Adventures in Wonderland

The minute we left the bus station at the Ghanaian border post of Elubo, people began to speak to us in French. It had just begun to rain hard, and despite the numerous offers to taxi us through the border we stuck to the advice we'd gotten and slugged through on foot. Ghanaian strangers extended one last hospitality even as we walked out on them, insisting that we accept shelter under their patios and storefronts. It's nice to part with rosy feelings on all sides.

We crossed through the Ghanaian exit, and headed for cars to take us the 3km to Noe on the Côte D'Ivoirian border. I had my usual moment of ten-year-old glee in thinking: "What country am I in? What country am I in??" and this time it was considerably augmented by my using the pay-per-pee restroom between the two nations' police borders. For all its ten-year-old kicks, the above question has nothing on: "What country did I pee in???"

(It's good to be in touch with my inner child.)

So we get to Côte d'Ivoire, muddy, wet, and generally looking our best, and pick up our first tout. This enterprising young man fell in step with us as we dragged our suitcases through the mud, ostensibly to 'show us the way' to the well-marked one-building border post, hovering malignantly outside the door while we presented our yellow fever vaccination cards.

The health officials here were hungry for some business. Noticing that David's meningococcal dated from 2003, they declared his vacc expired and his entry into CI thus illegal, unless he got a shot on the spot from them. David was unconvinced, swearing that MGCL was for life; I was confused, as I didn't even have one. I checked my health certificate again: squat about meningococcal. This only bolstered David in his conviction that the border docs were just shot-hungry, and when they threatened to bar us from entering the country he called their bluff and prepared to settle into the health office. Apparently two white people hangin' aboot wasn't quite what the docs were hoping to achieve, for before he even fully sat down they glared at us and spat the French equivalent of "Scram."

Back outside, our tout was more than happy to see us, however painfully unreciprocated. Then started the gauntlet, as we began the wander up Noe's main street, looking for cars headed to Abidjan but without - the delicate trick - tipping off Mr. Tout to what we wanted. The idea there was that if he knew, he would be able to organize something for us faster and at a much higher price (fee for guiding and escort services, don'cha know) than we could, while simultaneously staking his claim over us as first-finder and eliminating all other options. By keeping him in the dark, we preserved our independence, but shoot if that didn't make for a tricky time finding the Abidjan cars.

Despairing at last, I used two bystanders to rid myself of Mr. Tout, only to land myself immediately with Tout No. 2. Foolishly incognizant of having just plucked us from frying pan for direct deposit into fire, I confessed our destination, and an Abidjan-bound car was duly produced.

It was also duly loaded with half a proper tonne of dry goods, and when I went to squeeze myself into the front seat a compartment under the dash popped open and out rolled some liquor. Come on guys, this ain't even a Sha'ria area.. but no matter, we fit, the price per head was a bit high but acceptable, let's be on our way.

There were... issues, however. Immediate, annoying, but not critical were the sudden claims from Tout No. 2 regarding a variety of union and motorpark fees, etc, that we had to pay, to him, now; more critical was the fact that the driver did not at all seem on board with the idea of taking us. He was definitely interested in the extra money, and tried to insist on payment now for departure "almost now", but David wisely didn't go for it. Tout No.2 was still trying to get 'his' money on the spot, but we stuck to the promise of payment, for the amount agreed, to the driver, after departure. Then the deal evaporated; there emerged a brother who was supposed to go along as well, though to fit him in would have required Nigerian finesse. I have a feeling that not all the wares to be transported were yet loaded, either.

So, Deal#1 falls apart. David and I got out, unloaded our stuff, and began the wander again, no secrecy anymore but still pursuing tout-independence. Wary now of Tout No.2, we tried to distance ourselves, but without success; sprinting back and forth along the road, calling and screaming about Abidjan in the local language to broker us a ride, he was working much faster and better than we could with our luggage, and he wasn't going to do it for free. In fact Deal #2, an independent car headed for Abidjan that offered to take us, fell through because Tout No.2 threatened it with the anger of his 'union'.

One of those rare times when the free market gets shot down even in Africa, I suppose.

Realizing that we weren't going to break through Tout No.2's stranglehold on info and cars (and he had yet to produce either one), we quietly began to escape up the street, well away from the lined-up cars, hoping to hop aboard later down the road. It was an excellent plan, and within moments we had new hopes of hitching a ride west.

Tout No.2 wasn't going to let foreign prey escape so easily, however, and within five minutes had himself chauffeured up to track us down in a car he swore would take us to Abidjan.

I was naturally skeptical. Rule Number 1 of share-transport in Africa, follow the other passengers; locals know what's up and won't stand for the sort of fiddle-faddle we fight through on our own. When an empty car pulls up and makes big promises to the only white people around, don't go for it. Chances are good it's going nowhere fast and will definitely extract a fee for the service.

So we were chary of the unlikely choice of an empty sports coupe for our 'share-taxi' ride; claims to the existence of an absent female passenger didn't do it either. A woman was suddenly produced - the 'sister' of the driver - who bustled and hurried us into the backseat of the car with all the art of a true scammer.

"What do you think?" David asked, wanting to get a sense of what the French screaming concealed.

"I don't know.." I hesitated. I generally trust women more. It may be a foolish practice, but I'm in good company. "If it is a scam, it's an elaborate one.."

So we loaded our bags and clambored in. The sister ensconced herself next to the driver, imprisoning us in the doorless backseat, which came to be rather useful a moment later when Tout No. 2 appeared at the window. Not having very good access to us behind the driver and more of the sister's luggage, he was forced to snarl though the driver-side window his earlier bit about 2,000 CFA in 'union fees'.

Union fees?? Not for nothing is my boyfriend's name Friedrich, and I'll be damned before I pay for an organization whose chief goal is to hassle me for claim-staking purposes for over an hour, threaten my cheaper options, and generally screw me over. David feels more or less the same way. So I sat silent and sullen as a stone while Tn2 railed at him in French he made no pretense of understanding. Tn2 then threw a bunch of claims at and threats at me, but I ignored him, as I've learned a woman in Africa can sometimes do.

Recognizing the futility of his charge, he enlisted the 'sister', who reinforced her scammer veneer by becoming the most energetic of supporters for these union fees, inventing a baby in a village nearby that was going to starve even as we delayed departure with our stubbornness. I didn't really see the connection there, but didn't try to make it, and ignored her too.

After five or ten minutes of screaming, David had had enough and began to threaten the only weapon we have - decampment. Doesn't matter if it's the only one if it's a good one, and in a trice we were - amazingly - on our way.

Allow me to interject here that the above process, when it comes to finding shared transport for a country's major destination, is not normal.

Neither, as we would discover, was our seat companion. Not two minutes into the drive she whipped around in her seat and accused us, "What are you drinking?! I can smell it!"

David and I had been sitting motionless in quiet recovery from the screaming. "What?"

"I can smell it, what you're drinking!!" she yelped. "What is it??"

Now there were lots of things in the backseat with us that smelled pretty distinctive, don't get me started, but none of them like something you'd want to put in your mouth. "We're not drinking anything," I said, showing her my water bottle.

She looked suspicious. "You don't have any soda back there? I thought I smelled some soda." There are lots of things you're probably smelling, I thought privately, but said only "No, we don't."

