NIGERIA, Lagos :: Fast Cars, Sewers & Over-priced Movies Are My Friends

(Editor’s Note: Luck would have it, my first post in eons DELETED as I pushed the magic “publish” button. It was quite vivid, that description of ‘ol Lagos. seeing Juno, trying to get Cameroonian visas. Alas, I’ll try again.)

Lagos.

The name conjures up mostly negative images – murder, kidnapping, criminal military raids on Fela Kuti’s polygamist compound that make Texas’ FLDS raid look like Police Academy – to those that know anything about Africa. Mostly that it’s the largest, roughest city in all of Africa.

But Megan and I can attest: it’s actually quite surreal and economically polorized at worst, and more-safe-than-you-stereotype at best.

It’s not the hold-ups that are going to kill you. Just like Dakar (Senegal), Bamako (Mali), Bobo (Burkina Faso), Accra (Ghana), and Lome (Togo) on the road to Nigeria’s nearly 20-million person megopolis, it’s the open SEWER drains and CRAZED drivers that will knock you out, not the mugging or harrassment.

Neither did, and we had a decent time and met some interesting people.

In fact, it was the nicest Nigerian (I call him St. Michael) who got us over the Togo and Benin border before Nigeria, and then tucked us safely in a 10-dollar taxi (epic expensive by African standards!) to our first central Lagos hotel. A few other folks, including our 3rd hotel manager were fantastic, flexible, and took care of us.

The corruption?  Oh, it’s everywhere. Most everyone talks about it, and indulges because it’s part of the culture, unfortunately.  I’m sure we saw the tip of the iceberg lettuce with St. Michael and a bus load coming into Lagos.  After a 5-stop “checkout” through Nigeria’s border check, what we dealt with on our 1-hour mini-bus ride was worth guffawing (with a smile): being stopped nearly eight times by police, customs and immigration on a short stretch of freeway. It was like a big sign saying, “We soldiers don’t get paid enough, so we’re going to MAKE traffic jams ’til we can afford our kid’s University.” Still, it was just a mini-carnival of graft, nothing to write to mom about.  (Mom, are you reading this?) At one stop, and I believe Megan wrote about this, a police officer asks a guy next to us, teasing out a possible opportunity:

“What’s that in the bag?” says the Law.

“Shit!” the boy answers

“What kind of shit, new shit, or old shit?”

“Old shit.”

As if this is an everyday conversation, the police answers, “Ok, move along.” No hand-out there. But typically, there’s about 2-4 “dashes” (bribes) by the driver’s sidekick, and none by the passengers. I can honestly say, and I may say this many other times, NO BRIBES HAVE BEEN PAID BY DAVID AND MEGAN. I’m knocking on wood now.

Back to what we did in Lagos: Mostly tried to kill time as we waited for our Cameroonian Visas to come through. Pretty simple process. Our first night was semi-hairy, as Hotel 1 had no light/running water. We opted for Hotel 2, which got lights and A/C for maybe three hours total. Nights 2-5 we picked a spot in the middle of the market in Lagos Island (central area). STILL no running water, but we’re seeing that infrastructure in the Alpha city of Nigera is nil. We were IN the ‘hood, and besides Megan getting asked to get married 10x a day, it was nice. I may have got my first illness there, but it could’ve been the anti-Malarian pills, and Megan stepped into a HUGE sewer one night, but otherwise, LAGOS treated us fine.

Oh, and those movies? Saw Juno (4-stars, a lovely film), and Vantage Point(2.5 stars, sorry Dennis Quaid, too melodramatic) for OVER ten dollars each at the only movie house in town. There’s definitely something to be said about going from 10-cent peanuts on the street, to $12 movie ticket, and realizing: this is indulgent decadence. I won’t try to rationalize it here, besides knowing for 3+ months, we’d be in a jungle with no movies.

Except the many bootlegs.

