Casa des Palavres", the "House of Words". It is very important in Guinean history because it is here that Charles de Gualle, former president of France, and Sekou Toure, Guinea's first president, negotiated the terms of Guinea's independence from France.

One of a series of murals I encountered in Dalaba portraying athletic events.

After Dalaba my next stop in the Fouta Djalon was the town of Labe, also the regional capital. The drive there was in a super-packed little sedan that was so full there was even someone sharing the driver's seat. We got one flat tire along the way but other than that the trip went well and we reached Labe in the early afternoon.

Labe was a pleasant place to spend the afternoon. I spent most of my time just wandering around and talking to people I met, which is mostly what "tourism" consists of for me when I travel, although I don't put up many pictures of it. For me, just being in a place and meeting the people and talking to them is what travel is all about. This woman had an interesting story. She was from Labe originally but had spent 22 years living in the Gambia and spoke English quite well. When her husband there died she returned home to Labe.

A view of the grand mosque of Labe from afar. The Fula people are almost exclusively Muslim and historically were very instrumental in spreading the faith around West Africa.

After Labe, I took a very long, hot, sweaty ride in a taxi-brousse all the way up to the far northwestern corner of Guinea, to a town called Koundara. Here is a stop along the way on the road to Koundara.

Another stop along the road to Koundara to cross a river.

The barge crossing the river worked via a handcrank that pulled the barge along a chain traversing the river's breadth.

On the road from Labe to Koundara one will pass many such cars as this one. I was told they were all coming from Senegal and Gambia and going down to Conakry, loaded down as much as possible with all kinds of goods that people want to take home. I couldn't believe how much stuff they were able to pack on these cars!!

Here is a wedding I encountered while in Koundara, my last stop in Guinea before heading to Guinea-Bissau. Koundara is in the far northwest corner of Guinea, next to Senegal and Guinea-Bissau. Culturally it is a transition zone back to more Sahelian cultures and there are people from many different ethnic groups living there. This was a Mandeng-style wedding, but there are also Fula, Coniagui and many other peoples around the area.

Here is the big regional market in Sareboido, which is held once a week on Sunday. Sareboido is a small town about halfway between Koundara and the Bissau-Guinean border. I hung out here for a couple hours on the way to Guinea-Bissau.

Lunch at the market: couscous and curdled milk (I thought it was quite good).

My next stop was Buruntuma, at the border with Guinea-Bissau. My time in that country will be covered in a later posting.

Mali - 27 Dec 07 to 4 Feb 08

2008-01-29T11:27:00.000-08:00

Mali is a wonderful country, home to a deep history which informs the modern conciousness of its people, yet pulsating with a modern immediacy that has captivated people worldwide, particularly lovers of music. As it is now a huge center for tourism, it also includes quite a bit of hussle and some small hassle for the visitor. Taking all of this into account, I was quite fortunate to be hosted and guided in my time there by my teacher, Abdoul Doumbia, and the other Malian people who surround him and work with him.

I spent almost 6 weeks in Mali, from December 27th 2007 to February 4th 2008. I spent approximately half the time studying music in Bamako at Abdoul's house, split into two parts, at the beginning and end of my trip, and sandwiched in the middle 3 weeks travelling upcountry to the Festival of the Desert outside Timbuktou (Tombouctou), visiting the Dogon Country, seeing the world-famous Mosque at Djenne and visiting the village of Abdoul's family.

Here is a jam session at Abdoul's house. He is playing djembe while the man on the far left is playing the Kamelan-Ngoni, a 6 to 10-stringed lute from the Wassulu region. The Ngoni player's name is Ismaela Diakite and in addition to studying djembe I also studied Ngoni with him for two weeks. I can say that the Ngoni is the second most fun instrument for me to play, after the drumset. It's very funky and bluesy and gives one a feeling of peace and real contentment to play or listen to.

My classroom in Mali, also known as "The Mango Trees". A great place to struggle with the rigors and intricacies of Bamana rhythms, and try to let them soak in somehow.

My Ngoni teacher, Ismaela Diakite. A truly amazing artist and teacher.

One lesson I took with a very old djembefola named Sega, who is about 72. He had stopped playing for about 5 years but recently began again and we are all thankful. His style was pure feel. And he has the coolest hat.