She flounced back around in her chair with a discontented sigh. "Oh! Humph. I want a soda."

This is like Wonderland, I thought, looking at her, and you're the Cheshire Cat.

The soda made a second appearance later, when she tried to enlist my support in getting the Frenchless David to buy her a drink. "Wouldn't you like to stop and get a soda? refreshment?" she cajoled me at screeching high volume. "Oh, how I would love a soda!!!" "We just drink water," I said rather blandly. This woman was psychotic, like a bad dream, and I feared encouraging the frightening appearance of her screaming face in the open space between the two front seats with any attempt at personality. I emulated the excitement of a paper sack.

The relative paucity of conversation partners in the car, however, meant that I was to be singled out, or requested to interpret something for the equally paper-sack David, when yammering at the driver got old. On one of these occasions she exposed the union fees, for which she had been the most violent advocate, as a complete scam, and cheerfully congratulated both of us for our wisdom in refusing to pay. I stared at her and thought, not Cheshire Cat... definitely Mad Hatter. On another, she produced a catalog of current hairstyles, pointing out several and claiming to be the model depicted. I didn't see the resemblance, but lacked the interest to check closely, as well as the bluntness to say so. I probably shouldn't have bothered with politeness, for in the next breath she began to describe to me how awful I looked myself. "Why don't you do something with your hair?" she scolded. "That hairdo you have now is just blah. Don't you ever style it?" It was like being trapped in a two-cubic-meter space with a garish demon.

When we finally got to Abidjan after only one breakdown and a minimum of exchanges with the Mad Hatter, she finally got sick of our paper-sackishness and ordered the driver to let us off right away, swearing that it was precisely our agreed destination. It was not, but no matter, we had arrived!

After a few halcyon days (I only use that word for you, Kelly) in Abidjan, I regretted my cynicism at the time in calling the incident an evil omen for Côte d'Ivoire, and set out from the should-be-capital with renewed confidence in the country's transport. The faith was foolish, as I would discover over the next eleven days; this truly was an accurate omen for Côte d'Ivoirian transport (though not for Ivoirians - thankfully, only enough room for one Mad Hatter). Africa knows I've seen some transport ish in the past few months, but what makes the Ivoirian transport so frustratingly bad is that there is no reason for it to be bad. Sure, it's the rainy season, but the roads are beautiful and paved. Yeah, there's been a war, but the fighting has long since been over and each military has its own country-half. And yes, there are police, militia, military, and random-enterprising-locals-in-camo barricades every few kilometers, but all they really want is a bribe and ego-pumping, and aren't actually interested in seeing you for more than the few minutes that takes.

Yet there is a force far greater at work, more powerful than rain and more insidious than the police. It took us an incomprehensible ten hours to go 233km (145 mi) in a legit van on a straight, good road; the next day the same distance took us longer. The day after a distance of only 120km (95 mi) could be accomplished in no less than 11 hours and FIVE (count 'em) different vans. (Interestingly, each successive van initially swore that it was headed to the final destination. This is how you get jaded.) David and I kept scaling back our travel ambitions, yet it kept getting worse - accomplishing 70km (43 mi) the next day took a full 9 hours; as did 40km (66mi) the day after. At that rate, buying a donkey is actually a faster option. Our final day, the paltry 25 km (15.5mi) to the border, though admittedly on bad roads, took an unecessary six and a half hours. I think I know people who can cartwheel that far. Faster.

Shoot, Somaliland ain't even a country and it can do better!

The fact that most of my daylight hours in non-coastal Côte d'Ivoire were spent in transit, or pursuing it, has unfortunately not left me with the most favorable of impressions towards the country. At least I have an idea about where the blame for that might fall, though.. Road to Serfdom anyone?

The Anti-Nigeria

The second-biggest power in West Africa, the second major Anglophone country, the second birthplace of West African hip-hop.. but how Ghana wishes it had nothing else in common with the great Nigeria. "Nigerians are responsible for all the crime in Ghana," locals swore to me, echoing a view that I suspect has some currency throughout Africa. While I would hardly ascribe to it myself, comparing calm, aesthetic, touristy Ghana with Nigeria does bring to mind the expression, "The Anti-Nigeria".

Still, I'm not convinced that the countries are quite the polar opposites that Ghanians would have me believe...

Quote: David was changing money shortly after our arrival in Ghana (on the gas-thirsty van). There was, as it turned out, no power, for which the money-changer profusely apologized. We were more than used to it, so no need. But as everyone who's anyone in Nigeria has a generator for exactly that problem, David joked by way of a response, "What, don't you have a generator??"

The response highlights the fundamental difference between the two countries: "What's a generator??"

David was stunned. "You know, a generator.. for power.." (how to explain a generator?) "Haven't you ever been to Nigeria?"

"OOHH that... no."

New Hygienic Lows: I have fallen so low that I get excited if, when washing my hands in a white sink basin, the water runs clear after only a few seconds.

Worst thing eaten: I bought this good-looking foul-tasting meat pastry pie in Cape Coast that was so bad not even severe hunger could convince me to finish it. I offered it instead to the hotel's friendly dogs (see below), who also refused to eat it.

Best thing eaten: One word: PANCAKES. When I found out that our hotel had both pineapple and banana pancakes on the menu, I tried one for lunch and the other for dinner. And then again. And again. I actually never ordered a meal in that town that didn't include pancakes. Mmmm, pancakes.

Moment of Cleverness: When you are usually on the outsmarted end of the outsmarting, you are perhaps permitted the occasional gloat when you find yourself on the other end of the deal.

Deposited from our minivan-bus at the bus stop 8 km away from our destination of Elmina, we were beseiged by taxidrivers offering to shuttle us for steep fares. I wanted to wait for a bus instead, as the route was a regular one, and as soon as the next pulled up I went to the herder to find out if it was headed our way.

Always trust the first answer, and his first was yes, until a frenzy of exclamations in Akam from the taxidrivers suddenly changed that to a no. Nope, wasn't going our way and never had been, didn't even know where Elmina was, what's Elmina? we had better take one of these taxi chaps..

Instantly suspicious, I cast a glance at a passenger in the front seat. "Elmina?"

"Yup," he confirmed, destroying in one word the taxi-herder cabal, and we hopped on in.

The brief incident didn't exactly inspire me with faith in the tricky herder; I grinned at him in a wily way to show him I knew what he had been up to, and he grinned back with a hint of hang-dog "You caught me". Then without missing a beat (or losing his grin), he quoted the price - 1 cedi (100 pesados) each.

I took a gamble, and decided to bluff it out. I grinned back and replied, "Oh, no it's not, it's nowhere near that..." and made no move to pay. He couldn't prove anything either way, so I just sat there, estimating what the fare likely was. It couldn't be less than 25 pesados, but was probably not much more; I counted out a bit of small change and decided to wait him out. Seeing my apparent certainty, he lost his nerve, caved, and let slip the real price, 40 each. Yessss I thought to myself quietly, and nonchalantly paid the exact price.

Exiting the van, I crowed to myself, The scammer, scammed! ..but in fact, we didn't actually scam anyone, unless you count side-stepping a scam as a scam in itself. (Hmm.. now there's an idea.)


