Pastis to the Rescue

One of the great things about traveling is all the new weird things you can add to your real life.

This week, I've had a copy bouts of tummy trouble. My hub, tapping into my residual African paranoia, teases me and suggests it might be the tapeworm acting up. Now, I know I don't have a tapeworm....but I guess my face registers that nanosecond of insecurity which he finds amusing.

Last night I was up late reading.... totally engrossed in a new quirky novel....by A.M. Homes called....This Book Will Save Your Life....when I finally decided to quit....my tum was a rumbling....so I thought about the bottle of Pastis I had bought and decided to try a little....and ohhhhhh.....after sipping a small glass....my tum was happy.

I was introduced to Pastis in the desert. Susan, our co-trip leader, suggested we might try a few drops in our water bottles. When you are drinking 8-10 liters of water a day....believe me.....you get "tired" of drinking water and tired of plain water. Apparently, the Foreign Legion, found that a few drops of Pastis helps fight water boredom and at 45% proof...might help you forget how hot you are.

Pastis is a famous drink from Marseille in southern France. Apparently it was created because brain stupifying absinth was banned and folks were looking for a substitute. I've never tasted absinth (although I learned there is a legal version of the stuff in Paris which we never tried) but I'll have to assume it has a spicy flavor since Pastis, depending upon the distillery, has about 25 other spices. When you open the bottle and inhale.....it's licorice and anise you smell. There's an art to drinking Pastis. You don't drink it straight...it must be diluted. You pour a small amount of Pastis in a glass....it's a clear amber liquid...and then you pour cold water on top of it. It immediately turns milky white...as in the picture and you sip it. It's touted as an aperitif.

I never liked it in the desert. I tried it in my water but licorice at 110 degrees just tasted weird. I'm not sure why I bought the bottle when I got home...I guess I was so excited to see something from my trip--- it was a classic impulse buy. I've tried it a couple times as an aperitif but found it .... odd. I tried it with ice cubes---something which people do---but the French find as reprehensible as discovering a dog turd in the middle of your living room. I remember reading some folks loved it as a soothing drink for digestive misadventures. So that's why I tried it last night.....and I can say it was just that....soothing and cool....and pleasant.

Perhaps my taste buds will always prefer wine as an aperitif......but as a pleasant after dinner drink and tummy soother it might just hit the spot.

Welcome Pastis.....and if you're traveling in Europe in the summer....and want to appear way hip.....order Pastis.....it makes you look ....so international.

Village Elder and Child

Serious Boy

Calabash Vine Hobbit-izing a Village Hut

The grass again!....This is the spot where I let my fellow travelers pass me on the trail.....I have a slr digital camera which I have to hold at eye level to shoot....so at this point the grass was about chin high....I got lost not far from here when the grass was past my head and created that wonderful tunnel.

The grass.....or at least the beginning of it....as I left the village....the grass here was only knee high....and the view was wonderful.

Village on a Mountain Top in Benin

Tanaka village.....This was the first village I hiked to in my mountain story. Although the pictures don't show this....there was quite a drop to the floor of the savannah.....and that breeze....oh that breeze was glorious at the top.

Epilogue

Serious Boy has stayed in my memory longer than many people and incidents on my trip….…certainly within the timeframe of this story on the mountain, he occupied only a small amount of space.....yet as days passed his strong little hand in my hand and the appearance of his serious duty to me…..imbedded his memory far deeper in me than I ever expected.

By evening time of the day I left the mountain, I grieved that I didn’t find out his name or his village, perhaps I could have sent him some money as a gesture of appreciation before I left Africa. I still think about it.

I guess it’s easy to get that Missionary Zeal…the hope and need to help someone and feel like you’ve made a significant difference in their life. In Africa, the economic gap is so colossal between you and the people in a village; it’s almost absurd to think how much you could change someone’s life by such an insignificant amount of money. A mere $20.00 a month and this boy’s whole life could change.

You can’t do that here in America with such a small sum of money. If you gave a homeless man $20.00 a month to feed himself…he might be able to fend for himself for a few days…but he is still left homeless and without food in a short period of time. Serious Boy’s family could easily stretch that amount of money over a month and probably have some left over.

It’s confusing and strangely powerful to think of the impact you can have with so small a gift. It’s seductive because it’s so easy. .…AND because it’s just too good to be true….I’m suspicious if an act like this remains a true gesture of generosity or does it become mere ego padding….or perhaps I am being too Catholic…the need to suffer always enters the equation.

On the other hand, I think of the lottery stories I‘ve heard….where people receive windfalls of money….and with it comes only anxiety and trouble because they haven’t learned to handle a particular level of wealth….that could happen to Serious Boy…..there could be problems with other people in the village, money could be spent on things that don’t benefit him…the list goes on and on of all the negatives that lurk at the edge of this situation.

