Marisa models our new African art additions

Our god-daughter Marisa was the reason we were treated so well in Dakar. She contacted her extended family in Senegal, and Henri, Anta, & Marcel made sure we were welcome and helped us navigate the city.

Marisa joined us for an belated holiday celebration, and I took advantage of the opportunity to press her into service as a model to showcase our recent additions to our collection. At the top of the post she shows the Nigerian child's mask that Henri gave us as a overly generous parting gift, in front of carved granary door we procured in the Dogon country.

Marisa loves our Alpha Sow ceramic.

Sigrid and Marisa with the Alpha Sow ceramic, in front of New Guinea war shields and a Dogon mask.

Back in SF

We were able to quickly adjust to life back in San Francisco. You can tell because I am enjoying a local brew on the terrace - San Francisco's own Anchor Steam beer.

I am wearing the shesh we procured for the camel ride to Arouane (which - thanks to the internet, I am now an expert at wrapping), the shirt and pants that were a gift from Hamidou in Timbuktu, and the sandals from Dakar. My high-rise neighbors were probably wondering whether terrorists had moved in across the street.

We were delighted and surprised when the beautiful Alpha Sow ceramic pot we purchased in Dakar arrived undamaged a few days after we returned. We have had remarkably good luck over the years purchasing fragile art objects in 3rd world countries and shipping them home. In the process there is always a very nervous-making moment of handing over a large pile of cash and a hand scribbled address to somebody you don't know in a country you are unlikely to visit again. You hope that a fragile object d'art will follow you home unscathed, but suspect you will never see the object or your money again. Then it arrives. Much happiness ensues.

So far we have a perfect record.

A bad day.

Well, two days really. To be precise - it was a bad 30 hours. In my previous life, when I traveled extensively peddling expensive enterprise software, I would set my expectations for just how bad a day might get by the number of airports I would traverse. A five airport day was always a bad day. Leaving Timbuktu we had a three country, five six airport, 30 hour day. It was a really bad day.

Airport 1) - Timbuktu, Mali
It started ok with first light in Timbuktu. Bouj and a blue turbaned and enrobed Tuareg driver picked us up at dawn and dropped us at the Timbuktu airport. We worried about the baggage weight - as we have collected a few more kilos of stuff since departing Dakar a few weeks before. We paid some extra fees and were on our way.

Airport 2) - Mopti, Mali
We were told this was a refueling stop. We had to exit the plane, but I don't remember whether we had to change planes. I just remember noticing a particularly ugly helicopter and jet on the tarmac and thinking "Must be Russian". The Russians make the ugliest looking aircraft in world. But they're workhorses that fly anywhere with limited maintenance requirements. Including the Sahara desert.

Airports 3 & 4) Bamako, Mali
We left the group on the last day of the tour in Timbuktu, but had been assured by our stateside tour operator that we would still receive the tour services of one day in Bamako (to be delivered by the African tour operator) even though we were traveling separately. That was to include pickup at the airport, a day hotel for the seven hours waiting for our next flight, and a tour of the Bamako Ethnographic African Art Museum. As it was, we double paid for the flight to Bamako, since that flight was already included in the tour. We did not take the tour flight, and Mountain Sobek would not credit us for the flight. Fine, we knew that going in. But they did tell us we would get the ground services we paid for, specifically this -from the Moutain Sobek itinerary:

"Fly to Bamako, the lively Malian capital on the banks of the Niger.... we will visit the ethnographic museum, the best in West Africa, with its wonderful collections of ancient art objects, masks, sculptures, traditional weapons, textiles, musical instruments, and tools. Evening transfer to airport and depart on our flights home. You can depart from Bamako any time after 5:00 p.m. B,L,D…Dayroom"

When we landed, there was no one there. Sigrid borrowed a cell phone from a stranger waiting at curbside, and called the manager of the local tour operator. Long/short - They knew nothing about our arrival, but after a few encouraging words from Sigrid, agreed to deliver the promised services. Three months after returning to the States, Mountain Sobek tried to charge us additional fees for that day in Bamako. Not. Just to be clear. We were happy overall with the Africa based tour operator, but felt the stateside Mountain Sobek overlay contributed nothing but promotion of the tour.