Music: Now I didn't conduct a scientific study or anything, but I would bet that 9 out of 10 self-respecting Ghanians solidly consider their hip-hop superior to anything produced by that country in whose shadow Ghana curses her fate to lie, Nigeria. Sarkodie, 4x4, Trigmatic, Reggie Rockstone - I heard several of these greats at a night out in a hip-hop club headlining DJ Black, a West African legend. From the little I heard, Ghana does seem to be a serious contender to all the P-Square and 2face Nigeria can boast, but it's almost impossible to find even pirated versions of their albums outside the capital. So, I'll be leaving Ghana with a long list of names I'll likely never hear again, and one lone Sarkodie album that I love.

The fruitless search through several cities has left me bitter enough that I will give Nigeria superiority on this one, and if any Ghanian defies it, let them send me a freakin' album so I can hear what the country has to offer!!


National Weakness: Chivalry seems to be a bit thin on the ground in Ghana. Notable examples include a would-be suitor who, I can only suppose, was attracted by the challenge presented by increasingly blunt rejections, and several assholes in different cities under the impression that physical force via a passing woman's arm is an appropriate means for getting her attention - with the added benefit that it literaly forces her to stop walking and face you. All are valuable specimens of study, but the prize goes to the memorable gentleman who, while working up the courage to make a move at aforementioned hip-hop club, knocked my just-tasted drink off the table and onto my lap, dousing a rare clean pair of pants with stickiness and scattering shards of glass all over the floor.

Gravity-challenged myself, I am no stranger to the awkward embarassment that followed for the guy, and immediately laughed it off as just 'one of those things'. I also expected any of several reactions on his part: profuse apologies, attempts to help clean it up, most notably an offer to replace a drink I had bought myself and planned to nurse. But maybe he should get credit for trying unsuccessfully to get his friend to buy it. (The friend's natural response: "What, I didn't spill it!")

So, I was sticky-pantsed for the rest of the evening, and not in the British sense. Despite later attempts to put his arm around my waist, that was the closest Mr. Drink-dasher would be getting to my pants that night.


Worst Moment: David has a theory that in traveling through Africa, you are often forced to choose between idiots and scam-artists. Follow a friendly stranger to the bus stop only to arrive at his friend's pricey car-rental; listen to the receptionist's affirmatives to the question of two-bed rooms, only to find yourself in a room with one bed.
The taxi drivers in Accra are the worst I have ever encountered in my life. A typical Accra taxidriver conversation goes as follows:

Me (leaning over passenger window): Hi, do you know where such-and-such is?

Driver (slight hesitation imperceptible to the untrained eye): Yes.

Me: You do? You know it? Such-and-such?

Driver: Yes, of course, get in.

(price haggle, agreement, we get in. 30 seconds later:)

Driver: So ....you know where it is?

Me: What? No, you do..?

(awkward pause.)

Driver (gazing at me with blank look): So.. which way?

After several frustrating days we learned to take the wildly swerving tro-tros, local bus-minivans that fly around the city on somewhat regular routes for delightfully low prices. If we believed that the idiots were the worst of the taxis, however, we were wrong, and on our way out of Accra we met with the other brand - the scammer. After leading us on a bizarre route past our destination, over our cries of, "That's it..", he brought us to his own hood, where he and his buddies invented an imaginative narrative of white-man-trickery and delivered it to the astonished crowd, who then helped them rob David of four times the agreed price. Physical violence threatened to solve the issue in its own way, though the Arbiters prevented that from occurring. The Arbiters, who believed they were only restoring justice, at least ensured that we were only robbed of a small amount of money. Still, that was definitely the most awful moment of Ghana.

Best Moment: Forget the dirt, forget the scams, forget the occasional inconvenience, the single most difficult thing about traveling is being eternally dog-less. Not only to I have to put up with months of no dog-time, but most of the dogs I see are either in tough shape or ferile.

As usual, the religious paradigm via dogs and cats held in Ghana, and we found dogs as pets far more often than in Muslim areas. Best of all, our hotel in Cape Coast actually kept three dogs on site whose apparent purpose was to wander about, get patted on the head, sit at your chair while you ate/read/napped, and fall asleep on your shoes. A darling little spanielish-mix-of-something-or-other did all four. Sigh.

Could I live here: I loved Accra. While Ghana might be a bit boring in comparison with its more eccentric neighbors, I could easily see myself settling in Accra for a while. I would whizz around the city aboard the efficient tro-tros, take cheap lunches at curbside on-the-spot-kitchen stands, benefit from the academic community at one of West Africa's most prestigious universities, and go to live DJ hip-hop clubs at night. (And given a couple months to search, maybe I'd finally find that blasted 4x4 cd!)


"Traveling in Ghana was kind of like reading a book I'd already read," David commented shortly after we left the country. He kind of has a point there; Ghana didn't really bring any alarming surprises to the table, and we didn't expect that it would. Plenty of foreign tourists wandered with us through the slaver castles of the coast and the Asante museums of the center, and in many ways it didn't feel much different than going on holiday in the States. All the same, it is a very comfortable place to be, relaxed, welcoming, and organized, and I think even the pickiest of tourists could have a marvelous time here.

... Let's see how Côte d'Ivoire measures up.

sorry, again...

A few days ago, we were walking down the street and talking about probably nothing. To tell the truth, we were probably talking about nothing for the second or third time, dissecting its various subtleties and debating the various implications therein. During this likely pointless conversation we discovered that, to the day, we had been traveling for six months.

David: six months...?

me: yup.

David: huh.

me: huh.

Perhaps this fascinating exchange illustrates better than a thousand words could where things stand now. Pardon the long delay in posting, but I confess that I'm running out of things to say.


Thank goodness that the blog medium hardly pretends to any standards of quality.

God lives in Kalingbe Etoe

The first people I met in Ghana were the bored children of a village called Kalingbe Etoe. It was Sunday morning at about noon, and the kids were supposed to be in Sunday school; unfortunately for their Christian edification, however, it was one of those monthly-ish events in which market day happens to fall on a Sunday, and showing up to hear the Word of God the kids discovered their teacher had gone to market instead. All the non-marketing adults were apparently in church singing to the noisy accompaniment of a full band audible for miles around, leaving the children completely unsupervised. Now I can't speak for all Americans, but I know that if that had happened at the Sunday school of MY childhood, nothing short of smashed glassware, copious amounts of glue coating the floor and possibly walls, at least three injuries, and possibly a small fire would have broken out. These kids, however, were remarkably well-behaved, never once straying from the yard in front of their teacher-less classroom - not even when horrible temptation in the form of a random foreigner inexplicably walked by on their town's dirt road.

I was walking along their main dirt road under my purple-with-green-dinosaurs umbrella because it was also the direct route from the Togolese border to the nearest regional transport hub of Ho. I was walking as opposed to riding in the vehicle we had taken with a dozen other passengers from Kpalime, Togo because said vehicle had run out of gas a few kilometers back. The driver hastened off down the road in search of gas/a taxi-moto to take him to gas; after about ten minutes of boredom on the dusty road I followed him (albeit at a more rambling pace). I was delighted to discover Kalingbe Etoe, even more so when I realized that the entire adult population was at church and therefore not around to stare at/ harass me. I guess I don't mind child harassment as much, 'cos when the Sunday school class noticed me from the windows of their building and began calling out and wildly beckoning for me to come over, I just stood around and waved at them. I felt bad disappointing them, but it seemed like a bad idea to wander off the only road in town - and potentially miss the driver coming back from who-knows-where with gas. So I stood and waved, and then after a little while I wandered away. As has often happened to me on this trip, I found myself with nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there, so I just sort of floated around idly on the road between tin-roofed houses and watched butterflies.

