Crossing The Finish Line (AKA "Lookie Lookie Timbuktu")

The ship arrived at Kouriome, The port closest to Timbuktu, at 1:45. Already we were getting stiffed in prices, from the pirogue driver letting us off the boat, to even buying a coke. After much haggling, we got a 4X4 (or quatre-quatre, pronounced “cat-cat”) to take us into town. Finally we arrived at the gates of what the French call “Tomboctou”.

My first impressions of Timbuktu: there was sand everywhere and many buildings were mud brick and clamshell-like Taureg tents. The place was desolate and looked like the planet Tattooine from Star Wars. (Fact: desert scenes in Star Wars were filmed in Tunisia)

We immediately booked rooms and were quite happy. The next order of business was to celebrate by drinking (heavily) at the bar – and it was only 3 in the afternoon.

Although our time was tight, Kevin, Jan Il and I wanted to spend a night in the desert. We were so close to the Sahara, we had to take the final step. Some hangers-on at the hotel bar offered their services for connecting us to Taureg guides, but they seemed rather arrogant, like little kings of Timbuktu – besides, it’s always good to get a second opinion, even if you’re buzzing.

We waltzed around the town for a while, seeing the grand marché and walking through the mud-walled streets. We asked around, but eventually went back to the original guys, who we found joyriding around town. They were snooty, pompous, smoked and made a hard-bargain – basically, I found it easy to hate him, but also to respect him!

We had some egg sandwiches whilst watching Ghana’s football team get trashed by Zimbabwe (astounding!) at the Cup of African Nations. Later we met up for couscous with the whole gang, including Russ and Pete who were quite trashed and probably gave Scots and Kiwis a bad reputation in town that won’t be shaken for a long time…

For the first time in almost a week, I slept in a bed. For the first time since Bamako, I slept in one that I was comfortable in. Finally.

Day 6: It's The Journey, Not The Destination

As proof that we must be getting exhausted from the boat, we all slept in. I barely even bothered to watch the sunrise. We were so close to the end that we had packed in anticipation, but at our second-last stop we waited for almost two hours to leave. Joe found out that the crew was sitting around, drinking tea, which he was not pleased about. We sure picked a winner with this boat. Not only does the crew not care about their most expensive cargo (i.e. the high-paying tourists), the captain (and navigator) is only 26, which explains why we kept hitting sandbars – how competent could he be? To top this off, when cargo was being unloaded below deck, I noticed over 50 bags of dry concrete mix. No wonder the ship was so hard to navigate and get unstuck – the thing was carrying tonnes of concrete!

The boat left promptly after that. A lady said that we were almost there. I spotted a man riding a camel along the banks. Again, we must be close…

As we approached our final destination, we mused over the ridiculous journey we had just undertaken. For Mungo Park, getting to Timbuktu was a long and arduous journey and we thought that it would be just a matter of crossing distances from point A to point B. How wrong we were! Timbuktu, for many, is synonymous with the ends of the earth, the middle of nowhere and most people don’t even know that it actually exists. Getting there was a rather large undertaking and altogether a memorable experience. Unlike places like London, Cancun, Tokyo or Hawaii, the fun is in the journey, not the destination. That’s the point of going to Timbuktu – because you can’t just hop a plane any day of the week and be there in a few hours. Planes are infrequent and unreliable, boats are too and if you plan to drive, you need a Land Rover that can hack it for 12 hours straight – and in the wet season, don’t even bother. But we did it. And that’s what I will always remember: not the city itself, but the process of getting there. Beautiful sunsets, strange characters, bad rice, great books and what it means to be “inconvenienced”.

Day 5: A Change Of Season

The night was bitterly cold. And that’s saying something. Nights in the desert are extremely frigid, because the land doesn’t absorb the heat. Thus, it’s not uncommon for the temperature to change 20 or 30 degrees Celsius in a few hours. So while the temperature may be 15 degrees overnight, it will feel like only a few degrees above zero to you.

The latest rumour was that we would arrive tonight. We were so excited that we barely touched the rice plate. Only dates and gateau for me, thank you! (Of course it didn’t arrive on time, because we’re in AFRICA) I noticed a change in the landscape, too. Rather than the dry sahel we had been used to, the surrounding area was becoming increasingly desert-like. We also had our biggest wildlife encounter yet: a hippo in the river! We must be close…

My latest book was the post 9/11 immigrant story Brick Lane, by Monica Ali. I thought it gave some interesting insights into Bangladeshi and Muslim society, although I could see the book easily being adapted into a “chick flick”. After a bread and gateau dinner, I went up to the roof, brought The Tragically Hip’s “Trouble at the Henhouse” and watched the stars. Truly a Canadian cottage moment.

Day 4: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Boat

Sleep was coming much easier. However, the slow start to the morning left us surly: we got stuck only 10 minutes in. Mercifully, we reached a port in mid-morning and stocked up on what little they had: cigarettes, plain biscuits and dates. My love for dates only increased on this trip.

After Joe chastised the crew (we had stopped for two hours, why? Because they were drinking tea!), we were motoring along well and hopes became higher, making for a more enjoyable trip. Today’s book was “Sex, Drugs and Cocopuffs”, by SPIN magazine editor Chuck Klosterman. He has some great American pop-cultural insights, even if he is an ass sometimes.

I spent the afternoon on the roof, enjoying my own real-life big screen TV: we were certainly in big sky country, with vast expanses of blue and wispy clouds above and the plains below. I was at the time listening to “Saskatchewan” by the Rheostatics:

Blue moon high
A canopy of sky
Home, Caroline, home...


