And there was dancing in the streets

Yesterday I traveled from the border of Guinea to Kenema, Sierra Leone, a motobike adventure that took 7 or 8 hours through a countryside of cacao, coffee, rice, bananas, small villages and forests.  And numerous rain created craters that my moto taxi drivers supremely and expertly navigated.  There was a border river crossing, some fierce negotiations on moto bike prices, and an abandoned Guinean tank in Sierra Leone as a remnant of the war that ended in 2002.  It was an exhausting and thrilling adventure through an area that was once the heart of the rebel movement, and as such that trip deserves a post of its own, however it could only be super-ceded by the events of last night.

I arrived in Kenema exhausted and penniless, found a hotel, then a bank, then internet and then a bar in about one hour.  It was a masterful performance, if I say so myself, assisted by the proximity of all such locations to my hotel.  Bringing me a beer was the barman Bobi Brown, who spoke some English but seemed satisfied just to sit down at the table with me and observe the passing crowds on the road.  His cousin, Francis, soon joined us and was far more interested in conversation.  Francis works for the equivalent of the IRS although he assured me, "We are not as hated as your IRS!"  We chatted for some time, and as my first beer was being finished and I was contemplating finding some dinner, Bobi grabbed Francis and me and directed us inside to watch the results of the presidential election being announced.

Sierra Leone just finished their second presidential election since the end of the war in 2002.  Voting was conducted last Saturday, November 17, and appeared to have been conducted freely and peacefully.  To my surprise the results were announced last night.  Right before the announcement Francis informed me that he was a supporter of the SLPP, Sierra Leone Peoples Party, the main opposition.  The President, of the APC (All Peoples Congress), he expected to be re-elected.  He said Kenema was an opposition stronghold and when I asked if there would be violence if the president was re-elected, he said he doubted so.  After 20 minutes of thorough explanations on the legitimacy of the elections, the support of international and national observers, explanations on where there were irregularities in the ballots, and why they were dismissed, and why all monitoring parties agreed to dismiss those ballots, seemed to drag on and on.  The main thoroughfare outside was nearly deserted as everyone was crowding around tvs.  And then the chairwoman of the election committee announced that the President had been reelected with 58% of the vote (he needed 55% to avoid a runoff).  The atmosphere of the bar was quiet for a moment or two and then some young boys ran out shouting as if in victory.  Within 5 minutes men and women were spilling out into the streets, shouting and waving and quite literally dancing in the streets.  In 20 minutes the main thoroughfare was a sea of red (the color of the APC party) as supporters of the president were dancing and shouting and singing and thumping their chests in victory.  Bobi and Francis took a seat on the patio of the bar, and as I did not really want to venture out into that mass of people, I ordered another beer and joined my friends. 

I asked Francis, "And this is an opposition city? It looks like there is broad support of the president." He assured me if the SLPP won the streets would be overflowing.  He also suggested many of these people were SLPP but just wanted to join in on a party.  To my eyes it looked rather festive.  Cars creeping by blaring their horns, people hanging out the windows, dancing on top of the car, screaming and shouting victory for the president.  Marches, at a slow trot, of young men and women chanting slogans as if they had been trained in military formations.  The only comparable image I could think of is if it was Bloomington Indiana and the Hoosiers just won the NCAA tourny (although certainly with more alcohol and less organized slogans and chants). It was that kindof exuberance, nothing compared with the cynicism of politics in the US. Francis took the whole night rather well, talking and joking with the chief strategist of the APC for Kenema, who had come into the bar with his entourage for some victory beers.  Francis said he makes a concerned effort to remain friends with APC bigwigs, because as a "well known SLPP family" he worries about his job.  He said the government will fire you for being part of the opposition, for belonging to the wrong party.  I asked him what can he do? He said nothing, but have faith in God to take care of him.  And makes friends with everyone.         

