there ain't no compass fit for infinity & other such observations

Q: why did the chicken cross the road?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 21:26:00 +0000

A: To get run over by the motorbike.

With so many chickens about, it was always a case of when, not if.

only half the story

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 14:16:00 +0000

As it turns out, all that business about mould and termites was only half the story. The real disappointment, the thing that launched the weekend straight past plain bad and into the realm of the absolutely miserable, was what didn't manage to make it onto the container: the keys - the only set of keys - to the motorbike.

It is difficult to capture the intense despair this final assault cast down upon us, particularly T. While the movers continued to bring in more boxes and I tried to comprehend the true breadth of the mould proliferation, T, all alone in the back room, frantically tore open boxes in search of the second half of the only thing he'd really been waiting for the last few months: the motorbike and, of course, its key. But alas, with each box he unpacked it became less and less likely that he would find it. Every few minutes I would hear a crash and a thud as another box was dumped onto the floor and then thrown against the wall. As time wore on, a corresponding groan joined each chorus. Partly to escape the sight of mould, I eventually retreated to the back room to join T in his search. Within moments I knew it was hopeless. Everything worth looking through was already unpacked. Still, to appear helpful and hopeful, I began sifting through the wreckage.

"I've already looked through all of that," he snapped with an irritation not meant for me.

"Well, I packed that box before I left. The key's not inside," I lashed back with an irritation not meant for him.

He looked about the room for another box and settled on the only one still taped up.

"I packed that one too. Don't bother."

"Yes, but maybe..."

"No. You used the bike after I left and I packed these before I left. It can't be in there."

"Fine." He stomped off to the next room, to the last of the unopened boxes.

"That's the printer," I said dryly from the doorway. Crouched motionless over the box, T stared at the photograph of a printer covering its side as though it were mocking him. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned to me, stood up, and slid his hands down the sides of an anguished face, his mouth dropped in a silent cry of despair and disgust.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. The movers trudged back and forth through heaps of mouldy cardboard. I fluttered about, dizzy and overwhelmed. T sat in the corner of the living room, next to the termite infested lion couch and the mouldy TV stand, stupefied by the horror of it all. And then, suddenly, the movers and their cardboard were gone and we were alone.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it will turn up. Once I start cleaning and going through everything I'll find it," I found myself saying, stupidly.

But we both knew it was hopeless. Our only chance was to try to have a new set of keys made, a task so daunting, T didn't even believe it possible. If you've ever tried to have anything fixed in this region of the world you know that any attempt to find a skilled craftsman generally ends in an unbearable test of patience and the irreversible maiming of your property. Needless to say, we were none-too-pleased at the thought of unleashing a Guinean locksmith on the bike, but without a choice we called Ousmane, T's driver, to help us find one.

I'm still astonished to report that the locksmith Ousmane found was alarmingly good at his work. He arrived with a blank key and a set of files and managed to pry open the lock to the fuel tank in less than five minutes. This was impressively convenient at the time, if not a tad disconcerting upon later reflection. (When asked how he'd done it, the locksmith merely grinned and shook his head.)

At any rate, the original key had worked on both the fuel tank and the ignition so our prospects were looking hopeful. We returned to the locksmith's humble workshop with the cap to the fuel tank in tow so that he could disassemble the locking mechanism and make a proper key for us. Just as we were beginning to think that the price we had agreed to pay was far too much for an half hour of work, it became clear that the finer details of key making were slightly more complicated and time consuming than the magic we'd witnessed with the blank key. We spent the better part of the afternoon loitering about the down-town street the locksmith called home, trying our best not to draw attention from the street vendors and beggars, the most persistent of whom was a man who, at his best, stood no higher than my belly button and was surely accustomed to a warmer reception from tourists than the one he was presently getting from us, seasoned residents and frequent recipients of shameless demands for un cadeau.

Finally, the key was finished. Reassembling the locking mechanism, however, proved too complicated for the man who had hours ago disassembled it. More than three quarters of an hour must have passed while the locksmith fiddled with this task. T had long ago slipped back into the morning's stupor and hadn't seemed to notice. I, on the other hand, had noticed and was just nearing the end of my wits when the locksmith finally gave up in the hope that we wouldn't discover the fuel cap's deficiencies until it was too late. Panicked, I roused T from his meditative cocoon so that he could intervene. Within minutes the cap was functioning properly and we were returning to the bike to try the key in the ignition. The key was so close to working that it was dangerous to the nerves. With the application of an unreasonable degree of violence it almost worked. Almost, but not quite. Another key would have to be fashioned. The ignition switch would have to be removed from the bike. A mechanic, a term used so loosely here we might as well ask for a professional clown, would have to be called in.

I'm ashamed to say that at this point I could handle no more. That was it, I was done. No more motorbike madness for me. Back to my mould I went, leaving T to face the imminent destruction of his bike alone. I spent the next few hours scrubbing mould off the furniture, wondering what atrocities I had narrowly escaped witnessing.

T came home that night looking defeated and deflated, like a helium birthday balloon two weeks past the festivities, limply hovering inches from the floor. The key was not finished. Another long day awaited him. Another day of incompetence, of mechanics without tools, of pointed fingers and harsh words, of narrow escapes. In short, another day of horrors.

like a poisoned apple

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 13:18:00 +0000

The container carrying all of our stuff arrived last Friday, full of promise. After two months of the extreme minimalist lifestyle, we welcomed the arrival of our possessions with glee. Unfortunately the joy was short-lived. Once we started opening the boxes and tearing the cardboard off the furniture it became clear that we had got more than we'd bargained for.

