TravelStream™ news feed for member jeanchristophes on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/jeanchristophes en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Mon, 24 Dec 2007 13:26:21 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/2/1197219600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/2/1197219600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/2/1197219600/tpod.html Mon, 24 Dec 2007 13:26:21 -0500 A week in the egyptian sun

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Dahab, Egypt

With a week to spare, I decided to have a break from the English winter and head for the sun. Destination Dahab in Sinai Egypt. Plane took me 5 hours to reach Sharm El Sheik where I touched down as night fell. There I had a taxi waiting to take me the 100 or so kilometres north to Dahab.Dahab use to be a lazy Bedouin village until tourist came for the diving and excellent wind surfing. Now it's hotel after hotel after dive shop after hotel. Normally I would just be heading through a place like this, but not this time. I had come to learn to dive.The first day I got acquainted with the town and got given a book and was told to study. The next day I began 3 days of the Padi Open water dive course. I had to study every night and pass written tests in the morning. In the water I had to swim around performing tricks and prove that I was worthy. This was ok, but the four underwater dives looking at coral and the fishies was a lot more fun. Each of these dives would last about 40 minutes.Previously I was quite concerned about my ears and being able to equalise. This didn't turn out to be a problem, although I did have some painful moments. Instead I always seemed to have a blood nose in the water, came from the capillaries in my nose bursting. This occurred even more for me, as I found the easiest way to equalise my ears, was to blow really hard out of my nose, making it bleed all the more.Still apart from that, on the end of the third day I had my certificate and over then next two days worked on the Padi Advanced open water course. This involved a few more tricks and 5 open water dives. The first was a night dive with torches to see the coral which blooms only at night. Not seeing very far seems to add to the stress and one breathes a lot more air then normal. I think the best part of night diving is when you turn off your torch and watch the fins of the person in front of you. Movement underwater disturbs microscopic plankton which generates a little flash of chemical light. It's like having a little fireworks show.Next came a deep dive where we swam out to a canyon and one by one fell into it. At the bottom we were around 30 meters deep and had to undergo tests to check for Nitrogen Narcosis which makes you drunk and can give you impressions of invincibility. I managed to pass the tests, and felt incredibly happy looking all that way back up to the surface. To get out of the canyon, we swam along the bottom for a bit and then through a largish half open cave we popped out again on the sea floor next to a large rock covered in goldfish, a little like butterflys.In the afternoon the drift dive involved diving head first into a hole they call the Bells, because most people can't help hitting their bottles against the rock wall creating a bell sound. I took it nice and easy, not particularly wanting to freak out in a hole underwater. At 28 meters it stops going down and instead goes horizontal before opening out halfway down a reef wall. The deeper you go under water the less of the colour spectrum you have. First goes all the yellows and reds and slowly works down till everything just is blue. So the reef wall while full of fish, was a bit dull in colour. We spent the next 20 minutes swimming along it with the current. Finally we arrived at a clearing where there was no coral but only sand. Here we dropped to the sandy sea floor and had a running race. Not sure who won as most people were running in opposite directions. I imagine it felt just like being on the moon as if you get your buoyancy just right, once you push off in one direction you just keep going. One good trick was to run directly towards someone and about 2 meters before you collide, you jump up and bring your legs up under and around to face the other person. When you feet collide with the other's feet, you push against them and you go flying in the opposite direction. All this exercise meant we used up a lot of our oxygen so had to get out before we were quite ready.My final day of diving involved a naturalist dive which was just swimming around looking at the fishies and trying to recognise a few of them. I also learnt that if you see a giant turtle, then don't jump on its' back because they don't like it. My final dive involved navigating, and required you to complete a little orienteering course with an underwater compass. Much less interesting then the previous day's dives but by now I was pretty drained and tired.Not being able to dive 24 hours before a flight, I spent the final day floating around talking to the others who I had previously dived with. I arrived in London around 11pm and got home for 12 and fell into bed completely exhausted.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1176224400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1176224400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1176224400/tpod.html Thu, 19 Jul 2007 17:34:26 -0400 Africa 2006, from Morocco to somewhere