My teacher Abdoul seems to know everyone who is anyone in the music scene in Bamako. This man is Lobi Traore, quite a famous Malian guitarist who has recorded with Bonni Rait. Although I'm not overly fond of musical comparisons, many people have called him the Jimi Hendrix of Africa and I think that's fair. Anyway, he was over visiting and was playing and I didn't know who he was. I sat down next to my friend to listen and whispered, "Hey, this guy is pretty good". When she whispered back that it was Lobi Traore, I ran to get my camera.

Here is a wedding I played at in Bamako with Abdoul's cousin, Seydou, who is an excellent doundoun player. In Mali, the bell is held in the left hand instead of being strapped to the doundoun. This man playing is an old doundoun master who I was very fortunate to hear play.

Another wedding in a neighborhood in Bamako. The instruments were the Dji-dounou, upside-down calabashes in water, plastic water jugs tied to chairs, and two guys with microphones doing a kind of constant chant-singing. It sounded awesome.

A big crew getting ready to go out on the town in Bamako. The nightlife here is really quite something, and you pay close to Western prices for it.

One lazy Sunday I went downtown with Yacouba, a master djembe carver who works with Abdoul. I visited his workshop right in downtown Bamako and saw how a djembe is made from start to finish. The man pictured below is hollowing out the initial rough shape of the drum.

Here is Yacouba doing some finish work on a handcarved djembe.

Here is the Malian Independence Monument, just across the street from Yacouba's workshop.

A sculpture in downtown Bamako from the Africa Cup 2002.

After my first week studying in Bamako, I decided to break my studies in order to travel up to attend the Festival of the Desert, a yearly concert held out at the edge of the Sahara in the semi-permanent town of Essakane, in the territory of the nomadic Touareg. The Touareg people inhabit the Saharan regions of many African countries and the festival is based on their concept of coming together annually to share stories and culture. However, the modern version is a stage with a lineup of Malian performers and some guest groups from overseas. In order to get there, I first had to go up to the twin towns of Sevare and Mopti, about halfway to Timbuktu. Mopti is a major port on the Niger river and there is much coming and going.

In Sevare I stayed at the home of my man Cross (pictured standing). He was super hospitable and helped my friend and I navigate the town and find onward transport, as well as just being a cool guy to hang with. When I came back through town after Timbuktu, his friend Yaya (seated) was my guide to Dogon. I put this picture in to emphasize the enormous amount of hospitality I received from complete strangers and the amount of trust I was able to put in them, which was truly touching. There are many other people whose houses I have stayed in along the way, too numerous to mention. Their kindness and curiosity has really been the highlight of the trip in many ways.

Here is the port at Mopti.

This is the 4x4 journey up to Timbuktu. The savanah slowly starts to give way to the full desert. I was crammed into the way back along with several other people, including my travelling companion Ross (the tall guy) and a photographer from South Africa I met named David, who was being guided by a Malian man named Omar. It was a fortunate encounter, as I ended up staying at Omar's house in Timbuktu, which was very interesting, and also learning some good things about photography from David.

Here is a pit-stop in Duentza, before we got off the paved road and onto the rough 4x4 track up toward Timbuktu.

View on the road to Timbuktu.

Halfway point to Timbuktu.

Trying to beat the dust during the ride.

This is Omar's father. He was friends with Ali Farka Toure and played some wonderful guitar for us in the same style.

After a brief first stay in Timbuktu we headed straight for the festival. Here we are helping someone else get unstuck in the desert sand on the way to Essakane. The ride there was in the back of a big pickup with about 15 people, swerving around and holding on for dear life. I found it quite exciting and fun, until the tainted water I'd drunk that morning kicked in. I spent the last half hour desperately trying to hold in the diarhea, then the next 6 hours at the festival just being sick and miserable.

Beating the dust Tuareg style (with a Mozambican Capulana).

As I mentioned, I was quite sick when I got to the festival. So instead of walking around and checking it out, I just laid in one place and let things come to me. Here is a Tuareg man passing by.

Here is a spontaneous jam session that happened while I was sick and hanging out. It included Malian-style guitar, an Irish man playing the Bohdran, a Malian MC busting rhymes, shakers and a kazoo solo.

Here is a shot of the market at the festival the next day. Unfortunately, my camera was set to a very low exposure but the photo was so good I had to include it.

