Heba's adventures in Senegal ... and beyond!

On the eve of the elections

2011-11-27T15:40:00.000-08:00

So Egypt the night before the elections...

Can't say I'm very optimistic - though I've mostly been hanging out with revolutionaries from January who are run down and depressed and think the country is going to hell.

There is talk of liberal candidates having been stabbed by remnants of the old regime. People won't let their mothers go vote alone, because they are afraid of violence. Most activists think the elections are irrelevant, because they won't change anything. The military council will stay in power despite the elected parliament, and the parliament will have no power to do much of anything. Some of the activists are voting anyway because they fought so hard for these elections. Others don't see the point or don't think it's appropriate to be campaigning and voting when people were dying on the streets a few days ago.

Almost everyone I've spoken to is gearing up for a long fight against the military council, long past these elections.

"I'll go vote and then come back to Tahrir," I heard several times.

Then there's the fact that no one has any idea how the voting will work logistically. Nobody knows the rules, who's running, where they have to go to vote, or which party belongs to which block. The system is unnecessarily complicated - perhaps because of the militay's incompetence in election planning, perhaps because they meant for it to be.

I hung out with one activist who spends his time walking around the streets trying to inform people about the elections. We'll be at a felafel shop and he'll start up a conversation.

"You planning to vote tomorrow?"

He gives them his analysis of which candidates really represent the protest movement, counters their conspiracy theories about the revolutionaries, and tries to help convince them that Baradie did not cause the invasion of Iraq.

"Just tell me who to vote for and I'll do it," one shoemaker pleaded with him once.

Because of the lack of knowledge, the insecurity, and the political context, these elections - as a friend of mine told me - are a disaster.... or worse, a trap. Many activists see them as a ploy to push them into a corner. They will lose legitimmacy on the street because the military council will be able to say "You wanted elections - we gave you elections. Now go home." And yet those elections will not represent the change they were meant to.

Morale seems lower. Tahrir has lost its class. People say the tear gas has had a lingering effect on them - that they're drained - physically and mentally.

"I ran on empty for months," my friend Mona told me of the initial revolution. She lost 20 pounds and devoted every waking minute to the struggle. "I’m not the same anymore. Nobody is, in this country."

But this second revolution has re-invigorated people, and I have never seen Egyptians engaging in such healthy political discussions. When you walk through Tahrir, you find groups of people huddled together debating the way forward.

"We cannot vote under these circumstances! How can we hold elections in a country that can't even secure a soccer pitch!"

"No, we have to vote! If we don't vote, the Islamists will take power!"

"What we need is to abandon all ideology and come together!"

Hold on to your horses. This is going to a bumpy ride...

*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***

People gathered at Tahrir

A couple months in

2011-11-12T11:45:00.001-08:00

I have been horribly absent - I know. A sign, I suppose, that Dubai really isn't that bad.

It's clean. It's functional. It's ... fine. It's not a place I'll ever fall in love with, but it's manageable. In fact, people always complain that it's easy to lose time here. The days go by quickly and you don't ever know quite how you spent them.

I complain a lot that the place has no soul, but it would be unfair to say it isn't interesting... Where else in the world can you find a woman in a niqab next to a woman in a bikini? Anything goes here, and everyone accepts everyone else as they are. And it is very cosmopolitan. You can find people and food from around the world - though the different cultures are not engrained and appreciated the way they are in, say, Toronto. It's also unique in how quickly it has grown. Many of the places we hang out in were desert just thirty - or in some cases five! - years ago.

We spend long hours here debating Egyptian politics, Syria's uprising, Qaddafi's death. I fear the elections in Egypt will be a disaster, given how complicated the election rules are and how little anyone knows about the different party platforms - including the parties themselves! In Syria, I spend a lot of time arguing with friends that things are not as black and white as they seem on TV... that there are weapons and interests at play within the opposition and that a significant proportion of the population still supports Bashar. Qaddafi's death? Even my friend's 65-year-old mother couldn't stop herself from watching the gruesome videos...

All this to say, it's been interesting.

I'm off to Libya in the coming days, to get a sense of how things are progressing on the ground in what is likely to be the hardest part of the revolution; and then to Egypt for the elections.

I promise I'll blog more consistently when I get back.

*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***

Some photos

2011-09-26T13:23:00.000-07:00

I got another hilarious email from Sami yesterday that read:

We need picture in ur blog
That is not acceptable

Can't say no to the Old Man!

Dubai in all its glory

Karim and Tamer at a Lebanese restaurant.

Karim's daily activity

The living room of my new apartment - please excuse the furniture.

Look carefully: it's a stuffed camel wearing a traditional galabeya and head dress. Bought it at "The Camel Company".

Local Emiratis at the mall

*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***

Clash(es) of Culture

2011-09-23T14:56:00.000-07:00

Ok, so two weeks in and ... things are not so bad after all. Yes, I know you all said it would be so.

I should be moved into my new apartment next week. Furnishing an apartment from scratch again is not only expensive, annoying and frustrating (I have exactly what I need sititng in Canada!), but also a constant reminder that I have made myself home-less. Still, I go on trying to make one wherever I go. And this one should be nice. Arched windows. Big patio. Huge kitchen. And literally two minutes to the beach.

I cannot understate how wonderful it has been to have a little community here. Karim, my cousin, has introduced me to some of his Egyptian friends, and they've become family overnight. They take such good care of me. They're always checking on what I need, negotiating prices for me, picking me up, dropping me off. We all see each other nearly everyday. It's been about four years since I've had such a tight-knit group that is so involved in one another's lives. And I love it.

The staff at the office are wonderful, and I'm truly enjoying the work I'm doing. I've been very slow to get started, but have a number of articles lined up that should get out soon.

Best news is I'm planning on trying out for a soccer team tomorrow!

The roads are still terrible. Seriously, terrible. The thing I miss most about Canada right now is the good highway layout and the signage. In Dubai, you miss one exit, and you've automatically just lost 30 minutes of your day and added 20 km to your ride.

And the language barrier is still a problem. Today, we spent twenty minutes trying to understand whether the bedsheet an Asian man was selling was meant to go on top of the mattress or below it. It's like traveling to a foreign country and not knowing the language, only in reverse.

But the thing I've been struggling most with actually, is culture shock. On various levels.

Do you know how much the casual workers here make? The ones who leave their families back home and come here in droves for the sole purpose of making money? One Pakistani security guard at my office asked me the other day whether I could spare some money for his friend who broke his arm, but couldn't afford to go to a hospital here and needed to fly back to Pakistan where healthcare is cheaper. The guard makes 900 dirham a month, or about 235 Canadian dollars. When I offered to speak to the head of the office about it and see if we could help, he pleaded with me not to because he didn't want to get in trouble for having asked for money.

In my new neighbourhood, Jumeira Beach Residence, where Russians, Brits and Americans saunter around in beach clothes and sit at shi shi cafes, Pakistanis and Indians in blue uniforms crowd around the bus stops waiting for the public transit that no one else in the country uses. When a bus approaches, they make a huge scene, by jumping over each other in herds to get a seat on the bus, which will probably take them 45 minutes away to lower-class neighbourhoods like Deira or Sharja, where they live 10 to a room.

But the real culture shock is personal. I'm realizing just how Canadian I am.
My Western attitude has also gotten me into some trouble at work (not in my office, but with people I call for interviews, etc). There's a system in Middle East... largely based in relationship-building. It's slow, and sometimes a bit fake, but it's their system. And when you barge in trying to get everything done at once, without having built those relationships, people consider you too forward and too pushy and are less willing to help. So I'm learning to play the game.

Hanging out with Egyptians day in and day out has also been a bit exhausting. Here's how I break it down. Canadians function based on practicality and logic. Egyptians function based on duty. When I am with my cousin, it is his duty to take care of me. Thus, he has a self-imposed obligation to carry any heavy bags I may have, pay for my lunches, and drive me across the city. I have had a hard time with this, but sincerely feel I have made an effort to let go and accept people's generosity. But there comes a point where you just want to take control of your own life!

The other day, we were out at one end of town, near the home of some friends of ours, Mohamed and Maha. Karim had picked me up and Mohamed and Maha had come together in one car. Karim and Mohamed wanted to go out to a place nearby, but I was tired and wanted to go home, to the other side of town. The logical thing to do would have been for me to take a cab home and for them to go out. But that, of course, was unacceptable. So instead, Karim and Mohamed drove to Mohamed's house, picked up Maha's car, came back to meet Maha and I, where we transfered cars, and Maha drove me across town, only to drive all the way back again to get home. Not only did it not make any sense, but it also took 45 minutes for them to go get the car and come back, by which time I could have been in my bed happily sleeping.

I keep hearing "This is how it is here", and need to remind myself that just as I adjusted to cultures in Africa, I should adjust to this culture too. But when it's people you know, you feel, somehow, that they should be more willing to compromise. They're not. They're stubborn as hell and I'm tired of fighting.

What I do like is that, despite all the foreigners, this place does have a distinctly Muslim/Middle Eastern flavour. And there is something so beautiful about the uniform white galabeya (they call it dishdash here, I think) the men wear and the black abaya the women wear. The azhan rings throughout malls when it's time to pray. The majority of people here - including the Pakistanis! - greet you with Salamu Alaikum. And while you don't meet that many Emiratis, there is certainly a lot of Arabic around. Dubai is a very accepting place. But beyond all the skyscrapers, it has not forgotten, it seems to me, who/what it is. And it's not ashamed of it either. Being in the Middle East always makes me feel as though the rest of the world is a bit irrelevant. People live their lives their way here, even if, as one Emerati told me, "the West doesn't understand us."

*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***

Dubai

2011-09-14T09:40:00.000-07:00

The initial prognosis is... as bad as we expected. I wake up to a view of skyscrapers sprouting out of the sand. I am staying at a hotel where the internet has a mood of its own; the staff barely speak English and definitely don't speak Arabic; and a mini-can of coke costs nearly $5. The roads here are crazy and confusing. You need a cab to get to work, get from work, and if you want to try to be environmentally friendly, you need to take a cab to get to the metro and get from the metro. If you want to be really really environmentally friendly and walk, you will make it about five yards before the heat clogs your lungs and drenches your skin. So far, you might say, that's not so bad. So I'll go on.

I work in what is called "Dubai Humanitarian City". Dubai's government came up with this brilliant idea of creating little cities: Dubai Media City, Dubai Internet City, Dubai Green City, etc. -- meant to be global hubs for certain industries. The vision for the humanitarian city was actually quite unique. A place where UN agencies and NGOs from around the world could set up offices, warehouses, etc in a location that could conveniently and quickly provide for many parts of the Middle East, Africa and Asia in the case of an emergency. The UAE gave free office space to these agencies and IRIN set up shop in the early days of the project. Sadly, the execution fell a bit short of the dream, and the whole thing sort of fizzled out, leaving WFP, UNICEF, a few NGOS... and us, in what is essentially an abandoned collection of half-completed buildings in a patch of desert lost in a web of highways. The humanitarian city is, shall we say, lacking in amenities. At noon, when the sandwich stand opens up in the bottom of building 3, people rush to line up, because the shanghai noodles and tuna salad sandwiches are all the food you'll find in the "city" for the rest of the day. Still, not so bad.

Say the sandwich stand runs out of its goodies, or you have a meeting outside of the "city". You must, as previously explained, order a cab. Like the hotel staff, the cabbies mostly don't speak English. That, I can deal with. But they also have no clue where the blessed humanitarian city is. And there is really no way I can explain it. Take Al-Khail road, but when it splits into two, take the business bay exit... but not the business bay extension... the other exit, you know. keep to the right. But not too far right. And then when you pass the bridge - which bridge? - but before you get to the other bridge - ??? - you'll see a little turnoff... well actually at night you won't see it, because it's written on a tiny little sign that you wouldn't find even if you knew it existed. When you find yourself on the wrong side of the highway, do the 10-minute u-turn and try again.

So generally, leaving the office is a two-hour procedure. And of course, if it's 8pm and you're hungry, this is slightly uncomfortable. So when the cab finally finds the last place on earth, you ask him to stop along the way for some food (because the hotel, as previously explained, charges exorbitant prices). Your office is on the side of the highway. Your hotel is on the side of the same highway. The only thing between your office and your hotel is a gas station, where you buy some potato chips - well, "yummy flakes" - and a funny-tasting sandwich, before going back to the hotel to fight the internet connection fight.

And after a day of frustrating taxis and disappointing food, you've spent at least $50. As Karim puts it, in Dubai, you piss money. I thought I'd be the last person to say it, but you need a car. And once you have a car, you need a GPS. The upside, I guess, is that the gas might as well be free.

Enough ranting? Here are the saving graces.

If you can actually get past the Pakistanis calling everyone ma'am, on very rare occasions, you might actually meet a real Emirati - and they are actually very interesting! I really enjoyed Kuwait for the same reason. The Gulf culture is actually quite lovely. It's very important for them that you feel welcome and at home.

The tradition of hospitality often expresses itself in cardamom-infused coffee served in single-sip portions in tiny little cups, while your host stands before you, carafe in hand, refilling your cup until you are fully satisfied. They wear the crispest, whitest robes and when I'm around them, I find myself constantly staring at the fabric, wondering just how they keep it so perfect all day. Apparently they have closets (and stores) full of these identical white robes and rotate through them quite frequently.

I experienced the coffee exercise at the VIP lounge at the Kuwaiti airport. I stopped over in Kuwait on the way to Dubai for a conference on Monday. An Egyptian (half the people in Kuwait are Egyptian, the way half the people in Dubai are Pakistani) met me and my colleagues as soon as we stepped into the airport and whisked us away through some glass doors and into what seemed like another universe. We sat on couches being served tea while someone took our passports, got us visas, and took care of all the arrangements. I didn't speak to a single airport official, before we were again whisked into a private car and driven to the hotel. (This has nothing to do with UN - it was the conference organizers who were over the top. And I should acknowledge the racial profiling that put a bit of a damper on the night. We spent two hours waiting while my American-Somali colleague - could you ask for a better combination? - had his passport sent to national security for extra screening. Thankfully, there was the tea).

Saving grace number two are my cousins Karim and Tamer who live in Sharja (a suburb of Dubai) and Abu Dhabi respectively. Their two-man airport welcome committee saved me from myself. Until I met them, the airport's shiny floors and flashy ads about Dubai Mall (the biggest in the world, apparently) had me lost in thoughts, after my third flight in 30 hours: 'This is my new life: airports, conveyor belts, suitcases, grumpy customs officers, taxis, loneliness.' Karim and Tamer changed that - and the lovely dinner of kebab and tabbouleh Tamer invited us to didn't hurt either!

And the last saving grace: McDonald's ice cream cones cost thirty cents here. Yes, Camille, that's what excites me about Dubai. This is my new life.

*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***

Home Sweet Home

2011-09-04T12:15:00.001-07:00

I used to think the place Africa held in my heart was based in a romanticized notion of an exotic land far from home. But I’m tired of discrediting how I feel about the continent. The truth of the matter is I have felt more at home in Nairobi in my first 24 hours here than I did in the past year and a half in Canada. There’s no reason not to love being in a place where people smile regularly; where your view on the world matters more than what you wear; where you can eat non-processed food and where most foreigners are here out of some desire – well-placed or not – to create positive change.

Everything has been super smooth so far - I taught the official at the visa counter at the airport a few words of Arabic; all four of my bags arrived unscathed; the immigration officer believed me when I assured him that all the contents were destined for Dubai and he need not worry what I was bringing into Kenya; and the guest house envoy was waiting for me with my name scribbled onto a piece of cardbaord in what looked like kid’s writing.

The guest house staff greet me with "Good morning! I am fine" every day, before I sit down to an eggs and beef sausage breakfast, along with the best instant coffee I've ever had. (as you well know, I've drank my fair share of instant coffee).

I walk to work in less than half an hour. The UN Complex is not quite what I expected. Much more human actually, with trees, and green space, and little pools of water with lilypads. (The buildings, though, are as ugly as you might imagine - grey concrete block labelled, creatively, "A", "B", etc... I'm in "Block X"). In the evening -- not that I work long hours or anything -- the place becomes an auditorium of birds and insects who chirp so loud it's overpowering, even from inside the office.

The training has been very informal. More than anything, it's a chance for me to meet with all my bosses and get a sense of direction before heading for the desert - where I will be working in a small office, mostly independently. My bosses (yes, very plural) and colleagues have been very welcoming - to the point, surprise, surprise - that I wish I was posted in Nairobi instead.

I've already run into a bit of UN bureaucracy though. When I asked how I was to be paid – I’ve so far spent hundreds of dollars for which I need to be re-imbursed and am supposed to be receiving a daily stipend to cover my accomodation here - my supervisor looked surprised.

“Didn’t they give you some money?"

“No, I haven’t been given anything.”

The finance officer's response was worse: “I have no idea! Isn’t she supposed to get the money from Geneva? Ask Geneva!”

Otherwise, the first couple days have been really good. People are super nice. The job looks super interesting. (God, Diaz, I keep saying "super this" and "super that" - you're rubbing off!) I've got tons of reading to do to get up to speed on the region, and to understand the ins and outs of humanitarian technicalities (acute malnutrition vs. chronic malnutrition) but I’m excited to get to really throw myself into something. And the people here seem really eager to make me feel like part of a team, and -- equally importantly -- to make me feel needed.

I got to enjoy a bit of Nairobi over the weekend - had some githeri (a stew of beans, maize, carrots and potatos), chapatti and nyama choma (roasted meat); bought some soap-stone plates at the market; watched the Kenya-Guinea Bissau CON qualifer; and spent time with old acquaintances and new colleagues.

It's nice to be home.

The Indulgence Begins

2011-08-31T13:21:00.000-07:00

I understand the young kids these days have more sophisticated methods of communicating than an old-school blogspot page. But something about the name “Heba’s adventures in Senegal” makes it hard to let this good old thing go. So you are now witnessing a revival. My last post here was two years ago. Since then, I biked around the Mediterranean, moved back to Canada, worked at the CBC, and am now about to start a new gig at the UN’s humanitarian news and analysis service, IRIN (www.irinnews.org), based in Dubai and covering the Middle East. (Funny – this blog started with my internship at IRIN in Dakar). Granted, Dubai is no Senegal, and it certainly isn’t Chad or Sudan. But I suspect it will come with a great number of eye-opening experiences of its own kind. Thus warranting said blog.

Now, I promise you, I didn’t want to do this – especially not in my first post. This, of course, being suggesting in any way that I have experienced a superior existence since I left Canada or that you are worse off while reading this at home – but the last 24 hours have just been too good to keep quiet. And it’s a bit fitting that the Dubai chapter of this blog should start in such fashion – so here we go.

First class.
(CORRECTION: Apparently first class and business class are not synonymous. It was business class - not that it makes any difference to me, but just so I don't start hearing all the lectures about the UN throwing money away).

It is not, as I had previously convinced myself, a waste of money on spoiled businessmen and politicians who no longer know how to interact with commoners. It is, my friends, flying made dignified.

It began with the Air Canada Lounge in Ottawa: unlimited food and drink, internet, magazines, etc. But anyone who has flown Porter has tasted a bit of that.

First class on the plane, however, is a whole other matter. The 40-minute flight from Ottawa to Toronto came with a “Welcome Ms. Aly”, refreshments before my butt even touched the seat and a tasty chicken wrap served on elegant dinnerware.

In Toronto, another lounge. More food and drink.

Then, on the Toronto-Heathrow leg: paradise.

There were so many buttons on my bed-seat, I didn’t know what to touch first. I spent at least 15 minutes opening and closing all the gadgets and compartments in my little apartment. I reclined and straightened up my chair – back and forth, back and forth – giggled and closed my eyes, smiling.

There were about five options for dinner and when the steward came by – the old lady in the seat ahead of me said he had a “holy air” to him – I was expecting my roasted chicken with mushroom sauce and wild rice, with butternut squash on the side.

I was wrapped up in a charming documentary about 82-year-old New York Times Style Photographer Bill Cunningham – “doing away with fashion would be like doing away with civilization” – and I looked down to find an appetizer instead: an exquisitely-twirled tower of smoked salmon with capers and a cilantro-mustard sauce.... fresh bread... salad ... etc. It was so beautiful, I wanted to take a picture, but was just too comfortable in my bed to get up for the camera.

By the time the main course came and went, I was so full I needed to lie down – which, of course, I did.

But then I heard those blessed words in the distance: “Would you like a selection of cheeses?”

Need I say more?

And cheese wasn’t dessert. The warm chocolate pecan pie came later.

I imagine those who travel first class all the time have learned how to refuse some these offerings. I have not yet developed this aptitude. And so I sat there, terrified that there was still more to come. (On the Heathrow-Nairobi leg, the steward just rode back and forth down the aisle: “Can I get you anything now?” ... “How about now?”)

Before I left Canada, I spent a lot of time grumbling about the consumerism and overly indulgent society of palm-tree-shaped-islands that I was entering into.

I would like to formally take those grumbles back.

Isiolo

2009-06-20T02:22:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago, I headed up to a central Kenyan town called Isiolo, about a four-hour drive from the capital, Nairobi. I was going to research a story about insurgents from Somalia's civil war recruiting Kenyans to fight with them. I had been told that a young boy (a Kenyan who is ethnically Somali) from a village near Isiolo had blown himself up in Somalia's war, and I was going to meet the family. It was ... quite an experience.

I was supposed to leave Nairobi with an elder from this village and a Somali civil society activist at 6am. I barely slept the night before and woke up before the break of dawn to be ready on time. I arranged to rent a car and they were to meet me and the car downtown at 6am so we could get on the road early and possibly come back the same day. At 6am, I called them from downtown to see if they knew the exact corner we were meeting at. The village elder was still sleeping. They arrived at 7am, with another pleasant surprise. We still had to go back to the elder's home in Nairobi to pick up his wife and son. (Apparently he couldn't go back to the village without his wife because she's the only one that can cook for him). That took two more hours. I should have known that Somalis are worse than Egyptians when it comes to timing.

The ride there was in and of itself interesting. Along the way, huge trucks raced by carrying kilograms and kilograms of a stimulating plant called khat. It is illegal in many countries, but a staple among Somalis. Thew chew it daily - no, hourly - and I guess it gets them kind of high, but in a natural way. I was once told any interview past noon with a Somali would always be "lacking in details"... but I was also told by someone else, the best way to get information from a Somali is to chew with them.

The khat export business has become quite something. The plant, grown in central Kenya, is sold in Somalia and as far as the UK. Apparently, the trucks carrying the stuff don't stop until they reach their destination. Because of the "sensitive" nature of their orders, they cannot afford to be a minute late. So when a truck is flying down the highway and it flashes its lights - that means get out of the way or you'll be killed, cuz this thing ain't stopping. In an effort to combat that, it looks like local government officials have tried to make speedbumps. Only, in some of these places, money is a little lacking for the cement. So instead, they dig out a little strip of the road, like a small trench, and that forces people to slow down in the same way. They say the trucks are so heavy that when they are going downhill, they have to travel at a ridiculously low speed, because if they relied on the brakes to slow them down, the brakes would just burn into flames.

We drove across the equator, where an improvised tourist attraction had been set up. A bowl of water with an egg on each side of the equtor - to demonstrate that gravity pulls the water in different directions (which explains why toilets flush in different directions) on either side.

It was interesting seeing the different landscapes as we travelled north. At first it was extremely fertile, with red clay, trees, plants, and plenty of growth. Then the closer we got to Isiolo, the more arid the landscape became. First it was ranches - acres and acres of land, owned almost exclusively by foreigners. "If Jews had all this land, they would have commcercialized it," the villager elderly said. Ultimately, we found ourselves driving through dust so strong that we couldn't see through the windshield.

At times, we'd be driving in seemingly the middle of nowhere only to find people walking on the side of the road. This is normal in Africa. You find people herding their cattle in the middle of nowhere, because they sleep out in the bush with their animals. But this time, it was a man in a suit. What is a man in a suit doing walking kilometres and kilometres in the middle of nowhere? Had he just finished a business meeting in one village and was trekking back home to another? It always fascinates me. He just looked so out of place in the midst of the wind, sand, and cows.

We finally arrived in the afternoon, to a small village where homes were made of timber and iron sheets and camels casually walk through the sandy alleyways, grazing on the homes' fences! I was almost instantly renamed Hebo, a Somali name with the same meaning as Heba (gift from God). I was also taught how to say "How are you?" in Somali. The term is "Makag Sheig Tee", which litterally means "tell me something". I was told it comes from the time when Somalis were all warriors. When they met someone along the way, they would ask about the situation in the village the passerby had come from. "How is it there? Tell me something". So the best response to "How are you?" in Somali is "Nabat"... "peace".

We ate traditional Somali/Kenyan food - meat/potato stew with ugali, a maize-based (I think!) thick, dry dough that is piled in mountains on your plate! I soon discovered that everything in the house was covered in aunts - food, if you leave it out, the toilet, even, eventually, my purse (where I discovered I had left a piece of chocolate, which the aunts found instanteneously).

I spoke with a bunch of the deceased young man's friends, who were shocked at the whole story. He was born in Kenya and had no connection to the war back home in Somaila. His friends were clearly unimpressed, and gave different explanations for why he would do go: religious brainwashing, money, the feeling of doing something with your life - when you have nothing and your life has no meaning and you see no future, suddenly - the argument goes - committing suicide seems like something of an accomplishment. Many others from Kenya have left their homes to go fight in Somalia, along with people from Tanzania, Uganda, Rwanda, Afganistan, Pakistan, even the United States and the UK (usually, Americans or Brits of Somali origin, but caucasians have also been part of the fighting). People worry that on top of all its own problems (civil war, poverty, humanitarian crisis, piracy), Somalia is becoming a new safe-haven for al-Qaeda. And Somalis fear that this new trend is causing a disgenuine interest in their country by the international community. "The White man is not interested in Somalia," says the village elder with whom I was staying. "He just wants to fight al-Qaeda."

In the end, I was gone three days. As you can imagine, the departure time was just as casual and unimportant to my hosts as the arrival. So I spent some time with members of the family - the mom, who you can see in this picture making breakfast on a charcoal-heated pan. I also got a good crash-course on the Somali clan system. Somalia has been at war with itself since 1991, when warlords overthrew a dictator and then turned on each other. Clan has been the defining factor in Somalia's war for a long time, with different clans fighting against each other and members of the same clan sticking together. What is a clan? Basically the lineage of a family. For example, members of the Issak clan are descendants of Sheikh Issak, an Iraqi who came to Somalia 17 generations ago. He had 8 children. Each of them had children. Every Issak can trace his lineage back to Sheikh Issak, naming every father, grandfather, greatgrandfather, etc. along the way. When a Somali boy is born, he is taught his lineage immediately. No matter where in the world an Issak is, he knows where he's from. "We don't get lost. We're just like the Jews," the village elder told me. What's interesting is that the mother's heritage doesn't matter. As long as your father was an Issak, you are an Issak, even if your mother is an Ethiopian or a Caucasian or whatever. The woman is just a tool the man uses to spread his clan. "She's a box - put your things and move it. She's an industry." ha.

The other interesting thing about these guys was their relationship with their country. I was with two Issaks from Somaliland, an autonomous area that is technically part of Somalia, but has unilaterally declared its independence - which no one in the world recognizes. But while Somalia is tearing itself apart, Somaliland is actually relatively safe. And amazingly, instead of being concerned about what was happening in Somalia, this was the elder's opinion: "Somalia? Let them go to hell. Our country is Somaliland - and there, we are at peace." And then they complain that the international community doesn't care about Somalia. Amazing.

Kenyan superstitions

2009-05-27T02:31:00.000-07:00

The woman who serves us coffee at work is called Esther. She's a tall, broad-shouldered woman who is always smiling and insisting I have just one more cup. She's been sniffling lately, with some kind of flu. Then the other day she told me her auntie - not aunt, but auntie - had died. Turns out, the two are linked.

One day, I found her reading her aunt's obituary in the paper, while sniffling. "You still have that cold?" I asked her. "It's because of my auntie," she said. "When you are sick, it means something bad is going to happen to your family." She says African/Muslim tradition says that when someone in your family feels pain, you too will feel pain. Everytime you get a headache, it means something bad is coming.

But get this. Anytime you accidentally shatter glass - you drop a glass for ex - you are diffusing some bad thing. So instead of being angry that you broke something, you should be grateful that this has happened instead of something worse.

