Sean's Blog
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Kano, Nigeria
A dark cloud hangs low over the sprawling city. Signs of commerce are evident everywhere. Once wide streets are impossibly narrow; shops spill into the streets, threatening to swallow them completely. Motorcycles weave dangerously through any space left unoccupied. In this city of 6 million, the Islamic Lagos of the north, life can be exciting. This is particularly true for motorcycle taxis. Incredibly enjoyable to ride, they are also the fastest and cheapest way to get around a city like Kano.
Yet, despite my undying love for these motorcycles, we have had our differences. Just yesterday, I crossed paths with an inattentive driver on a nearly empty road. After a fleeting collision, flesh encountering metal, I found my heart still intact but my right leg in pain. Fearing I had shattered femurs, flattened toes and tore tendons, I stumbled onto the sidewalk and quickly examined my injuries. They appeared minor. But the motorcycle and I, we were finished.
Although our encounter was unnecessarily brief due to the fact that my new friend did not have the courtesy to stick around, I have not taken it personally. When you involve yourself with motorcycle taxis, you have to be prepared for both the highs and the lows. Finding oneself left behind, damaged in the wake of a superior actor, is often unavoidable. Today I forced myself back onto the proverbial horse, seeking fresh acquaintances of the road.
A dark cloud hangs low over the sprawling city. Signs of commerce are evident everywhere. Once wide streets are impossibly narrow; shops spill into the streets, threatening to swallow them completely. Motorcycles weave dangerously through any space left unoccupied. In this city of 6 million, the Islamic Lagos of the north, life can be exciting. This is particularly true for motorcycle taxis. Incredibly enjoyable to ride, they are also the fastest and cheapest way to get around a city like Kano.
Yet, despite my undying love for these motorcycles, we have had our differences. Just yesterday, I crossed paths with an inattentive driver on a nearly empty road. After a fleeting collision, flesh encountering metal, I found my heart still intact but my right leg in pain. Fearing I had shattered femurs, flattened toes and tore tendons, I stumbled onto the sidewalk and quickly examined my injuries. They appeared minor. But the motorcycle and I, we were finished.
Although our encounter was unnecessarily brief due to the fact that my new friend did not have the courtesy to stick around, I have not taken it personally. When you involve yourself with motorcycle taxis, you have to be prepared for both the highs and the lows. Finding oneself left behind, damaged in the wake of a superior actor, is often unavoidable. Today I forced myself back onto the proverbial horse, seeking fresh acquaintances of the road.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
The Sahara, Niger
The Journey Home
Once in the desert oasis of Bilma, we quickly found ourselves the guests of the regional Prefect. The current President's cousin, he held a very powerful position in an often unstable area. The Prefect was also a Fula, coming from the same tribe that I lived with for two years in the Gambia.
After a few greetings in his local language, the Prefect declared that we were family and invited us all over to his house for dinner. He informed us that he had to be in Agadez a couple of days later for a meeting and we were welcome to join him. After having enjoyed a few pleasant days at the oasis, we all had to be back on the road and the uncomplicated ride back to Agadez sounded like a godsend.
The following morning, we loaded our bags into the back of his open bed, military truck. Numerous other dignitaries traveling to the meeting joined us, along with a couple of soldiers with mean looking guns. Hanging onto the back, we took off at a ridiculous speed on the rarely traveled southern route through Fachi. We quickly crossed hundreds of miles of what is frequently described as the most beautiful region in the whole Sahara desert. Our car flew across pure unblemished desert, occasionally taking air. We arrived in Fachi in the early afternoon and had lunch with the traditional chief.
Before leaving, Tuuli and I played hide-and-go-seek with a horde of pestering children in the narrow mazes of the old town. Once inside, it was nearly impossible to find our way out. Constricted passageways opened up onto bridges, tunnels led to courtyards and almost every road eventually ended up a dead end.
After leaving Fachi behind, our car started going through tires at an alarming rate. We stopped briefly at a camp of incredibly well armed mercenaries working for a Chinese oil company who, while fixing our spare, gave us tea and cookies. When we left, they accompanied us a short distance into the desert, hooting and hollering while waving their guns in the air.
The flats didn't cease. After countless patch jobs, we finally found ourselves left in the open desert as the sun set with only three working tires. The driver, finished for the day, rolled out his mat and went to sleep. We did the same. The next morning, it seemed like they had found an ingenious solution to the problem. The driver and his crew tightly packed in an assortment of blankets into the tubing of the tire. This solution lasted less than a mile before one of the blankets had melted under the heat and the tire was again unserviceable.
We sat and waited in the desert while the Prefect called for help on his satellite phone; I was flabbergasted as to what solution could possibly present itself. Nate and I wandered a short distance away from the group. Suddenly, there was commotion back at the truck. Off in the distance we made out two distinct dust trails of approaching vehicles. The soldiers grabbed their guns and were now fanning out in a line a short distance away. Nate and I sprinted back to rejoin them.
