One interesting side-effect of the low (lonely) patch that you go through after moving to a new country is the way it pushes you out of your comfort zone. You have to go out there and try things, even when it would be easier to sit at home and mope, otherwise nothing will change.
So a couple of weeks ago I sent a mesasge to the Internations WhatsApp group (a group whose activity consists of one message about something irrelevant to anyone but the sender on approximately a monthly basis) to ask whether there was anything planned, and if not, whether we could plan something. With a few mildly encouraging responses, I pushed further. What about Thursday evening, meeting up somewhere? Someone suggested the Radisson Blu - walking distance for me and with free entrance to the poolside area where a jazz band play during the evening. So I made a promise to be there and encouraged others to attend.
Well, one person turned up. Someone in the Egyptian Embassy, whose tenure has already come to an end and so is expecting to be reassigned to another post any day. But it was company - and he offered to introduce me to some other people. "Great!" I thought. Firstly, well was I interested in deep sea fishing, as a group of them go out every so often to fish - only I'd have to be a strong swimmer as they sometimes get knocked over the side of the boat ... I politely declined that one. So he had another option - a group who meet around twice a year to go out into the semi-desert and shoot birds. Can you imagine? Me, a bird-watcher, shooting birds?! OK, third option - he would introduce me to the Senegalese lady who is organising the "Miss Senegal" contest. Not really my cup of tea, but she could be interesting I suppose, so I agreed to that one. Only he said it would be the following week and that week has already passed with no contact made.
One person who couldn't make the Radisson evening did contact me to meet on a different evening, when he took me to a bit of pebbly, rocky beach with plastic tables set up where women cook fresh fish, although unfortunately he asked them to smother the fish in a very spicy sauce, so I couldn't really eat anything; again, it was company which was nice, but this was a Senegalese man and will probably follow the usual trajectory. Also, whilst I was waiting in the Radisson hoping someone would turn up, I got into conversation with someone else who was there. We agreed to meet another time and he suggested the pebbly beach with the plastic tables ... at least this time I was able to specify that I didn't want anything spicy on or with my fish! We'll see whether any real friendship comes out of those two but I'm not too hopeful.
Then this week was the annual Christmas carols and mince pies do at the British Embassy. I'd heard it was on from someone in the office, and she tried to get me an invitation but with no luck. However, the invitations did not have names on, so we printed a second copy of hers and I turned up on spec. At the gate I was asked my name by the guard, and as he looked down his list I thrust my passport over it to prove my identity, and he said I could go in - I rushed off into the house before he could conclude that I wasn't on the guest list!
There, again, I had to move outside of my comfort zone and interrupt couples and groups of people to ask if I could join them. I hate doing it, but towards the end of the evening I discovered a very interesting group, working in the security industry (from researching the environment and advising companies and institutions to negotiating for the release of kidnap victims) and one gave me his card as he left ... I've dropped him an email to ask him to let me know if he hears of any activities or, failing that, to perhaps meet up for a drink sometime ... again, way out of my comfort zone but it's the only way to move forward!
where exactly is Eritrea?
I think there was more confusion amongst my friends and colleagues at my choice of Eritrea for a holiday than for anywhere else I have travelled to. At least when I went to Chad, and the DRC, people knew where those countries were (even if they wondered why I might want to go there), but my mention of Eritrea brought many puzzled looks, one person even asking me if it was a Caribbean island...
Whilst I did know where the country was located, I should admit that I knew very little about the history of the place. I didn't know that it had been colonised by the Ottomans, then the Egyptians, the Italians, and the British (briefly) before it came under Ethiopian rule in 1961. I didn't know that not one country, whether from the West or from the Eastern bloc, supported them in their fight for independence. & I didn't know that the Italians had built them the longest cable car in the world (at nearly 72km long) that was able to transport 30 tons of material every hour between the port city of Massawa and the capital Asmara - nor that the British dismantled it as 'war reparations', putting the parts to use in other parts of our then Empire.
It was interesting to learn all this whilst seeing remnants of Ottoman buildings in Massawa (alongside extensive war damage) as well as the Italian art deco architecture in Asmara and Keren.
The Fiat Tagliero building is of course the famous one, but I decided to share instead a pic of the main street of Asmara - a general view of art deco buildings, palm trees and tidy pavements - just to try to give an idea as to how unlike Africa the place seems. It is also the sixth highest capital city in the world (at some 2,300m) and so is surprisingly cold once the sun has gone down. But the remnants of the Italian occupation mean that warming plates of pasta, and cups of cappuccino, are easy to find!
The country is quite rugged, with mountains and gorges and some quite dramatic views. Lots of cacti. As for architecture, as well as the art deco stuff, it has old ruins, remnants from the period of the Aksumite empire (around 750BC) - stelae and walls ... the majority of it still unexcavated. It would be a good place for a walking holiday, although the logistics are hard right now as a permit is needed for every place you go outside of the capital, with no flexibility available so you cannot decide you like somewhere and will stay there for an extra night.The other thing I really loved about my trip was all the camels, especially the camel market in Keren. Of course camels are by no means unique to Eritrea, but really - you can never take enough camel photos, can you?
the low point
I've hit the low point in my Senegal contract. A point I knew would come, as I've been here before - both during my first Senegal posting, and during my Panama posting.
It's when you've found somewhere to live, moved in, bought the things that are not provided by the landlord (soap dishes, dustpan and brush, coffee machine, and so on), unpacked all your stuff ... even spent a few evenings and weekends just being there, getting used to your new home. & then you want to connect with some human beings. But you don't know anyone outside the office, and perhaps the guy you buy your bread from (who has already looked at you hopefully whilst sharing how he would love a visa for somewhere in Europe...).