The truth is ….there’s no crystal ball….and there’s no way to contact him. I can only hope that his generosity to me… goes forward in some way and some time through me….and that, unfortunately, will have to be Serious Boy’s gift.

~~~~~~~~~~
Pictures coming tomorrow.

Serious Boy Part 6

I’m back in the grass again but this time I’m hiking between Jay and his wife near the head of the line. I don’t care if I have to talk shelves or pizza or what’s new on HBO, I’m determined to stay with the group —which is actually proving a bit difficult. Alberto and a couple of local boys have decided to take a short cut to the next village. There’s no path so we’re basically trailblazing through the towering green stalks. We head down a slope then up a slope. The ground is muddy, granite lumps jut out sporadically, and small streams crisscross the knolls. My white athletic shoes are slick brown from the goo and make a sucky noise when I walk. I keep one eye on the ground and one eye glued to Jay’s pants. I feel like one of the little green chameleons that sun themselves on my front steps in Arkansas-- their eyes moving in two different directions to keep everything in sight.

Someone from the end of the line yells for Alberto to stop. Lucy and Mary, the two ladies from Long Island, catch up to us and tell us that Dorothy and Ed have disappeared. Somewhere in this crazy grass, they’ve made a wrong turn and true to their personalities have either refused to double back and admit they have missed a turn or are stubbornly clinging to the idea that they are on the correct path while everybody else is wrong. Alberto’s timer must have gone off immediately with them, because he tells us to stay put while he goes back to find them. There’s a nice low-to-the ground flat rock a few feet from me and I stiffly lower myself to it. As soon as I sit down, I feel drained and exhausted.

“What time is it?” I ask anyone. It’s a stupid question because by this point in our travels-- time doesn’t matter. If you’re on a long road trip…there’s not much difference between 1pm and 2pm--morning, afternoon, evening---they’re still important markers as well as lunch and dinner. But what does 3’oclock mean on a mountain top in Africa? Time for a Starbucks? Time to tidy up your desk?

“It’s 3:30”

“African time?” I need to clarify this. Some of the men I’m traveling with have fancy watches with multiple time zones and there’s always someone who can’t let go of his indigenous time zone. You know, the guy who will say, “It’s noon,” even if the sun’s gone down because it’s noon in his hometown...where ever that might be.

“Togo time,” says Jay. This is potentially a complicated answer since we’re weaving across the borders of Benin and Togo but it’s close enough.

I count the time with my fingers and discover it's been 8 hours since I've eaten a small piece of bread. No food plus 3 hours of hiking sounds like a logical reason to feel puny. I probably have a blood sugar level of 2. It scares me to think I’m being so rational, which of course must mean something is really wrong with me.

We wait and wait and still no sign of Alberto or our lost group members. I’ve always subscribed to the philosophy that if you’re feeling bad…you might as well dredge up all your negative thoughts and have one really big feel bad experience. Why wait for random negative thoughts to spring up at odd times when you can get depressed at your own convenience?

So, I think of cadeau man and myself on that hilltop again. Disappointment over how I handled that situation presses down like an iron weight on my psyche. Why did I think the worse? Why did I get so scared? I think fear is what separates the men and women from the boys and girls when traveling. The folks who can throw a back pack on and cross any border; they have to have an enormous amount of trust in their ingenuity and in people. They have to be optimists and operate on some sort of percentage scale….where they believe at least 95% of the time everything is going to be just fine.

I guess I’m not that optimistic. I grew up in an ethnic neighborhood in Chicago where anybody that wasn’t of your own nationality was suspect--the Italians a couple of streets over….the Germans off the main street….the Irish folks that owned the convenience store…. God knows what they were up to and what kind of people they were (according to my relatives)...and just think of the big unknowns that would await you if you visited places— like Canada--- where you didn't even know people’s nationalities. I still see that attitude in my parents. The hesitation and caution if you mention travel outside of what they consider the safety zone. That’s the reason I didn’t tell them I was going to Africa. I imagined they would both end up in the ICU of the local hospital if they knew.


Dorothy and Ed come puffing up the trail with Alberto in the rear herding them. They look worse than I feel. With all the ducklings now accounted for, we head off to another village. I'm so lightheaded when we arrive, I don’t want to look around or even take pictures. A few children immediately surround us; they remind me of grasshoppers jumping up and down. They are so joyfully exuberant at seeing us; you can't help but smile. The grass is tamed here only knee high in patches and no longer an adversary so a few of us head down the well-trodden trail.