After a couple hours of this I was truly tired, just wanted some food, but the restaurant next door had shut its doors.  They were reportedly SLPP supporters.  So I found some sketchy street meat, some cold sweet potato fries and ketchup, and had Francis walk me back to my hotel. He assured me I was safe walking home, but he wanted to come along just to be sure.  I felt better that way too. 

Today, the celebration continues.  But it is mostly young men, in their teens and 20s, who walk around with their red shirts of the president, thumping their chests and screaming as if they had still just made the winning shot in the championship game.  Again it feels like a sports match, as if Man City just beat Man U in the Champions League final and the City fans were now strutting the streets to show off to their opponents.  I applaud a peaceful election, and most of all a free and fair election, but the celebration of many of these young men is a bit too fanatical.  But perhaps I am being too negative.  Perhaps it should be sufficient to say in a country such as Sierra Leone such celebrating is welcome.  Its not too often you find such reportedly free elections in this part of the world.  

Guinea!

Well so let's catch up.  When I crossed into Guinea it took me 28 hours to do what they said would take 14. We got a late start, and therefore had to sleep at the border of Senegal/Guinea, which was not the most comfortable.  We slept on the road pavement.  Tarmac. No bedding, except perhaps some oil stains. And the driver would not remove the luggage from the roof (it was exceptionally overloaded and tied down, and he couldn't be bothered to undo it for the night) therefore no toothbrush, no change of clothes.  So I, my carmates, and 30 other  or so cars slept on the road.  Thank goodness it didn't rain, which it occasionally threatened.  So the car.  It is called a Sept-place, has space for 7 passengers, and a driver.  We took 13 people (including the driver) in the car. Yes.  Two in the drivers seat, two in passenger, 4 in the middle, three in the back, and because they can get away with treating people horribly, two in the trunk. A Gambian kid riding in the trunk told me he felt like he was being treated like a dog.  I had one of the better seats, which I demanded, in the back with only two other people. Usually inter-city public transport only jams 9 people into 7 spaces. Just how they roll.  13 deep, (oh and with 3 sitting on the roof! 16 people!) is stretching it a bit.  So we slept for 10 hours on the road, took off at 730am, and then after breaking down a half dozen times, stopping so the driver could conduct random acts business throughout the bush, we arrived in Labe, Guinea some 28 hours after we departed.

The Fouta Djallon region of Guinea, where I crossed into from Senegal has to be one of the most breathtaking places in West Africa. The mountains are lush and gorgeous, huge thunderstorms have been rolling through in the evenings and nights, the hillsides are abundant with waterfalls.  I have even spotted a few monkeys and baboons through the trees.  The day's heat isn't too extreme, and the nights are cool, maybe even a bit cold.  In the past week and a half I have hiked to waterfalls, through random villages, all while speaking the language I adore, Pulaar. And although they speak a different dialect, it is mutually intelligible and we have a good time talking about the differences. 

I worked my way south, and west, and I am now in the capital, Conakry.  Its quite a different climate than the mountains, much more tropical, with all the heat and humidity that comes with it. Which is great for the availability of fruit! Mmmm pineapple.  The capital is dirty, congested, and not a place I want to hang out.  It really is awful.  Having said that, the people are terrific.  Three times I have asked people for directions and help with taxis and each has been exceptionally kind. So the taxis are shared and run routes.  And they work on a system of hand signals that inform the waiting people which direction the taxi is going. A point in either direction is obvious, but there is also a hand waving up and down, or side to side, or flopping around. It really is as confusing as it sounds. But each time I asked for help, someone has assisted in interpreting the signals and waving the proper taxi down.  One woman went so far as to go all the way with me to the Sierra Leone embassy, past her own destination, just to make sure I reached my spot.  She even paid for my cab fair!