Pretty soon the Sunday school class came to some sort of democratic decision that straying as far as the main road in order to get my attention wasn't really a sin; the older students verified the validity of this decision, and they all sprinted up to the roadside and resumed their calling and waving from where I had been standing. As talking to them would no longer require my leaving the road and missing any gas-bearing saviors, I decided, what the hey, and went over to say hello.

After the formalities, conducted via translation of the older sisters, I discovered their teacher-less plight. No sooner was it out than a younger child hatched a plan that gained immediate popularity : "Why don't YOU teach us!"

"Yes, yes!" the others echoed in angle-innocent chirping voices. "YOU can be our teacher!!"

It was like a horrible scene out of a white- man's-burden missionary novel. Small African children surrounding me on a dirt road, clapping and imploring me to teach them the wonders of Jesus, me looking all the more like a missionary for my wide Shari'a skirt. "Teach us, teach us!" they cry. A four-year-old grabs my hand to take me towards class, upturned face smiling sweetly at me. The CRU (Campus Crusade for Christ) kids I'd met touring Elmina's slave castle would have given their best Bibles for a moment like this. You know how the scene ends, don't you? Hand in hand, white lady wades through the children to the classroom to open a Bible and begin teaching in gentle tones about the love of Jesus Christ to smiling young faces, open ears, and naive hearts.

Fly in the ointment being, unfortunately, that I can't boast more than passing familiarity with Jesus H. Christ (H for holy, right?), don't really belong to a religion, and otherwise haven't got a clue about Bibleish schtuffs. Awkward.

"I think you know a whole lot more about the Bible than I do..." I began lamely, unwilling to shock them with my areligiosity. They chorused that this could not possibly be the case, and renewed their pleas.

For a moment I considered being their teacher anyway. I could pick any of a number of secular themes that line up nicely along Christian values: treat others as you would like to be treated, recognize when you've done something shameful, always remember to see the beauty in the world around you. Perhaps I could throw together something like a Sunday school class.

Then I remembered the gas, the waiting broken-down car, and had to decline. The crowd of kids generously gave me and my faith the benefit of the doubt, assuming they were missing out on some magnificent Bible-teaching, and grew terribly disappointed. (If only they knew.) We enjoyed learning each other's names, though, and high-fives all around concluded the meeting with high spirits. They waved goodbye for a long time as I walked away, back towards the broken-down bus, and I realized that if there is a god, those kids are probably a lot closer to him/her/it than I am.

Time in Togo

I really enjoyed Togo. Though we only had a few days here, we heartily enjoyed all of them, and I would love to come back here and get to know the country and people a bit more fully.

Food: Togo's food, though a bit difficult to distinguish from Benin's, is extraordinary in one delicacy that we enjoyed several times - freshly fried sausages, served in a French baguette and covered with a delicious tomato and onion sauce.
Best: on a rainy afternoon in Lome (the afternoon that was to reveal my umbrella's vulnerability to rust), David and I were ravenously trolling for a restaurant when we caught the scent of these sausages crackling over a street vendor's glowing coals. Cheap.. warm.. delicious. Why can't Nigeria do this?
Worst: I discovered in Togo where all the bad Beninese bottled water comes from.. the Togolese tap. Consistency of sweat, flavor of sewer... * YUM *.


New Feats of Tailoring Mastery: In all fairness, my backpack, dating from the eighth grade, has done more than a normal life's work. Ripped at the seams, zippers off-track, and a bottom so thin I could see (and even read) through it, my backpack was more than ready for the peace of the grave and backpack heaven.

Instead, it got an unexpected extension of servitude, thanks to a brilliant, fast, and cheap tailor and the amazing resilient qualities of furniture-quality vinyl.


New Hygienic Lows: It has only just occurred to me that by always talking as I am about how disgusting I am, I am perhaps giving the impression that Africa is somehow an inherently dirty place, and Africans, an inherently dirty people.

Allow me to pause on that note for a moment to say:
Nothing could be farther from the truth.

Blame the lifestyle, not the continent, for our general hygienic state - there's a reason no one ever needs elaboration on the phrase "smells like a backpacker". Though David and I could drop cows with our respective stenches (to say nothing of the damage we could do with combined forces, or those of our bags), we are generally the only people here who can. Even smell aside, Africans generally dress far better than Americans, and manage to look classy even if they're just hawking things on the street. Money's not a hugely abundant resource here, true, so a person might have just a few outfits - but among these, be assured, will be a reasonably nice button-down dress shirt or a dress, complete with dress shoes and perhaps a necklace or a tie. On the other hand, the few white people you do see wandering around non-touristed areas stand out starkly from everyone else less for their skin color, and more because they look like they just got dragged through Hell backwards. Dripping with sweat, shirts stained with dirt, backpacks repellent enough to deter unnecessary contact, and hair a general disaster, they look, more or less, like us.

The clean and perfumed Africans are good enough not to visibly lean away from us in the close quarters of share taxis. One does feel bad for them for that.


Best New Guesses at My Nationality: Friendly and bored of their work, a few persistent but unlucky Togolese guessers set themselves to guessing my nationality. I hadn't really gotten the label of 'Spanish' before. Nor, after all other European countries, Canada, and the possibility of Asia had been exhausted (without the US ever once being guessed) and it was thus determined that I had lied somewhere, have I ever been accused of secretly being Spanish - or possibly Dutch, there was some disagreement there - and just covering it up.

One wonders.. ¿por que?


Coolest Thing Learned: At the tiny national museum, extremely informative displays taught me everything that I've ever wondered about African pots. Sounds boring, but let me tell you something I've realized since arriving in Africa last December - pots are where it's at. This industry is more than just an archaic craft, or tradition-turned-tourist-trap, for pots still play a huge role in daily African life. You see massive ones in desert areas under trees or outside houses for water; you see big kettle-sized ones lined up in the market for sale or containing grain; you see smaller ones balanced atop women's heads as they go about their business. They're so ordinary, maybe dusty, maybe cracked, maybe painted, maybe plain, yet each one manages to look so very distinctive and they never fail to catch my eye. At a conservative estimate, I have probably taken a couple hundred pictures of pots.

(Does this mean I am repressing something?)


Unexpected Moral Lessons: In general, I found the Togolese to be remarkably fun and laid-back, even for Africa, and we had very little trouble getting fair prices for goods and services in the country. Only once did a demi-zhan (motorcycle taxi) try to rip me off - after the bike I was on broke down pre-destination, I got on another and named a price as we began to take off. Though the price was definitely fair (we were already somewhat close), he decided to press the point and began to fight my price - at which point I stopped him anyway because I realized we were only a block away from my hotel.

He shoulda taken the first thing I offered... it would have been about three times too much for the five-second trip anyway.