As I got closer, one of the soldiers smiled at me and shouted 'tourists'. I thought for sure we were going to commandeer one of the vehicles at gun point. I just hadn't expected to be on this side of the gun. I wondered what a car load of frightened tourists would think of several white people amongst this formidable posse.
I will never know what plans the soldiers had for the two approaching cars. As they drew nearer, the incoming vehicles were quickly identified. They carried prominent government officials and traditional leaders from Dirkou and Djado, two of the other major desert oases in the region. These men were going to the same conference as the Prefect. After a rapid round of greetings, the soldiers fixed our tire with one of their spares.
We were not back on the road long before our new convoy was dealt another setback. The car from Dirkou broke down and had to be left behind. The occupants piled into the back of our already impossibly full truck. Hand holds suddenly became a precious commodity. Nate tied himself to a strap using an old sock. We were still driving at break neck speeds. The front left shock on the car from Djado failed. They quickly fell behind. A few scattered settlements appeared. Then suddenly, with little warning, the city of Agedez was upon us and we were effectively home.
The Journey Home
Once in the desert oasis of Bilma, we quickly found ourselves the guests of the regional Prefect. The current President's cousin, he held a very powerful position in an often unstable area. The Prefect was also a Fula, coming from the same tribe that I lived with for two years in the Gambia.
After a few greetings in his local language, the Prefect declared that we were family and invited us all over to his house for dinner. He informed us that he had to be in Agadez a couple of days later for a meeting and we were welcome to join him. After having enjoyed a few pleasant days at the oasis, we all had to be back on the road and the uncomplicated ride back to Agadez sounded like a godsend.
The following morning, we loaded our bags into the back of his open bed, military truck. Numerous other dignitaries traveling to the meeting joined us, along with a couple of soldiers with mean looking guns. Hanging onto the back, we took off at a ridiculous speed on the rarely traveled southern route through Fachi. We quickly crossed hundreds of miles of what is frequently described as the most beautiful region in the whole Sahara desert. Our car flew across pure unblemished desert, occasionally taking air. We arrived in Fachi in the early afternoon and had lunch with the traditional chief.
Before leaving, Tuuli and I played hide-and-go-seek with a horde of pestering children in the narrow mazes of the old town. Once inside, it was nearly impossible to find our way out. Constricted passageways opened up onto bridges, tunnels led to courtyards and almost every road eventually ended up a dead end.
After leaving Fachi behind, our car started going through tires at an alarming rate. We stopped briefly at a camp of incredibly well armed mercenaries working for a Chinese oil company who, while fixing our spare, gave us tea and cookies. When we left, they accompanied us a short distance into the desert, hooting and hollering while waving their guns in the air.
The flats didn't cease. After countless patch jobs, we finally found ourselves left in the open desert as the sun set with only three working tires. The driver, finished for the day, rolled out his mat and went to sleep. We did the same. The next morning, it seemed like they had found an ingenious solution to the problem. The driver and his crew tightly packed in an assortment of blankets into the tubing of the tire. This solution lasted less than a mile before one of the blankets had melted under the heat and the tire was again unserviceable.
We sat and waited in the desert while the Prefect called for help on his satellite phone; I was flabbergasted as to what solution could possibly present itself. Nate and I wandered a short distance away from the group. Suddenly, there was commotion back at the truck. Off in the distance we made out two distinct dust trails of approaching vehicles. The soldiers grabbed their guns and were now fanning out in a line a short distance away. Nate and I sprinted back to rejoin them.
As I got closer, one of the soldiers smiled at me and shouted 'tourists'. I thought for sure we were going to commandeer one of the vehicles at gun point. I just hadn't expected to be on this side of the gun. I wondered what a car load of frightened tourists would think of several white people amongst this formidable posse.
I will never know what plans the soldiers had for the two approaching cars. As they drew nearer, the incoming vehicles were quickly identified. They carried prominent government officials and traditional leaders from Dirkou and Djado, two of the other major desert oases in the region. These men were going to the same conference as the Prefect. After a rapid round of greetings, the soldiers fixed our tire with one of their spares.
We were not back on the road long before our new convoy was dealt another setback. The car from Dirkou broke down and had to be left behind. The occupants piled into the back of our already impossibly full truck. Hand holds suddenly became a precious commodity. Nate tied himself to a strap using an old sock. We were still driving at break neck speeds. The front left shock on the car from Djado failed. They quickly fell behind. A few scattered settlements appeared. Then suddenly, with little warning, the city of Agedez was upon us and we were effectively home.
Friday, November 11, 2005
The Sahara, Niger
The Road to Bilma
The sun vanished from the sky, leaving a brief trail of fire quickly swallowed by seas of sand. We were on the edge of the Sahara, recently abandoned by our shifty Tuareg driver. A large and diverse contingent of Africans milled around a beast of a truck. Many of them were heading to Libya, with high hopes of slipping illegally into Europe. Nearby, a couple of scruffy herders watched over scores of hefty sheep. Over the next couple of days, we would share an exciting voyage punctuated by volleys of vomit, intense battles between beast and man, and an unbelievable lack of personal space.