What we got was MOULD. Everywhere mould. Growing on the furniture, the clothes, the pots, pans and dishes, the pillows, the bedsheets, the mossie net, the computer, the books... the list goes on and on. The damn stuff followed us from Benin. After four days of solid scrubbing, there's still mould left to contend with. I HATE mould.

In a fit of determination to see the bright side of things, we turned our attention to the famed lion couch, which I had not yet seen fully materialised (for those who have no idea what I'm talking about, it's an over-the-top piece of custom furniture we had commissioned - but there'll be more on that in a future post, surely). Lo and behold, TERMITES! No kidding. Luckily there isn't too much visible damage, just a couple of small holes in an inconspicuous place. Hopefully we can find someone here who can deal with them.

feeling disconnected

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 11:56:00 +0000

It's funny which things remind one how cut off from the rest of the world one is when living in a place like Guinea. For me, right now, it's the Olympics. I admit, I haven't been glued to Olympics coverage since I was 9 years old and still dreamed of becoming a figure skater; yet, for some reason I feel like I'm really missing out this year. The fact is an Olympics hosted by China is more than just an international sports gathering; it's history. I'm twiddling my thumbs in Guinea and history's blowing right past me. *insert exasperated sigh here*

Thank goodness for the internet. At least I can read the news online, but too bad all the articles I'm reading are on things like how the Opening Ceremony fireworks were faked and so on. Well, I can honestly say that they didn't look particularly authentic or fake to me. But surely I can find some video coverage online? you ask. In theory, yes... if I want to wait two weeks for it to download. Don't even mention streaming video; our connection is far too sluggish. Just the other day T exclaimed, "Why is everything on the Internet a video!" Yes, why indeed. Oh, now I remember, because videos are fun... except for when they skip, stutter and stall every 3 seconds.

But then Russia invaded Georgia (or Georgia threatened Russians, depending on your perspective) and everyone forgot about the Olympics and felt just as disconnected from the 'truth' of things as me, and all was well again... or maybe not.

did i mention the sunsets?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 11:03:00 +0000

I know I've said this before, but the sunsets in Conakry are truly spellbinding. Last evening T and I looked out our East-facing living room window to see a spectacularly red sky and knew that we had to make a dash to the other side of the peninsula to see the real sunset. It's only a short drive to the other side, but by the time we got there the best of it had already passed. Still, it was worth it. Next time we'll just have to be a little quicker. And there will be a next time - expect a whole photo-gallery of sunset shots on this blog before we leave. And no, I didn't Photoshop the colours ;)

snapshots on the sly

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 13:26:00 +0000

T may have a fancy new camera and the knowledge to use it, but what do you get? Photos from my camera phone. Sorry, but taking photos in West Africa is all about sneakiness and there's nothing sneaky about lugging around a giant camera. In the countryside you can get away with it, but here, in the "big" city, it's a different story. There are people to offend and police officers to bribe everywhere you turn. Still, there are so few photographs of Conakry on the web that I figured even these bad photos are better than nothing.

As you can see, I went for the drive-by technique again, though this time from a car instead of the bike, as the bike's still floating around somewhere on the high seas along with all of our other stuff. With any luck it will be here on Saturday, but I have my doubts.

Instead of another Peugeot 406 (a car, which in my opinion, has no business on this continent - Africa is where such cars go to die) T's got a big ol' Landcruiser, which is, at times, a little too big. For example, notice the traffic jam developing in the photo to the left. Well, moments after snapping this shot, we had the pleasure of involuntarily extending our stay in that street much longer than originally anticipated thanks to a stubborn man's refusal to back up his parked car (which he was sitting in the whole time) - yet another version of the waiting game so popular in West Africa. C'est la vie.

We were Sunday-driving, so the traffic was far more tame than usual, which is why there aren't so many cars in these pictures. Actually, there seems to be far fewer people in the city on Sundays as well. We have no idea where they all go - maybe to the countryside - but the streets feel refreshingly empty. As soon as it gets dark, though, the hustle and bustle has returned and you can feel the peace of the weekend slipping away.

Guinea's Top Ten

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 10:22:00 +0000

Hmm, after looking at my last few posts I'm starting to think that maybe I'm not painting Guinea in the best light, which is a shame because it really has it's merits. I'd even say I'm enjoying life here more than in Benin, though it's probably not a fair comparison to make as Benin was burdened with introduction-to-Africa status. So, in an effort to be more positive, I've made a quick list of the top ten things I like about Guinea right now.

10. Dogs... everywhere. They're only sorry strays, but they still bring a smile to my face.
9. Delicious, fresh fruit.
8. Giant bags of cheap spices at the grocery store, especially ones for making Indian dishes. I'm determined to learn how to cook Indian food... poor T.
7. Our cleaning lady, Ellen. My French is terrible, but we seem to understand each other in a way that Elisabeth and I did not.
6. The ocean view and sea breeze from the balcony.
5. The chance to get over my nervousness about speaking a foreign language by being forced to speak French.
4. A swimming pool just steps from the door.
3. Amazing nature and wildlife.
2. Sunshine, even in the rainy season.
1. Meeting the craziest people.

fire & ice

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 09:42:00 +0000

Happily, the wasps seem to have developed a better sense of direction.... but there's always something, isn't there? Now we are experiencing a minor rebellion from our kitchen cooling appliances.

