miércoles 2 de septiembre de 2009

Europe, Summer 2009

I've spent most of the summer travelling around Europe. Wonderful stories, people, and food. Here is a brief version through pictures (click on photos to open larger versions).
Slovakia
After a morning of hunting wild boar in Slovakia, Peter (the hunter) and I (the binoculars expert) went to the local krcma, or pub, to celebrate our catch (mushrooms and cherries). There we happened upon The Bear.

My favourite restaurant in Bratislava, Verne Café, serves great traditional food at low prices. There is also an assortment of non-traditional food, like warm Camembert.

But I'm always up for making goulash at home, too!

Austria
I was quite impressed with the variety of signs I saw in Graz.






Slovenia
Slovenia also had impressive street art and food. And who's that ridin'? Could it be...John the Tattooator and the book of the Seven Seals?












Italy
Finding affordable housing is a problem, even in Genova

In Treviso there's an ice cream parlour called "Lickland".

In Viareggio, Bar "H" is now called Bar "Obama", bikes are as sweet as candy, and surf'n'turf means beef and clams!






And at the biennale in Venice, the Singapore pavillion had a wonderful exhibition on remakes of classic films






POLAND
Knights in Warsaw had long moustaches which they twirled whilst pondering the sky at dusk.




Life in Zakopane looks hard, but there's plenty of meat (and lard appetizers) to make it worthwhile! Oh, and puppies for sale by the baskets!












I met the biggest pizza I've ever seen in Lodz

lunes 29 de diciembre de 2008

The Icelandic Adventure: Part II






















































































 It's amazing to note how much longer the days have become since the solstice. We still haven't had any direct sunlight (the sun hides behind the mountains), but it seems to rise sooner than before. The weekend before Christmas we visited the nearest neighbour who was nice enough to let us photograph his sheep. He even pointed out a ram of his who descended from Gunnar Gunnarsson's ram. Of course, a ram with such prized lineage was too proud to have his photo taken.

On the 23rd, we made our weekly trip to town. Traditionally, this was the day of the big Christmas fish market, and we were quite looking forward to finding the entire town smelling like fermented shark (which tastes and smells like ammonia). To our dismay, there was no fish to be found! The fish in the fish section of the supermarket was just as frozen as it normally is, and neither of the two restaurants in town were serving fish. Hmph!

Our Christmas feast consisted of baked lamb and potatoes, salad, pickled herring, and Icelandic mozzarella. Little did we know the lamb had been cured before we bought it (note: mysterious cooked colour!). It was too salty to eat for Christmas, but the next day Sami used it to make a great stew with potatoes and vegetables. We won't even mention the Icelandic mozzarella...

After lunch, we went to mass with the rest of the village. The minister greeted us when we arrived, and gave us programs for the service. Even though we had no idea what she was saying (aside from repeated words like "Guð", "Jesú Krist", "Amen" and "Betlehem", we could follow the sounds in the program pretty well, and enjoyed singing along to "Good King Wenceslas" and "Silent Night" (in Icelandic, of course).

A couple of days ago we took a walk to the church and back, stopping here and there to look at frozen waterfalls, take pictures of ice formations in the ground, and throw rocks into streams, only to watch them bounce back. We even met a few ponies who were nonplussed by our empty pockets. We'll have to carry sugarcubes next time.

viernes 12 de diciembre de 2008

The Icelandic Adventure begins!















































 The wind is fiercely blowing the snow around outside. Everything is covered in white. The metal cord beats gently against the flagpole, sounding like bells on reindeer in the distance. Downstairs the staff are preparing a Christmas feast, and the entire house smells of ham, fowl and pastries. This is the beginning of our winter residency in Skriðuklaustur, Iceland.

Sami and I are here in the eastern part of the island for one month working on various art and music projects. We thought we would be completely isolated with only a groundskeeper and a weekly chauffeur to take us to the grocery store. Turns out Skriðuklaustur, apart from being a farmhouse-cum-museum dedicated to the late Gunnar Gunnarsson (one of Iceland's most famous authors who donated the house to the state in 1948), is a popular restaurant/cultural center that holds several private events throughout the year. This will be the last weekend before the center closes for the holidays, though, so as of Monday, Sami and I really will be living The Shining experience. [Note: Later today I went downstairs to empty the garbage, and found two twin girls in matching fuschia turtlenecks sitting on a sofa, and slurping hot chocolate!!!]