So we spent a few pleasant hours in Bamako with a hastily arranged driver and guide. Relaxed in a hotel day room, and then back to the airport and out. Thinking about it now, if we count the Bamako airport twice for the two visits coming and going, it was actually a six airport day.

Airport 5) Dakar, Senegal
The flight from Bamako to Dakar was uneventful. But the longest night was about to begin. We had another six hour layover before our flight to London and our intent was to wait at the airport. We landed at 1:00 AM in Dakar and needed to collect our luggage to recheck on the flight to London. Our experience this night was much different than our departure from Dakar a few weeks before. Then, Henri's driver helped us navigate the airport and we sailed through. Now we were living in the underbelly of the beast for six hours. The airport was hot, humid, and dirty.

Even getting the luggage was distressing. It was a long wait for the luggage to appear. Peeking through the ports where the baggage carousel/track ran out to the tarmac, I could watch the handlers in action. They hated their job or hated the fact they were working that night or both. Bags were literally thrown with force into and near the carts, and then again on to the baggage carousel. Many bags on the carousel were split or damaged and the contents spilling out. Miraculously, all our bags arrived and were undamaged. For reasons that pass all understanding, we had to run the baggage through a non functioning x-ray machine in order to leave the baggage area. We exited, and reentered into the ticketing area to wait for dawn and our next flight. None of the airline counters were open. The airport had no services or even anywhere to sit except for a few scattered hard plastic chairs. Piling the bags in a corner near a kiosk, we arranged things as best we could and spent the night trying to find some small level of comfort. We didn't. It was so miserable, that we did not even think about taking pictures.

Airport 6) Heathrow, London
At dawn the terminal began to fill with travelers waiting for the counters to open. We finally boarded the British Midlands flight, collapsed in the frequent flyer point business class seats to London and a return to the Heathrow Sheraton for an overnight stay. Neither of us had any desire to take advantage of our last night in London. We just stayed in the hotel room. I left the room only to walk across the street to get dinner from McDonalds.

Sigrid models her "clown shoes" in the lobby of the Heathrow Sheraton.

Wes loaned her the shoes after she injured her toes on the hike in Dogon country. They were the only shoes she could wear.

The next day, we chased the sun back across the pond and home.

Senegal send-off

We check out of the hotel. Henri has arranged for his driver to pick us up and take us to his home – the historical “white house” across the street from the Senegal State Assembly building. There we are joined by Anta, Marcelle, and her daughter for a wonderful Senegalese feast that Henri has prepared. Shrimp salad served in pineapple halves, Yassa Pesce, with a variety of sauces, and cooked vegetables, "Saddam Hussein" variety hot peppers, finished with tarts and gelato for dessert. All accompanied by French red wine, cognac and coffee. Henri gifts Sigrid with a wonderful child's mask from Nigeria. We don't know why we are the beneficiaries of such extraordinary hospitality, but are very grateful. After lunch the driver takes us to the airport and guides us through airport ticketing and security. We are on our way to Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso.



On the drive to the airport, I see this huge billboard. Can someone explain to me why the iconic "Marlboro Man" image would sell cigarettes in 80% Islamic Senegal, where no one wears a cowboy hat?

Friday Ferry

After our wonderful dinner with our brand new extended family in Dakar, we returned to the room and discussed whether we would return to the Village des Arts in the morning to buy the Alpha Sow ceramic pot and have it shipped home. In the process of agonizing over the decision, w looked up the history of the CFA exchange rate. A few years ago a dollar bought over 700 CFA's. As recently as last year the dollar bought over 520 CFA's. Today a dollar is worth only 446 CFA's. We decided to sleep on it.

It was not a restful sleep. I dreamed of George W Bush, wearing an old Texas Rangers baseball uniform, swinging a baseball bat in Alpha Sow's studio, smashing all of his beautiful ceramic work, only pausing between swings for a smug, smirking, shoulder-shrugging laugh “heh, heh, heh, heh.” I woke up in a cold sweat.