 One more thought on Lagos: Yes, the traffic is insane, and people drive like others don’t exist in their driving world. But that’s par for the course in Africa. I tend not to worry. Just straddle that spot between the reddish-muck in the sewer and the street to be safe.

 

MEGAN’s PHOTOS of SENEGAL

She’s got new ones up:

http://picasaweb.google.com/mschapman/

MALI, Bamako :: First Public Garbage Can in Africa?

Bamako bin with city seal! A sight for sore (hippie) eyes.

Let’s state the cold-hard truth. North America may consume the most crap in the world and produce the most garbage per capita, but Africa takes the cake when it comes to rubbish-tossing.

Two examples, both in Senegal (but evident from Morocco to Ghana):

• An angel of a boy helps us get a ride in the holy city of Touba. We say, “Here kid, have a drink of water (from our reusable plastic bottle)” (gulps 1/2 of it, then automatically throws it out the window).
• Another man complains about the government of Senegal not taking care of the environment and the mess in their country (seconds later, a Coke can flies out the window).

Hypocrisy? Maybe, but frankly people just don’t seem to care. I could credit folks for having an enlightened, albeit pessimistic, long-view: What’s some plastic bags lining every inch of road when humans won’t be here forever to even see the eyesores. Perhaps Earth Day is the epitome of arrogance and elitism?

Or not.

In my opinion, the problem comes from lack of education and infrastructure. There’s no place to put the garbage. At most, if people collect it, they burn it. And there’s no clear public consciousness that says that, hey, maybe the streets, desert, sidewalks, and lawns wouldn’t be covered with everyone’s garbage if you didn’t throw wrappers on the ground. I have seen this 100 times. I have never once seen someone search for a can – which are often all-but-nonexistent, even within households. BBC Africa had an hour-long radio program about this, and many African callers came on to bitch out their neighbors or their government. Nairobi was especially hard-hit as a rubbish capital.

So, imagine the glee when in the heart of Bamako, a lovely, tree-strewn capital, we discovered … A BONA FIDE GARBAGE CAN. Immediately, I threw away the purewater plastic sacks I had been carrying.

Then I think I hugged it. ‘Cos that’s what tree huggers are conditioned to do.

SENEGAL, Dakar :: “Toubab” – My New Nickname (UPDATED 3/13/08)

 

So a quick thought on Dakar. We’re here, we’re fine, and all is well.

People are sweet. Adults generally ignore us. We exchange “Bonjour!” or “Ca va?” with the obligatory reply, ”Ca va bien.” I get attention a lot from kids, who all yell out “toubab, toubab” everytime Megan and/or I pass by.

I learned soon enough this means “white person.” Sweet. 

I’m now imagining how that would play out if an African showed up in Ireland and they had a phrase for “black person…” Imagine little red-haired irish lads yelling, “irish-equivalent of toubab” on the streets of Dublin. 

ADDENDUM 3/13/08: The above was my only post for about 3 weeks, so the general impression would be I’m being hassled by kids every other minute, which is hardly the case.

I could go on at length about how healthy it is to be an outsider, to be “different,” and find humor in having that pointed out by children of all people. It’s fun.

The youngin’s are generally cheery (the oldin’s, too) and in our adjunct neighborhood of Dakar, called Camberene, they were almost docile. i.e. very little begging or requests for “cadeaux” (French: gifts), which is more of a tradition in some high-traffic or tourist areas where children are filling up coffee cans with rice, money or bread for themselves and their families. It’s a reality of life out here that children as young as 6 are earning their keep — many are selling bracelets, food or bags of water.

My opinion isn’t quite made up on this. Blame capitalism, parents, poverty itself, or (the flip-side) maybe I shouldn’t blame anything or worry at all.

Every land has it’s quirks and problems. It’s not quite the proper place for an “outsider” to point that out, and insist there’s some categorical right/wrong in every interaction — thus, the blood never boils at shout-outs of ”toubab” in Senegal. I just laugh, wave back (or ignore ‘em) and move on. Only later do I wonder about how different things are in … Ireland.