One day I went on a hike by myself and walked all the way out to where the big Saharan dunes start.

Me, feeling very dehydrated after spending a few days in the desert.

The grande finale of the festival was a performance by Ivory Coast's reggae star Tiken Jah Fakoly.

The stage at night.

Transport leaving the festival was scarce.

Back in Timbuktu, I spent a couple days wandering around and taking lots of pictures. Below are some street scenes I took from Timbuktu. Some of the photographic ideas were based on things David showed me. Thanks very much David.

Street scene, Timbuktu.

Walking around Timbuktu with Omar.

Another street scene.

I wonder what kind of movies they rent.

Stop AIDS

Very startlingy, there were several spots around town where dead cats were hanging from the powerlines. From faraway, it looked fairly similar to when people tie shoes together and thrown them up in the wires. However, upon drawing closer one witnesses a more gruesome sight. Omar explained to us that the cats are eaten by children growing up, but did not know why people throw them up in the powerlines.

There are some very old books preserved in Timbuktu, reputedly including some original pages of the Koran. I visited a small museum where a vew ancient manuscripts were on display. Most of them were related to Islam in some way. The oldest here was about 700 years old I think.

A donkey basking in the dust.

What is it????

This is the local neighborhood crematorium, which I would have had no idea about passing by, if not for being with Omar that day.

A grandmother and grandson.

Here are a few pictures that my friend Dave took one night as we walked around Timbuktu. I cast a formidable shadow while standing up on the Independence Monument for a closer look.

Dave and I went to a local bar, the Zenith, and saw a local band playing the desert blues. They let me sit in on drumset for a couple of songs.

Here is another guest musician that performed that night. I was told that he is quite well-known around the area. He also happens to be a midget, which contributes to his fame.

Leaving Timbuktu. Here is sunrise waiting for the barge to cross the Niger.

After a fruitful and interesting but difficult week or so in desert country, I returned briefly to Sevare to organize my trip into the Dogon country. The Dogon inhabit a cliff escarpment which is about 100 km long. Their traditional houses are up in the shadow of the cliff itself, resembling very much cliff dwellings I've seen in the Southwestern United States such as those at Bandolier National Monument. Before the Dogon, a smaller people named the Tellem inhabited the area and there are many legends about them, including that they could fly, as their houses were made in caves completely unuaccessible halfway up the cliff. The Dogon are said to have learned much of their unique culture from the Tellem and are held in much respect in Mali as a people apart with great traditional knowledge.

On the contemporary side of things, a visit to Dogon for a foreigner is an expensive undertaking. As one is forbidden to enter the area without a guide, there is a virtual entry fee for all foreigners just to be there which creates an interesting feeling of both privilege and mystery, and certainly makes one's wallet lighter. It's an interesting balance that's been struck to try and shelter the Dogon somewhat from outside influence while at the same time profiting from it. I guess that 's the best I can describe it.

At any rate, I had a good time there, my guide was a nice guy and although not overly knowledgeable he was into hiking and we saw a lot of beautiful country. Being in Dogon is to be in pastoral paradise, and every moment seems to be a small eternity of contentment yet it also passes by so quickly.

A sign warning of the steep descent down the escarpment. Look out below. We began our journey here.

A nice little oxcart ride through Dogon Country.

The view from the village of Teli, looking up to the ancient cliff dwellings. A traditional granary is in the foreground.

The beautiful mud mosque in Teli.

Of all the places I thought I wouldn't see a hint of commercialism, Dogon was right up there. Somehow Coke sneaked this one in.

The view from the encampement where we stayed in the village of Ende.

The village of Ende displays its wares for sale: traditional Bogolan cloth, manufactured and dyed locally.

My guide Yaya (on the right) with his friend in Ende.

Traditional dwelling up under the cliffside at Ende.

Climbing up the escarpment on the way to Begnemato.

The view after the climb.

A small village on the way to Begnemato.

Begnemato, my favorite village of the trip.

Still-life with travel rig in Dogon country.

The grand sorcerer and hunter of Begnemato, hanging out at his house.

The other grand hunter of Begnemato, wearing his magical hunting clothes that allow him to sneak up on his prey unaware. This man is good friends with my guide and was gracious enough to dress up in his traditional clothes for me and pose for some photographs. Afterward, he showed me a whole book of photos of him that various tourists had taken and sent back to him in Begnemato.