Our discussion resumed over coffee in the morning. Finally Sigrid said: “We are buying the pot. Lets go”

“Yes, of course...” I thought. “This is wise. If we do not buy the pot, it means that George W Bush has won.”

In front of the hotel we negotiate for a taxi among the dozens of cabs and drivers waiting. Mindful of the prior day's experience in Joff, I do a walk around inspection of the cabs, rejecting several for items like low tire inflation, overly cracked windshields, or insufficient duck tape holding on the bumper. We decide on a relatively clean and new looking cab and settle into the back seat. The driver inserts the key and we hear a familiar sound click-click-click-click. A dead battery. Sigrid and I reflexively jump for the door handles. The driver turns in his seat, waves his hand and says “No no no.” Three other drivers are behind the cab pushing. He drops the clutch and we are again careening through Dakar traffic. The driver says “My uncle drove you yesterday.”

“No” I think "This cannot be possible." I take a good look around the cab. We are riding in the exact same cab that stranded us in Joff the day before.

Long short. We bought the pot, arranged and paid for shipping, and will just hope for the best. The cab started immediately after closing the deal, and we got back to the hotel without incident.

For the afternoon we arranged with Malik N'Gor Faye to tour Goree Island – the slave island.

I'll include a few pictures here of the ferry ride over, but they do not do the tour justice. We have more pictures and video which will have to wait, probably until the end of the trip.

The ferry to Goree Island, and the Best Boat Name ever.

Our guide Malick, on the boat (on the left). Great guy. Speaks Japanese among many other languages.

The Goree Diaspora Festival was taking place while we were on the island. There is much more I would like to add, but time and internet access is running out. Someday.

Third Thursday

We got back from our Yoff adventure with barely enough time to clean up and get ready for dinner. Our goddaughter Marisa's extended family lives in Dakar, and had kindly invited Sigrid and I out to dinner.

Today is the third Thursday of November, and in a former French colony that means one and only one thing -The Beaujolais Nouveau was released. We could not have asked for better timing. Cousin Anta and her father Henri picked us up and whisked us off to:

Where we met Marcel and more cousins and friends.

It was a wonderful evening with fantastic food, great company, in a perfect venue. And of course plenty of Beaujolais Nouveau. I drank more than my share. We had a great time.

Postcard Perspective

After our art excursion, we asked our driver to take us further up the coast to the fishing village of Yoff. He was a bit out of his element, and had to stop several times to ask a passerby for directions to find, um, well - the Atlantic Ocean. He parked the cab about a block away, and pointed us to the beach where the fishing boats were to be found. We walked down the sand road past donkey pulled carts, cooking and garbage fires, goats, running children, and locals in various forms of traditional Muslim and Senegalese attire, smoking, talking, repairing nets, smiling, scowling and staring at the two tourists with dangling cameras walking down the road.

This is the picture postcard view that greeted us through a telephoto lens when we got to the end of road:
These are a few of the thousands of fishing boats that are rolled into and out of the Atlantic surf every day. This is an iconic Senegalese image, that can be found in travel brochures, postcards, and on postage stamps [Yes Dad, postcard with Senegalese stamps is on the way]

And this is the view from the exact same spot, with a wider angle revealing the piles of garbage and debris between us and the boats: It was enough to keep us at the foot of the road.

More pics from the Yoff ocean front:




We made our way back to the cab. Sigrid became the object of attention for a small group of laughing jumping kids. She took pictures of the ones that asked, and not the ones that were camera shy.

When we got back to the cab, it would not start. You know the sound, turn the key and get that dead-as-a-doornail battery staccato clicking noise.

Among the images that we neglected to capture:

• Mike and 4-5 kids and young boys pushing the cab down the sand road in 90+ degree heat while the driver repeatedly dropped the clutch to try and start the cab.
• Sigrid and Mike standing in the middle of road next to the abandoned cab, getting honked at by passing cars, while the driver went looking for help.

He returned with another cab, which we commandeered to get us back to the hotel.

This cab was not air conditioned. But it did induce in me an advanced case of cognitive dissonance, lurching in and out of the frenetic Dakar traffic while looking through the multi-star cracked windshield past the pine tree shaped American flag air freshener bouncing under the rear view mirror.