It took us two days to arrive from Reykjavík by bus. The first was a six-hour trip along the northwest part of the island. We drove through a snowstorm, then marvelled at the pink sky as the sun tried in vain to rise above the horizon. The passenger busses also serve as postal vehicles, and a few times we pulled up at outposts seemingly in the middle of nowhere to deliver large packages. That day we rode to Akureyri where some very nice couchsurfers hosted us. We had just enough time for a tour of the city, a stretch at a café, Thai dinner, and a night's sleep before once again heading to the bus station. The next day (Tuesday), we rode to Egilsstaðir where the director of Skriðuklaustur came to pick us up and take us grocery shopping. After we stocked up on dried fish and skyr, we begged for a trip to the liquor store. The liquor stores in Iceland are all government-owned and they are only open from 11am until 6pm. In true monopolistic fashion, the prices in the liquor stores could drive one not to drink. Moreover, drinks are outrageously expensive in bars (2 pints of beer + 2 shots of Brennivín = 25€), and grocery stores and convenient marts are only allowed to sell light beer (no wine, no peach brandy).

We discovered all of this in Reykjavik when we tried to buy some wine at the corner store to take to a birthday party. That was last Friday, way back when the kroner was still weak and we lived like kings in a land of paupers! We strode regally to the corner market and demanded two bottles of the finest red to be brought up tout-de-suite from the cellar. The cashier, who, clearly, had never laid eyes upon blood-red velvet capes and gold-encrusted scepters such as ours before, gave us that "You're not from around here, are you?" look as he slowly explained the mysterious workings of this realm's libationary restrictions. No matter how slowly he spoke we still had great difficulty understanding how these Vikings with such a great reputation for spending countless hours in their cups coped with such archaic regulations. We grabbed a couple of bottles of malt (which turned out to be soda, not beer) and headed for the party, where, my beauties, it was further explained that beer - that most cherished refreshment since eons past - beer - not only great for drinking, but also for cooking cabbage and sausage - beer had been illegal until 1989!!!

Nevertheless, we had a nice few days with friends in Reykjavik, visiting the Maritime Museum, the Kolaportið (indoor flea market), enjoying Belgian waffles and cappuccino at Mokka Kafi, and dining on lobster and whale meat skewers at the Sea Baron, a small sailor's diner in the harbour. We even managed a trip to the geothermal baths of the Blue Lagoon.

We flew to Reykjavik from Amsterdam. Our train to Schipol airport was delayed for almost an hour. When I went to the ticket counter to ask the number of a taxi, the cashier explained that all of the westbound trains had been delayed because an injured swan was stuck on the tracks. "They are waiting for the animal people," she said. I envisioned a tempeh-eating train conductor wearing a PETA T-shirt, jamming the brake valve into the "Emergency" position, and saying "Woah, there, Casey! That's a swan out there!" Only in Holland.

We had a wonderful time in Amsterdam, visiting with friends and family. The city seemed sadder than I remembered it, but it could have been the weather (though rain and snow were perfect excuses to make frequent pitstops at Indonesian restaurants and pickled herring stands). The best find was Café Bern, a popular, charming fondue restaurant on Nieuwmarkt. The worst part of going out was discovering that, although smoking indoors is illegal, some places will allow it if a smoking cover charge (of one to two euros per person) is paid. Presumably the money goes towards payment of the fine should inspectors come around. Sort of like paying for the speeding ticket before you actually start the engine.

The wind is still fiercely blowing the snow around outside, though the dinner guests have all gone. We're warm inside thanks to the government. The kroner seems to be rising by the minute, but for now we're safe. We shouldn't have to go to the grocery store again for at least another two days.

martes 16 de septiembre de 2008

Banska Stiavnica to Poznan























































 The train conductor on the way to Banska Stiavnica was a real treat. All of the commuter passengers knew him, and he walked around telling jokes and stories. He called me "Señora", and was nice enough to ask someone to help me carry my luggage from the train "to the asphalt", as he called it. While I waited for Bartek to come pick me up at the station, I enjoyed the first delicacy of smalltown Slovakia: a sixty-cent pint of beer.

Bartek arrived and drove me to a house in the country. Next to a castle. A BIG castle. The next couple of days spent with Margaret and Bartek were truly heavenly. Wonderful food, wine, music scenery, people...too amazing to describe with words. I will definitely be returning to this part of the world for a visit soon!

I played a very fun show at Klopacka - the crowd was hilarious, and the Borovicka was overflowing! On Sunday I relaxed and was introduced to the standup comedy of Russell Peters.