A baobab sunrise in Begnemato.

After Begnemato, we descended the escarpment again and hiked out to some dunes before visiting the village of Guimni.

My guide's friend in Guimni took me to this very cool and secluded spot up in the escarpment.

A man weaving cloth on a traditional loom. These types of looms are used all over West Africa to weave strips of cloth which are then stitched together.

A sunset over Dogon Country.

Fueling up the motorbike for the journey out of Dogon.

After Dogon Country, I returned briefly to Sevare before heading down to see the world-famous mosque at Djenne, runner-up to be one of the new 7 wonders of the world. Apparently, it is resurfaced at the end of the rainy season every year by a team of over 4000 volunteers.

Here is the Mosque at Djenne. Every Monday, including the one I was there, a grand market is held infront of the mosque.

The market at Djenne, which is held every Monday out infront of the building.

After visiting Djenne, I headed down to the regional capital of Segou, a few hours north of Bamako on the Niger river. En route, I passed through the town of Bla.

I spent two days and nights in the small village of Foutaka-Zambougou, home to the Doumbia family, my teacher Abdoul's family. Foutaka-Zambougou is a peaceful place, and although at first it doesn't seem like much is going on, if you slow down and hang out you will see amazing things every day. Here are some people I met on a walk just outside the village who asked me to take their picture.

Here is a grand old baobab in Zambougou. When I showed Abdoul this picture, he told me he used to go hide inside it as a youth when he wanted some time to himself.

I got a shave in the village, with no soap or shaving cream. Ouch!!

Abdoul's uncle working the forge.

The Doumbia Family of Foutaka-Zambougou. They were gracious hosts and treated me with great care, despite the challenges of them speaking no French or English and me very little Bamana.

Sunset in Foutaka-Zambougou.

After my time in Zambougou, I returned to Bamako for about a week to finish my musical studies and wrap things up before heading back to Guinea. Look for Guinea Part 2 sometime in the future.

Guinea Part 1 - 7 Dec 07 to 27 Dec 07

2007-12-30T11:44:00.000-08:00

My first stint in the country of Guinea was from December 7th-December 27th, 2007. I arrived into the Gbessia airport at 3am, in the middle of the night. After an amazingly long day all over the town and attending a couple of neighborhood weddings with drumming and dancing, I settled in at the house of my teacher Fara Tolno's family, in Gbessia.

I spent the next week exploring the city of Conakry and studying doundoun music with Fara's brothers and former teachers. Following are a few pictures of the city of Conakry and of my time studying drumming here.

This is Naby, a good friend of Facinet Bangoura, the Balafon player I play with in the US. They are from the same village in Guinea. Naby plays often with the brothers of my teacher, Fara, at weddings all over Conakry. For those of you not familiar, the balafon is the name of the instrument he is playing here. It is an ancient West African instrument as well as a modern one.

This is my classroom in Conakry. I spent a week intensively studying doundoun rhythms with Fara's brothers and his former teacher, Papa Zito.

Here are Scott and Kellie visiting Fara's family's house. Sekou, Fara's brother, was inspired to photograph the Fotes (white people) eating traditionally. Being sly, he also took a video of us eating without our knowing it.

Going out on the town in Conakry.

Here is a band playing at a wedding in Conakry. There are beaucoup weddings in the city all the time, especially on the weekends. The local professional musicians gig primarily (that I have observed) at the weddings. The styles range from traditional drumming to modern ensembles incorporating traditional instruments and always feature earsplitting distortion through cranked up amplifiers, griot singing through hand-held megaphones and awesome drumming. Generally, a good time is had by all.

Here is the beach in Conakry. Yes, that is 6 inches of trash. Although tempting, I did not go for a swim here.

Hanging out "en ville" (downtown). This guy is putting a new skin on a djembe.

After I left Conakry, I headed up country to attend the Fete de Tabaski in the small village where Mamady Keita was born. Mamady Keita is probably Guinea's most well-known djembefola and has founded schools all over the world. He was taking an international group of his students (about 20) back to his village to play during the fete and show people back home how much their music means to people all over the world. I was fortunate enough to know a couple of the people who were filming this excursion for Mamady, and got the invite to attend the fete as well. As the village is quite far off the beaten track, I had to do a bit of exploring to find my way there. I started off by heading to the town of Siguiri, which is the last major town in Guinea before Mali.