The Guinean people are, by and large, wonderful and helpful.  Much calmer than my beloved Senegalese. My complaint would be with the police. There are military/police checkpoints everywhere, and they seem to be little more than a shakedown.  Bribe after bribe.  i have yet to been informed I need to pay something, although its been suggested.  They seem to be fairly easy on tourists.  But they are ruthless with their own people. At the border I watched two military men roughly handle, I might even argue physically assaulted, two men in my car because they did not properly stop what they were doing while the Guinean flag was being raised. Naturally they had to pay a bribe after bring cuffed, frisked, and had their faces slammed into the dirt.  One cop took the drivers insurance paper, and then declared that the driver didn't have the right insurance, and wouldn't give it back until the driver paid him a substantial sum.  In general the bribes at routine ID checkpoints are between $0.10 and $0.50, but even so, it most be corrosive on and erode the public trust.  Although everyone seems compliant, even nonchalant about it.  It is sad. And its consequences on the economy must be substantial.  All the wasted time at check point after check point.  My passport was checked three times, and recorded twice, in 30 kilometers along the border. Sometimes police stop you, just to make everyone get out of the car, and then immediately back in.  Just to show they can mess with you if they like. In the capital they stop traffic at major intersections just "check IDs".  I saw a car today not even stop, just a bit of a slowdown, while handing money over to a police woman who never said a word.  It was as if he was paying a toll.  The audacity and the openness isn't even questioned. There appears to be a mentality that every man is a slave to his superior, and a dictator to his inferiors.  You see it with the police and their higher ups.  You see it with the driver and the police, and then how the driver treats the people in his own vehicle.  It is brutal and depressing.

Friday I will get my visa from SL embassy, and begin my journey east and then further south, to the forest region.  It sounds spectacular, lush rainforest with abundant (we shall see if true) wildlife, including chimps and forest elephants.  Id also like to bag Mt Nimba, the tallest peak in West Africa.

Return to Fass

Homecoming.  Of sorts.  I havent posted in some time, and I have no good excuse.  South America was just too much fun to recount, I guess.  Anyways I hope to be posting regularly again, from now until March.  But the real homecoming was going back to Fass Toucouleur, Senegal.

I was a bit nervous going back to Fass, my home in Senegal for two years.  After 4 years away, to be going back to a place that was as instructive and developmentally important as college, was strange.  I was nervous and unsure how I would be received.  I knew this place was important to me, but how did they feel about me?  Would I be warmly embraced, or would it be, as I feared, a kindof Oh nice to see you, blasse sort of affair.  So I took a car down to the road town 5k away and called my host father to see if he would pick me up on his horse cart.  he said just tale a mototaxi.  Moto?  There are motos here? One of the many things that had changed in 4 years.  So i run into some people i know who arent sure they remember me, some eventually did some did not.  Many more thought i was this kid, Peter, who had returned or had never left.  Peter was a volunteer in the Wolof village next to Fass who just finished his service last month.  There are now like 4 volunteers in the nearby area including the village that is only a half a kilometer away.  A new one comes in a month.  When did my region get all these volunteers?  So I grabbed a moto, which is an absolute blast.  Cruising through the countryside on a motocycle cant be beat.

As we pull up a dozen of so kids playing soccer on the field come running after me screaming Amadou Ba Amadou Ba!  Amadou Ba Artii!  Brad came back. Amadou Ba is my Senegalese name.  We pull up to my familys compound and I see dozens and dozens of children waiting for me.  They flood me.  One of my best friends is waiting there and comes out to greet me. I paid the driver who is laughing and completely confused, and I walked into the compound.  There was, no joke, 50 maybe more people standing there banging on pots and pans singing and dancing Amadou ba artii Amaadou ba artii!  Like a quarter of the village is in the compund waiting for me, singing, dancing, and everyone is soooo happy.  I couldnt handle it.  Tears started streaming down my face as everyone came up to greet me and take my bags and say hello.  Abdul Diere Ba, my host father, had the biggest grin I could ever remember him wearing.  I sat down and had some sugary drink and the party continued for another half hour.  I felt so at home once again.  It was amazing.  It felt the same, it felt slightly different.  I hadnt hoped it would feel this good being back.