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Accra, Ghana

One night sitting at a café in Ouidah I was wondering how to attack the tail end of my trip and realised I would have to make a move out of Benin sooner rather then later as the borders close for the local elections held in a few days. I was keen to get to Togo, but felt that Benin still had a lot to offer which I wouldn't experience, but it could wait for another trip either in this or the next life.So I headed west away from Nigeria and into Togo. The border crossing took a long time rather then being complicated still didn't cost any bribes, but by the time I got to the other side my taxi and all the other African passengers had all buggered off. Still they were nice enough to leave me my bag. So I spent the next few hours waiting for another ride under a corrugated iron roof shimmering with heat. I finally got to Lomé the capital of Togo, where I found a cheap hotel and decided to stay a couple of nights.Togo feels a bit unruly and Lomé seems to suffer from the chaotic Nigerian overspill of Lagos. Electricity is off more then on and the traffic resembles the Conakrys of this world. However it did have all the conveniences of a big town so I managed to stock up on supplies and eat some westernized food for a change. Vanessa, a born and bred French girl of African descendants I met at a bar, took it upon herself to show me around the centre of town and was a fantastic source of knowledge. But after a second night of candle power I left Lomé and headed north to Palimé.I was entertaining the idea of heading to the north of Togo, crossing the border and then descending Ghana back down to the coast. Arriving at Palimé I found a clean hotel out on the outskirts within walking distance of the centre. Here I spent another two nights, but alas although there were beautiful water falls and fields full of butterflies, all I felt like doing was reading Steinbeck and wandering to the restaurant for food. It became pretty clear that I was still suffering from some intestinal abnormalities and my cure of self prescribed antibiotics was taking a while to kick in. So I found a cybercafé and got my sister to organise me a flight for the 10th of April. This should allow me enough time for a quick tour of Ghana before heading back to Europe.The second morning at Palimé found me waiting for enough passengers to fill a long wheel base Land rover that was bent in the middle like a banana. Early afternoon we got going and bumped along a dirt track for a few hours, crossing some excellent jungle. The Ghanaian border came and went with very polite border officials and I experienced the euphoria I get every time I cross a border and enter a new country. We kept travelling till we got to the town of Ho. Here I decided to convert all my CFA money into the local Cedi currency. After getting the run around at a few banks who refused to convert my soft currency I managed to withdraw some Cedi with my visa and booked myself into a hotel. That night, try as I might I couldn't find a restaurant to eat at and really didn't feel like eating the local Fufu which is like mashed potatoes mixed with PVA glue and generally comes swimming in a bitter snotty sauce made from the baobab tree. Still hunger got the better of me and to the surprise of the lady, I ended up eating an entire bowl full. The following day I arrived in Accra, the capital of Ghana and headed for the Date hotel. The day was spent walking around checking out the town which I grew to like immediately. The evening back at the Date hotel I was ordering a beer at the bar when the only other European looked my way and said "didn't I meet you in Niamey". But what I heard because of his Canadian accent was "didn't I meet you in the army" I proceeded to explain that I'd never been in the army and in fact was somewhat against the whole idea of war and stuff. He looked a bit puzzled and asked me again if I wasn't in the army. I thought OK, we might have a Live one here, but cos he looked strangely familiar I didn't mind playing his little game for a bit longer. Finally the story got sorted out straight and we got to talking. Then out of the blue, Sean the obscure motorcycle man who butchered my lonely planet Africa but gave me a gas cooker in return, who was one of the Ouagadougou film watching posse turned up and joined our party. Then for the fifth time in four different countries Sarah and Wolly made an appearance and it was group hugs all round. After an excellent evening of exchanging battle stories and laughs I left somewhat sadly the next day and headed west along the coast to Cape Coast. Ever since watching a documentary in Ouaga on African American culture and its academic arm preaching a return to African roots, I have been surprise to meet almost every nationality under the sun at one time or another here in Africa except African Americans. I thought this strange, because if you wanted to learn about your African roots then maybe Africa would be a good place to start. Still having discussed the situation with other travellers who had however met the odd African American in transit I became armed with various theories ranging from economical to cultural. Yet it seems that if an African American makes the pilgrimage, then you'll probably find them here in Cape Coast. A lazy beachside town which sports some excellent forts dating from the slave trade of which only one is open to tourists. I rocked on up, but for some reason couldn't hand over the admission charge and instead blew the same amount on a most excellent seafood pizza and beer. That evening at Sammo's guest house I met a Belgium aid worker and an evangelical preacher called Izy who tried selling me drums on the roof top of my hotel. Christianity here meets business and everyone seems to be opening up a new church and looking for westernised funding. It's funny going to the Jesus Cares Bakery and ordering Our Saviour Buns. The weather was so hot and humid that it was impossible to sleep in this town when the fans are deprived of the electricity to make them go round. So instead I hanged out on the roof and experienced a most excellent tropical night storm with incredibly dusty gusty winds and later sheets of rain that sent the locals scattering indoors while the last of the street candles went out plunging the town into yet another degree of darkness. In the distance, out to sea, fork lightning thumped the horizon and flashed the heavy rain clouds and soon I was night swimming in waves of delicious fresh crisp air. When finally I got out, sleep came without effort.By heading west I was nearing my chosen destination which was the Green Turtle Lodge. Nearly every tourist I've met seems to have ended up here at one time or another. I had to negotiate various buses and trotros to finally arrive at this beach resort situated a kilometre around the bay from a little Ghanaian fishing village. For some reason Ghana is full of Dutch volunteers who all decided to turn up at the same time as all the other volunteers in the region. I think Easter weekend had something to do with it. Still the resort was over booked and they had people even sleeping on the kitchen floor. Still after 7 months travelling around I was thanking my lucky stars for having lugged my tent all this time because tent space was abundant for the taking. So I walked a fair bit away from the other tents and pitched up under the coconut trees before taking my first swim in the bay of Guinea. The other punters where all segregated into various groups based on nationalities and the majority were all posing around like only Europeans can behind their $300 shades. After a while I figured if you can't beat them, then join them and whipped out my $350 shades and also posed as well, but alone. Till Louisa the kiwi I had met in Benin turned up while waiting for the shower, so we chatted and later I caught up with a couple of Slovenians I had met in Burkina Faso. I ended up spending 4 nights under canvas with the waves ringing in my ears and saltwater in the sinuses. The meals were excellent and we even had some entertainment one of the nights, when a local juggler and entertainer extraordinaire swirled hoops and balanced boxes on a broom stick that he kept wanting to put in his pants. Actually he only ever got 2/3 of his tricks completed because of the bottle of Bacardi that he sculled 15 minutes prior to going on stage and had to renounce from jumping through burning hoops when his lighter didn't work. But we all were very impressed with his abdominal muscles and being able to place his feet flat on his head, so gave him a good round of applause at the end. The rest of the time I spent playing pool (Slovenian rules are weird), reading my Steinbeck on the beach and playing beach volleyball. As a result I really don't know all that much about Ghana compared to the other countries I visited here in Africa. But would recommend it to anyone for a beach side holiday. The morning of the return trip to Accra found me up and about at sparrow's fart. I quickly packed away all my toys and paid my dues. With all my belongings on my back, I trudged along the beach to the village and waited for the only form of transport to get me back to civilisation. All day long I took various buses and taxis before finally arrived back in the capital after night fall. Dinner of the best chicken in West Africa and then to bed where I fed the mozzies their meal. The next day I took my last African cold shower, and my last African breakfast before paying my last African hotel bill. Then had my last African bus ride to my second and my last African airport but not before a last African tried to get me to invest in his poultry farm. I presented myself to the baggage check in and didn't even bat an eyelid when the check in lady told me I had a five hour to wait before my flight took off. Five hours waiting didn't seem too bad after previous experiences, so I found a comfortable luggage trolley and leaned back on my trusty sack and contemplated my current situation. In the polished chrome of an escalator railing a Rip Van Winklen mangy bearded face stared back at me, sporting deeper lines in sunburnt skin. My faded, thread bare pants and dilapidated sun bleached t-shirt whispered stories for my ears only and cracked sandals stunk badly with embedded crud from miles and miles of wonderings. I felt an ephemeral satisfaction and hungered no longer for route. Not realising my long ago aspiration to arrive at Cape Town nagged me like the missing tweezers of my Swiss arm knife, but I knew these losses are opportunities rather then disappointments and instead concentrated on imagining myself stepping out on the stylised streets of the Parises and Londons of this world. The luggage trolley bars were digging into my buttocks, so I walked around the airport souvenir shops wondering where I could get an African carved elephant polished with shoe polish that stains your hands for my sister. Still I have learnt from previous trips that going home is the hardest part of a good trip. Carrying around a bag load of experiences that you want to share with friends and trying to convey the various emotions to them is unfair and frustrating for yourself if you force these on others. I didn't want to be the "that's just like one time in Africa..." guy, because like Vivaldi's Four Seasons, it just gets annoying, even if it might be good. Instead I thought about how much writing a blog of my travels has been good for me. Not only have people been able to share some of my experiences, putting thoughts to words forces one to think how they feel about a given situation and I'm looking forwards to doing it again in a few years. With a couple hours left before boarding my flight I settled back and thought about Africa which is pretty hard to sum up, so I'm not going to try. Still as a part time sociologist I did get upset about the African plight theme towards the end of my trip and having lived it for awhile I found it became personal. Trying to arrive at logical theories to understand why, I started not to see the forest for the trees and it didn't help that every gringo you meet has his own diarrhoea to muddy the waters. Still I think the situation here is getting better slowly, yet how the hell can you really tell!Girl came up to me and said I could board the plane now, so I queued up behind 20 or so red eyed from crying Africans immigrating to Dubai tying to detach themselves from their family member to get through customs. One of them ended up sitting next to me on the plane so I talked to him a bit. I knew his fate, having seen the gangs of workers working in the oppressive heat of Dubai on construction sites and sleeping in tents out in the desert. He spoke English well but very strangely he didn't know how to communicate to the air hostess as I don't think he had ever asking a white person for anything. As a result it went something like this. "Tell her I want a beer.", "He wants a beer!", "Does he want peanuts?", "Do you want peanuts?", "Tell her I want peanuts", "He wants peanuts", "Salted?", "Salted?", "Tell her yes", "Yes", "OK".While flying over the Sahara desert I wondered why he felt comfortable talking to me and realised that somewhere at sometime along the way I must have become culturally accessible. Success is sometimes a slippery fish and manifests in unexpected forms yet it was only when we reached the Red Sea that I realised I'd passed my Introduction to Africa 101.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1164823200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1164823200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1164823200/tpod.html Mon, 07 May 2007 13:54:13 -0400 Africa 2006, from Morocco to somewhere