Last week, our water cooler sprung a leak and nearly 18.9 litres (5 gallons) of water was on the floor one morning. The tap water here is treated, but still not clean enough to drink, so that was all of our drinking water. A few days - and one pathetic attempt to communicate in French - later, I learned that a worn-out seal inside the cooler was to blame. The seal was replaced and all was well... for a few days. This morning it was the same thing all over again. Dehydration, here I come.

As if being flooded out and thirsty wasn't enough, a mysterious and disconcerting smell began wafting out of the kitchen, a foul, bluish smoke reminiscent of burning plastic. Last night T discovered the cause. See for yourself: this is the plug to the refrigerator, and this is the voltage regulator box it was plugged into. Electrical fire, anyone?

What's next? The air conditioners? Please no!

this is africa. there are bugs

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 11:59:00 +0000

Every once in a while I am reminded of how much my perspective has, and hasn't, changed since moving to this continent. Not infrequently in the past few weeks have I found myself saying, "This is Africa. There are bugs," with shrugged shoulders. But still, there comes a point when enough is enough and you have to wonder if the domestic help you left behind (and possibly unemployed) in Benin isn't sending a voodoo plague after you.

Each day this week I've wasted at least 10 minutes herding giant wasps to open windows. They float about the house like hot air balloons thrown off course by phantom gusts of wind. Each night I brush a few ants off the sheets before I crawl into bed. What earthly business do ants have amongst fresh linens? I ask myself. Entering the kitchen after dark must be done with caution, and an open window might as well be an open invitation.

My only solace is that at least it isn't mould.

*Note: the photograph above was taken whilst walking through the corridor of a neighbouring building in Le Résidence, which, as you might infer, was not long ago painted green. Also for the record, I wear a size 37 (or US size 7) shoe, making this flip-flop a little too big for me. In true African-style, I wear it anyway. It was the smallest size the woman had in the basket on top of her head, and for the same reason, please excuse the putrid pink.

in mourning

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 12:57:00 +0000

I'm sure that all avid news readers, and I hesitate to include myself here as I mainly read headlines as a means of procrastination, are aware of the recent penguin calamity off the shores of Brazil. For interested parties not yet in-the-know, I suggest this article if you want the whole story, and this one for those with short attention spans. The basic gist is that hordes of baby penguins are washing up dead on the beaches of Brazil.

My first reaction was deep sadness. For some reason I've always had a soft spot for these silly birds - even before Morgan Freeman narrated their struggles for the silver screen (which, by the way, is worth the $5 Blockbuster rental). It think it's because of their extreme sense of perseverance. I mean, just look at them try to walk! Is that not the perfect manifestation of determination? I suppose that's why the idea of them succumbing to the perils of today's stronger, icier, more polluted ocean inflicts such heartache.

My second reaction was to remember that I haven't blogged about South Africa - at all. This is highly embarrassing. So I'm going to start right now, and with my favourite part of the trip which, coincidently, involves the little, tuxedo-clad creatures.

Very nearly our last stop on our two-week trek across the Western Cape, Boulder's Beach near Simons Town was well worth the visit. This beach is a breeding-ground for the African Penguin and you can walk along a wooden deck that leads you through their nesting area. If you're willing to pay a small admission fee, you can even swim with them (though they seem more interested in sunning themselves on the rocks than swimming). T and I were near the end of our funds, so we skipped the swimming and snuck down to some nearby rocks for a peek instead. It was amazing how close they let us get!

alone in the dark

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 13:22:00 +0000

Last weekend was my first weekend home alone in Guinea (T was in Sierra Leone on business) and I had been bracing myself for something unexpected. Maybe it was the ominous sky we'd had the night before.

Maybe it was the fact that the scary things always happen when T's away. Maybe I was just bored and hoping for something dramatic... But the doors and windows were locked tight each night.

In Le Résidence, our apartment is just one little anonymous cubicle in one of six, eight-story buildings. As I sat around, waiting for something unexpected to happen, I got to thinking about how many very strange people must live above, below and beside me in a curious mix of expatriates and rich Guineans.

And curious is the word, because once these people start talking about their lives past and present, I can't seem to pull myself away. Red Cross workers driving Czech Tatra 8-wheelers into the depths of the Congo to perform emergency surgery on rebels. Kidnap victims who shrug their shoulders and say it was only 36 hours. Lawyers working to free prisoners held for years after the papers were signed granting their release. People who've been spied on by third-world governments. Others who can't say why they're here because it's classified. In short, people living life on the edge.

There, alone in the dark, reflecting on all this, I got to realizing how very far from the edge I am in comparison, safely tucked away in the apartment, one little ant in the farm. I got to realizing how very in the dark I actually am, and probably always will be when this realization wins the prize for the most unexpected event of my weekend.

to make up for the rain

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 08:37:00 +0000

Guinea is absolutely, without a doubt, mango country. These delicious fruits are so abundant in the rainy season, villagers in the Kindia region (a little north of Conakry) can hardly collect them all, let alone eat them all. With mangoes rotting beneath trees, roadside stands like the one we stopped at below practically give the fruits away. A large basket containing around 15 perfectly ripe mangoes cost only 5000 Guinean Francs, or just over 1 U.S. dollar!