On Monday I took a caught the commuter train at a quarter to six in the morning with Dusan, the same conductor from before. There will soon be a Slovakian Grand Prix train festival, and Dusan was walking around handing out brochures for the festival, saying, "Souvenir! Souvenir!" When he gave me a brochure, I gave him one of my flyers. He was so happy he had me autograph it for him. Then when the train arrived in Hronska Dubrava Dusan stood with me on the platform chatting with me until my next train arrived.

Four trains and fourteen hours later I arrived in Olsztyn, Poland. My friend Teo picked me up and drove me around for a little sightseeing. After dinner we went to Alchemia Music Pub and Teo arranged for me to play a concert on Tuesday evening. The next morning was absolutely gorgeous, so I went for a run around the lake. Olsztyn is a very beautiful town, full of trees, water and, of course, old buildings. I ran past the beautiful, but abandoned (at least on one side) Factory Owner's House, which was built in the second half of the 19th century. I visited the Muzeum Warmii i Mazur where Copernicus used to live and saw remnants of his astronomical clock. And for lunch, I had Zurek w jajkiem, traditional Polish sour soup at Świeże Zupy (ul. św. Barbary 1).

On Wednesday I took the bus to Warsaw. Marcin picked me up at the bus station and we headed to the venue for dinner and soundcheck. As I was only in town for the evening, the taxi ride to Barakuda served as my tour of Warsaw - thank goodness it wasn't a short ride! I saw the river, the park, and the present from the Soviet Union. Ela Dębska opened the show, and she was great! A beautiful voice, and loads of energy. Everyone was disappointed I wasn't spending more time in Warsaw, but I promised them another visit.

On Thursday I went to Gdansk. I had plans to visit Malbork Castle, located about 30 minutes outside of Gdansk, but as soon as I saw Gdansk, I knew I would need all of my time there to explore the city. Ninety percent of the old town was destroyed during WWII, but what is left (and has been restored) is quite charming. The first night Sami and I dined on goose at the Gdanska resturant, and the next day we went crazy at the market and had a cold food banquet. That night we went to St. John's cathedral to hear a lecture on digital music issues by DJ Spooky, which was part of the Festival Kultur Świata.

On Saturday visited most of the city's monuments, like the historical museum, the armoury, and the big and small mills. We stopped for red borscht, zurek, sole and kielbasa at Riviera Literacka, a nice little restaurant next to St. Mary's. The food was cheap and cheerful! Then we climbed the 400 steps to the top of St. Mary's cathedral and had a breathtaking view of the city. Afterwards we headed to Balsam Cafe to try warm beer with honey, which is delicious way to induce sleep. Balsam Cafe wins the "Cutest Waiters in Town" award - there seems to be no shortage of stylish young lads there!

I enjoyed playing Kafe Delfin that night - the crowd was very attentive and I really liked the jumbotron!

The next morning I caught the train to Poznan, the last stop on the tour. I had a nice train ride with four siblings from the States who were researching their family origins in Poland. I ran into them at the restaurant where I was having dinner, and they even came to my concert! I hope they found lots of information about their family.

Natasza, Basia, Piotr, Bogusz and everyone else at Klub ZAK made it a memorable tour's end, and I hope to return to play in Poznan next year. Actually, I wouldn't mind visiting all of these places again, but then when would I have time to visit Estonia? One life is not enough!

martes 9 de septiembre de 2008

Bratislava, 03-05 Sep 2008









































 I had fun playing at Café Carina on Tuesday; the place was packed - apprently the listing had appeared in a couple of newspapers. On Wednesday morning I went to the Leopold Museum to see the Klimt/Schiele exhibition, and to Westbahnstraase to see the world photo exhibition. Getting around in Vienna is pretty easy: you can buy a 24-hour subway ticket for 5.70 euros. I don't know if you're supposed to use it on busses and trams, too, but I did. I travelled for three days there, and I never saw a conductor.

In the afternoon, I took the Twin City Liner to Bratislava. The trip along the Danube takes about 75 minutes, and it is beautiful! I arrived in Bratislava with just enough time to race to the soundcheck at Hlava XXII. I had a lot of fun playing there. Before the show I met a couple from Groote Eyelandt who were travelling around Europe. Thanks to the tricks RyanAir likes to play to raise their profits (e.g. giving "Vienna/Bratislava" as the name of an airport), Shane and Lee missed their flight to Dublin, and had to stay in Bratislava for the night. They were great fun, and I hope to visit them when I travel to Australia. Thanks, Ryan Air!