CROSSING INTO MAURITANIA :: Only a Little Bit of Sand

Crossed into Mauritania (by car, see above) with packs tucked away, and eyes open. After 2 checkpoints leaving Morocco, we had only 7 or so ahead of us. Seriously. But still, no bribes.

We hear that’s not the same for Senegal.

There’s no love lost between these two countries — there’s a dreaded Western Sahara border dispute going on 3 decades (Mauritania pretty much has given up; Morocco is taking over fully). But I tend to think the 14-plus checkpoints (total) on either side of the border are a good way to

a. keep the military busy

b. give them plenty of “juncture” points for graft/$$.

We hear that’s not the same for Senegal.

Met a fabulous English/Dutch couple with a vehicle that kindly took us through the aforementioned check-points — and we got to Nouadhibou just fine. I think I was asked for “souvenirs” by one military officer, but I pleaded “no francaise.” That works well.

Oh, we did get stuck in the sand in a 3-kilometer “no-man’s land” between the two nations. Some desert dwellers came down from the rocks to help after seeing us suck sand for some time. Their offer: only 150 euros, and we get you out. Apparently, this is how they make their living. Saviors or vultures, I haven’t concluded. After we got them down to 20 euros, we got out — no problem. I’ll have to sketch the trick sometime — it does involved 5 strong men with turbins and know-how.

We gave them 20 euros + a pack of smokes. Yup, saviors.

Mauritania seems VERY safe on the front-end. And I think more on the back-end, too. SO NO WORRIES out there, and COME VISIT.

MOROCCO, Western Sahara :: We’re Safe, PHOTOS Prove It!

This is a flashback to Merzouga, and the faux guides, hustlers, and “overly kind” folks who essentially want our Durham ($$$). Like this guy:

PHOTOS FROM MERZOUGA (after we saw this man, and others who won’t-take-no-for-an-answer — see Megan’s post for more fond memories). Thus far, the beaches of Essaoira and Mirleft, and Merzouga (with the Camels), has represented the best time in Morocco. As well as the many nice people we’ve met by bus, train and foot.

Speaking of nice, we made it through our first military checkpoint today — or 4 check-points — in the Western Sahara as we head into Laayoune (we’re I’m writing this) to Dakhla. We’re taking an overnight bus in 30 minutes.

Past 3 Days: we stopped Wednesday night in Mirleft for our Best Beach Time yet. The next night some high school kids in our grand taxi insisted that Guelmim was the hot spot. It was not. Today (Friday) we made it through our first checkpoint — hey, mom, NO bribes!

Saw today: Wild camels run across the desert; more than a few slaughtered sheep hanging on hooks; and a puppy eating the reminents of a black bird. Good times. 

Mauritania, here we come!

AGAIN, bookmark this, as it appears as the best I can do is update photos every few days: http://www.flickr.com/photos/53757141@N00/?saved=1

MOROCCO, Essaouira :: How Do You Say “deja vu” in Japanese?

A funny thing happened on the way into our first coastal town since Rabat.

We ran into our new friend Yuji (click right PHOTO). Again.

The day before in Marrakesh, we ran into his co-traveller, Yoko, in our hotel.

48 hours before, 100s of kilometers away in Merzouga, the four of us wrapped up two giddy, camel-full days together (along with the Welsh gals). We made no plans to meet-up; at best, we told Yuji if he comes to the U.S. to motorcycle all of Route 66, to dial us up in Chicago first.

On both a occasions, they saw me (or my hair), as I’m spending more time with my head “down” than I should — so the red “Hendrix” ‘do doth bring big rewards sometimes. The luck of it is we get to spend more quality hours together: In Essaouira, we walked into the all-blue-boat fishing area and checked out an impromptu ship-building tour; we shared a couple meals on the cheap; and Megan and Yuji shared “do-I-remember-my-Japanese-letters” time on the beach.