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Dakar, Senegal

On a hot morning I found myself squished in the boot of a station wagon alongside Ghalied travelling south towards Dakar. Somewhat apprehensive of arriving at Dakar after hearing various war stories of other travels heading North from this hard city. Specifically the arrival at the taxi depot we heard, was incredibly hectic with people being swamped by porters, taxi drivers, sellers, guides and everyone and anyone who had an interest in soliciting tourists. Not only that but you had to negotiate the scams which generally start off with a guy calling out in the street "Don't you remember me?" or by starting off with "You're not racist like the others" and then once you enter into conversation with tout you get the beginning of an emotionally formulated scam.However we decided to stay at a small town just north called Yoff and during the day we could take the bus into Dakar. This meant we left the confined space of the back seat at a motorway intersection before getting to Dakar and ate water melon while stretching our legs. Still even here, we had 4 guys who at once proposed taxi rides. Our hotel we had chosen was situated on the water front just behind a fish market with women selling strange looking fish of various sizes sourced from the various fishing boats pulling up onto the beach. Managed to catch a local soccer game and are managed to find a local eatery where we had dinner. For 1 euro you often sit in front of a guy with a wok full of oil and he'll cook you up a meat and onions with chips which you pile into a baguette with mayonnaise. Very unhealthy and oily but very tasty.Actually the only real reason why I came to Dakar was to go to Ile de Gorée which is an island about 20 minute by boat from the port in Dakar. This island is a getaway from the hustle and bustle of Dakar and is rich in history and was previously an important slave trading market. So early the next morning I was sitting in the waiting room for the ferry when Gaspard, a friend I had met in St Louis walked in and had decided to go visiting this island on the same day. We joined forces and after a very tranquil ferry trip we walked around the island looking at the colonial buildings and soaking up the atmosphere. Managed to go into the Museum of Women and then had an excellent lunch before walking around the House of Slave where we got a guided tour?According to the guide between 15 and 20 million slaves were sold from this island. However various guide books will tell you that this number was theoretically impossible and the number might have reached 1 million. Whatever the figure, it's not very important. The reality is Portuguese, Dutch, English and French use to come to the slave house situated on the water front and buy human beings like animals. The house is a small fortress and is built around a courtyard. Effectively prison cells everywhere on the ground floor where they would split captured families with various rooms for the men and others for the women. The slaves would sit 15-20 into cells measuring 3x3 meters for months until they were sold. In general the stronger and younger a slave is the more money they were worth. As a result if a slave weighed less then 60 kg then they would be put into a special room where they were force fed beans to fatten them up. Because they couldn't afford to care for any slave that fell sick, they would instead just walk the slave out of the stock door they showed us which led to a wooden jetty and along to the end where they would push them into the sea. These people were then eaten by the sharks who were ever waiting. The same stock door and wooden jetty were often the last glimpse of Africa for the these Africans before a 15-20 days boat trip in horrific conditions before they would find themselves more often then not in North or South America with their identities replaced by a number. You really can't visit a place like this without walking out somewhat stunned by the horrific emotions that are conjured up. The rest of the day was taken up with visiting some of the older colonial buildings and drinking beer while watching the sun go down. Having completed my only objective here in Dakar, I was ready to leave which I did the next on the boat, direction Casamance.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1175014800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1175014800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1175014800/tpod.html Fri, 20 Apr 2007 19:57:39 -0400 Africa 2006, from Morocco to somewhere