After the show, Lubo (a couchsurfer) drove us back to his house in the middle of the forest somewhere. He is from Bratislava, but he lives just across the border in Austria in a picturesque neighbourhood, next to a church that is probably 900 years old. We ate a great midnight snack of prosciutto, two different kinds of cheese and sundried tomatoes while we sat around discussing pop culture and politics.

The next day I was Super Tourist. In the morning, I rode the trams aimlessly for a couple of hours in all different sorts of directions, getting a feel for the city. I ended up at the Slovakian Technical Museum - a neat collection of old cars, trains, bicycles, irons, washing machines, advertisements.... The most impressive items were the snowploughs used to remove the snow from the train tracks, and a convertible limousine. They had some really creepy mannequins posing as models there, though. I don't think they've been dusted since the '60's.

My next stop was the Slovak National Gallery. There was one other browser in the museum besides me, and no fewer than 30 employees. The employees follow you around the museum, directing you where to go next. I tried to skip uninteresting sections of the museum, but there would always be a CURATOR there saying things like, "Slovakian baroque art, 17th, 18th century, please, yes, this way!" And you couldn't advance to the next section until you'd seen everything in the previous one.

There were lots of fun things to see, though. I enjoyed the gothic art alot, and the series of funny busts by Frantisek Xaver Messerschmidt. Oddly, there were several paintings credited to "Italian Painter", "Netherlands Painter", and so on, as if the artist was anonymous, but not anonymous enough not to leave some nationalistic trait in their work. The Best Title Award of this group of paintings goes to "Portait of a Lady in Cheesy Clothes." That painter was Spanish.

Bodyguards started following me while I was browsing the temporary exhibitionin the modern part of the museum. I thought the museum was just being overly-protective of their art, but then I saw a bunch of cameras flashing and heard reporters interviewing someone in the hallway. I later found out it was the president of Portugal, Aníbal Cavaco Silva, enjoying a state visit to Bratislava.

After the museum I walked up to the hrad, or castle. The view of the town from the castle was quite nice, but the castle is being remodelled at the moment, so we weren't allowed inside.

I tried some yummy Bryndzove halusky (typical Slovak dish) before playing a concert in the bar of the Downtown Backpacker's Hostel that night, and made lots of new friends. The next morning I found Bistro Saigon and had pho soup for breakfast before taking the train to Banska Stivanica...

martes 2 de septiembre de 2008

Austria


























 The Power of Language

I was a couple of bucks short on cab fare, but as the cabbie told me he was from Iran, I laid some smooth phrases on him in Farsi. Next thing I know, he pulls up to my place and tells me not to worry about what the meter says I owe him.

I had just come from Tunnel Bar, where Albert was wooing the crowd with his amazing magic tricks (cards and coins). We went to tunnel hoping to catch the Monday night jazz jam session, but we'd arrived too late. On a tip I got from Rob and Anna, I'd arranged to go to a heuriger named Zawodsky for wine and snacks, and Albert was the only couchsurfer brave enough to make the journey with me. Zawodsky is a local favourite, but not many tourists are willing to make the trek there (about a 25-minute walk uphill from Oberdöbling - the nearest subway station). It was worth it - we sampled eight different delicious wines (the pinot grigio - or grauburgunder - was unmistakably divine) and shared baked chicken, pork roast, stuffing, sauerkraut, pastrami, cheese and a pickle for under 30 bucks.

It was all a nice bookend to my first evening in Vienna. I hadn't done much, really. In the morning I'd spent just enough time at Naschmarkt (the big, lovely, overpriced mall-like market in the center of town) to realise I'd paid way too much for breakfast. I made the mistake of going there hungry after doing my morning exercises. The plan was to buy some fruit for the day, but when I passed the first stuffed, marinated veggie stand, the apples and grapes took a backseat. Apparently "10 dag/1.20" means "1.20 per 10 ounces (or whatever the equivalent might be)" instead of "10 pieces for 1.20". OK, I didn't really think I could get 10 stuffed eggplants for 1.20 euros, but I had no idea that one (1) stuffed eggplant, one (1) stuffed artichoke, one (1) stuffed zucchini, two (2) stuffed peperoncino, one (1) spicy artichoke, two (2) marinated prawns, one (1) small loaf of bread, and three scoops of dill yoghurt would cost me 17 euros. I was too ashamed too question the price, since I'd spent five minutes hand-selecting my individual pieces of stufftnessesses, and there was also a bit of a language barrier. Farsi, sure. German, huh?