New Strategic Triumphs in the War On Mosquitos (In Which I Enjoin All Humankind): The BugBivvy, high-tech and high-assembly, may work well for the cool summer nights of its Pennsylvanian origin, but in the sweltering, airless, mosquito-infested hotel chambers of Nigeria, it was like ensconcing myself in a sticky, stuffy plastic bag. Not to mention that more than a few mosquitos demostrated the galling ability to bite me just as well through the mesh fabric. Task A in Paris: send BugBivvy home with my sister, and buy a normal net for eight euros at Decathalon.

Set up the normal hanging mesh net for the first time in Lome, creating an instant pyramid of bug-free airspace on top of my bed. Light, simple, and effective... and I am pleased as punch.

It must be admitted, however, that this triumph is restricted to defensive purposes - also important, but necessarily secondary to Objective Numero Uno : Offense. Keep your towel handy.


Quote: In a craft market in the capital, I got to talking with Jean-Marie, a fun guy my age, about politics. He, of course, wanted to know whether I'd voted for Obama. Upon hearing that I had, he cheered, before pressing further: "But did you vote for him three times??"

"No!" I blurted, scandalized, "that's not allowed--?!"

"Ha!" he gloated. "Me, I voted three times in our last election."

He was enjoying the successive wave of laughter around those assembled, until someone else cut his glory short with a snide "But your guy didn't win, did he..."

"No.." Jean-Marie (hereafter known as Three-Votes) conceeded soberly, "he didn't win."

You've gotta be pretty good to beat triplicate votes, and I asked, "So who did win?" before realizing what a dumb-ass I am, and answering it myself: "oh.. the former president."

"Right," they confirmed. "the former president." One man grinned at Three-Votes and riled him, "Democracy's great..."

But before I left the alley, Three-Votes apparently had an attack of prudence (if not conscience), and hastened to clear up one last thing - "But you never asked who it was that I voted for three times!"

I played along. "Who?"

"Well, Faure Gnassingbe, of course..." ...the current (and former) president.

(Democracy's great.)


Worst experience: I mentioned one of two big direction-asking nightmares.. in Togo we definitely hit the other. I call this one Yellow Poncho after Dane Cook, who does a skit about his time working at a Burger King drive-through. After taking one woman's order and instructing her to drive around to the pick-up window, the woman - a first-timer? - apparently paused and asked in a lost, pitiful voice: ".... But... where do I go???"

Dane Cook, being Dane Cook, took the opportunity to launch into a detailed explanation involving leaving the parking lot and a following a series of complicated directions, culminating with the line, "then you're gonna see a man in a YELLOW PONCHO... he will take you to The Burger King."

It's hilarious when Dane Cook does it as a joke, but as dirt is my witness we occasionally get this same routine when asking for directions.
Applying to get a visa is normally a manner of going to the country's consulate, filling out a form, and surrendering your passport, a couple photos, and (in the case of Niger) all the money you own. The Consulate in Lome, however, told us with completely straight faces that in order to get a Cote-d'Ivoirian visa, we should exit the embassy, go around the corner to the local bank, walk in and drop the keyword Cote-d'Ivoire to a teller, who would then slip us a card with a number on it, so we could find a telephone booth and call to get an appointment at that same Consulate the next morning at 8 to talk about a visa application.

Yeah.. that's a yellow poncho alright. (We both said, 'screw it.')


Best experience: A lot of our in-city transport in the past few months has taken place atop okadas, demi-zhans, or taxi-motos as they're variously called through East and West Africa - speeding motorcycles or scooters that zoom around and in between notorious African traffic or along the edges of flooded or tiny roads. In Kpalime, we took two taxi-motos 12 km out of the city to see a stunning waterfall we'd read about. I admit, I was rather expecting the Chutes of Lukia again, but the drive out alone was worth it. My driver soon revealed himself to be a bit of a speed-demon, but talentedly so, so no regrets here. I'm more of a downhill skier than a cross-country, (though each has their very distinct and unique merits) and for me there could be nothing finer than roaring along the little road, lush green landscape flying by, wind whipping in your face, whizzing past men bearing firewood and women with babies and head-loads.

I was seriously wrong about expecting Chutes de Lukia's cousin, though... which makes the memory even better.

Once burned, sun-burned

When the lovely new umbrella I bought in Equatorial Guinea broke its first spoke before the end of the afternoon and crumpled into ragged plastic fabric hanging from meaningless metal spikes a day later in Cameroon, I took a holy oath not to buy another until we reached Europe. My enchantment with the collapsible umbrella, despite its brevity, had been quite keen, and I felt the betrayal of its unexpectedly final collapse just as keenly. So, I stubbornly continued to use the flimsy rag-draped spokes against an African summer sun that stubbornly continued to suck the life out of anything it touched. Pride kept me from admitting that I had been had by the wily umbrella merchant of Malabo, and that pride won me many friends across Cameroon and through northern Nigeria- right up to the unfortunate (David would challenge that adjective) day when I left it behind in a share-taxi crossing the border to desert Niger.

Thus umbrella-less, I wilted in the scorching Saharan sun for the rest of Niger, fending off David's exhortations to buy another with the once-burned remark that I had been down that road before, thanks very much.

After we crossed back into Nigeria, however, an umbrella in Kaduna managed to catch even my jaded eye. It was a kiddie umbrella, tiny and blue with a bootlegged image of Mickey Mouse over the auspicious words, "Little World". To open it, you pushed a little plastic button and pop! Mickey Mouse waved at you upside down in the shade interior. When I saw the toy plastic whistle attached, I was sold.

Not so sold I would pay another six dollars for it, though; whistles are all well and good but, as I explained to the umbrella-man, there was absolutely no way I was gonna pay more than about a buck-fifty for something that would barely make it through the day.
"It won't break," he tried to insist.
"Yes, it will," I decreed with bitterness aged like a fine liquor, and bought it for $1.50 (220 naira).

He was right. I was wrong. It did not break on the first day, it did not break on the second, and by the third day of continued use I was ecstatic. I discovered other uses for it - poking other people, smacking things, twirling in the air - that considerably heightened my appreciation for the umbrella even after my excitement over the whistle wore off. David, devoted lobbyist for an umbrella-purchase and chief broker of the sale, began to regret his former advocacy.

I was not in the slightest discouraged by his diminishing support, for it was replaced by random passersby. As we traveled south, I began to get comments about the umbrella - "Ooh, that's a nice umbrella" - from strangers that confirmed my convictions about how great it truly was. And, as I was to discover in an Abuja motor-park, I had apparently gotten a pretty good deal.

A bit loopy after four hours' unsuccessful wait for a share-taxi and sick of seeing the same hawkers again and again, I realized that if you can't beat 'em... The next man who wandered my way to offer me a SIM charge-card, I instead jumped on him and asked him whether he wouldn't like to buy a great umbrella.

The vendor was surprised but not deterred, and after sizing it up carefully, asked me what it would cost him. Naturally I had no real intention of parting with such a magnificent umbrella, but it was the only thing I was holding and I deemed it imprudent to bandy about suggestive offers about clothing.