The sights on the banks were always enjoyable. There were a few herds of cattle and at one point, a herd was crossing the river! I didn’t know that cows could swim! There were villages that appeared to be stuck in time, with children running out, waving and yelling “Ça va! Ça va!” as we passed by, reclining on the roof lazily, waving periodically like the Queen, or gazing disinterestedly like rhinos at the zoo. I was more interested in my Klosterman… could it be that I find books more engaging than people? What an odd thought…

A pirogue with greasy baked goods came by and we bought them out – saved by gateau! We had a feast and boiled some tea. By this point, rice and fish were quickly going out of favour with both myself and the others. Our cake made us much happier people.

Other notable developments was entering Lac Debo. Aside from being scenic, we could now check the West African map (thanks Dad!) and find out where the heck we were. Apparently, only about halfway to our destination. The upside? The river became much larger and we wouldn’t have to worry about running aground. We started placing bets on when we would arrive…

We sailed throughout the night and our spirits were high, playing cards and telling jokes. I wondered to myself: will I one day be wistful for this experience?

Day 3: Marooned With Maroons

There was an odd shouting match at about 4AM and a baby wailing at 6. Combined with the uncomfortable rippled metal floor our mats were on, sleep did not come easily. Pete and Kevin slept on the roof, in spite of low temperatures and high winds. That struck me as just a bit crazy…

Sunrise over the Niger was like a reverse sunset, I realized. Coming from Ontario (and even Accra), where sunrises are rather dull in the summer, I had never seen the skies change so dramatically into bright colours in anticipation of the sun’s arrival. Every morning and evening was very special and sacred to me. Allah be praised!

I noted that we moved between the hours of 9-10AM, 12-1PM and 5-6PM. This was getting ridiculous and Joe was getting quite angry by this point. The first stop was near a collection of huts and a large tract (now dry) of rice paddies, sponsored by the Lybian government. The second time, we didn’t bother getting out for and spent the time reading and eating the usual rice and fish. Somehow, I was getting used to the taste. At least the roof of the boat was a good place to tan.

People were getting anxious. Not only were we running dangerously low on smokes (which would have made for a very tense ship), but we were losing precious travel days. We were only going to have a day or two in Timbuktu at this rate and would have to skip the planned tour of Dogon country. Bollocks. Kofi, a Ghanaian who was riding with us on business, was considering jumping ship. He wasn’t the only one…

That night I finished Life of Pi, which gave me plenty to think about for the evening. I wholeheartedly recommend it, because it opens the mind in so many ways. Even Joe, an avowed atheist, read it in Chinguetti, Mauritania (which, he claims, is the seventh-holiest city in Islam) and reported being very moved, spiritually. It’s amazing what books can do to people. I’m glad I’ve had the opportunity to read so much during my travels because it has helped me to appreciate literature on a greater level and has helped fill in the long stretches of waiting and bumming around in general that has been characteristic of being in West Africa.

Day 2: Waking Up From The Dream

After a long night of many vivid bathroom-related dreams, I finally decided to get up and use it (i.e. the side of the boat). At this point, I had been stirred from my tortuous slumber by noises. I opened the tarp to go outside and was greeted by a magnificent sunrise that I had never seen before. I hopped on the roof and my eyes had a feast on the skies.

Breakfast was not a feast. In fact, it was rice with fish. We started to realize that our 10,000CFA per person food price was going towards paying everyone’s meals. There is nothing wrong with feeding others (who ate for free), but this was ridiculous, especially after the many promises made and all the haggling that was done. When Joe complained to the captain, fresh bananas and pawpaw appeared out of nowhere.

The morning started out well, travel-wise and the river was full of life, with pirogues (small Venetian-style boats) full of fish and goods traveling up and down, mut-hut villages (and a lovely mosque) and cattle grazing on the banks. It appears that, random fridges on the banks aside, life on the Niger appeared to be similar to what it must have been like long ago.

The Niger, with the distinction of being the third-longest river in Africa (After the Nile and Congo), also is the lifeline of the countries of Mali and Niger – without it, they would be hostile and unforgiving deserts with nomads and subsistence farmers. The land below it is Sahel, or semi-desert and the land above turns into desert after a short while, especially at the river’s apex at Timbuktu. The Niger shapes the life of millions of people and without it, they probably wouldn’t exist.

We were stuck again at 1 and stayed that way for two hours. Joe assisted the workers in dislodging the boat (and probably got bilharzia in the process), which helped somewhat. We were stuck again on the banks in no time. Many left the boat on a pirogue to chill on a nearby island. Jan Il, Pete and I stayed on the boat near the shore.

On the upside, this gave me the chance to explore the countryside. I went for a walk through tall grass, moist ground and the odd cow patty. I realized it was like being at home and walking through the farmer’s fields! All I needed was my trusty sidekick Dorothy to run around and chase the birds… there were large flocks of starling-like birds that seemed to weave and bob as a group, like a giant piece of cloth being tossed about in the wind. Taureg-herded cattle moseyed about in the background. Mali around the Niger felt like being in a giant empty savannah-like playground. Isn’t this the essence of Africa to the West? The stereotypical image of grasslands and baobab trees, where gazelles graze, hippos bathe, lions sleep and giraffes walk about awkwardly. I saw none of those animals, but I sure felt like I was in the middle of nowhere in an empty paradise – and happy to be there.

In the midst of another superb sunset, as the earth was bathed in a warm glow, I sat on the roof, reading Jan Martel’s Life of Pi. They say it is a story that will make you believe in God. Already having those convictions, I felt even more spiritual in that place.

We ended up staying on the banks for the night. It was clear that we were not going to make it to Timbuktu the next day. Dinner was rice and fish again – but aha! Ross had brought along a shaker full of black pepper! It became quite the lifesaver. We ended up having the rice as well as some unmarked bottles of wine on the roof, beneath the stars. As frustrating as it was to be stuck, I was content to be stuck where we were.

Day 1: Riverboat Fantasy

The boat, which was set to leave at 10, of course left at 1 (it seems pointless even mentioning how late things occur in West Africa, simply because it has become a redundant exercise). Along with us came an American volunteer named Kevin and a random pair: a burly Scotsman named Ross and older man from New Zealand named Pete.