It's lonely. Very lonely. I recall when it hit me during my previous Senegal posting, which was when I cut my alcohol consumption down to almost nothing, aware of the dangers of coming home to an empty flat and having a nice, comforting glass of wine ... and maybe a second ... I've met alcoholic expats, as there are quite a lot of them, and I didn't want to risk going down that path. Then you have to remind yourself that the sun is shining, that you saw a parrot on the way home, whatever - that you are living in a different continent, with all of the amazing opportunities that this offers. & you have to keep reminding yourself of this as you go through this lonely patch. Because it is only a patch - you will eventually meet someone, who will introduce you to someone else, who will invite you to an event where you'll meet other people ... and you will have your social circle.
Looking back, Panama seems so much easier, as there is the Expats in Panama facebook group, an expats Whatsapp group, an expats Meetup Group, a very active chapter of InterNations, not to mention the Friday evening happy hour in a bar in Marbella, the crowds that gather to watch football/rugby in the Irish Bar... But it does take time to find all of these things so it took me time to find a social circle there too.
In Dakar there is none of this. I've signed up to a Birding The Gambia and Senegal facebook group, but it turns out to be populated mostly by bird guides living in The Gambia wanting to sell their tours. I've also signed up to the Dakar Vegan Group on facebook (although not a vegan), basically anything I can find that might be an entry point into a social group. I know it will come because it always does, but hate this limbo period. Made worse in Dakar by false hopes raised by a couple of men, and whether the one who told me he loves me after ten minutes of conversation or the one who was a little more honest and told me (before meeting me in the flesh) that he wants a no-strings sexual relationship, those are NOT what I am looking for.
This phase will pass, but just cross your fingers for me that it passes quickly!
escaping the emails at Wassadou Camp
Having left the visa application process too late, a planned holiday in Algeria had fallen through. With no possibility of delaying the days off work until later in the year, and no time to organise a trip to somewhere further afield, I had to take the time off here in Senegal or lose it. My first plan was to spend some time on holiday at home, just relaxing, listening to music, reading books ... but the emails came in and I spent the first few days working full time so I knew I had to get away. Not as easy as it sounds given that we are in the worst part of the hot, humid, rainy season right now.
I had heard of sightings of a Pel's Fishing Owl at a site in Senegal - a bird I would love to see - so decided to follow that up. An enquiry to a Senegal birding facebook group assured me that the bird would be equally present at any time of year, but that the site might be flooded out. However they comfirmed that they were open for business even though a little wet, so I booked myself in for a two-night stay. The website for the national bus company was out of action (suspended for non-payment of maintenance fees!) but I found another company providing bus transport there: the advertised phone number still worked and they assured me that the bus ran on a daily basis, departing at 8pm and arriving in Tambacounda around 5am (from there I would need to take a taxi to the camp).
What they didn't bother to tell me was that the bus departure point had moved to another part of town - and that it was necessary to reserve a seat in advance. However my taxi driver rose to the occasion and found the new departure point for me, and someone who had reserved a seat did not turn up, so I made it to Tambacounda as planned, and on to the camp.
Once there, I learned that the owl had not been seen since the end of April, and would not be expected to be around that location during the rainy season. Whatever. I was already there so had to make the most of things.
The bird guide said he would take me out along the river in the boat that evening, even though we would not see the owl, and in the meantime I took a slow walk along the dirt access road (the only track open as the rest were still underwater). There were some birds around, some green vervet monkeys and a big troupe of baboons. My favourite of the day had to be the green wood-hoopoes: big, noisy birds (they sometimes gather for a group cackle) that seemed to be totally camera-phobic, so I spent a great deal of time trying unsuccessfully to get a shot of one and this was the best I eventually managed.
Then I waited for the boat trip. The guide arrived, with the boat engine, but discovered that the boat had half sunk during the rainy season and would need a bit of work before it was suitable to go out in - he promised me we would go out the next day. Here are the site workers hauling the boat out of the river to dry out.
So, a much-needed early night.
Then the same again the next day, a long walk along the access road, with a few hours around the middle part of the day reading a book. No internet access at the camp so no temptation to 'just check for urgent emails' and end up working all day!
I was too slow to get a photo of the rather beautiful red colobus monkey that sat briefly in the open part of a tree, and the birds were too quick for me that day too, but thankfully the unexpected banded mongoose froze on the track ahead when it saw me so I was able to snatch a shot. Shortly afterward, investigating a strange noise in the undergrowth, I saw glimpses of a whole mongoose family.
Evening came around again and I went down to the water for my boat trip. I wasn't too upset when they told me that two German guests had asked to do the boat trip so I wouldn't be alone (the price is double for a single-person trip), although rather surprised when we got on the water to find that it meant the guide spoke only German for the entire hour of the trip. Thankfully I recognised the various birds (and baboons) that we saw so it didn't really matter.
Earlier in the day I had tried to phone the bus company to make a reservation for the trip home, but they said I could not reserve without paying. & by this time I was a one-hour $45 taxi ride away from the bus terminal - or, with the alternative I found the next day, a two-hour $2.50 shared van ride away - so I declined that opportunity and decided to try my luck with the shared taxi alternative, hoping at least that I would be able to find a taxi going the next day and thus avoid an overnight trip. After the two-hour trip into Tambacounda, however, I found myself passenger number two for the shared taxi waiting to depart for Dakar; there are seven seats in the shared taxis. It took another five hours until a further five passengers came along, so we didn't leave until after 6pm. So another overnight trip, in a far less comfortable vehicle (no chance of any sleep!) which actually turned out to cost slightly more than the air-conditioned, wifi-equipped bus. So I made it home very tired, and pretty muddy, from my 'holiday', and with no owl sighting to tick off on my bird list, but at least I had escaped the curse of email for a few days.