Everytime I walk my this construction on my street, I wonder if the scafolding made of wood will just collapse... But I never get a headache, so I guess these workers are safe!

Jane

2009-05-20T10:22:00.000-07:00

About 3/4 of the way along my jogging route, I always run into a group of Kenyan women sitting at the intersection, waiting. They wait, all day everyday. For a job. I don't know how they expect the job to fall from the sky. But they wait for someone to approach them with some kind of opportunity.

One of these women would always laugh and cheer me on when I ran by. One day, I decided to stop and introduce myself. As I did, I told her, "tomorrow, you're coming with me!"

So the next day, when I got to her spot, I stopped and said "let's go!" She got up off the rock she was sitting on and ran a block with me in her orange dress. We ran slow and she breathed hard, but she actually did it! I was impressed that she wasn't just talk. That day we exchanged names for the first time. Hers was Jane

The next time I ran by, I stopped to say hi. Jane told me her brother had died in Nairobi's biggest slum. She needed money. It was amazing how little I felt. Two years ago in Senegal, that would have tugged at my heart. I would have felt I had to give her something to feel ok with myself. This time, I felt something completely different - that I wanted to set a different tone. I wanted it to be clear, from the beginning, that a friendship with me is to be a true friendship - and not for any other purpose. I obviously still have questions about this. Sure, she shouldn't befriend a stranger just to ask for money, but what if she has no option? Sure, in Africa, asking someone for money isn't really using them because the needs are just incomparable, and if you can give, you give. But I guess I just wasn't happy with the expectation that I was now going to be her bank. So I said, "I'm so sorry to hear that" and kept running. Have I become cold?

Democracy on the bus

2009-05-20T10:11:00.000-07:00

The traffic, as usual, was horrible on my way home from work the other day. The bus driver decided, as they often do, to take an alternate route to "beat" the traffic. Of course, that route only led to more traffic and half an hour was wasted. People on the bus got testy. Women started screaming at the fare collector to give them their money back since they were now going to miss their appointments because the bus was no longer taking them where it was suppose to. I watched as yelled and yelled. And he just stood there silently, not even acknowledging them. I could feel their pain. It was, for me, an avid reminder, of what life is like in many African countries without democracy. You can protest all you want, but nobody listens. And you certainly never get your money back.

Matatu in the rain

2009-05-20T09:55:00.000-07:00

The other day, I thought I’d beat the Kenyan traffic, so I left work at 3:15pm. Figured I’d be home before 4pm and I’d have a relaxing afternoon. So I caught the bus and about half way home, I got a call on my cell phone – an interview I’d been waiting for all day. So I pulled out my notebook and scribbled down notes while riding along. We spoke for about 15 minutes. Then I hung up and waited for my stop. It never came. After 15 minutes or so, I looked around and realized I really wasn’t anywhere near what I was used to. By this time it was close to 5pm. “Excuse me, do you know if the Yaya Centre is coming up?” I asked the guy next to me. “Oh we left it behind long ago,” he answered. Ha. So much for getting home early. I got out then and there and found myself in one of the "people’s" neighbourhoods, let’s say, where tin shacks grew out of the muddy, garbage-filled streets. Paths, I should call them, because there was no tarmac. Then, as I waited for a bus going back the other way, it started pouring rain. It's the rainy season in Kenya, meaning every other day it spontaneously starts pouring buckets! A jolly old guy next to me let me stand with him under his umbrella. All the buses coming through, as well as their smaller, ghettoer versions, the minivan Matatus, were full. I climbed around in the soggy red clay dirt with my high heels, looking totally out of place. We reached a place further up the hill where we caught a matatu. When you climb into one of these things, you feel you can never get out again because they are crammed with people so tightly and I always manage to put myself in the corner furthest from the door. Given the traffic on the main road, the matutu made a U-turn and drove off onto a side street, where we got stuck behind some car stuck in the middle of the road. The back door of the van kept flying open. When it didn't, the passenger door couldn't seem to close. Everytime we went over a bump, we all went flying in the air, our heads banging against the rickety sides of the van. I think I got home around 6pm...

"This is Africa"

2009-05-10T13:04:00.000-07:00

So... I'm back in Kenya and committed, for the next little while, to stay on top of my blog. I feel totally disconnected from all of you and want to make a better effort to make you informed of my life and be informed of yours.

So, basically, I'm living in Kenya now. Every day, I go jogging in the morning (I get the funny stares from everyone, because running is huge here - but seemingly only for men). Then I ride bus no. 46 to work (I pay 40 Kenyan shillings, or about 50 cents). I work out of Bloomberg's office here, mostly continuing to cover Sudan. (I do analysis, or call people by phone, etc). But I've become increasingly frustrated with not doing any work in the field, and I'm trying to engage myself a little more with my surroundings - ie. to actually feel that I am in Africa and not just sitting in front of a computer screen. Then I ride the bus home again in horrible traffic, pick up groceries from the supermarket and make dinner. Pretty normal life really.

But there are always reminders.

The other day I was reading the newspaper on the way to work and found a tiny article, hidden on page 6, about the murder of a politician. He had been on way his home at 10pm one day, when a car drove by, shot his tires flat, and then kept driving. He got out of his car to ask for help, and the same car drove by and shot him in the head four times, again driving away, without stealing anything.

I was shocked. It was a two-paragraph story on page 6 !!! I showed it to my Kenyan colleague when I got to work. He hadn't even noticed the story. The Kenyan capital Nairobi is known to have high crime, but not like this! He said the politician must have been mixed up in some shady business and this was payback. Then he went back to his desk as if it was nothing.

"This is Africa," he said.

p.s. For those of you who are now freaking out, Kenya is overall a very good place to live. There are no wars, and quite a bit of development - a step up from Sudan anyway! But the next day, the newspaper showed the pictures of 26 men who had been killed in execution-style killings in the last two months alone. I expressed some concern about this to my colleague, and he said, as long as you're straight in your dealings, you'll have no problems. Let's hope so!

Bumps, Bribes and Baboons

2009-03-30T12:37:00.000-07:00

I'm back in Kenya for a short trip. Last time I came here, I wrote about how it felt like Europe: the men in suits, the skyscrapers, etc. This time, I'm getting more exposure to its African identify.

First, on the way home from the airport, I saw a zebra standing on the side of the main tarmack road. A zebra!

Then I went to Nairobi National Park, where I got to see a selection of zebras (they much fatter butts than I expected), giraffes (beautiful), water buffalos, baboons, gazelles, and a lion, among other animals whose names have escaped me. This park is just a few kilometres outside of town, but is as close to the Kenyan savana as you can get in the city. It's amazing. You can see wild animals in their natural habitat, with skyscrapers in the background! Plus the park isn't fenced, allowing animals to pass through during their migration. No wonder a zebra had wandered onto the road!

The next day, I headed with a friend to Mount Longonot, 2776 above sea level, for a little hike. On the way there, we were pulled over at a regular checkpoint by Kenyan police officers who noticed I wasn't wearing a seatbelt and immediately said "We are going to arrest you." ha. Of course, what they really wanted was money. If it wasn't the seatbelt, it would have been the car regisration or the lights or they would have found something to pick on. They said I would have to stay in jail for two days until the matter could be sorted out. Again, ha. Of course, we knew better. So, we proposed to settle the matter "locally and amicably" ie. pay a bribe. Some $25 later, we were on our way. "Have fun at Mount Longonot," the police officers called out, as we drove away, pissed off. Reportedly, they make $300 a day in bribes. I can tell you there was a long lineup of cars pulled over behind us!

Turns out we had taken the wrong road and the journey to Longonot, which should have been a smooth ride on a tarmack rode, turned into an adventure on small, bumpy dirt roads in a car that really shouldn't have been put to such a test.

Eventually, we did make it, and were appointed a guide, Anne-Paul. I asked her how long the hike would take. She said she does it in 40 minutes, but people "who spend all day in the office" were slower. The book had said the whole thing would take 6 hours, so I wondered just what we were in for and whether I was one of the lazy office people.

It turned out to be quite a challenge, with some parts really quite steep. Dad, you would have loved it. The climb to the rim of the volcanic crater lasted, as Anne-Paul had promised, somewhere around an hour. But from there, the path around the 2-km wide crater and to the summit, was another story.

We made it to the unremarkable summit eventually, covered in dust from the volcanic ashes. Along the way, we saw, again, plenty of zebras and giraffes. But most remarkable was the view, on the edge of a huge crater, overlooking the Rift Valley that crosses much of East Africa. At times I felt I was walking in the clouds.

Coming down was almost worse. Terrified I would slip and fall down the mountain in the midst of the unstable earth beneath me, I took one baby-step at a time, until I gave up fear and just started running down the mountain like a crazy person on speed!

I hadn't exercised like that in a while and it felt good...And also reminded me that as developed as Kenya was, it was still home to plenty of bumps, bribes and baboons!

My work

2009-03-18T15:08:00.000-07:00

I always get questions from you guys about what I'm writing. So I've put together a separate blog where I will post all my work. I've tried to update it up to now, with a selection of stories from Sudan. I hope you get something out of it!

http://hebajournalism.blogspot.com/

When there's nothing you can do...

2009-02-16T13:02:00.001-08:00

I began the hostile environment training at Centurion Risk Assessment Services today (for journalists and aid workers who are working in war zones). During the morning we covered basic first aid, and were given an outline of what the week would entail. It seemed pretty straight forward. I didn't understand what all the fuss was about (These courses have a really great reputation and cost somewhere around $3,000 for one week). One of the other students told me he had heard the practical work was very realistic, but I didn't think much of it.

After lunch, we were told we were going to take a tour of the campgrounds in which the course was taking place. The 10 of us students loaded into a van and were off. When we reached a gate about 10 minutes into the woods, the driver stopped until they opened the doors.

All of a sudden, gunfire broke out to the left of the van and men wearing black masks over their faces ran towards the van, pointing guns at us and screaming at us to get out. We all knew it was part of the training, but it was, as I had been warned, extreamely real. In fact, it was the realest simulation I have ever participated in.

They started pulling people out of the van and throwing them onto the pavement. I was further back in the van and had a bit more time to think. But I had no idea what to do. I considered hiding in the van, but figured they would find me and only beat me harder for disobeying. They grabbed me and knocked me down onto the pavement. "Heads down!" they screamed, as they covered our faces with black hoods, all of us lying face down on the ground.

Then they forced us up onto our feet, and marched us about 5 minutes away. I couldn't see a thing and was guided only by the person in front of me. I had a hard time keeping up with them because I was being pulled from behind by the next person in line. When eventually we stopped, they forced us all to kneel. The ground was wet and I could feel the mud through my jeans. Then one by one, we were pushed up against a cement wall, our hands up against it. They came by each one of us and searched our whole bodies for any valuables. They stole my ring and watch - that's all I had with me of any value. Then they got in the car and drove away.

I didn't know what to do or if they were truly gone, so I didn't move. I stayed there, with my palms against the cement wall, my breathing getting heavier and the black hood seemingly closing in on me more and more with every breath. Everyone was quiet. I wondered what the others were thinking, and what to do next. I tried to inch my hand over to see if I could reach the person next to me, but was scared to move it too far or too quickly.

Then I heard one of the others try to move - and immediately a gunshot. As I suspected, our captors hadn't yet left - at least not all of them. I tried to listen intently for any indicators of what was going on. I thought about what to do, what my options were. I couldn't think of anything. I couldn't see. I could barely breathe. I didn't know where I was or who was with me. And I didn't know how the captors would react to any movement. I knew it was all fake, but I kept thinking to myself, "if this was real right now, what would I do?" And my mind was blank. I thought of calling out to the captors - asking what they wanted. But I feared that too would result in death. So I just kept quiet and still.

It's crazy how quickly and easily we can be made to feel like little nothings. And it's crazy what the power of guns can do to people.

Slowly, the area around me got quieter and quieter. I heard people being taken away and by the end it seemed that I was all alone there. Then someone grabbed me from behind and led me along through the mud. A few minutes later, he forced me back onto my knees, pushed my head down and removed the hood. All the other participants - already free - were standing there waiting and smiling.

Back in the classroom, we debriefed. I had so many questions. What is someone supposed to do in that situation? Is it a good idea to comply, or should you try to escape? Should you communicate or stay silent?

We went through the whole scenario of abduction, from the surveillance you undergo before it happens all the way to the rescue, if there is one. We talked about the mental challenges of being in captivity and about the ways to avoid being abducted in the first place.

In the end, we were told the best opportunity for escape is in the first few moments of the capture, when there is confusion and lots going on. It's in those first few moments, when you do not yet realize what is happening, that you have to be most prepared and alert. Once you're hooded and tied, your chances of escape are slim to none. The instructors told us to co-operative completely. You should never give up and always pay attention to what is happening and opportunities to escape, but never give them any reason to be angry with you.

I have begun getting used to being completely at someone else's mercy. It's a weird feeling. You fight with yourself. At times you feel weak for complying so completely to their orders. At others you fear the slightest resistance could get you killed.

Of course, there is no right and wrong in these situations. Once you're in this position, there's not much you can do but try to stay calm. I think that's the most this type of training can do for you - it prepares you mentally for the possibility of this happening, so that if it does, the shock is smaller and your reaction better. That might be the only thing that keeps you alive...

The wonders of Bloomberg

2009-02-16T12:44:00.000-08:00

Last month, I had been given a grant by the Rory Peck Trust to take a training course on being a journalist in hostile environments. These are very expensive, week-long courses offered to journalists and aid workers who work in war zones. Back then, given my work in Sudan, I thought it was high time I did such a course. The training was in London, England, and this grant - given to freelancers who can't afford the training themselves - covered most of the cost. So I signed up for it, only to have to leave Sudan a few weeks later. Still, I thought it would be a worthwhile thing to do because who knows where I will end up. So here I am in London! And I came a few days early in order to discover the city, meet some friends and take care of some business.

One of my first stops was the Bloomberg office, to meet some editors and get registered in the Bloomberg system (There is no office in Sudan, and so, until I got to the small Cairo office, I had never met anyone that I worked with).

All I can say is WOW. The biggest newsroom in Canada doesn't even come close. I have never seen anything like this. When you walk in, it almost feels like a bar, it's so dimly-lit. Security guards wearing ear pieces and suits guard the front escalators. A woman sitting in front of a digital screen checks your identity. Once you get past the woman and the guards, you ride the escalators - lined with neon blue lights - up to the reception. They take a picture of you, print it on the spot, and make you a badge. To the left is a massive snack bar with all-you-can-eat chips, fruit, drinks and other treats for the employees. Red couches along the side make the place feel like a cool evening lounge. Then through a hallway into the newsroom area are three floors of journalists, all visible through the transparent glass walls, ceiling to floor. At each desk (ie. for one person) are between 2 and 4 computer screens. Each desk is also lined with a "Bloomberg" notepad, "Bloomberg" pencil and tons of coffee-stained paper "Bloomberg" cups. They have an incredible system of financial analysis - stats, graphs, calculators, analyst recommendations, contact numbers - all right there in the system. Financial reporters can just punch in whatever commodity or company they are looking at, and up comes a whole series of analysis and numbers - gold prices went up because of this, gas prices are 40% lower than yesterday, etc. etc. It's truly madness. It had been a long time since I was in any news room at all, and this one just blew my mind...

And more ...

2009-02-16T12:37:00.000-08:00

It's been a bit weird being on this side of the fence...

Sudan expels reporter over Darfur, arms: US
(Reuters)

Journalist told to leave Sudan
(Public Radio International)

Canadian journalist recounts days leading to expulsion from Sudan
(SudanTribune.com)

"They asked me why I was asking about arms. Then they said they wantd me to leave the country"
(Reporters Without Borders)

Goodbye Sudan

2009-02-08T00:43:00.000-08:00

By now most of you have heard the news.
I was kicked out of Sudan. National Security called me in for a meeting and told me I had two days to leave. They said it was because I was asking questions about the arms industry. Who knows what the real reason was. I am now in Cairo with family deciding what to do next.

Here are some articles about my expulsion:

From AFP

From the Christian Science Monitor

On the Road in Sudan

2009-01-30T12:06:00.000-08:00

As you've all noticed, my blog has been a bit lacking lately. It's because: A - I'm so busy and B - I just don't know what to write about much of the time. My life here has lost much of its wonder. I've got satellite TV and air-conditioning; I eat museli, yogurt & fruit for breakfast and make shrimp curries for dinner; I play soccer a few times a week; and spend most of my work-time on my computer, and not in the field. So for all intents and purposes, it's not much different than my life in Canada - in fact sometimes better. But I've managed to scrape together a few stories, all having something to do with traveling.

I get internet here through a little thing about double the size of a flash disk that I stick in my USB drive. It connects to the mobile phone network and where ever I go, I get internet. So I can take my laptop and little USB thing to any coffee shop or friend's house in Khartoum and have internet! Sometimes I use it while I'm waiting at the airport, for example. It's like super wireless. Better than anything I've seen in North America. It's amazing that in the midst of all the underdevelopment here in Sudan, this sort of advanced technological feat exists.The other day, we were coming home from a press conference and the traffic was horrendous. So, as we were stuck in the jam, I pulled out my laptop, typed up my story and sent it in! As we drove along, I checked my e-mail, visited a few websites, and conversed back and forth with editors in South Africa. The efficiency and success of it all amazed me ...

Of course all good things come to an end. And efficiency and success in Sudan are certainly good things. Today, I went to the market with the reporters from Reuters and Agence France Presse, two of the world's largest news wires. Andrew, the Reuters reporter, always complained about the car. The windows, for example, don't roll down. They just down. We got to the market, parked in the sun, and walked around for a few hours. When we got back, we expected the car to be a sauna. We got in, turned it on - and low and behold - the air conditioning did not work. Imagine being in 40+ degree weather, in a car that had been sitting in the sun for hours, with no air conditioning and windows that don't roll down. We drove home in a mad rush, sweat dripping off our faces, and Guillaume, the AFP reporter, barely breathing! Every now and then, he or I would open our doors and drive with the door open, just to make sure we made it home alive. What an adventure that was. Andrew suspects the wires melted together or something...

I end my travel section on an upbeat. I was taking a cab home the other day. I knew it should cost about 7 pounds (about $3). The cabbies always start at 10, but you should be able to negotiate down to 7. Lately, they've been sticking to their price though. (The Sudanese are much less willing to negotiate than other Africans I've met. In Senegal, I could spend half an hour negotiating with someone over 50 cents, and eventually we'd come to some agreement. You pretend to walk away, they call you back, etc. etc. It's a silly game, I know, but here's it's too far in the other extreme. Sometimes they say 10, you say no 7, and they say no, and just drive away. They don't even try to convince you. I still haven't figured out whether they're just not business savy or whether the Senegalese were just so desperate they would take whatever money they could get). In any case, so the taxi insisted on 10, and I refused and he drove away. The next one I pulled over saw this. He tried for 8 but accepted 7 quite easily. I got in and he said 'How much did the other cabbie ask you for?' I said 10. And he said something to the effect of 'Well if 7's all you've got then I can't not accept it, now can I?' I thought it was the sweetest thing ever ... I think he also said that meters were evil ... haha

On a non-travel note, I went to a restaurant today called Carnivore, named after the same restaurant in Kenya. Basically, it's an all-you-can-eat meat place. The waiter comes by with chicken, beef, lamb, crocodile, ostridge, camel, etc. and keeps coming around (dim sum style) until you can't take anymore. Today there was no camel, but I did try the crocodile. It tasted fishy but thicker and chewier. Interesting, but not quite something I'd eat everyday. Anyways, if you're ever in Nairobi, go to Carnivore restaurant - quite the experience.

Sorry for the randomness of this posting.

Sudan through new eyes

2009-01-08T04:49:00.000-08:00

I woke up jet-lagged today, but stepped out into the heat of Khartoum and felt refreshed. I am happy to be back. Vacation in Canada was great - and I am so grateful for the wonderful time spent with friends and family - but it was also lots of running around. It's nice to settle down again. But my happiness is about more than that. Being in Canada, being one step - well thousands i guess - removed from the details of daily news reporting, helped me gain a lot of perspective. People asked me questions that forced me to think - 'So what is your conclusion?', 'Are things getting better or worse in Sudan?', etc. etc. - and those questions reminded me of how important it is for me to be here. I think I lost track of that along the way.

I've decided to make a real effort to connect with Sudan this time around. To say hi to strangers on the street more often. To go to cultural events. To go to people's homes. To really understand this country... and to smile more! To see the beautiful sides of this place and to live more happily here.

This morning I went to exchange money, get a new sim card, and renew my internet subscription. Everything went so smoothly and I thought... maybe things can work in this country! Maybe I can build a life here after all...(temporarily anyway)

The Nightmares of Flying

2009-01-08T04:38:00.000-08:00

In less than two months I have been on 14 flights. Yes, 14. I counted yesterday, while I sat bored out of my mind, yet too tired to read, at the gate, waiting to board my flight - one of 4 I had to take to get back to Sudan. And it seems every flight is worse than the one that preceded it. Service is dead. Punctuality is dead. Efficiency is dead. Competency long buried. In the good old days, a delay or baggage loss was the exception. These days, it seems that it’s impossible to fly problem-free. On my way to Vancouver to visit my mom, we sat in the airplane on the runway for 3.5 hours before taking off for some de-icing exercise – apparently the West Coast doesn’t understand how to handle snow. On the way back, I was delayed I don’t know how many hours, then my bags didn’t show up.

When I booked my ticket to return to Khartoum, I was amazed at how smooth it appeared. Ottawa – Toronto – Frankfurt – Khartoum. No more than 2 hour layover in both stops. Less than 20 hours flying time. Perfect. Well… until the Toronto flight was delayed 2.5 hours and I missed my Frankfurt connection. Then I had to wait in a line for God knows how long, before being directed to another line, where I was told the next ticket wouldn’t get me there until 2:20am … instead of 5:40pm. Ugh. At this point it was 5am Ottawa time, I hadn’t slept, and I wasn’t in the mood. The only available flight was through Istanbul, adding another leg to the journey – which, with two heavy carry-ons, is never fun.

‘Is there any compensation?’ I asked. ‘We can give you a meal voucher, but that’s about all I can do for you here. You can send a fax to this number though…” This is crap, I thought to myself. But I took the voucher anyway. I wasn’t hungry – not one iota. But I wanted Lufthansa to lose as much money as possible. So I stood in line at McDonald’s and ordered 10 euros worth of stuff. (Frankfurt fries are not quite as crispy, but the sundaes are quite good!)

If before, only certain airlines were known to be poor – now even the best ones are inconsistent at best. But what to do? With this work, I have no choice but to submit to their ridiculousness.

The only plus of this journey – if you could call it that – is that the Finnish World Junior Hockey Championship team was on my flight from Toronto – a bunch of lads who couldn’t speak English getting drunk and causing havoc. It was quite entertaining.

Kenya!

2008-11-26T23:49:00.000-08:00

All the UN people here in Sudan have a mandated R&R (rest and relaxation) every two months or something like that. Apparently, it's too difficult to live in Sudan without regular breaks. So that's exactly what I gave myself recently - a long weekend in neighbouring Kenya!

Let me tell you, arriving in the capital Nairobi was like seeing a whole new world. I felt like I was in Europe - paved roads, public parks, fancy cars, skyscrapers, EVERYONE in suits. I felt underdressed in jeans. When I saw a man biking in a suit, it was as if I was in Amsterdam. Honestly, I could have been in downtown Toronto - except that everyone was black and spoke English with a beautiful Kenyan accent. Even the construction workers on the side of the road wore bright orange fluorescent vests, instead of the usual - bare feet and dirty sleeveless shirts. I have never seen a place in Africa quite like this (I imagine South Africa is even more incredible). For people who have been around a while, this is totally normal, but for me, Nairobi was a shock.

In any case, it was interesting being in a new country. They drive on the left side of the road and the steering wheel is on the right side of the car. It's been a while since I've had to make an effort to speak the local language, Swahili - "Jambo" = Hello! "Habareeyako?" = How are you? But of course, everyone speaks English, so it wasn't much of a problem. In fact, Swahili has a lot in common with Arabic - 600 for example is "meya sita", police officer is 'askary'. About one third of the population here in Muslim, from what I'm told.

Speaking of police, while in a taxi, I saw a bunch of police officers running down the street with sticks in their hands. "Hookers," the taxi driver said. haha. It's a weird place. The headline of the one of the newspapers read: "This mum watched her son starve to death." Weird. As developed as Kenya is, it's still Africa. And inter-tribal violence that killed hundreds after the elections here in January was a reminder of that.

After Nairobi, I headed to Lamu, a small town on Kenya's northeastern coast, for a nice relaxing day on the beach. First time I see a beach town with both tourists in bikinis and locals in niqab (full face and hair covering). Many Muslim traders settled on Kenya's coast, so the people are a mix of Arab and African in both ethnicity and religion. Anyways, it was a great few days. I can see why so many foreigners like living in Kenya. It's got all the beauty of Africa without a lot of the difficulties. Maybe I've just been in Sudan too long!

My First Sudanese Wedding

2008-11-17T12:52:00.000-08:00

I told you guys about being in the village up north and participating in wedding preparations which lasted days and days. So when a guy I knew from the local internet place (I go there to print and scan stuff) invited me to his sister's wedding, I was eager to see what the final product looked like.

It wasn't what I was expecting. In fact, except for the food - a plastic plate with fried fish, french fries and felafel - and the snapping of the fingers while waiving your hand in the air - the Sudanese symbol for celebration - it was extremely similar to every North American wedding I've been to. "This is Khartoum, not the village," I was reminded by one of the guys after expressing my surprise at how Western the wedding was.

The bride wore a glamorous white dress with lots of cleavage, all the men wore suits, the hall was huge and fancy, and the cake was layers high. There was a small zafa at the beginning (when the bridge and groom enter, accompanied by family and music) - nothing like Egyptian zafas though - and then the bride and groom were seated. People came endlessly to shake their hands. Dinner was served, while a live singer sang, and people danced. The men danced with so much life ... they did the chicken, they shook their shoulders, it was really fun. Then they threw me in the middle and said "Dance Egyptian style!" which I did for about 5 seconds before resuming my role behind the camera. Within two hours, the whole thing was over. No speeches, no belly dancers, and no dancing til all hours of the night (I think there's a rule in Sudan that parties can't last past 11pm)

I am told weddings weren't always like this though. In the olden days, the bride and groom wore traditional Sudanese clothes (galabia, etc) and to the backdrop of traditional Sudanese music, the woman would spit milk into the man's face - a good omen for the future. The ceremony is called the Jertuk, and is still done these days, in addition to the more modern wedding, but it didn't happen at this wedding, unfortunately.

Anyways, it was a great night. And it reminded me of how, in Senegal, I used to meet people in the most random places - internet cafes and hair salons - who went on to become great friends who enriched my cultural experience so much. Until now, I haven't really had that here, so hopefully these guys will introduce me to new sides of Sudan!

Settling down

2008-11-03T01:03:00.000-08:00

So...
Life in Sudan is finally becoming somewhat stable. I've got a regular job, I'm playing soccer a few times a week, I feel like I've got a routine, and it feels nice to have some kind of stability after all the chaos. I wish I had more to report, but when your life revolves around your laptop and telephone, it's not really stimulating travel writing.

The biggest news recently was the killing of five Chinese oil workers in central Sudan. The government says it was Darfurian rebels. They deny it. But of course, it highlights the dangers of China's increasing role in Africa, and how China might get caught up in some internal Sudanese issues because of it. The rebels accuse China of indirectly supporting the government's actions in Darfur because China is the biggest investor in Sudan's oil industry (which funds the Sudanese government more than anything else) and because it is also one of Sudan's most important arms suppliers.

Otherwise, the government has come up with a new initiative for finding peace in Darfur, which many people say is just another attempt to convince the international community that it is taking great strides towards peace in Darfur - in order to defer an imminent International Criminal Court arrest warrant against the president for genocide.

The last thing I've been looking at lately is the impact of US elections on Sudan. It's interesting. As one analyst put it, "In its mind, the government thinks McCain will be better for Sudan because Democrats have historically been more antagonist towards the ruling party here and Obama has threatened a tougher stance on Darfur. But in their hearts, many politicians, like the rest of the Sudanese people, have been swept up by Obama's magic." Some Sudanese say Obama gives them hope that the underdog can rise to the top. It's amazing to what extent sharing the colour of someone's skin can make you relate to them.