So if you live in this part of the world and you don't like mangoes, you better develop a taste for them pretty quick! Don't worry, it's not a tough thing to do. I used to think I didn't like mangos. Well, as it turns out, I don't like the genetically-engineered, imported, tasteless, sorry excuses for mangoes that get picked unripe and sit on a container for a month or longer before landing themselves in Hannafords (or Whole Foods, or Føtex, or whatever it is where you are). For the record, I no longer consider those mangoes. I don't know what they are, but they don't count.

Fresh, locally-acquired mangoes, real mangoes, have a richer, deeper colour to their flesh. They aren't pale and stringy like the mangoes of my memory. No, they're just firm enough to keep their shape, soft enough to dissolve into syrupy sweetness as you chew them, and leave only the faintest, velvety tingle on your tongue. Delicious.

I'd send you some, but you'd never get past the customs officers with an armful of mangoes (because fruits are evil, plotting, little terrorists seeking world-domination, of course). So, I'll just have to eat an extra for you instead. Better get on that :-)

Oh, the joys of shopping in West Africa

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 10:45:00 +0000

I just got back from the grocery store and am, once again, shocked by how expensive food is here. Locally produced food, like eggs, is cheap enough - it's just that there isn't a lot of locally produced food (or locally produced anything, for that matter). Everything is imported and the prices definitely reflect that. Still, you can only be thankful that it's even available... when it's available that is. Every now and then a shipment is delayed and you end up with a tonic water or pepperoni shortage in the city (these are the mini-crises of the moment, in fact). It doesn't seem like such a big deal, but the thing is it may be months before another shipment arrives and trust me, you really do start to miss these things. And when such a luxury item does appear, people flock to the grocery store purported to be carrying the item in droves and whatever it is you were looking for is likely to be gone before you get there. It's like trying to get your hands on a tickle-me Elmo on Black Friday. Good luck.

And then you have to pay for your purchases in some of the world's most worthless banknotes. The largest bill in the national currency is equivalent to somewhere around $2, and the smallest, about $0.15. There are actually coins too, but they're so worthless I once heard that the government was caught trying to smuggle some out of the country to sell as scrap metal. No doubt the cost to produce them far exceeded their present value. There are no ATMs in the city, or at least none that take an international Visa card, so T gets a cash advance from the office each month in the form of a giant stack of banknotes that is so giant, it's actually multiple stacks of banknotes. We've given up on counting it to keep track - we just approximate it's height in centimetres to get a rough idea of how much is left. Next month, when the stacks are sky high, I'll be sure to get a photograph.

And now I know where that expression "filthy, stinking rich" comes from. These bills are filthy and stinking. The drawer we stash the stack in reeks of that particular stench only money of third-world origin can produce. Imagine body sweat, dirt, rotting garbage, festering meat, sour milk and the blood of various animals mixed together. You could most certainly add human waste into the mix too. This is why counting out the equivalent of $80 in $2 bills is more than just time consuming... on that note, I think I've just convinced myself to go wash my hands again.

In the Jungle

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 08:37:00 +0000

After a year of living in the African bush, I seem to find myself finally in the African jungle. Welcome to Guinea-Conakry. After a mere two and a half weeks, I've already seen more trees and exotic wildlife than a entire year in Benin could provide. And I love it!

With mountains popping up here and there, waterfalls and a respectable forest, T and I expect to do a little hiking on our weekends. We're just waiting for the ankle-high, leather army boots the driver said he could find for us... our protection from snakes! And I'm really not kidding. Last weekend we went to a "ranch" out in the jungle by Kindia (your guess is as good as mine as we didn't get to see it) and ended up stuck at the entrance, albeit next to a beautiful waterfall, because a very large snake was laying across the path. Lucky for us, there were others already waiting who warned us in advance so we didn't actually see the snake, though, for a moment there, I almost lost my mind and thought I'd go have a look. Don't worry, better judgement kicked in just in time! I'm sure we'll see more than enough big, poisonous snakes in the days to come.

The city itself isn't so bad either. That's not to say it's lovely though. It's still a West African city and has all the charm, or lack thereof, that you would expect from an over-crowded, undeveloped metropolis. Still, my basis for comparison is not exactly typical. Compared to Cotonou, Conakry is surprisingly organized and relatively clean. For one thing, there are hardly any mopeds. What a difference in air quality! Add to that the fact that most of the roads are paved and you've got a much more pleasant place to be. There are even sidewalks scattered here and there! But Conakry's biggest advantage over Cotonou is probably its sunsets. The city itself is based on a thin peninsula, which means that you are never very far from the sea, and you can't avoid a view of the day's last rays reflecting off the water. Everywhere you turn, there's a photo taking opportunity... which is a good thing, because T's just got himself a fancy new camera to play with. I feel the need to mention that most of the photo credits (or at least all the good ones) on this blog from here on out belong to him.