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Ouidah, Benin

Like an old friend, the sombre Niger River appeared in the distance as my overcrowded taxi lurched around yet another corner before the lunatic driver straightened up and targeted a far off bridge materializing out of the specked crepuscule. Tired from weeks of inconveniences and a harrowing travel pace the symbolism of a bridge struck a resounding cordial cord. This manifestation of pure convenience was a joy to behold and we were soon climbing up out of Niger only to fall lightly back down into Benin.Like for most other countries I've visited in Africa, I had previously got mixed reviews about Benin, but was immediately impressed with how friendly and approachable the Beninese people were in the north. For the first 3 days I travelled down to Parakou and then up to Natitingou in the North east. I had only been in Natitingou a day when a couple of European girls walked over to say hello, while I was writing up my journal. This is how I met Hedy from Holland and Louisa a fellow kiwi from the bay of plenty region, both of whom had been doing volunteering work in Ghana. As we were all thinking about doing a safari in the Pendjari Park, (one if not the best park in West Africa for seeing animals) we decided to join forces. Up till now I had made next to no effort to go check out any of the various nature reserves that I've passed along the way, thinking they were generally overpriced and of limited interest. Also I detest hiring guides who like to point to things and say "bird" every minute or so. But couldn't leave Africa without having at least made a small effort to see some animals. Kassim the driver/guide we hired picked us up early morning and after stopping for supplies we drove 1.5 hours into the park. I had my video camera at the ready to shoot anything that moved. We didn't have long to wait as within 30 minutes the first elephants made an appearance along with various monkeys, warthogs and antelope looking thingies. All along the road the rangers had periodically burnt away the undergrowth to make animal spotting easier, which environmentally speaking is a bit of a frown, but necessary if you are too lazy to actually get down out of your 4wd and run the risk of getting eaten by a lion. Midday we arrived at the main waterhole of the park and saw more of the same thing plus hippos, crocodiles and various water fowl. So by midday we had seen enough wildlife to justify the cost of visiting the park. However we really wanted of course to see a lion out in the wild. All afternoon we drove around from one waterhole to another and saw a lot more of the same animals and even a buffalo from afar, but the felines are fickle creatures regarding putting in an appearance. As night moved in we stopped and slept at one of the rangers headquarters under a roof on stilts. The next morning we left at daybreak but this time I opted to sit on the spare wheel on the roof which gave excellent viewing. By midmorning we managed to spot a lion walking through the bush. She seemed to walk a half circle around the truck before walking along the road a bit then turned right back into the bush. I was a little bit surprised how oblivious it was to us. Even when we were following in first gear it wasn't going to get pushed around and slowly went about its business.Having seen a lion we all ticked off the last animal on our lists. Later around midday we were treated to another lion that came to a waterhole for a drink but promptly went and sat in the shade for a few hours. We decided to slowly make our way back out of the park and came across a family of elephants who on three different occasions charged us, which was pretty impressive. Generally when an elephant charges it always stops between 5-10 meters away from the car, never has there been an incident where an elephant has charged and actually hit the car. Got two of the charges on video then we thought we had better leave them alone to Kassan's disappointment.After we swam at the excellent Tanougou falls I said good bye to Louisa and Hedy who were going North West to Burkina Faso and returned to spend my final night in Natitingou. The next day I took a bus down to a small town called Bohicon which is about 10 kilometres away from a more famous town called Abomey.Abomey is where the great African kings of Dahomey grew powerful by trading with the Portuguese slave traders. Every time they would conquer a lesser tribe they would sell the losers off to the Europeans and get more guns to attack someone else. These guys had some pretty intense cultural practices like kings being buried with 47 wives in tombs made of mud and slave blood after reigning years on a throne mounted on the sculls of their enemies, defeated by a crack team of Amazon fighting women. The stories just go on and on and as a result all the museum guides have all perfected the art of pregnant pauses. Previously when I was at the Burkina Faso film festival, I had met Erin, an American peace corps volunteer standing in a queue who later kindly offered a couch if I was ever in Bohicon. As a result I turned up with my sack and ended up staying a few days. Over the previous few weeks I had not been very careful with the water I drank, neither with the food I ate. My body just couldn't handle the amount of bacteria I was introducing into my system, so it just stopped absorbing all food and water which instead went straight through me. I could drink all I wanted but still found myself at the end dehydrated. On the second day visiting Abomey I was sitting in a café when I felt faint so asked the nice café owner where I could lay down. She pointed out towards the backyard when my vision blacked out like curtains coming down and I woke up a little while later with the café owner running around in hysterics. After that episode I decided to take things a little easier.Erin turned out to be one of those rare people who can manage to listen to my wild and often illogical theories on life the universe and everything without being bored to tears or simply just switching off. As a result we had some excellent conversations and I learned about Russian history, the American feminist movement and more first hand Peace Corps experiences. I have to admit it was fabulous to not be staying in a hotel and even managed to meet and discuss local issues with Beninese while eating Indian and chocolate cheese cake at Erin's birthday party. Although I was happy to be in the Benin stage of my trip I realised that my attitude towards it had shifted towards thinking more about my plans for the future rather then the present. I realised that this attitude shift luckily coincided with the final weeks before my Africa evacuation to Europe. However it did mean that a lot of the cultural offerings in Benin went over my head. From Bohicon I travelled south to the coast, then east to Porto Novo the capital next to the Nigerian border. After finding a pretty uninteresting administrative town I moved on the next day. Refusing to spend much time in large cities I zapped Cotonou and travelled west to Ouidah the birthplace of Vodu. The religion of Vodu before being completely caricatured by Hollywood was exported along with the millions of slaves that were captured in this region towards the Americas. Here about 60 percent of the population here practice the religion and to destroy a myth, the only reason people here ever put pins in dolls were to teach others essential corporal pressure points. Instead the religion is all about the worship of various deities along with the veneration of ancient and recent ancestors. Afterwards, each of the variant exported splinter religions that resulted had to incorporate beliefs of other cultures they encountered, specifically Christianity. All over Benin, there are fetish markets where tourists get little figurines made out of what looks like mud and animal parts which protects them from evil spirits. I hear the markets smell pretty bad, and wonder at tourists who worry about animal welfare then perpetuate their suffering by purchasing and hence create further demand for these fetishes. I'm a big believer that "basics of purchasing power" should be taught at every primary school along with core subjects. Anyway every so often it's quite interesting to come across large fetishes and groups of people dancing in reverence to some god. Still I didn't attend any vodu trance séances nor any sacrifices which seem to be commonly put on show for tourists.Instead I wondered if I could find people who had worked with the late French ethnologist Pierre Verger. Previously I had put online about 5000 of his photos for the Pierre Verger Foundation<i> <i>(Excuse the translation faults). I tried the local museums and found an elderly gentleman who had been his guide in the region in 1962, so talked for him a while about his experiences with Mr Verger. Later I visited the main museum situated in the Portuguese fort before walking the slave route which millions of slave had walked previously to the coast.Having had two excellent weeks in Benin it was time to more on west into Togo and early one morning a taxi found me standing by the side of the road and pulled over.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1173805200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1173805200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1173805200/tpod.html Sun, 01 Apr 2007 08:53:56 -0400 Africa 2006, from Morocco to somewhere