"A thousand naira," I loftily declared, convinced this was far too high a price for him to do anything but scoff and walk away.
Scoff he did - "Ah!", the short, high-pitched Nigerian squawk of disapproval - but walk away he did not. He was highly entertained (as were most of the other hawkers, herders, and vendors lounging in the lethargic motor-park) but more than that, he willing to negotiate. "200 naira," he offered.
Now it was my turn to squawk. "Ah! I paid more even than that when I bought it." I went to walk away, but the umbrella had now caught his eye, too. "Come down," he insisted, referring to my absurd price tag, and when I joked that even 800 might not be worth it, he instantly jumped to 500. From there we stale-mated - it was too dangerous at this point for me to even joke about going down to a reasonable price - and I began to maintain a more vigilant clutch on my umbrella against David (who heard the N500 offer with glee, and was more than willing to make a 250% profit). By the time we had finally left, the hawker had edged up to 550 without any encouragement from me, and I discovered a lost calling if I ever chose to live in Nigeria.. umbrella merchant.

The umbrella, for its part, continued to serve me well, even to the point of making (oh how melodramatic) the ultimate sacrifice in Lagos. I was walking that morning along the edge of the road, watching a BMW back towards me at high speed. I believed, with inappropriate confidence in the driver's mastery of basic safety principles, that he would stop or at least slow down before he got close to me. I was, after all, hardly the only obstacle along the side of the curb, it was a pretty quiet street, and he was moving backwards. By the time I realized my mistake the sedan was about five feet away and closing fast, too close for me to retreat from and too fast for me to dodge, and it was time for an urgent decision. Even in the moment I had a fleeting regret about sacrificing my umbrella, but my arm couldn't reach far enough and by the time it did it wouldn't be the only bump he heard. So instead, I brought my umbrella down hard on the trunk several times. Success; the driver lurched to a stop a few inches from my hip. I walked forward past the driver's window and snapped rather crankily at him, "You could have killed me!" before stalking on my way. It was unnecessary; the look on his face showed he had come to the same conclusion.

The umbrella (the true victim) came away from its battle better than I expected, as the bludgeoning side, though bent, had not snapped at all during the barrage it rained down upon the BMW's bumper and trunk. That event was to mark the beginning of the end, however.. though I refused to admit it at first, the damaged spokes couldn't sustain their share of the fabric, and it began to slip off. Furthermore, our first real rain in Benin revealed that my umbrella was apparently not meant for adverse weather, and within minutes of getting wet the pole began to rust. Still I clung to the umbrella, using the lubricant for the water filter pump to revive its opening ability (and that delightful push-button pop). David began to agitate for another umbrella purchase (I think it's just the buying that he enjoys), and when we saw another umbrella just like the first in Togo - this one was purple, with dancing green dinosaurs and yellow goat-things - we bought it on the spot. David doesn't know it yet, but I'm actually only using purple-dinosaurs to extend the lifespan of little-world a bit longer, and far from chucking it, have got it stashed away inside my suitcase. (Small as it is, the suitcase is yet smaller, so the curved blue plastic handle and whistle poke out of it at one end, but I have confidence that it's still safe from damage.) As it stands now, I am (dare I say it) cautiously entertaining hopes of little-world making it through the next two months to end-point Dakar, in which case it will definitely be among the six (6) items I have that I ever want to see again after this trip. (And to give perspective on the priority there, the first is my passport, and the second, my camera.) Wish little-world luck!

Benin: bordering Chaos...

... but definitely not bordering on chaos.

After Nigeria, David and I flew to Paris for six days of much-needed (if not much-deserved) recovering. David celebrated his arrival, as I found out later, by promptly getting as sick as a dog and christened the first clean toilet he'd seen in weeks by vomiting into it. I, however, have different ideas about fun, and spent the time in the most fantastic catch-up and relaxation with my sister, aunt, a friend, a spoiled fat black lab, and an equally fat drooling cat.

Couldn't have asked for anything better.

I returned to Nigeria with a fresh stock of granola bars and a steely countenance. There was no power at the hotel, or fresh water, or food to be had in the area, but I didn't flinch. The lip-bruise I'd been given as a parting gift had almost faded (who knew lips could bruise?), so I figured it was about time for Nigeria to punch me again, and kept my wits warily about me.

But Nigeria didn't have time after all.. for the morning after we got in, David comes into my room, ravenous and desperate, fobs a granola bar off my stash, and says the most beautiful words ever uttered: "I'm sick of this too. Let's go to Benin."

Most Amazing Event: When we got to Cotonou, we asked if they had rooms with two beds. They said yes. This in and of itself was not terribly surprising, as the Nigerian answer to any question is always, 'Yes.' (''Do you have internet?' 'Yes.' 'Can we use it?' 'Yes.' [move to use it] 'Oh, sorry, no connection now.' You get jaded after the fifth time.) BUT THEN THE STAFF SHOWED US A ROOM THAT ACTUALLY HAD TWO BEDS IN IT.

The shock was muted, however, by the fact that the hotel didn't have power. The porter's assurance that it would be back "in five or ten minutes" won him only a do-you-really-think-I-believe-that? look from me, but he had the last laugh - because it was. In almost no time at all, the light worked, the fan worked, and though I would not have believed it for any amount of money, our arrival really had coincided with a random, temporary, ten-minute loss of power.

Most Shocking Event: Spending so long in a country with no power, I forgot how, er, powerful it can be. At an internet cafe in Cotonou, I was typing happily away when there was suddenly a very loud SNAP in my ears (David told me it sounded like the crack of a starting gun, or a motorcycle backfire). Simultaneously I felt a nasty pain in both my hands that flew up my arms, and a huge punch to my chest that shot me backwards in my chair.

As a rather careless and stupid child, I periodically experienced electric shocks that unfortunately continued into adulthood. The latest of these dates from last October, when I tried to fix the stereo and instead felt a little pinch that flew from my fingertips up my arm, across my chest, and down the other in a flash. I don't actually mind electric shocks for their oddness; the pain comes and goes so instantaneously that the only thing left is your stunned surprise, a bit of soreness, and an odd little thrill.

This, however, was completely different. The pain was definitely intense enough to be remembered: my arms both felt as though they had been slammed in a heavy door, and my chest hurt awfully and yet so weirdly - like everything there was numb. I realized that my heart was doing something weird and began to listen for my pulse, panicking for the moment it took before it started up again. It felt so good to feel it going that I just sat there for a moment enjoying it (maybe a bit 'in shock'?). The bang had stopped life in the internet cafe, and when I looked up I realized that everyone was staring at me. The staff were collected around my chair, just as surprised as I was, with no explanation for what had happened. From what it felt like and how my hands were positioned on the metal desk edge, I would guess that an exposed wire somewhere came into contact with the desk, upon which both my wrists were resting, sending an immediate jolt via artery into my heart from both sides.

Though I wasn't much in the mood for jokes at the time, I couldn't help but think that perhaps Africa was just trying to make up for all the internet and electricity I had been deprived of in Nigeria... three weeks' worth, in one go.

Coolest (if falsest) Event: Benin has more traditional voudou culture than most other countries in the region, giving it a really cool link to Haitian culture (and an awesome way to trap tourists). At an overpriced and garishly painted cement 'temple' in Ouida, David and I both fell victim to SNAKE-WEARING SILLINESS!! (And there are pictures to prove it!!)