Our destination was the desert oasis of Bilma, some 400 miles outside the already remote town of Agadez. The 'road' to Bilma consists of sporadic tires marking an often trackless line across vast plains of sand, over lofty dunes, and through rocky gulches. Nearly 100 people die each year while attempting this crossing. Tuareg bandits sporadically attack tourist vehicles on route. This is a trip usually undertaken by tourists in tough Landrovers, equipped with satellite phones and GPS devices, and traveling in convey for security. This costs a heap of money. Our only option was to join the local 'freedom train', consisting of more than 50 people and 80 goats.
As we struck out into the desert at night, Nate and I quickly saw our 'goat shield' disappear. The young boys we had so strategically packed ourselves behind had decided they were better off hanging from the side of the truck. Wave after wave of goats slammed into us, knocking us back into those behind us while desecrating our feet and bags with all manners of nauseating waste. Our one major consolation was that we made great time. Around midnight we stopped and slept shivering under the stars.
Awaking at dawn, Nate moved to the top in an attempt to escape the goats. Tuuli and I remained below where the threat of falling off a high speed truck was minimal. It seemed a smart decision. What I didn't anticipate was the tremendous threat of vomit. We were crammed so tight that, while the floor of the truck would remain virtually untouched in the event of sickness, the rest of us would make inviting targets. Things turned ugly about an hour into the journey. Without any warning, a deluge of vomit flew over my head. A young man sitting on a bar above me, finding himself suddenly sick, narrowly missed me and drenched the boy to my right. The boy responded by puking all over himself, encouraging a few others to make their own contributions.
By the time it was over, few people or goats were spared the indignity of a thorough soaking. Tuuli and I were among the minority that escaped unscathed, although my bag wasn't so lucky. We drove all day and late into the night again. By the time we broke camp, nobody on the truck was able to muster enough strength to prepare any sort of dinner. I chewed on some raw garlic before dozing off. We arrived in Dirkou early the next morning and checked in with the local police. The strenuous portion of the trip finished, we caught the daily 'desert shuttle' and found ourselves in Bilma by evening.
The Road to Bilma
The sun vanished from the sky, leaving a brief trail of fire quickly swallowed by seas of sand. We were on the edge of the Sahara, recently abandoned by our shifty Tuareg driver. A large and diverse contingent of Africans milled around a beast of a truck. Many of them were heading to Libya, with high hopes of slipping illegally into Europe. Nearby, a couple of scruffy herders watched over scores of hefty sheep. Over the next couple of days, we would share an exciting voyage punctuated by volleys of vomit, intense battles between beast and man, and an unbelievable lack of personal space.
Our destination was the desert oasis of Bilma, some 400 miles outside the already remote town of Agadez. The 'road' to Bilma consists of sporadic tires marking an often trackless line across vast plains of sand, over lofty dunes, and through rocky gulches. Nearly 100 people die each year while attempting this crossing. Tuareg bandits sporadically attack tourist vehicles on route. This is a trip usually undertaken by tourists in tough Landrovers, equipped with satellite phones and GPS devices, and traveling in convey for security. This costs a heap of money. Our only option was to join the local 'freedom train', consisting of more than 50 people and 80 goats.
As we struck out into the desert at night, Nate and I quickly saw our 'goat shield' disappear. The young boys we had so strategically packed ourselves behind had decided they were better off hanging from the side of the truck. Wave after wave of goats slammed into us, knocking us back into those behind us while desecrating our feet and bags with all manners of nauseating waste. Our one major consolation was that we made great time. Around midnight we stopped and slept shivering under the stars.
Awaking at dawn, Nate moved to the top in an attempt to escape the goats. Tuuli and I remained below where the threat of falling off a high speed truck was minimal. It seemed a smart decision. What I didn't anticipate was the tremendous threat of vomit. We were crammed so tight that, while the floor of the truck would remain virtually untouched in the event of sickness, the rest of us would make inviting targets. Things turned ugly about an hour into the journey. Without any warning, a deluge of vomit flew over my head. A young man sitting on a bar above me, finding himself suddenly sick, narrowly missed me and drenched the boy to my right. The boy responded by puking all over himself, encouraging a few others to make their own contributions.
By the time it was over, few people or goats were spared the indignity of a thorough soaking. Tuuli and I were among the minority that escaped unscathed, although my bag wasn't so lucky. We drove all day and late into the night again. By the time we broke camp, nobody on the truck was able to muster enough strength to prepare any sort of dinner. I chewed on some raw garlic before dozing off. We arrived in Dirkou early the next morning and checked in with the local police. The strenuous portion of the trip finished, we caught the daily 'desert shuttle' and found ourselves in Bilma by evening.
Archives for Sean's Blog:
July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005