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Niamey, Niger

As the temperature in this region of the planet was rising towards the very hot mark, I was starting to wonder if coming to Niger was such a good idea. But in Niger I was, and specifically Niamey the capital. Here I decided, a day to rest, a day to see the sights and a day to leave. On my day of rest I purposely absented myself from a wild giraffe spotting tour and on it's return found out I'd missed a rock throwing, teargas and a burning tyre student demonstration which preluded the five giraffes spotted in a bush. I felt very satisfied having spent an excellent day with me, a coffee and a newspaper.Sight seeing in Niamey included the markets and large baskets of fried crickets before checking out the national musem/zoo, which contained some interesting exhibitions but a very sad bunch of animals. However I was very happy to see the Ténère tree.The Ténère is a large desert in northeast Niger and in the middle grew a lone Acarcia tree 400 km from it's closest relative. The only tree to feature on a Michelin map and to which poets composed oeuvres. Considered the last tree of the Sahara until through some incredible misfortune in 1975 a Libyan truck driver wrote off his truck by colliding with it. Still in the museum it just looks like any other tree.Finally saw some bats like in Freetown and checked out the Niger River for a bit of excitement. That night Thomas and I drank beer and fine-tuned a Swedish polar circle camping trip and the next morning left Niamey in different directions.Around the parameter of the Sahara desert exists a zone called the Sahel in which tuffs of grass, shrubs and little tortured trees sort of grow. It was east through the Sahel to a small village called Dogondoutchi that my bus brought me. Here in a town of nothing particular to see or do I perfected the art of aimless wondering and took photos of rocks. The evening found me having a pointless drink when the pretty Togolese waitress sat down opposite me. "We should talk" was her strategic opening line "Let's talk" I replied and talk we did, through all the standard preliminaries. Then the inevitable happened. She began to lean closer with a naughty glitter sparkling in her eyes. Playing my part I matched her advances, when her right hand took me completely by surprise!Releasing her drink it moved in a slow motion arc, forefinger extending towards its target, she then rammed it with precise elegant dexterity up to the first knuckle into her right nostril.Proceeding to drill then excavate then drill some more, her finger hit a snag and froze while her facial composure remained oblivious to all the action occurring between us.Pouted lips parted, finger half buried she whispered only for me to hear. "I want to make love to you tonight". Up till now I'd been staring wide eyed for a bit too long and needed to blink. One blink, two blinks and the drilling rig erupted back into life. Gaining a hold on its target it withdrew bringing forth the foreign matter, which was expertly projected in a perfect parabolic arc into the neighbouring table's ashtray.I was quite speechless for a moment before switching on my oratorical autopilot pre-programmed with standard evasive responses I've accumulated for these very kinds of situations. She didn't seem all that put out and instead proceeded to spend all my drink change on a range of expensive exotic european exported beers, which she promptly drank one after the other. Still the next morning I ate breakfast by the side of the road alone before being joined by a Foolah family consisting of husband, four wives each sporting facial tattoos, a peculiar tuff of felted hair protruding over their foreheads and a baby.My bus ventured further east flirting with the Nigerian border before arriving at Zinder. Here I had decided to spend a day discovering the town. After a good sleep I headed to the museum for cultural enlightenment. Finally found the small building standing next to a nightclub, out of which stumbled a dude who told me the museum cost 3 euros. Offered 1.5euros, he seemed excessively happy with and walked into a room measuring 3 by 3 meters. On the floor were 5 rocks, a pair of sandals and a rifle. The dude pointed to the rocks and I said "Rocks" and he nodded, and then proceeded to show me the sandals. At this stage I started explaining that this didn't constitute a museum. He started looking worried that he wouldn't get paid and dragged me to another similar dusty room in which one corner lay a pile of hay and the other a rifle wrapped in a grass map. As there were no more rooms I paid the guy about 15 cents and walked away somewhat disappointed.From the museum I instead wondered around the ancient quarters of the town and had a most exquisite time getting lost in the maze of alleyways and traditional mud houses, aimlessly conversing with people about nothing in particular. Completed a tour of the final monuments before retiring for the evening.At 3am the next morning I was wondering the pitch-black streets of Zinder towards the bus station having not slept a wink. Because of the immense distances here in Niger most buses leave around 4am. The bus for the northern town of Agadez left well before the sun rose and I found myself squished on the back seat between a Nigerian and an Ivorian before nodding off.It must have been a jolt that woke me wondering where I was and why my right cheek was so cold. The sound of snoring and the rumbling of the bus brought me back to reality. Having slobbered the Nigerian's corduroy jacket shoulder I pulled it around him to get a dry patch. The Ivorian was sleeping leaning forwards and his right elbow was digging into my thigh, but it had been awhile and lack of blood circulation had numbed my leg completely so it didn't hurt. What kept me from falling back to sleep was the Ivorian's neighbour who was leaning sideways across the Ivorian's back with his head hovering just over my left shoulder. Every time the bus went over a bump his head pattered my shoulder and my t-shirt clung to his recently shaven head like velcro. At first I'd tear my t-shirt back down but then realised the ventilating action kept my shoulder cool and was wondering how I could exploit the idea when we arrived at a checkpoint, we all jolted to attention and the Nigerians had to get down.Every northbound trip I've made generally includes small groups of Nigerians, part of an exodus stream to Europe. Once having left Nigeria and crossed Niger, they'll sit on top of large trucks and cross the Algerian Sahara desert to attain the Mediterranean city of Alger. Then they take huge risks in unsuitable boats to get to Italy the current destination of choice. Although very macho and boisterous they are pretty friendly when they realise I speak English and am not going to thwart them from realising their galvanised dream. It's strange feeling shaking hands with them wishing them good luck.All day we headed north stopping at little villages where the malnutricious kids would only stare at you then fight over any food you gave them. Tureg hunters with bows and arrows strung to their backs sold wild partridge and platters of grilled goats internal organs floated above the crowd of would be sellers that hustled the bus.Later we drove through an excellent sand storm that resembled a decent snow blizzard with sand raining down the windows. Then small trees fell by the wayside as we continued north. The saturating sun washed detail from the remaining scattured shrubs. With only form and no substance these became scupltures of people and animals in different poses before morphing into reality at the last moment.Suddenly an entire town appeared in the distance with blocks of houses, fortified walls and minaret towers above. I thought this very strange as we had another four hours before arriving at Agadez. Turning to ask the Nigerian where we were I realised he was already talking to someone else so went back to looking at the city. Confused I noticed a heat shimmer infront of the closest houses, which seemed to grow and envelope the entire town before all the building fell to the ground and only sand remained.Twice again I had vivard hallucinations seeing entire towns that just didn't exist. I was begining to enjoy them but had to doubt everything I saw out the window. As a result when Agadez did finaly appear out the window I was pretty positive it too was not real, but then figured it's pretty hard to drive down the main streets of a hallucination so realised the trip was over.I spent three nights camping in the grounds of a nice hotel. All the time thinking that I should organise a trip to see the local region. There was the Aïr Mountains and the Ténère desert to the east but there were hardly any other tourists around so it meant hiring an entire 4wd and I couldn't afford it. More to the point at the time I wasn't all that motivated. So in the end gave up on the idea and just prospected for the next trip I'd make to Africa. After catching up with an enourmous lack of sleep I returned to Niamey by bus and headed for Benin the next day.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1171389600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1171389600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1171389600/tpod.html Sun, 01 Apr 2007 08:26:29 -0400 Africa 2006, from Morocco to somewhere