I ate half of the overpriced breakfast, stuck my tail between my legs, and went back into the market to buy apples and grapes. I would have been better off buying everything at the supermarket across the street, but then I would have felt wise, what with another seventeen euros floating around in my pocket, and wouldn't have been able to savour the feeling that every day in life teaches you new lessons.

I'd arrived in Vienna the night before in a fast car driven by Gabriel - a guy who taught me a lot about techno and punk music. My couchsurfing friend in Klagenfurt, Uli, found him on a rideshare website. He was a very nice guy - he even came to one of my concerts in Klagenfurt - and by the time he dropped me off in front of my friend Rob's apartment in Vienna, I had become a fan of The Streets, the Busters and Toten Hosen.

Before I caught the disco train to Vienna, I was hanging out with my friend Rob in Klagenfurt. We've known each other since New York 2000. He's an amazing musician with a heavy choice of instrument (Hammond organ). We both played in the festival at Klagenfurt (he got me the job), and on Sunday, he cooked an improvised Bulgarian meal for his girlfriend and I. I won't reveal too many secrets, but it involved ground turkey, cumin, pumpkin oil and cinnamon noodles.

I arrived in Klagenfurt early Friday morning on a train from Berlin. On the train I met a crazy sweaty guy who translates poetry either into or out of French, English, Russian and German. I was sitting in the bike compartment because I wanted to practise guitar undisturbed, but then he came round wanting to use the space to recite poetry out loud. After some discussion, he moved to a nearby compartment to read his Dylan Thomas, but not before asking me to mail some of my lyrics to his boarding home address so he could translate them.

Uli (a couchsurfer) picked me up from the Klagenfurt train station at 12:30 in the morning, and the next day, Rob and Anna picked me up to take me to lunch. We had fried chicken salad, a huge baked potato (with real bacon slices on top of it!) and cheese and mint dumplings at Augustin. Then they dropped me off at my "hotel". The city of Klagenfurt had paid for my lodging in a Slovenian youth hostel just outside of the city center. It wasn't so bad - I could walk to my stage in just under 20 minutes, and it was quiet. Before I left for my gig on Friday, I had a coffee on the bench in front of the hostel with one of my neighbours. He didn't speak English, so we had a strange conversation in Dutch, Polish and German. He told me his work history, where he was from (which I couldn't pronounce, much less type), and then he asked if I had any bourbon. It was a conversation we would repeat for the next two days. I sort of felt bad for him, but I figured if he was the sort of guy who was asking someone he'd just met who barely shared a common language with him for bourbon, he probably was the sort of person who shouldn't be drinking. Like maybe his ex-wife or doctor had shamed him into asking only strangers for a drink.

I played the two shows in Klagenfurt with a bass player named Chris Wendt. He's a great player, and a nice guy who also plays with a band called New Shoes Jazz Quartet. These guys put on a great show. During the festival, I also had a chance to see Rob perform with his Hammond meets Art Blakey project, and Los Mosquitos Calimeros, the Carinthian Gypsy Kings.

On Saturday, Uli and I went to the market where I tried a wonderful leberknödel suppe (liverball soup). The broth alone was enough to replace miso soup as my second favourite soup. Afterwards, we went to the lake Wörthersee. I love swimming, but I'm no fan of deep water (in July I swam to the deep end of a pool and back for the first time in my life). I waded into the lake and started swimming with all the other little duckies. I knew I wouldn't swim out as far as they did, but I didn't know the lake would get so deep so quickly! I stopped swimming and tried to stand up, only to realise I couldn't touch the bottom. I started flailing about in the water, flapping my arms like a silly goose. Then I noticed some man sitting on the dock staring at me like I was hopeless, so I pulled it together, and doggie-paddled back to shore. In fact, I didn't stop paddling until my knees hit the rocks. I wanted to be certain I could stand up before I stopped swimming.

After not drowning, Uli took me to Gipfelhaus Magdalensberg - a nice family-owned restaurant with an amazing view of the mountains bordering Slovenia and of the valley below. Here we had bretteljause - a plate of cold meats, patés, cheese and a hard-boiled egg. See the lovely photo!