Something like 10 minutes into the journey, we ran aground. Given that this was the dry season and that the river was much lower at this point in the year, it was understood that this could happen. Men had to get out of the boat, wedge large logs between the boat and sandbar and try and push the boat on course. It took a long time before we left the greater Mopti area and this would be a reoccurring theme on the trip, as we would soon find out.

Dinner was – uh, rice and beef from a communal plate. Okay. We humoured the crew and ate it. On a higher note, the sunset over the Niger was spectacular and we got on the roof to watch it. The banks of the river were interesting, with houses that, at first glance, appeared to look like cottages with long paths to the docks. In fact, being on what was essentially a giant motorboat riding on freshwater felt a lot like being in the Muskokas or Lake Okanagan. It’s strange how some random things in faraway places just remind you of home. I’ve noticed it quite often, conjuring warm thoughts and images of near deja-vu.

In the evening, we sat around by candlelight, playing cards, reading and telling stories. I myself started reading “The Road to Timbuktu”, Tom Fremantle’s retracing of Scottish explorer Mungo Park’s journeys in his quest to find the mouth of the Niger River and the direction in which it flows. The story of his travels is quite fascinating, in which he is attacked by natives, beaten, deserted by friends, imprisoned by kings and eventually dies in his relentless pursuits.

As I drifted off to sleep, I felt a strange feeling, reading about Mungo Park, sleeping on the deck of a boat by candlelight, while other passengers played traditional Taureg music on an old stereo… I knew that I truly was in the heart of West Africa. And I was glad to be there.

Mopti

One fabulous sleep later, we awoke to find ourselves in the old market town of Mopti. It was here that I got a taste of what was to come. The old city was something completely different from anything I had ever seen before: Walking through this district was like walking hundreds of years into the past. The buildings were made of mud and constructed close together, with small empty backstreets. If it weren’t for the odd store sign or power lines running from rooftop to rooftop, I’d have been tempted to ask the locals what year it was! There was a rather large mosque, constructed entirely of mud brick and logs jutting out of the walls, in the traditional Sudanic style. Who would have thought one could make such beautiful buildings out of mud?

We went to the port (hey sailor!) to find a boat to ride up the Niger River to Timbuktu. Magically, the wizard returned and was waiting for us there! He actually was very helpful with helping us book space on the boat and never once asked us for money. We reserved four spaces on the pinasse (cargo boat) that was to leave tomorrow, plus straw mats, water and food (veggie for Joe and myself). It was a bit pricey, but we were excited. The voyage was scheduled to take three days and two nights.

The rest of the day was spent wandering around, exploring the town, fending off leetches (one who sat around with us uninvited at lunch AND dinner and then got angry when we wouldn’t buy weed from him) and making some essential purchases: namely a Taureg-style scarf for myself and a large, warm, hand-woven blanket for keeping warm on the cold desert nights. We were all set to go…

The Road to Mopti, or: How To Turn One Bus Ride Into Three

January 24

Our election all-nighter was followed by a serious political hangover in the morning. Joe and I commiserated over our nation’s future over the traditional omlette, baguette and café au lait (Henceforth referred to as OBC).

Quite the sight was seen at the Bamako bus station. Half a kilometre from the station itself as the cab was driving through, men started running (and I mean running) alongside, yelling “Mopti? Mopti? Timbuktu?” By the time we got in, there were about ten of them and some were sitting on the trunk! Clearly the fake-guide industry must be fairly profitable if they swarm white people like that. It took a while to convince them that we were perfectly capable on our own.

Getting around in Mali seems to be getting more difficult than the map would suggest. Our bus from Bamako to Mopti turned into two buses and a tro-tro, due to the first breaking down in the middle of nowhere, the second that we hopped on only going halfway (when you’re stuck in West Africa, take the first vehicle that will take you anywhere, because it could be a long time until the next one comes!) and the tro-tro completed the journey.

We arrived in Mopti at around 2AM. A strange man wearing sunglasses and a Merlin-like get-up appeared to be trying to hustle us into staying somewhere expensive. We ended up going to a place via taxi. Here’s the weird part: when we arrived, the guy was there! There was no question: he must be a wizard. Anyways, the guesthouse had empty rooms (save for crappy beds), rudimentary toilets and questionable showers. This had to be the worst place I had been to thus far, but we couldn’t argue with the price (4000CFA – about $4).

Expat Election Party!

It is almost 7AM and I'm writing from a small internet cafe in Bamako, which we rented out for the night to watch the Canadian federal election live on the internet. Unfortunately the star-studded CBC coverage was down, so we settled for CTV while checking individual ridings on canada.com.

Being sick all day, I spent the evening trying to get better enough to see the results come in. After all, missing this election would be like missing Christmas, although in this case, we knew that the crazy old uncle would come in to spoil things in the end.

Watching the results come in starting at 3AM was exciting. Considering that Joe had been working on a few NDP campaigns before he left for Ghana, he was quite happy to see Jack Layton, Olivia Chow and Paul Dewar (Ottawa Centre) win. Nobody is happy about the Tories in power, although at least it is only a minority, meaning that Harper is going to have to reach out if he wants to last longer than Joe Clark. We were qlso quite happy to see almost 30 seats for the NDP. Poor Paul Martin is toast.

Anyways, at 10AM, Joe, Matt and our new Korean friend Janir will be on a bus to Mopti while I will knock myself out with Nyquil. After that, it will be off to Timbuktu, hiking in Dogon country and then back to Accra for classes. (ho-hum)

I'll see you around the bend...

African Social Forum

Day 1

Registration was a long process. Rather, waiting in line was a long process. Being there at the Palais de Couture was very exciting. People from all over the world and all walks of life were present for the event: African women in traditional dress, idealistic young students, Taureg men wearing large facial scarves and old French hippies. I really had a sense of this being how the world should be - like a big international dinner party.