A few yards down from the village, my shoe gets snagged on a rock. My arms do this windmill thing which miraculously stops me from falling on my face. I straighten up and suddenly there's a hand in my hand. A little hand. I look down and there’s a boy about 7-8 years old with a tight grip on me. He has no shirt on and shredded thin polyster tan shorts. You can see whole section of his old blue underwear. The boys behind me are still laughing at my somersault …but not this boy. He just looks serious.

“Hello….Bonjour.”

He quietly holds my hand and stands next to me. He doesn’t answer.

“What’s your name? Comment vous appelez-vous? He doesn’t say anything. Perhaps he speaks only the local dialect and not French. Since he can’t tell me his name…I mentally dub him Serious Boy.

I’m impressed how determined he is to help me down this mountain. He doesn’t smile or laugh like the other boys around us. His bare little black feet expertly step over rocks and buried roots. He watches me and walks close to me without saying a word. Again, I’m stumped by body language. He seems neither happy or sad or expectant. I tightly squeeze his hand just to see what he’ll do. He squeezes back but his facial expression never changes. I turn around to check the whereabout of my traveling companions and he stops with me. I like him and although he doesn’t smile…he makes me smile.

When we start going down the trail again-- to be silly-- I pretend to slip and make some funny sounding ohhhh’s and sway back and forth to look unsteady. The boys behind me are laughing hysterically but Serious Boy just remains serious. He seems so serious I wonder if he thinks he has an even bigger responsibility now that I’ve shown myself to be a crazy woman.

We walk together holding hands tightly.

We finally reach the last village, a conglomeration of red mud huts like the other villages but here big-leafed calabash vines twirl around some of the cone shaped roofs. The huts look quaint and picturesque…almost hobbit-like with their crown of green. We join the other members of the team who didn’t take the hike and have been waiting for us. It’s a short distance to the cars now.

I want to pay Serious Boy for his help and for his dedication. I fish in my purse and find a coin….250 CFA…50cents. I consider tapping into my money belt to find an American dollar but I remember Alberto said, that’s it’s cruel to give people money they can’t exchange and often causes confusion because people don’t understand the value of what you're giving them. We’ve encountered locals during the trip who have one or two Euros but believe it’s worth 20 dollars versus 2 dollars. Some of them have gotten angry when you tell them the real value of their coin or bill because they think you’re trying to cheat them.

I hand Serious Boy the coin and his eyes saucer. He quickly stashes the coin somewhere in his shorts. I expect he’ll run off now and join the other boys but instead he motions for my water bottle. I take a swig and give him the bottle thinking he must be thirsty. He doesn’t take a drink instead he puts the bottle under his arm and takes my hand again. I guess Serious Boy is even more serious now that he has been paid for a job.

We walk down the trail that will take us to the road and the cars. I clown around …swooning…pretending a rock or a puddle is too big to cross--- but Serious Boy just hangs in there with me and allows himself only the tiniest of grins at my shenanigans.

We emerge onto the red dirt road. I'm in the Zebra car-- the car with the silver stripes. Most of the boys are gathered around our car. Alberto bought a rack of long elegantly curved Ebu horns and taped them to the car’s grill. My group tells Alberto he’s not the first man to tape horns to a car ; in fact it’s pretty common in Texas during football season. Since Ebu cattle aren’t common this far south, people are either scared or puzzled by the sight of our horned car cruising down the highway. Here in Benin, Voodoo and fetishes are an important part of the culture. I can’t imagine how people interpret the horns on our car. I wonder if they think we’re trying to invoke some big time protection for our convoy or we’re the devil rolling down the highway.

Serious Boy hands me the water bottle but I decline and motion he should keep it. 2 liter water bottles are prized for storage in rural Africa so this will be a useful gift for his family. He mutters something but I can’t hear it nor decipher it. Still hand in hand, he walks me over to my car.

After I settle in the back seat, I look out the window and try to find him. There’s a gaggle of kids now and most are asking for cadeaux and hopping up and down. Way in the back I see Serious Boy with my water bottle. I wave as we pull away but Serious Boy doesn’t wave back…I think I see a small grin on his face ….or perhaps that is what I hoped would be there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My next blogs will have a few thoughts on Serious Boy....and also I'm going to post some pictures of the villages, the grass, and even Serious Boy.

Serious Boy Part 5

So what do you when you’re lost and come upon a strange village? Do you call out Hello, Bonjour…Youwhoooo? There’s a worn path ahead that goes directly into the center of the huts. I gingerly take a couple steps down it, but I’m uneasy about walking into the silence and into the strangeness of those red mud structures. My ears feel like those huge listening stations pointing into universe to detect signs of life....alert for any noise, creak, movement. At this rate, it’ll be nightfall before I reach the first hut.