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Douentza, Mali

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]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1171648800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1171648800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1171648800/tpod.html Sat, 17 Mar 2007 11:31:38 -0400 Africa 2006, from Morocco to somewhere

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Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso

I had only heard good things about Burkina-Faso and the town of Bobo-Dioulasso and must say I was glad to be leaving Mali, as you soon feel like a walking ATM machine with everyone trying to make a withdrawal.After a nocturnal bus ride, we arrived at the Burkina border where the guards were the nicest and most polity people imaginable. After the formalities we continued to Bobo where I spent the next four days doing next to nothing. However one day walking back from the market, who was walking the other way? But my good friend, 'the hairy Swede' Thomas.After sharing adventure stories we realized we both had similar plans, so joined forces with a polish dude and headed south-west to a little town called Banfora. After two hours we'd walked around town and went in search of food. Here in Burkina like the rest of Sub-Saharan Africa you can almost always find a women standing behind large bowls of rice, couscous, spaghetti with various sauces. About 0.20 euros for a bowl and a happy Buddha feeling for 0.80 euros. Sure, everyday diarrhoea is sure to follow but it's pretty hard to escape this condition here so it's better just to get use to the idea and remembering "When in Rome".The next day we got ourselves a motorbike and rode a total of six hours. First, two hours along a sandy track to the Sindou peaks. An outcrop of supposingly spectacular rock formations which I thought were a bit ho-hum compared to the hype around them. But thoroughly enjoyed being back on a motorbike. Same day saw us ride three hours to the cascades of Kargiguéle washing off the daily grime in natural pools with a setting sun as a backdrop.The final day at Banfora, we walked 2 hours under a cruel sun to Lake Tengrélé. On arrival we were waiting for an oar and found a young girl lying under a tree. Suffering from some terrible disease, she was skinny as a stick wrapped paper thin skin. Her face looked 90 years old and her bottom eye lids drooped revealing blood red inflamed skin. I don't think she had long to live. I gave her peanuts which she couldn't possibly chew and left in a small canoe across water lilies towards a family of yawning hippopotamuses. We looked at them and they looked at us looking at them. When the looking was over we walked back 2 hours back to town and had to undergo treatment for heat exhaustion and dehydration.Our time in Banfora drew to an end and we bus-ed it to the capital of Burkina-Faso with its cool name Ouagadougou. Here the plan was to attend the pan African film festival called Fespaco. Fifteen euros for an all film pass and 9 days of movie watching. Modelled on French cultural export but bundled with African time and technical expertise the experience was a mitigated success. One film I started watching began in colour turned to black and white before the sound cut out and the subtitles came on in Haitian Creole. To continue watching is only so interesting. Yet apart from a couple of blockbusters being dubbed in French to the disappointment of my Anglophone film watching posse, the majority of films worked ok. That is if you don't consider delays. I did however see a wide range of films and docos but at the end realised that for an African to finance his film project, they need to obtain grants from Europe or America who seem to pay out only for the African plight theme. As a result poverty, starvation, genocide and war become a sort of African cinematographic propaganda both abroad and within Africa. Hopefully this will change when the African film industry becomes more institutionalised and can benefit from African funding. But I for one felt the current output more then a little depressing.Ouagadougou was pleasant but limited regarding sight seeing. I spent most of my time with my backpacker gang and Jessica, a very nice documentary producer from New York. The majority of gang members were heading to Ghana, this region's backpacker's Mecca. But the 'Hairy Swede' and I are off to Niamey in Niger where he's to enter Benin and I'm going north east back into the Sahara.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1171303200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1171303200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1171303200/tpod.html Sat, 03 Mar 2007 16:37:27 -0500 Africa 2006, from Morocco to somewhere