In the afternoon, there was a large parade and rally. The parade was very large - probably about 10,000 strong, with many locals (Bamakonians?) joining in. The finish was at a stadium with African bands and dancers. It looked to be like an interesting next few days, especially after looking at the wide variety of activities available. Unfortunately, most of them were in French and since few English groups signed up to run seminars and workshops, our options were limited. On the upside, the ASF did a great job of ensuring that many important activities had translators on hand.


Day 2

The first roundtable ont the World Trade Organization was excellent. Very informative. However, I quickly learned that the forum was not being organized very well. Neither of the two environmental workshops I went to were running, so I eventually found one on the illegal arms trade. Later on there was another roundtable on what the new world order should be like (how revolutionary!), with the former head of UNESCO, Federico Mayor. He was awesome.

That evening, I watched the sun go down over Bamako from Meghan's beautiful terrace. She lives in a lower-class neighbourhood far from the centre of town, but having that place would make it worth it all...


Day 3

More seminars, some working and some not. For some reason, I went to two of the same ones that a professor from Uganda named Yosh Tandon attended (Eliminating corruption in African governments and South African Iperialism). He really seemed to know the score and spoke intelligently and passionately. I'd like to know where he teaches!


Day 4

The last day of the activities was kind of a letdown. I went to two roundtables on visions for a new Africa and got nothing out of them. Just "talking heads", as Joe said. By this time I had seen a few good events, a few bad ones and a few that never actually happened. Considering the precedent that the World Social Forums of past years set (and the party that should be the Americas Social Forum in Caracas, Venezuela), I left feeling like there should have been more. And I know that I'm not alone. Joe, Meghan and Jaysal (an interesting chap from Calgary who is working in Senegal) also felt it as well.


Day 5

I spent the vast majority of this day in bed, with an upset stomach, pressurized head and feeling weak as a kitten. Methinks it was some water from a dubious source consumed at the previous night's dinner. (Sure the water is fine here, Alex the doctor said!) I missed the final big press conference and the closing ceremonies, which were apparently ho-hum as well as Meghan's birthday party.

So the African Social Forum was not a smashing success. The English component was lacking, save for Kenyan groups. I only met one Ghanaian during the entire forum and the head of an Accra-based NGO did not even show up. On the upside, next year there will be a single World Social Forum held in Nairobi, Kenya and it should be a great party.

Buses to Bobo, Buses to Bamako

I will never cease to be amazed as to how ridiculous public transit can be in West Africa.

Case in point: the trip from Ouaga to Bamako was supposed to be 20 straight hours. The bus company immediately put me on a moped, drove me to another company's bus station and I waited longer before getting on the bus. As it pulled into Bobo near midnight, everyone got off and the driver told us we were stopping for the night and would leave the next day at 1PM. Incredible.

The ride to Bamako was taxing. We stopped many times and the bus broke down in the middle of nowhere at 2AM, arriving finally sometime after 4. I slept for the next few hours at the bus station with some French girls who were also coming for the African Social Forum.

Eventually I connected with the gil, Meghan, whose house I am crashing at for the next five days or so. She is working on a 6-month CIDA internship for the United Nations. Considering the number of people who are also staying with her from Senegal and the Gambia, it appears to be a popular thing to do these days! Joe, the other non-intern, was quite happy to see me again after over a month. So it looks like a house full of Canadian ex-pats for the next few days. Party on!

The Forecast for Today is Sunny with a High of 36 Degrees and a 100% Chance of Dust

On closer inspection of my sunburn from yesterday, spending seven hours walking around Ouagadougou was probably not the brightest ideas. Nevertheless I shall persevere.

Ouaga has been rather kind to me so far. I have had some great food, internet access and have ran into some interesting characters. For example, yesterday morning I strolled on down into the Malian Embassy for a visa and who do I spot being pestered by some strange man? Hannah, of course! She obviously has been kicking around town for a while, since embassies are closed for weekends). The visa process took all of 15 minutes, (a record!) so we spent most of the day walking around finding buses to Bamako and looking for the non-existent tourist office. She had to go, but thankfully the good people at the Canadian Embassy gave me a helping hand. I spent last night hunting mosquitos, reading and having a delicious steak dinner. Then I quietly snuck up to the roof of the Auberge et Zem.Batik Windga (recommended) and beheld Ouaga under a full moon waning. Lovely.

Anyhoo, I have some final business to attend to and then I will be taking the overnight bus to Bamako, where hopefully I will be able to contact the friend of Joe who is letting us sleep on her floor for the next few days. I am not sure of the internet situation in Mali (I have been quite lucky here), so I shall see you around the bend. Cheers!

Democratic Blues

Let me start off by saying that I am a staunch beliver in democracy. It does not always work (as in the case of Germany in 1933, or, perhaps less drastically, the US in 2000) and often allows fools to gain power (the US again in 2004), but it is a very wonderful and fragile thing. To think that here in Burkina Faso, the president came to power in a coup and stages only mock elections every few years to maintain a poor air of legitimacy, is absolutely depressing. When I see triumphs like Solidarnosc in Poland, Chile ridding itself of Pinochet and the election of Ellen Johnson Sirleaf last fall in Liberia, it makes me happy to know that such a concept exists.

I also tend to believe that anyone who does not vote in an election has no right to criticize their leaders because they are only victims of their own apathy. Voting may be a legal right in Canada, but to me it is both a privilege and civic duty.

Now here is where I dropped the bombshell: I will not be voting in the Canadian federal elections on January 23rd. On January 23rd, I will be at the African Social Forum in Mali and, hopefully, will not be waking up the next morning to a Conservative majority.

Could I have voted from abroad? Yes. I most certainly could have. However, to put this into perspective, here is the process for a Canadian voting from abroad...