The 10 day stay was as good as I could have imagined.  Only two  hiccups.  One my host brother who i sent money to so he could come back to the ville for the first time in three years, was still not there.  We arranged for me to send him money using a money transfer service, he told me had an id card, and so i sent the money.  Turns out the service i sent it through does not exist in his town.  So a buddy and I went to kaolack, the biggest city nearby, and sent it through another service. I called my host brither to inform him.  He doesnt have an id.  But you told me you have an id? So i go back and change the order for his friend.  But his friends name turns out not to be the one he gave me but another one.  So i went back a third time and at this point the service was giving me a really hard time for being an idiot, I couldnt argue, but explained what happened and then he starts going off on illiteracy being a problem in this country.  Couldnt agree more.  My host brother eventually made it a few days later much to the relief of his worried mother.  Second hiccup, I had a terrible time remembering everyones name and they made fun of me for it.  Opps.

I spent the mornings sleeping in, drinking coffee and chatting the women, and then going out to check the fields and some of my old work.  It was the end of the rainy season and the men and boys were harvesting the millet, one of the most important staple crops.  The PCV who came after me, Jen, and the neighboring volunteer, Peter, did fantastic work.  Jen had a library built (my old hut), a cover for the well, as well as latrines for the school.  Im most impressed with the tree work done by Peter and Jen. One of the farmers is now an amazing tree guy, grafting fruit trees, and selling them in the region. His tree garden is the envy of the ville.  In fact, peace corps thinks it is so good they bring villagers and volunteers from around the country to see it as an example of what can be done.  And the farmer is being paid to go places and teach people.  It is truely remarkable.  We were talking in his field about how when I was a volunteer we had no idea what we were doing but we were planting trees and doing the best we could.  Its cool to see someone who I helped usher into agroforestry is now an expert and just doing wonderful things.  A few other farmers are doing some tree work, though not to the same extent.  My host father being an example.  Its also a funny feeling to go around fields and see trees I planted now huge and serving their purpose.

But without a doubt, my legacy is the milling machine.  Everyone and their mother, actually mostly their mothers, have told me how imprtant that machine is to them and how much they thank me.  I am surprised.  I wasnt thinking me enduring image in the village would be the machine, but so it is.  The machine is without a doubt a huge success.  It runs every morning and night.  People come neighboring villages to use it.  There is a set price per kilo and it is collected and accounted for.  A man runs the machine, he is paid, and than a neighbor woman collects the money, counts it, records it, and at night brings it to Abdul Deire Ba.  Abdul recounts it, confirms and then goes about filling out the date and the amount of money collected, as well as the balance.  He records when they buy gas and when the pay for fixes to the machine.  Its an amazing machine.  Each time it breaks they have money on hand to fix it.  Im blown away.

So now I am in Guinea, and I have a story or two I would like to recount, but not now.  I am tried, and it is my birthday, so I am going to get a beer.  Cheers!

Toubab village - Vilcabamba

There was a peace corps legend in Senegal, that somewhere there was a village full of foreigners, toubabs, that lived a simple life in a traditional senegalese village.  Far from the African continent, in Ecuador, I found this hamlet.  Sortof.  Yesterday I was on a 5 hour bus ride from Cuenca to Loja, in southern Ecuador.  At a bathroom break along the way, I met a middle aged American woman who lives in Ecuador.  We got to talking and she asked where I was going.  I said Loja.  She said, "Why?"  I didn't have a good reason so she told me I might as well continue an hour past Loja to the town of Vilcabamba.  She owns a farm 20 minutes south of there, but she said Vilcabamba was a small beautiful town with a large foreigner population.  How big?  600 foreigners. I looked up Vilcabamba in my lonely planet guide at it said it was a town of 4700.  4700/600 is quite a high percentage of foreigners.  Let's be honest, I wasn't going down here to experience Ecuador.  I was going to experience westerners living in Ecuador.