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Timbuktu, Mali

With Dogon country behind me, the next adventure was to take a pirogue (boat) trip along the Niger River to Timbuktu. A lot of people think Timbuktu is just a mythological city, but I can now assure you all that it does in fact exist.Feeling better then I had for weeks I got a lift to Mopti, a small town on the Niger River which is the Mecca for hustlers from all over Mali. I'd plan to leave the next day after a nice sleep at the Catholic Mission but while having a coke I got offered a reasonable deal to leave on a boat at lunch time with all meals included. Was told the boat was leaving at 12 and with only ten minutes to spare I ran around getting supplies for what should have been a 3 day journey.Managed to get aboard at 11.58 and then had to sit there till 4 pm in the afternoon when the captain decided to turn up and raise anchor. During which time I met Sao who was travelling north to ask his brother for money. He spoke French very well and always had a transistor radio against his right ear listening to the news.The boat resembled a very large canoe with a hull of about 1.5 meters. In which were stacked hundreds of sack of rice and other cereals. It was on these that I made my home for the next 5 days. Sao told me that although on each sack it was written World Food Program and had arrived from Italy, a local politician will hand out the food with a nice big Vote for Me smile.The boat had two large truck motors in the stern and the Capitan sat at the front navigating with a steering wheel while another stood around, keeping an eye out for sand banks. Three other young African boys helped load and unload the goods and took turns bailing water which constantly leaked through the wooden hull.We got underway and the boat slowly drifted down stream. I knew after the first half an hour that I was going to enjoy this trip. All I had to do was lie back and watch the river bank float by. From time to time Sao would point out something interesting like a village or a hippo, otherwise I would do pretty much nothing.In this part of the world we are now coming into the hot season. As a result the level of water in the Niger River lowers dramatically. This causes enormous problems for the pirogues that are constantly overloaded like the one I was sitting on. So it wasn't long before we hit the bottom and all the ship hands had to lever it free again with large poles. Then someone would jump into the river and walk around, mapping the depth at various points before deciding on how to get the boat back to deeper water. As a result the boat stops often and a two day trip turns into five.Still I realised I was enjoying myself too much to really care how long it took. The night of the first day I got presented with dinner. This consisted of a large bowl of rice, with a cooked fish tail. I was pretty glad I had brought a kilo of bananas because morning, lunch and dinner was to consist of rice and a fish tail. Now I do like rice. It's great stuff, but by the end, I really could have done with a decent steak. What is however great about rice is that even after five days it all goes in, but absolutely nothing comes out. My bananas lasted 32 hours.Each night we'd stop by the river bank and sleep. Sometimes at little villages or next to a herd of cows. We couldn't travel at night because of the danger of the wind picking up the waves which could easily swamp us. And then I was told the hippos would come and eat us all up.The first time we were really stuck for a good five hours and we had to get another smaller pirogue so we could unload sacks to lighten our load. This was also what we had to do when we came to lake Débo which is like a little inland sea. Once the bigger boat had been lightened, we started to cross the lake. Being a large stretch of water the wind pushes up the waves. We had only been going 10 minutes when water started flooding through cracks into the smaller canoe and we needed 3 bailers working full time to keep the thing afloat. At the same time a guy was scrambling around poking bits of cloth into each of the leaks. While this was going on, the other passengers, who were all African where all quite concerned. I then realised that no one else aboard had ever seen the ocean so this enormous stretch of water scared the hell out of them. We did get most of the leaks fixed so two of the bailers were made redundant and we safely made it across. On the afternoon of the second day I was listening to music and watching the guys levering the boat of the fifth sand bank of the day, when a similar boat came up alongside. Sitting on sacks of rice looking out were Sarah and Wally. Friends I initially met in St Louis then spent more time with in the Casamace region of Senegal. We never thought we'd meet up again under these circumstances yet after a short conversation as they passed, they continued while my boat was stuck.Then all of a sudden we had arrived and I had to wake up from this dreamy riverboat ride. Up ahead was the river town of Korioumé were I had to get a taxi the rest of the way to Timbuktu. I felt a lot of satisfaction when I'd arrived, as Timbuktu had always been a pretty important milestone in this trip. While driving into town we got caught up in a sand storm which cut visibility down, but which blew itself out over night. I ended up staying only two nights here, and went visiting mosques and museums during the day and sat around talking over beers in the evening. It was also the occasion to spend up on decent food after my rice diet. Then it was time to leave. I had originally planned to take another 5 days on a boat to get to Gao but renounced this idea because I had already overstayed the amount of time I had planned for Mali and was keen to check out the film festival in Burkina Faso. So instead I paid for a ride back south in a 4wd. The road was terribly bad, so we spent most of our time off it rather then have to negotiate all the holes on it.I got back to Mopti planning to leave Mali the next day. Up till now I have never met an Australian on this trip and I found myself with three of them in the same hotel. Not only was that weird but three of the four of us were called John. Very strange, but not that interesting!Anyway, left for Burkina Faso the next afternoon.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1170525600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1170525600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1170525600/tpod.html Tue, 27 Feb 2007 08:24:01 -0500 Africa 2006, from Morocco to somewhere