I'm heading back to Canada in a month - almost looking forward to the snow actually, bizarre as that is. It's going to be a fun trip home, I think. I'll be visiting Mom in Vancouver and seeing many friends i haven't seen in one or two years.

So there you have it. Heba's life in Sudan is becoming boring. Except, that is, for a funny incident i had on Saturday. I went to meet a professor for an interview at the University of Khartoum, wearing black pants, a loose, long-sleeved shirt and a scarf around my head, as I always wear when I go out here. I was entering the university, someone stopped me and said, "You're not allowed in." Why? I asked. He pointed to the pants. "El Bantalone"... Little did I know that the university is run by the Muslim Brotherhood. Women must wear skirts to enter ... ha!

"The number you are calling...

2008-10-27T02:22:00.000-07:00

I started working for Bloomberg News last week - it's an American financial news wire service, kind of like Reuters or Associated Press. And what do my days consist of?

Sitting in front of my computer with my phone to my ear calling number after number, trying desperately to get a hold of ANYONE to follow up on breaking news stories.

And what do I hear?

"The network is busy"
"This number is out of service"
"Please try again later"

Example. Minister of Presidential Affairs for Southern Sudan has FIVE different phone numbers (you have to have phones from different networks, so that when one goes down you can use the other). I have two different phones. I called each of his five phone numbers with each of my two phones.. nothing. Imagine spending your whole day like this... every day.

BAAHHHHH!!!

Darfur

2008-10-08T14:09:00.000-07:00

A few of you have asked, 'So what's really happening in Darfur?' and I'm sorry I haven't been more enlightening on this blog. There are some reasons for that, including the fact that I'm not sure just how much I should say. I had a run-in with Sudanese National Security in Darfur - let's call it part of the harassment many international people here undergo. They went through all my things, deleted my digital pictures, copied files from my laptop, body searched me, etc. It was an unpleasant experience, to say the least. One diplomat put it this way: "We are challenging the Sudanese government just by being here. So they turn around, and when they can flex a muscle, they do."

But in terms of Darfur, I will say that it is unclear what is happening. It is impossible to say anything with any certainty. Rebels are constantly changing alliances, armed attacks take place by unidentifiable assailants, even regular people have been politicized and it's hard to know when to trust what they say.

But here is the best analysis I could come up with: Might as well read it from the source.

You can listen to another recent story I did, on a separate subject, that of Arabs in the far north of Sudan here.

Otherwise, things are going well in Sudan. The last few days had been a bit rough, but things are getting better now.

Me and Stephane (my roommate)'s biggest struggle right now has been getting our money back after a man on the street gave us a fridge that didn't work. This comes in fourth on my worst experiences in Sudan (after being robbed, the visa sagas, and being harrassed by National Security). We have been fighting with him for 3 weeks to either fix the thing or give us our money back. But he is totally a "con" as we say in French, and just blowing us off. It's such a frustrating feeling screaming at someone who just doesn't give a damn. Going to the police is likely a waste of time, and now we have resorted to accepting assistance from the butcher across the street who offered to have his friend fix the fridge because he pittied us - we'll see if he's playing us too. Stupid Heba still hasn't learned not to hand over cash unless she gets something in her hand to show for it.

In other news, a good friend of mine from Canada is moving to Khartoum to work for the UN. I only met her for 2 days during a training session in Canada, (She was part of the group of Canadians selected for the CANADEM program which sent me to Senegal last year, and her to Kenya), but I felt we really connected. So I'm pretty excited for a new friend in this lonely place. I think she will move into our house too!

And in soccer yesterday, I scored a goal with my head off of a corner kick. It was beautiful and it blew all those old men (who can't comprehend that a woman can play soccer) away. Apparently female soccer is much less common outside of America. Even the Europeans are astounded by the fact that I know how to make a pass.

Anyways, I'll leave you with some pics. The Darfurian town of Tawila from the air; me eating something like sugarcane at a camp for displaced people in North Darfur; UN peacekeepers in Darfur (one was killed on Monday in an ambush by unknown attackers); and finally, just to show it is not all misery in Darfur, people at a camp for displaced people celebrating Eid. They gather in small circles clapping and singing while one person in the middle jumps up and down. A tradition of the Zaghawa tribe, from what I'm told.

A funny way to celebrate

2008-09-29T11:06:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, I arrived in a small town/village called Tawila, a short helicopter flight from the capital of North Darfur. It's been extremely interesting being here, talking to people who say the government continues to harrass them and almost weekly, there is some kind of incident, even in the camps that are supposed to be refuge for the displaced - anything from looting to rape to killing. In the past few weeks, there has been renewed fighting in North Darfur between rebels and government troops. One of those areas is about an hour and some's drive from Tawila. On my way to the town, from the helicopter, I could see a convoy of landcruisers driving through the desert. When we arrived, helicopters gunships were flying over the town. People were a little tense that something was going to happen, but it never did.

Today, I was in the shower, when I heard a noise. I couldn't quite tell what it was. At first I thought maybe an animal on the roof. Then I thought a knock at the door. But when it persisted, it sounded more and more like gunfire. Of course, the first outbreak of gunfire and I'm in the shower. Shit. I scrambled to get out of there, ran into my room, grabbed my recorder and ran outside with my hair still dripping in time to get the next round of shooting on tape. It was far away, and I couldn't see anything, but I could hear it loud and clear. Bam. bam. bam. It kept going and going. I looked around me, and the guards at the UN base were very calm. The peacekeeper looked my way, waved, and walked back to his post. No one was scrambling. I assumed fighting had resumed in some far away mountain. I waited for the peacekeepers to start loading up the trucks and get out there. No one moved. The shooting kept going and going, and I thought, this place is going to explode! I tried to ask one of the peacekeepers what was happening. He didn't speak English. I found one who did and he said very calmy, "This is how they announce the end of Ramadan." Yes. Very logical. In a country of war, that is so very appropriate. "Instead of fireworks, they use live ammunition," one UN police officer joked. A funny way to celebrate.

A war in disguise?

2008-09-26T14:41:00.000-07:00

So here I am in Darfur, and surprise, surprise, it doesn't quite feel like a war zone. In fact, I quite like it here (El Fasher, capital of North Darfur State). The atmosphere is much nicer than in Khartoum - feels more like a town, and has a lot of life. The market is bustling, the people are friendly, it's much more developed than I expected (paved roads, taxis, etc - although I hear this is all quite new). At night, they sit around the market smoking shisha under small lights. Music blares from different shops. Apart from the heavy military presence (nobody thinks twice when a truck pulls up at the gas station with a machine gun attached to the back, or when a plain-clothed civilian stops by the corner shop with a Kalashnikov in his hand), you would barely realize that this is a region classified as one of the world's worst humanitarian disasters. (This pic is from a site for people displaced by the fighting. Even the displaced have a very dynamic marketplace, a club for watching TV and movies, a taxi stand).

Of course, I've been here only two days. These are the words of a naive girl who has not been out in the bushes where the fighting takes place and who has not been around long enough to see the near-daily hijackings of UN vehicles.

But just to say that this place - Sudan - is not a simple place to understand. Nothing is black and white. And nothing is as clear as it seems.

The Inevitable

2008-09-23T06:54:00.000-07:00

So... I'm going to Darfur. Tomorrow.

It's impossible to try to cover this country without knowing and seeing for yourself what Darfur is all about. From Khartoum, it's really impossible to know. For the past two weeks, rebels have said that areas under their control were bombed and attacked by the govt. When you ask the government, it says, 'we're not attacking rebels. We're just clearing the roads of bandits so that humanitarian workers can have better access.' Of course, no one believes that, but how can anyone be sure what is happening?

Even going there won't give that many answers. It's hard to get access to any of the areas where fighting actually takes place, as they are all far from the state capitals and you need permission to travel to them (which the govt does not give easily).

I'm more nervous than I thought I would be, because so little is prepared, so few interviews are lined up, etc. etc. But this seems to be the way I function here, unfortunately - unorganized.

I should be sleeping now, but as usual, my body is doing that "I'm nervous, so I won't let you sleep thing". So I've turned on some "Entourage" TV shows that Osama put onto my computer in Egypt. Hopefully the expensive cars and famous actors will bore me to sleep...

Understanding the system

2008-09-18T11:00:00.001-07:00

So... I'm back in Khartoum, and trying to set myself up to become a daily news "stringer" or correspondent. This is much more intimidating than it sounds.

The news here is basically driven by Reuters news wire. The Reuters correspondent is a British woman who has been here 5 years, speaks fluent Arabic and has married a Sudanese man. She, understandably, has great contacts and is always the first to know everything. All the Darfurian rebels call her when something happens. Most other news agencies have to try to catch up after she's published something. Imagine coming into an environment like this. How should I know when a village has been bombed thousands of kilometres away or when the army makes an offensive or when a press conference is taking place or when a statement has been released? As you can imagine, I was/am a bit terrified of not being able to keep up.

But slowly, I'm starting to understand the system. Or trying to, at least.

Luckily, my life has been made much easier with my new Egyptian passport. (Yes, that's right, I now have an Egyptian passport!). It means I can enter Sudan without a visa (which I did successfully) and remain in the country as long as I want. (which means I never have to deal with the visa office again - WOO HOOO!!!! ) I do however need a work permit, which I have applied for. With that, I will be placed on the official list of reporters, who are informed of press conferences by the government's foreign journalists department.

The next job is to introduce myself to all the important people - the spokesman of the army, the spokesman of the foreign ministry, etc. etc. Then, they add me to their mailing lists and I call them daily to check if anything is happening. I have to start getting a hold of phone numbers for all the main rebel groups. This is just an administrative job basically. Calling one person to another until I get the right phone number. I was asking one journalist about how he had gotten contact information for them all (there are many different factions, each with its own leader, etc. etc.) He had worked in Eritrea for some time, where apparently maybe of the rebels were based at the time. "Oh, they used to be my drinking buddies," he told me casually. Wow.

The other foreign journalists here, once you've broken them in, are also quite co-operative. They check with each other that they haven't missed anything, often travel to press conferences together, and know each other well.

Then there's reading all the local newspapers, reading all the United Nations media briefings, reading all the articles everyone else is writing, the list goes on and on! There's this constant fear of missing something, of not knowing that something is happening, of not having the contacts to follow up on something, etc. etc. It's totally scary I'm telling you. In the end, everyone's work ends up on the internet so it is very transparent. Eveyone sees what you produce and can easily compare it to what the others produce.

So anyways, I'm working on building those contacts now. Once you get in the groove, I'm sure it all becomes much less intimidating. But then there's the issue of resources.

All the rebels, out in the bush in Darfur, have satellite phones. It's the only way of reaching them when they're in the middle of nowhere. It costs a fortune to call satellite phones. The journalists who are on staff for some of the big agencies have all their expenses paid. They have offices with satellite TV, phones, printers, a guy who delivers the newspaper, etc. Then there's Heba, living off a shoe-string budget in an old house without a generator... ie. when the power goes out, I sit in the heat and pitch black, unable to do anything except possibly read a book with the light from my cell phone, until the power comes back.

All this to say that I have quite a challenge ahead of me. It's exciting in some sense. And I hope in six months to be able to tell you that I've made it ... Although Stephane my roommate says it took him 18 months to really get in the groove and feel comfortable. Good heavens.

Here's a pic of Stephane in the front porch/garden of our home with the cleaning/guard staff. Back to work!

Ramadan in Egypt

2008-09-15T06:24:00.001-07:00

Since I was young, my mother used to tell me and my siblings stories about young children carrying lanterns and singing in the streets during Ramadan. That's what I had in mind as I prepared to spend my first Ramadan in Eygpt, on break from life in Sudan. It wasn't exactly what I got, but close enough. The biggest change in Cairo during Ramadan is that the traffic lets up a bit in the morning, as people are sleeping in. Go out around 9:30am and you'll see empty roads like you've never seen before in one of the world's busiest cities. Of course, the downfall is that around 9:30pm, after everyone has eaten and rested, the streets are packed with people going out. Malls are open until12:30 or 1:00am, and most people, even those who work, don't go to bed until 2 or 3 am. I saw Ramadan through the eyes of young people my age, who have a shortened work day (say 10-3), come home and sleep for three hours, and wake up in time for 'fitar' (meal that breaks the fast) at 6pm. The rest of the night unfolds as usual, except that many go out again, especially on weekends, at 12:00 or 1:00 am for 'suhur', the meal you eat in the early morning. I am used to just waking up before the sun rises, eating some beans and eggs, drinking a glass of water, praying and going back to bed. But here, suhur is a big extravaganza. Restaurants set up special decorations and tents for young people who flock there to "chill through Ramadan" as the sign says. While there might be more happening at night, the days are usually dead. Stores open later than usual in the morning and close early before fitar, and most people are busy preparing dinner or sleeping. I also saw Ramadan through the eyes of mothers of families, and let me tell you, it is a stress. They spend days preparing beforehand, planning out meals and ensuring that everything that the kids want will be present (sweet, cold drinks, etc.) The meals are always huge. If I lost weight during Ramadan in Senegal, I have gained it here. I have never had stomach pains for so many consecutive nights due to over-eating on an empty stomach. But damn, it was delicious.

But that's not to say there is nothing traditional about Ramadan here. Some people do hang lanterns and fabric with special Islamic patterns, especially outside stores and restaurants. And apparently in some of the more "sha'abaya' (ie. poorer) neighboorhoods, the celebrations are much more old-school, with children singing, etc. Unfortunately, I didn't get to check that out. But Ameera (my sis came from Canada to meet me in Egypt), Amr (my cousin) and I ran into a 'saharati' - the old men who walk around neighbourhoods at night with a drum calling people to wake up for suhur. He taps the drum and calls out the names of people in different houses. "Amr! Tim!" he called as he passed my family's apartment. Tim was a German exchange student living in Amr's house about a decade ago. But the old man still calls his name everyday during Ramadan. This one took his job very seriously. He said he had been on TV and in the newspaper. We chatted for a while, then we had to let him go. He had many more houses ahead of him. (Notice all the shopping bags on Ameera's arm - she went a little crazy!)

Of course, the best thing about Ramadan is the sweets after every meal... uh, i mean, the extra time spent with friends and family. (But seriously, desert is considered a necessity because of the lack of sugar consumed during the day, and there is aways plenty from balah-al-sham to baclava to kunafa...) So I'll leave you guys with a bunch of pics: Me and Ameera with the Bahgat sisters; Khan-al-Khalili (a well-known place with windy roads and shops selling everything from papyrus paper to jewellery to belly-dancing outfits); Me and Mimi with freshly coiffeured hair ($4 each); Mohamed, Jassy, Amr, Ameera and Me having suhur at Sequoya Restaurant.

Ramadan Karim!

A breath of fresh air

2008-08-29T12:49:00.001-07:00

I finally got my exit visa (two days before travel time), hopped on a 2.5 hour flight and arrived in Cairo for a short vacation. Oh how wonderful it feels. It's only been two months in Sudan, but I feel starved for affection from people I know well and love. After a while, being among strangers or people you're just not totally comfortable with gets old. It's great to be in my family's home, among my dear cousins, where I can just relax and be taken care of. Eating in big groups, laughing, telling stories of past memories, blasting favourite tunes in the car - I only now realized how rarely I have had lately. I never knew how much I needed this vacation until I got here.

The first day of Ramadan went smoothly. It was actually extremely easy. I am trying to practice the habits I picked up in Senegal, but obviously the challenges are huge. We used to eat such at moderate amount at night, and I lost so much weight. But here, it is almost impossible to be moderate. I will try my best.

My uncle (who used to very high up in the Egyptian army before retiring) took me to start the process of obtaining an Egyptian passport. Get this, Egyptians can stay in Sudan indefinitely. ie. I WOULD NEVER HAVE TO DEAL WITH THE HORRIBLE VISA OFFICE AGAIN! There are many steps to getting an Egyptian passport, and I wasn't sure I would be able to get one in the two weeks I am here. But my uncle is a magician. In two and a half hours today, we got almost everything done! Because of his status in the army, my uncle can walk past lines, people open doors for him, and we get things done so fast! After the hell of administration in Sudan, I couldn't believe how smooth and easy it was. While getting my Egyptian identity card, there was a guy arguing with the staff. He thought he had what he needed; they insisted he didn't. I really felt for him...

Come back tomorrow

2008-08-25T14:31:00.000-07:00

I wish I had blogged more in the moments that I felt truly lucky to be here – and there have been many! – in order to balance out what I’m about to say.

Sometimes I really hate being in this country.

Never once, in six months in Senegal did I experience what I have experienced 4 times in less than a month here – men trying to touch me inappropriately on the bus or in a taxi. It’s so disgusting and so shameful and I don’t know they can bow down and pray to Allah after they try to harass a woman wearing a headscarf who is repeatedly pushing their hand away. I am ashamed that they are Muslims. And now every time a guy so much as looks at me in a sleezy way on the street – and it happens more often than you would think in this “conservative” society – I feel the urge to punch him.

Possibly even more frustrating than the sexual harassment, though, is what I have termed bureaucratic harassment. A two-week trip to Egypt should have been a relaxing thing to look forward to. But organizing a way out of this blasted country has become an absolute nightmare. I have spent the last four business days – FOUR FULL DAYS – trying to get an exit visa. Yes, you need a visa to LEAVE the country. What a whack a concept to begin with. But fine. But for me to waste four days – standing for hours in lines and having people shuffle me around from place to place, talk to me with words I don’t understand – and still have no documentation to leave the country has left me so frustrated I simply cry as I’m walking down the street. I can’t control it. After the first three days of this bullshit, I ranted to my father about it. “There are no rules, no systems… you show up with everything they told you you would need and then they say, ‘no, but you need this too’.” He said, “Heba, if everything worked properly, if it was developed and organized, you would have no work there.” Excellent point. I tried to remind myself of that as I was standing in the crowded office today and the woman told me “You need a photocopy of your witness’ ID card.” This of course meant that I would have to take the 45-minute bus ride back downtown, photocopy the card, and come back again. But I smiled, reminded myself of my father’s wise words, thanked her and went about my business.

But tolerance has a limit. And I surpassed mine long, long ago. I came back with the photocopy. While she looked through the papers, I prayed silently for her to pick up the stamp and approve it. Please, let there be nothing else wrong, I kept wishing, like a desperate child. When she finally stamped the thing, I thought: My father was right. I just needed a little patience. But then I was quickly reminded of why patience just isn’t enough. From there, I had to go to the security window. From the security window to the payment window. Of course, they never really tell you where the payment or security window is, so you spend a good ten minutes going from line to line until you find the right one. From the payment window to some 4^th floor place where the women laughed because I was in the wrong place. Well maybe if anyone bothered to properly explain to me what the hell to do and where the hell to go, I wouldn’t be here! From there back to the payment counter. We’re nearing the end! This is the second-last step! Then the bombshell: “360 pounds please”. WHAT? 180 dollars just to leave the country? Are you kidding me? Not only was the amount outrageous, I didn’t have the money with me. If that, that’s about all the money I have left right now, after borrowing some from a friend. I turned and walked out of there, tears streaming down my face once more, before she had the chance to say the famous line I have heard so many times, “Come back tomorrow.”

Latest Article

2008-08-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

You've all been asking about what I'm writing/producing. Here are the latest to be published/broadcast:

Sudanese: What Arab-African Rift?

Ottawan in Sudan - Scroll down to Aug. 18th

The Pulitzer Center has the full list on its website, although not updated with the two I've just listed.

A place to call my own.... finally!

2008-08-21T06:50:00.000-07:00

After two months of living out of a bag, moving from hotel to hotel, sleeping in people's places while they're on vacation, flying or driving from city to city carrying with me everything I own here, I finally have my own place! And it feels goooood. I unpacked my bags, HUNG MY CLOTHES ON HANGERS (this is a big deal), put my facewash in my own bathroom, and bought groceries! It's a great place with its own garden and front porch, as well as a verranda that connects to the upstairs bedrooms. It's an old house, but very open and cool (weather-wise) and makes me feel that I am living in some kind of storybook place where the birds chirp and life is pleasant. (I'm not sure if this makes any sense. It's been a long day and my brain isn't functionning at 100%). I'm sharing the place with a French journalist, and we're looking for a couple of other roommates (it's a big house with 4 rooms). So that was a big step forward in committing myself to Sudan for at least a while!

I also got my temporary passport, finally. Although now I get to enjoy the hurdles of getting a visa in this new passport. I cannot express to you how much I hate Sudanese immigration bureaucracy. Every time I enter those offices, without fail, I come out on the verge of tears in sheer frustration.

But otherwise, all is well. I'm off to Egypt next week for a bit of a break, then back to the big-S!

I will update with pictures when my darling sister brings me a suitcase of things I requested from Canada when she meets me in Egypt. Other than a new digital camera to replace the stolen, I have requested Extra Gum (this is the only food-related thing I can't do without! The brands here are all fake and last about 1 second), running shoes (I didn't think I would need them in one month and a half - who can exercise in this heat, I told myself!... but I after all the food I've been eating here, I definately do!), portable hard drive (I am terrified that something is going to happen to my laptop and I will have no back up), hair gel (I tried what they sell here... oh what an Afro that was!) and other random things. God Bless my family for their patience! Every day I send a new email saying "oh, and can you send this with Ameera too!"

Ok, perhaps I should actually get some work done now... This whole freelance thing requires a level of discipline and productivity that I just don't seem to have these days.

Third World Journalism

2008-08-12T03:21:00.000-07:00

I spoke in Senegal about the difficulty of journalism in that part of the world - heavy African accents, translation, difficult phone lines - and that was when I was working with a UN office. Here, mostly on my own, I have experienced a whole set of other difficulties. To replicate a sound-proof booth in which I would record my voice narration for a radio script in Canada, I turned off my fan in my room in Khartoum, sat between a folded mattress and threw a sheet over my head. As I sat there sweating in the heat, trying to record my voice in silence, the maids would start chatting outside my thin walls, or the adhan would come on. So you wait, until you get some form of quiet, and try again. It's really quite entertaining.

What else is different about work here? Well in Juba, my main form of transport was the back of a motorcycle, through bumpy, muddy streets that are sometimes impassable, although the drivers always try. To save on gas, they turn the engine off and just coast if they are going down hill and then turn it back on as they start to lose momentum.

In southern Sudan, access to very important politicians is quite easy. It's a new, semi-autonomous government, built from scratch in 2005 after a peace deal with the northern government they had been fighting for two decades. One day, I stopped by the office for press relations for the Vice President to try to schedule an interview. I found a Canadian Sudanese working there, who immediately liked me because I was Canadian, and tried to get me a spot with the Big Man. All of a sudden, I found myself in the Vice President's office - and he goes, "You want to do it right now? I'm free." It was as easy as that!

The hardest part about working in a post-conflict society, I would say, is winning people's trust. As a North-American and as an Arab, people are skeptical of me. Right across the country, people resent the West as they see its interference as the root of problems in Sudan. In the south, people are suspicious of Arabs, who dominate the northern government and with whom they have had many problems historically. When you start asking a lot of questions, they wonder if you are a spy working for the government. In many cases, in the areas where there is a big humanitarian presence, people have already been asked questions by NGOs, the UN, etc. and don't want to do it all over again. So when little old Heba shows up and sticks a microphone in someone's face, they are often not keen to participate! ... That being said, once you spend the time, win the trust and convince them of your purpose, they usually come around. I often get the reaction, "You came all the way from Canada? Why did you leave your wonderful country to come to this?" When they realize I am trying to help spread the word about their living conditions, they are quite cooperative.

I did however find myself in a bit of a bind recently, when I talked to some members of the Dinka tribe along the border with Uganda. There have been problems in that area over land. During the war, people fled to Uganda as refugees leaving their land empty. Then, as the fighting progressed to other parts of the country, Sudanese living further north fled their homes and settled in this empty land along the border. Now, when the refugees come home, they find people on their land, and this understandably, has led to come tension. So I tried to raise this issue with the chiefs of the Dinka community, who were among those who settled on the land. They were quite defensive, and within minutes, I found myself surrounded by big tall men screaming at me. "You come from the West and try to create divisions among us!" Needless to say, I got out of there as fast as I could!

But then I had to stop and think about whether he was right. I told myself, as I told him, that my goal was not to divide, but to find the truth in order to help come to some kind of resolution. But regardless of my goal, is division not the result?

If you think back historically, many of the problems in Darfur have their roots in the British style of rule - control in the center and some form of self-rule, which resulted in neglect, in the peripheries. Some trace the origins of problems between north and south to British rule as well. One govt consultant blamed all of Sudan's problems on the US sanctions, which forced Sudan into an untenable financial situation, isolated from the world economically. As a result, he told me, the govt had no money to invest in its country, and people took up arms, tearing the country apart. "For the West to come back now and say the government has neglected its people... it's bullshit." Of course now, with countries coming in to reap the benefits of the booming oil industry, you can understand why many people say, as one taxi driver told me recently, "Sudan would be perfectly fine if all these people got the hell out of our country!"

Tired of Goodbye

2008-08-10T13:04:00.000-07:00

If there are two things I don't like about this lifestyle, they are being far from friends and family, and constantly saying goodbye. I just spent two and a half weeks in Juba, capital of southern Sudan, where I unexpectedly had a truly amazing time. Wayne and his group of friends were just such a welcome change from the isolation of Khartoum, and being there felt like being back at camp where you hang out with the same people everyday and get to know each other very quickly. When I flew back to Khartoum today, I felt like I had just popped out of an alternate reality - one full of Filipino Kareoke parties, campfire under the stars, dancing to loud music and a close-knit group of great people.

But of course, it all comes to an end so quickly. And the goodbyes become exhausting. When I look back on all the great and interesting people I have met - and never seen again - in the last four years, it makes me sad. I know it shouldn't. Yes, yes. You learn something from everyone you meet. They play their role in your life and then move on. And it's a small world - you never know where you might re-encounter an old friend. But sometimes I just feel that I am never moving forward. I invest in these friendships and then lose them. So instead of having a foundation with someone and building on it, you are constantly cracking the foundation and starting over. It's all short-lived and temporary and that is so unsatisfactory sometimes.

That being said, I have great memories (and plenty of pictures) to looks back on. Above is Charita, a Filipino police officer who is part of the UN Mission in Sudan, and I climbing a mountain just outside of Juba town. To the left is Wayne, the RCMP officer who I have come to know more than I ever anticipated, and I singing kareoke - can't you see the sadness in my eyes!

On another note, this experience has been eye-opening on another level. I have plenty to say about the UN and its employees after this "embedded" experience at the UN compound in southern Sudan. I can't reveal such information here to "protect the innocent", as Wayne and Mark put it, but ask me about it later and I'll give you my two cents!

Staying in Sudan

2008-08-02T01:32:00.000-07:00

I just realized that today is August 2nd, the day I was supposed to fly home. So I should probably mention that I've decided to stay in Sudan longer than expected (Yes, I know, you all saw this coming).

I have been putting off picking a place in Africa and settling down as a foreign correspondent for a while now, mostly out of fear. So it's about time I face that fear and just do it! I am here now, there is no point in coming home and then coming back again when I am "ready". So I am going to give it a go!

Sudan is the perfect country for me. I speak Arabic, there are TONS of stories, it is close to Egypt, and it is an important part of the world right now, and an important time in Sudan's history. I have already started making contacts and so on here, so I think there's no time like the present to build on that.

For now, I've changed my ticket to December, when I will come back to Canada for a visit and then possibly return to Sudan afterwards. Of course, these decisions are never easy - and I hate being away from all the people I care about. I struggle with the consequences of this lifestyle all the time, but I think that the temporary sacrifices are worth the gain. But do not think for a minute - even when I stay out of touch for way longer than I should - that I do not think about you or miss you every day!

I will try to do a better job of keeping you updated from now on - it's not always easy, due to lack of access, constant travel, immersion in life here and simply exhaustion from too much work. But I'll do my best! Love always, Heba

In Flight!

2008-08-02T00:56:00.000-07:00

I rode on my first UN chopper this week, as I travelled from Juba, capital of southern Sudan to a town further north called Bor. In the rainy season (ie. now), many of the roads in southern Sudan are untravelable because they get all flooded and muddy. So in many cases, the only way to get around is by plane.