Step 1: Look up the process for voting from abroad at www.elections.ca
Step 2: Somehow manage to acquire no less than TWO pieces of photo ID with your home address on them or two bills from public utility companies to determine your constituency. (I am sorry Billy, but a health card simply will not do... why did you not pack your hydro bill in your luggage like a good little boy?)
Step 3: Mail (or fax) the completed form to Ottawa (which takes at least a week)
Step 4: Elections Canada must process your application and find your ballot
Step 5: Elections Canada mails your ballot to either your address abroad or to the nearest embassy/high commission (which takes at least two weeks)
Step 6: Receive the package (if it gets that far), fill out the ballot and mail it back to Ottawa (another week)
Step 7: Pray that the package arrives in Canada before midnight of the 23rd of January.

Could I have successfully completed this process? Yes, but considering it would take about a month from steps 1 to 6 (plus whatever delays the Christmas holidays might entail) and recalling that I would only be in Accra until the 14th of January, I would have had to fax/mail the application out in early December.

Long story short: that is a damned difficult and inefficient way to exercise a civic duty. In this day in age, there should be better resources available for people in our situation, perhaps using the internet (or even the fax machine, if people still know how to use them).

So what can a poor boy do? I may just shut my trap for the next four years (if the government indeed lasts that long), but more importantly, I want to tell people that they should get out there and vote, no matter what idiot they will be supporting. When you see countries in which democracy is non-existent, (eg. Côte d'Ivoire, up until last year Togo) a farce (Burkina Faso) or simply just not working for the people (Ghana), you really learn to appreciate those rights and freedoms that so many of our brothers and sisters around the world can only dream of having.

Long Days Journey Into Burkina Faso

So here I am in Ouagadougou at an internet café, staring at this bizarre Burkinabe keyboard, with mixed-up letter keys and mystery punctuation marks. I cant even find the apostrophe key, thus I can no longer write contractions - hence the proper grammar in the post and improper grammar in the title.

Ottawa is probably further from Toronto than Ouaga is from Accra, yet by public bus the journey between the former two cities takes under five hours in comparison to over twenty-four hours for the latter. And in lieu of a plane or private car, it is the fastest way to travel.

I took the good old 10AM STC bus direct to Ouaga. By that I mean the bus that left after 12, broke down an hour later and limped into Kumasi without air conditioning. (Apparently the "luxury" bus means less AC, more goofy Nigerian movies) Regardless of the delays, breakdowns, traffic jams and waiting in the wee hours of the morning for the Ghana-Burkina border to open - oh, and then two hours at the border waiting for the visas and cargo to be cleared by customs - we rolled into Ouaga sometime after noon.

What a journey it was! The Burkinabe countryside is something to behold: the Sahelian beauty of long yellow grass, patches of green trees and circular mud huts with smooth mud courtyard walls. In shor, it was perfect for driving through while listening to "Everybody Knows (This is Nowhere)" by Neil Young. (Thanks again for the cds, Geoff) I spent a lot of time either reading, sleeping munching on odd snacks and meeting fascinating characters: the man next to me was a soldier who served not only in various peacekeeping missions (Liberia, Sierra Leone, Congo and Lebanon), but was a former presidential bodyguard. (Guess whos cellphone number he gave me?) I also met a Nigerian on his way to Dakar and a journalist/trader named Sahada.

Sahada - a very wise young Ghanaian woman - and I got rooms at her favourite hotel. After awell-deserved shower and an hour of hunting mosquitos, we ate and had a nice long chat. It,s now early evening and I,m ready to read some Hemingway and peter out...

And to think that this is only the first (and probably most comfortable) leg of my trip! I have yet to get my Malian visa, take a 5 hour bus to Bobo and then a (supposedly) 15 hour one to Bamako - which is where I was trying to get in the first place. Ah well, in the immortal words of AC/DC, its a long way to the top if you wanna rock and roll...

Settling In... Sort Of

Thankfully, when I returned to the hostel, Meghan, Hannah and Jon were sitting around waiting for me to come home. (Either that, or waiting for their soup to cook - you make the call) It was good to see familiar faces, because the hostel was still otherwise empty and it would be a pretty lonely night on my lonesome. Not having a room of my own, I slept in Lisa's bed (don't worry, she was in South Africa at the time) and slept soundly.

The next day, I got my room situation figured out and guess what: I got my single room and it's in the same building just a floor below! That was fantastic news for my troubled soul. I acquired my key, moved my junk in and started cleaning and customizing it all myself. I can't describe how great it feels to finally have a space to call my own after 5 months of living in shared rooms and beds. I could see things were looking up from there...

That night, being Meghan, Jon and Hannah's last night in Accra (the irst two to Egypt and Morocco and the latter to Burkina and Mali) we went to the Living Room for a movie. They didn't have "Casablanca" - those philistines.

Since then, it's been a lot of running around, getting my stuff together and preparing to leave Accra yet again. On Saturday the 14th, I'm taking the bus North to Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso and then, once I get my visa, onwards to Bamako, Mali to meet with Joe and Matt, who have been trekking around West Africa since early December. Their beards will be rather large by now, I believe.

What else? Ben, Alanna and Mel (all veterans from last semester) took me out for another movie night - one featuring a former ISH resident in an curious walk-on role and when we returned, there are new people! All right - fresh meat!

Just kidding. I've already met some cool characters (and even took Reuben from South Carolina on his first tro-tro ride) and I'm sure there will be many more by the time I get back. Until then, it's one more wild and crazy adventure! I'll try and keep basic info posted, but like the ever-delayed journal of Togo and Benin (which will be shared someday, I swear), good things will have to come in time...

Cheers!

Leaving London

The morning I left was how the French say "horrible"... kinda like the way the English say it too. Maleaha came with me to the airport and we had a very teary-eyed goodbye.