A tall man silently appears from behind a hut on the far right. He’s ebony black, shirtless, and wearing flimsy torn tan shorts and old muddy flip flops. He doesn’t smile but nods once. He has some type of mixture smeared on the top of his short black cropped hair—its looks like a combination of red clay and fresh leaf bits. I wonder if it’s an herbal medicine treatment for a headache or lice. I’ve seen nits the size of rice grains on some folks. As interesting as the concoction is…I decide it’s best not to stare.

Bonjour….Bonjour……Ou est hommes et femmes……..blanc?

In bad French, I believe I ‘ve asked….have you seen some white folks? I think that's about the easiest way to sum up my group.

He walks past me without saying a word and heads down one of the paths. I follow him. Of course he would know where they are, this is Africa. If there is one thing that impresses me about this continent is how everyone is interconnected. The people here may not have a lot of what capitalism buys…but they have a strong social network based on clans or tribes. Everyone seems to be related and everyone seems to know everything about everyone. Alberto has mentioned that if someone steals something, something big like a car or truck, in about three weeks everyone would know who did it and perhaps even where the stolen property is located. How could they not know? Someone would see it, someone would talk about it, and the word spreads between this cousin and that cousin and that friend and this friend…. pretty soon you have a good idea, for better or worse, of who stole your property and where it might be.

That’s why tourists traveling alone are more vulnerable to crime in Africa. If you rob some German boy in a village…who does that affect? No clan is shamed, no tribe is insulted….the tourist is probably just passing through with no personal connections to the area. It’s unlikely his German relatives will come down for revenge and it’s unlikely the German government would step in over a minor infraction. In our group, we’re traveling with a heap o’connections . Alberto has been in Africa for over 30 years and has made friends on both sides of the law. Many of our drivers are from powerful clans. Hajee, who we left at the Niger border, is a member of the Tuareg clan responsible for starting the nomad rebellion in Niger in the 90’s. Now tell me, would you want to rob me when I’m traveling with a former rebellion leader? Do you want to take the risk of offending his influential warrior clan and all the clans he’s allied to? Alberto made an interesting observation over dinner one evening, that still resonates with me, he said that the only people you really have to worry about in a confrontation in Africa are the rebels. Bandits don’t want to be killed and can be scared off….but rebels are proud to die for a cause.


I'm following the guy down the trail when he suddenly turns around. “Donnez moi cadeau.” In Africa, every child asks you for a gift a hundred times a minute and many men and women also ask for gifts. Sometimes when they ask for a gift it sounds hostile, other times pleading, and sometimes it even sounds like there’s entitlement behind it…you have lots of money I don’t…give me some.

“Donnez moi cadeau.”

I don’t understand how the gift is being demanded. I don't sense hostility but I don't sense he's friendly either. Is this a fee for service? A sudden good idea? An ultimatum? I play dumb. “ Je parle francais un petite peu.” I only speak a little French. I give a couple of shrugs to emphasize the point. No comprend. No comprend.

“Cadeau.”

Obviously we’re not going anywhere until this is resolved. I look around…and suddenly I feel it…the squeeze on my heart and guts... as my adrenalin starts to pump. The once beautiful landscape turns into a menacing environment …I’m alone in the middle of field of grass somewhere on a mountain top with no idea where my group is….and let me be butt honest…other factors seeped into the situation…man-woman, black-white, African-American. I am never an optimist when I'm afraid. My logical brain, the part of me that would have analyzed this situation is simply is not working. I feel like one of those ahhhhwooogah alarms from a submarine is going off inside my head.

Gina Think Cadeau.

Shit. I left my CFA’s (local money) in the car. Maybe, I have 2 CFA in my back pocket …the equivalent of $4.00. My heart sinks…a cliché…. but that’s exactly what it feels like in my chest. I’ve got my digital camera and then I remember…I slightly move my hips… Yes, I have my money belt on. I don’t even feel it anymore…it’s just a constant sweaty lump at my waist which I’ve learned to ignore. This morning at the hotel, I consolidated all my money and put it in there. I have $4000.00 in cash.


Maybe instinctively realizing I have some bargaining power or the ridiculousness of carrying that much cash broke my sense of danger, because I laughed. Not a big ha ha laugh but a kind of half chortle….half little ha that escapes involuntarily. It surprised me and it must have surprised him too.

“Cadeau?” It seemed like a question now, like it could be negotiated.

“Oui, oui, marchez.” I motioned for him to start walking…yes yes walk…a cadeau when we found my group.

So we walk … for about 5 minutes and then I could see huts from a different village. Diana is standing at the edge of the village looking out onto the trail. She reminds me of pictures I ‘ve seen of sailor’s wives on widow walks…peering out into the horizon for a sign their partner has returned. I want to run up and hug her. Obviously, she knew I was missing and probably had said something to Alberto. Alberto always struck me as the type of guy who not rescue you immediately, he would remain cool and calm till some internal timer went off which indicated you've had enough time to save yourself. Apparently, that’s what happened. Diana told Alberto I was missing but he was chatting with the elders and that timer mustn’t have gone off.