Tonight I play Cafe Carina here in Vienna, and tomorrow I'm off to Bratislava. More news to come!

miércoles 21 de mayo de 2008

Senegal (13/05/08-20/05/08)













































 I'm pretty sure I booked a direct flight to Dakar from Madrid, but when I double-checked my flight info, I noticed the plane was making a stop in the Canary Islands. We weren't allowed to leave the boarding area once we landed in Las Palmas, but, luckily we only had to wait for 45 minutes before re-boarding the plane. On the second leg of the trip I sat next to a Korean man named Jae Kwan. After living in the Canary Islands for seven years, working on a Korean boat, he spoke almost no Spanish. With what little broken English he could muster, we managed to fill out his embarkation card and chat for a bit. He was a mechanical engineer, and was going to Dakar to work on a boat for three days. He told me stories about working in Samoa ("Samoans, BIG!") and Hawaii ("America, BIG!"), which I tried my best to understand. After dinner, we both nodded off to sleep.

While I was delighted to find the Yoff/Dakar airport is named after Léopold Sédar Senghor, I found passport control to be less than welcoming. They wouldn't admit me unless I could supply them with an address for my stay in Senegal. Luckily Sami was outside the airport, so I left my passport with the police, and went to find her. She didn't know the address of the apartment where we were staying so she told me to tell them I'd be staying at Hotel Lumumba in Yoff. I went back in, wrote "Hotel Lumumba, Yoff" on the embarkation card, and received my passport. Some Spaniards were having difficulty understanding the police demands for a local address, so I took them aside and told them to write "Hotel Lumumba, Yoff" on their embarkation cards, too.

I'd already exited the airport once, so I was prepared for the swarm of taxi drivers and moneychangers who stand outside waiting to pounce upon new arrivals like flies on a piece of horse poop. Sami had a taxi driver waiting for us, but it took us ten minutes and a phone call to find him. Luckily I only had a piece of carry-on luggage, so we were able to make as swift a getaway as possible, and it was much better than having to negotiate prices with a taxi driver. There are no set taxi rates in Dakar. You negotiate the price you're willing to pay with the taxi driver before you get in.

First impressions: it was dark, dusty, wild, loud, alive and noisy. We found our taxi and headed off to Yoff village. The autoroute is new, I was told, but it's full of potholes and half of it is still sand. The cars bounce along like rickety jalopies, and that's because most of them are: no taillights, broken mirrors and windshields, sometimes no headlights, doors only open from the inside, and gasoil leaks. Cars and trucks share the road with horse-drawn carts, and people are always jaywalking across the highway.

We made it to our apartment, a nice, quiet spot with a sea view. The next morning, Sami took me to a local breakfast spot: a fly-infested tent on the side of the road (Rte. de la Cimetière, somehwere between Via Via and the horse parking lot) where a beautiful woman named Mamafat serves sandwiches. Mamafat is probably in her early thirties, and possesses a simple kind of mysterious beauty similar to the kind Whitney Houston once had. Way back when she was saving all of her love for us. With the help of a young girl who always has a baby strapped to her back, she feeds the male workers of the village. She has marinated beef and onion sandwiches (my favorite), spaghetti sandwiches, tuna sandwiches, lentil sandwiches...she cuts open a piece of baguette and fills it with whatever fillings you want. She serves the sandwiches wrapped in yesterday's newspaper. Her assistant serves Touba coffee (natural, mild, yummy coffee), and a delightful something called thé frais. I'm not sure what kind of tea leaves they are, but when she mixes the tea with powdered milk and sugar, it takes on a salmon colour. I had breakfast there everyday during my stay for about 750 CFA (1.15 euro). When I bid goodbye to her yesterday morning, I think I detected a tear in her eye. She could have just been batting away a fly, though.

After breakfast, Sami and I caught a cab to Trait d'Union where the exhibition was being held. While she and Sylvia, a German artist who was exhibiting in Yoff with Sami, finished setting up the show, I took a walk along the beach. I managed to walk for five minutes before meeting a young man who lured me to his "café". It was little more than a covered cabana made of sticks and a sheet. I sat down while he went to get tea. While I was waiting, another young man approached me and gave me a brief history of the fishing village. I don't remember everything he said, but I'm certain it ended with, "...anytime, you come to my family, everything is free for you!" After almost half an hour, the first guy came back with a cup of coffee instead of tea. He took a sip, then handed it to me and ran down to the ocean to clean out the teapot. I was pretty sure by this point I wasn't going to drink anything that took him half an hour to find, so I made like I had to be somewhere, thanked them both, and walked back to the gallery.