(Quotations are approximate conversation.  What I remember).
 "Why are there so many foreigners?"
 "It is a phenomenon.  No one knows why they end up there, but they just do.  They want a simpler life, they want to be away from the city, and oftentimes they are leaving Europe or the US because they don't like what it is going on there."
"What is going on in the states?"
"Oh the political situation, the forced immunizations of children."  I had to contain myself at that last comment.  I have a rather strong, and negative opinion, of anti-immunization people.  "The people in Vilcabamba are into conspiracy theories.  They fear or dislike government intrusion, or the people that control the whole political process."
(I later asked her about the conspiracy theories, and why she laughed and appeared self depreciative of the things she believes.  She said she knows they are true, and there is no convincing her otherwise.  She said you are an intelligent and good person, and Im not going to convince you otherwise.  So I just don't care what people think.  I really liked this line of reasoning, or rather, I liked her jovial nature.)
"Sounds like a lot of leftwing conspiracies, do you have any rightwingers down here?" I said jokingly.
"None of us believe in that, left or right.  We know who controls everything in the States."
So I said, why not, I'll go check this town out.  We ran into one of this woman's friends on the bus to Vilcabamba, who said she was going there for a memorial.  A child of her friend's died of diabetes.  I don't know too much about diabetes, but I know it is unusual for people to die of it. She is from the Seattle area but left because of the increased radiation coming from Japan to Seattle that the media won't report.

It is a beautiful, hot, dry town.  Considerably lower in elevation than Cuenca.  Mango, banana and orange trees fill backyards and open space (yes i know bananas are not trees).  My American friend gives me a quick tour of the very small town center and explains that there are two types of foreigners here.  One, is healthy, vegetarian and has lots of young children, and they hang out at the Juice Bar.  Yes, there is a healthy juice bar in an Ecuadoran town of 4700.  The other group drinks, smokes and gets rowdy.  They hang out at Charlies bar.  I immediately knew which place I would be spending my evening.  I checked into a french owned hotel, ate some food and then went for a hike.  I came back and ran into my American friend and as it was already 6, we thought we should get a beer.  Certainly were quite a few gringos in this bar.  Actually it was all foreigners.  A couple irishmen were playing chess, drinking scotch (yes), a group of people, most had dreadlocks, drank beer on the stoop and smoked cigarettes, and the place reeked of weed.  There were two no smoking signs in the bar but everyone was smoking something.  I took a beer, start reading my kindle as my friend went to grab her bags.

There is something wonderful and idealic about people moving to a foreign country, to begin a new life in a fashion that suits them.  A number of people I met last night had left the states to move to someplace cheap and beautiful, where they could live off the grid.  Indeed a guy from Tacoma lost his house in northern California during the financial crisis.  He was working on marijuana farms and making a good living.  But 2008 happened, the bank took his house, and he moved here to get off the grid.  He now lives with a group of "like minded people" who work on a collective farm outside of town.  I get that.  I really liked this guy and his Ecuadorian girlfriend, and her young daughter.  I met a number of people, most from America, who lived similar lives.  We told jokes, shared stories, and drank quite a few beers.  I had a fantastic time, and I really enjoyed meeting everyone.  But it was not someplace I could live.  It is a small community, and gossip runs rampant.  But more than that, it was this child dying.  I don't mind people believing conspiracy theories, as long as they are harmless.  For example, my American friend said she believes that a one world currency is imminant, the US dollar will be replaced, and so she has been buying gold.  (By the way, Ecuador uses the US dollar).  But the child dying from diabetes is something else.  As I "read" my kindle, I overheard the bartender speaking to some people about the child who died.  He was livid, angry, and wants the parents prosecuted.  It turns out, the parents did not believe in western medecine.  They tried a number of natural remedies for his diabetes.  The bartender even tells one man, not even attempting to containin his rage, that the parents were making their own insulin and injecting their child with it. I was stunned.  I looked at the bartender and he just nodded a solmen yes back to me.  Not much later I heard a group of people talking about how moving the memorial was, and how it was great for their children to see a dead body and understand what life is.  Indeed that last comment came from a woman who sat down to talk to me. I kid you not, she was from the Seattle area, and she was telling me how there was such "great energy" at the memorial, and it was really inspiring.  Inspiring, I asked?  Because he was such a frail, beautiful child and his body looked like porcelin.  Her young daughter now has a better understanding of life and death.  I wanted to scream.  A CHILD DIED A PREVENTATIVE DEATH!!!  Good energy?  What the....