The ride was pretty amazing actually. You have to wear earphones to mute the sound of the helicopter's wings. Once in flight, they open the small circular windows and the fresh air just flows through. Southern Sudan is totally green, so from the plane, all you see is trees, sometimes a cattle-herder or two, a couple toucols (homes made of mud and straws). It was really beautiful.

I spent a couple days in Bor, talking to people about the insecurity there. Sudan is just so complex. Even though the war between north and south Sudan is over (separate from the Darfur issue of course), unrelated tribal fighting continues to make southern Sudan unstable. Different tribes raid each other's cattle, abduct children and even burn villages - in some cases it is a sign of manhood to kill someone, in some cases they steal the cows to offer them as dowry for marriage. Anyways, so people who were displaced during the war have finally returned home in this time of peace, only to be displaced again in some cases.

When I told people in Juba I was going to Bor, everyone made that "Oh, Bor" face as if it was the worst place to visit on the face of the planet. But in fact, it was quite nice. Like many other parts of southern Sudan, it is in total reconstruction - new roads going up every day. Still, though, you can't go an hour without having to stop the car because cattle have filled the road. And the facilties are still limited. Only the market and the government offices have electricity, and even the UN staff get their water from a borehole run by a hand-pump. Here I am pumping away, with an Argentinian UN peacekeeper behind me. More and more here, I have been impressed with the internationalism of this place. The different natioanlities really do work together in a beautiful way. In one office , you can find someone from Holland, Canada, Guinea, Nigeria, India... and they find ways to joke and relate to each other.

I'm back in Juba now, just in time for party weekend. There's a party tonight so big that people have flown in from Khartoum for the occasion (which speaks to the desperation of the social scene in Khartoum). Here's a pic from a few of us out for dinner the other day. Ralph from Britain, Charita from the Philippines, me, and Mark from Australia. The pizza was good, but took about an hour to arrive, and when it did, it was the wrong toppings of course. That's Africa for you.

A new day has come!

2008-07-26T10:15:00.000-07:00

Things are looking up! It had been a long few days. Every night, I'd think 'It will be better in the morning', but I would wake up unmotivated and the day would go by frustratingly. It felt like I was in a slump I just couldn't get out of - I wasnt writing. I wasn't doing anything really. The day before I left for southern Sudan, something changed. I woke up happy and actually accomplished a most impossible mission. I had bought a phone to replace my dysfunctional one, from a random stall at the market. I got no receipt for it, went home and found out it doesn't charge. So I figured I'd go back and get it repalced. I took the bus to the "stade" as I had time before, but it dropped me off at a different end. If you can imagine, hundreds of busses parked in every which direction and a huge market. I had no idea where to go. So the fact that somehow, I was able to find my way back to the store was, in and of itself, remarkable. That I was able to find the same guy and that he gave me a new phone was even more so - and a sign for me that things were about to change for the better. Then I went home and wrote two articles.

I am writing this first part of this posting in my notebook on board the plane to Juba, capital of southern Sudan, and it feels so good to be out of Khartoum. Not that I don't like it there, but I needed a change and I wanted to do more reporting on the ground. Plus, southern Sudan is considered much more "African" than the Arab north, so it should be a different experience. Some people have express concern about me going - as an Arab - to a place that was at war with the Arab government for two decades. Southerners were taken as slaves, their villages burned, their women raped and men killed. A peace deal was signed in 2005, but tension remains between the north and the south, especially along the border. But if I get into any trouble, I'll just pretend I'm a Latina! Besides, I met the ambassador to the Arab League in the waiting room at the airport and he's Egyptian too! So I've got someone in power on my side!

So here is Juba! It's VERY different than Khartoum. Much greener, cooler, much less developed of course, although it is a booming economy with construction of new homes, hotels, buildings at every corner. Since the end of the war, people have been returning at an incredible pace. People here all have their own local dialects (Dinka, Nuer, etc), but Arabic is the common language between them, although it is native to none of them. They also speak English, although Arabic is more common.

I am staying at the UN base here. And is has been quite the experience. These are the "containers" that people work and live in. Rows and rows of them. Two days later, I still get lost everytime I have to go from one to another. Wayne has been an INCREDIBLE host, and there is such a nice group of guys here that I feel right at home. It's quite different than Khartoum, where the international community is quite clicky. It feels like being at camp actually - showering in common outdoor bathrooms, eating at the cafeteria, having a group of buddies that you hang out with regularly. Everyone complains about the social scene in khartoum, but here it definately isn't lacking and there are plenty of nice restaurants to go to at night. In fact, as I'm typing this, the UN compound's disco is blaring through the walls.

I think that's all for now. Just be re-assured that the bad days are over (for now!)

Hell in Sudan

2008-07-22T11:49:00.000-07:00

At the risk of sounding overdramatic, these last few days have been hell, so prepare yourselves for a good rant. Everything that could go wrong has, and nothing has gone right. I can't even count the number of times I've just broken into tears in front of complete strangers - it usually helps you get what you want faster, actually.

The first step was going to the police station, then getting my old phone number back, then asking the airline if they could refund my ticket to the south (also stolen), then realizing the ticket hadn't been written on the list of stolen items on the police report, so back to the police station. Each of these trips, of course, costs time, money, and wears down on your patience as everyone wants to chat with you, ask you where you're from, what happened when the bag was stolen, etc - and you just want to finish your business and get the hell out of there. Back to the airline, they say the head of the office is at a different office - go to Street 15. I go to Street 15, they say he's at the airport. I go BACK to the airport... it goes on and on like this. The embassy was probably the worst of all. To issue me a new passport, they wanted a birth certificate and all sorts of original ID that of course, I didn't have. So my parents had to take some things to a Passport Canada office in Ottawa. I had to bus back downtown to get passport photos taken. Come back to the embassy only to have the guard tell me they're closed and won't let me in. Go back the next day. They tell me it will cost close to $300 to get the new passport. I don't have enough money with me. Add on another trip. Throughout this whole process, the phone I am using (a backup to the one that was stolen) is acting disfunctional. Today, I go buy a new one, only to get home and find that it doesn't charge itself - ie. it's broken.

Today, I realized I have been back in Khartoum for 11 days (at $50 a night I might add) and have achieved absolutely nothing. I need to accomplish something soon before my spirit is totally crushed. Today, I hired a translator to help me to through an interview I would use - they ask for so much money, and then they translate worse than I do on my own!

Ok, I think I have gotten it all out of my system. May tomorrow be a new day...

The Ultimate Mistake

2008-07-19T00:36:00.000-07:00

It is the oldest trick in the book. I should have known better... I should have, I should have...

Yesterday, me, Ben (the Cdn journalist) and Omar (a Sudanese friend) were out for dinner and decided to go to a park to hang out. I was debating going home and doing work, but eventually agreed and went along. It's this cute thing lots of Sudanese do - they just sit of patches of grass smoking sheesha and drinking tea. It's like the only social activity there is to do here at night, other than go to a restaurant. So there we were on the grass, smoking sheesha when two guys came along. One of them picked up the sheesha and started pulling it away. Some of the coal fell on the ground. Someone said maybe he was angry that a woman was smoking sheesha. Someone else said he was just drunk and causing trouble. It was all very weird and I didn't really understand what was going on. Eventually, they left the sheesha and walked away - leaving us all a bit flabergasted as to what that was all about. But we carried on. Omar went to get tea. And I saw a lady carrying popcorn and turned to my purse to get out some money.

And that's when the fun began. My purse wasn't there. For a minute, I thought it was just me being paranoid, but I looked again - and it really wasn't. Immediately, I knew I had been robbed and I jumped up to go somewhere - but didn't know where to go or what to do. We were in a dark, crowded park. The guy was already long-gone. Where do you start looking?

We started randomly running around, trying to ask people - fruitlessly. Ben thinks others must have been in on it too (on top of the two guys who distracted us with the sheesha), since someone would obivously have seen him, but nobody said anything.

I was so lost. I just started running aimlessly. My passport, lots of cash, my digital camera, my phone - everything was in that bag. It was so stupid of me on so many levels, and I knew that, and I was so angry at myself.

When I first got here, I carried my passport, some of my cash, and a mastercard in a pouch that I wore under my clothing. Some money and other credit cards were in my purse, and the rest of the money stayed at home. As time went on, I became more and more comfortable here - it is so safe and I never had any problems - that I stopped bothering to wear the pouch. I should logically have left it at home, but I had gotten in the habit of taking it with me (at first I was staying in a hotel I didn't trust, and then I was often going to places where I needed official ID). So it was thrown into the purse with everything else. It is the thing everyone always tells you - don't let your guard down. But I did.

Someone afterwards said, "there are always thieves in these parks" and I felt stupid once more for not even considering that possibility. I wasn't even watching the purse, wasn't even worried about it.

So that drop in vigilance has cost me thousands of dollars, a camera that I need for work with pictures that I can't get back, and huge amounts of time that I don't have - as I now have to apply for a new passport, go through the process of getting a visa again, which is - after the prodigy child preacher - the most excrutiating experience ever (employees who could care less send you from one window to another to another until three hours later, you're ready to kill yourself), and delay my trip to the south, which was already way behind schedule.

When Celine and I went to Spain four years ago, people kept warning us of the thieves and that it was inevitable that we would be robbed at least once - never happened. Since then, I have been to many countries where this sort of thing could happen and never once had a problem. So I guess it was bound to happen eventually.

I'm safe and people have been very kind and helpful, so I guess that's what is important. But ugghhh - how frustrating!

The Pulitzer Center

2008-07-18T07:38:00.000-07:00

I had mentioned before that I received a grant from the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting for this trip. The blog is up and running now, so you can check it out here. For a description of my project, you can click here. They will also post links to all the radio broadcasts and articles I am producing from here.

Otherwise, things are going well. I never really finished telling you about the village. Here's a pic of me in the multi-purpose cloth which serves as a blanket at night-time and a full-body garb during the day. NOT easy to walk in however, although not as hot as you would imagine.

In the last post, I wrote "The Simple Life?" with a question mark, but never explained why. Mohammed always used to say living in the village is such a jihad - or struggle. "Everything is a struggle," he would say. To open the front door of the house, you have to pull on a metal wire that sticks out of a hole, until the latch loosens. To go to the bathroom, you have to use your hip to shove the door shut. To shower during the day, you have to put cold water aside at night - otherwise, it will burn your skin from sitting in the sun. Nothing is smooth and simple. I always scoffed at this "jihad" he referred to. Life wasn't so bad. They had enough to eat, they had a safe home - "Don't be so high maintenance," I would tell him.

But after a few days, I began to understand what he meant. I did no cooking or cleaning while there, and had no baby to take care of, but at the end of every day, I was dead tired. The heat in and of itself is exhausting - and there is no escape from it. But these women, who spend all day in the heat, cooking, cleaning, feeding the screaming babies - it really is a struggle. Their husbands are mostly gone off to Saudi Arabia to make the only money that keeps them surviving.

Here's the baby of the family - Dodi. While his mother is busy with chores, he sits with no underwear in the dirt, a slobbery piece of cheese in his hand, mixing with the sand on the ground and then entering his mouth. His mother has no time to do anything with him - so he just sits at home all day, unstimulated. And while she is the most patient and loving mother I have ever seen, she didn't seem to have much understanding of simple parenting concepts - stimulating the child with new places, things; letting him fall so that he learns to walk on his own, etc. Or maybe she understood but just didn't have the luxury of being able to provide it. Her husband has never even met his son, who is a year and a half old. He's been in Saudi from before he was born.

Anyways, it was really nice to get a real taste of Sudan. In the capital, I live a mostly ex-pat life that is consumed by work. There, I got to live among real people, who were kind, generous and really took me in. I was very new and foreign to many of them. I don't think a woman in the village has ever worn pants, played soccer with the boys, or used a laptop (In fact, Mohammed said a computer had never before been used in the whole village).

One day, I went to help prepare the shu'raya (noodles cooked with sugar and served for dessert) for an upcoming wedding. They were making this stuff on mass (the wedding preparation - mostly involving food - went on for something like five days before the wedding). All the women of the village get together and prepare the dough, flatten it, put it through a machine that strings it, then leave it to dry. And by this point, I am told, everyone in the village had heard about me, but some had not yet seen me. I have NEVER been stared at so blatantly as I was that day. They just sat there in groups, looking at me as if I was a weird object they just couldn't get their heads around. But by the end, of course, they each wanted to practice their few words of English with me and have their picture taken.

Anyways, it was a touching place to be, and I will miss them! (Sadly, it keeps becoming easier and easier to say goodbye to people you know you will never see again. Maybe I am becoming cold and uncaring - even more so than before!)

Tomorrow, I'm off to see the pyramids of Merawi - I wonder how they'll compare to Egypt's. Then Sunday, I'm off to southern Sudan (pray that my plane doesn't crash - there have been four plane crashes here in the last two months!).

Here is some henna someone did for me in Dongola, capital of the Northern state and the only big town within 5 hours.

The Simple Life?

2008-07-13T08:41:00.000-07:00

I just got back from two weeks in a village in northern Sudan (hence my incommunicado status), which reminded that no matter where you go or how many times you travel, you will always have find moments of awe, when something seems so new and beautiful to you.

But let me start from the beginning: the bus ride.

Wayne, an RCMP officer I know from Canada who is in Sudan working with the UN, and I had decided to visit our Canadian Sudanese friend Mohammed, who was on vacation in his natal village in northern Sudan. We arrived at a dark empty street at 3:45 am to catch the bus to the village (called Taitti). We were the first ones there and had to wait a good 20 minutes before the bus even arrived. I hadn't slept, so I was looking forward to a nap on the bus - but there would be no such thing.

"Hey, what do you think that screen is for" Wayne asked, when we got on the bus. "Showing movies?"

A reasonable assumption. But when the show began, well what can I say - I have never experienced anything so excrutiatingly painful.

It was a video of some Muslim child prodigy preacher. Seriously. A six-year-old kid at the pulpit, waving his hands dramatically in the air and screaming in the most horribly screechy voice to hundreds of congregants. This went on for a good 40 minutes. Every time there was a pause and I thought it was over, his screeching voice would resume. The only respite from this horrible, horrible soundtrack (which, ps., was blaring through the speakers) was Wayne listening to his headphones and singing to himself beside me.

After a while, it all became too funny and I couldn't hold back my laughter at the ridiculousness of this video. It must have been the lack of sleep, but when the grown men in the video began repeating "Amin" after his sentences, I just burst into laughter. Every time his voice cracked, I laughed harder. The guy in the aisle across from me started looking over, smiling. SERIOUSLY, WHO IS THIS KID? I've never seen anything like it.

Anyways, when we finally arrived, it was astounding. We were dropped off on the side of a paved road in the midst of the desert. You do a 360 degree circle and find nothing but sand. It was really incredible. From there, we took a truck through the bumpy paths through the desert to the village.

Taitti is made up of about 3,000 people, whose homes are made of mud, but quite nice looking (painted white and blue) and quite spacious, with tons of different rooms and beds everywhere! They use beds as chairs, as seats for guests and parties, and of course, for sleeping.

It was really different being here than arriving to villages in Chad. While the Chadian villages were much poorer, there was an obvious UN presence and thus less feeling of isolation. Here, I truly felt far from the world. People here have no TVs, no radios, no newspapers. I had to walk to a specific spot down by the mosque to get cell phone reception.

They have no electricity - meaning no fans, no computers, no fridges... All food is cooked on the day of, fruits and fridge-requiring foods are rare, and the place is just SO quiet. If you sit there on an afternoon, all you hear are the roosters crowing, and the flies buzzing. It's really amazing, the silence of the place.

The people drink the brown, cloudy water from the Nile. I drank it too. It tastes good actually, and never made me sick - although I tried not to drink too much of it every day. Some families, like Mohammed's, have dug their own wells and built tanks to bring well-water into their

homes - not for drinking, but for washing/cleaning/cooking. This water is burning hot during the day because it sits in the sun-soaked pipes all day. The water from the nile is kept in clay pots to keep it cool. Along main roads or near mosques you will find these pots for passersby to get water if thirsty.

At night, we carried the beds out into the open-air centres of the homes, and slept under the stars.

I'd love to write more (for a better description, check out Wayne's blog at: http://waynehanniman.blogspot.com/), but I haven't eaten all day, have about 1,000 phone calls to make, a trip to the south to plan, and an article to finish!

Take care,
Heba

Milestones

2008-06-30T15:16:00.000-07:00

So guess who is Sudan's latest best driver? That's right. I drove - and standard too - in Sudan all day today in a rented car. No accidents, only a couple angry horns and, while close, I never ran out of gas! So next time I'm in Egypt, no one can tell me I'm not capable of driving! Actually, while there are few rules, it is not hard to drive here. The big roads are paved and wide, and there are not that many cars. There are some traffic lights, and where there aren't, everyone just kind of moves towards the same space until someone slows down and someone takes the lead. I do have to learn to slow down though in those areas that are unpaved - it can be bumpy!

The second milestone is ... I ATE INTESTINES! Those same intestines I refused to eat in Senegal. I ate them here, by accident, without knowing - and the worst part is, THEY TASTED GOOD! I had some great Sudanese food the other day at a friend's house - eggplant sauce, yogurt sauce, meat and intestines, with bread. mmm....

Anyways, I'm off to northern Sudan in a couple hours (the bus leaves at 4 a.m. This should be interesting!) to a small village where I will apparently have electricity for one hour a day! I'm tired and overworked, I think. I've been running around like a crazy person this past week to the point that my last interview today was a complete disaster because I just didn't have the mental faculties left. So I think a slower pace of life will be good for a while. (Communities in the areaI am going to are afraid their ancient heritage will be wiped out and they themselves displaced when the government builds dams in the area).

Hopefully these villagers won't be too amazed at the sight of a microphone. Today the children in the neighbourhood I went to were so loud/in your face/curious/obstructive that I could not conduct a single interview properly as I was followed by a mob of sreaming children. This, after spending $50 on a car, $80 on a translator, waiting three days for permission to enter this site, and spending hours in the grueling sun. This is the life of a journalist in Sudan, I suppose!

It's Complicated!

2008-06-27T15:47:00.000-07:00

So, what am I doing here anyway?

I'm here to write articles and produce radio pieces for some newspapers and radio stations in Canada and the US (as a freelancer). I want to look at some stories that I think haven't been told while the world focuses on Darfur. First of all, Sudan has been portrayed as a very violent place, where Arabs are killing blacks in a brutal genocide. But this isn't the case across the country, and in some villages, Arabs have hosted blacks fleeing the war in other parts and integrated them into their communities. Second, Darfurian rebels took up arms against the government claiming their region had been marginalised for years. But Darfur is not the only neglected area in Sudan, and actually there are many groups in different areas right across the country that have/are/want to take up arms against the government. Third, many people are not aware that there was a civil war between north and south Sudan that killed 10 times the number of people who died in Darfur. That war ended in 2005, but in the past few months, has come dangerously close to re-erupting because many parts of the peace agreement have not been implemented by the government.

Anyways, those are some of the things I plan to look at, but this place is just so damn complicated that I'm trying to sort everything out in my head before I blog about it (that's why I haven't been blogging much. My days have been mostly consumed by work and my work is not at a stage of explanation yet! Plus, I received a grant from an organisation that funds journalists who go to 'under-reported' areas, and will be blogging for them (the Pulitzer Center) about the more journalism-oriented parts of this experience. I'll send you the link when it's live.)

So instead of telling you my thoughts on the conflicts here, I instead will reassure you that I have said goodbye to my friend the lizard, and moved on to cleaner pastures: ie. a UN guesthouse. My feet are starting to crack from the dryness, my skin is always sticky from the heat, I drink an incredible amount of water everday (Sometimes your mouth is so thirsty but your stomach is already bloated from all the liquids) and I'm becoming accustomed to wearing a scarf everytime I leave the house (which unfortunately means no tan).

I did get to one cultural event yesterday though. Here are some pics from a Sufi ritual I went to. Every week, hundreds gather to pay hommage to a great Sudanese Sufi leader, Hamd El-Nil (from what I understood) outside his tomb in a big cemetary. They stand in a huge circle, swaying to the drumming, chanting La illiha illa Alllah (there is only one God), until the sun sets.

All over again?

2008-06-25T05:35:00.000-07:00

I was thinking of what I would blog about on this trip, and whether it would feel (for me and for you) like I was going away for the first time all over again, or more like, "been there, done that". I haven't really figured out the answer to that, but I think a little bit of both. I think everywhere you go, there are new and different things/people/issues, etc. But to some extent, it's always a bit of the same. Today, I stopped thinking about work for long enough to remember that I was in a new country and should probably discover it! I found a local restaurant and asked for some traditional food (which was on the house because they were so pleased I was Egyptian and interested in their food), and had that feeling of discovery and excitement for a second again. But I realized that that feeling is much less present this time around. There is much less culture shock (partly because I speak Arabic, I imagine) and much less transitioning. I have to say, it feels a lot easier. (My dad would argue that takes away from the fun). I think you just get to a point where new and exciting is normal. Does this make any sense?

Anyways, the weirdest thing about being here, I would say, is the fact that Darfur is right next door and you'd never even know it by being here. There is really nothing to indicate that there is a so-called genocide happening a couple states west of here. It is a lively city, with cheerful people, going about their business. Living here, it's as if Darfur does not even exist. And once in a while I do wonder if the West has, as the president of Sudan alleges, exaggerated the genocide for their own interests. But when you look at the numbers, it's just not true. Almost 190,000 have had to flee their homes in Darfur this year (2008) alone! Can you imagine? This thing is still raging on, five years later.

In more uplifting news, apparently even in Islamic conservative societies, 82-year-old men ask single women they meet to marry them. And I thought it was only in Senegal!

And... We're Back!

2008-06-24T00:06:00.000-07:00

Oh, it feels good to be back in Africa! I thought Sudan would be a lot like Chad, but it's way better - full of life and much more developed. I'm loving it so far! (It has only been one day, and I'm sure I will take that back later!) But I'm definately exhausted.

I don't think I have ever really experienced jet lag until now. I slept badly Friday night in Canada, left for Sudan Saturday afternoon and arrived - after two nights on planes/airport benches - in Khartoum, the capital, Monday morning. So as you can imagine, the lack of sleep is catching up with me. This morning I woke up at 3am, and could not get back to sleep after that.

The flight here was full of all the regular chaos. Flight attendants who spoke no Arabic. Passengers who spoke no English. Overflowing overhead compartments. People sitting in each other's seats. But amazingly, the whole thing went really smoothly. None of the three flights I had to take were delayed. I had no problems getting through customs. My bag arrived unharmed. And someone was waiting for me at the airport to bring me to my ... hotel, if you could call it that.

For $20 a night, the cheapest you can get here, I got a room with paint chipping off the walls, a lizard crawling around, sheets that looked like they had never been washed, and ants everywhere. This morning, I shared my shower with a different lizard. I think he was as scared of me and the water as I was of him, so he wasn't too dangerous.

Sudan is really an interesting place. A neat mix of Arab and African. Actually, my arabic gets me very far here, and when I fling a scarf around my head, I don't look too out of place here. (Most women here cover their hair, and the northern part of the country is governed by Sharia law).

I've met a few people here who seem nice, including another Canadian journalist. And I had a fool (bean) sandwich this morning which reminded me of Egypt.

Hope everyone is doing well, and talk to you all soon insha'Allah!

Reflections & Gratitude

2008-05-19T14:46:00.000-07:00

As you all know, I've been meaning to put an end to this poor blog for a long time. Unfortunately, life took hold of me, and almost three months later, you poor readers have had no closure! And so finally...

First of all, thank you to all of you, for your interest and support. You have been a loyal and forgiving audience. Thank you for reading.

Thank you to God of course, for making this beautiful trip possible in the first place.

And thank you to the people of Senegal and Chad for teaching me so much. I only hope that one day, I can repay the favour.

Sometimes, while abroad - most of the time, actually - everything around me seemed normal. It's amazing how fast you can get used to your new surroundings and forget how different they really are from the world you're used to.

And I remember a specific moment, about a week before leaving Senegal, where it all hit me. Where I stopped to think about just how different a life I had been living.

I was sitting in the bare mosquito-infested, concrete-walled room at my friend's family home in a small village where you can only get around on horse-drawn carts. Her family - brothers, sisters, aunts, neighbours - were watching the home's sole TV in a room that doubled as the bedroom for at least 8 or 9 girls who slept on foam mattresses on the ground. At night, they cocooned themselves in their thin sheets to protect themselves from malaria.

And I remember stopping, looking around the room, and letting the magnitude of it all sink in.

For six months, I lived in a country where most people pee, poo and shower in the same hole in the ground.

For six months, I lived in a country where whole families share a single closet, where there is no such thing as intimacy, where front doors to homes consist of sheets hung across a hole in the neighbourhood wall.

For six months, I lived in a country where 90% of jobs are in the informal sector, selling peanuts, on the street or used t-shirts at the market.

I lived in a country where people eat with their hands - and not just the tips of three fingers, but with the full palm, rolling the rice into their palms as if it was Plado before unfolding it into their mouths.

I lived in a country where you can buy freshly cooked peanuts, donuts and shishkabab on the streets.

Where the goats wake you up in the morning and the neighbours' screaming children keep you up at night.

Where the people you meet can touch your heart in a matter of minutes.

Where helping someone in need is not an option but an obligation.

Where saying Salamu Alaikum (May Peace be Upon You) to strangers you pass on the street is similarly expected.

Where women are strong leaders of their families; where men feel a lot but say little.

Where people love freely and fully - without reasons or logic - just heart.

Where colour, music, and life fill the streets. Where rhythm is instrinsic in every person and men can really dance!

My six months in Senegal taught me something about friendship. I built incredible friendships - often with people that didn't even understand me. I've changed my definition of friendship since. A friend is not always someone who knows you inside and out. A friend is simply a person who cares for you, who is there when you need them and who smiles, sincerely. I am friends with the woman who sells peanuts on the path from work to the bus. I don't know her name. We have trouble communicating. But she has touched my heart all the same.

My six months in Senegal taught me something about sharing and sacrifice. It's not enough to give to the poor from your "extra" savings. It's not enough to give away the shirt you no longer want. That's not giving. The real giving is when you sacrifice what you actually want or need for someone else. And Africans do it every day. In Senegal, it is normal to give up what you need for what someone else wants. Sacrifice is a duty; kindness is built into the system.

My six months in Senegal taught me something about tolerance. Life is never going to cooperate with you fully, and if you can accept that, you will lead a much more peaceful life. Things go wrong, the electricity cuts out, the bus is late. So what? There are more important things in life to worry about.

But Senegal and Chad have also taught me about hardship and injustice - about people who spend their lives wishing they could live somewhere else so that they can provide for their families.

About people in such desperation, they kill, rape and torture to keep living.

In Chad, I watched a baby die of malnutrition, his body lifeless on a Doctors without Borders clinic table. I met a woman whose back was still covered in scars from beatings by armed men in Sudan. I felt the evil human beings were capable of, the suffering they endured.

So the next time you're pissed that you're late and stuck in traffic, remember that the roads are safe and that you aren't under constant threat of hijacking.

Next time your mother annoys you with all her demands, remember that she is healthy and not dead thanks to completely preventable disease.

Next time you have the chance to reach out to someone and improve their life in whatever way, TAKE IT.

That's all for now, I think.

But I still have a lot to learn, to live, to take in. I plan to return to this beautiful land - sooner than you think. So keep your virtual ears open - Sudan is next!

The Egyptian States of America

2008-02-21T06:30:00.001-08:00

Egypt, my dear Egypt, what has happened to you?

I swear, I no longer recognize this place sometimes. I guess the most striking example of rapidly increasing Westernism in Egypt is the MASSIVE 7-story luxury shopping mall called "City Stars" in which you can find restaurants, a cinema, carnival games for children, coffee shops and the most expensive, luxurious and brandname stores I have ever seen in one place. It's easily 10 times the size of the Rideau Centre. Seriously, I have never seen a mall like this in Canada or anywhere else.

Another big sign is what appears on TV. Way more girls wearing bikinis and couples kissing. These things used to be taboo. Music videos no longer consist of the singer with his arms outstretched, singing in the middle of an empty field to an invisible audience. Now, they would totally fit in on MTV. And movies have lost their "Oh this was made in Egypt" charm. Instead of the usual family love story or ridiculous comedy, there are action movies and documentary type movies, made in a much professional (read Western) way.