Afidi, the woman who owns the office-cum-gallery, took Sami and I shopping for vernissage provisions. We drove to a bakery in Ngor, a nearby town, and then stopped to get gas. While the car was being fuelled, all sorts of vendors approached the car windows, trying to sell us t-shirts, shoes, sunglasses, etc. We drove across the street to the market to load up on beer, water, napkins, fruit and vegetables. We we went back outside, we noticed we had a flat tire. A security guard was there, already changing the tire with the "help" of two Bayefall. These guys are supposed to be Sufi mystics, but most of them just wander around town in blue outfits begging for money for their leader (whose picture they wear on large lanyards around their necks). Once the tire was changed, and Afidi had worked things out with the security guard, we got back in the car. The Bayefall reached into the car, stroking our arms, trying to get us to give them money. Afidi made some wise comment in French, and we drove back to the gallery for a successful opening.

Thursday we headed to Dakar for my first time. The busses are as rickety as the cars, only bigger. It's quite a nice ride, though. People board the bus, sit down, then pass their money to other people, who pass it to the ticket salesman, who hands the ticket back to whoever gave him the money, and they pass the ticket back to the original person. Imagine trying to give your money to someone on the bus in the States to buy your ticket for you! I also noticed that the highway doesn't really have lanes. People just pass whenever they feel like it, some people drive on the shoulder (sand) - somehow it all makes sense. Dakar is a zoo! From the bus we walked through the marketplace where people shout, follow you, try to get your attention in a mixture of languages so you'll buy phone cards, food, souvenirs, toothpaste - pure madness. We went to the Novotel to use the bathroom then went outside for lunch. In front of the Novotel there's a tent where a woman cooks up the plate of the day. We had not-so-good Tchebou Djen (fish and rice) for 500 CFA, then headed off to see some of the Biennale.

Friday the village awoke to no running water. It arrived at some point during the afternoon, but by that point, we had already taken the boat to Gorée (cost of return 15-minute boat ride = 5000 CFA). On the boat we met Sonia and another woman who told us to visit their jewellery shops on the island. When we landed some guy tried to tell us we had to first visit the tourist information point before visiting the island. Luckily, Sami was hip to his game, and told him we were there to visit the Biennale exhibitions. He tried to tell us the exhibitions were over, but we had a catalogue to prove him wrong. Sami told me that one way they try to suck money from tourists is by having them pay a tourists fee to the visitor center to a guide who may or may not accompany on your island stay. We wandered off alone on the island. We stopped to visit Bobo, a nice rasta who has his own café on the island, located, as luck would have it, right next to the shop of one of the jewellery-selling women who accosted us on the boat. We told her we'd visit her later. Sami bought my CD for Bobo, and we listened to it while eating lunch, provided by a woman named Aby who has a restaurant in the same enclave where Bobo has his tea shop. She made us mafé (beef in peanut sauce) and fried fish. After spending time there we walked up to the top part of the island to the permanent artists spaces. Lots of artists live in caves underground on the island and exhibit their work aboveground among the defunct cannons. This island was one of the major points of departure for slave ships. One of the artists we met, Mousa, sleeps in a tent on a ledge. When he unzips his tent first thing in the morning, the only thing he can see is the sea. But I bet he doesn't wander home drunk too often. He showed us his home underneath ground, and after walking around for two minutes I can understand why he doesn't sleep there - it's stifling hot!

After we walked around the artist commune (and dodged some more vendors), we made our way to the island historical museum. We learned that of the roughly nine million (documented) slaves shipped to the Americas, only 4.5% were sent to the States. The majority of them went to the West Indies, with South America following close behind. So I only had a 4.5% chance of being born in the States as opposed to Haiti or Brazil. One of the most impressive characters we ran across in the museum was Ayouba Souleyman Diallo (1700-1773). Wikipedia paints him out to be a rather harmless figure, but the four lines underneath his picture in the museum summed up his life as such: "Owned slaves in Africa until he was captured and sold into slavery himself. Freed by British, returned to Africa to resume life as slaveholder."