Just before I reach the village, I search my pack. I had 4 CFA’s….$8.00. I him the money. Alberto often gave 5 or 10 CFA’s as “gifts” so I felt it was probably fair for the guidance. I don't look back at him; I sprint forward to meet Diana.

Serious Boy Part 4

I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but I'm now hiking through a grass tunnel. The waist high grass slowly turned into nose high grass and was tinged with red. Since I’m 5 feet 4 inches tall (on a good day) that’s makes the grass about 5 feet tall. It's an odd sensation to walk in this tunnel, I feel like I have blinders on since I couldn’t see past the grass. But it’s blissfully quiet, there's a breeze … and this is exactly what I was hoping for...a little privacy, a little quiet time.

So I keep walking…until I feel a slope. Should I be going down hill? It doesn't seem right. I stop and listen. Now the quiet seems scary and even the damn birds have stopped chirping. My heart is instinctively giving out a distress signal….thump, thump thump.

I stand on my tiptoes and try to see above the grass. I pivot; looking around for any sign of my group. A hat…over there …a hat! One of those expensive droopy Patagonia-type hiking hats my group favors. It’s bobbing far-off to the right and up another trail. I yell, HEEEEY, but the hat disappears.

I turn around and to try and find the fork I missed. The close confines of the tunnel…turn me into a human waterfall. I see the little trail off the main fork....it was easy to miss. Well, at least I’m on the right path but I wonder how far the group is ahead of me. I take a long swig of water and decide to walk quickly and steadily up the hill till I catch up with the group. I'm not going to panic. I want to panic but I promise myself at this point not to do it. I was lost now I'm found. ...right? The plan lasts for about 10 feet. The trail suddenly becomes wet and muddy. I have to navigate small streams and wet rocks. I puff along and find ...another fork. I have no idea…which way to go.

I think about sitting down on a rock and just staying put. Isn't that what you are supposed to do when you're lost? But I’ve been with these folks for a couple weeks now…. if the group is busy talking and taking pictures in some village…..no one is going to take a head count….this isn’t like elementary school where you have your special buddy you’re supposed to stay with.... I could be waiting a long time. I’m sure Diana will eventually notice I’m gone but she was busy talking to Alberto as they went up the path.

I decide to take the left fork…a few minutes later –there’s another fork. This is my punishment…the Pier 1 and Pottery Barn Gods of Capitalism have put me in a labyrinth for cursing their presence on this mountain. I probably cannot escape unless I promise to subscribe to their catalogues.

I take the right fork this time... simply because there’re more trees in that direction. I don’t know if it's a logical choice or a lucky choice but I now see the tops of some straw roofs...it must be a village.

I head towards it but I don’t feel comfortable…. it’s as if some sixth sense is telling me...nahhhh this isn't going to work. As I get closer, I see three little naked boys playing around a tree. They freeze and stare at me with their mouths open. I know I look scary--a puny white woman with a red face and by now my cheap Wal-mart pants have stretched so much at the knees I look like I'm sporting camel humps on my legs..... but despite my appearance....these kids looks too startled. If my group was in this village, the boys wouldn’t be so surprised to see another woman (even with secondary legs) come along.

As I approach the village, the little ones sprint away. I stop a few feet from the huts. I don’t see a soul. I don’t see where the kids have run off to… I’m definitely not in the right place.

Serious Boy Part 3

We visit two villages with huts that are made of hardened red mud and a traditional roof of straw. The points on all the roofs are covered with a clay pot, usually at a jaunty angle, to prevent rain from getting into the hut. There aren’t many people in the villages. The chieftains tell us most people have moved down to the savannah to farm and work. They return to the mountains for ceremonies, festivals, and other special events. Their move makes sense when you look out over the lush savannah and compare it to rocky thin soil that exists on the mountain top.

Alberto marches forward to head towards another village off in the distance and we follow him like little ducklings. I’m almost at the end of the line on the trail. The grass is waist high, the view of the savannah is stunning, even the grey clouds seem perfect.... creating a gentler light than if the sun had been out. Do you remember the hill from the Sound of Music….where Julie Andrews spreads her hands out and starts singing? Well, this mountain top looks like that to me….rounded… grassy...panoramic. The only difference between me and Julie Andrews (okay I won’t go there) is the height of the grass. If I ran out to the edge of the hill, I’d have to hop like a bunny to get through these reeds. Julie Andrews skipped over the grass, she didn’t hop.

The savannah below also triggers another movie memory… this time it’s one of those “Out-of-Africa” romantic type films. In the desert, I never felt I was in Africa. I felt like I was in the Sahara. Here I feel Africa, I sense a wild heartbeat that’s very different from desert and the dry savannahs of southern Niger. I almost expect to see gazelles and prides of lions instead of the distant clumps of small tress and shrubs.