Our little corner of the city is quite the place to be. We live in a complex called "Residence 2000", which is about five or six apartment buildings right on the water with a pool, a gym, some tennis courts and a big garden. It's an immensely exclusive place to live compared to typical Guinean living arrangements and sounds particularly snobbish when you must tell your driver to take you back to "le Residence". But this isn't a two week camping trip, it's a two year stay, and you have to maintain your sanity so any guilt you feel at living here wears off pretty fast. That said, gratefulness and appreciation do not. The view from your balcony alone reminds you everyday how very lucky you are. I'll post pictures of the inside of our apartment once our stuff arrives in a month's time (which, if it actually comes that quickly, would make us very lucky indeed). Until then, you'll have to make due with the sea view.

Introduction to the World

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 23:26:00 +0000

In a few days T and I will be going to South Africa for two weeks of what is officially known in the expat community here as "rest and recreation". Planning these two weeks has been anything but restful. I'm knee-deep in travel guides and pamphlets. I have 4 different maps, not one of them sufficient, and the number of hotels, wineries, and nature reserves to consider is dizzying. In short, I'm overwhelmed at the thought of having so many exciting things available to do, see and visit. West Africa is, for the most part, dull. But dullness can be a kind of comfort. You always know what to expect and you're never, ever, overwhelmed with choices, which for half a moment got me wondering why we were going to so much effort to leave. And then I remembered...

Once, long, long ago, my mother planned the family vacation to trump all family vacations. (Never mind that the absolute best and greatest family vacation there ever was or ever will be actually turned out, I am told, to be a lovely little trip to Montreal to which I was not invited - nay, even informed of until after the fact - but we'll let that pass. I guess that's what I get for skipping off to Europe.) Anyway, my parents got it into their heads that they wanted to go back to Colorado, back to the region that held 10 years of happy memories for them.

Thus weeks of pouring over brochures and maps, making reservations, booking this and booking that, and trying to squeeze every last penny out of the holiday budget commenced - tasks that, to the best of my knowledge, were completed by my mother and my mother alone. Of course we girls noticed none of this. Only vaguely aware that there were big plans looming on the horizon, we continued to lumber through our summer holidays making our own plans and dreaming our own dreams until we were told to pack our bags. When it came time to leave my mother, for all her efforts, met with outright rebellion.

I cannot remember a time of greater tension and stress among my family than that vacation. Somewhere, in the depths of a forgotten family photo album, is a snapshot of me and my two sisters sitting on a bench at a dock, strapped into life-jackets, and wearing scowls that were surely intended to shoot laser-beams from our eyes. We had been shaken out of the comfortable dullness of our usual existence and we didn't like it - and my mother was the one who'd done the shaking. It makes me smile to think that she had the humour and presence of mind, even then, to take that photograph.

To date, this is still the only major trip beyond the East Coast I have ever taken in the U.S. I would know nothing, as opposed to next to nothing, about my country if it weren't for my mother's determination to take us on that great, mythical family vacation. For the first time I was pushed into the realization that it's a big world and I'd only seen a small part.

Thank you, Mom, for pushing us. Thank you for putting up with us. Thank you for all the nights you sat up at the kitchen table, mapping out our introduction to the world.

Most Over-due Post

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 14:38:00 +0000

Wow. I had completely abandoned you all. I'm sorry. I knew it had been a long time, but I surprised even myself; it's been so long since my last post, I had to look up my username and password to edit the site because I could no longer remember it. So what has happened in this nearly half-year?

Well, I managed to finish my thesis, turn it in on time (thanks to Kristian), defend it (which involved a lovely, but far too stressful and far too short trip back to Europe for which I thank Gondul and Annemarie for nearly all the lovely bits), and get my degree. Finally. I am officially no longer a student, in spite of the fact that I continue to declare myself as one on every visa/entry form I come across which is, in fact, a very frequent occurrence if you have any inclination to move about West Africa at all. I suppose I'm still a "student of life". Anyway, it's better than leaving the "occupation" space blank.

So how does a person with no occupation occupy themselves? Damned if I know. I'm too busy to keep track of these things. If you're not well-connected to the grape-vine, I'll fill you in. I'm trying to start my own little business. Okay, take a minute and get it all out now before you continue reading. Violent laughter has been known to cause stomach cramps so it's best to get it under control now while you still can. Yes, my own little business. The idea is to export West African handicrafts to retail shops in Europe and the U.S. in an unique and exciting way. I'll say no more about it other than that if I manage to pull this off I will be delighted and not just a little amazed with myself (and everyone who is helping me). In the downtime, I'm trying to get another blog up and running, though of a different nature than this one. It won't be so personal and probably won't interest you so, again, I'll say no more about it.

Probably more interesting to you is the news that T and I are moving. Yes, after nearly a year in Benin we will be saying our farewells to this strange little country. But never-fear! We're moving to another strange, little, Francophone country in West Africa: Guinea (Conakry). Oh the joy. I can hardly contain myself. But really, while I could probably think of more pleasant and exciting places to spend the next two years, I'm happy we're staying in Africa. Neither of us are ready to leave yet (though I expect after two more years we certainly will be).

So the story is that you can expect me to start posting again and you can expect those posts to be pretty much the same only the word Benin will be replaced with the word Guinea. Maybe there will be less about voodoo and more about drums and dancing and (because I know you're going to Google) strikes, riots, and ailing dictators. (Relax, you won't read anything I don't already know.)