New Hygienic Lows: I cannot ever remember hating my hair as much as I have come to hate it on this trip. I wash it regularly, with little to no aesthetic effect. Honestly, only the repeated begging of my mother and a few friends is keeping me from having done with it and just shaving my head. (But if at least three people reply to this urging what the hey, go for it, I'm gonna do it.)

Food: Beninese food easily earned massive points from David and I in the simple quality of not being Nigerian. In that, it is both edible and easily available. Breakfast on benches at a curbside omelette stand; fresh pastry from a colonial-holdover bakery; meat, rice, and deliciously spiced peas for dinner. It was not anything special in and of itself, or exceptional from other African cuisine (particularly West African), but for us, each meal was a culinary masterpiece.
Best eaten: I had really missed Lebanese food in Nigeria.. fantastic Cotonou more than made up for it!
Other than that, my best meal was, ironically, the meal I expected to enjoy the least. After discovering that the only apparent restaurant in Ouida was de-facto nonoperational, we turned to a streetside hot-eats stall to just put something in growling stomachs. The omelette I had there, fluffy, hot, full of sauteed onions and spiced with a small pepper, is definitely among the best of my life.
Worst: Benin has reliable, fresh running water, and it actually tastes really good, too. But for reasons neither of us could figure out, instead of drinking the good cold stuff coming out of the tap, Beninese will take the narstiest-tasting water you have ever smelled, bottle it, and sell it - to themselves - at high prices. ..?

Quote: From a couple Peace Corpsers we met in Grand Popo, on the distinct difference between Nigerian beggars (who will follow you around for an hour) and Beninois beggars (who give up almost before they begin) : "Well, I guess the mentality here is different.. I mean, yeah, they could beg from you.. or they could also sit down."

People: I run the risk of sounding like a broken record when I talk about African personalities, and unfortunately am in no position to distinguish subtle cultural traits between neighboring nations. So, I'll just leave it by saying: I like Beninese a lot! They are friendly, mellow, and good to be around.. which continues to be true of Africans in general!

I admit, I do miss Nigerians.. the intense diaspora means I will still get to have them in my life to an extent, but dilution by other more mellow African nationalities definitely takes some of the fun out of it. Some time I will have to post what it was like flying from calm, quiet, orderly Europe in a planeful of calm, quiet, orderly Nigerian expats.. as we neared Lagos, you could feel the craziness retaking the plane in exponentially increasing intensity.

Worst Experience: We had a heck of a time in the capital trying to find a bus down the coast, and suffered from one of the big two direction-asking nightmares, the one David calls "Smoke down the road". We call it that because no matter how far you go, or who you ask, whatever it is you're looking for is just down the next block.. just around that next corner.. just keep going past that yellow building.. each of these, of course, delivered line by line from a succession of different locals, who couple each one-line instruction with the spirit-crushing "Then just ask someone."

Increasingly large concentric circles are thus drawn on foot for an hour or two around the spot in which, according to the Authoritative Lonely Planet Travel Guide Map, our destination is located.

Best Experience: The snakes are high on the list, the sheer joy of infrastructure is also high, but perhaps highest of all are the two lazy afternoons we spent being beach blobs in tiny Grand Popo.

Could I live here? After Nigeria? You bet. In fact, being so close, I could day-trip across the border to Lagos to pick up some of the best hip-hop in West Africa, have a laugh with the locals, and be back in Cotonou in time for a delicious dinner.

Yes, that could work very nicely.

Government by the people

While we say we have democracy and the free market in the West, we don't really employ it at anything other than a macro-governmental level. Even then it's more republican - government by representative - than direct governance by citizens. Heck, we don't even elect our president.. those enigmatic elector chaps do.

Shift a few time zones to the east, and you arrive on a continent notorious for the tendency of its governments to creatively reinterpret democratic institutions. Legislatures serve to approve the decisions of the rulers; judiciaries serve to legitimize them. Elections are regime birthday parties. National security and presidential security are blurred to the point of serving the same function. Welcome to Africa, home of some of the world's longest-ruling/ most-murdering/ best-manipulating rulers in the world... and several of my favorites among them. Speaking of which, may I dedicate this entire entry to the all-too-timely passing of one of the longest.. Rest In Conscience, Omar Bongo. Perhaps now Gabon finally has its own decades-late shot at free and fair elections, but from the critical vantage point of many of my jaded countrymen, democracy anywhere on the continent too often has an icicle's chance in hell.

But in the most interesting way, at the most basic level Africa has stripped away all the trash we pile on top of popular rule and the free market. Welcome to Africa, the world's last preserve of Micro-Democracy.

You see it in the haggling - in a world where the only real price is the price you're willing to pay, there is no such thing as vendor decree. Instead, the buyer (me) and the seller (her) settle on a balance, some number in the hopefully overlapping ranges of the highest price I'm willing to pay, and the lowest price at which she can still make a profit. There is a price below which the sale is no longer worth it to her, and a corresponding price above which the item isn't worth it to me. The haggle system is idyllic in that it favors the perfect result every time - a compromise in which the buyer walks away happy because they found an item they wanted/needed at an acceptable price, and the vendor goes home happy because she made the highest profit possible.

The system is attended by all the non-governmental controls theory predicts - with more time than money, consumers will check their wares over carefully before purchase, and vendors know that low-quality or spoiled wares either won't sell well, or won't sell at all. Even under most dictatorships, the micro-economy will still continue to function under democratic principles. It's as simple as that, it's Friedrich Hayek's dream - it's a free market.


You see it in the group compromise - when David warned me early on that I wouldn't always be able to open my window on a stuffy bus, I understood him to mean that the windows were often stuck shut. (Which they are.) I accepted that, but couldn't believe what he had actually meant - that other people in the bus not wanting my window open would mean I couldn't have it open.

"What do you mean, other people??" I demanded indignantly, fresh in my righteous American individualism. "It's my window, they can keep their own windows open or closed however they like."

He warned me that such an attitude might not get far, and he was right - in shock would I discover that the cross Ethiopian women sitting meters away from me in the bus could actually claim power over the window right next to my face. The force at work was one I came to appreciate (and, in time, also use) - crowd appeal. If the women could convince a few other people to ally with them against just me, they already had a clear majority to my minority, and even the window-apathetic factions in the bus would recognize their right to tell an outvoted minority what to do with her window. I wallowed in scandalized outrage each time this happened, each time I was consigned to gasping away the dusty hours in a 100°F bus only millimeters of glass away from the fresh air outside, just because some dumb #@$*% didn't want to mess up her hair. It's probably pretty obvious that a part of me still hasn't gotten over this. But I've learned to accept the fairness behind it - even small affairs I intend to control myself will be subject to a democratic system of approval or repeal.


You see it in the power of popular pressure - I perhaps did not truly appreciate the fairness of crowd appeal until a memorable pick-up ride in Zanzibar. We had paid the herder with a large bill for the trip, and asked the price from him; upon inquiring from other passengers in the truck bed what the real fare was, we asked him for our change. Seeking to squeeze a little extra profit out of the situation, he first feigned ignorance, then denied what the other passengers said, before finally decreeing that it didn't matter since we were foreigners anyway. The awkward discussion grew increasingly heated in the small benched space until he and David flew into equal and opposite rages.