My feet seem to have decided not to move anymore. . My Sound-of –Music-Out-of-Africa sensation has rooted me in place.. A butterfly flits by me. I can hear unseen birds chirp. The wind rustles the grass stalks….and then I hear…..

“I buy all my shelves at Pier 1.”
“I love Pier 1.”
“But I like Pottery Barn shelves.... although they aren’t very wide.”
“Do you really? I’ve never looked at their shelves.”
“Well I need them wide enough for my photo albums. You know I have so many of them.”

No!......Julie Andrews please throw a thunderbolt at these people! Pier 1 and Pottery Barn can’t be on this mountain top in Africa! I sprint down the trail a to get some distance between me and the furniture accessories but my traveling companions seem to keep up an even pace with me.

“Does Pier 1 have photo albums?”
“No, but I did find some at Pottery Barn I liked.”
“Really? Did you see the new glass vases they have?”

I stop and pull my camera out from my shoulder pack.

“Hey I’m just taking some photos of the view here….you guys go right ahead of me. I’ll catch up to you in a minute.”

My traveling companions nod their heads as they discuss the latest imports.

Finally when I could hear only the din of their voices, I start walking again.

It was just me and the grass and Julie Andrews…..and that became a problem.

Serious Boy Part 2

The trail is gentle at first and I’m grateful. My body has developed a cha-cha type rhythm that seems to be working….step step…. ouch ouch ouch….step step….ouch ouch ouch....but at least I’m walking. The new green grass sprouting along the trail after recent rainfalls is simple and comforting on this overcast day. I try and keep my eyes focused on it's inherent positiveness rather than thinking of the aliens in my stomach. I let Jay and another person from my group scoot ahead of me. They’re hiking fast up the trail and don’t seem to be bothered by the heat or the humidity. I'm envious...in the desert...the heat seemed to sap my strength...here in the savannah....it's the humidty. I feel a flapping sensation against my legs and look down to discover the ends of my cotton pants are so drenched in sweat that they’re actually starting to make noise. Great… talking pants!

The last part of the trail is steep. I deliberately set a slow steady pace for myself and take lots of deep breaths. I’m thirsty but I don’t want to drink any water. I’m afraid of “slushy stomach” snydrome…which happens when you’re overheated and drink lots of fluids. It feels like your stomach becomes rigid and the fluid is sloshing around inside it—kind of like a milk jug being shaken. There’s a flat granite rock on the trail and I decide to stop and stretch. Even though I’m carrying a small lightweight side pack, I feel hunched over ala Quasimoto. I stretch with my arms high up in the air and realize my stomach feels better afterwards. I’m amazed and happy. I start walking and feel an occasional sharp pang but nothing steady. I'm convinced I won't give birth to aliens anymore. Of course, now I’m soaked in sweat, flushed, and probably dehydrated so I can always worry about heatstroke.

When I reach the top of the mountain, I find a friendly rock to sit on and catch my breath. The village chieftain, an elderly man, greets the group and Alberto, our trip leader. Alberto tells us he discovered these villages about 15 years ago while hiking through the mountains. He was looking for a secret passageway from one of the towns into this area. Folks built these villages here as a defensive maneuver to hide from slavers. Africans and Whites would come up from the coast and scour the countryside eager to capture people for the lucrative slave trade. These villages often had great views of the savannah because the villagers wanted to keep an eye on who was in their valley.

The chieftain is talking to Alberto in French, so there’s lag time before things get translated. I can’t help but notice the massive outcrop of rocks which starts behind the chieftain--huge moss-covered boulders and trees growing out of crevices. There’s even a baby goat precariously balancing on a ledge munching away at some greenery. I slip away from the group and wander over to the rocks. I feel like an electric switch just got turned on inside me….ohhh this is spiritual sacred place and has been for a long time. I can feel it…I can sense it in the rocks......I turn towards the group and a breeze…God’s gift to you in Africa….meets me.....almost like a kiss on the cheek. I spread my arms and embrace it. I’m suddenly awake and alert and out of my travel stupor. I must be in bad shape if a bunch of rocks help me reconnect with my soul.... I've noticed I'm becoming more and more withdrawn and quiet...but my travel companions for the most part aren't my type of people....and the constant stress of being with them ....and never having privacy or a chance to get away is wearing on me.

Don't get me wrong....the folks I’m traveling with are nice people…but the first week we talked about all the countries and tours they've been on, the second week we talked about all the trips they've booked for the coming years…and this week we are still talking Netflex, computers, TV shows and pizza. The one thing we’re not talking about is Africa….the landscape, the people, the culture…what we've seen throughout the day that was wonderful, new, and beautiful.