I asked my american friend about the circumstances of the child's death.  She conceded it was probably preventative but that these are spiritual people and they tried their best.  Though, again, she came back to the fact that the child's dealth was likely preventative.

No problemo - except I don't speak Spanish

When travelling, especially alone, I'm fairly capable of putting my anxiety at rest which is a complete departure from my daily life.  For example, I don't speak Spanish and I'm in a country that does speak Spanish.  I can get around but unplanned events will happen.  To save money yesterday, I decided that to get from my hostel in Quito to the bus station bound for Otavalo, I would take public transportation.  A taxi costs $8.50 and a bus only $.25.  So I got some delighfully vague directions from the hostel staff that involved a bus transfer.  The first leg went as planned, but the transfer made me nervous.  I was going to the station Carcelen but at the transfer there were two buses named Carcelen, one of which was called Carcelen bajo, which happened to be the bus present at the moment.  So I asked th bus driver's assistant, "Carcelen terminal?" and she said, "si", so I boarded.  20 minutes later I noticed no one on the bus had baggage.  30 minutes later the bus was empty in a random neigborhood and the assistant gave me an incredulous look when I asked, again, "Terminal Carcelen?"  "Non" and then some Spanish I made out to be 'you idiot you took the wrong bus.'  So I got off, walked 15 minutes, found a taxi, and my cost savings were diminished.

Bus stations in Quito are unlike those in Senegal.  No one was grabbing my arm trying to get me onto their bus or yelling at me to buy something.  I simply approached a counter that said 'Otavalo', bought a ticket and made my way to the bus.  As I approached the buses 20 or so heavily armed police (all police in Ecuador looked heavily armed to me yet they only carry side arms) and a flock of journalist surrounded a bus and started going through a man's luggage.  Oh wow, is this a bust? Was there a tip and the police invited the news crews?  So I take a seat at my departure gate and watch the police.  No, nothing.  The police then begin searching other people's luggage.  One of the police stared at my overpacked 40 liter bag.  TV crews film and photographers snap pictures of the search on other bus.  My bus pulls up and 10 of us board a bus that can hold 50.  2 minutes later a police man requests we all unload.  As I was the only person with considerable luggage, two police men take my bags and the rest watch.  One begins to methodically remove every article, unrolling my pants, fondling my underwear, reaching into my shoes and removing the stuffed socks.  Another police man went through my other bag. "What's this?" A sleeping bag.  "This?" A tent.  Soon camera crews and a few reporters have surrounded me, filming and snapping pictures, waiting for the chance that I had something illegal and they could capture my guilty face.  After removing every article of a very deliberate and well packed bag, they start asking questions.  "I'm a student."  "Tourist."  One offiicer is looking at, of all forms of ID's I'm carrying, my internation student ID card.  "How long in Ecuador?"  "15 dias,"  which I began to suspect was not the question he asked based on the confused look on his face.  A few more mangled attempts at communication and I was assured, "No problemo."

I was left to stuff everything back into my bag, hands shaking, with an audience of police, reporters and dozens of curious travellers.  I joined my companions on the bus, and we quickly lefy the station.  I had a wonderfully spacious seat with room for my bags next to me.  And the bus driver puts on the most random film I could have imagined, "Street Fighter."  YES!  There is no other film I would have rather watched.

Off to Ecuador on July 2

So I will begin this blog like I did my last, when I left for Senegal.  How do you pack for eight months?    Fortunately, I have a bit more experience this time around.  I won't be carrying an 80liter backpack.