The picture below is of a Bolon player I met in Siguiri, who came to hang out with me and play some. I would characterize the Bolon kind of like the stand-up bass. However, the playing style includes quite a bit of drumming on the resonating gourd inbetween plucking the strings so the sound is really much different.

Here is the station in Siguiri where I went to research the route to Mamady Keita's village. Noone knew exactly how to get there but everyone knew what direction it was in. So, I got on a motorbike and about an hour later I was standing on the banks of the Niger River.

Here I am standing in the Niger. After the motorbike dropped me off, he headed back to Siguiri and I walked across the first half of the river, which was about waist-deep. The man crossing with me took this picture for me. Unfortunately, my camera got wet somehow and stopped working for one week. The fact that it started working again after that and has been fine ever since is an amazing miracle that I am very thankful for. However, I did not take any pictures of my time in Balandougou myself. Fortunately, a friend who was there was able to send me a few photos via email for my blog (see below). Thanks very much Scott!!

Here is a shot of the village of Balandougou, situated in northeastern Guinea very close to the Malian border. After crossing the Niger and finding another motorbike ride, we made it here in another 2 hours, cruising through open fields and bush surrounded by rolling hills. The countryside here is very beautiful.

The Fete de Tabaski is a big party held a couple months after the end of Ramadan. The tradition as Mamady Keita explained it was for the drummers of the village to go around early in the morning just before sunrise and drum the village awake, so that is what he had his students do. I came along and got to play for a little bit.

During the time Mamady's students were there, they went from village to village performing a drumming set Mamady had choreographed. The last couple days, including the day of the fete, the performances took place in Balandougou itself. There were also many local musicians and dancers who came to perform and present. There is a big, open field where everything took place and these boys took advantage of this tree to get a better view.

I made friends with two local boys, Toumani and Keita, who hung out with me, taught me some Malinke and showed me around the village. Here is me with my friend Toumani at the Fete de Tabaski.

My next stop was the town of Kankan. In order to reach Kankan from Balandougou, Mamady's village, I returned again via motorbike along a different route straight south until the main road between Kankan and Mandiana. I say main road because it actually had vehicle traffic on it as opposed to only motorbikes. On the way back to Kankan, I had one of the most exciting/thrilling/dusty/harrowing transport rides in all my journeys in Africa, including controlled slides all over the road, hitting potholes at 30 mph, and frequent stops to let the engine cool so it wouldn't overheat and strand us there. When we arrived in Kankan, covered completely with about an inch of red dust, which had been constantly pouring in the window while we drove, the conductor turned to me and smiled and said "Welcome to Africa".

I came to Kankan to visit a friend named Melinda who is serving in the Peace Corps. Melinda spent her first two years in a small village called Nyandankoro, halfway between Siguiri and Kankan, which I was to visit later. Now in her 3rd year, she is working with various organizations in the bigger university town of Kankan. I followed her around and saw some of the work that she does. One day, we visited a center she works with that helps displaced street children, trying to rehabilitate them so that they can reintegrate back into their families or find work. Another day, we visited a decrepit building the local community hopes to turn into a youth center. It was very interesting and rewarding to revisit the Peace Corps experience and see everything Melinda was involved in, as well as having some great insightful conversations. Thanks Melinda for the hospitality.

Here is a picture of the market in Kankan.

One day, I borrowed a bicycle from Melinda and headed out into the countryside for a little while. I found this beautiful baobab tree there.

Later that same day, Melinda and I were walking down the street when we encountered this wedding in full swing. I talked to the drummers and they invited me to play with them so I played accompaniment djembe for the entire ceremony, for about 2 hours. Afterwards, they even paid me!!

People often put small tips on the musicians' bodies or in their clothes or instruments during weddings here. Look in the front of my shirt.

After a great first foray into Guinea, and with the promise of a later return, I left on December 27th 2007 to head up to Mali and meet my teacher Abdoul Doumbia there. The road is mostly paved and quite good but the last few miles into Bamako are all dirt and it was a bit sketchy cruising along at high speed and low visibility, although nothing compared to my ride on the Kankan-Mandiana road. My time in Mali is represented in another blog posting.