And the homes. As Cairo contines to grow and grow (now at close to 80 million), residential neighbourhoods are being built on what used to be the outskirts of the city. One of the newest and trendiest places to live now is called 6th of October. I went to visit my aunt who recently moved there, and ... wow. It's like a Cuban resort. They live in compounds, meaning the "neighbourhood" is surrounded by a fence and you have to enter through the gate. It's the picturesque image of a cute residential neighborhood, like you see on TV. There are sidewalks, they are clean, bicycles line the grass-filled lawns, no traffic, no horns, just perfectly identical beautifully built homes, that are even more American-looking on the inside than on the outside. It's astounding. (Keep in mind, regular Cairo is non-stop horns blaring, sidewalks, if any, filled with garbage, cars stuck in traffic at every sidestreet, and no such thing as a front yard, let alone any sight of greenery).

You can easily sit at the neighbourhood Chilli's and feel that you are exactly at Jack Astor's in Kanata. The way people dress, the way they talk, the Westernism has permeated almost everywhere.

But that's not really the point. The point, or at least my question, is: Is this the only way countries can develop? Is development tantamount to westernization? Is there a way of developing poor countries without turning them into little Americas?

Arguably, all these signs of "westernism" in Egypt are good things. It means people are living in better conditions, they obviously have more money to spend, and are able to enjoy the non-essential things in life instead of focusing on their survival.

But you can still find places - lots of them - to buy fool and ta'amaya (beans and felafel) sandwiches for 15 cents. My cousins keep telling me that this side of Egypt (shopping malls, restaurants, etc) is the life of only 5 percent of the population and that most people - including doctors and people in respectable professions - do not have enough to feed their families.

So I suppose this isn't really development at all - it's just rich people spending their money, while the poor continue to be poor?

I'm not sure of the answer, but it seems inevitable that as countries pull themselves out of poverty, they will do so with the help of foreigners, and in the way that foreigners have. It seems to me (but I am no expert) that there are far more internationally-designed development projects than there are locally-driven measures to reduce poverty. Is it not logical that if poor countries are to develop, they will do so in the image of developped countries?

I asked my aunt this question, and she said there will always be people who hold on to their traditions. I saw evidence of this in Senegal, where despite nike, internet and coca-cola, Senegalese culture was very present. Still, I can't help but fear that one day, the whole world will look the same ... McWorld can't be that far away.

Any thoughts? More optimistic ones hopefully...

A piece of cake

2008-02-19T09:45:00.000-08:00

This is a special posting courtesy of joint blogging by Heba A and Erin M:

It all started on a cold Egyptian day in Cairo. Erin was in a taxi on her way to Heba’s aunt’s apartment in the flashy residential district of Mohandisseen. She was eating koshari from a plastic cup and frantically trying to bring her taxi driver into contact with Heba on her cell phone in order that she would actually arrive at her desired destination and not in the hands of someone like the spry young buck in Aswan who grabbed her at the market and said, “How about Egyptian boyfriend?” The day was crisp, and she thought to herself how nice it would be to meet up with Heba and head over to the local Cilantro’s (Egyptian version of Second Cup coffee chain) for a triple-cream caramel apple cinnamon mocha-lattecchino. Everything is available in Egypt, all the time, from pizzas to shawarma to sushi, so why not?

Heba greeted Erin sporting fashionable new kicks in the form of pointy suede evening boots, recently purchased at a Spanish luxury footwear outlet called Scarpa. “Nice buy,” Erin said, “you needed those.” “And only forty bucks,” Hebs answered. “What a deal!” they exclaimed in unison. At Heba’s aunt’s place came the usual debate over what to do: how could money be spent and some form of nourishment be consumed this time? They drew a blank, and found themselves back in Kanata during their high school days, when “hanging out” with a friend inevitably resulted in cardboard cups of hot chocolate in the parking lot of the closest Tim Horton’s. There was really NOTHING to do, was there, unless they went somewhere and ate something, right?

“Stop!” Heba cried, “Something…doesn’t feel right about this!”

TWO MONTHS EARLIER

In total darkness, Heba lay on the slab of concrete considered a floor at a home in her friend’s natal village in western Senegal. In the same room, ten other girls lay on thin mattresses on the floor, protecting themselves from mosquitoes in their sleep by wrapping their thin sheets over their heads. The room was bare, but for a TV and some cockroaches. It served as the bedroom, the living room, the dining room and every room. As she lay there, Heba thought to herself: “Look at what these people have. How different their lives are.” The next morning, she awoke to the four-inch piece of bread for breakfast and the faucet outside the house with which to wash her hands – without soap. She spent the day meeting family, laughing, cooking, cleaning – a typical example of simple life in rural Senegal. There was no coffee shop, no restaurant, no Mac’s Milk or MacDonalds. Yet it was a beautiful day without boredom or unfulfilled desires. And when she left the village the next day, she left with longing in her heart to return to these people, live among them and leave behind all that she didn’t need in her homeland.

On the day of the Fire Festival among the Muslim communities in the region, Erin found herself baking in the oven that is the village of Larabanga in northern Ghana. Her “guide” and host, a young orphan by the name of Oli, showed her the small room she would stay in that night: a bare shack with faulty wires and a mosquito net draped over the straw mattress lying on the dusty floor. Outside, his grandmother, also the caretaker of him and his siblings, prepared their afternoon meal (rice with tomato sauce) over the fire. As Oli and Erin headed for the main street of the village, he indicated to her where the toilet was: she was free to use any in the row of outhouses built for the school across the road, which was what he and his family also used as their latrine, if you will. (Yes, I will.) “We’re trying to raise money to buy desks for the school,” Oli explained, adding that the primary school students were required to carry their chairs or stools to and from class with them every day, and that those who had nothing just sat on splintery boards on the floor. There was one food stall in the main village area, and over Erin’s time in Larabanga she quickly realized that it only served rice with sauce and either antelope or grasscutter (a large rat-like rodent) meat. That was it. There was one guest-house with similarly faulty electricity and a primitive bathroom, and almost no water – the residents of Larabanga walked 12km several times a day during the dry season to get water from the pumps in the nearby national park. Most of Larabanga’s residents lived, effectively, with nothing. Or do they only live with “nothing” in comparison with what I normally have? Erin wondered… (dun, dun, dun….)

BACK IN CAIRO…

“We can’t do this,” Heba said. “We said we wouldn’t do this!”

“This” referred to the horrible gutless tendency Western people have to fill their empty time with activities that are based on gratuitous consumption. Then the debate ensued: why do we as a culture feel that we need these things? More importantly, why do we feel that we need them even after seeing first-hand from our experiences in the sub-Sahara that we truly don’t need them? Why is it so difficult to succeed in curbing useless spending on unnecessary items (shoes, junk food, the latest fashion items, or anything to fill free time)? What drives us to consume like we do, and how could we put a stop to the madness and horror?

In Senegal and Benin, Heba and Erin had seen that they were capable of living without many of the things they had deemed “necessary” for life in Canada, and had even realized that it was, in fact, easy to live without these things. They had grown accustomed to live without small things like candy, brown bread or Tim Horton’s coffee, or slightly more difficult things like hot water or even running water. They had gone for lengths of time eating the same thing day in and day out (rice, rice, and more rice), and had gotten used to squatting in dark, smelly, cockroachy holes on a regular basis. They swore they would try to maintain some semblance of the concept of the simple lifestyle they had known and come to appreciate.

Then, enter Egypt. It’s amazing how fast things can change – often in the blink of an eye. Heba and Erin slipped frighteningly easily back into their old ways, accepting invitations to eat deep-fried mozzarella sticks, caramel-smothered ice cream and cheese-drowned nachos, like the past life-changing months had never even happened, or at least had more or less faded away. And they went right back to enjoying those things. Heba had entered a jewellery store and felt the immediate urge to purchase earrings and that perfect purse to match her new shoes. On the other side of town, Erin had been drawn by the warm light of a bakery beside Rami’s apartment where glossy cookies and puffy pastries had little to do to convince her she needed them.

As they sat there on Heba’s bed debating how to spend their evening, stabs of guilt crept up their chests, which gasped for air after the almost continuous eating they had both done since arriving in Egypt. Although they hadn’t forgotten the lessons they had learned in Africa, the consumption suddenly seemed inescapable outside of the context where they had learned about it. It was in the fully-stocked fridge, the seven-story shopping malls, the speed dial of their landlines that allowed them to order delivery of practically anything existing in the known world. Egyptian youth socialize like Canadian youth: dinner, drinks, coffee, some form of smoking. How is it possible to have a social life here or in Canada, to participate in the norms of socializing with others, without letting ourselves get sucked into a culture that equates satisfaction with consumption? When one of our friends or family wants to treat us to something, whether it be a new shirt, a nice lunch, a Nile cruise, or a full-expenses paid trip to the Dominican Republic, how is it possible to reject this on the basis that it’s completely unnecessary and moreover, promotes rampant consumerism and materialism?

These thoughts and others circled the heavy fog of concern in the room. The challenge seemed insurmountable, and there was only one thing that could calm their nerves. They headed to the kitchen for a good ol’ slice of cake and a mugga hot chocolate.

Riddah

2008-02-11T07:07:00.000-08:00

Taking a cab in Senegal can be a painful experience. Before you get in, you have to explain where you're going and a whole debate over cost insues. You give your price, he gives his, you tell him to lower, he does, but not enough, you pretend to walk away, he calls you back and tells you to get in.

In Egypt, sometimes the traffic is so crazy, they just say "get in, get in!" and everything is discussed later. Most of the time, you tell them where you're going and when you get there, you hand them what you think is appropriate and get out before they say anything.

Erin Moores (friend from Canada who is in Egypt for a visit), Heba Bahgat (childhood friend who now lives in Egypt) and I went to Alexandria last weekend, and after one cab trip, I gave the cabbie a few rolled up bills and got out. I turned my shoulder and saw him put it in his money stash, without even counting it to see how it was.

Heba called it "Riddah", which means complete acceptance of what God has in store for you. I thought it was sad in one way - his life is probably such that he takes whatever he is given and that's it, even if it is less than he deserves. But mostly I thought it was beautiful - to have that kind of tranquility at the end of the day. ie. This is what God wanted for me, and I cannot ask for more.

I find that kind of attitude is much more present on this side of the world. And in the midst of greediness or ambition, or maybe just lack of faith, we lose track of it in North America.

Anyways, I won't give a detailed posting of Egypt as half of you have already been here, the other half have known me long enough to know what Egyptians are all about!

But I will refer you to a blog post by Erin, who is a wonderfully talented writer that has yet to come out of the literary closet:

http://www.travelblogger.net/members/mooresie/index.html?action=ViewTravelBlogs&tbid=901&beid=3545

Here are some pics with Erin and Mariam (family friend's daughter) along the Nile and with my new favourite cousin Nada (and Yasmine, her aunt!)

I'll be home in less than a month!

Lucky Little Heba

2008-02-01T06:01:00.000-08:00

One week before I arrived in Chad, its government decided to bomb rebels hiding out in Sudan and everyone was awaiting a retaliation, either from Sudan (much bigger and stronger than Chad) or from the rebels.

Heba arrived. Nothing happened.

One week after I left, rebels stormed across the country and are now threatening to attack the capital!

Yet, while I was there, everything was calm and tranquil. Crazy! That's the thing about Chad, it can totally change in 5 minutes!

In other news, I cannot explain to you all how totally FREEZING it is in Egypt - not outside, but INSIDE. You have to wear at least 4 layers of clothing, a scarf and gloves to stay warm in these unheated homes. I can't believe it! I would seriously wager that I am colder here than you are in Canada. Add to all this that I gave my Dad all my sweaters when he came to visit me in Senegal because I thought what the hell am I going to need them for?

Ok, back to my writing. (It is extremely difficult to focus on writing articles when you have cousins you haven't seen in years offering you all kinds of fun things to do...) Take care!

p.s. Good news - I'm eating again. Yesterday, we managed to get some cheese through the system without problems (cheese, as you know, is essential in my diet). And today, vegetable soup. So I think I'm well on the road to recovery. Kinda like the Chadian rebels on the road to power.

Should have known

2008-01-29T12:21:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry all, that I haven't been updating. Chad was simply exhausting. Going from one place to the next, trying to take in as much as I could in the little time I had there (Even got right to the border with Sudan....and... saw George Clooney, newly named UN peace ambassador, who said in his cute little voice, "bonjour, ca va bien?" ... he is just as good looking in person.)

Now that I'm in Egypt, unfortunately, things aren't much easier. I went seven months in Sub-Saharan Africa without problems, and on the last day, the LAST DAY, I ate something funny and it has been downhill ever since. First just a stomach ache, then real pains, a bit of diarrhea, now vomiting. I haven't eaten in 30 hours. I'm even throwing up medication. I've had two shots in the ass today and I'm on rehydration salts now. Beautiful.

Anyways, here's a pic of me on the job - veil on, camera and notebook in hand. These kids are eating a watery flour-based oatmeal type thing as part of a school-feeding program. People have found that if you feed the kids, parents are more likely to send ther kids to school. That structure in the back is a modern hangar that UNICEF built for displaced kids. 200 kids cram into that outdoor classroom, sitting on the floor while an undertrained community teacher tries to give lessons.

second article from my trip is up:

http://www.irinnews.org/Report.aspx?ReportId=76471

6 more to go!

Now we're really talking

2008-01-15T09:41:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Goz Beida, where young girls use donkeys to find wood in the bushes, where people make their homes out of straw, and where tens of thousands of Sudanese refugees and displaced Chadians have gathered to seek assistance from the international community.

I'm too exhausted to even go into all the incredible things I have seen in only two days here....

5-year-old girls taking their plastic bottles to the public fountain to fetch water for their families; Women walking 40 minutes under the sun and in the sand, carrying 5 kilograms of stuff on their heads and a baby on their backs, to get to the market where they can buy and resell things at to make some money; "schools" made of bamboo and plastic sheeting; entire villages displaced by fighting who arrive from kilometres away, and receive no assistance because they are not included on the "list of beneficiaries".

But meeting these people has kind of demystified the whole "refugee" thing for me. In some cases, they are desperate, dependent, completely deprived people, but today, I saw strong, smiling people making things work and living their lives.

At the same time, I think I have to keep things in perspective. I think I've gotten so used to a lower standard, that I almost see these refugee camps and sites for displaced people - whole villages really - as normal now. I say "oh, it's probably not that far off from how they were living in their own communities back home". The gradual transitions in my travel have made it seem all too natural. From Canada to Senegal was one drop in standard of living, Senegal to Ndjamena (capital of Chad), another. Ndjamena to Abeche (where NGOs are stationed), another. Abeche to Goz Beida (the town near which the camps/sites are located), and finally Goz Beida to the refugees' homes.$ I'm trying to remind myself that if you were to drop into this situation from the total outside, you would certainly be shocked.

Anyways, all I want to do right now is eat and wash my feet (constantly covered in sand), but certainly I got what I came for!

Now we're talking!

2008-01-11T08:47:00.000-08:00

Got to the east of the country, to the main humantiarian hub, Abeche. The UN plane landed on a runway in the middle of the desert. No time on the internet (have to get home before dark), but here's a qiuck pic I could grab out the window, while rolling through the dust. Mud walls, soldiers in turbans... it's totally different here and I'm loving it!

Gotta go!

What am I doing here?

2008-01-08T10:47:00.000-08:00

How I came to be lying on a mattress in the dining room of a German hostel wondering what the hell I was doing in central Africa:

Monday morning, I booked myself out of the Novetel (a wopping $180 a night), took my bags and went to the OCHA office here in the Chadian capital, N'djamena. I spent the day trying to get travel permits in order, figure out who to talk to, how to make the printer work and where to find food. By 6:30pm, I was exhausted. I had met someone who works for the World Food Programme on the plane and he invited me to dinner with some colleagues (an opportunity I can never pass up as a journalist, because - especially in Chad - so much of the info you need comes from casual conversation with people in the field.)

So the OCHA driver dropped me off at a cheap hostel I decided to stay at run by the German Service for Development (one of many international organisations working in Chad). The beauty of this place is that you can't go anywhere alone. You must always be in a vehicle. And not just any vehicle: one with a UN-recommended driver. So I called the UN recommended driver, paid three times the price I would pay in Dakar and spent a nice evening with good food and good company. When it came time to leave (at 10:30pm), I called the driver back - he didn't answer. I called another taxi number the UN gave me - it didn't work. I waited outside the restaurant for 20 minutes - no taxis. Finally, I saw one, and feeling uncomfortable staying too long outside the restaurant with my purse, I decided to take it. There was someone in the passenger seat already - never a good thing because two men are harder to fight off than one - and I wasn't exactly sure where I was going because I had only been to the hostel twice. But what choice did I have if I ever wanted to get home. We agreed on the price, I got in, and luckily, there were good people and took me home.

I gave him the money and he said "what's this?" I said "it's 3000 francs". All of a sudden he starts telling me that I owe him 15,000 - which was so unreasonably out of whack. Normally, the price is 2,000. At night, it might rise to 3,000, but that's it. He started alking about how it was dangerous for him to be driving at night. He also seemed genuinely angry. We argued for 15 minutes. I was frustrated and just wanted to walk away, but you never know what they will do to you. So I gave him 5,000 and walked into the hostel... Only to get another surprise.

The guard told me the hostel was full. I told him, "oh no, don't worry. I already have a room." He told me, "no, but someone else came." I laughed and said "no, but all my things are already in the room." Then he took me to the hostel office where all my stuff had been dumped into a big plastic bowl because some German woman had come and they had double booked the room. I couldn't believe it. I was ready to flip. I couldn't go back outside into the dark to find a new place to stay. All the rooms here were full. I started crying! The guard set up a mattress for me in the dining room and that's where I slept - among the mosquitos. It's not really a big deal, but when you've had a long day, in a different country, any little thing can push you over the edge.

They told me Chad was a miserable place. I expected things to go wrong, so this is normal. But certainly, life here is difficult.

You can't go anywhere without a UN driver. You can't imagine how this limits your freedom. Buying food, going to pick up something from the store (ie. mosquito repellent), etc. all has to be done with someone else. My life consits of getting picked up from the hotel by the driver in the morning, spending the day at work (and using the driver any time I have places to go), and being dropped off at the hotel at night (I'm at a different hotel now of course), where I sleep and then do it all over again. I can't really get to know the people because I can't really go into the neighbourhoods and chat with locals the way I would in Dakar. It's really frustrating being in a new place you want to discover, but being stuck behind the windshield.

The way I describe it makes it seem like it's totally dangerous - which it isn't. But there are incidents every now and then, and they don't want to take any risks.

I go home to the crappy hotel room and the one channel of Cameroonian TV and have the urge to talk to mom & dad, friends, etc. but the communication is so expensive and isnt always good quality. I called my friend in Senegal and the line was so bad, it just added to my frustration. So now I don't bother.

It would all be worth it if I got to do what I came here to do - get perspective, talk to real people on the ground, here their problems and tell their stories. But for the moment, I'm in yet another office, waiting to get clearance to travel.

Still, these feelings of fear, frustration and isolation always happen at the beginning. I had them in Senegal at first as well. And I know once I get more comfortable here, (if I can do that in 3 weeks!), that will change. One thing is for sure: my grandma's constant harassment in Egypt - "Heba, do you want to eat, Heba have an orange, Heba, bring me your laundry" - will be a welcome change.

N.B. You must all understand that I use my blog as a sort of diary. And what I feel today often disappears tomorrow. So now that you are jts reading my thoughts of this moment and that it will all change soon.

A bientot!

Chad

2008-01-06T11:31:00.000-08:00

Wow. What a new world. And I thought Senegal was a big change.

I had been nervous ever since I left Egypt about how the trip would go and what it would be like to deal with Chadian authorities. In the end, it went without problems. I'm in the hotel stealing wireless internet from somewhere. I mostly feel safe. Still I have my money divided in four places, I sleep with my passport under my pillow, I wear a pouch under my clothes everywhere I go.

I took off all jewellery other than my watch. I wear long sleeves and pants. They tell you not to go out with a purse. But at the same time, you don’t want to leave all valuables at the hotel. At the same time, you need to have your documents with you at all times – travel authorization, passport, etc. So, I spend a lot of time deciding how I’m going to proceed.

N’djamena, the capital of Chad, is totally different than Senegal. The streets are bare. The city is small and has the feel of an abandoned place. You can’t find newspapers on Sundays. The state television only airs six hours a day. It’s almost impossible to find someone selling a quick bite on the street the way you would in Senegal.

In one of the world’s poorest countries, hotels cost more than $100 a night – because there is simply nothing in this country and outsiders have no choice. Internet at the hotel: more than 60 cents a minute – because of its rarity. (By comparison, in Senegal it was 60 cents an hour because it is so common and widespread). The television cuts out every now and then.

In Abéché, in the east of the country, where most of the NGOs have their offices and where many of the Sudanese refugees and displaced Chadians live, there is a 9pm curfew, but most everyone tries to get home before nightfall at 6 or 7pm. Most homes have no internet, so you can imagine what kind of a life it is – from 6pm til bedtime, without going out or going on the internet! Here in the capital, l've spent the whole day trying to figure out what to do with myself, without knowing anyone, with no internet (until I found this lucky connection), and without wanting to wander around the city alone. Definately should have brought a book!

I head to the office tomorrow, and that's when things will really start happening.

Talk to you soon, I hope!

The whirlwind

2008-01-04T13:22:00.000-08:00

So I am now in Egypt, and it has been a suprisingly big shock to my system.

I left Senegal at a 6:30am flight (didn't sleep the night before), arrived in Casablanca Thursday morning (transit point), took the train into the city to visit a little (Celine, the outdoor coffee shops and their bizarre Arabic reminded me of our trip), took an 11pm flight to Egypt and am now sitting at my cousin's computer, after two consecutive nights without sleep.

I didn't realize the change would hit me as much as it did. I guess I had forgotten how different Senegal was. Food is a bit part of it. When I saw a McDonald's riding the bus in Casablanca, I had a sudden surge of happiness. When I got to Egypt, my cousin took me to the mall, where we stopped at a desert place. I was so overwhelmed by the menu - cheesecakes and milkshakes - and the stores with everything you could possibly need.

I'm just in a totally different world all of a sudden - surrounded by family and rich foods, in comfort and luxury. (Imagine that, Egypt has now become comfort and luxury - changing reference points I guess) It's disorienting to think that just 36 hours ago, I walked through the sandy streets, passed the sheep, to a house with bare concrete walls, where I spoke my broken Wolof to people I could possibly never see again. It makes me a bit sad to see how easily Senegal can dissapear into the past. (I vow to return, but you never know where life will take you).

From Thursday morning to Saturday night, I will have done Senegal, Morocco, Egypt and Chad. It's a whirlwind really. Or like a slideshow that is continually changing and completely different slides.

The next three weeks in Chad will be a totally new environment for me. I am scared and excited at once. I probably won't be posting while I'm there, but will get back to you when I'm back in Egypt.

I can't wait to be able to just sit down and digest everything I've gone through in the last few months. But that day won't come anytime soon. So until then, let the whirlwind sweep me away...

Oops

2007-12-30T17:13:00.001-08:00

The latest post showed up under the old one by accident, so scroll down!

A new threshold

2007-12-23T09:55:00.000-08:00

I think one of the best things Africa can do for a person is increase their tolerance.

At first, when the power goes out, you get really angry. Your North American productivity pressurer kicks into gear, reminding you of all the things you have to do and all the things you won't be able to do now that there's no electricity. When I first arrived, in the dead of summer, when there is high demand for electricity because of the heat, and never enough supply, this frustrated me alot. But gradually, you begin to accept your new realities of life, and it has gotten to the point where a power outage is almost a relief because it means time to just relax or read quietly by candlelight.

Another example - appointments. I just stopped by a restaurant to try to book some space for a goodbye party with some friends. The owner wasn't there. They told me to call him. So I went back home, called him and he said, "stop by the restaurant and we can talk." WELL I WAS JUST THERE! WHAT A WASTE OF TIME. That would normally be my reaction. But here, you're forced to accept and return with a smile. It's a lesson in not being so obsessed with time and productivity. The pace of life is, as you would expect, slower. But the beauty is coming to accept the good in that.

It's been a gradual process for me, but I think I can see a marked difference. Having no water to shower with in the morning, sitting in the midst of flies, dealing with the men who are constantly hitting on you, accepting when the internet is down - it is all a question of your tolerance threshold, and luckily, I think mine has risen. It has to, otherwise you go crazy.

ps. i posted an album of pics on facebook if you want to have a look.

The Mouton Business

2007-12-22T04:56:00.000-08:00

The biggest Senegalese holiday of the year comes down to an animal: the sheep.

It is tradition in Islam to sacrifice a sheep for Eid Al-Adha, known locally as Tabaski. Still, I had never seen anything like this. For the first Eid, Korite, most families bought and killed a sheep. But it's a small affair. For Tabaski, it is no small affair.

About two weeks before Tabaski, sheep markets turn up at every corner. Herders bring sheep from around the country to sell in the capital, where they can apparently make up to 2 million CFA francs ($4,400) for ONE SHEEP! Imagine paying $4,000 for something you will eat in one day. But just as we have status symbols in Canada (clothes, cars, etc), the quality of sheep you bring home for Tabaski is a status symbol in Senegal.

You can also make money by buying and reselling sheep. Little boys are paid to wash and clean them. At the sheep markets, people sleep outside all night beside the sheep, and they even have guard dogs! When a customer comes looking, they whip the sheep to stad up tall and straight and they show them off like at a dog show.

One day Atoumane and I took a stroll around the sheep market that formed three metres in front of his door. He told me if you bring home a sheep that only costs 30,000 francs ($60), the neighbours will talk condescendingly. (Even though the smaller, younger sheep apparently have more tender and thus tastier meat). And they don't only buy one sheep. Both Atoumane's family and the family I live with bought three sheep each - far more than they would eat that day - but seemingly for the status and the fun of killing them. Also, once you reach a certain age, you are expected to kill your own sheep (or have someone kill it in your name) - I suppose as a way of personally marking the sacrifice Abraham made so many years ago.

For Tabaski, girls spend weeks preparing - getting their hair done and getting new boubous made, finding matching purses, shoes and jewellery - but all that is for the visiting of friends and family in the evening. (The fabric market was apparently open all night the day before Tabaski. I was there around 11pm and there were girls getting their nails done, people buying shoes, everything! It was packed!) But for many people, the climax of Tabaski is the prayer in the morning, and then the process of killing, skinning and cooking the sheep.

For both Korite and Tabaski, I missed the actual slaying, but Drew showed me a video and it was slow cutting of the neck, as if you were cutting thick bread that you really had to force your way through. Then they make a slit from the neck to the bottom and start skinning the sheep. They hang it on a hook and pull out its insides, letting the intestines flop onto the floor. Then they rip bones apart in order to break the meat up into smaller peices. As they skin and hack, blood spills everywhere. At our house, they killed at least 6 (for various families), and the whole driveway was covered in blood and various sheep parts: skin/head/feet/etc. I stuck to non-meat related preparatory activities - such as grounding the pepper.

What's neat is that if you walk around the morning of Tabaski, you won't find anyone on the streets. They're all inside preparing the sheep. But at every corner, someone is squeezing the poo out of intestines or dealing in some way with buckets of meat.

We ate lamb for the next 4 days - twice a day. On Tabaski, we even had lamb for breakfast. I told you last time about the intestines. This time, I learned that some people also eat the feet!

At Atoumane's, they had no hook to hang the sheep from as they cleaned it out. They used rope and a tree instead. He used the sidewalk to sharpen the knife, and I even saw his sister using the front tiles of the house as a cutting board for raw meat - yummy!

After the big day, I found sheep skins drying all over the road. That's another business - the reselling of the skin. 500 francs (just over $1) per sheep's skin.

All this to say that is really is an affair. It's funny. People look forward to Tabaski so much, but really most of the day is just preparing food. When they ask me whether we kill sheep in Canada, I laugh and say "no, we pray and then go out to a restaurant" - a concept they cannot understand!

After all the blood, people get clean and dressed up. Here's me with my big brother, Kalz.

Dancing with the Demons

2007-12-05T10:53:00.000-08:00

One of Erin's blog postings on voodoo in Benin reminded me that I should inform you guys of a certain event I attended last week.