I had heard of sightings of a Pel's Fishing Owl at a site in Senegal - a bird I would love to see - so decided to follow that up. An enquiry to a Senegal birding facebook group assured me that the bird would be equally present at any time of year, but that the site might be flooded out. However they comfirmed that they were open for business even though a little wet, so I booked myself in for a two-night stay. The website for the national bus company was out of action (suspended for non-payment of maintenance fees!) but I found another company providing bus transport there: the advertised phone number still worked and they assured me that the bus ran on a daily basis, departing at 8pm and arriving in Tambacounda around 5am (from there I would need to take a taxi to the camp).
What they didn't bother to tell me was that the bus departure point had moved to another part of town - and that it was necessary to reserve a seat in advance. However my taxi driver rose to the occasion and found the new departure point for me, and someone who had reserved a seat did not turn up, so I made it to Tambacounda as planned, and on to the camp.
Once there, I learned that the owl had not been seen since the end of April, and would not be expected to be around that location during the rainy season. Whatever. I was already there so had to make the most of things.
The bird guide said he would take me out along the river in the boat that evening, even though we would not see the owl, and in the meantime I took a slow walk along the dirt access road (the only track open as the rest were still underwater). There were some birds around, some green vervet monkeys and a big troupe of baboons. My favourite of the day had to be the green wood-hoopoes: big, noisy birds (they sometimes gather for a group cackle) that seemed to be totally camera-phobic, so I spent a great deal of time trying unsuccessfully to get a shot of one and this was the best I eventually managed.Then I waited for the boat trip. The guide arrived, with the boat engine, but discovered that the boat had half sunk during the rainy season and would need a bit of work before it was suitable to go out in - he promised me we would go out the next day. Here are the site workers hauling the boat out of the river to dry out.
So, a much-needed early night.
Then the same again the next day, a long walk along the access road, with a few hours around the middle part of the day reading a book. No internet access at the camp so no temptation to 'just check for urgent emails' and end up working all day!I was too slow to get a photo of the rather beautiful red colobus monkey that sat briefly in the open part of a tree, and the birds were too quick for me that day too, but thankfully the unexpected banded mongoose froze on the track ahead when it saw me so I was able to snatch a shot. Shortly afterward, investigating a strange noise in the undergrowth, I saw glimpses of a whole mongoose family.
Evening came around again and I went down to the water for my boat trip. I wasn't too upset when they told me that two German guests had asked to do the boat trip so I wouldn't be alone (the price is double for a single-person trip), although rather surprised when we got on the water to find that it meant the guide spoke only German for the entire hour of the trip. Thankfully I recognised the various birds (and baboons) that we saw so it didn't really matter.
Earlier in the day I had tried to phone the bus company to make a reservation for the trip home, but they said I could not reserve without paying. & by this time I was a one-hour $45 taxi ride away from the bus terminal - or, with the alternative I found the next day, a two-hour $2.50 shared van ride away - so I declined that opportunity and decided to try my luck with the shared taxi alternative, hoping at least that I would be able to find a taxi going the next day and thus avoid an overnight trip. After the two-hour trip into Tambacounda, however, I found myself passenger number two for the shared taxi waiting to depart for Dakar; there are seven seats in the shared taxis. It took another five hours until a further five passengers came along, so we didn't leave until after 6pm. So another overnight trip, in a far less comfortable vehicle (no chance of any sleep!) which actually turned out to cost slightly more than the air-conditioned, wifi-equipped bus. So I made it home very tired, and pretty muddy, from my 'holiday', and with no owl sighting to tick off on my bird list, but at least I had escaped the curse of email for a few days.
a hint of Nigeria
I have long wanted to visit Nigeria, and was delighted to have to take a full part in a three-week work assignment (followed by a one-week regional management meeting) in the country. Sadly not in Lagos, but at least I got to spend time in Abuja and Maiduguri, plus a couple of visits to communities near to Maiduguri who are benefitting from our projects there.
However, the security situation in the country being as it is, I was under strict instructions from our local security advisor to remain in the hotel during the evenings and weekends - not even a ten-minute walk outside was permitted - so it turned into a very frustrating trip. I did get to see bits of Abuja through the car window on the daily trip between the hotel and the office, so I saw the rather impressive National Mosque, although couldn't go inside as I would have liked. & I do have to admit to a bit of editing of this picture - the top part of one of the minarets is copied and pasted from one of the others, as a sticker on the car windscreen blocked the perfect view...
Abuja is not really representative of Nigeria anyway, with its tall buildings, its shopping malls, and its modern streets free of hawkers and street food. Hard to believe it is as dangerous as our security rep told me, but I have to follow the rules when I travel for work.
So I mostly had to content myself with experiencing the country within the confines of the hotel. I even tried out the Sunday morning church service in one of the hotel conference rooms, although a room full of people swaying to "The name of Jesus will last forever" type songs from the live band was only bearable for around fifteen minutes (for balance I listened to Islamic prayers in the car on the way to the office). As for the food in the hotel restaurant, well, a menu full of goats' heads, cows' tails and giant snails - all, sadly, swimming in a pepper sauce that was way too hot for me. Even the vegetarina section of the menu included a dish described as 'assorted meats'. As a 'mostly' vegetarian who dislikes anything with even a hint of chilli in, I did struggle with the food. This was served at the morning coffee break during our management meeting:
being unable to visualise
I am one of those people you may have read about who does not have a "mind's eye" - or at least I have a very poor one. If I read a book that says someone is wearing a green jacket, I understand what that means, what a green jacket is - but I don't see a picture of someone in a green jacket somewhere inside my head.