Morocco - 28 Nov 07 to 6 Dec 07 (and some perspective on the whole trip)

2007-12-06T09:14:00.001-08:00

OK, my first blog post of the trip. Thanks for bearing with me. The technology infrastructure here is not to be taken for granted; consequently things must be done in stages sometimes.

First, a couple words about why I'm doing what I'm doing. Why did I go to Africa for 6 months?

Well, for several reasons. The first and foremost is to understand the reality of life here, from a participatory standpoint. Dive in. See what it's about. How much do oranges cost in the market? What is the cultural meaning behind how people say good morning? Of course, I already spent over two years in Mozambique doing just that. But Africa is vast. The reality of Mozambique is not the same as Benin, or Morocco for that matter. I've spent quite a bit of time involved with the musical traditions and people of West Africa and I felt it was time to get to know that part of Africa as well.

The second reason I came was to study the music in more depth. I've been involved in the musical culture for years now, and I felt it was time to experience it at its source. What is it like to see a rhythm played for a masked dancer or a wedding party? Who are the teachers of my teachers and what stories do they have to tell me?

I also want to say that for me reason #1 above is a very important counterpoint to reason #2 for coming here. I also want to get a sense of the place of the music in people's lives, and get a sense of the reality of life here, that not everyone is a master drummer or dancer, most people are ordinary folks living their lives. In a word, perspective.

The third reason would be that I was born to travel, and deep down I really want to go everywhere. Some places are just higher on the priority list.

The fourth reason I went on this trip is to return, at the end of my journey, to my Peace Corps country of service: Mozambique. It's been five years since I left and the pull of all my personal connections there is very strong. So I guess this is really two trips in one; four months experiencing West Africa followed by a two-month return visit to Mozambique, with Morocco as a prelude.

OK, so with all that on the table, why then Morocco? Well, I've learned in my travels so far to be an opportunist when it comes to seeing new places. In order to get to Guinea, West Africa one must fly via Casablanca, Morocco and there is no additional charge to stop for a few days. Plus, a good friend of mine just finished his Peace Corps service there and thus I had the opportunity for some connections and people to stay with. So I thought to myself, Why Not? Plus, the opportunity to experience a North African country in addition to West African, Southern African and East African countries allows yet another level of understanding of the African continent. And also an opportunity to experience life in a Muslim country.

I spent 9 very full days travelling through Morocco, making a loop starting and ending in Casablanca that passed through Marrakech, the Atlas Mountains, Ouarzazate, Midelt, Fes, Rabat and back to Casablanca. I got to meet tons of Moroccan people and spend a little time with some Peace Corps volunteers as well. Below are some images that tell a little of the story, along with a few comments. Thanks for reading.

My last stop in the US before coming to the African continent was NYC. I spent a very nice Thanksgiving with my girlfriend, Jennifer, and her family. Here we are out to breakfast in Brooklyn. Thanks guys for an awesome Thanksgiving and wonderful hospitality!!

OK, here we go Morocco. This is the Marrakech McDonalds. Every old Moroccan city has two parts: the Medina, which is the ancient, medieval city, and the Ville Nouvelle, the adjacent modern city of streets made for cars and fast food restaurants.

Here is a souk, or shop, in the Medina in Marrakech.

Moroccan food is, in my opinion, very good. The most common dish I encountered was the tajine (below). It is a small, self-contained oven in which the food is cooked and served. The food is eaten by breaking off pieces of bread and using them to grab chunks of the food and place them in your mouth.

After Marrakech, I took a six-hour bus ride over the Atlas Mountains. They are some serious mountains, approaching dimensions and landscapes familiar to me from the Rockies in Colorado.

Crossing the Atlas and arriving on the eastern side of the mountains, one is greeted by a much more arid landscape. The hard, flat earth stretches out to the horizon in a prelude to the Sahara beyond. I had the good fortune to visit a Peace Corps Volunteer living in the eastern foothills of the Atlas for a couple of nights. She lives in a small Berber village. The Berber are the original people of Morocco, whose culture has been strongly influenced and blended with the Arab peoples who came roughly 1300 years ago, but they retain a unique identity, language and culture. This is my friend J.M. and some of her close Moroccan friends. I had to ask special permission to take this photo, as many Berber people do not like to be photographed.

I just had to put up this photo of J.M.'s kitchen. J, I hope that's ok. Let me know. Anyway it reminded me so much of all the meals I cooked living in Mozambique.