At least Diana and I talk it about it…and if she wasn’t on this trip I know I would be totally insane by now. There’s also a petite Korean-American woman who’s an artist back in California...we haven't communicated a lot ..but I enjoy seeing her studying a flower, or gazing at a pattern in the sand or rocks. She's complained the landscape has been "too strong" in places for her... and she needed to rest. I love the idea that someone can be overwhelmed by visuals....whether they are real or fantasy....it shows an imaginative soul at work.

Serious Boy Part 1

My alarm clock rattles on the nightstand but I'm sure it's a mistake. I can't see the numbers clearly anymore. The plastic clock face is opaque after three weeks of intimately interacting with parts of the Sahara desert at the bottom of my duffel bag. I move my toes but they feel numb. I'm sure they are frost-bitten but I also realize I'm suffering from African paranoia... and tend to believe the most lethal consequence is the best explanation for everything that happens.

I'm in a nice hotel and there's even an air conditioner in the wall that works (having an air conditioner in a wall in Africa does not guarantee that it will remain in the wall throughout the night, or that it can be turned on, or that it's capable of emitting cool air.) The problem is the vents don't move and are aimed directly at the head of the bed. At first, the cold air feels exotic and refreshing after being in the desert, but when I wake up in the night and can't feel my nose...I figure this isn't the ideal sleeping position. I grab the pillow and sleep at end of the bed...sacrificing my feet to the god of cold air.

I know it's time to get moving because it's getting light outside my window. I roll out of bed... and quickly roll right back into my original position. There's a knife in my stomach. I look down expecting to see one. But there's nothing there...just my panties...which were once pink and are now streaked with old dirt and sweat marks creating an interesting camoflage look. I have endured tummy rumblings and the threat of Traveler's Diarrhea,but this sharp pain is new and different. I reach for the clock, read the dial and sigh. There's no down time when you travel in a group, no time to baby yourself. I take a cipro (an antibiotic for diarrhea) chew two chalky shocking pink pepto bismo tablets and head downstairs to meet the group.

The pain seems worse in a sitting position and I can only eat a little French bread and drink a cup of black tea. I ask Diana to stake out a 4 door car to ride in today....maximum escape potential from every seat...just in case. Once in the car, I don't wear my cheche... I roll it up and use it as a pillow. I take deep yoga-style breaths as we drive along and diagnose my pain.. a massive tapeworm the size of a garden hose is obviously eating it's way through my stomach wall and will soon enter my intestines and emerge out of my abdominal wall just like the alien baby in ....well... Alien. Happy African thoughts again.

We're scheduled for a hike today to see some unusual villages in the mountains of Benin. After sitting for so many days in the cars..the idea of walking....of using my body and what leg muscles haven't atrophied sounds wonderful. The only trouble is the pain in my stomach. I consider staying behind and snoozing in the back seat of the car for the next few hours. But as everyone gets ready to leave for the trail, I don't want to be left behind ..so I quickly put on my socks and athletic shoes. Diana is already out of the car..and heading towards the group....but I can't move. I sit and stare at my feet..it's the first time in a month I I've had socks and shoes on and my feet feel heavy and alien. Great..I 've been taken over by aliens! ( I did mention African paranoia right?)

Tribal Africa

The desert was so captivating it seems almost hard to move on to Tribal Africa but that was a portion of of my trip too. It was in its own way amazing....from vodoo ceremonies....to hiking up into the hills (the small village pictured here was on a mountain top in Benin) to African hotels and to the discovery of creative drinks made with "Sports Active" and Gin. I plan to skip around a bit....none of these stories I'm going to tell have been written yet....but one of them is a favorite in my heart....and I have mentally called it "Serious Boy." So I'll start there...and hope to many other types of pictures posted.

The Romance of the Tuaregs

Today while I was at the bookstore, I happened to see a copy of Lawrence of Arabia. The cover of the book had a drawing of Lawrence in his long white robes astride a camel...obviously the book's cover was trying to portray a romantic idealized version of a desert man. I had to smile, I'm spoiled now....and I have my own images of what a romantic desert man looks like.....and they all revolve around the Tuaregs.

My first image of a Tuareg man was so utterly romantic and mystical... it felt like it came out of Hollywood movie versus real life. We were on a small van traveling from the Niamey airport to Agadez, the city were we would meet our cars and begin travel in the desert. We had just spent hours stuck in the mud from an early morning rain and subsequent flash flood in the desert. The sun was shining on a flat landscape of sandy soil and small tight clumps of grass. Our group was cheerful...if our van hadn't escaped the mud, we would have been forced to wait for the cars to come down from Agadez and rescue us...a wait of probably 12 hours or more without food and water in knee-high muck. On the horizon, we could all see what looked like another storm heading our way. There was a dark-colored wall advancing towards us even though our van was still