I'm not as far along this spectrum as some, as I can (with a bit of effort) conjure up mental images of things I see commonly - like an apple, for example - as well as places that I spend a lot of time in. But only if I have registered information about it. For example trying to visualise my desk at work, I can 'see' the pile of old magazines that I rest my laptop on to get it at the right height to work with, but I cannot 'see' the desktop itself - and realise as I try to that I have never registered its colour. I suppose that means it must be something neutral like white, beige or grey, otherwise I probably would have noticed. I can't visualise people either, although I might recall the colour of their hair and eyes, if I have registered that. Images that I can bring to mind (like the apple) are fleeting and faint. I cannot hear sounds or smell odours in my head either, which I believe some people can.
It's hard to imagine what life is like for people who are at the other end of this spectrum - who apparently read a book and experience it almost as a film in their head. I'm not sure whether it is something they can turn off? Must be terribly distracting if not, when someone is trying to have a regular conversation with you and you get vivid images in your mind whilst they're speaking.
It would explain why I find long descriptive passages in books so boring, why I am totally unable to draw anything given a blank piece of paper - whilst at the same time being reasonably good at copying a picture from a photograph - and my total confusion at school when they told us to set out factual information with circles, arrows and so on across the page to help us remember it for the exams. I had no idea that others might be able to visualise that diagram in their head!
Thinking about my time in Madagascar, however, I see one advantage for those who think like me. We had a very near miss when driving along a road that went around the side of a small mountain, our small (12-seater) bus was suddenly faced by another small bus coming round the bend, on the wrong side of the road, at very great speed. Braking would have merely meant a head-on collision, so the other vehicle had the choice of swerving left or right. If he'd gone to his right, he'd almost certainly have plunged off the road and down the side of the mountain, so he swerved left, somehow (I'll never know how) managing to avoid even clipping the corner of our vehicle, but it meant that he smashed pretty hard into the rock face on that side of the road. He bounced off and along a bit further (closely beside us to our right), then went into a small ditch and again into the rock face. The driver must certainly have been killed and many of the passengers and the vehicle badly damaged.
Our local guide phoned for emergency medical people but we did not stop, apparently that is not advisable in such circumstances. My reaction was, "Wow! That was close! Hope the people are okay. Now, what were you saying about plans for this afternoon?" & life went on. Byt the end of the day I'd forgotten about it until the subject was raised over dinner. At which point I found out that some of the others had been quite traumatised by it - our guide said that when we arrived at our destination and he got to his room he started shaing like a leaf. Now I accept that the experience must have been a lot worse for him given that he was in the front seat - but I have realised that my lack of ability to visualise things serves to protect me in such situations. I will never imagine what could have happened, other than in purely theoretical terms, and I will never have flashbacks of anything.
It makes me wonder whether this contributes to what others sometimes see as bravery in me. Which I've always known was not bravery at all, but couldn't explain to people why it was not. Now that I think about it - if someone asks "What if you were kidnapped by Al Qaida?", I might try to think in a practical way what that might mean, and then I might go off into a daydream about how I might manage to build some empathy with my kidnappers, get them to teach me Arabic, and so on - but I would not (and could not) visualise a scary-looking figure standing over me with a gun, so the thought of being kidnapped doesn't fill me with fear. Not that it's likely to happen anyway (just so my Mum doesn't read too much into that example!!), but nevertheless I'm happy to be free from such mental images!
I'm not as far along this spectrum as some, as I can (with a bit of effort) conjure up mental images of things I see commonly - like an apple, for example - as well as places that I spend a lot of time in. But only if I have registered information about it. For example trying to visualise my desk at work, I can 'see' the pile of old magazines that I rest my laptop on to get it at the right height to work with, but I cannot 'see' the desktop itself - and realise as I try to that I have never registered its colour. I suppose that means it must be something neutral like white, beige or grey, otherwise I probably would have noticed. I can't visualise people either, although I might recall the colour of their hair and eyes, if I have registered that. Images that I can bring to mind (like the apple) are fleeting and faint. I cannot hear sounds or smell odours in my head either, which I believe some people can.
It's hard to imagine what life is like for people who are at the other end of this spectrum - who apparently read a book and experience it almost as a film in their head. I'm not sure whether it is something they can turn off? Must be terribly distracting if not, when someone is trying to have a regular conversation with you and you get vivid images in your mind whilst they're speaking.
It would explain why I find long descriptive passages in books so boring, why I am totally unable to draw anything given a blank piece of paper - whilst at the same time being reasonably good at copying a picture from a photograph - and my total confusion at school when they told us to set out factual information with circles, arrows and so on across the page to help us remember it for the exams. I had no idea that others might be able to visualise that diagram in their head!
Thinking about my time in Madagascar, however, I see one advantage for those who think like me. We had a very near miss when driving along a road that went around the side of a small mountain, our small (12-seater) bus was suddenly faced by another small bus coming round the bend, on the wrong side of the road, at very great speed. Braking would have merely meant a head-on collision, so the other vehicle had the choice of swerving left or right. If he'd gone to his right, he'd almost certainly have plunged off the road and down the side of the mountain, so he swerved left, somehow (I'll never know how) managing to avoid even clipping the corner of our vehicle, but it meant that he smashed pretty hard into the rock face on that side of the road. He bounced off and along a bit further (closely beside us to our right), then went into a small ditch and again into the rock face. The driver must certainly have been killed and many of the passengers and the vehicle badly damaged.
Our local guide phoned for emergency medical people but we did not stop, apparently that is not advisable in such circumstances. My reaction was, "Wow! That was close! Hope the people are okay. Now, what were you saying about plans for this afternoon?" & life went on. Byt the end of the day I'd forgotten about it until the subject was raised over dinner. At which point I found out that some of the others had been quite traumatised by it - our guide said that when we arrived at our destination and he got to his room he started shaing like a leaf. Now I accept that the experience must have been a lot worse for him given that he was in the front seat - but I have realised that my lack of ability to visualise things serves to protect me in such situations. I will never imagine what could have happened, other than in purely theoretical terms, and I will never have flashbacks of anything.
It makes me wonder whether this contributes to what others sometimes see as bravery in me. Which I've always known was not bravery at all, but couldn't explain to people why it was not. Now that I think about it - if someone asks "What if you were kidnapped by Al Qaida?", I might try to think in a practical way what that might mean, and then I might go off into a daydream about how I might manage to build some empathy with my kidnappers, get them to teach me Arabic, and so on - but I would not (and could not) visualise a scary-looking figure standing over me with a gun, so the thought of being kidnapped doesn't fill me with fear. Not that it's likely to happen anyway (just so my Mum doesn't read too much into that example!!), but nevertheless I'm happy to be free from such mental images!
the lemurs stole the show
I went with the birding company I use a lot, to make sure I had the best chance of seeing ground-rollers, mesites and the sickle-billed vanga, but I was equally attracted by such bizarre creatures as the giraffe-necked weevil and the hissing cockroach - and who can resist lemurs? As you can see from the picture (these are rescued pets now in a reserve), I certainly can't!
The biggest surprise to me was the number of lemur species - more than one hundred! & there are enormous differences between them, from the tiny little mouse lemurs we saw leaping around the trees at night and trying to sleep in the day, to the big indris with their amazing eerie-sounding (and VERY loud) call. Maybe you can get an idea of the size of theblack and white ruffed lemur in the photo. I saw some 22 different speices, I think, my favourites being the famous ring-tailed lemurs and some of the sifaka species. Many of them are endangered, but this is due to habitat loss and not to predation by humans, so many of them are relatively unafraid of humans allowing you to see them at close range. At the Berenty reserve the ring-tailed lemurs, whilst wild, would try to sneak up to the breakfast tables to steal food.
But the habitat destruction is clearly evident, with charcoal on sale beside the road in every village, wetlands being turned into rice paddies, large swathes of land burnt to prepare it for crops, and whole areas of spiny forest removed to make way for sisal plantations. Here was one sad remaining tree:
Amongst all this were also large numbers of different chameleons and geckos, a few snakes, frogs, scorpions, spiders, a couple of different tenrecs. The landscapes weren't bad either.
a male lesbian?
Much as I love Morocco, it is one of the worst countries for hassle of foreign women, especially blonde ones, and I did have to disentangle myself from one over-enthusiastic male during my time wandering around the medina in Fes. So when an Italian man (albeit with a Moroccan father), who told me from the start that he was gay, was keen to have someone to talk to, I was happy to oblige.
He asked me if I was happy talking to him, if I liked gay men, and I responded with a laugh, that "of course I like gay men - all women do - we feel safe with you as we know there is no hidden agenda". It was an interesting conversation as he went on to explain that he was actually a transvestite (or an 'androgynous man' as he called it, but we established that this is 'more or less' another term for transvestite), and was only dressed in male clothing out of respect for the Moroccan culture and to avoid trouble - at home in Milan he would be wearing heels, a dress, make-up, and his feminine hair style would not be hidden under a baseball cap.
We talked for quite a while, and finally he suggested we go to his nearby family holiday apartment for a beer. Once there he was, as I'd anticipated, keen to change into his more usual clothes, to which I said I had no problem. To be honest I was being a bit voyeuristic - was curious to see he become she ...
The red lipstick, the earrings and the floppy hair actually looked rather good, but I was disappointed by the satin mini slip dress, with the red bra peeking through, and the long scarf round the neck twirled coquettishly. No woman I have ever met would dress like that - this was not a woman but rather a caricature of a woman. Still, he (now she) was happy and so I expressed my appreciation.
We talked for a while and shared a bit of food, but then she wanted to dance - to express herself and her happiness - and put on some schmaltzy music. She asked me to dance too, so rather reluctantly I did. But then was surprised to feel her hands not just around my back but trying to make their way up inside my Tshirt! I put a stop to this very quickly, and we talked some more. I asked why on earth a gay man would want to put their hands up a woman's Tshirt, and (s)he explained that she was a lesbian...
I made my way back to my hostel to mull this over, but more than a week later I am still trying to get my head around the concept of a male transvestite lesbian. However, I met someone a couple of days later who deals with a lot of people from the LGBTIQ community in her work, and I asked her opinion about this. She told me that (male) transvestite lesbians are not uncommon, and that those falling into the trans categories are often quite confused about their sexual orientation.
Confused (and confusing) or not, I must say that my encounter in Morocco was a fascinating one. I always enjoy getting a window into other cultures and other ways of life, and whilst not what I had anticipatedf rom a three day trip to Morocco, this was no different!
He asked me if I was happy talking to him, if I liked gay men, and I responded with a laugh, that "of course I like gay men - all women do - we feel safe with you as we know there is no hidden agenda". It was an interesting conversation as he went on to explain that he was actually a transvestite (or an 'androgynous man' as he called it, but we established that this is 'more or less' another term for transvestite), and was only dressed in male clothing out of respect for the Moroccan culture and to avoid trouble - at home in Milan he would be wearing heels, a dress, make-up, and his feminine hair style would not be hidden under a baseball cap.
We talked for quite a while, and finally he suggested we go to his nearby family holiday apartment for a beer. Once there he was, as I'd anticipated, keen to change into his more usual clothes, to which I said I had no problem. To be honest I was being a bit voyeuristic - was curious to see he become she ...
The red lipstick, the earrings and the floppy hair actually looked rather good, but I was disappointed by the satin mini slip dress, with the red bra peeking through, and the long scarf round the neck twirled coquettishly. No woman I have ever met would dress like that - this was not a woman but rather a caricature of a woman. Still, he (now she) was happy and so I expressed my appreciation.
We talked for a while and shared a bit of food, but then she wanted to dance - to express herself and her happiness - and put on some schmaltzy music. She asked me to dance too, so rather reluctantly I did. But then was surprised to feel her hands not just around my back but trying to make their way up inside my Tshirt! I put a stop to this very quickly, and we talked some more. I asked why on earth a gay man would want to put their hands up a woman's Tshirt, and (s)he explained that she was a lesbian...
I made my way back to my hostel to mull this over, but more than a week later I am still trying to get my head around the concept of a male transvestite lesbian. However, I met someone a couple of days later who deals with a lot of people from the LGBTIQ community in her work, and I asked her opinion about this. She told me that (male) transvestite lesbians are not uncommon, and that those falling into the trans categories are often quite confused about their sexual orientation.
Confused (and confusing) or not, I must say that my encounter in Morocco was a fascinating one. I always enjoy getting a window into other cultures and other ways of life, and whilst not what I had anticipatedf rom a three day trip to Morocco, this was no different!
Festival of World Sacred Music
Our annual conference was scheduled to begin the week after the Festival of World Sacred Music in Fes, which I had long wanted to attend, so I was very happy to discover that the cheapest way to get to the UK was on Royal Air Maroc, meaning a change of plane in Casablanca - and that there was no additional cost if I took a few days' stopover there. Inexplicably, I decided to spend only three days at the festival (why??) - three days that were so good that I will almost certainly have to go back another year to see and hear more, even if I have to pay for my own flight next time.
This festival covers sacred music from all over the world, but I missed contributions from places such as Bolivia and Iran. Nor did I get to see the late night performances of Moroccan sufi music as my 3am start to get to Morocco, and my 4am start to leave three days later, did restrict me somewhat. However I attended a concert in the Jnan Sbil gardens by 3Ma (photo above), a trio of musicians from Mali (Ballake Sissoko), Madagascar (Rajery) and Morocco (Driss al Maloumi), each playing a traditional instrument from their country. This one I knew I would like (I have a CD of theirs in my collection). I was less certain about Mystical Breaths, a concert in the same gardens taking in Gregorian chants accompanied by harp and Indian flutes, but it was also very enjoyable.
The best of all, however, was a concert entitled "In the Heart of Sufi Africa", encompassing sufi musicians from Egypt, Zanzibar, Morocco and Senegal, that took place in the large walled Bab al Makina. The music was beautiful, as I'd expected, but the spectacular light show was a big surprise. Here are three shots of some of the different lighting effects behind the musicians:
Really breathtaking.
Of course I also had some time to explore the city - somewhere I hadn't been for more than twenty years. There is rather more hassle of tourists (especially blonde, female tourists) than I would like, but still I really love this city. It is unlike anywhere else, with the ninth century medina of some 9,000 alleyways (apparently), its only traffic being donkey- or horse-led carts, as well as countless other ancient walls, gates and palaces throughout the city. A place where you can just wander aimlessly but know you will be rewarded.
I did though re-visit the famous tanneries,
where leather (from cows, goats and camels) from throughout the country is treated. Firstly in the limestone pits to the left of the picture, where pigeon droppings are the main ingredient in the solution that removes all flesh and other unwanted elements from the leather, and then secondly in the pits to the right, used for various dyes to give the leather its colour.
Apparently they still do not use any chemical inputs, with all dyes coming from natural ingredients such as poppies (for the red) and safron (for the yellow), although the latter is dabbed on sparingly on rooftops, rather than in the pits given its cost. All the pits are owned by different families, so the work passes from generation to generation. Tough work, by the looks of it. Of course the pressure to buy something made of leather afterwards is quite strong, but I already knew that I wanted a leather bum bag (following the recent attempted robbery), and was reasonably happy to get it for less than half the price the sellers started at. Especially as my hostel in the old medina was costing me only 8 euros a night including breakfast!
motorcycle snatch thieves
When I left Senegal in 2013, a new phenomenon had just appeared - motorcycle snatch thieves. They weren't common, but were being talked about and I did hear indirectly of one victim. It was disappointing when I returned to be warned about this, as somehow I had hoped that it had just been something short-lived.
I'm still not sure how common it is, but I'd only been in the country two months whe I got first-hand experience of it. It was the middle of a Sunday afternoon, and I'd gone out to search for a couple of chairs I could buy for my balcony. I was walking along the main coastal road - not much used on a Sunday so very few people about - when a man who'd obviously run quietly up behind me grabbed my shoulder bag to run back behind me where he obviously hoped to jump on the back of a waiting motorcycle. However, I had managed to hold on to the shoulder strap so as he ran back along the road I ran (or was dragged) after him, pulling on the strap and screaming for help as loudly as I could. A couple of older men appeared from behind doorways, and I saw a taxi stopped up ahead, and suddenly my bac was released and the would-be thief and his accomplice had gone.
So I was unharmed, my bag still with me and still in one piece, and I suppose the whole experience had lasted less than ten seconds - but it was a bit of a shock. I suppose the adrenaline had kicked in (there was NO WAY they were going to get my bag, which had my keys, telephone and enough money in it to buy balcony furniture!), as I could hardly move my shoulders or arms for the next few days as the muscles recovered, even though I'd not felt physical discomfort at the time of the attack.
Colleagues told me that the road I'd been on is particularly vulnerable to such attack on quiet Sundays, and that there is always a spike in crime during the run-up to big festivals that people need money to finance (this was the week before the Korite festival marking the end of Ramadan).
I must say that it was a good experience in a way, awareness-raising without any negative consequences and I shall certainly be more alert in future.
To end on a good note - I found the chairs I was looking for, and here they are on the balcony!
the 'not turning up when they promise' rule
Perhaps I should start this post by mentioning the exception to what seems to be the rule here. The exception being that my boxes of stuff took only six weeks to get here from Panama. Absolutely astonishing when you recall that it took six months to transport them in the other direction.
But then the rule kicked in. Having told us that they had the stuff, the shipping receipt company then couldn't deliver it because they didn't have transportation of their own (really?) and so had to hire a vehicle. Ten days later they found a suitable vehicle for hire, and somehow this managed to coincide with the apartment I'd found being ready for me to move into, so I took a taxi there on the Saturday with all the possessions I'd brought with me on the plane, and my ever helpful colleague Oumar was already there waiting for me. The container with my boxes inside arrived shortly afterwards. They'd forgotten to ask someone from Customs to attend - and only Customs officers can open containers - but it seemed that could be sorted out provided we paid the taxi fare for a Customs officer to get to the apartment from the port.
There was another problem, however - the driver had come alone, without anyone to help unload the boxes and get them up to my third floor apartment. He asked my colleague for cash, which he intended to use to pay random men from the street to come and help with the delivery... We refused this suggestion and instructed them to come back as soon as possible - which would be Monday. The container was left parked outside for the weekend - the pic above.
I spotted that the electricity counter was flashing red, meaning I was about to be cut off, so we took the time to go out searching for a place to add credit to the meter. We tried five places, all of which either had no printer (so the receipt I would require for my reimbursement from the office was not available), or no functioning internet connection so the credit could not be processed. At this stage we gave up and I meandered dejectedly back to the old temporary apartment carrying essential toiletries and food so as to spend another two nights there.
On the Monday the electricity problem was sorted out, a dozen men turned up, and the forty boxes were quickly brought up to the apartment (no Customs officer in sight, but really, it wasn't my problem as to how they managed to open the container in his absence). Now I just wait for the promised removal of the empty wooden crate that my more fragile masks had been transported in, for a carpenter to put a shelf in one of the kitchen cupboards (in the absence of one single drawer!) to give me somewhere to store cutlery trays and the like (currently sitting on a chair), for someone to come and explain why the brand new washing machine shows no sign of life even though it is plugged in, and for someone else to sort out the TV connection. Many of these things have already been organised but inevitably that rule kicks in and I hear two hours after the promised arrival time (and even then, only after some chasing) that they cannot make it so will rearrange.
Meanwhile, when not waiting around for someone to (fail to) turn up, I make seemingly endless trips to different stores searching for all the little things I need, like hooks to hang hand towels from, soap dishes (failed with that one so far), a saucepan lid, a chopping board, a rack to drain dishes in (also failed so far to find one of those) ... whilst I've learned to live with the fact that my photo albums and half my CD collection will have to remain in boxes for the duration of this contract as I really cannot face the hassle of trying to find, agree a price for, and transport, sets of shelving.
What I will buy though is a chair or two for my little balcony so that I can sit outside and enjoy the occasional breeze, but the constant waiting in for people to turn up has so far provided sufficient excuses for me not to have to face that price negotiation process that I so hate.
the art of negotiation
I'd forgotten about the need to bargain for everything in Senegal. But then I realised that I was paying far more for fruit and veg at the roadside stall than the same stuff cost in the supermarket, and began to suspect that either (depending on which way you look at it) I was being ripped off because of the common assumption that everyone white is rich, or I was overpaying because I'd accepted the first price offered me instead of making a counteroffer. But having been using that stall for three weeks, it would be difficult now to start arguing about the prices, so I spent a hot hour of the Ascension public holiday walking to a large fruit and veg market, where I hoped to be able to compare prices on different stalls and get more of an idea of what the 'real' prices were. But they were all quoting the same (starting) price so I started the long walk home feeling none the wiser.
On the way back I passed a little shop selling stationery, and went in to buy some envelopes (for all those 'change of address' letters to banks and so on). I asked the price for a dozen small envelopes and he told me 1,200 francs (some $2), at which point I changed my mind and decided I'd wait for my next trip to the UK, explaining politely to him that it was okay, I didn't want the envelopes. OK, then 1,000 francs he said. "No, thank you" I replied, "they are cheaper in England". At which point he tapped something into his calculator and showed me the screen - now 600 francs. So I bought the envelopes, half of me pleasantly surprised that the price had come down (having not realised that you could/should bargain in a stationery store), the other half annoyed that he'd initially tried to charge me double - to rip me off. I relayed the story to a Senegalese colleague, who said she also hated the whole bargaining thing, but that you should never accept the first price given anywhere other than the handful of shops where the price is marked on the items (principally the supermarkets).
For someone as uncomfortable bargaining as I am, this had started to have the effect of stopping me from buying things that I wanted, just to avoid having to bargain. But I'd seen a local kind of chair that I really want for my balcony. I looked at them, I sat on one, but there was no price marked and the seller was not going to give me any clue as to the price unless I asked. & I already knew that asking the price is the first step in the negotiation process, it being very bad form to then walk away without making a purchase. So how to find out the price of these chairs?
I went into the site of a facebook group I have found here, primarily dedicated to sharing information on places to buy local crafts and textiles, but my question, "how do I deal with this bargaining thing?" elicited a great deal of discussion. The most liked response was from a long-term resident expat, who said the thing to always remember is that "you never overpaid for something that was worth the price to you at the time you bought it" (ie don't get upset if you later hear that someone else got one cheaper). It was generally agreed that there is no need to worry about not being able to compare prices from different vendors as all will have similar costs and thus a similar minimum price that they will accept. Fundamentally, shopping here requires a shift in attitude, from making a decision on whether you want something based in part on its price, to making a decision up-front on how much you are preapred to pay for something you like, that will then enable you to start the negotiation process. Because there is no 'real price for the majority of things here, the only price is the one negotiated between the buyer and the seller.
But thankfully on this occasion someone in the facebook group was able to direct me to an earlier post about exactly this kind of chair I was asking about, which gave the price the person had paid for them - less than I would have expected (so I'd have settled for something higher had I not known) so I now feel armed with the information and attitude I need to go back to that chair stall and ask the price. Although I did manage to find an excuse to put it off until next weekend...
things move slowly
Things move slowly here. I've asked so many times if I can view some houses or apartments, so as to find somewhere to live, and the answer is always the same (that they will contact the agent and get something set up for today), as is the result (nothing happens).
Maybe I shouldn't push it. After all, for as long as I am in temporary accommodation, my employer pays for my bills, my food, my TV and internet subscription ... but clearly it wouldn't be right to collude in the delays for that reason. Also, the apartment they have put me in is noisy, and has so little water pressure that I am required to shower out of a bucket most days. So I keep asking.
I did view one apartment in the building I lived in for my last year here, but it was really dark and uninviting. Finally last weekend, the day before I flew off to Bissau on my first assignment, I got two viewings. The first a small, dingy place, with no kitchen to speak of, and in the middle of a building site. The second, however, was much better - in a brand new building and with plenty of light - I said I'd take it. Now back from Bissau it seems that nothing has moved forward, but the place is already furnished so should be ready to move into as soon as the paperwork has been signed.
With that worry off my mind, I decided to go out on Sunday, to go bird-watching. Not so much for the birds, as the site has mainly waders in their non-breeding plumage (ie lots of brown and grey birds...), but to see if I could actually get there. As ever, I try to avoid staying in a protected bubble, preferring to be part of the regular life - so public transport, not taxis. I had stumbled upon a website that provides information on bus routes in Dakar, and was very proud of myself for travelling the 12km out to the suburbs on the number 46 bus and then finding my way into the Technopole site where the birds are.
It's a bit of wasteland really, with brackish water surrounded by mud, and with a cold wind blowing (I sell it well, I know...), and the birds are really skittish so it is hard to get close enough to even see what they are.
As I was on my way out, trying to find a dry route back to the road, this Little Bee-eater flew in to welcome me back to Senegal:
back in Senegal
Going back to a place that you loved should be something you feel really positive about, right? So this return to Dakar has been very strange, and it's been impossible to articulate the reasons why I have felt so conflicted and nervous about it. There was a part of me that did want to come back, of course, but the other part of me has felt a strange foreboding, a sense that it wouldn't work.
But there was no other realistic option, so I am here.
& (sorry Mum - she will hate this, my starting one sentence with 'but', the next with 'and'!!) I've started to understand a little better the phrase "going back". That "back" does not just refer to the geography, but also to time. & no, you cannot go back in time. On Saturday I wandered round to the road that was my home for my first five years here - to find that the little bungalow I'd lived in is no more, the land now occupied by a four-storey block of flats. From there I went to the restaurant and live music venue Just4U to request a copy of their programme - to be faced by a building site. Even the very few people I still know here (in the office) look older and tired - as I'm sure I must do too.
I am not saying that I am unhappy to be back, but I am not jumping for joy either.
It will take time to find my feet here, knowing that I can't just slip back into what was here before (I did check on the flat I lived in for my last year, but it is occupied). It will take me a little time to leave behind Latin America too (no dried cranberries in the supermarket here, no 60mbps internet download speeds), especially on weekends like the one we've just had where I was glued to internet news sites reporting on the terrible goings-on in Nicaragua.
But it will come. Slowly. Yesterday I found a website listing events in Dakar - I'd just missed a wine-tasting on Friday evening and an Orchestra Baobab concert Saturday night. So there will be places to go where I can meet people, and establish a new social life here and build a new set of memories. I just have to be patient.
But there was no other realistic option, so I am here.
& (sorry Mum - she will hate this, my starting one sentence with 'but', the next with 'and'!!) I've started to understand a little better the phrase "going back". That "back" does not just refer to the geography, but also to time. & no, you cannot go back in time. On Saturday I wandered round to the road that was my home for my first five years here - to find that the little bungalow I'd lived in is no more, the land now occupied by a four-storey block of flats. From there I went to the restaurant and live music venue Just4U to request a copy of their programme - to be faced by a building site. Even the very few people I still know here (in the office) look older and tired - as I'm sure I must do too.
I am not saying that I am unhappy to be back, but I am not jumping for joy either.
It will take time to find my feet here, knowing that I can't just slip back into what was here before (I did check on the flat I lived in for my last year, but it is occupied). It will take me a little time to leave behind Latin America too (no dried cranberries in the supermarket here, no 60mbps internet download speeds), especially on weekends like the one we've just had where I was glued to internet news sites reporting on the terrible goings-on in Nicaragua.
But it will come. Slowly. Yesterday I found a website listing events in Dakar - I'd just missed a wine-tasting on Friday evening and an Orchestra Baobab concert Saturday night. So there will be places to go where I can meet people, and establish a new social life here and build a new set of memories. I just have to be patient.
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