It's called the Ndop. And it is meant to heal people who have gone crazy. It's a four-day thing, kind of like Indian weddings. And it consits of several steps - mostly though, it's about getting the bad spirits out of you.

The whole neighbourhood gathers, and the person in question, and her entourage, dance around in a circle while the men beat the drums. Every once in a while, the demons take over someone's spirit and they start acting crazy. Pouring water on themselves, rolling around in the mud, falling over unexpectedly, demanding random objects - milk, cigarettes (these are 60-year-old women we're talking about), and even ripping off their shirts. (Almost as if the demon in the crazy person is spreading to the others at the ceremony). Sometimes, they get onto their knees and just beat their chests to the sound of the drums - as if trying to beat the spirit out. [In fact, if you see the "crazy person" after the ceremony, she seems quite normal. And I think they're definition of "crazy" is quite broad).

On day #2, they kill a cow and pour its blood on the crazy person. I saw these women pouring bottles of milk on themselves and then throwing the bottle away as if they were drunk. You'd think it would be a very serious affair, but all the kids laugh. Even the marabout (religious leader) who is there to guide the ceremony and heal the woman laughs and smiles from time to time.

It's a certain ethnicity that performs these ceremonies, which end in a big celebration with food, etc. But most Senegalese are scared of them.

When I told the women at work that I had gone to a Ndop, they said "oh"... and their eyes opened wide. I told them it seemed almost like theatre, because once the night was over, the women all went back to normal. And they laughed (as if to say you foolish little girl) and then got very serious. "It's not theatre."

When I told them I was a bit tired that day, they said it was because of the Ndop. You see, the spirits can affects some of the people in the crowd as well, and apparently they're attracted to "toubabs" - white people.

In fact, one of the other girls who had gone with me - Courtney - was also feeling sick the next day (although I think that was due to an unrelated hangover). And the mom at my house said we really shouldn't go back to the Ndop, for our own health.

ha!

It's amazing what people can believe in. But as Erin says so eloquently, "Voodoo, animism, paganism, whatever -- THESE are mankind's original religions, existing thousands and thousands of years before Judaism or Islam were even specks on the horizon. No matter how many times they cross themselves in church, kneel down to pray until their knees bleed, or fast until they die during Ramadan, the Beninese person accepts his voodoo ancestry as a matter-of-fact reality of life and will slash a scar on his every child's face to protect them from it."

There's no scar-slashing going on here, but there are certainly strong beliefs that continue to exist despite Senegal's rapid modernization. And if you ask me, that's a good thing. Everyone needs something to believe in.

Sorry, no pics! That was, understandly, forbidden.

How to be a guy in Senegal

2007-11-26T10:14:00.000-08:00

Any time you see a white girl, follow these instructions, exactly.

1 - Ask her her name.
2 - Ask her where she comes from.
3 - Ask her if she is married.

Seriously. That is the systematic order. Without fail.

"No tudd?"
"Fo joge?"
"Am nga jeker?"

I've mastered the system though. My answers are:

Eva. (that's all they can understand. There is no 'h' in Wolof, and the 'b' is a bit unusual)
Man waa Canada la.
Waaw.

Heba.
I'm from Canada.
And yes, I am married.

That's how to keep them away.

Even better: "My husband is Senegalese." Then they really like you.

But lately, I've decided to have a little fun. When the taxi man asked me to marry him the other day, I said, "Sure, we'll go to the mosque this weekend. But as long as you kill 3 sheep." He answers: "Three? I can't afford three." I say, "Well I'm sorry; I can't accept any less." It's quite an enjoyable game.

Except when it came from the 103-year-old on the bus. (so he said anyway). Then I wasn't so much in the mood to joke. I said yes right away!

"C'etait chaud a Dakar hier"

2007-11-22T14:21:00.000-08:00

Litteral translation: It was hot in Dakar yesterday.

Actual meaning: Things were heating up in Dakar yesterday.

That's what everyone was saying today, after the worst riots this city has seen in years. Here's how it all unfolded:

I'm in the office, when around 1:30pm, my boss comes in announcing there are demonstrations downtown and that we should probably leave early so that we make it home before they get out of hand and reach our office (about 20 minutes away), just to be on the safe side. A march by union workers protesting the high cost of living had been planned for that afternoon. But separate protests had spontaneously started that same morning, sparked by a presidential decision to clear street vendors from the sidewalks in order to improve traffic flow. (Dakar's streets are clogged with people selling everything and anything, because it's the only work they can find. The president's decision meant thousands of people had just lost their livelihoods.)

I ask my boss is this isn't something we should be covering. She says, yah, actually you're right. The rioters had already reached my neighbourhood anyway, so I was going to be amongst them no matter what. So off I head to where the march of union workers was supposed to take place. It's calm, but people have begun gathering and police trucks are already stationed.

The march begins like any demonstration in Canada would - people holding signs, whistling, filling the streets and walking in groups. I find a big truck driving along blasting music, so I hop on to get a good vantage point for pictures. I interview people who complain about different things: teachers who have never received the extra money the govt promised them; journalists protesting the arbitrary arrest of their colleagues by the authorities, men who make $20 a month; get no medical insurance and can't afford their rent; others whose tiny salaries are expected to sustains dozens of family members (because unemployment is so high here, if one family member gets a job, he/she is expected to take care of everyone else - including distant relatives - who cannot provide for themselves).

So, I'm walking and interviewing people in the crowds, when all of a sudden people start running in one direction because the police have fired tear gas. Eventually, the crowds disperse enough for me to see the dozens of riot police that are now confronting the protesters head on. I walk off to the side a bit, trying to get pictures, conduct interviews and at the same time, be aware of where I should and shouldn't be to avoid trouble. Police push people in certain directions, and if the officers face any resistance, they don't hesitate to beat people with their rubber truncheons. From what I can see, it's often the police instigating the aggression. An old man, who must have been 70 years old, shows me a bloody cut on his arm.

Then, another tear gas grenade. This time, I get a good wiff of it as I hurry along with everyone else trying to escape the smoke. It hurts a little to inhale, but I'm far enough away that it doesn't really affect me. At one point, as I take out my camera to take a picture of the police, and I realize my hand is trembling! I never get too close, but it's still enough of an experience to make you slightly nervous. Every now and then, the crowds come together again, until a warning shot or tear gas force them to separate.

Within half an hour, the police have basically shut the whole thing down, clearing the main street and threatening to hit anyone who doesn't move where they tell them to. When you do as they say, you find yourself getting pushed into side streets, and the road you would take to get home is blocked. Police trucks have parked in the middle of the intersection and are guarding every corner. As my journalist friend Cyr says, when I run into him, "It's like a civil war zone here." It's a bit of an exaggeration of course, but it was certainly an experience.

Still, the afternoon march by the trade unions was nothing in comparison to the riots of that morning (when I was safely in my office). Young street vendors burned tires and cars, pillaged the mayor's office, threw rocks at police and shattered windshields. I stopped by the hair salon where my friends work on my way home after the afternoon march. They said they were forced to close their shutters because the mobs were throwing rocks at the store windows and burning the wooden tables people use as stands.

The street vendors got some concessions from the government in the end - new places in the city that would be reserved for them. The streets were empty as I walked home from Wolof class today. Even the lady who normally sells peanuts outside our door wasn't there anymore.

It's the street vendors' riots that made the front pages of the paper today, eclipsing the wider and more far-reaching problems of lack of jobs, low salaries and high cost of basic commodities. So the government solved one problem, but it certainly won't be able to solve the other anytime soon. People are sick and tired of being poor and jobless. And there is certainly mounting dissatisfaction with this government. I'm sure some component of these riots was just kids looking for an excuse to cause trouble. But there's no denying that people are frustrated and increasingly unwilling to tolerate this situation. The city was basically back to normal today, and I don't think we'll see riots like these for a while, but when this kind of tension exists, it doesn't take much to unleash people's anger.

What do you mean please?

2007-11-17T07:27:00.000-08:00

I started taking Wolof classes a few weeks ago. It's kind of pointless now since I'm leaving so soon, but it had just gotten to the point that it was embarrassing and I coudn't converse fluently with some of my best friends. I should have done it a long time ago, but better late than never, as they say.

Wolof is the dominant language in Senegal. Even if they are from a different ethnic background(Puulaar, Sereer, Jola, etc), virtually all Senegalese speak Wolof. As do all the Gambians, Guineans, Ivorians ets, who come to Senegal to work. While in Dakar, most everyone speaks French, in the villages there are some people who know nothing but Wolof.

Anyways, what's interesting about the Wolof classes is what is demonstrates about Senegalese culture. Here are some examples:

A French girl in the class (most of the foreigners here are French) asked how you say 'please' in Wolof. The teacher said there is no such word. Why?

When you say please, or 's'il te plait' in French (the direct translation is: if it pleases you), you imply that the person you are asking has the option to refuse. When in fact, in Senegal, if you ask someone to do something, they are obliged to do it. I always used to yell at my 'grand frere' Kalz during Ramadan, because when we were all hungry and breaking fast, he would ask me to stop preparing my own meal in order to prepare his, or to bring him water before I've even had a bite to eat - without even saying please! I always felt the urge to tell him to get it himself, but for him it was perfectly normal to ask me to do it and no please or thank you necessary. But now I understand why.

There are actually many arabic-based words in Wolof. All the days of the week for example: Altine is Monday (from Al-Itneen), Talaata is Tuesday (Al-Talaat), etc. That's because when Islam arived, Arabic words replaced the Wolof ones. French is having the same impact now as some words have no real Wolof version, but some amendment of a French word. Watch is montar (montre in French), fan is wantilaateer (ventilateur), etc.

Wolof names are also reflective of casts. Certain last names are part of the "entertainer" cast I talked about in an earlier post: les grillots - dancers, singers, drummers, storytellers. The name "Thiam" (the name of the family I live with) is supposed to belong to the bijoutieux (jewellers). Carpenters are a cast, tailors another, etc. The nobles are the non-casted. But the cast system is falling apart, and as such, so are the assciations. People's names and professions no longer correspond to their casts, and people are intermarrying between casts (formerly it was dishonorable for a noble to marry a casted person, or even open a hair salon. Because the nobles weren't supposed to work).The Thiams with whom I live with are nobles, not jewellers. I imagine in half a century, Senegalese will not know casts ever existed.

My last point on Wolof classes: It is incredible the amount of time we spent learning greetings. And here, learning greetings means learning how to say "How are your goats doing?" ... That's because greetings are about 10 minutes long and include everyone and everything. Salamu Alaikum. Nangadef? Ana ma wa kerr ga? Naka affairee. Namoonala. 'Hello? How are you? How is the family? How is business? It's been so long since I've seen you.' Before leaving of course, you must ask the person to greet their family for you, wish them off in peace, etc. It sounds very nice indeed and is heart warming that they care so much about personal relationships. But it becomes a little difficult when you're in a rush and you have to spend 10 minutes greeting each of the three regulars you pass around the corner from your house. If you say hello quickly and keep going, you're being rude.

Ok, until next time. Ba benenn yoon!

The path to foreign corresponding?

2007-11-17T06:34:00.000-08:00

I've always been so intimidated by the process of becoming a foreign correspondent. How do you do it? Where do you start? Some start at a news outlet in their own country and work their way up from general city news, to provincial politics, to national politics, to international news. I imagine it would take years and is never for sure. Others just implant themselves wherever they want to go and start building a reputation for themselves bit by bit. But there are so many questions...

How do you get plugged into the news world to know what's going on when?
How do you coordinate different buyers for your stories? Can you work for a wire like Reuters while at the same time pitching to the CBC or are you going to piss them off?
Who's out there and who wants what?
And if you work or a wire, they expect you do be ready to cover any breaking news in the region you're in. In Chad, that can range from business stories on the oil pipeline, to environmental problems in Lake Chad, to the new European mission there, to conflicts with neighbouring Sudan, to poverty. You have to be ready to write serious for the serious papers, and tabloidy stuff for the tabloids. You have to be persistent. You have to take every story you can get. Attend every event. Get to know people. Make yourself known.

It can be real hard. People only have so much appetite for a central African country like Chad. And as a freelancer, there is never a guarantee of work or a good rate for your work.

So to address some of your comments, I'm not doing this trip to kill my 10 days. I'm doing it because it is a very narrow opening of the door into this world. IRIN is willing to pay me for reports from Chad in those 10 days. Agreed, 4 of them wil be spent travelling probably (and you can't imagine the hassle of trying to organize flights in Africa. You assume you can book a flight anyday to wherever you want, but either the airline doesn't even go that city and there are no flights for three days, etc.) but that leaves enough time to do some decent reporting, especially if I know what I'm looking for. Once I have some reports written on the ground under my belt, it will be a lot easier to approach Reuters or Agence France Press or anyone else, because I will have somethng to show them. Even to get on the UN plane to the humanitarian hub in the east, Abeche, (apparently the UN is the only institution that flies there) you have to prove that you are writing a story for someone. ie. You have to already have a committed buyer that is willing to vouch for you.

Plus it will allow me to do this first trip with the support of the UN (in terms of permits, authorization, etc) and give me a hang of how things work before I try to do it on my own.

In Chad for example, you need a visa to enter, you need a permit to travel within the country, you need a permit to work as a jouranlist, you need a permit to visit refugee areas, you need a permit to take pictures, the list is endless.

Bottom line, it's quite compliated. Basically, this gives me a chance to see if I can do it on a small scale before trying it all out. I'll go for a vacation when I get back to Canada!

What Next?

2007-11-07T10:19:00.000-08:00

My biggest fear in coming here was that I would do my six months, go back to Canada, and return to my old life - reporting about Larry O'Brien (Ottawa's mayor) or garbage collection (no joke, I have done several stories on this) or some woman who lost her parrot (again, not joking). These are, indeed, important stories that someone has to tell and that many are interested to read - but it's just not what interests me.

On top of that, my time at IRIN has been incredible in terms of orienting myself to the humanitarian issues in West Africa, but for the most part, I have been reporting from my desk in my air conditioned office, next to a Frenchie, a Brit, an American and an Australian. (p.s. What's the noun for a French person?)

So... I've been thinking of what to do next. And I've come up with two options, and I'd like your votes! I'm still planning on going to Egypt in the month of January to study Arabic, but I have about 10 days between finishing at IRIN and starting my Arabic classes, in which I would like to visit another country in the region and set the framework for returning as a freelance journalist. Then the plan is to come back to Canada for a while - enough time to see my wonderful friends and family! - and then eventually head back here (I use "here" very broadly - meaning, Africa, Middle East, wherever I see fit!)

Option 1 - Niger. (not to be confused with Nigeria)

Rated the world's poorest country by the UN. Mostly desert, lots of nomads - and a whole lot of complications!

You guys are always asking for my articles, so here are a couple that give you an idea of what's going on there: http://www.irinnews.org/Report.aspx?ReportId=74905 http://www.irinnews.org/Report.aspx?ReportId=74738

A quick summary of Niger is basically this: It is a mix of complete poverty, foreign companies exploiting uranium, a semi-rebellion by Touareg people who say they are being discriminated against and that the government is not redistributing the revenue from the uranium extraction, and a government that refuses to negotiate with the rebels, and is instead arresting people and journalists who it believes are sympathetic to the rebel cause. Voila.

There is a state of emergency in the north of the country, where the sporadic rebellion is taking place; foreign journalists have been barred from entering; and movement is quite difficult because of landmines.

So if I went, I would probably be stuck in the capital (far from danger mother, don't worry), and I'm not sure how much I would be able to accomplish, other than to orient myself a little to the country, make some contacts, etc.

Option 2 - Chad.

I'm sure you've all heard the story of the French NGO accused of child trafficking for trying to "save" Darfur orphans by taking them to host families in France. Yup, that's Chad. (Here's another taste of my journalistic adventures: http://www.irinnews.org/Report.aspx?ReportId=75211) But apart from that, there is lots going on there and apparently a complete lack of reporters (other than the ones who have flown in to cover this scandal and will leave as soon as it's old news). In the east of Chad, about 450,000 people are in camps - they are either refugees from Darfur (in neighbouring Sudan) and the Central African Republic, or they are internally displaced people, because Chad itself has been home to fighting between government and rebel groups, cross-border raids by Sudanese militia, and interethnic fighting. A European Union force is going to be deployed there in a couple weeks to stabilize the eastern region.

Nick, from the office, says that while Chad is a "very unpleasant" place to be, it is far easier to operate in than Niger, and apparently Associated Press is looking for a stringer there.

Either way, I'm kind of intimidated by the idea of being a freelance journalist in an area I don't know (how to make contacts, be in the loop for press conferences, understand the complicated politics, and avoid dangerous situations), especially when I don't have the backing of an organisation. Having a media outlet behind you not only gives you a name when you approach interviewees, but also connects you to a whole structure set up to help you (contacts, resources, people with experience, etc) ... I imagine even something as simple as a cell phone or connection to internet can be difficult in these countries when you're on your own.

Still, no media outlets have the money to permanently station people in some of these countries, so a stringer can be very successful by writing stories for all sorts of different outlets. And I guess once you make friends with the local journalists, you can connect yourself to the media scene. I've already got a good starting point (all the phone numbers I've gathered over my time here of president's spokespeople, etc) and I can almost definately string (journalistic term for "freelance or write") for IRIN, at the very least.

Really I think the only way to ever get to where I want to be is to just plunge right in! You never know what you're capable of until you're tested, right?

And Mom, at least Darfur is not on the list! Wish me luck!

Unsustainable Charity

2007-11-01T15:33:00.000-07:00

Juxtapose what I’m about to write with my last entry and you will get a glimpse into how confusing it is living here. It mixes you up and sometimes you really don’t know what to think.

Basically from the moment I got here, my Senegalese friends have asked me for money. Kalz asked me for 2000 francs ($4, but worth more here obviously) within days of meeting me. I gave Lamine 10,000 once, which was supposed to be a loan but apparently loans don’t exist here. Blondin asked for 2000. Fatou, another 2,000. Atouman’s Mom – yes, his mother – asked me for money. His sister, himself. After a while, you just want to scream at them, “I’m not a damn bank!” But part of you is embarrassed to say no because they know you have the money, and you know you have the money. If a friend in Canada told me they needed 20 bucks, I wouldn’t ask questions. I would just give it to them. So why should it be any different here? Plus, they do so much for me; they’re so kind. I feel bad not returning the favour – albeit financial – when my turn comes.

But several things make me uncomfortable about this.

First of all, I find myself asking whether they really need it. Atouman’s family for example - they all wear gold jewellery: rings, earrings, necklaces .. things that I don’t even wear. Lamine smokes a pack of cigarettes a day. It’s a question of priorities, I suppose, but I’m sure not sure when they ask for money that’s it’s really a desperate situation.

Second, sometimes I think kids here are raised to beg and it bothers me. It’s almost shameful and I feel bad for parents who have to watch their children act that way. There’s this one kid near my house named Diallo, who I've become friends with. But now everytime he sees me, he tugs at everything I’m wearing – my watch, my purse – asking for money. He almost rips things out of my hands if I have anything. Today, he followed me into my house because he thought I had bananas in my bag. It seems his mother is embarassed every time he clutches at things - but where did he get that habit from, if not from the people around him? Part of me just doesn't want to encourage such "desperate, undignified" behaviour (ie. Don't they have any pride?) and part of me hates myself for writing those words and asking that question.

But my biggest problem with this money thing is that it’s so unsustainable. You give them money today, they need more money tomorrow. The need never ends. And they can’t constantly depend on someone's charity to fill that need. They have to find ways to generate it on their own. I think of the little beggar boys on the streets – here begging is actually entrenched in a system. The Talibe are young boys – sometimes orphans, sometimes from poor families who give them up - who live with a marabout (Most Senegalese Muslims have religious leaders called Marabouts, who they believe give them advice, guide them, etc. “My marabout told me this or that”). The arabout teaches the kids Qu’ran, feeds them and gives them some place to stay. In exchange, they have to beg on the street for money which they take back to the marabout - supposedly in order to pay for everything he does for them, but in reality it all oes to the marabout. It's common knowledge that the kids are badly treated by the Marabouts ie. not fed enough or clothed well. Many walk around the streets of Dakar all day barefoot, with dirt on their faces and ripped clothes. The Talibe are recognizable by their tin cans. The fact that people continue to give them money – people incluing Senegalese – only encourages them to maintain this system, in which they spend every day of their lives begging for money. These are young able children who could be doing so much more. And sometimes it makes me think I shouldn’t ever give them anything, because it only keeps this system alive. I suppose it’s the same question international donors ask themselves on the broader development scale.

It's also a question that I think every foreigner asks him or herself when they get here. Check out my friend Erin's thoughts on this topic if you're interested. She's teaching English in a village in Benin. (Choose the Nov. 1 post)

http://www.travelblogger.net/members/mooresie/index.html?action=ViewTravelBlogs&

I've stopped letting it bother me too much. When I feel like it, I give. When I'm tired of giving, I stop. But it's definately an issue that has many implications on the wider scale, and I hope that eventually, as a global society we find the right balance.

Mine and Yours

2007-10-27T05:09:00.000-07:00

The other day, I was walking home from a day out with Drew, my Canadian friend who is working for the UN's Youth Employment Strategy, when I passed a Boulangerie and thougt I'd treat myself to a cream-filled donut! (they're delicious). I bought it, walked out of the store, and was about to bite into it, when I saw a begging Talibe boy on the street. Embarassed, I put it back in the bag, and kept walking.

The fact that I didn't feel comfortable eating the donut in front of him made me think long and hard about why I was eating the donut in the first place. How can I refuse to give him 50 cents while I eat a completely unnecessary donut?

(the pic is unrelated, well sort of - it's a bunch of kids who swarmed me the night of Korite asking for money: it's tradition to give children money at Eid)

My friend Kalz, who lives at the house, joked with me once that I should buy him a boubou for Korité (Eid) because he had nothing nice to wear and had no money to buy anything. I laughed and didn’t take him seriously. But then went ahead and bought myself a new boubou, on top of the two I already had. Why should I buy myself new clothes when I’m surrounded by people who can’t have that for themselves?

I guess what I’m saying is that being here really makes you re-evaluate possessions. If you feel bad for having/eating certain things, they why have them/eat them? And if you have extra, why not spend it on others so that they can enjoy the same happiness you do. Enjoying the happiness by yourself (when you have to hide to eat the donut or you're the only one in a nice boubou) isn’t all that fun.

I mean, look at this picture. This is one of my best friends' house.

I don’t want you guys to think I’ve gone all communist (although I've never really been against communism), but we should be asking ourselves serious questions about the way we live.

We’ve gotten so used to completely satisfying ourselves in all aspects of our lives, but that’s not necessarily healthy. In Canada my mentality has always been – I’m in the mood for a chocolate bar, and I can afford it, so why not? But here, instead of thinking why not, I ask, why should I?

Which brings me to another point. Ramadan. I think Ramadan was so much harder than usual for me this year, because I actually noticed a change in my consumption. (Hence the weight loss you've all commented on. My arms are not actually that skinny - it's the camera playing tricks). Normally in Canada, we consume so much at night during Ramadan, that it really doesn’t feel like you're learning anything. You fast during the day only to gorge yourself at night. Here, our meals were so limited at nighttime, that I really felt the difference. I was tired, felt weak sometimes. But I got through it just fine. And that’s the point. We don’t need all that we consume in Canada. And I don’t want to be the preaching girl who went to Africa, but this time around, Ramadan actually made me question my habits. Normally, as soon as the month is over, you go back to everything you did before. So what’s the point? The goal of Ramadan is to make us think about what we have and appreciate it. I also think it should teach us to limit ourselves to what we need. Now, every time I eat till I’m full, I ask myself why? And when I eat chocolate or pop… why? If you can survive on so much less, and everyone around you has so much less, why are you gorging yourself? And what's so bad about feeling hungry anyway? Life here teaches you how much less you need. I rarely eat candy or chocolate. If I get cucumbers at dinner, I’m lucky. But does it make any difference to my life? No. I'm perfectly happy. Ok, my rant is over!

Korité

2007-10-21T03:30:00.000-07:00

So, Eid in Senegal… Well, for about 10 days beforehand, people started talking about the big party, la Korité - that’s what they call it here. “Are you getting ready?” people kept asking me. I said “What do I have to do to get ready?” The answer included a new hairdo and a new outfit. At first, I thought I wouldn’t bother, but the hype was too strong to resist. The fabric markets and hairdressers were jammed packed for a week beforehand as people tried to do their last minute preparations. The picture here is of Marché HLM, the biggest fabric market. You pick out fabric that you like and take it to a tailor to have it made. I did that the day before of course, and somehow still managed to get it on time. I think no tailor slept the day before Korité, except beside their sewing machine.

My dad arrived in Senegal for a visit the night before the party. I picked him up at the airport at about midnight Friday night. He came bearing gifts! A whole bunch of things I had requested from Canada – from Clean & Clear face wash to Extra gum – plus some gifts from my mom and from Egypt, where he stopped before here. My grandma sent me kahk! (Egyptian dessert).

In the morning, my dad wore the boubou and slippers I bought him and I wore a boubou as well and we headed to the mosque to pray with some of the folks from the family. They were surprised that as a woman I was going to the mosque, and when I got there and found only men, I thought I might have to cause a fuss in order to be able to pray with them! But eventually I found a section with some women and all was well. It was nice just to be outside, because everyone we passed on the street was dressed in a nice boubou, with a prayer mat in hand. After the prayer, strangers shook each others’ hands, the way we do in Canada.

Then we headed back home, where an extravagant breakfast was ready. On the roof, where I normally do my laundry, two professionals were killing a sheep. I went up there afterwards to find everything – the intestines, the poo that was inside the body, the horns – all over the bloody ground. We ate the lamb that afternoon. It tasted great. But when they brought out a soup made of the intestines, I just couldn’t touch it.

Most of the day, we spent eating and chatting with everyone. A lot of family friends had come by the house, and it was just a nice feeling of getting together. There were nice drinks too, like bissap and takh, made from the boiled leaves of fruit trees.

At night, most Senegalese visit their family members to ask forgiveness if they have wronged them in any way. In fact, the whole day, people you see shake your hand and say “Bal ma akh” – forgive me for my sins.

Late at night, I took my old man out dancing, Senegalese style. I bought these bright blue shoes to match my new outfit – I’d never be caught dead wearing these shoes in Canada, but here, it just seemed to work! – and we went to a ‘mbalakh’ concert (Senegalese pop). You should have seen Atouman trying to teach Dad to dance!

Anyways, it was a great ending to what had been quite a long and difficult month of Ramadan (harder than usual this year I think). It felt nice to be surrounded by people, to have a feeling of community and togetherness.

After the party, the city sort of shut down for a few days as people recovered from the strenuous preparation and extensive fete. Markets weren't up and running as usual, and the streets seemed a bit empty. But unusually, in a 95% Muslim country, they only get one day off for Eid and 10 for Christmas (the French made their constitution), so things were back to normal before long!

My first visitor

2007-10-21T02:33:00.000-07:00

So, I had my first visitors!!! Celine and her boyfriend Danilo came from Spain, where they live, for a 3-day visit. (Celine and I went to highschool together and travelled to Spain together a few years ago). It was great having them here ... we went to the markets (that pic of me sitting on the ground is when I was resting while Danilo - the ultimate bargainer - was going at it), they spent time with the sheep on my roof, the Independence Monument near my house, Atouman's twin sisters in their matching boubous

As was necessary, of course, Celine dressed up in a boubou at night and we went to a religious ceremony (they were here during Ramadan) where people danced and chanted "La Illaha illa Allah" to the beats of drums.

We visited l'ile (island) de N'Gor, after almost a day-long ride (what would otherwise be 20 minutes) in a Ndiaga Ndiaye, the white mini-buses that stop for anyone that flags them down.

Celine picked up the "salamu alaikum" easily, and Danilo being a natural bargainer, they fit right in. The tricky part was the languages. Danilo is Brazilian, and thus speaks Portugese. But he and Celine speak together in Spanish (that's their common language). He speaks some English and no French. Celine speaks French, because her mother is Swiss, but I normally speak with her in English. I speak rudimentary Spanish, and no Portugese. And the languages in Senegal are French and Wolof. So, there were so many langugages mixed in my head - I would open my mouth to speak Spanish to Danilo and french would come out. I'd try to talk to the merchants in French, I'd get English instead. It got to the point where before talking, I would have to stop for two minutes and think - ok, who am I talking to, and what language are they expecting!