When we left the museum we happened upon Sonia, who tried to get us to come buy some jewellery from her, or in her words, "Only LOOK!", but we told her we were still touring the island, and would come back later. Apparently, while we had been touring the island, we'd missed a weight-throwing competition, and we arrived at the dock just in time for the presentation of prizes. The athletes were all larger than life: they must have been at least seven feet tall and eight miles wide. There was a German woman, a French woman, an American guy, and two guys from Italy. A group of schoolchildren had been brought over to the island to watch the competition, and they were all wearing shirts from the event. After the prizes were handed out some Senegalese pop star sang to the crowd, and all the children went wild, dancing. After they were finished, we went back to Bobo's for one more glass of tea. Then we rushed back to the dock to lose ourselves in the herd of children in the hopes that Sonia and her cronies wouldn't spot us.

We took the boat back to Dakar with the screaming schoolchildren and the Amazon weight-throwers. On the way, I spotted Jae Kwan's Korean boat. At the dock, we headed to the dock artisan shop. Who should we find waiting for us there, but Sonia?! She didn't seem very pleased that we'd left the island without even visiting her shop. In fact, she scolded us and walked away. After poking around the shop for awhile we went to L'Imperiale for a drink to decide what to do next. We picked a couple of restaurants/clubs that we thought would be nice, but after wandering around and not finding them, we decided to go Indigo (26 Rue Félix Faure, Dakar). They had great Vietnamese and Senegalese food. I ordered chicken, but I'm pretty sure they served me pigeon. It was tasty, nonetheless.

On Saturday we went to the Yoff food market and walked to Almadies to find some barber friend of Sami's named Artur. We didn't find him, but we found his house. Then we had a great Vietnamese lunch at Hong Kong II and, later, joined Sylvia for dinner at Fatouh Kim in Almadies. The food there wasn't so good, but it was abundant, and the sea view was great. I spent most of the time feeding a demanding stray cat the gristle from my lamb chops.

Sunday I headed to the island of Ngor with Afidi and her two sons. To get to Ngor you have to take a skiff from Yoff (return trip = 500 CFA). The trip takes about two and a half minutes, but once you see the sailors scooping water out of the inside of the boat with children's sandcastle buckets and ride along with water splashing into the boat at every wave, it can feel like 15 minutes. However, once you arrive at Ngor, life is different. There's still a few peddlers begging you to buy their wares, but it's much more peaceful than the mainland. There are always two grills going to supply you with cheap, good food while you sit on the beach, and if you feel the need to sit at a table while you eat, you can always go to one of the beach restaurants. There are two beaches - a little one, and a big one. I prefer the little one, because the guy who rents out the beachmats will watch your stuff while you're swimming, and the price for everything is two-thirds the price it is on the big beach. Most of the tourists go to the big beach, which is another reason not to go there.

Monday was another day spent at Ngor. Learned the food on the beach was a third the price of the food in the restaurants. We saw a young man swim to Yoff and back to Ngor in under twelve minutes. I asked him if he did that everyday, and he replied, "Why, yes! I'm a swimmer!" The boat back was overloaded, but no one seemed to care, and we made it without sinking. The lifejackets are only obligatory when you leave Yoff and are unnecessary, as it seems everyone on the boat could either swim the 200 meters to shore or would be too afraid to swim, even in the shallowest of waters (like me).

On Tuesday, Sami and I visited the fish market. The fisherman come in from the sea, the horse-drawn carriages go to meet them in the sea to take the fish, and then the women take the rest of the fish to sell right there on the beach. Some people come to buy the fish they will eat that day; others to buy enough fish to sell in different parts of town during the day. It's a pretty overwhelming experience - the smell of fish in the air, people yelling, holding up still-breathing carp and then throwing them down on the sand to scale them and wrap them up in newspaper. After having some millet beignets (and, of course, after I went to visit Mamafat one last time) we took one last trip to Dakar. We saw some more of the Biennale exhibitions before lunching Chez Loutchas (101, rue Moussé Diop, Dakar)). This place is ridiculous. It reminds me of those roadside stops in El Paso and Amarillo where if you can eat a 1-lb. steak, your meal is free. They give you enough food for two very large, very hungry people. Sometimes they even serve it in the skillet in which it was cooked. The electricity went out while we there, so we had to move to a table closer to the window, but I think we would have waddled out exhausted out of that place even without the added heat factor. After lunch we managed to take in a couple more exhibitions before I had to catch the plane back to Madrid.

What I saw: Gangs of goats terrorising highway traffic. Cute sheep learning how to walk. A huge pelican. Cute stray cats and dogs who are afraid of people. Beautiful people who are either afraid of people or try to get them to hand out cash on demand. A lot of trash. Happy Children. Happy adults.

Senegal = Safety third. Cleanliness fourth. Community first. Happiness first, too.