Yoko was equally as wonderful a surprise our last night in Marrakesh — and reminds you that language isn’t always the first connector between people. Sometimes it’s just spirit, attitude, and sheer coincidence.

Back to the 9-11 on this locale: Essaouria is a friendly, beautiful beach town that would rival any in Maine, Oregon, or Washington. Finally, fresh air away from the lung-clogging diesel! Put it on “the Morocco must-see list” and go! (One idea: Rent a car, pack in your friends, and drive from Tangier across from Spain, to Mirleft, the beach town we’re going to from here. There’s RVs galore here, but they’re gas-guzzlers.)

Most importantly,

• bring a co-pilot.
• And remember where you’re from:

MOROCCO, Essaouira :: Jimi Hendrix Slept Here

FACT: In scenic Essaouira, we’re sleeping securely above these daddies:

FACT ABOUT ESSAOURIA: Jimi Hendrix came here in 1969. Dug it.

FACT: On our 12-day trek thus far, we’ve been told Seattle-native Jimi had a house here; wrote “Castle Made of Sand” here; and in more than one city, I’ve been asked if I’m Jimi Hendrix re-incarnate.

Jimi wrote “Castles” here: FALSE. Nope. Two years earlier. Ditto the house, according to this Jimi website. And as I told a crowd of 50+ in Marakesh when given a guitar, “J n’est pas Jimi Hendrix.” (Big laughs.) That went over better than when I said after dancing, “I am no Madonna.” (crickets chirping.) Guess she hasn’t penetrated the North African market.

LESSON: Can’t trust every tale you hear, even in Morocco.  No, especially in Morocco.

MOROCCO, From Merzouga to Marrakesh in Technicolor

JAN 27 UPDATED PHOTOS from Merzouga to Marrakesh here. Above snapshot by Megan is just a sand-filled taste of the former. Everything before the Sahara, Megan chronicled thoroughly here.

Arrived in Marrakesh Jan 26, will leave the 28th, and it’s something out of a dream here. Snakes – Cobras, beaucoup of them. Monkeys – most like abused when out of sight, but cute to look at. Lentils – soups for under 85 cents. Another 23 random people yelling “France?” or “England?” asking us if we need a hotel walking to the heart of the Medina. And something else…

A quality I can’t quite describe. We had a lost item in our “Grand Taxi” transport here. Went back and found it. Refound a friend from the desert, Yoko. Yuji is also here, her traveling partner. Last night, Saturday, Megan and I found ourselves corralled into the middle of a guitarist-singer performance circle. Imagine 60 men in the perimeter, a crazed artist in the center. And Megan in a headdress, laughing. I’m dancing.

It’s – a cliche, but is nonetheless – magic here.

UPDATE: Magic, yes, but only after you find where the #!*$ is your hotel.

Seriously, a million kudos to Megan, without whom, I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be able to find 1/2 the things – esp. as our Lonely Planet Morocco is in Spanish – and simply wouldn’t be as completely happy in general. In ways, we’re both sorry Marrakesh was only a 2-night stay. But as we’re moving via stuffy autobus & Mercedes (“grand taxi”) towards Dakar, Senegal, and French lessons by Feb 11 – and we need them – there’s no rest for the wicked. Feel free to recheck the map (below) from my first post, as we’re pretty much following it to a T (okay, Berlin > Barcelona > Madrid > Morocco is pretty easy, actually; Mauritania > Cameroon may have more turns.):

MOROCCO, Mezouga (The Sahara) :: HOLY SANDSTORM, Batman*, We Found Paradise

* With props to the soon-to-be-his-last-role as The Joker, aka, Heath Ledger, RIP.

SAND-DATE, 1.23-25.08. We’re here in Pardise, and staying two days.  

COMING: Tales of avoiding hostile “faux” guides for, oh, about 2 hours in the town 35 kilos out of the dunes, getting there, loving it, drumming traditional Moroccon/Berber music, dancing, fires under moonlight on the Erg Chebbi dunes, and MORE.

FOR NOW: