Harmattan - roel krabbendam

...and what about that bicycle?

roel krabbendam — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 00:00:00 GMT

My bicycle frame did need a minor reconfiguration, so I took it back to Independant Fabrications in Somerville, MA and they gave me a lesson in customer relations. Not only did they immediately take my bike, strip it down, sandblast the frame, and prepare it for a new bridge, but Lloyd Graves gave me an hour and a half tour of the facility, handed me a T-shirt and gave me the entire history of the company to boot. They took the relatively insignificant problem with my frame as seriously as a new customer or a big order, and devoted time and resources probably far in excess of its merits. This is a shop I feel privileged to have stumbled upon, and I’m glad to be riding their bike. If there is a twinkle in my eye, perhaps it is that first inkling of where I might want to take it next...

Lloyd Graves with my bicycle frame at Independant Fabrication

...India and Pakistan anyone?

Denouement

roel krabbendam — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 00:00:00 GMT

The snow lies high outside the House and it feels good to pile, all three of us, on the big bed reading books or tapping on the computer.

Polly, Mia and Lola

I’m cleaning my equipment, packing it in bins, and thinking about what comes next. Powerfully held, these memories of my trip, and I find myself daydreaming a lot: great people, isolation, realizing the importance of family and friends.

Polly’s optimism is infectious, laying waste to my caution about the future. Spring is inexorable.

Food

roel krabbendam — Sun, 18 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

This blog may inadvertently have conveyed the impression that food only instigates diarrhea, and that would be a tragic miscommunication. Bacteria cause diarrhea, not food. Remember that.

I have had memorable meals in my life, some simple and some grand: a blowfish we caught and cooked off Cape Cod when I was a kid comes to mind, some wine and bread and cheese with my mom when I was a teenager, a vegetable tagine cooked in the sand at Casablanca 28 years ago, a Russian meal with a lot of frozen vodka in North Carolina in 1984, a Japanese meal with lots of hot sake in Lima, Peru a year earlier, a fondue I had in Switzerland in 1990 (booze again), a birthday meal Polly cooked me once on the hottest day of the year in Cambridge, Massachusetts, sushi fests at my sister’s house…the circumstances and the people and the food and sometimes the occasion conspired to elevate the experience beyond simply “dinner”.

Nassir making sahara bread

The meal Nassir and friends cooked us in the desert at La Source in Algeria, and the farewell dinner Lakhdar and Talla cooked in the desert outside Tamanrasset may well join the list, and both of them centered on bread. Nassir made real Sahara bread: balls of dough kneaded and massaged into flat patties and fried on a skillet with plenty of oil brushed on. It came with roasted mutton and a big salad, and the night was clear and not quite as late as usual, and I understood more than a little of the conversation, and out of all of the late night, meat roasting, guy-a-thons, this one sticks in my mind. That bread was unforgettable.

Lakhdar spent an incredibly long time stirring a bowl of dough that was then poured on a bed of hot sand and embers and covered with hot embers. The resultant flat loaf was then scraped of cinder, broken into little bits, and mixed into a bowl of ingredients I do not remember (I’m hoping Lakhdar will help me out here with some comments). This is a traditional meal with a name I also neglected to write down (help me, someone!). Everyone ate out of the common bowl, with Talla pulling pieces of mutton off the bone and tossing it into each person’s quadrant: a ritual I rather liked.

Tea

I must mention tea, and I’m not talking Lipton though that is exactly what got me through some hot afternoons in Benin. In Algeria especially, tea is ritual: a soothing and relaxing and rather lengthy endeavor requiring several pots and glasses and a small brazier. A small fire is made in the brazier to yield coals that boil water in a copper pot. Kasem Chermel at In Salah actually did this in a closed room, apparently oblivious to the fumes.

Tea pots

Tea leaves are inserted into the pot in a big bundle that prevents the leaves from exiting the pot with the water. The water is poured into a glass containing quite a bit of sugar. The pour is done with pride, the pot held as high as the pourer dares and the arc of the water as long as possible so that it feels like a miracle that it all reaches the glass. The tea is poured back into the pot. This is done many times, until the sugar is completely dissolved, there is a stiff froth on the tea in the glass and the host tastes and judges it done. Small glasses half filled with tea are handed to all. The whole ritual in its most relaxed form is repeated three times: once to taste the bitterness of the tea leaves, once to taste the sweetness of the sugar and once to appreciate the froth on top.

Ahmed told me that for him the ritual is a soothing addiction, something I thought not too different from my own love affair with coffeehouses and cappucinos.

Dutch cows grabbing a tan

Dairy products were a surprise. The countries I visited do not have well-developed dairy industries and have relied for a long time on imported powdered milk. Why they would have wanted this product at all if it wasn’t indigenous is a topic well-covered in World Hunger mentioned earlier. In any case, Kherfi Freres in Guererra were pretty cutting edge with their Dutch cows in the desert and their effort to create a dairy industry. Mohamed in Kairouan, Tunisia treated me to goat milk/cheese which I found slightly sour, slightly sweet, and fairly pleasant. Processed foods were not uncommon in Tunisia, including cheeses much like Dutch Gouda. I saw processed cheese spread in 24 triangle rounds in Niger and found it handy to have later when all I could find was bread. Benin seems largely dairy free, except in the cities where you find “Fan Milk”. I am hopelessly addicted to the semi-frozen bags of Fan Milk sweetened yoghurt sold by young guys out of freezer boxes often mounted on bikes and announced with large bulbed horns.

Manioc is a staple in Benin, much as yucca is a staple in Peru: you find huge stacks of this very large root by the roadside wherever you go. It is soaked and then boiled, and accompanied it seems with a sauce made of onions, tomatoes, chili peppers and oil. I had my best day of biking when I ate manioc for breakfast and I truly believe it is related. I had a bit of a Yucca fries addiction in Peru but I did not see Manioc fries here in Benin…could be a whole new culinary direction for them here.

Salad

Vegetables in general tended to cabbage, lettuce, tomatoes and onions...the diversity was not particularly impressive. The massive importation of exotic and out of season foodstuffs common in the United States and Europe wasn't apparent in the places I visited. Tunisia had the most variety, and with a Mediterranean climate at the coast was in a position to grow it.

Vegetable display

Dessert was not a highly prized concept anywhere I went, but the oranges in Tunisia and Algeria were incredible and the pineapple and small mango were delicious in Benin. Dates were common and became a high-energy staple for me when I was biking. I only found pineapple in the cities of Benin. I have never liked papaya, but there were afternoons where they tasted fantastic, and these were more ubiquitous (look that word up, Tommy).

Sheep at Kherfi Freres

Meat…well, there’s nothing quite like a steak. Slaughtering a sheep and roasting it is quite an event in Algeria, but I found it very fatty and irritatingly filled with indigestibles like cartilage. I know the meat itself is actually delicious, so I’ve been spoiled by the highly refined butchering done in the Etats-Unis. I promised myself I wouldn’t eat chicken but did anyway: they were not oven-stuffer-roasters but tasted just fine. I was confronted with Highly Suspicious Looking Fish served by Orou Adamou and prepared by his mom in Beroubouay, Benin, forced myself to dig in and found that pretty good as well.

Coca Cola

Liquor is available in Tunisia and uncommon in Algeria. I drank quite a bit of Niger beer (giraffe on the brown or green bottles), and found every conceivable brand of real and knock-off hard liquor here in Benin. Coca-Cola is common in Benin but nowhere else. I’m told it will kill diarrhea bugs: another pesticide dumped on the third world. It is cheaper than bottled mineral water.

Guides

roel krabbendam — Thu, 08 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

There is a stereotype for Saharan guides involving a Tuareg heritage, a turban and sunglasses, a 4x4 vehicle with extended air filter, overloaded roof racks and sand ladders, and a supreme aloofness impervious to the most insufferable tourist. This type of guide gives you the impression he might just leave you in the desert on a whim, and I have read enough to understand it isn't out of the question. The two guides I had the pleasure to meet were nothing like this, and it is my pleasure to recommend them to anyone interested in visiting Algeria.

Ahmed

Ahmed Labchek (evasiondune@hotmail.com) is based in Ghardaia and with Wolf Gaudlitz solved my little can't-get-myself-into-the-country problem at the Tunisian border. Ahmed took his job very seriously indeed, meticulously handling all of the paperwork and never hesitating to place himself firmly between his paying clients (that would be Wolf and I) and trouble of any sort. Bureaucrats, customs officials, border police, unscrupulous truckers and the Guardia National all felt a little of Ahmed's sting when they posed a threat to our equipment, our plans or our person, and he earned from me a tremendous feeling of respect. His addiction to making and drinking tea, his incessant need for sleep, and his stories about driving second hand cars across the desert for sale in Niger were extremely endearing.

Talla

Abjau Intalla (tinakachker@yahoo.fr) is a good friend of Lakhdar in Tamanrasset and drove us around over several days there. Talla impressed me with his open and friendly manner, his experience and knowledge of southern Algeria, and most of all the ethic he brought to his daily interactions. When challanged to describe who he knew where, and where he had been in Africa, Talla remained honest and straightforward, tempted not at all to embellish his accomplishments. When offered European cakes as a dessert after cooking a fabulous Algerian meal he demurred gracefully, saying only that it would not be appropriate after such a feast. Here is a guy unhesitatingly guided by a powerful sense of right, a characteristic I find frankly pretty rare and one that earns from me as well both confidence and respect. For anyone considering a journey in south central Algeria I recommend Talla without reservation.

Tour

roel krabbendam — Sat, 03 Mar 2007 00:00:00 GMT

Lagoon de Cotonou

Cotonou squats on the ocean at the mouth of the Lagune de Cotonou, under the voodoo forest of Benin. The sky is grey or Orange in March, the sun just a glimmering disk, the heat tolerable. The humidity will suck the life from you, however. This is the scene of Robert Wilson’s great detective stories and it is not difficult to view the city as darkly as he does.

Bridge over Lagoon de Cotonou

The whites are barricaded in Cadjehoun in the shadow of the Maggi water tower amid the embassies and the Chinese and Moroccan restaurants and supermarches. The airport is right there should withdrawal ever be required. Their relationship to the blacks is good enough, but there is no question who has the money and who wants it.

Port du pecheur

The city operates by moto-taxi. It is too humid for bicycles and too big to walk. A moto is cheap and maneuverable in traffic and comfortable enough, the breeze sufficient to ward off the sweat. The cloud of oily blue smoke spewed at every traffic light is unfortunately what you breathe however. An enterprising moto-taxi driver will station himself at a travel agency or the Chinois or the bank, and if he can find a tourist who doesn’t yet know the prices and here for more than just a day, he can latch on for the ride. This is how I met Casimo, outside the Air France office.

Beach

Casimo is in his early thirties, a little heavy, a little aggressive. He wanted 1000Cfa for a 250Cfa ride and I had to walk away before he relented. He handled traffic with the same relentless attitude, and I decided to like him, but the issue was out of my hands in any case. A day after he gave me a ride I found him stationed outside CODIAM where I was staying, and it was clear I had been adopted.

Beach

Casimo overcharged me the second day, taking advantage of the fact that I didn’t know where to go to find a bike box. We made a number of stops in our search, finding the box at a big appliance store and hauling it back to CODIAM with it tucked under my arm. Viewed from the side we looked like a box and two heads magically gliding down the street with no visible means of propulsion.

When I figured out I was being overcharged (he thought I wouldn’t?), I told Casimo he could keep the money if he gave me a tour of the entire city. We stopped at the Port de Peche so that I could get caught taking prohibited photos, then out to the point at Plakodji Plage when they kicked us out.

Mending nets

The poop at the Plage was daunting, the living conditions eye-opening. Up along the lagoon through the markets, then down the Avenue to the Etoile, around the airport to the beach at Fidjrosse, we finally ended up back at CODIAM in Cadjehoun after dark. There were candles and lanterns everywhere, the quartier without power. Casimo suggested we go up to Ganvie in the morning, and we agreed to meet at 9am.

Etoile Rouge

The pumps weren’t running, a shower out of the question, and without the overhead fan it was a very uncomfortable night indeed. I was still awake at 230am when power was finally restored to make it all better.

Conference Center

Water

roel krabbendam — Sun, 04 Mar 2007 00:00:00 GMT

Ganvie

I was a bleary mess when Casimo showed up at 9, just my luck to meet the one punctual guy in town. I treated him to breakfast, we agreed to 5000Cfa for the day plus gas, and we got on the road. We drove 15 Km north to Calavi, hired a pirogue, and spent 4 hours out on Lake Nokoue.

Ganvie

Ganvie was started in the 18th century by the Tofinu to escape from the Fon, who had taboos against venturing on water. It has grown to over 30,000 inhabitants, all dependant on three recent artesian wells.

Ganvie

There is no plumbing here, so residents fetch their own...sewage I will leave to your imagination. Most of the houses sit on stilts, the lake barely a meter deep here. In places there is solid land.

Ganvie

Laundry

Most of the residents are still involved with fishing, but tourism is obviously making inroads. The boat tours are sufficiently well-organized to feature three venues where local crafts are sold.

Ganvie

The residents are not all hardened to the tourist trade, and my camera was waved off more than once. Like Hollywood stars they would like to be famous, but without the invasion of their privacy. I understand their ambivelence.

Casimir

Casimo brought me by the house to meet his family on our way back into town. We caught his two sons at home, and his wife at the coiffure, before heading over to his brother's house nearby. There I was treated to a large glass of palm wine where a small taste would have done, and heard of Mathieu's difficulty financing a year's study abroad to finish his legal training. I left him my email address. The massive headache that ensued did nothing to keep me awake when I got back to CODIAM.

The following day I spent hours negotiating prices for presents at the artisan village, then got Casimo's help in finding a car to get me and my stuff to the airport, handed him all my extra food and money, and got on the midnight Air France flight for Paris. Dinner was exquisite, the wine not bad at all, and just like that I stepped out of the developing world. We flew my entire trip in 3 hours and I saw none of it in the dark. I was going home to my girls.

Aboubacar Mahamadou

roel krabbendam — Fri, 09 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

I met Aboubacar at the mosque within 10 minutes of entering Agadez (Monsieur, donne moi une cadeau!), and he was quick to show me his bicycle: no brakes, lots of maintenance required. I told him I would help him with some adjustments before I left town.

Two days later his friends nabbed me on the street to tell me Aboubacar was looking for me, and later that evening he met me at the internet cafe for the promised tune-up. I removed the two functional brake pads, installed them on the rear brake, adjusted as required, and until these pads wear down to the nubs, at least, he can safely stop his bike.

Now he meets me at the internet cafe and watches patiently while I type, happy to look at my photographs and possibly quite proud to be an internationally recognized star of the blogosphere.

Border

roel krabbendam — Thu, 08 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

The crossing from Tamanrasset took 2 days. Tire pressure was the chief concern, avoiding “fesch-fesch” (particularly fine and voracious sand)a priority, and keeping dust out of the truck an impossibility. We ate a lot of sand.

Twin mounds

I've been away too long...

Late in the first day we encountered a truck mired in sand, a crew of Tuaregs working to clear the tires. Wolf stopped the truck, grabbed his camera and started filming from a distance, but we were quickly discovered. Wolf later said what scared him the most was their eyes: there was no there there.

Truck

Refer to Steven Spielberg's first movie after film school

The crew came after us with rocks, there was a brief intervention from Ahmed as Wolf, shirtless, stared them down, and we quickly retreated to the truck with the gear. Ahead of them now, we soon realized they had gotten underway, and we spent a tense hour attempting to put some distance between us before finding a campsite well away from the piste. There was no question in our minds that the crew we had encountered with that truck would attack if they ran into us again. We kept our lights off until it seemed impossible that they hadn’t passed on, kept an eye out when later that evening a truck stopped on the piste near us, and finally slept without incident.

Paving Laouni

Paving crew taking a break

We reached Laouni the following day. The treacherous Laouni sand flats have ended the trip for hundreds and hundreds of travelers forced to simply abandon their cars to the desert as their engines consumed sand or the sand consumed their tires. Many have died losing the correct piste and driving off into the desert until their gas runs out. I had seen grim pictures and read grim stories and so did not expect to find many of the wrecks removed and a paving crew extending asphalt this far north. Laouni as a significant threat to north-south traffic appears to be no more.

Gas line

We needed diesel at In Guezzam late the second day, and discovered when we finally arrived a tremendous line of cars waiting for gas delivery.

Gas line

Luckily they weren’t waiting for diesel. Unfortunately, we parked in front of a police barracks, accidently included the building in some pictures, and were immediately stopped by two hefty characters who demanded our cameras.

Rolling gas containers home

Again Ahmed intervened and after some tense negotiation managed to save our gear, but we were too late to cross the border into Niger. I suppose it was poetic symmetry then, that I camped out on the Algerian border heading out exactly as I had camped out on the border coming in. We crossed into Niger the next morning after only 3 hours of delay at customs.

Sahara Landscapes

roel krabbendam — Thu, 08 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

Camping between Tamanrasset and I-n-Guezzam.

Balise

Obviously I had too much time on my hands:

Trash landscape

Landscape

Sick, Part Deux

roel krabbendam — Tue, 06 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

This lump on my neck has gotten bigger and redder and more painful, and my level of concern is, um…enhanced. It is now bigger than my Adam’s Apple. Polly calls International SOS, my travel insurance company, and they refer us to their Paris office for a referral here in Tamanrasset. The Paris office is wonderful, I am spared the difficulty of explaining my needs in French, and they tell me to call back in an hour while they figure out whom to send me to.

Lump

With a whole hour to think about it, my imagination is given free rein. Bad. Very, very, very bad. As Polly will attest, I’m already verging on hypochondria. Everything that happens to me is the worst thing that ever happened, IN THE WORLD!

Image 1: Alien, where those creatures grow inside living human beings until they are mature enough to explode out of their cocoon’s stomach. Only, this would be my neck.

Now, that sounds very melodramatic, but Laurie Newman Osher will attest to a little episode in Peru in which a Bott Fly laid eggs in the pores of her skin, resulting in these large, white worms growing sub-cutaneously to her significant discomfort. They were finally coaxed out by a gentleman who came to our house, smoked possibly two packs of cigarettes in a row, collected all that nicotine from his breathe in a handkerchief and applied it to Laurie’s skin. Denied oxygen, these monstrous worms made their way to the surface, where they were speared and extracted. Yikes.

Image 2: Cancer, the voracious, terminal-within-weeks kind that snatches its helpless victims with barely time to say good-bye. All this radiation: In Ecker, the sun, the satellite phone…the poetry of it is irresistible: hapless victim realizes life-long dream to cross Sahara Desert only to die in the arms of…well, who know? Hollywood would find some beautiful Tuareg who had hoped I would be her ticket to a better life, I’m sure. Wolf Gaudlitz would probably have some thoughts…

OK, cancer just seems a little too awful to consider, and perhaps rather unlikely: this thing has become a raging nightmare in only 4-5 days.

Image 3: Environmental Factors. The glands in my neck are stressed beyond endurance due to all the banned insecticides and herbicides American companies dumped on the African market. Every meal I eat further throws me into the chemical soup, until finally my thyroids swell up like balloons. It isn’t the old lump on my neck but the glands behind it that are the issue…

This one doesn’t sound too bad. I leave Tamanrasset, my kidneys and liver perform some internal clean-up, and within days I’m back to my old self. 50 or 60 years from now I get cancer from all those banned substances, but I’m old and grouchy by then and good riddance.

Image 4: Infection: Virulent and voracious bacterioids rush through my bloodstream, replicating like bunnies. My white blood cells are thoroughly overwhelmed, defenseless against an enemy they have never seen before. On the outside I look normal, but I am only a shell of my former self. Inside, all is putrefaction. Starting at my neck, my cells slowly absorb the monstrous invaders, which then suck at the mitochondria and liquefy the nuclei until my cells shrivel and die. Finally, as I am walking down the street one day, I implode in a rush of liquid. Bystanders find only a puddle amid the clothes, bones and teeth on the sidewalk.

I like this one the best. Some antibiotics are all it takes, the lump disappears in a week and I’m left awed at the sagacity of the local doctor and his healing touch.

The hour isn’t up, but I’m making myself anxious and I call the Paris office again. “Please call back in a half hour, we need to call our Algier office”.

I managed to load some Bob Marley on my video camera/MP3 player in Ghardaia, but that’s all I have. It just isn’t the happiest music…

I call Wolf Gaudlitz to see if he’s any closer to Tamanrasset, and to confirm that he has my bike, but he’s out of cell service range. I play chess for an hour against Boris Spasski, who thrashes me as always. Actually I usually win, but only by taking back all my bad moves.

I call again and get the names of two doctors here in Tamanrasset: a surgeon and a generalist, both of whom I’m told work out of the hospital here. I’m not quite ready for the surgeon’s point of view, so I call the generalist and a nice guy on the phone tells me to grab a taxi and come on by. Dromadaire’s proprietor catches me on the way out, offers me a ride and delivers me to the hospital, where I’m told there’s been a misunderstanding: I need to go to the doctor’s private “cabinet” downtown next to the gynecological clinic. I’m starting to wonder if I misunderstood “gynecologist” for “generalist” on the phone.

Anyway, I get some general directions and guess my way to the office on foot, where I’m greeted by a gentleman of about my age in slacks and a pullover sweater who immediately invites me into his office and puts me at ease. Dr. O asks some general questions and then has me lie down while he looks at the inflamed ping-pong ball on my neck (I told Polly it was the size of a golf ball, but that was just to get some extra sympathy). He takes an ultrasonic device to my neck (he must be a gynecologist!!!), inspects from all angles to my immense discomfort, and decides that it is simply a small infection. No hidden succubus, no cancerous tumor, and who knows about the environmental factors. He asks me if I am allergic to anything (no), whether I mind injections (love ‘em), and whether I can help him find work in the US (NO, NO, NO, I TOTALLY MADE THAT UP), and prescribed me 4 items which I picked up this morning after getting some money out of the bank.

He never mentioned payment, so I will stop in later to clear that up.

I got back to Dromadaire after the appointment, called Polly with the update, and heard that Dr. L had suggested a similar course of treatment sight unseen, adding hot compresses as an additional measure. I realize suddenly that this was stressful by the immense feeling of relief I feel.

Lakhdar stops in later with his friend Tassa and we tour Tamanrasset together, stopping for tea along the way. Then Faysel says hi after dinner and suddenly I feel like I live here.

Transience

roel krabbendam — Wed, 07 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

When I was very young and living in Holland I had a little song I hummed to myself every night as I went to sleep. It consoled me lying there alone, especially when bats flew at the windows, and humming it was an important and meaningful ritual. It puzzled and frustrated me greatly then, when one evening I could not remember the tune. How was it possible to lose something so important after so long, when I hummed it every night? How could my own mind work against me like this? How was it capable of such Independence? Even more surprising, the tune returned some weeks or months later, long enough that I almost didn’t recognize it when it came to me. It was a short-lived Reunion, and I could feel the tune slipping away from me again over several nights until it finally disappeared for good. I remember actually wishing it farewell, and coming to some acceptance of its final disappearance, and I have not forgotten in over 40 years that I once had this song and that it went away…

I mention it as a reminder to myself I suppose, of the inevitability and importance of change. I have been thinking about Tamanrasset since I was 20 years old, and even though the Tamanrasset I am visiting now is something entirely different from that Tamanrasset of 28 years ago, coming here has certainly felt like the fulfillment of something important. It is time, however, to leave.

To Faysel Abdelassiz and to Ben Sebgag Lakhdar, both of whom made my stay here so meaningful: my deepest thanks and very best wishes. I cannot currently imagine the circumstances that might allow us to see each other again, but I certainly hope that we may. “It’s a small world”, I hear, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. To both Faysel and Lakhdar I can only say: “You are my friend, and my door stands open for you”. Niger beckons. Benin beckons. I hope both countries will forgive my current sentiment, which is that this was the climax and the rest is dénouement; I may feel otherwise later. I leave here, in any case, with heavy, heavy heart.

Sick

roel krabbendam — Mon, 05 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

I wake up in the middle of the night with a bump on my neck I’ve had checked out before now red and swollen. I immediately diagnose cancer due to radiation exposure at In Ecker or from the hours spent on the satellite phone, and go back to sleep. The next day I decide to see if it goes away by itself, but do call Polly to ask Dr. L for some strategies in dealing with this little problem. I notice a sore throat and some sniffles, but it all seems quite mild.

Encampement Dromedaire

It is time to start taking my malaria pills in anticipation of Niger and I pop one of them after breakfast. The Orange prescription bottle from CVS says take one per week with food and plenty of water. Later that day I have lunch with friends and by the time I get back to Dromadaire I know something is terribly wrong: I feel a little dizzy, a little flush, a little achy. The sore throat and sniffles add a little je-ne-sais-quoi. I eat very little at dinner, and get into bed. Chills and a fever arrive to keep me company. My stomach is already dancing when Violent Diarrhea prances in, ready to party. I’m not in the mood, but Diarrhea insists and we stay up all night together, shaking and carousing to Bob Marley on the MP3 player:

“I’m hurting, I’m hurting deep inside,
good God now hear my cry, hear my cry,
my my my my cry,
feel the pain, feel the pain,
happiness come back a while…”

Encampement Dromedaire

The African toilet consists of a porcelain tray set into the floor with two raised footsteps and a single hole. Dromadaire is kept meticulously clean but that open hole always smells a bit. A squatting position is required, which I personally find very uncomfortable but which seems to come naturally to everyone else. A tap and a bucket serve as toilet paper and flush mechanism, and a sink outside allows you to wash your hands afterwards.

Toilet

As a paperless system I suppose it has certain ecological assets, but I find the whole thing a pain in the a--. I walk back and forth between the toilets and my room all night and by morning I am empty and exhausted.

Dromedaire arcade

“We don’t need no more trouble,
We don’t need no more trouble,
Lord knows we don’t need no trouble…
No more trouble,
No more trouble,
What we need is…”

Sick room

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. The late morning sun insinuates itself through the joints between the wood slats of the shutter of my single window, casting shadows on the wall in front of me. I notice after a while that I have dozed and the shadows now reach the floor. Outside, the women who clean Dromadaire chatter while they work. Twenty French tourists came through for the night and they are no doubt busy. A cat howls, no doubt the one that begs me for scraps every night. The goats grazing the garbage at the gate howl and bray. A distant hammer pounds a rhythm, the echoes making the world outside seem very big and this room very small. I feel weak and I’m worried about this bump on my neck, but no word yet from Dr. L.

Dromedaire window

Salah brings me some palm milk his mother made to settle my stomach, and I get up to attend to the laundry. I feel awful, but the ceiling was getting pretty boring.

Kids

roel krabbendam — Sun, 04 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

I told Lakhdar that I had a very demanding audience (!) that wanted to see what life was like for kids here in Algeria, and he promptly brought me to an elementary school in one of the newer neighborhoods near his house. We entered the school walls through a big, blue sheet metal gate and found ourselves in a big dirt courtyard. To the left was a small building obviously housing toilets, straight ahead was a long building fronted by an arcade that housed the classrooms, and to the right was a small building housing the offices, with additional buildings I couldn’t identify beyond. Everything was surrounded by the wall, but I noticed later that the classrooms had windows out the back protected by metal grates. Groups of kids were hanging out in the arcade, laughing and chatting.

Kids selling American Hero cigarettes

We entered the principal’s office, and shook hands with a black man wearing a white turban, a reddish robe and glasses. I thought he introduced himself as a friend of M. Fitzgerald (that couldn't be right!), but he did not speak Dutch (oy vey!), English, Spanish or French, and so Lakhdar translated between French and Arabic. I stated that I had come from the United States, that I had an eleven year old daughter who was interested in knowing more about how kids live in Algeria, and that I would appreciate permission to visit a classroom and perhaps take some pictures. It came as no surprise to me at all that this would require permission from the highest levels, and that it would be impossible to do so today. Lakhdar and I agreed upon leaving that this meant it wouldn’t happen ever, so he took me to meet a friend of his who taught school but was playing hookie…I mean was out sick…to get the story.

Kids after school

We meandered on foot, stopping at Lakhdar’s office (not much work until Algiers approves this year’s budget), walking through a project, chatting with friends he met along the way, meeting Tayeb Benzouada finally out on the street near the center of town. He invited us into his home, and as always we removed our shoes before stepping onto a big rug in a concrete room with an open door and no windows. We adjusted ourselves on the mattresses and pillows lining the edges of the room, a metal cup with water arrived, then an omelet and bread and tea. We sat around the omelet and took pieces using bread as a fork. A very old man in a blue robe and white turban shuffled in with a cane and lay down. He seemed to mutter a bit to himself, and we chatted about school.

Kids after school

The school system is organized like it is in the US, with 6 elementary school grades (primaire), 2 middle school grades (moyenne), and 4 high school grades (lycee). There is a movement afoot to add grade 6 to middle school. Kids learn Arabic from the very start, a bit of a project since half arrive speaking only Tamachek. In the third grade they begin to study French, and some students go on to study English in high school. Besides the emphasis on language, the subjects he rattled off were exactly the same as in the US, except for learning to read the Quran. The only stunner was class size: typically around 48. I actually burst out laughing trying to imagine the talents a teacher would have to bring to an assignment like that. Tayeb shrugged.

Kids after school

The school day starts at 745am, runs to 1130am, restarts at 215pm and ends at 530pm. Everyone walks home for lunch. There is a 15 minute recess in both the morning and the afternoon. Tayeb said this: “We put a lot of emphasis on teaching kids respect for personal boundaries (he used the word “frontiere”), and on teaching tolerance. Christian, Muslim: in the end we are all just the same and these kids need to understand that. The rest is simply teaching the basics, just as we’ve always done”.

Kids headed to school

There is a parent organization that tries to make sure things like broken windows get fixed, but due to the poverty of the families it is generally a symbolic effort.

Technical Bulletin: Electronics

roel krabbendam — Sat, 03 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

28 years ago I spent a year on my bicycle with an instamatic camera and a watch. I had loftier ambitions and more substantial concerns this time around.

1. Laptop: Yes, this blog is possible in part because I bought the very tiny, very expensive, and truly wonderful Sony Vaio VGN-TXN15P from Circuit City in Natick, Massachusetts. It weighs just over 2 pounds, measures something like 8” x 10” x 1”, and easily fits into my bike bags. It has a single Intel Centrino processor so it is not the fastest machine on the street, but it comfortably handles the applications I use (Explorer, Word, and my camera software primarily) and it is loaded with connectivity options that make internet access in all kinds of situations a real breeze. I have walked into hotels in Tunisia and picked up the internet wirelessly, and I have reconfigured plug-in connections with a minimum of dumb fumbling in many internet cafes since. I generally plug my own computer into internet café wires to simplify transfer to the blog of my photos and essays, which I typically prepare ahead of time. I back-up all my stuff on SD cards but SD slots have not been available. I get 3-4 hours out of the battery, which isn’t exactly awesome but has proved sufficient so far. I originally considered a smaller and much more durable unit with 11 hours of battery life made for the US military, but it didn’t support SD cards and it didn’t have a CD drive, both of which I considered vital. I wanted the machine to be useful after as well as during the trip (assuming it survives!). The machine resides in a padded carrying case Polly and I found at The Container Store in Natick, Massachusetts.
2. Solar Collector: An important criterion for all of my electronic devices was that they run on AA batteries: easy to carry, easy to replace, easy to find everywhere. Some devices like the laptop were only available with proprietary batteries however, and for them I purchased a solar collector over the internet from Real Goods/Gaiam in Colorado. It rolls up into a 4” diameter, 15” long tube and delivers a charge...slowly. I haven’t used the collector yet because the trip has evolved into something much less remote than what I had originally conceived, but may yet do so in Niger.
3. Camera 1: I originally thought this trip would make a great video, and found a tiny Samsung video camera with additional remote I could bolt onto my bike helmet. It also takes stills and plays music I have stored on an SD card. I discovered, however, that finding video content of any interest is incredibly difficult, that MPEGs are of limited quality, and that taking videos really isolates you from what you are capturing. It is very difficult to both engage in an activity and film it at the same time. I ended up talking to some professional film people and taking a lot of Very Boring Video before recognizing that the blog would be my medium, and stills the preferred visualization. What I have done with the video camera is photograph bicycle rides through some of the cities and towns I have spent some time in, to communicate something of the flavor of these places in a way that stills cannot. I’m not sure these efforts have been that successful.
4. Camera 2: I bought a 6.0 Megapixel Canon Powershot S3 IS with 12x optical zoom, manual focus option, image stabilization, and very handy and flexible display frame that allows me to take pictures without having to squint through a viewfinder. This is very handy when you want to take pictures surreptitiously of the customs post between Tunisia and Algeria, or when you want to talk to someone and take their picture as well. The software that came with the camera is loaded on my laptop, and it allows me to easily download the photographs, rename them with the date, correct images if required, and stitch together multiple frames. The camera runs on (4) AA lithium batteries and stores everything on the 2 Gigabyte SD cards I brought with me as back-up. After 6 weeks of travel, I just filled up my first SD card. I was originally concerned that 6.0 megapixels would be insufficient, but the leap to 10 megapixels meant investing in an SLR camera which was much bulkier and much more expensive, and I had to admit finally that I was not a professional photographer but a guy on a bike: weight and size triumphed over whether National Geographic would ever come calling. You see the results on the blog (though I’m obviously only showing you the few decent shots and not the reams of dreck). The hardest part, frankly, has been keeping the lenses clean while traveling through so much dust and dirt: any camera would have presented the same problem. My many, many thanks to John (you should have come with me!) Kaplan-Earle, a really talented professional photographer in Concord, Massachusetts, for sharing with me his thoughts on technology and for hooking me up with the good (and patient!) people at Calumet, a photographic equipment outfit in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
5. Satellite Phone: Polly called up WGBH/Channel 2 in Boston and they said they send their people out with the Iridium 9505A: the smallest and easiest phone on the market with a satellite network spanning the entire globe. The unit costs between $1500 and $1800 (making it the most expensive unit on the market as well) and I found calling rates ranging from $1.00 to $1.30 depending on the service provider. 28 years ago, a postcard every three months was all my parents got, to their extreme discomfort (sorry mom!). I’m a husband and father (and son!) this time around, and daily calls are imperative. Weighed this way, the cost in dollars is meaningless. I purchased a data kit with the phone and it allows me to access the internet over the phone. I tried this in Tunisia and discovered this was painfully slow, with lots of dropped connectivity. I have relied instead on hotel and internet café access so far, though this has sometimes meant a few days between blog updates. I hope the audience is patient. One alternative was to buy a BGAN portable satellite dish. They cost about $2400 and are a bit bigger and heavier, but supposedly give great internet access and presumably, internet phone service. Size and weight proved decisive in my case, however. I have heard but cannot verify that the Iridium network, including 12 satellites orbiting the earth, may be suffering financial problems and may even be taken off the air (I need another month, people): if so, my sincere condolences to the investors. Ouch!
6. GPS: I mapped my original route using Google Earth, purchasing the $25 upgrade from the free version to allow me the mapping function. Google Earth resolution was sufficient to recognize all of the paved portions of my route (though I naturally wasn’t concerned about navigating those) and most of the dirt pistes. I also culled waypoints from an excellent book on the Sahara by an Englishman named Chris Scott, who has traveled extensively by motorcycle throughout the desert. Sometimes I had to map a variety of possible routes where the pistes were hard to recognize. The software that came with the GPS unit, along with a little computer routine I downloaded via the internet, allowed me to translate my Google Earth maps into routes recognizable by the GPS device. I purchased a Magellan Explorist 210 from REI in Natick, Massachusetts (Yes, I spent a LOT of money in Natick, Massachusetts) because of its small size, because it runs on AA batteries and because it stored the right number of routes and waypoints per route for my application. The device also serves as my watch. I was originally very interested in a very small GPS device made by Garmin especially for cycling, but it was designed more for training and less for really long trips like this one. Because Tunisia nixed my passage south, and because Algeria required a guide, I may not use the GPS device at all on this trip. I brought paper maps and Google Earth printouts as backup.
7. Transformers: Travelling presents two problems for electronic equipment: plug configuration and voltage. Brookstone solved both with a fairly elegant little unit that offers 4 different plug shapes and either 110V or 220V input. I also bought a transformer with a cigarette lighter plug from Kensington allowing me to recharge my laptop and other electronics from a car. That unit also comes with every possible wall plug configuration, and with the special Sony adaptor serves as a backup to my regular laptop plug.
8. Bicycle Computer: A bicycle computer would have allowed me to track my speed and distance traveled more easily than a GPS device, but I decided not to buy one at all. I figured the GPS device would be good enough, and I kept thinking of that trip 28 years ago with almost no electronic equipment at all…enough was enough.
9. Ziplock Bags: Everything but the laptop and solar collector resides in one: so far, so good.

Wisdom

roel krabbendam — Sat, 03 Feb 2007 00:00:00 GMT

Ben Sebgab Lakhdar

I met Ben Sebgab Lakhdar over a year ago the modern way: trolling the internet. Lakhdar posted his picture and some photographs of Tamanrasset and the surrounding desert on a website called Virtualtourist.com, designed to showcase the travels of its members. I sent him an email from Acton discussing my plans to travel through the Sahara, and we embarked on a bit of correspondence which culminated in Lakhdar preparing and sending me a “Certificat de Herbergement”, a notorized piece of paper stating that he would give me a place to stay during my visit to Tamanrasset, between October 2006 and January 2007.

This statement is meaningless because in fact, I am staying at “Encampment Dromadaire”, not with Lakhdar, but the document is required to get a tourist visa to Algeria.

Ben Sebgab Lakhdar

On the site of a 100 year old Governor's palace, currently being reconstructed.

Lakhdar is an architect, a lucky coincidence that immediately gave us plenty to discuss. He studied at a university in the north of the country for six years, received his degree, came back to Tamanrasset, and within a couple of years found his present job.

Lakhdar works for the state, in exactly the same capacity as an architect working, for example, for the State of Massachusetts. He administers contracts, oversees the selection of architects and the development of the design and construction documents, and keeps an eye on contractor selection and actual construction. He told me that he appreciated his job, but that it kept him at a distance from the actual architecture and prevented it from being an affair of the heart. He hopes to open an office in the next five or six years for exactly this reason.

Ben Sebgab Lakhdar

Thursday here is Saturday in the States: the start of the weekend. I left him an email yesterday suggesting we get together, and he came by to pick me up this morning at “Dromadaire”. We went to a café for a cup of tea and then walked through the city discussing everything from city planning to meeting girls.

Camels

A marriage, he told me, costs 7 camels and possibly some clothes and jewelry. Lakhdar has 2 camels kept by his dad, who apparently wanders the desert “en trek” with a herd of camels. (He doesn’t take tourists, he doesn’t deliver salt, and there isn’t a route. He just…wanders…). Lakhdar stated the he found the girls here especially materialistic and this made it difficult to begin a relationship. Instead of discovering each others ideals and values from the start, it was imperative for a man to present himself first as financially substantial. Only then was it possible to begin any kind of discussion regarding affairs of the heart, a bit of a reversal of the American courtship, I thought. I pointed out a particularly engaging girl in the store of one of his friends, but he laughed and shrugged: “interesting, but for the moment impossible”.

Lakhdar took me to his home, where after some discussion with mom while I waited outside, we entered a small courtyard and then a concrete block room stuccoed inside and out with cement, with rusty steel beams supporting a corrugated metal roof. The doorway was open and there were no windows. We left our shoes at the door and relaxed on mattresses resting on rugs on the floor. Lakhdar brought in a metal cup of water and a plate filled with scalloped potatoes, carrots, onions and meat, from which we both ate using aluminum spoons. Naval oranges and three cups of tea served by a younger brother finished the meal.

Mosque under construction

A mosque currently under construction, the gift of a construction contractor.

Lakhdar told me that Tamanrasset experienced a lot of growth during the last ten years with the exodus from the north in the face of political turmoil, and the exodus from Niger in the face of famine. The city was unprepared for growth and did not have the resources to enforce any kind of master plan. Lately, however, services have been brought to the bidonvilles, a building permit is required, and enforcement of a master plan is in place.

I noted the lack of palm trees, a stark contrast to the M’zab Valley, and he thought the resource had been destroyed by the outsiders who bought land and didn’t understand the value of trees. I thought it was perhaps the biggest loss precipitated by all this growth. Lakhdar noted that the falling watertable level is a significant problem facing the city, with a pipeline in the works to bring water from In Salah 680 km away. I told him about the Rio Grande, and how it never reaches the sea.

Late afternoon bicycles

Late afternoon on a weekend

He enjoys traveling, and last year visited Sousse, Tunisia with friends. He went to Italy with some of the family the year before, to organize connections for his uncles “agence de voyage”. When I told him he should visit the United States, he said it was awfully far away.

We discussed building materials a bit, because I had heard at Poste Tagamart from Faysel that the village of Tagemart had been rebuilt entirely in concrete and stone. I thought it peculiar because the traditional mud and reed brick results in a much more comfortable interior, but Faysel stated that the State had paid for the reconstruction conditional on the use of cement. I thought: a stupidity that sounds like the World Bank or trade agreements or industrial pressure.

In fact, construction in stone and concrete is more impervious to water and probably requires less maintenance than mud brick. Lakhdar also showed me a 100 year old governors palace abandoned in 1935 however, sufficiently intact to merit restoration. I sensed that durability was perhaps in the details, not necessarily the materials. The good people of Tagemart have free, durable buildings in which to live uncomfortably for many lifetimes to come: presumably willing and possibly very proud participants in the arrangement. Somewhere, somehow, well intentioned people are perpetrating stupidity on a massive scale, though. I thought: “This too we have in common”.

Arcade

This is not a screed against people in government, by the way. I have met many of them, working with the State of Massachusetts and the General Services Administration in Washington, and I have found them smarter than me and often far more idealistic. It is more the recognition that wisdom is hard won, often underappreciated, and even systematically winnowed from some institutions; a triumph of the young, perhaps, but possibly the ruination of us all.

Surprising and wonderful things can follow from youthful or simply emotional impulses, there is absolutely no doubt. (Solo travel through Africa, anyone)? When I survey the stupidities I have personally perpetrated however, I understand this: I wish I had listened better, understood more, proceeded with a bit more caution, and considered the possible consequences. It’s a survey that makes me miss and appreciate my dad.

La Reve

roel krabbendam — Wed, 31 Jan 2007 00:00:00 GMT

I dreamt last night that I was staying in a reed hut in the middle of the desert, and that I lay under a brightly lit almost-full moon sky with shadows sharp against the sand. Around me, mountainous piles of oddly shaped Boulders stood in silhouette and I could not sleep but instead lay for hours tracking the moon across the sky. A cold wind arose and I slept finally to dream of a complicated mathematic I was supposed to understand but could not.

I awoke to find the moon set, a man making tea over an open fire, and a woman shaking her right hand with thumb and forefinger fixed in rigid “L”, a herd of goats clattering behind her. 9,000 year old petroglyphs in red ochre lay here amid green artemesia and thornier plants, and I walked later across a sandy plain tattooed by scarab and moula moula tracks to find them. Under an overhanging Boulder, staring up at an animal of incomparable elegance painted 320 generations ago, I suddenly experienced an overwhelming feeling of deep, inner tranquility.

It came as some surprise to recognize that this was exactly what I had come for.

Petroglyph

Waiting

roel krabbendam — Sat, 27 Jan 2007 00:00:00 GMT

Dune approaching Arak

60 km later, the sky finally cleared. It became obvious that the blowing sand had been only 10 meters or so above the ground all along. I saw sand dunes the size of mountains as we left the Plateau de Tademait and entered a canyon for Arak.

Rock

Arak is a small group of houses made of earthen bricks, a couple of cafes and a gas station. Long rows of trucks line the roadside, and the café where we stopped for coffee was full of truckdrivers having lunch. It was pleasant there, with palms giving shade and plenty of white plastic tables and chairs. There was no tire of the right size available, or it cost three times its usual price, I couldn’t understand the conversation, but we were told the road was good to Tamanrasset and we should just go ahead without the spare. We filled up the gas tank, negotiated our ninth police barricade since leaving Ghardaia, and moved on.

Tankers at Arak

Arak

At 325 km from Tamanrasset, Faysel shredded the back left tire. I felt complicit in our situation, aghast at the stupidity of not insisting on getting a spare at Arak. We pulled over behind a parked truck, a bus came by, and Faysal hopped aboard with one wheel to get a tire at In Ecker, 160 km away. I sat down with the truck drivers on a blanket they had put down under a tree, and we shared tea and peanuts.

Beudjabbara Slimone owns his own truck and drives all over Algeria depending on his latest load. He lives in Ouargla, where his kids all go to the university. We discussed the usual: politics, family, kids, and whether life was better in the US or Algeria. I argued for life among family and friends and a culture you knew no matter where that might be. He told me there were no tires at In Ecker, that Faysal would have to go all the way to Tamanrasset, and that he would be back tomorrow at the earliest. He suggested I move the car off the road in case of bandits or thieves.

Truckers

Beudjabbara Slimone, second from right.

We were joined by three other truck drivers, one young guy pulling out a collection of three year old postcards written in English from a Hungarian girl he had met over the internet. He had held them all this time and never gotten them translated and simply wanted me to tell him the romantic bits, but there were none except for a single use of the word “Dear”. In any case, they were three years old.

I took their picture, got their addresses, and they took off for Tamanrasset. I sat in the car and tried to read Faysal’s French literature and waited.

I learned to wait when I was a kid, sitting in the dentist office amid Highlights and National Geographics. By turning my thoughts off and finding this hum inside me, I could make time pass effortlessly and without impatience. Interestingly, I never needed painkillers until I was in my twenties, around the time I remember losing my ability to find that hum. Waiting has been less easy since.

I couldn’t move the car, because I was sure Faysal had hopped on the bus without noting where we were. He would drive right by when he returned. That bit about the bandits and thieves had caught my attention however, so I pitched my tent out of view of the road, yanked all the valuables out of the car, and called it a night.

Faysal returned at 5am, the Tamanrasset-Ghardaia bus traveling at 30km/hr for half an hour searching for the car. He had a new tire from Tamanrasset, but left the food he had bought on the bus. I put him in the tent for some sleep, climbed a nearby hill, and waited for dawn.

So, I wait, watching the wind drive rivers of sand down the oued. A collection of upright slates surround a body-sized plot, and I wonder who might be buried in such isolation. The stars are stupendously bright and plentiful, with a faint glow on the horizon that might be dawn, or might be In Ecker. The theme to “I Dream of Jeannie” floats through my head, and thankfully doesn’t stay. I doze a bit, and suddenly realize the stars have gone, and then watch as slowly the sun rises to wash the surrounding peaks. I am radiantly happy that events have led me to this stunningly beautiful moment.

The morning after the second flat

Fire

roel krabbendam — Tue, 23 Jan 2007 00:00:00 GMT

Wolf and I packed up and got ready to leave before the day advanced much so to avoid traveling at night. He turned the ignition key, sent power to the starter motor, applied some pressure to the gas pedal and then looked at me with a slight frown.

Wolf after the fire

He asked, “What is that strange noise”? We listened, and then smelled something burning. Smoke suddenly billowed black and flames shot out of the underside of the cab. We bailed, Wolf leaping out with a fire extinguisher, and within seconds the fire was out. That’s all it took: a few seconds. The truck was stuck. We were 50 kilometers from town.

Truck fire

On my satellite phone we called for help from Guerrera. Just before nightfall, Nasser and Ibrahim and three mechanics from town arrived to pull the damaged parts from the truck, and we decided I would accompany them back to town to assist in finding a replacement. We left after dark, leaving Wolf alone with the truck. Our vehicle did not have four-wheel drive and so we were not in a position to take off cross-country: we had to find and stay on the main “piste” back to town. We lost that piste.

Truck fire

Remember that drive out to “La Source”? The indecision, the arguments, the confusion? Reverse the intended direction, add more Very Opinionated Men, remove every conceivable landmark except the moon and what may or may not be the faint glow of the town (they call that a beacon????), add dirt tracks going in every conceivable direction, and in the back of your mind remember that story of the guy and his motorcycle dying out in the desert after running out of gas: at that point you are ready to imagine the level of concern and….um….discussion in the car when the driver made it clear from his erratic decisions that he hadn’t a clue about where we were or where to go.

All I could remember from my nights out in the tent was that the moon was setting lately in the west and that the town was north. We had to keep the moon to our left. That would have been fine but we had to find the piste, and that in the end took us hours. Even when we found something that looked like it headed in the right direction, we were forced to rely on the moon to keep us oriented; the number of possible tracks to follow and the number of times a track simply disappeared was truly disorienting. It was with tremendous good fortune that the moon didn’t set until just before we hit the highway, that the tire didn’t go flat until just before town, and that we had a full tank of gas to get us back. This is not an experience I care to repeat, ever.

I am back in Ghardaia now, and should be heading south shortly. After twenty eight years of simply imagining it, I’m going to see Tamanrasset. Happy Birthday, Mia. I love you.

Flies

roel krabbendam — Mon, 22 Jan 2007 00:00:00 GMT

If the laws of Dispersion are such that you find the highest concentration of something at its point of origin, then I know we have come very close indeed to the source of all flies. It is here in the desert south of Guerrera.

Flies on your lips
Flies in your clothes
Flies on your eyelids
And up your nose

The wax in your ears
The salt in your tears
The sweat on your brow
All fly chow now

Washing their hands
Rubbing their feet
Keeping an eye out
For fresh (white) meat

They swarm, they flurry
Fly clouds in a hurry
Quick to swoop down
On the poop you don’t bury

Cockroaches may be here
Long after man dies
But I’ll put my money
On the survival of flies

Someone call Darwin or Leakey or Goodall: I’m sure it all started here, the origin of the species.

Stories

roel krabbendam — Mon, 22 Jan 2007 00:00:00 GMT

Stories I heard late at night by the campfire:

Nasser was bitten by a snake while working at the farm last summer. He immediately sucked what he could out of the wound, applied a tourniquet to his arm, and was hauled off to Guerrera 30 kilometers away. There was no anti-venom available. As he felt the poison working its way up his arm towards his heart he was hauled to a hospital 120 kilometers away in Ghardaia. There, he spent four days in the hospital in a situation that might best be described as “tenuous”. He said: “it was important not to panic, because that only speeds your circulation”. He lived.

A young man from Guerara spent one holiday zipping around the desert on his motor bike without regard for the possible consequences. It so happened that the electricity went out that night in Guerrera due to some system failure, and so the glow of the town that serves as navigational beacon in the desert was lost. The young man guessed wrong about his directions, headed straight out into the desert instead of towards town, and ran out of gas without any idea about what had happened. It was mid-summer and he had no water and within two days he was dead, just a few kilometers it turns out from “La Source” and salvation.

One of the guys working on the farm was also bitten when he dared to have some fun with a snake he found at the farm. He panicked but had the good fortune to have anti-venom now at the farm, and so also survived. Death is usually a matter of less than an hour.

Snakes and scorpions are commonplace on the farm, but now, in the winter, they are all hibernating. In any case, it is only the snakes that are deadly. The scorpion bite is exceedingly painful, sometimes for days, but it will not kill a full-grown man. I found myself avoiding holes in the sand, covering my boots at night, and kicking rocks before picking them up.

Tourists are usually the protagonists in these death by desert stories, so it was refreshing (?) to hear the more local variations. In any case, staring around at the monochrome dust and remembering the level of tension as we tried to navigate to “La Source” at night, I’m left with a more than theoretical appreciation for the stakes and the consequences out here in the waste.

Nasser making sahara bread

Nasser making sahara bread and telling stories