Anyways, it was a great few days... reminded me of our adventures in Spain. Thank you my love!

Toubab Diallio

2007-10-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

I decided that I had become too reliant on other people to keep myself busy and interested, and that I was sick of the city, so a couple weekends ago, I took off - on my own for the first time - to a village about an hour and a half south of Dakar on "la petite cote." Toubab Diallio aka. Heaven in Senegal. To get there, I walked to the Colobane station (not really a station but a bunch of taxis on the side of the highway) and took a sept-place (station-wagon like car with 7 spots) most of the way. It dropped me off in the middle of the highway, at the intersection of the road that leads to the village. After close to three months in Dakar, being in the middle of nowhere was quite refreshing. I flagged down the first car that drove by and gave the driver the equivalent of 60 cents to take me the rest of the way.

Toubab Diallio is this beautiful quiet town along the water, mostly made up of fishermen and vendors who sell to the tourists. It's got narrow streets, lots of greenery and wonderful people! My plan was a get-away weekend where I would read, reflect, keep to myself.... but within 5 minutes of being there, I had plans for dinner and a handful of new friends.

That's what's so beautiful about Senegal. The people are just so social and ready to befriend you. I made friends with the women selling earrings and necklaces and did a little selling myself! I met a group of young girls on the beach who taught me to dance Senegalese style. And the first person I met on the island invited me to dinner with his friends!

Let me tell you about the dinner. I was at the beach playing soccer when some fishermen came in from their day's work. Villagers swarmed the boat, trying to get first crack at the fish. They scoop out the fish and bring them to the women on shore who buy them from the fisherman. The women clean them up a tiny bit, and then sell at the marketplace to the villagers. That night, I was one of those villagers. Moussa (a guy I met on the island) and I and some of his friends bought some fish and prepared a traditional meal from the Casamance, where Moussa is from (south of Senegal). The fish was cleaned and cut by hand, the rice was sorted by hand, the pepper ground by hand, everything fresh! It was amazing to see the fish come in and eat them the same night.

A different reality

2007-10-05T04:36:00.000-07:00

At the house where I live, you know someone is sick when they don’t show up to eat for a few days. (I’ve explained before that the house is home to many people – extended members of the family, friends, etc – who don’t actually live here, but just come to eat). One week, Alioune Sow had not shown up for a few days, and le vieux (the father of the house) said he must be sick. Sure enough, when we finally saw him days later, it turned out he had had malaria.

For a disease that kills more children in Africa than AIDS, people treat it so casually! “Yah, I had malaria….” If it wasn’t so sad it would be funny. But it is so sad – because this same disease which is easily treated in a few days is one of the top killers in Africa because so many people don’t have access to the treatment, or aren’t even educated enough to know they need it (they think malaria can be healed through traditional means).

I've been sick the last couple days with a cold... let's hope it's not malaria! (joking Mom, joking)

I think also of the flooding in West Africa. This rainy season has been the most damaging in years, and flooding has affected close to 700,000 in the region (destroyed their homes, washed away their livestock, submerged their farms, etc). Close to 200 people have died in West Africa alone… imagine, DIED… from the walls of their home crumbling on them, or from drowning. In Canada we would never see rain as anything more than an inconvenience. Even here in Dakar, there has been heavy rain, but nothing like in other countries – but it easily could have been. Two years ago, Dakar saw horrible flooding. This year, it’s elsewhere, but it still hits pretty close to home. And people here just see it as a regular part of life. ‘Yup, there’s gonna be flooding. We might have to move to higher ground for a while, and then we’ll come back to our homes.’ (This touches on a whole other issue, which is that people in the region have not yet realized the seriousness of these floods, and have not begun taking preventative measures to deal with them). I have written so many flood stories for IRIN, it’s kinda become my beat. So I have a lot to say on the subject!

Anyways, all this to say that this continent lives a completely different reality.

The Unexpected Face of Poverty

2007-09-29T12:54:00.000-07:00

Poverty-stricken Africa.

We’ve all seen the images of malnourished children, overcrowded refugee camps, nomads foraging for food in the desert.

The thing is – poverty in Africa hits at a much deeper, less obvious and widespread level. Everyone here is concerned about money. There are no jobs… and I’m not talking about McDonald’s not hiring the 15-year-old who wants an after-school part-time job. I’m talking about 35-year-olds who can’t find work. Men who remain single well into their thirties because they know they couldn’t support a family.

Most of my friends have no regular income…they spend all day doing god knows what – nothing really… because there’s nothing to do. They manage to scrape together a few francs here and there when they need to – people help each other out – but doing things that require money – going out for dinner, to the movies, etc – just isn’t on their radar. Those who do find work don’t make that much.

Take my friend Ndiéme, who works at the hairdresser’s. She takes the bus for two hours a day to get to work (because she can’t find work in her neighbourhood) and works at least 9 hours a day, six days a week. She makes 30,000 CFA francs a month, the equivalent of just over $60 dollars. Of that, she sends $40 to her mother in a town a few hours away, to help raise her siblings. She lives off of the $20 that remain. And these aren’t poor people… this is the average. These are average people, who look normal on the street. They’re not beggars or dirty or badly dressed. But every day, they struggle to make due with what they have. Ndiéme told me she cries at night because she can never give her mother enough.

Then there’s Cheikh. He’s a cameraman for ATN, an agency that sends reports to international media outlets for broadcast. I met him on an assignment, and we became friends. A group of us had gone out a few times together. He dressed nicely, paid for cabs, dinner, etc – seemed in a reasonably comfortable financial situation. And so the first time I saw his living arrangements, I was a bit shocked. (I don’t think I hid it too well either). He and his friend share a room that they rent for the equivalent of $50 a month. They sleep on the same bed, share a mini fridge in the corner of the room and a dresser. They sit on their bed to eat and the door to their room leads directly to the outdoors (homes in Senegal are often built in courtyard format. There’s an open space in the middle, with rooms along the perimeter). When it rains, it feels like you’re in the middle of the storm. When the family makes noise in the adjoining house, you can hear it all. This is how a young professional lives, and it’s totally normal!

It becomes depressing after a while because everyone you talk to talks about money problems and you feel you want to help everyone, but you know you can’t, and besides that wouldn’t be sustainable. Many say it’s up to the government to invest money into the economy and create jobs instead of filling its own corrupt pockets. Others talk about the need for the rich Africans – and there certainly are many – to reinvest into their continent instead of spending their money in Europe, etc. (I don’t want to give the impression that everyone here is poor… there are people who are well-off, as there are everywhere. There are Senegalese driving SUVs and wearing $200 shoes. All I’m saying is that the average person has difficult choices to make – puts things in a bit of perspective.)

Ramadan

2007-09-21T12:50:00.000-07:00

Many of you have asked about Ramadan in Senegal. The truth is, it's not that different. I was expecting lanterns and decor... but in all honesty, Mom's decorations in Kanata are more than anything I've seen here!

There is a difference though of being in a country where you're surrounded by other Muslims. First of all, the Adhan (call to prayer) sounds five times a day, not just during Ramadan, but always. Secondly everyone around you is fasting, waking up early in the morning, praying, etc. The scene outside isn't anything spectacular, but you will see people preparing food around eating time. The traffic is either really bad, cuz everyone is rushing home to eat, or the streets are empty, cuz everyone is already home. The other day, I saw a police officer patrolling with a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of bread in the other, so that he would be ready to eat when the time came. No one looks at their watch to know when to eat, they just wait for the Adhan. And they do things a bit differently here. In Canada, we break our fast on a date or something, pray, and then eat a big meal right away. Here, they break their fast on dates, coffee (they love their coffee), and bread and butter. Then they pray. Then they wait about half an hour, 45 minutes before eating. It's actually a great system, because your body digests the snack and you feel more full, so you don't over-eat and shock your empty stomach. (Apparently the reason we don't do this in north america, one of the guys at the house told me, is that we have no time. we are always rushed. But in Africa, "we have all the time in the world!"

They wake up at 5:30am here for suhur, just like in Canada, only the food consists of rice and meat (the leftovers from the day before). A little too heavy for me first thing in the morning!

I've gotten into the rhythm of praying five times a day. The other day, Atouman's sister and I went to the mosque after eating to pray 'isha (the evening prayer). It's so hot (and i imagine crowded) inside the mosque that most people line up outside the mosque. We just brought our prayer carpets and prayed on the street. Even with the wind, it is sooo hot under the tarha (head scarf). The one I wear was made in Saudi Arabia, where I thought they would know to make heat-sensitive garments. But obviously not. I was sweating like crazy! And the imam was going so fast that it was really like exercise, which only increased the sweating!

They call Ramadan the Karem, and everyone always asks "et comment va le Karem?" so you feel you are participating in something with everyone else, which is nice... The American girl staying here now, Chandy, did it for the first few days. Very impressive i have to say, given the heat. It's not the hunger that's difficult here. It's the thirst, because it is so hot, that if you're out and about under the sun, all you want is a glass of water. The first few days, I drank so much when it was time to eat that my stomach hurt!

Go Senegal Go!

2007-09-15T09:46:00.000-07:00

Saturday September 8th. The big match. Senegal vs. Burkina Faso in the final qualifying game for the Afican Soccer Cup. If Senegal wins, they're in!

Guess how much tickets were? less than $3. Amazing. The Leopold Sedar Senghor Stadium (named after Senegal's first president) was almost full. The atmosphere was amazing. But first, let me tell you about the entry.

The game started at 5pm. We got there at 4:20pm and the lineup was maybe 2km long, for people who already had their tickets. Police officers on horseback and with unloaded guns and some tube-like thing to whip with run up and down the line making sure no one sneaks in. Everyone who is not already in line stands around the line, hoping to sneak in when the officers aren't looking. If they get caught, they get dragged out, only to try again two minutes later. It's quite entertaining actually. We snuck in with some friends before the police got really vigilant, so we made it in before the start of the game.

The stadium was not much smaller than the Corel Centre, although with less levels, and people were hyped! There were people in the crowd with drums and whistles. There was dancing, of course. And there were people selling things in the stands - just like at the Corel Centre- except instead of popcorn and nachos and beer it was water and cigarettes and peanuts - oh, and this wonderful slush type thing, basically a banana/coconut smoothie, frozen. Except they sell everything in plastic bags. You cut a whole in the bag with your teeth and suck out the wonderful snack!

Senegal ended up winning 5-1. Great game, everytime they scored, the whole crowded roared. They've got the wave down here too! And I find there's serious serious pride for the player. El Hadj Diouf is the star. They call him the Senegalese Ronaldhino. He has amazing ball control and sets up almost every goal. Then there's Henri Camara, the star forward. He didn't play the first half because of an injury and when the second half started, everyone started chanting "Henri! Henri!" to get him on the field. The moment he and another player were subbed in, the tide totally turned. From 1-1 to 5-1 !!!

Anyways, the African Cup starts in January. I should be in Egypt at that time. May I remind everyone that EGYPT eliminated Senegal from the last African Cup in the semi-finals and went on to win the whole thing. Sure, I'll cheer for Senegal, but as soon as Egypt and Senegal go head to head, my allegiance changes!

White girl can't dance

2007-09-11T13:32:00.000-07:00

So first of all, here is the long awaited booboo.... I have a little trouble walking in it because my adoptive mother Betty made it a bit too tight in the skirt, but that's a minor detail.

And here is the booboo in action at my friend's wedding - yes, my friend (Ndeye Cisse - middle) got married, can you believe it? It was basically arranged two days before, in a haste to get the couple married because they had had a fight and weren't speaking. Betty (the groom's adoptive mother - Betty has "adopted" a lot of children) thought if she married them quickly, there would be no chance of the relationship ending. It wasn't the big Senegalese party (that is yet to come) but it was the more formal thing when the men go to the mosque (the women stay home and prepare the donuts) and then everyone comes by the home to congratulate the couple. Only the groom wasn't there because he was studying for an exam! Weird.

Now, for the point of this blog. I was going to a concert with Atouman and his friend at a nightclub here. I didnt really feel like doing my hair, so I figured it would be "cool" to wear the scarf of the booboo - I tied it differently, and I thought cooly, but as it turns out, no one wears those scarfs in that kind of context. The scarves are to be worn with the rest of the ensemble when you're going to the market or whatever. They are appropriate for casual outings, but they are not considered chic.

So you remember the scene in "Save the Last Dance" when the girl walks into the club and she's the only white girl and she's totally out of place. They had to take her to the bathroom and turn her shirt into a scarf... Well, I needed someone to do the opposite...That scarf needed to come off ! But in any case, the club had a stage and a huge open space which was full - from the beginning - of people dancing. There may have been chairs and tables somewhere, but I don't even know because I couldn't move there were so many people. They don't grind like in North America. Everyone stands in circles and they dance as a group. Although, the girls certainly have an amazing ability to shake their booties! But actually, there were more men dancing than women! I need to learn how to dance to mbalach (Senegalese pop) NOW because really, it's becoming a huge embarassment to be anywhere where dancing takes place and stand around like a white girl with no rhythm!

House of Slaves

2007-09-01T13:34:00.000-07:00

Two Saturdays ago, me and my journalist friend Cheikh and his roommate Alioune took the ferry to the island of Goree, just about 20 minutes from Dakar's port, considered a borough of the capital. It's a beautiful island where about 1,000 people now live. It has its own schools, police station, medical centre, etc. And many of the people there are artists - who paint and make statues to sell to foreigners who come to visit, or to take to other parts of Senegal to sell.

But the main attraction to Goree for many foreigners is the fact that it is a UNESCO World Heritage Site - why? Because it was a main point of shipment for the slave trade, and still has a "House of Slaves" which now serves to document what took place on this island. It's a small home, where slaves used to live on the bottom dingy floor and the Europeans on the top floor. There were separate rooms for men, women and children - certain jobs in the fields and mines children could do well. Plus if your parents were strong, they assumed the children would be too, so they would take them early. Finally, young girls were often used for sex. And if a young girl got pregnant by a European, she would be set free, so often girls would have sex with them, in the hopes of getting pregnant to get out. There was also a room for the temporarily weak slaves - where they would be fed and fattened before being sent back with the others. If slaves got sick, they were thrown into the ocean. If they tried to escape, they were shot and thrown into the ocean, so sharks started getting attracted to the blood and the area became full of shark. I divert. Anywyas, the rooms are as you would imagine them - well you dont' have to imagine, look at the pic. Dark, dingy, 2.6 x. 2.6 metres, (with a narrow slit in the wall of about 2 inches by 2 feet) where about 15 grown men would live while waiting to be sent to America - chained to the wall, allowed out once a day to take care of their needs. When they ae allowed out, they are chained to a heavy ball so that they can't get away. Obviously, slaves were chosen for their strength, and the guide joked that that's why all the best basketball and sports figures in the States are black. They were traded for as little as a gun or tabacco... A child could be traded for a mirror.

This is the door through which they were loaded into the boats. Up to 15 million slaves left to America through this port alone. Six million of them are estimated to have died in the journey. If felt so real being here, on the exact soil that there were on, in the same rooms. All you can do is feel pity and disgust for humanity that we are capable of such things. Lots of the visitors are foreigners, but I would say the majoriy were Senegalese people who never want to forget what happened here. (FYI - Slavery continues to this day in West Africa. Here's an article I wrote recently about the situation in Mauritania: http://www.irinnews.org/Report.aspx?ReportId=73936). So that was pretty heavy and hard-hitting, but the rest of the island is beautiful. Here are some pics.

Senegalese Infrastructure

2007-08-17T11:50:00.001-07:00

I've been meaning to do this post for a while, but I had to prepare all the elements! Anyways, here is a look at how things work here.

1 - The Cab.

When you take a cab here, you have to be ready to negotiate. Of course, the prices are dirt cheap, but there is no meter, you just decide with the driver. So when you hail a cab, you stick your head in the window, tell him where you're going, and then suggest a price. He counters, and you keep going until you reach agreement. Often pretending to walk away helps. They'll say, 'ok, ok, i'll take it'... because there's way more supply than demand when it comes to cabs here. When I was in St. Louis, the system was even more relaxed. You just get in, go to your destination, and then basically give the cabbie whatever you think it's worth - or give him a bill and wait and see what he gives you back. I guess there's just a level of trust that doesn't exist in Dakar.

Check out this taxi repair/washing stand ...

One thing I found incredible, is that the price of gas is nowhere near as cheap as I expected. It's more than a dollar a litre. Yet a cab ride that would easily cost $20 in Canada, would cost $3 here.

The driving is of course, uncontrolled. But amazingly, I have yet to witness a traffic accident here. It's not just that there are no lanes and very few traffic lights, its that everyone thinks they have the right of way, and often, it's only at the very last minute that one of two drivers heading into an intersection from opposite directions will decide to slow down.

2 - The Bus.

Here is the luxurious bus stop I wait at on my way home.

I've talked about the busses before - the fact that the system is quite effective. But there are of course, some things you should do to master the system. First of all, there are two bus lines - the white busses and the blue busses... In many cases, they pass along similar routes, but they have different bus stops. So when I go to work I can take the blue #9 or the white #31. But the stops are abou 100 m apart. And if I wait at the blue stop, and the white one comes, I have to run to catch it in time. So now, I stand in between both stops, and when I see one coming, I get to the appropriate stop on time!

The other thing about the bus, especially when it's crowded, is that you should always aim for a spot near the door. The ideal spot, is right on the step with the door open, that way you get all the wind that passes by. Otherwise, sometimes it can be HOT...with so many people crammed beside each other.

3. The Coffeeshop.

Coffee is big in Senegal, and specifically Nestcafe. It has a monopoly on this country - seriously. Little vendors walk around with hot water, nescafe packets, and cups, and sell you hot coffee for 50 cents...

4. The Hairdresser.

Of course, there are the salons, but there are also stands on the street where men can go to get their heads shaved. It's basically a chair, a mirror, and a little countertop. You sit down in the middle of the street, get your head shaved, and keep on walking. Wish I had a pic.

5. The Fly Killer.

Seriously, I have never in my life seen flies so big. They are everywhere and they are huge. So in the office, we have this weapon to try to kill them. (p.s. I killed my first fly today, it was so exciting!) It's a gun wound on a spring with a flat end. So when you see the fly, you line up the gun and fire... it's quite entertaining actually.

6. The Heat.

When the electricity is out, it is almost impossible to sleep because it becomes so hot. The thing is that outside, it's not hot. It's nice and breezy. But as soon as you get into an enclosed space (bedroom, bathroom, etc) you start sweating almost instantaneously. So, one night, I told myself I just couldn't lie on my bed in distress as the heat overcame me. So I took a straw mat, lay it on the roof, hung my mosquito net fromthe clothesline, stuck my earplugs in, and swept peacefully.

7. The Garbage

I suppose some of the folks here haven't had exposure to environmental education. So some of them get rid of their garbage by stacking into piles on the side of the road, and burning it. Often on my way home, I walk by three or four piles of garbage with smoke coming out of them. They have no idea how harmful it is, I imagine!

8. The Recycling.

There is no formal recycling program in Senegal, but there is an unofficial network of people who make money by going through garbage at the dump, collecting all the recyclable metal and selling it. Can you imagine? Some of them even have little shacks at the dump where they sleep.

9. The Cemetery

This hole in the wall - literally - is the door to a cemetary in Dakar's Medina neighbourhood. The cemetery is falling apart, covered in garbage, etc. It's quite sad. When I was in St. Louis, Lamine and I went to visit his mother's grave. It was really hard to watch. The grave was marked by a piece of wood with her name written by hand, just resting on the sand. She is in a plot with others from the family, and each body is identified just by a lump of sand. Lamine spent a good 20 minutes digging up the sand with his hands to try to maintain each body's shape. In the next plot over, another young guy was sweeping leaves and dirt off his family's grave. Then Lamine prayed for her and ran his hands through the sand a little. It was really... difficult. I can't imagine having to do that. (I love you Mom!)

10. The Little Extras

So guess what they have even all the way in Senegal? RED BULL! Can you believe it... and it's chepaer than in Canada. And I even see the Red Bull car driving around. And... this is the sad news, they now have pop in plastic bottles! I think they will slowly phase out the glass bottles, which is so depressing, because there is nothing I love more than a cold Fanta Orange out of the glass bottle....

Saint Louis

2007-08-17T11:34:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I took a 7-hr trip to a city on the northwestern coast called Saint Louis. It's the former capital of Senegal, dating back to colonial times.

Me and a friend of mine, Lamine, left home at5pm Friday at started our trip at a place where people gather to get rides to other parts of the country. They call it the "gare" but it's nothing like a train station. It's just a bunch of people, cars and chaos, and thank God I had Lamine, cuz I would have never found my way around otherwise. People who want to make some money just drive their cars over, wait until they have enough passengers, and then take off to whatever destination. So there are people there looking to get rides, people looking to give rides, and people who want to sell things to those who are waiting - everything from biscuits to eggs to noisemakers! We rode a minibus with about 15 people (the pic is from my view in the back), for a distance of 270 km (yes, 270 km took 7 hours - hello traffic!) for the equivalent of $5 each - which would have been a wicked deal, only, they shoved an extra person in the back with us, so litterally, you were stuck to your seat and to the people on either side of you for the whole trip. My butt was sweating just sitting there. When someone needs to pee, he just calls out to the driver, who pulls over on the side of the road for two minutes. And everytime you stop, villagers on the street stick something in your face that they want you to buy. (Since the traffic is so bad, there is a whole business in just selling to people travelling along the main route from Dakar to Thies (on the way to St. Louis). Mangos are quite popular, but there are other things too). Although, everywhere in Senegal, it is comon to sell things to people through car windows. Merchants will run alongside the slow-moving car, until the transaction is over, then the car drives on, and the merchant gets a rest.

Anyways, so we arrived at St. Louis at midnight! Luckily a nice room and meal awaited me at Lamine's aunt's house, where I stayed for the weekend.

St. Louis is nice. Less western/cosmopolitan than Dakar, even more Senegalese. The beach is really nice and the architecture is colonial style. Anyways, here are some pics (Lamine along the water, the market, and where they dry the fishes):

Malicounda Pics

2007-08-17T11:16:00.000-07:00

Here are pics from my visit to Malicounda for the commemoration of the day 10 years ago that 35 village women announced they were abandoning female genital mutilation...

And the article is at: http://www.irinnews.org/Report.aspx?ReportId=73680

This is the woman I quote in the article, who said she had conducted female circumcision on about 500 girls in her lifetime, but she gave it up after learning the health risks... Funny thing about this woman - she's a traditional villager: only speaks Wolof, 60 years old, wears booboos, etc. But she carries around a cell phone! (Only when it rings, she lifts up her shirt to find it in her waste bag and doesn't even notice that she's exposing her breasts in the process.) Quite a few older, bigger women don't wear bras here, and their tops are very loose... I'll leave it at that.

To the right is a picture of the main square where all the commemmorative speeches were taking place. All the villagers sat under tents on the outside, and all the media on the inside. Below left are some of the signs they created for the event, which read "Malicounda Bambara village symbole dans le processus d'abandon de l'excision."

And of course, no party would be would be Senegalese without some dancing and singing, so that explains the last picture.

Malicounda Bambara

2007-08-06T13:31:00.000-07:00

Jeez... sorry for the delay!

My first out-of-town trip for work was... to say the least... interesting. It was the 10-year-commemoration of the first public declaration from village women in Senegal that they were abandonning female gential mutilation. From the get-go the set-up was unusual from a Canadian perspective. UNICEF, which organized the event we were reporting on, also organized a bus for all the press (about 30 Senegalese print, radio and TV reporters - and me!), fed us the whole weekend, and gave us cash for our hotel... Can you say conflict of interest? (yes, still.searching, i agree that media realities in Africa might be different - perhaps the media can't afford to cover things any other way - but one Senegalese journalist said her media organization never accepts money, so maybe things aren't so different after all. And certainly UNICEF wanted to make it easy for the journalists and get them onside the cause). In any case, the whole thing was disorganized. The bus didn't leave on time, of course. There was no air conditioning, and it was SO HOT. Seriously, I don't think I've ever lived a day where I was continuously sweating like this day.

We stopped first in this town called Thies, about 3 hours (actually 45 minutes, but with traffic 3 hours) east of Dakar. There, a bunch of delegates from different countries met to discuss strategies in the fight against female genital mutilation. The sound was horrible. I had no idea who the various speakers were. Parts were in a language I didn't understand. Overall, it was rather useless. When it was over, the MC asked if the media had questions. No one said a thing. Then, when the group dispersed, it was like a free-for-all, with all the journalists going after different people to interview. I kinda stood there, lost in the crowd, not knowing who to talk to or what information I wanted. It was a challenge to say the least.

Before I had the chance to do even two interviews, the bus swept us away to take us to a hotel in the neighbouring tourist town called Syla. I tried comparing notes with some of the other journalists, but most didn't get that much out of it either. At least they helped me with the spelling of some of the names, which were totally foreign to me. Funny, in Canada, when you quote somebody, you always have to ask them to spell out their name, so that you get it right. Here, if they hear a name, they know how to spell it - I guess because all the names are spelled the same way.

So, on this very "informative" trip, we wasted the night away waiting for the bus at the hotel, which was to take us to dinner and a cultural night. The bus was so late, that after dinner, it was midnight, and we cancelled the culturnal night and went back to the hotel. So in a whole day of travel, we got barely any information.

The only useful part was when Marie (a local journalist I met on the bus) and I went off into the village to try to find out if despite the big hoopla about abandoning the practice, FGM was still going on. We found a village elder who said exactly that. She spoke in Wolof. I didn't understand a thing. Marie would translate after every answer. She said that just a week ago, a girl had been circumcised in the village. But of course, she had no proof.

The next day was the big ceremony in the nearby village of Malicounda Bambara - complete with a marching band, posters, music, dancing. There were thousands of people there gathered around this square, with speeches etc. It was such a difficult day, because almost all the speeches were in Wolof. I had no idea what was being said. Talking to people without a local journalist by my side was near impossible, because most of the villagers didn't speak French. I felt totally handicapped. And even when you do have someone translating for you, the answers are never as good. You can't get the real emotion, or for that matter, more than a yes or no answer in a lot of cases. On top of that, there were so many different people present and different avenues you could take with the article, so it was pretty overwhelming.

At the end of it all, I came home with more confusion than anything, a whole bunch of notes without anything too useful, a headache and a tan from being in the gruelling sun. And of course, a bunch of new friends !

(A note on the friends. When you make friends with a Senegalese person, they expect a lot out of you. You're supposed to call them everyday to say hello, how you doing... When you slack off in the communication, they get offended (somewhat like my friends in Canada!). They could easily text/call you 2-3 day in the course of the day, without anything meaningful to say!)

Anyways, that's my report on my trip to Malicounda Bambara... the town where 35 women made history in Senegal. My article will explain the story... I'll post that with pictures soon....

But basically, it opened my eyes to the difficulties of reporting in a foreign place. And this wasn't even a conflict zone. Imagine if you had to deal with a language you don't know, names you don't recognize, an environment you don't understand, and bullets flying over your head ! It's a whole other world - and one that requires a lot of patience and dogged hard work. I wonder if I'll ever find myself there !

The Senegalese Press Conference

2007-08-02T12:50:00.000-07:00

For those of you not in the media world, let me give you some context about an average Canadian press conference. You walk in; one, two, maybe three people read short statements; they take some questions; and it's all over in 30 minutes.

My first Senegalese press conference lasted 6 hours. I kid you not. It was supposed to be a "briefing" about an event coming up this weekend. (Commemoration of the day 10 years ago when 35 village women declared they were abandonning female genital mutilation - Today, about half of Senegal's 5000 villages have abandoned the practice.) Instead, it was like a day-long conference - with tons of local journalists, about 10 different people speaking, powerpoint presentations, microphones at each seat, the whole works. Each person in the room introduced themselves (including all the journalists)... it was like a nice family reunion. The organizers even gave us money for our transportation costs - straight cash in my hand. (In Canada, media organizations bear any costs they incurr themselves). This weekend, I'm travelling to a village about 2 hours from Dakar to go to this event, and UNICEF is organizing a bus for all the journalists to go together... and giving you money for your hotel... it's crazy !