Here is a Kasbah (castle) built in the 17th century. Although not as famous as the nearby Ait Benhadou, this Kasbah found outside of Skoura is much larger and also older, and is on some of the Moroccan m0ney. The kasbah at Ait Benhadou is famous as the site of filming for a half-dozen Hollywood movies, like Gladiator and some others I can't remember. The whole regi0n around Ouarzazate is a very popular on-site filming location, and the rumor going around was that Leonardo di Caprio was in town filming a new movie while I was there. I did not see him anywhere while I was riding around on the public transportation.

After visiting the Ouarzazate region, I rented a car for a couple of days and drove up the east side of the Atlas. I made a couple of detours up the Dades and Todra gorges. Here is a picture of my friend Mohammed who was showing me around; we were driving up the Todra gorge to visit a small mountain town called Tamtatoucht (tam-ta-TOOSHT).

Mohammed and his friend insisted in dressing me in the traditional Berber headwrap and taking my photo. When I asked him if he could work my camera, he told me he was "Berber Japanese". I guess that means yes.

Here are some dromedaries that were hanging out by the side of the road in the Todra Gorge.

After crossing another big mountain pass, I ended my first day with the rental car in a small industrial town called Midelt. It was here, in probably the least touristy town I visited in Morocco, that I met the most genuine people. These guys took me all over town and we hung out all night. Here we are smoking the chicha, a big water-pipe that you smoke through a flexible tube. The stuff we smoked was a sweet-smelling purple lump that smelled like it could be eaten. The taste was very nice.

My friends also took me to their house to meet their family. Here's me with Mom.

The next day I drove through a beautiful cedar forest that looked like it could have been in Oregon, except for the troupes of Barbary Apes inhabiting its trees.

Stop

After the forest, I passed briefly through the town of Meknes and got lost for an hour before finding my way out the other side and on the road to Volubilis (below). Volubilis was the southernmost extension of the Roman Empire and was inhabited for a couple of hundred years around AD 200-400. In addition to the ruins of walls and arches, there are also many beautiful mosaics that are preserved.

Just down the road from Volubilis is the holy city of Moulay Idriss, named for the Moroccan saint who brought Islam to the country in the 8th century AD. My guide for the city, Majite, was a really great guy who also offered me his perspective on the tensions between traditional and modern culture in Morocco.

My next stop in Morocco was the grand old city of Fes. I stayed the pitifully short time of a day and a half, which barely scratched the surface of this place. I spent most of my time walking around the huge medieval medina. The Bab (Arabic for Gate) pictured below is very famous and is known as the Bab Boujaloud.

My walking tour of Fes was conducted by an earnest young man named Mohammed (I think I met 5 different Mohammeds while I was in Morocco). Although a very competent and knowledgable guide, he didn't have his official licence and we spent half the tour dodging the official guides who were threatening him for coming on their turf. Before he had to cut the tour short, we got to see the tanneries where all the leather comes from (Fes is particularly known as a source for leather goods). The tanneries are infamous for their odor, but since I can't post the odor to this blog you'll just have to take my word for it.

My last night in Morocco was spent in Rabat, the capital. I visited with a group of Peace Corps volunteers who were there to do their midservice medical checkups. We went out on the town and partied it up with the locals. This guy was known to us as the Moroccan Cowboy.

My last day in Morocco was spent chilling in Casablanca. Before the annexation of Morocco by the French in the early 20th century, Casablanca wasn't much to speak of. The French turned it into the economic center of their new colony and thus it is a very Western city, with no old medina. While there, I toured the gigantic Hassan II mosque, built by the father of the current king. It is the largest mosque in the world outside of Saudi Arabia, and stands somewhat bizarrely all by itself on the seaside, out by the port with only industrial warehouses as company. The mosque is breathtakingly beautiful, featuring the work of 10,000 Moroccan craftsmen who handmade all of the design elements inside and out. Despite this beauty, I personally felt a sterility in the extremely oversized dimensions of the place, which seemed to me built more to impress than as a place of devout spirituality.

And finally, for some sort of contrast, here is a street scene in Casablanca on the walk back from seeing the Hassan II Mosque.

My flight left at 11pm from Casablanca and arrived in Conakry, Guinea the next morning at 2:50am.....but that's a story for another post.