The plane ride was great, materially. I got to see the hills of France, snow-capped Atlas peaks of Algeria, the many faces of the Sahara - with movies, food and free drinks aplenty. But I felt like junk the entire way back.

Could you blame me? I had three fantastic weeks with the woman I have been missing terribly for four months. In Ghana, I learned to live a sort of "single life" and tried to do my own thing and although Maleaha and I wrote to each other often and chatted on the internet as well, I knew that I had forgotten how alive I felt being with her. Life is just so much more - colourful, living it with her. Our reluctance to leave each other this time around is a testament to how much we depend on each other, indeed.

But I still have a mission to complete: Burkina, Mali and one last semester in Accra. I know now that I can do it, because I've already made it over halfway, going uphill is harder than downhill and the second time around it's always faster.

One Last Gasp...

Wayne Campbell: Here we are, at Piccadilly Circus!
Garth Algar: Wow, what a shitty circus.
Wayne Campbell: Good call. There's no animals or clowns! What a ripoff!
-Wayne's World 2

Other than Berlin - and perhaps Toronto - I'd never been to one of the truly "great" cities of the world. Not just ones that people know about, but ones that are iconic. Toronto may have the CN Tower, or even the Skydome or City Hall, but London has Buckingham Palace, Parliament, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, London Bridge, double-decker buses and fish and chips. It's oozing with history, pride, class and people from all walks of life who come for various reasons...

To perpetuate the touristy image, we took a guided double-decker bus tour of the city... we saw all the above, plus much more. 'Twas a bit rainy and Maleaha and I weren't in the best of spirits due to our imminent departure, but we still managed to enjoy it and have some fish and chips afterwards - and a Belgian strawberry beer called "Frülli". Deeelicious!

On Maleaha's suggestion, we had dinner in London's Chinatown, which is way more decked-out than Markham's - that's for sure. I resisted the urge to say, "Forget it Maleaha - it's Chinatown."

border="0" alt="" />For our last day together in London, we got up early (8:00? My goodness!) and took the Underground all the way to the famous London Eye - the giant ferris wheel that was recently installed. Instead of chairs, you walk around in big glass pods with other people and enjoy the view from the Thames in the centre of town. Despite it being a cloudy day, it was a great way to see the city, especially after seeing it from the ground.

Taking the Underground again (with a day pass, it's just so damned convenient. It's a giant maze of interconnected subways, so you're only a few stops from anywhere in the city... and the cars are so adorably small and quasi-futuristic... probably my favourite thing about London) we went for a stroll in Hyde Park. If there was a better way to spend our last afternoon together, I'd like to hear it. There were paths, fountains, monuments - even a lake stocked with ducks and Canada Geese.

Me: "Hey, what are you doing here?"
Geese: "No, what are YOU doing here?"

Everyone was out walking their dogs or feeding the wildlife - or not-so wildlife. The squirrels were practically trained to be fed and Maleaha gave the better part of our delicious cherry almond pastry to them because she couldn't stop being amazed at how adorable they were... We sat there for a good hour, I'm sure, just feeding the chubby squirrels and taking pictures.

We walked to Oxford Street and amazed ourselves by looking at expensive designer clothes and foods (meat pies and mash!). After taking the Underground home (I told you it was handy) and back to Piccadilly, we had a delicious dinner at an Italian restaurant - something I haven't seen much of in Accra.

Finally, we went for drinks to St. George's Hotel, which has a rooftop bar overlooking the city. What a way to cap off three and a half weeks...

"If this were the last night of the world
What would I do?
What would I do - that was different?
Unless it was champagne
With you"
-Bruce Cockburn

Leaving Ireland

Poor Anthony... we left him the same day that his mother and brother did as well. What's a poor boy to do? After loading up on souvenirs at the touristy gift shop (jacket, Guinness t-shirt, stickers, flags, etc.) and it was off to see the family again...

As our ferry was to leave Dun Laoghaire in the morning, we stayed the previous evening at my extended family's house nearby in Dalkey. Jimmy and Jetta embody the ideal of Irish hospitality. A lovely meal of chicken and potatoes, reading by the fireplace, working laundry... to be honest, I had not felt that close to "home" in a long time. Jetta took us out for drinks afterward at a hidden pub with local musicians jamming old Irish ditties. When bedtime came around, she gave us hot water bottles to heat our beds with! A great sleep and breakfast later, we were on our way, packed with lunches. If we had known we were going to be that spoiled, we certainly would have stayed longer. I knew immediately that I would be missing Ireland very much. The places, the people, the pubs - it was all something I could really fit in with... but if I left my heart in Ireland, I took about 12 more pounds home with me. All of that food and beer added up!

Despite a switcheroo with the ferries (I'm sorry, you'll have to drive all the way back to Dublin to catch the REAL ferry), Jetta drove us fast enough to catch it. The ride back was much smoother and Maleaha was doped up on gravol anyways. The train through Wales was nothing less than spectacular... hills, valleys, lakes, rivers, mountains, pastures filled with sheep, bridges and towns with funny-sounding names.

It was dark by the time we reached England (apparently you're only allowed to see one per trip - read The Rocky Road to Dublin) and we reached our hotel exhausted from travelling. I went out for a walk alone to explore the city a bit. London is the kind of city you just want to walk around all day in because there's something interesting around every corner. And it's so big that it would take years to know inside-and-out... and that's just downtown! Tomorrow we would go into ultra-tourist mode and suck up as much of foggy London town as humanly possible in two days...

Northern Exposure pt. 2 - Mr. Obruni Goes Home

While seeing the North justified itself as a reason for going there, I had an ulterior motive for my visit: I wanted to know more about my roots. You see, my family can be traced back 180 over years to the town of Downpatrick in County Down, where my great-great-great etc. grandfather - who is my namesake - left the town with his wife Jane to sail to New Brunswick, where the family settled and multiplied, albeit not very much. They were Protestant, you see...