traveling in the sunlight. We were passing through a small town, a place that had only a few square red adobe buildings and some market stalls. The wall hit us ...and it wasn't rain but sand....we were in a sandstorm! I looked out the van window and there was this man....this tall elegant man....in a dark-cheche, dark sunglasses, and royal blue overgarment....he was pulling on the reigns of this tall white camel which was spinning in the wind ....you could see the panic in the camel....it's mouth open...it's eyes blinking against the stinging sand ....and you could see the authority in the man....his bare feet digging into the camel's neck to control the animal....his redleather-covered sabre swinging out from his waist.....I felt my jaw drop open....the image was so powerful...so perfect...so masculine...so desert....that I couldn't believe I had actually seen it....the van moved on....people were running for shelter towards doors and inside buildings....a small clump of camels were huddled and hugging the wall of the building...their huge eyelashes fluttering against the stinging wind....and i sat back and just shook my head....wondering if I had actually seen the image or if it was a dream.

My other romantic visions of Tuareg men are smaller and less dramatic but still add to the collage of the desert man.......like watching Hagee walk up and down the dunes to survey their height and depth....his garments flowing as he moved......walking tall and confident....knowing exactly how to place his feet on the sand...so he looked like he was floating....rather than climbing or exerting himself..... no doubt a prince in his kingdom.

And I have a funny modern Tuareg image that still makes me smile....I was standing on the side of the wide flat sandy road in Timia, a small oasis town in the Air Mountains.....off in the distance.... I could see a white Land Rover speeding towards me....the windows were up ....which meant the air conditioner was on......I thought it was one of those United Nations cars....I had see them here and there....with the United Nations emblem on the door....always with the air con on ....the tinted windows..... and a driver with shadowy passengers in the back seat. As the car passed me ...I smiled......No, it was the not the United Nations....but a car full of Tuareg men....four of them....in jewel-colored garments....white cheches.....and sunglasses.....all looking straight ahead....all looking cool and elegant....and mysterious...and masculine...as they whoosed by me--a puny white sweating woman in oversized clothes....I actually laughed after they passed by.......God those guys are hotties!!! .....No wonder you read about all the European women who brought home a Tuareg.

A Desert Prince Who Looks Like Prince?

The Tuaregs are believed to be descended from Berber nomads who originated in Northern Africa/Spain. They have a caste system which consists of a nobility, a working class, and a blacksmith caste ( smiths were often segregated in nomadic tribes as well as in tribal Africa because they worked with iron and fire...and were thought to possess magical powers since they changed the earth's elements.) The Tuareg nobility are often fine-featured Berber descendants while the working class Tuaregs were often from Black African tribes which the clan had raided in the distant past and brought back to incorporate into the tribe as servants/slaves.

This is Razz, a cousin of our lead driver. I thought he looked just like the singer....Prince....Notice how beautifully his cheched is wrapped around his head.

A Grand Tuareg

This older Tuareg is dressed in a grand boubous....a very flowing outer garment and an exceptionally long and eloborate cheche....up to 20 yards of material are wound in his cheche.

Peacocks of the Desert

The Tuaregs are a colorful lot....they often wear jewel colored outer garments and a white cheches as part of their "in town" look.

President Cheese Unconditionally Loves Me

Yesterday, Katie, a person in my real life here at home saw me for the first time since I returned from Africa. In her comments on my post, she noted that I was "glowing" and wondered if I had been dabbling with the Muhammeds (Little or Old or any others around) on my trip. So I thought I better nip this in the bud right away....and state with absolutely certainly I hadn't been romping with Tuaregs (and I'm not going to be foolish like Jimmy Carter and announce there was lust in my heart)....but in all fairness I thought I would share my secret.

For a whole month, I have been.....eating cheese...in Africa. Not just any cheese, but President's cheese....day after day ....wedge after wedge....breakfast...sometimes lunch ...sometimes dinner. At certain points on the trip, meat--especially fresh meat-- was very scarce, and they often had canned tuna or sardines. Neither of which I am fond of....but the President was always there....and the President....besides erasing my hunger pangs....did something else....please note in the pictures below....that President Cheese is.....an official supporter of my passion.

Can you imagine what a difference that makes in your life? To realize that a whole cheese empire, an entire company in Europe is supporting my passion....unconditionally.
Do they know who and what my passions are? No....and yet they are willing to support me.

Folks when doesn't unconditional love bouy you to the surface of any crisis....when doesn't love set you feel to be yourself and centered and glowing? Muhammeds can be fickle.....but you know when you have a cheese empire behind you.. you have an anchor in any storm.