So there you go. I'm still alive after all :)

Soul Stealing from the Back of a Motorbike - My New Weekend Pastime

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 17:46:00 +0000

Last weekend was like something out of a dream: I was on the back of a motorbike, on a dirt road, driving along the coast of West Africa. Unbelievable. Even more unbelievable is that fact that I actually took some photos! I know, I know. Very hard to believe, but I did. And I attribute this strange occurrence to the motorbike. Yes, things are getting very strange indeed. First, I was on a motorbike (remember, this is conservative me we're talking about), and now, I'm saying it was fantastic and is the sole reason for the photos you're about to see. Let me explain.

Benin is not an easy place to take photos. People are everywhere, all the time. Don't get me wrong, I love photos with people in them and you'd be hard-pressed to find a more photogenic people than the Beninese (especially the kids!), but let's not forget, this is voodoo country. You take someone's photo, you've stolen their sole. Luckily, most Beninese people will happily sell their camera-loving soul for a few francs; however, you do run the risk of running into the few who would rather throw a temper-tantrum and shout at you in Fon (local language here) than squeeze you for your pocket change. I guess their souls are worth more to them. Just the sight of your camera sends some people off; you don't even have time to ask them for permission. So needless to say, I'm not too keen on whipping out the camera.

Also, this means that you have to ask everyone in the general vicinity before you take a photo which draws additional attention to yourself and makes it virtually impossible to get those precious candid shots. The whole thing adds up to a less than ideal photo taking experience. You aren't going to be walking the streets of Benin with your fanny pack and your camera hanging around your neck.

I've tried taking photos from inside the car, but it's hard to get a nice picture through a dirty window. To top it off, the crowded, poorly maintained streets combined with the car's large size rule out any stealthy get-aways if someone decides to pull a crazy. Actually, you'd probably be better off on foot. At least then you could run for it.

So this weekend on the motorbike was a real treat. I could pull out T's camera phone (already much easier to disguise than my Sony Cyber-shot) and steal a photo (or a soul) on the run. And I did. And at the risk of being excessive, I've posted most of my shots here, not because I'm proud of them as photos, but because I'm proud that I finally managed to take them.

Let's start with the beach. Can you believe I actually live here? 20 minutes on a motorbike and I'm swimming in this ocean? No, neither can I.

But here's my proof :-) Obviously, I can't take credit for taking this photo.

See, T was there too, looking naturally contemplative in a sort of James Dean kind of way...

And this is how we got there, and why I am able to post these photos here... Can you tell I love the motorbike? Who would have ever thought! I think I might have to get my own now :-) That green and yellow jalopy behind it is a taxi cab. I think we've got the better ride, don't you?

This is the road that takes you to the beach. Yeah, I know it's boring, but that's what people do. They take pictures and then make other people look at them. I'm sorry. I can't be expected to break tradition.

And these are some of the things that got in our way and slowed us down... First, cows complete with herder. (Ah! There's the beef, Gondul!)

And then fishermen carting a giant net.

I wonder if this is their boat?

It could be anybody's boat really. There are lots of little communities of people living all along the coast, though they may be sparse communities compared to the hustle and bustle of Cotonou.

So sparse that this old restaurant/bar looks very out-of-business indeed. But I guess it was probably meant for Yovos anyway.

That's it folks. Slide show is over. You are free. Thanks for watching. Come again.

Motorbike Madness: Mr. T's New Toy

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 18:20:00 +0000

Look what T brought home last night!

Meet the Suzuki DR 650, or, as I call it, the new toy. As you can tell, we're still waiting on a snappy, personalised name; T says he can't name it until he "first knows it's personality..."

And that's the plan for the weekend - to get to know it's personality. I think the idea is to first go to the beach, then maybe head on to Ouidah, but I wouldn't be surprised if we made it all the way to Grand Popo. If only we had the visas, we'd probably go to Lomé (in neighbouring Togo, in case you were wondering).

Anyway, it's official now: we're the coolest cats in town.

Expat Africa: At the Benin Marina Hotel

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 13:53:00 +0000

Sitting by the pool under a palm tree, on a cloudless day, cooled by the ocean breeze, you can't help but think, This is the life. And it is.

In a country where a person is lucky to earn more than $1000 a year, a $200 night stay at Cotonou's Benin Marina Hotel is, generally speaking, more than just a special weekend getaway; it's an impossibility - but for the expats living here the hotel is a weekend hot-spot.

For a surprisingly reasonable annual fee when compared to the room prices (though still much more than the average Beninese could afford), you get access to the most beautiful pool in the country, a small handful of tennis courts and a few other hotel facilities. In addition, circling the hotel is the most compact 9-hole golf course you could ever imagine, saved from it's size only by the fact that it's probably the lone golf course in the country.

Weekends are busy. As long as it's not raining, the kiddie pool is teeming with toddlers; the large, circular, adult pool is overrun by unruly pre-teens; and parents chase their children with bottles of sunscreen. When you arrive at the pool you flash your membership card and you're escorted to the umbrella of your choice (if there are any left to choose from) where you're given a fresh towel and a cushion for your chair. You can buy crêpes, ice cream and cocktails. You can even get a green coconut with a straw inserted for drinking the juice. Every Friday night the hotel hosts a themed buffet dinner by the pool for the outrageous sum of 14500 CFA (~ $30) per person.