Adding a bit of colour to the story is the claim that he did not leave Ireland of his own accord, but was actually exiled to British North America as a punishment for poaching a rabbit. If I had put more thought into it, I would have spent a day at the Ulster archives in Belfast, looking for an official police account of this incident. Alas, I had only one night and one day to get "in touch" with my roots. This time around, it had to be a superficial attempt.

The town of Downpatrick is a charming little Irish town about 30 kilometres outside of Belfast. With a population of just over 10,000, it's large enough to make for a pleasant visit, but small enough to not be terribly interesting to live in. Maleaha compared it to Trenton, Ontario, where her parents moved to get away from the hustle and bustle of the rapidly-suburbanizing Stouffville.

The bus ride in was senic (as per usual) and very exciting for me. I felt as if I were actually going "home" in some capacity. While Maleaha enjoyed the idea that I didn't know anything about my family and was on a wild goose chase to nowhere, a commercial truck passing by us with my family name confirmed my suspcions and heightened my anticipation.

Getting there was as wonderful as I had hoped it would. We arrived at sunset, walked around lost for a bit (helped by a friendly local) and eventually found a B&B run by a sweet grandmotherly-type lady named Maeve. She showed us our room, asked when we wanted breakfast and basically said "me casa et su casa". If you're ever in that neck of the woods, go to the Ardmore House. Our room had a splendid view of the sun going down over the mountains. (Who needs TV?) We went for some diner dinner and spent the evening watching British television.

I woke up before dawn to go out and get a feel for the town (after the full Irish breakfast, of course). I'm quite pleased now to know that like every Italian family's tiny, perfect "home village" in the old country, Downpatrick is my family's Irish equivalent. It's nestled in a valley near the Mountains of Mourne (said to be the inspiration for C.S. Lewis' land of Narnia), has a fairly quiet main street, many quaint backstreets and footpaths to be found and some stunning hilltop views.

Upon hearing my name, Maeve directed me towards the local newspaper, which distant relatives may own. They were kind and helpful and in the end, a reporter listened to my story and it looks like I'll be in next week's edition! Small town, indeed...

Downpatrick has many historical sites (old churches, abbeys, jails, trains, etc.) but it's claim to fame is being the final resting place of St. Patrick himself, on a hill near the Down Cathedral. I visited his alleged gravesite and poked around the cathedral, but didn't have the time to see the new flashy exhibit nearby. We had to make it all the way back to Dublin that night.

Maleaha pretty much let me do my own thing that day, but we both thought it was the best part of the trip. She got to relax and I got to see some of my heritage. I suppose that it's sort of a superficial thing, trying to find one's "ancestry", because if one thinks about it, their parents come from 2 families and their parents also come from 2 families, so by the second generation, there are 4 families, then 8, then 16, etc... and I'm only looking up the paternal line that had the good fortune of carrying its name down for generations, like a victor in a giant tournament of nomenclature. From my grandparents, I know I also have Welsh and Polish heritage as well. I haven't even begun to look into my mother's side...

Does this define me as a person? Yes and no. It definitely explains why I love potatoes and why I have such a funny countenance, but it doesn't really explain why I am the way I am. It can show me the past, but not the future. As much as I enjoy and identify with Irish culture, I would still consider myself a Canadian, as probably would my parents and grandparents. History teaches us where we come from and how we came to see the world as it is, but as many of my friends (especially the postmodernists) would tell you, there is definitely a limit to all of this.

At the same time, it's fun to be able to uncover history for yourself, especially when you have a personal relationship with it. I'm sure that one day I'll be back again and this time I'll do my homework first. I could make a big historical tour of it, really, checking the archives in Belfast and Downpatrick, finding specific places. I could even take the ferry to Scotland to go even further back beyond the 1600s all the way to the the family's castle and the 12th century!

And that's a whole different story altogether...

Northern Exposure pt. 1: Belfast

Maleaha and I, realizing that our stay in Ireland was almost at an end and having visited three of Ireland's four provinces (Leinster, Munster and Connacht) decided to tackle the final one: Ulster.

For those of you playing the home game, that means Northern Ireland. A land of ire, or so we've learned from our history books. Up until about 1998, the region was racked with violence between British loyalist Protestants and Irish republican Catholics - a time now known rather quaintly as the "Troubles".

Thankfully, a cautious calm has descended over Northern Ireland and sectarian violence is rare and much less overt (save for marching season). This means that the North is now open for tourism, although it probably has a ways to go until it sheds its image as one of Europe's last warzones.

We began our two-day trip by taking the evening bus to Belfast. I can remember my first few hours there feeling like I was being secretly watched by Protestant or Catholic paramilitary groups, trying to find out what some kids were doing waltzing around town at night. (which just proves that even I can be naive and prejudiced) And I'll be the first to say that I was very suprised and impressed. The people are friendly and the downtown is vibrant. I couldn't imagine this being a place of tension and violence. It seemed like a smaller and less touristy version of Dublin. Belfast, for its checkered history, has become a lovely modern city.

Maleaha and I, only having a day to spend in town, spent most of it walking around and taking the standard double-decker bus tour. It was actually a wise choice, because we got to see most of the major landmarks around town: the shipyards where the Titanic was built, City Hall, Queen's University (yes, they have one there too), churches and cathedrals... I still find it strange how proud Belfast is about building one of maritime history's greatest disasters. Is there a town in Germany that advertises itself as the home of the Hindenburg?

And of course, we saw the darker side of the city: bombed-out buildings, former military checkpoints, a giant 70-foot "Peace Wall" designed to split the warring neighbourhoods from fighting and even stores that sold factional memorabilia (because your home isn't complete without a giant picture of the Queen and an Ulster flag). On the brighter side, there are also wall murals promoting peace among the ones of hatred and graffiti. Next time, I'll take one of the politcal "black taxi" tours, which are apparently very insightful.