Art Adventure

We hire a cab for the day (about $40 for an air-conditioned cab), to visit the fishing village of Yoff, and (first stop) the Typic Arts Gallery "présente l’expo ‘’Ouverture‘’ regroupant 27 artistes sénégalais et étrangers à la Galerie Léopold Sédar SENGHOR du Village des Arts, sur la route de l’aéroport." The Village des Arts is comprised of a variety of open artist studios and the gallery featuring some of their work.

Our driver (left) and cab

The taxi ride through the streets of Dakar is where the adventure comes in. Later I will update with a video snippet of the ride, but in the meantime this self-portrait of fear in the back of the cab will have to suffice.

Director Omar Diack gives us a tour.

In the gallery

A painting I liked - by Tia Mbaye (I think)

Artist at work

We were enamored of this ceramicists work (Alpha Sow) and may go back and buy one of his pieces on Friday.

Our driver awaits.

French food ...

... and wine.

When traveling in countries that were once colonies, it is interesting to observe what actually "sticks" from the imposed colonizing culture. As near as I can tell, the one thing that always sticks in former British colonies, is the game of cricket (except for the US - go figger). The one thing that sticks in former French colonies is great food and wine.

Sigrid started to get a blister after our most recent excursion. Since the next phase of the trip is going to require some hiking, we decided to stay close to the hotel today and get it better. Some time at the pool and in-room picnic of French wine, pate, salami, cheese, olives, and fresh baked baguettes made it a very good day:

Casino Market

Picnic

Shoe Saga

Updates have been delayed as I have been wrestling with some Windows problems on this machine. I am not optimistic that this computer will survive this trip.

One street of the Africa Market.

Some follow-up on the excursion through the African Market near the hotel. One of the first things we had to buy was, of course, shoes.

This was the opening of the negotiation, at one of many street side stalls. When a price could not be agreed, the sandals/shoes in question followed us through three more blocks of exploring the market. A deal was finally concluded in a dark wood-working "factory" far down a back alley of an unknown street in Dakar:



Sigrid and I each purchased sandals. When we got back to the hotel and re-caclulated the exchange rate for CFA's, we determined that we paid about the same price we wouldhave paid for comparable product at Macy's on Union Square in San Francisco. The stitching on the toe strap for my shoe broke after one days wear. - The story does not end there.


On an excursion two days later, I ran into Kamu again on the street outside the hotel. I explained that he had taken me to a street stall that sold me overpriced shoddy merchandise. He assured me that I had paid a fair price, but asked me to bring the sandals back down. In this picture I am showing him the damaged goods (Sigrid photographed withher spy scope from the window of our room). He and his friend disappeared with the sandals. I went down the block to get some food at the grocery store. When I returned, Kamu was there with the repaired sandals. It only cost me an additional 2,000 CFA for his cab fare.

Monday Miscellany

A little different view out the window this workday morning. The car park was full and traffic bumper to bumper outside the hotel. I went down to the lobby bar to retrieve some coffee and noted quite a bit of hubbub in the lobby - lots of suits, security, and cameras. While I am leaning on the bar waiting for the espresso machine to finish squeezing out the second cup, the bartender leans over, points behind me with a slight tilt of his head and says "The prime minister." I turn around to see a small entourage escort a well tailored, important looking man through the lobby. The group passes not 20 feet from me. The prime minister briefly glances at the American in short cargo pants, tee-shirt, and Gwinn Bait Shop fishing hat leaning on the bar. I nod my head. He nods his head. Then he is through the lobby and into the room in the back. I turn back to the bartender. "What's his name?" I ask. He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know. They change so often."

Turns out that Prime Minister Cheikh Hadjibou Soumaré is here for the keynote address of the 7-eme conseil présidentiel de l'investissement conference taking place in the hotel most of the week.

This conference did not bode well for our campaign to change to a seaside hotel room. Indeed all efforts were rebuffed over the course of the day. We blame the decline in the dollar and general lack of American stature and credibility in the world under the current administration. In short, George Bush is to blame for our inability to get a better room.

In other news, I tried a new beer today. Locally brewed - La Gazelle