Anyways, half the press conference was in French. The other half in Wolof, and I had someone sitting beside me whispering in my ear what was going on. Afterwards, I did an interview through a translator with a woman who used to remove the genitalia of young girls (the most severe form of FGM is when you remove all the clitoris and the labia and then sow the vagina up, leaving only a small hole the size of a matchstick for urine to come out - sorry for the graphic details, but just so you get the idea) This woman said she probably did 500 procedures - but has now given it up because she's learned about the health risks involved (can lead to hemorrhage, HIV/AIDS, problems during child birth, even death sometimes, not to mention psychological problems, sexual dysfunction, etc). Should be an interesting weekend in any event.

So by the end of this day, I was pretty exhausted and hungry. Went home looking for something to snack on until dinner (which isn't til 9:30pm) ... A bag of chips would have been amazing. Went to two or three corner shops who had no idea what "croustilles" were... Finally, somebody handed me what looked like a bag of corn pops, but I only had a bill of 2000 CFA (about $4), and it costs 50 CFA (10 cents)... Since nobody in Senegal has change, needless to say, I didn't get the "chips". So instead I bought a hamburger, and the guy who sold it to me asked me if I was married... and I wanted to swear at him. ... That's when I knew I needed some downtime.

Sometimes, nothing bothers you. Then other times, everything does. And not being able to find a bag of chips will push you over the edge. So it's just a matter of noticing when you're near your breaking point, and retiring to a quiet place to regroup. That's my strategy anyway.

The Downpour

2007-07-31T02:12:00.001-07:00

The first big rainfall of the rainy season came today. The thunder was so strong it woke me up in the morning, and lightning at 8 a.m. - can you imagine? And I heard lots of sirens too...

A surprising number of people used umbrellas on the street, some wore shower caps or tied platic bags around their heads. Others used a towel or a newspaper to keep their heads dry. But most just used nothing at all, and walked around as normal.

The traffic calmed down. It was the first time I saw drivers in Dakar going at a reasonable pace and slowing for oncoming traffic. The bus had to take a detour because of flooded roads - it would go up one way, realize it couldn't get through, turn around and try a different route. I don't know what happens to the people on the original route waiting for the bus, but we picked up more people along the new route! (The bus driver of course, wipes his windshield with his hand in order to see)

Anyways, so the detour caused me to have no idea where we were (I only know specific routes and landmarks) so of course I missed my stop, had to get off the bus and walk for a good 20 minutes in the rain. Once I got close to the office - the whole street was flooded... literally, there was nowhere to go. The guy before me used some cement blocks that were in the midst of the puddles, in order to make it across... I got up onto one of them, stood there for about two minutes, and realized there was no way I would be able to hop from one to the other without falling off the blocks and into the water. So I chose to walk through the water instead. I awkwardly climbed down off the block, and wadded through the water, only to realize that a group of little boys who were watching me go through this whole process were getting a good laugh out of it !

Anyways, I'm glad I invested in the $100 MEC rain jacket... !

The Universal Touch

2007-07-29T10:48:00.000-07:00

First of all, who is still.searching? I read your comments, but I don't know who you are !

So get this.
Friday night, I was standing in a sand pit watching black men in underwear roll around in the sand wrestling. Saturday, I was sitting in a luxurious garden in a Canadian guy's villa, eating bre and gouda cheese, amongst reporters/photographers from Reuters, New York Times, etc. You can have it all here, there are so many different sides to this city. It's a little destabilizing actually - because you start wondering who you want to be, and where you fit. So as I was debating these philosophical questions (having a bit of an identity crisis actually), I walked by some 7-year-old boys playing soccer on the street. I asked one of them what his name was, he said "Ronaldino" and that was it... in my flip flops and with my purse on my shoulder, i ran around with the kids, and felt great ! It's amazing what a bit of soccer can do for the soul.... No more questions of identity - i know where I belong, whether in Africa or Canada - on the soccer field !

Speaking of soccer, one of the guys from the house took me for some real soccer at the college next to where we live... and intsead of being the only white person, I was the only girl (Not so different from Canada)... and surprsingly quickly the guys got past that, and I was in there getting dirty and sweaty like the rest of them. A few notes on the soccer... the Senegalese play soccer in sand of course, with dust flying everywhere... and they play in sandals - literally plastic beach sandals... they run in them, they play in them. It's like the footwear of choice here, it's so funny ! Sometimes they have a real ball, other times it's a flat tiny thing that barely rolls... sometimes they use boulders of cement they find on the street as nets, and draw a line in the sand... anyways, it's incredible how little you need to play the game... the universal game of soccer....

A few other observations about universality... (I'm trying to make a smooth transition, but it's a bit of a stretch I know)
I remember thinking long ago how Africans have so little, but they're so much happier than we are in North America. I had this idea that in traditional societies, people have a better sense of what's important in life - they value family and togetherness, they're less concerned about money and success - and are just generally happier people.
But I think that's a bit naive. At one of the drumming ceremonies I was at, I spent some time just looking around, watching the people. There were boys bullying other boys. There were the loner kids sitting alone in the corner with no friends. There were 12-year-old girls wearing miniskirts and holter tops. There's materialism here, just like anywhere else. I guess certain aspects of human nature are simply universal.

Anyways, those are just some thoughts for the moment.
More to follow I'm sure.

Atouman's World

2007-07-26T06:55:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone - first I'll update you on the good news, because apparently some of you are unnecessarily worried about me! Both my luggages have now arrived - the second one had been sent to Beirut if you can imagine, and was brought back by Air Italia - crazy ! And I am not malnourished! The food situation has stabilized, and I'm getting more than enough so don't worry...

Ok, onto the post:

Until recently, I had been a little disapointed that I wasn't getting as much access/exposure to Senegalese culture as I expected (and certainly not as much as when I was in Spain, where I was constantly running into interesting people and things). I attribute that largely to the fact that I don't have as much time (since I work five days a week) and I didn't know the right people....

Enter Atouman.

Atouman Gueye, 22 years old, djembe player. He lives next door to the hairdresser where I got my hair braided. He hangs around there a lot and the girls who work there know him well, so that's how I got to know him. Anyways, since then, he has introduced me to a whole new world.(Here's Ndieme on the left, who did my braids, and at the beach, Atouman and Maud (a French intern at work)

So last weekend, Atouman took me to a ceremony - well really a huge neighbhourhood party - where the young girls of the neighbourhood get dressed up in matching green sparkly dresses, do their hair and so on, and organize this big party. Chairs are set up in a huge rectangle right on the street, big speakers play music, lights are shining, etc. Then around 11pm, the WHOLE neighbourhood piles onto the street, crowding around this rectangle - it must have been like 500 people. I of course, was the only white person there. (Can you find Waldo in the picture?)

Atouman is part of a group of drummers who perform at ceremonies like these ones (this was just a fun party to celebrate summer time, but others, for example, celebrate the confirmation that a woman is a virgin after her first night with ther husband). Musicians are highly respected in Senegalese culture, going back I think to when there were (there still are to a large extent) social classes. Musicians/drummers/dancers/performers are part of the Grillo class I think. Anyways, Atouman's group wasn't performing that night, but another group asked him to play. It was about 8 guys, playing Sabars, which are like Djembes, only you play them with one hand, and the other using a little stick.

So the drummers drum for hours - and I'm talking serious drumming - to the point that sweat is just flowing from their faces. And then the girls - the dressed up ones as well as others from the neighbourhood, and some older women too - come up to the drummers, do a quick dance and run back to their seats. Their dancing is like nothing you've ever seen, and fascinating to watch. Their hands wave around and their legs are spread wide - it's almost like a gorilla jumping around, but faster and very intense! Often the dancer will match herself to the drumming, adding a little shake of the bum as a finale.

Then came the chanting and singing, because the drummers only get money by having women drop bills into their hands, so they chant to the women .... including me... All of a sudden I hear the word 'Toubab' which means foreigner... And they started chanting in Wolof/French 'Hey foreigner, give us money!' ... everyone was singing and looking at me and it was so funny !

So this was an incredible experience for me...

The next time I hung out with Atouman, he took me to meet his father's wife's family (not his own mother, but they are still close). Off the street, there are a number of clay buildings and alleywalls. When you go down those alleyways, little curtains in doorways lead directly into people's bedrooms. It's crazy. Imagine having your bedroom lead right onto the street! Anyways, so in one of these bedrooms, there were like 15 people crowded into the room watching a TV report about the big wrestling match over the weekend. Wrestling - or 'la lutte' - is the national sport in Senegal and a huge deal. This weekend was an important match, and featured our very own Gris-Bordeaux (from my neighbourhood of Dakar: Fass) against a big hot shot, Bombardier, from elsewhere in Senegal. So everyone was very excited. (Gris-Bordeaux won, but I think he just got lucky)... Anyways, as we're watching, people jump in from the alleyway to grap a peak, and everyone knows each other of course.

At one point, a girl handed me a plastic sack with some liquid inside and a knot at the top keeping it from leaking. I didn't know what she wanted me to do with it. It turned out it was some kind of food - like couscous in a sweet milky liquid - and she wanted me to try it. I had no idea how I was supposed to consume it. Atouman poked a whole in the bag, put it to his mouth and just sucked on it. I of course had to do the same, and then pass it around. Tasted pretty good, I guess!

Anywyas, so Atouman seems to be my key into a whole other world. He's determined he's going to teach me how to dance, drum and speak Wolof. A little too ambitious if you ask me, but we'll see...

The non-internet era

2007-07-20T08:55:00.001-07:00

Hello everyone!

It's been a while... It has been harder and harder to post and here's why. For the last week, there has been a power outage almost every day at the home for a number of hours each time. (I have internet access at work, but after being there for 10 hours, you just want to get out!) So when the outages come around, not only is there no internet, there's no light, and usually no water! I didn't shower this morning, because of the water outage, which is fine and all if you're in Canada, but when it's hot and sticky, a daily shower is a necessity! The worst is when you start showering, get covered in soap, and then the water stops... haha... that's happened to me twice.

Here's me in a moment of desperation, washing my clothes with water that was stored in case of water outages, and a flashlight that Chris - the American who is staying at the house - hung from a clothesline... It looks light out because of the flash, but in reality it was dark!

Speaking of electricity, I wrote an article about the debate surrounding using computers in African schools - and that was an interesting element that came up - that now these schools have computers, but they still don't have consistent electricity ! And what does that say ?.... Read the article to find out! (http://www.irinnews.org/Report.aspx?ReportId=73348)

There have been other moments of twisting and turning in bed because the fan wasn't working and the heat was overwhelming, and add to that the itchiness of my scalp because of the braids... more than 10 hours of labour, and here is the result: (that's Chris in the picture - he's on some kind of study abroad program for a month and a half. He's got one week left and I think the power outages are pushing him over the edge! He's ready to go home. His theory is that Senegal can't produce enough of its own power, and can't afford to buy power from outside, so it's just on a rotating blackout cycle, from neighbourhood to neighbourhood around the country)

Anyways, there was a rough patch for a while, adjusting to all this... AND get this: One of my suitcases finally came, two and a half weeks late. I was all excited, picked it up from the airport, took it home, opened it, only to find my clothes full of mold (check it out) I guess they left the bag out in the rain! So, yah, hebster was a bit grumpy for a while, but I'm better now...

As for the house, it's not too bad actually. There are lots of interesting (somewhat crazy) people living there: Kals, tall and lanky, absolutely weird, responds to everything you say with a comment that makes no sense but makes you laugh; Malick, short with dreads, and a djembe player; Lamine (or El-Amin in Arabic), wannabe philosopher who loves to discuss ideas - and who at dinner is sure to throw some cut up meat onto my side of the communcal plate because I suppose he thinks I won't get enough to eat otherwise! And my favourite of them all: Aida, the little baby...

Otherwise, no malaria yet ( I bought some pills here that I have begun taking)... I think I am going to start jogging/playing football (wow, I just naturally called it football and not soccer!). The Senegalese love "le sport" as they call it, which is basically just running. You see them everywhere running on the street or along the beach, with sandals, half the time, and usually in packs. So I figured, I might as well get into it too!

Anyways, I hear it's raining buckets in Canada, so I hope you're all doing well despite the miserable weather... take care.

People... Ideas...

2007-07-16T12:01:00.000-07:00

Well there's lots of them! - both the people and the ideas. And they come from everywhere - the women in the hair salon, the men at the dinner table, the djembe (drum) players. So here's a selection of interesting thoughts I've come across....

1 - Osama bin Laden does not exist. Seriously. One of the guys that frequent my house, El-Amin (there are many people who are part of the extended family and come to eat and are always in and out) told me he seriously believes that Osama bin Laden is a creation of the Pentagon. The whole thing is just one big conspiracy, he says. I'd never heard anyone say that before, and I was shocked! He and the others also seemed to believe that Al-Qaeda itself didn't really exist and if it did, that it couldn't be that bad!!!
2 - Polygamy is acceptable. Many of the men here have more than one wife. And it's normal. People talk about their father's "other wife" without embarassment. In the house I live in, the father has one wife in the house, another wife down the street, and a third who died 7 years ago. I was asking one of my friends if her mother and her father's other wife get along. She said they were friends, but they fought at lot.
3 - Many people have lost their mothers. I've met about three or four people so far whose mothers aren't alive. I'm sure there are many, many more. They don't usually say much more, but I suspect in some cases it's because they died of AIDS or some other disease that they don't like to talk about. And that is also considered just a fact of life. And they move on.
4 - Families are huge! My latest friend - Ndieme - who braided my hair for me, has 17 brothers and sisters (of course, not all from the same mother, but all from the same father)... Crazy !
5 - Many people have grade 6 education. A lot of the people I meet, who seem normal (ie. not poverty stricken and starving) have nothing more than a grade 6 education. The musicians, the hairdressers, etc. It's funny, another of my friends, Ndeye, (also from the hair salon), told me she wants her daugther to go to university. When I asked her why she didn't, she said she just wasn't interested. She wanted to work instead. It's the case for many people here, although many have impecable French despite the limited schooling. For most, Wolof is their native tongue, but French is a close second. I thought nowadays people stayed in school longer, but I guess that's still not the case.
6 - Stepfathers fall in love with their wives' daughters. This happens not uncommonly here, from what I hear. One singer had a music video about it, and that's how we got started on the topic. But apparently it's an issue. The girl often doesn't want anything to do with him, but in some cases, she does in fact have a relationship with the stepfather, and hides it from her mother. Can you believe?

Anyways, my eyes are being opened to new and interesting ideas everyday. So there's a taste!

The real Senegalese experience

2007-07-13T12:38:00.001-07:00

People have been asking me what the craziest culture shock I've experienced is, and I've telling them that nothing has really been that shocking. Until now. Thanks to my new living arrangements, I have a long list of things to comment on.

I decided to move in with a Senegalese family for a while. They live in this big house about halfway between my work and downtown Dakar. Some of the 15 or so rooms in the house are taken up by family members of this huge family, others by squatters like me (apparenly there's a young American guy living here, but I haven't seen him). So what's different about this place? For starters, the bathroom. The communal bathroom I might add. Its basically a hole in the wall, with some tiles on the ground, a toilet, and a small spout that drips out one string of cold water (there's no hot water). Only, the spout of water is directly beside the toilet, no curtains, no separation, nothing. If I had to pee in the middle of the shower, it might be convenient, but otherwise it means a very wet toilet seat... Then there's my room, which is relatively large. But there's only one outlet (which means choosing between the fan and my phone charger), and the windows don't close (which means listening to the beautiful African street noise which never stops - thank God for the earplugs Enam!). Meals are included in the monthly rate. Yesterday, at dinner time (9:30pm) the mother of the family said to me, "Have you ever eaten 'a la Senegalaise' before?"... then she stuck a communal plate on the table and sat me down with four Senegalese men who all dug in immediately. (like the Horn of Africa restaurant where you order one plate that everyone shares with their hands). In any case, if I was hungry, I would have died because there wasn't enough food to go around. Luckily, my stomach has gotten to the point that it doesn't expect much food anymore, so it doesn't complain as much. In the morning, breakfast consisted of one baguette (which I assume was to be divided among everyone who lives there) and a block of butter. Oh and I forgot to mention that there are mosquitos in this neighbourhood, and I have neither a mosquito net, nor my malaria pills - or even bug repellant, because they were all in my luggage. As for the neighbourhood, you walk around literally among the sheep, which if you recall, are also present on the roof of the house.

So there you have it. Why am I subjecting myself to this? That's a question I was seriously asking myself yesterday. But it's cheap, it's real, and other people I know have lived here and seemed to like it. So I guess this is real African living. I can't go six months in Africa working in air-conditioned rooms, eating in Western restaurants and showering in world-class bathrooms, now can I?

The African Journalist

2007-07-13T08:11:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the break in posting... I'm just drained and by the end of the day I have no energy left to blog!
I vowed this week never to complain about being a journalist in North America again, so someone hold me to that when I get back. You can spend an entire day here - and I mean the time that I would spend in Canada reading, researching, interviewing 5 or 6 people, and writing an article - just trying to get a hold of ONE person. The other day I spent 8 hours calling about 20 different numbers in Chad and could not get through to ANYONE!!! You call and get the busy signal (which doesn't actually mean it's busy, just that you can't get through), over and over again until you're ready to throw the phone against the wall. And when you do get through to someone, the line is so bad you can barely hear them. Add to that the fact that they're speaking in French, very quickly, with an accent. It all makes for a very difficult and frustrating reality!

In any case, I finally did get the article written. It was about different aid groups disputing whether there was in fact a malnutrition crisis in eastern Chad where about 150,000 people have been displaced because of attacks on their villages. In the end, it was a delicate topic, because some agencies were commenting on othersm, etc. etc. Once it was finished, someone quoted in the article realized that what he had said was perhaps undiplomatic, and complained. IRIN (who I work for) actually decided to change it and take out what he said! I've never seen that happen before.

Anyways, today, I did my first interviews outside of the office (most are done by phone). I went to a school in a poor neighbourhood of Dakar that has a pilot project going with computers in elementary school. When they told me about the story, I said, 'what's the big deal, they don't have computers in schools here?' And the answer was, 'they don't even have pencils and paper in the universities!' That was an exaggeration of course, but it's still pretty remarkable that in a shanty neighbourhood, where mountains are trash pile up on the streets and sheep roam free that classrooms have computers!

Here are some of the kids from the school:

Anyways, another post to follow shortly on my new living arrangements... that's a whole other story

In a sea of Black!

2007-07-08T14:40:00.000-07:00

Today....
some fun stories.
I took the bus to the neighbourhood that I am going to move to this week to get a sense of the place, walked around, ended up in the same market that I bought my clothes from: Colobane, its called - random! I've gotten used to being the only non-Black person as I walk around. And I think once you're confident about it, people don't really treat you any differently. Anyways, I was starving, and came across some women selling things that looked like little round dumplings. I had no idea what they were, but decided to try them. They were plain tasting, pretty dense, like a bland pancake rolled up into a thick ball. I saved one and asked Orlando what it was when I got home - he said they were beignettes! ie. donuts! well timbits really, but they sure didn't taste like any timbit i've ever had!
Anyways, on the way back, I was waiting at the bus stop, when a car full of people honked at me and pulled over. The driver said, 'You going to Liberte 5?' which is a neighbourhood here. My neighbourhood is on the way, so I hopped in. I had read about these 'clandos' or communal cabs. They're unmarked and illegal, but about the same cost as a bus, more direct and you dont have to wait!
Then I went to this fair at the church near the house, the annual Kermesse. They have the regular fair games, and in the middle, the main attraction is this game where there are two live bunnies in the middle of this circle of boxes. Each box is numbered. And everyone who buys a ticket picks a number. When the bunnies are set free, they run into one of the boxes. Whoever picked the number the bunny chose, wins! Everyone crowded around to watch this - haha. I'll post a video later.
So i was trying to get a look, and this girl saw me trying and made a spot for me. So we introduced ourselves and within litterally three words, she said, ''From now on you are my best friend.'' haha... She's 18, speaks poor French, mostly Wolof, so communication is pretty difficult. But she came to eat with me, and wants me to play basketball with her on Saturday... Jeanne Marie Pierre Lobo is her name. And then as we said goodbye, sh said in this desperate voice, "You won't forget about me will you?" It made me feel kinda sorry for her...
Anyways, I need to sleep, so bonne nuit tout le monde!

Shopping Part 2

2007-07-07T14:59:00.000-07:00

What a day!
My first day off work, and it was great! First of all, I've finally perfected "how are you? good" in wolof... "Nangadef? Mangifee." Woo hoo... i could never remember at first... but now i've got it. Today was a day of talking to Africans! At the cyber cafe I go to, the guy who runs it invited me to eat with him, which drew a big crowd. All the other guys crowded around - as if it's so incredible that a "white" girl (now I'm the white girl) sits down to eat with a local. What was amazing, was that he was teaching me Wolof, I was teaching him English, we were speaking French, I spoke Spanish to a Nigerian... the languages and cultures were just flying around! Then I spent the day at the Sengada market... I mentionned it before, but today was just crazy. It's actually exhausting shopping there because people are CONSTANTLY harassing you to buy things, and after a while you just want to scream, "Leave me alone!"... so you never want to stop and look at anything because you know you'll have 10 people on you at once. And it's in this environment that they sell things like bras and underwear!!! As if I'm going to look at underwear in the middle of this chaotic public market! But the great part of the day was meeting people. If you play them properly, these annoying merchants can actually be fun! And I've decided they're my in for taking pictures. Make friends with someone local, and then it's so much more acceptable to pull out the camera than if you're a random foreigner with a flash. Anyways, by the end of the day, I was tired, and wanted to snap more shots, so i stopped at this little dress-making place where some guys were sewing outside. I started talking to them, and they were so nice. One of them, Sidi, was 16 years old, not in school, of course, and the ironer. (The little one in front!) We started chatting, and I told them how I wanted to buy some black sandals. So Sidi took me through this maze of fruit stands and people chanting Qu'ran and dark alleys, to the area where they have the shoes. And then he went on to pick out sandals for me and negotiate with the vendors on the price. It's amazing how nice the Senegalese people are at heart. I wrote down the address of the sowing place, and hopefully I'll be able to find it again in that crazy labyrinth! I also ran into Pap again today. We rode the bus home together and he gave me a mango, which I subsequently just carried around in my hand. haha. It's still a bit hard to know which of these "friends" are actually friends, but I think as long as I'm careful, it's worth trying...

Here are some more pics of the marketplace!

Shopping Part 1

2007-07-07T05:06:00.000-07:00

So, mom has been pushing me to go shopping, and yesterday I finally gave up on the luggage coming and did! My Australian colleague David at work has a Senegalese wife, so he took me to meet her at some second hand clothing place where i could get cheap clothes. Basically, it was a tiny little shop, with clothes hanging on all the walls and all over the floor. There's enough place for 3 people to stand uncomfortably close, and you're surrounded by clothes. Helene, David's wife, kept rifling through clothes, throwing shirts at me to try on. Of course;, there's no change room, so I just tried things on over my clothes, and we made a pile of the ones I liked. Ended up buying 6 items of clothing for the equivalent of 40 dollars, not bad, considering how expensive clothes are in Dakar, from what I'm told. Next, she's going to take me fabric shopping so that I can have a Senegalese boubou tailored for me - that's what everyone does here. They pick the fabric they like, and have the clothes made. A boubou is a matching skirt, shirt and head scarf, usually loose with vibrant colours. I'm excited!

As for my original clothes, I took them to the ''laundry mat'' next door. It's three guys, with a bunch of buckets of water, bars of soap, and a whole bunch of clothes. I don't how they keep track of whose is what because I just handed them my clothes, and they ended up in a pile with everyone else's!

What else? I told myself that I would use my time here as I way of learning more about Islam, since it's a Muslim country. The guy at the cybercafe says he will take me to his imam for some Qu'ran classes, so I might take him up on that. Increasingly, I am feeling embarrassed not to know Wolof, the predominant African language here, so I will try to pick that up too.

Still no gel or anything, so I think I will go get my hair braided and not worry about the frizz anymore. It's nice not knowing anyone here, cuz I can look like crap, and nobody knozs the difference! Anyways, it's Saturday, so I have to go discover the city!

Pics

2007-07-06T11:12:00.001-07:00

I finally figured out the blogging world enough to post pictures of the multicoloured car rapide, and Pap and Dudu. Check out the transpo blog and the Senegalese friends blogs from a few days ago. And here are some others!

This is where I work:

From is the view from the guest house I'm staying at:

And just some other random pics - many of them taken out a car window while driving, so hopefully as I master that technique, the quality will improve.

And last but not least, here are Nancy, the American who has been my saviour, and Caroline, the woman running the guest house I'm staying at:

Senegalese friends

2007-07-05T16:32:00.000-07:00

Ok, more for today because my first post just didnt cut it. A few random and unconnected ideas.
1 - Keeping up with the news market here is challenging. When you work in local news, you have to be aware of int'l stuff sure, but you can get a pretty good handle of whats going on from one newspaper. Here Ive got to read the local papers to know whats happening in Senegal, the African news sites to keep on an eye on other countries (I'm in charge of keeping up to date on news in the lower priority countries we cover - Togo, Ghana, Western Sahara, Cape Verde, Gambia, Cameroon, etc and the main reporters handle the higher priority countries - Nigeria, Chad, Sierra Leone, Cote d'Ivoire, etc); but at the same time you have to be up on big international news coming out of the states, etc... anyways, so it's tought to keep up. But it's really nice that my job is to research such interesting stuff that I want to be informed about anyway!
2 - The boys in these internet cafes are so funny because they play English rap music from the computer in their headphones, but then they sing along, in their cute accents and I'm like 'I know that song!' and i dont know if they realize what they sound like, but they think they've got it down pat !
3 - My British colleague Nick gave me a ride downtown today, and gave me a little tour by car. I have to say it's a pretty unspectacular downtown core, but it was nice to get out of work early and do something! As I was walking down the street, I heard these voices chanting, but I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. Then when I turned the corner, I found a group of men, all wearing colourful boubous, walking in a small circle singing so loud the whole neighbourhood coule here it. I wanted to take a video, but i held back... Then I went to the Sengada market as its called - this strip of vendors with cloths, jewellery; etc... think ottawa's byward market with ten times the number of vendors in half the space, with random people coming up to you trying to sell you stuff. Like Cairo's khan al-khalili... Anyways, I ended up making friends with one of the vendors. He calls himself Pap (the one on the right), but his real name is El-Hadji. Him and his little seller friend, Dudu. I ended up buying something from them just for kicks, but I forced them to pose for a picture, which I will post. We took the bus home together, cuz they live near my nieghbourhood and I might play soccer with them sometime! I feel I am starting to make friends in the neighbourhood I'm in. The guy at the phone booth, the guy at the the sandwich shop, the water stand. At first, they're a bit reserved, but when you keep going back day after day, they start asking you your name, and why you knw french, and how long you're here for, etc. The waitress at the restaurant by my house, Kumba, invited me to go visit her family, and the guy at the cyber cafe says he will show me his neighbourhood, Yoff. Of course, I won't be taking up all these offers, but it's nice to be making friends!

I drank all my bottled water, which means no more till tomorrow! luggage didnt come. they said, 'oh dont worry, it will definitely be here saturday.' Right, just like it was supposed to be last Saturday, then Monday, then today! Does anyone have any hookups at British Airways?

Birthday Blues

2007-07-05T10:33:00.000-07:00

Missed my entry yesterday, sorry everyone. It was my birthday, but it was a long and miserable day actually - mostly because of stress at work, but i think all the added frustrations of no luggage, new environment, etc. finally got to me. Anyways, all is well now, and you can see my first article - thanks to the help of the editor who fixed it up quite a bit - at http://www.irinnews.org/reporttest.aspx?ReportId=73105. There are no bylines, only initials at the bottom. "ha" is pretty representative of me I suppose. No big news today, other than malnutrition in Chad of course, which is what I spent the day researching. Hoping to have some "yassa poulet" tonight... another traditional Senegalese meal... and hoping my luggage will come. There's a British Airways flight tonight, so cross your fingers. Oh... it rained yesterday... but just nice light rain and only briefly. And I bought some flip flops for $1 so I can stop wearing my smelly socks. Still haven't figured out how to post pictures to this thing, so bear with me. This is the most unfocused blog entry ever!