While Belfast has shown the world that even Europeans can be terrorists, (suprisingly, there are a number of pro-Palestinian murals painted by Catholics) it also has shown how hate can be dulled, disarmed and overcome. The divide between the two sides is still deep and will take much time to sort out, but for the moment Belfast is a place to be beheld and a gem in the rough. If the peace process continues unhindered, I know I'll be back.

And thus concludes part one of this adventures. Stay tuned for part two, in which I fumble towards discovering my roots... same bat time, same bat blog!

Arthur and the Guinness Factory

Anthony has it pretty sweet here in Dublin: downtown apartment, fun job at a bar, big tips... which means that we get to reap the benefits of it. Today's example: Free passes to the Guinness Factory!

It was like winning the Golden Ticket and going on a magical adventure, except that this one started on a city bus and ended with us drinking beer. But doesn't chocolate have mind-bending chemicals, too? I can justify myself, with enough denial...

The complex itself is a veritable Magnitogorsk (read: big factory) on almost 60 acres and they say it produces about 10,000,000 pints of the dark stuff every day. The tour was of the just-opened for tourists storehouse complex.

I could quickly feel myself feeling indoctrinated - and enjoying it! They had the original copy of the lease signed by Arthur Guinness in 1759 and huge exhibits showing the brewing process (barley + hops + water + yeast = Guinness), the history of the factory, the company - even an section on how they made casks (barrels) for the beer and models of the ships that carried the casks around the world - that is, until they started building other factories. They even have plants in Ghana and Trinidad! (Maleaha: "I'll bet most of it doesn't even make it out of the factory")

The best part was the advertising exhibit (i.e. the exhibit that explicitly admitted to advertising towards me), at which point I realized that if I were Rocco from the television show Undergrads, my alcohol-induced hallucinogenic friend would be the Guinness Toucan. Ah Tookie, I love you!

Wisely, the final exhibit after the advertising section is all about the dangers of alcohol and how drinking ruins your system if not done in moderation. (Although historically, doctors have prescribed a pint for a variety of illnesses, hence the claim "Guinness is Good for You") I wonder: if, say, Phillip Morris had a cigarette factory tour, how would they tackle the subject of advertising/counter-advertising? Regardless, it brought everyone back to earth a bit, so I suppose they can defend themselves as a responsible company.

Sidenote: the drinking and driving ads in Ireland are pretty hardcore. Its history of driving under the influence isn't very rosy, so I suppose it's an appropriate reaction to the issue. Non-rosy history or not, the ads are hard-hitting and even I have trouble watching them.

The final and long-awaited portion of the self-guided tour was redeeming your voucher for a free pint of Guinness that you get to pour yourself. Indeed, there is a proper technique and everyone in Ireland knows it. Considering that the pint a) was made across the street and b) I poured it myself, it was quite delicious.

Go West, Young Man

The boys of the NYPD Choir were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day
-The Pogues

The days following Christmas consisted of plenty of getting up late, watching TV, walking around town and not much else. (Although to be fair, we did see King Kong, a great piece of hollywood cheese) Maleaha and I decided it was time to go for some adventures. Thus we went to the West Coast of Ireland to Galway. Booking accommodation was a pain in the arse, considering it was coming up on New Years.

On the first night, it rained. So we had some pub food (more stew), some ice cream (they actually make a Bailey's flavour) and walked around the old city for just a bit. Maleaha was not impressed with staying in a dorm-style room for the evening. Something between the Italian female tourists and the drunkard waltzing into our room at 3AM...

On New Year's Eve, I wanted to see the town and shop a bit, since almost everything would be closed the next day. Sadly, the forecast for our entire stay in Galway was: rain, sunshine, rain, wind, more rain and some sunshine. It being near the Atlantic, the weather was liable to change every 5 minutes! Despite this, we got to see a lot of nice streets, pubs and stores and I dropped a lot at the Winding Stair, which sells old prints, jewelry and other knick-knacks. For a Christmas present, Maleaha bought me a hot towel shave - and let me tell you, my face hasn't felt that smooth in many a year. Gentlemen, if you want to spoil yourself in a testosterone-based manner, go for the shave. It's totally worth it.

Our B&B for the next night was a quick drive into the suburbs (the disadvantages of booking online: your universe looks that much smaller than in the real world), but it was like heaven: I had a real hotel room with tv, shower and the most comfortable bed I've slept in in at least four months. It was big and had electric heating pads under the sheets. I cannot stress how fantastic it was. I had a nap immediately. When I awoke, I turned on the TV to watch "Guns of Navaronne". (Hooray for old WWII movies starring Gregory Peck AND David Niven)

Given that it was a bit of a drive away from downtown and Maleaha isn't the "party girl" type, we took it easy for New Year's. We hopped by the nearby hotel/pub and my last meal of 2005 was bangers and mash (sausage and potatoes) with apple pie for dessert. I had a pint before midnight, but the place wasn't exactly "jumping" and the band wasn't exactly "traditional". There was a wedding reception going on next door - methinks we should have crashed it instead...

So I realized by that point that this evening wasn't about partying, it was about being with my Sweetness, Maleaha. A New Year's Eve party is a New Year's Eve party, no matter where you go. Besides, we have tons of Irish pubs in Markham and Ottawa and more friends to do it with. So we went back to the B&B and rang in the new year watching Irish TV from the comfort of our room. Some people were lighting fireworks in the backyard. Apparently the Irish really like their fireworks, 365 days a year!

The great thing about a B&B is that the second "B" stands for "breakfast", (In case you hadn't figured it out, the first is for "bed") so traditional Irish breakfast with egg, sausage, bacon, toast and pudding. No, that pudding was not made of chocolate, but pigs parts. A yum.

Given that nothing was happening on January 1st, not even "year round" bus tours (LIARS), we had a lovely walk near the bay and took an early bus home. Cheers to Galway.