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Dogon Country, Mali

Once upon a time in far away land there towered a 500 meter high cliff above plains of savannah forest stretching as far as the eye could see. Along the base of this cliff natural springs of water flowed, irrigating the plants into a beautiful oasis.It was in this idyllic setting that a man lived called Tellum. Not much larger then a meter tall and with distinctive red skin, Tellum would scale the tree growing next to the cliff to gain access to his cave dwelling, dug high up into the cliff face, protecting him from the dangerous animals below.While the gods were happy, water would continue to flow, attracting the animals to be hunted and keeping the trees alive, both necessary for happy days ahead. Tellum knew the gods were precarious and placed Uhgou in the most prestigious position in his cave, where she could be worshiped with the sacramental blood of the various animals he killed. Tellum's fetish Uhgou was the local god of fertility and women would come from far and wide to pay homage in the hope of bearing a child. Compared with his neighbour's fetish of ingrown toenails, Tellum was very popular and often gave the gods and extra helping hand.Tellum's story would have ended here, had a certain series of events far away not have taken place. One thousand kilometres towards the setting sun lived a man named Mangdin. Quite similar to Tellum, maybe a little taller, he also worshiped his fetish gods. But specifically a clay harvesting fetish called Wooga. His father had been the village chef spiritual leader and this position had been bestowed on Mangdin ever since his father had passed away. But unlike Tellum, Mangdin had leant to cultivate the nearby inhospitable land to grow a good part of his food and then cart it home with Mr Donkey. However, never having tasted a good camembert, he never complained when his wife served blobs of pounded millet mixed with water for dinner.Then one day, strange people started appearing in Mangdin's village. Turban wearing, camel riding Arabs had arrived. Upon viewing Mangdin's fetish Woogah, one particular Arab drew a scimitar and smashed Woogah to a million pieces. Mangdin fell to his knees and water leaked from his eyes, just like a baby. The particular Arab turned to face Mangdin and shouted "Thou shall not worship the golden cow! There is but one god and Mohammed is his prophet!" Then with a sweep of his cape, he exited stage right.Word spread fast among the villagers and fetishes were hidden away as this new religion took up roots along side the Baobab trees. Overtime many of Mangdin's fellow villages adopted the new regime in public while continuing to pay homage to their fetishes behind closed doors.However for Mangdin, the five pillars of Islam bore heavily on his consciousness. Although he liked the idea of a bunch of virgins waiting for him in heaven, he had serious issues with perpetually roasting in hell. It occurred to him, while out walking Mr Donkey, that while the carrot and whip worked well for some, he preferred to pull the strings. That night Mangdin gathered seven other like minded individuals around dying embers and spoke of his earnings for Wooga to once again take center stage. Mangdin the now African Moses, then revealed his plan of taking Mr Donkey and his Family on a quest to find a haven from Islamic interference.After many weeks of travelling Mangdin and followers arrived at the base of the cliff. With water and fertile land, it was deemed perfect and a claim was staked under the watchful eyes of Tellum high above.Coexistence was possible, until the additional mouths to feed began to take its toll on the surrounding natural resources. By now Mangdin was getting old, so it was up to his sons to clear the trees and cultivate the land. One morning Tellum woke to find the tree he used to access his cave had been felled. Ranging with anger he barely felt the cuts and bruises from scrambling down to the ground when he raised the accusing finger at Mingdin. When the guilty son arrived, Mangdin asked, "Did you cut down Tellum's tree". His son replied "I cannot tell a lie, father, you know I cannot tell a lie! I did cut it with my little hatchet." Mangdin's heart filled with pride at this display of honesty and his son was let off with only a stern word. Tellum couldn't believe his ears and yelled a whole lot of non-translatable words and stormed off with his family to a place called Cameroon.Years past, and the memory of Tellum became legend. His caves were raided and extremely power fetishes were found and revered. Mangdin died, but his family just though he had left his body and turned into a snake for while, so they placed his corps in Tellum's abandoned cave ready for his return. To make sure he didn't roam too far away in the spirit world, they made food offerings, mostly of cold porridge splattered over nearby rocks. Mangdin's sons had daughters who had sons who had daughters who became Dogon. All of whom, had to defend themselves against the ever advancing Arabs and the odd African warlord. Yet soon they would have to put up with Europeans too with catholicism, evangelism and tourism.Today a lot of the Dogon villages have all four religions and when John the tourist with Ousmane the guide arrived, he got to walk around various villages and oggle at Tellum's caves in the cliffs, mosques, churches and holy shrines to fetishes. Not really knowing what to expect he had only been told it's a "must do" in Mali so it was a happy surprise to find out that all the other tourists were at an overpriced concert 600 kilometres away. Ousmane the guide was experienced and knew a lot of the village elders, to who he introduced his client who felt that some were genuinely happy to meet him, but the majority were completely saturated of tourists and the greetings had became mechanical. However the landscapes, architecture and culture made the visiting well worth the effort.On the second day, John awoke from a siesta to find his guide was rather drunk. But not to the point where it interfered with his capacity as a guide. That was reserved for the third day. Upon awaking from an early afternoon siesta to a large crash as Ousmane ripped the door from its' hinges, it became immediately obvious from Ousmane's swaying that he was smashed off his face. Still he did his best to continue with the afternoon tour.The walk to the village was made all the more interesting by Ousmane's airplane imitations and constant repetition of the same information. After showing off a few excellent carved doors and traditional granaries, Ousmane was leading John along the base of a cliff when the sounds of women wailing and moaning started. These echoed against the cliff rocks producing a complete surround sound experience. Curious, John enquired about the noise hoping for a verbal explanation, but Ousmane made it his mission to find out by dragging his reluctant yet faithful client in the sound's direction. They walked around an alley corner when the path opened up to a small stone paved square. In the middle of which stood a young girl of maybe 15 years. Tears were streaming down her face and falling to her chest forming darkened aureoles on her dusty breast hugging t-shirt. Eye contact last only the time it took for the girl to take another breath and resume with the next verse of her sorrowing sonnet. Further away were sitting a chorus of elderly women, who grimaced at Ousmane who oblivious to the situation started pointing out curiosities of traditional village ceremonies, specifically pertaining to the outpouring of grief being demonstration due to someone having passed away the previous night. Feeling completely out of place, John roughly manhandled his inebriated Guide away, who inevitably got a chip on his shoulder which promptly fell to the ground, when stumbling down some rocks his legs slid out from under him and in slow motion leaned forwards then broke his fall with his face. There wasn't much blood and when your skin is black, a bruise is considerably less impressive. Still by that evening after a stiff march Ousmane was feeling better.The next day John the tourist left Dogon country to head North to Timbuktu. And as far as he knows, well as far as he wishes all the character in this story all lived happily ever after.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1169143200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1169143200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jeanchristophes/06_africa/1169143200/tpod.html Mon, 19 Feb 2007 12:15:08 -0500 Africa 2006, from Morocco to somewhere

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Bamako, Mali

After 3 days of hard travelling I arrived in Bamako the capital of Mali, on the banks of the river Niger. (Population 1 million) Louis and Julie a couple of friends I had the pleasure of crossing the Morocco-Mauritania border with, had been filming a documentary on ecotourism and were based here. So after a couple nights sleeping at the excellent Catholic mission I moved in with Julie and Louis into their apartment.I eventually spent seven nights sleeping in their lounge. During the day either I was on the Internet or sleeping. At night we'd all go out to drink large quantities of beer at one of the two Chinese run bars. Here we'd meet up with other French Expats and talk away the night. A lot of French come to Mali either with an opportunity to work with a NGO, or else are attracted by the most excellent music and musicians. However it's rare that a European decides to make Mali their home. Those that do, rarely out last the first 2-3 years. The country beats to an alien rhythm that can frustrate, and it took some time before I found a quirky but compatible step.Traditional food here consists of a lot of cereals like rice, millet and pasta with a sauce for a bit of taste. In bigger towns like Bamako there are supermarkets which cater for French cuisine. So although expensive we made a pilgrimage to a couple and splashed out on wine and cheese, then ate like kings.In Mali the sun dominates and on the way to Bamako I passed through Kayes , officially the hottest town on the planet. The heat seems to get into everything and it makes sense to sleep through the hottest hours of the day. I also met more sick tourists here from diarrea and other travel illnesses then anywhere else I've been? The wind comes down from the Sahara in the north and blows up clouds of dust that seems to stick in your throat and lungs, producing a dry cough.Having well rested, I said goodbye to Louis and Julie and took a bus direction north east deeper into the country, stopping at various towns along the way. The town of Djennée had plenty of touts and would be guides but boasted the world's largest mud building which was very cool. After a week of slow travel I arrived in Bandigara, the capital of Dogon country.
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