For me, the Benin Marina is a great place to swim laps. The pool is round, but on weekday mornings it's deserted and you can swim along the buoy line that floats the diameter. I slather on sunscreen, put on my swimsuit, pack my beach bag, and trot down the "Marina road" to the pool. In less than 10 minutes, I'm in the water. On my way home, I give the same guards I passed earlier another round of hellos, this time with wet hair and goggle-marked, raccoon eyes.

On the weekends, the Marina stands in for the garden T and I don't have. When we're too lazy to drive all the way to the beach we walk to the Marina with our books and bottled water and precede to get sunburned. Once, I tried to write my thesis by the pool, but even under the shadiest umbrella the glare from the sun made it difficult to see the words on my laptop screen and I didn't end up working on much more than my tan.

As much as I'm thankful to have the Marina so close, I always feel as though I've sneaked into someplace I'm not supposed to be when I'm there - like it's a secret club and I'm only pretending to be a member. The excess of such surroundings, of the African expat life in general, is something I'll never quite get used to and somehow I feel thankful for that. A strange mix of awe and guilt sets in as you admire your surroundings and realize how lucky you are. Outside the Marina, construction workers toil in the heat, mixing cement and digging foundations to build government-funded housing units for politicians visiting Benin during an international African conference next year. A little further down the road, children walk through rows of vegetables with metal watering cans that are probably twice their weight. Polio victims hobble between parked cars at traffic lights, tapping on windows for a spare franc. As you float in that giant pool, you know there are people in the north dying from drinking dirty water.

Once, someone asked me if it wasn't hard to live with poverty right outside my door. To be honest, yes, it is. But the reality is that poverty has always been right there, it's just harder to ignore when you're in a place like Benin. And maybe that's a good thing. Maybe everyone who's ever been lucky enough to float in a pool ought to be forced to witness real poverty first-hand. Maybe then at least we would finally realize just how fortunate we really are.

Random Fact

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 13:15:00 +0000

If I could get away with it, I'd probably live off of nothing but chocolate.

Alas, I cannot.

A Cyberspace Update

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 15 Oct 2007 14:58:00 +0000

Apologies to all those fond of pretty fonts and graphics, but it felt like time for something simpler. Welcome to the new wickedsure, streamlined and straightforward (if only regarding the template).

In other news, those craving a second opinion on life in Africa and/or merely curious about the thoughts and fancies of the mysterious man known on wickedsure as T, can check out his blog in its new, more accessible location by clicking on the link labelled "Mr. T" in my list of "wicked awesome weblogs". Read it; you won't be sorry!

Ghosts and Robbers

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 12 Oct 2007 16:29:00 +0000

There haven't been many blogs lately because my life hasn't been too exciting. I've either had my nose in a book or my fingers on the keyboard in an attempt to see my silly little thesis finished. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way I've gotten rather attached to it. It's gone from a silly little thesis to something much greater in my meagre intellectual consciousness, as though it's taken on a life of its own and I want to see it grow up big and strong. Now, I haven't reached the point of total anthropomorphism by naming my thesis as kimananda did and I hope I never will - I don't have her gift for schedule and balance and would end up a total hermit - but I do feel invested in a way that I wasn't expecting. A curious development indeed.

But even more curious is that the old interest in academic inquiry, particularly philosophical inquiry, is stirring its head. There I was thinking that I was done with all those useless intellectual pursuits only to find myself being drawn to the old staples again. A sudden desire to re-read Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Kant, Wittgenstein, Zizek - all the old favourites - has caught me off-guard. And then I've continued to shock myself by seeking out the classics that slipped through the cracks of my past education. I've even browsed through Amazon's catalogue for new works of interest. My Amazon wish-list would fill a small, but respectable, library.

What has happened to me? I look back at the last few years and realize that I've been saying one thing and yet doing another. I said I was tired of theory; I wanted more focus on practice. I was tired of academics; education was over-rated and out of touch. But what have I done? I've created a monster of a thesis topic steeped in theory. And not just any theory. The theories I thought I'd put away for good, the ghosts of my past. I realize now that no matter what I say, or how far I run from academic institutions where we first met, my ghosts will always follow me, forever faithful friends, as dependable as one's shadow. And I've come to accept that no matter what I may say by day, when night begins to fall I will always leave the light on for them.

Now that's a metaphorical light, that is, because I don't sleep with the light on. I'm not afraid of the dark and I never have been. I'm afraid of the night. Because it's night when the robbers, murderers, and general evil-doers go creeping around your house. And I should know, I watched enough episodes of Unsolved Mysterious as a kid to be an expert in the matter. Boy, did I love that show. And if that wasn't enough I had Rescue 911 to drive home the gore.

The result of all this television violence - the original reality TV - was that I used to sleep with my windows shut and locked, laying so that I faced the door (also shut and locked), with three or four blankets pulled up over my shoulders for protection, even in the dead heat and humidity of mid-summer. And I didn't want the fan running because then I wouldn't be able to hear the footsteps sneaking up on me. There were never monsters under my bed, only robbers and serial killers outside my window and - you guessed it - spiders crawling on my ceiling (some things never change...).

But the point of all this, actually the point of this entire post, was to relate a little story about what was, for me, a terrifying occurrence last weekend. It happened late Saturday night, or early Sunday morning, depending on how you look at it. I was all alone in the flat because T was in Paris for the weekend taking a psychology exam so that he can add a B.A. in psychology to his already long list of degrees and become the single most over-educated person I know.

So I was all alone when I woke up around 6.00 in the morning to a chorus of footsteps, muffled voices and squeaking doors. It was still very dark outside, but the hard rain and strong winds that had beat against the window only hours before had ceased. After such a storm, the most intense storm I have seen here yet, the stillness and silence outside was eerie. And it was even eerier when contrasted to the very human noises echoing through the room. Yes, echoing. We have almost nothing on any of our walls; all the floors are cold tile; furniture is sparse; we live in an echo-box. So I couldn't tell where the sound was coming from. Was it from our new neighbours, just moved in above us? Or was it coming from inside the flat? - our flat, the flat I was currently occupying all alone...

As I sat there, still as stone, listening for every step, bump and creek, I thought about the stubborn lock on the balcony door and the guards that were quite positively asleep outside. And I thought about a story I'd recently heard. A story about some people sleeping in a house in our neighbourhood, just a couple of weeks ago, who were beaten up by startled burglars. The rumour goes that they were still in their bed when the robber's bat came down upon them. So I was scared, really scared.

I summoned up some courage, from where, I have no idea . But I was going to get out of bed, take the flash-light from the night-stand, and investigate. No sooner had I pulled the mosquito net back than I went straight from scared to literally petrified.

Something liquid had splashed on me - on my t-shirt, on my arm, on my face. Liquid, an unidentified liquid of unidentified origin, was in my bedroom, in my bed, on me. Instantly, I thought of blood. A severed horse's head, dripping above me or an injured robber gushing blood from a wound as he readied to pounce. Then I noticed the net was soaked, dripping wet... dripping with blood! And I saw the same severed horse's head only now placed under the bed instead of above, the same robber but now crawling my direction on hands and knees through a puddle of blood. Or maybe it was a corpse - a neighbour? - chopped to pieces on the floor.

It is astonishing how many thoughts one can hold in one's head in a single terrified moment. Somehow, part of my brain must have been working on convincing myself to turn on the light, because, as I thought these things, I reached over and flicked on the light hardly realizing what I was doing.

It was nothing but water. The hard rain had been too much for the bedroom window. Water had leaked through a gape in the frame, leaving the shadow of a large stream on the wall and a miniture lake on the floor as evidence.

My subsequent stealthy dash through the apartment was based on equally fantastic fears. The noise was only our neighbours above who must have invited the whole safari home from the clubs instead of just the usual mere herd of elephants. Boy did I feel ridiculous. Clearly a classic case of too much Unsolved Mysteries as a child, and perhaps a recent viewing of The Godfather had an influence as well...

So that's it. That's the most exciting thing that's happened to me in awhile. There you have it: theoretical ghosts and phantom robbers.

Gloworms and Fireflies

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 26 Sep 2007 19:20:00 +0000

I remember thinking, as a kid, that fireflies didn't look much like fire at all. And the name lightening bug didn't really fit either as I had seen just about as much green lightening in my life as I had green fire. The thing is, in New England, or at least in New Hampshire, fireflies cast off a pale greenish-yellow glow, not a
fiery-red spark, or a white-lightening flash, so neither name ever made much sense to me.

Sure, maybe "glow-worm" would have fit a little better, but for one thing, a fly is not a worm and even at that tender age you would have had a hard time convincing me otherwise. Secondly, after the 1982 introduction of our cuddly friend to the left, the Gloworm (his face lights up when you hug him!), I'm not sure anyone can say "glow-worm" now with a straight face - at least not anyone from my generation. (For the record, I never had a gloworm of my own. That was an honour reserved for the middle child.) So I was stuck with the term "firefly".

Tonight, though, I finally discovered the fire in the fly. I was lingering around the barn, waiting for the woman who would drive me home to finish discussing stable business around the wooden table that is the barn's sitting place. Fifteen minutes earlier the sun had just started to brush the horizon. Now, in its place, was a full moon. One of the stable hands brought out an oil lantern to light the table. The rest of the barn had only the moonlight. I stood in the middle, away from the table, and watched the horses chew their dinner. A stable is never so quiet as it is at dinner time. And then I saw it- a little spark of fire in the air, just above the ground. For the briefest second, I looked around for the fire, confused. I was certain I had seen a piece of ash, still red hot, floating through the air. In that instant, all the campfires of my childhood had come rushing back and I expected to see a troop of girl scouts at my feet. You see, it had even moved like ash.

But it wasn't ash, and in the next moment I knew it wasn't, because in the next moment that first little spark became a sea of little sparks throughout the stable, and yet the horses weren't whinnying, breaking down their gates, or running for the hills. It couldn't be fire. And then I realised, it was African fireflies.

Okay, I take it back. I take it all back!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 22 Sep 2007 00:00:00 +0000

Forget everything I said about the insecticide spray. It's lovely. It's wonderful. It's the best thing since sliced bread. It's a lean, mean killing machine and it saved me from the most hideous, monstrous, gigantic spider I have seen in a very, very long time. And for that I am forever grateful. Oh, and by the way... Yes T, spiders CAN jump. If only you had been here to see it in action, then it would have been you it jumped at and not me!

Will It Never End?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 21 Sep 2007 16:57:00 +0000

I just opened my laptop for the first time in months (I usually use T's) to get some old files I needed and it is covered in mold! Mold, everywhere, mold! How am I supposed to clean this! Will it never end?