Despite all David's fury, without the resource of crowd appeal, we would probably never have seen our ten bucks again. As it was, David and I enlisted the quiet sympathy of the other passengers, all of whom had witnessed the situation and all of whom knew the exact fare. Though the herder might have been able to convince just one other person to go along with him on grounds of racial solidarity, in the face of a local crowd he had no choice but eventual capitulation.

The ultimate returning of change was judiciously, impartially, and professionally brokered by the two men across from David, a senior Muslim and a middle-aged businessman who emerged by their status and age as Arbiters. (This, by the way, is just as important a personality as any I've ever talked about before - even more interesting than the Shopper - and has become by far my favorite.) Their calm counsel was understood to represent the local opinion, and they were thus able to exert far more pressure on the herder to relinquish our money than any threat we could have made. Popular pressure demanded that he back down, and popular pressure alone upheld the standards of fairness.


And when members of society break that trust, you see it in the instant (and all too excessive) public justice. While in areas of tension this goes dangerously overboard, in daily life it serves to settle disputes fairly - as in Zanzibar - or punish unacceptable behavior. A guilty party may present to those present their excuses or mitigating factors - think of it as an instant trial, with a jury of witnesses. A judge (the Arbiter) emerges naturally among the bystanders as a local authority, perhaps a senior member of the community, or just someone who can command a presence of calm impartiality and reason. Redress is decided upon and carried out, and in irreparable cases the transgressors of acceptable conduct are punished with shaming.

I'm not sure if this would work in the private, individual culture of the United States, where scorned refractory citizens are all too happy to retreat from the public eye to the sacred territory of their own home (or the internet). Here in Africa, however, to be shamed is worse than a slap. The power of public shame is immense, the mere threat of which serves to hold together the delicate trust fibers of one of Africa's best inventions - Window Shopping.

I was blown away the first time I ever witnessed the window shopping. Though I wouldn't have imagined it, it was impossibly simple - as vehicles slow for police roadblocks or speed-bumps, locals from neighboring villages run up to the car or bus windows bearing goods for sale in their hands or on their heads. Passengers roll down their windows or lean down from high seats to peruse the wares, which most often are local produce, but occasionally other food or crafts.

In creating thus the potential for direct producer--consumer exchange at minimum prices and maximum profit, the window market makes perfect sense.. until you remember that it's taking place on one side from the interior of a barely paused vehicle, and sometimes at a vertical distances so great participants have to throw things at each other. All too often transactions are completed as the vendor begins to jog alongside the bus, hand outstretched to catch that last coin as it drops from the window, or holding the purchased sack of freshly fried dough-balls towards receding fingertips. Yet I have almost never seen a failed sale. Each time the buyer manages to catch all his purchases, and the vendor (often a kid), all his coins.

As an American I never understood this - what's to make sure I really do toss down my coins after my wares are thrown up? I'd only have to hold out a moment before the bus began to move, and then I'd be scot-free. Or alternatively, what's to stop them from grabbing the coins and scampering off if I throw down first, or if I don't have exact change? One of us has to go first, and neither of us is in a position to protest if the other doesn't follow through.

David and I discussed this through several countries before deciding that in the case of a cheating vendor, the passenger must ask the driver to stop; likewise, against a cheating customer, the locals must flag the driver down. This didn't really provide a satisfying explanation, however, because what's to say the bus-driver cooperates? or even hears over the oft-blaring radio? We still wondered.

Our Congolese train trip killed this fledgling theory beyond any resuscitation, for despite the conductor being insulated from any appeal dozens of cars away, the window market was as strong as ever. Yet it also ultimately revealed the true explanation behind why the window market works in

As we delayed for a 'croisement', women and kids from the neighboring villages swarmed below the train windows with platters on their heads. Aside from the varied produce were bottled drinks, plastic sacks, clothes, grilled meat, and tupperware, but I wasn't paying much attention to the market. When we finally started rolling again, a clamor taking place outside the bus drew even my sleepy, jaded attention; women and kids were screaming and began to run alongside the train, now gathering speed. Other locals noticed and began to yell also, smacking on the side of the car below the high windows and attracting the notice of the other passengers, who instantly got involved. A female Arbiter emerged from the seat behind me - she was a really cool, friendly lady with natural presence - and pushed her way up the crowded aisle to sort out the situation. As it was all conducted in a local language, I couldn't follow the details, but it was pretty obvious that a man on the train had somehow cheated the woman still sprinting alongside the train, yelling with energy but falling behind. The Arbiter was pissed at such a clear breach of the window-market trust, and the entire train car fell silent as things got ugly. Though it was kind of too late for payment, it was our impression that under popular pressure, he did throw the last few coins out the window for the woman to hopefully find later; excuses were muttered but not accepted, and as the Arbiter made her way back to her seat, her stony face signalled the response of the entire train car, quietly united in their disapproval of this one man.

I imagine that the remaining 6 hours in the crowded car were not very pleasant for him. Maybe it was worth the 80 cents for him. Maybe in American eyes, he still got away with it. But here in Africa, where 80 cents can mean a lot of money, the honor is still worth more.


So Africa may not be a champion of democracy as we know it, but it definitely employs government by the people. Democracy can be a bit thin at the national level, and it isn't always assured that your government will watch your back.. but at least you know that the people will.

The Nigerian Powerhouse

Oh, Nigeria... We spent over three weeks here. Nigeria is second to none in Africa for its literature, culture, religious fervor, personality, music, or promise of fun'n'games for the odd traveler, but I will admit: These were among the longest three weeks of my life.


Daily Life: It is meaningless to speak of "rolling blackouts" or "chronic water shortage" when you talk about Nigerian infrastructure, for that actually assumes a basic level of functionality for the rest of the time. Instead visualize a country in which there is neither power nor water outside a personal generator and bucket, in which you will be informed that the generator will be on for three hours in the evening so do your reading/ unpacking/ hygiene then; in which a several-hour stretch of sustained partial electricity is cause for celebration or alarm. I learned that bucket baths can deliver a rather satisfying splash if your hotel hasn't been too pressed for water, but as stinky as I get every day here they don't cut it after more than a few days. Lagos is plagued with such traffic that only a fool (or a foreigner) would take a taxi instead of a taxi-motorcycle, but it's no wonder when you watch a single chaotic intersection and realiwe there is no power for the traffic lights to direct cars. Alone at night, lie awake listening to the terrifying whine of mosquitos above you in a pool of your own sweat in a dark, airless hotel bed, dark and airless because there is no power to operate the fan and mosquito-infested because with only a flashlight, how are you supposed to kill them?

The basic problem of traveling through Nigeria seems to boil down to a simple truth - Nothing Works. Industry suffers because no company can afford to run each day the massive gasoline-guzzling generators meant to provide insurance against a temporary brownout. Business struggles to compete in a world of internet and international exchange with no power. At Nigeria's main international airport, electricity problems routinely delay flights from Europe and Asia from landing or taking off for hours. You can't blame the airport staff or air-traffic controllers, trying to maintain procedure with no electronic equipment, but in a world of delicately interbalanced economic deals and innovative competition Nigeria can't afford to lose face so badly in front of the international community. The worst part is that Nigeria is actually a hugely resource-rich country. Powerful rivers, oil and mineral deposits, extremely fertile land, easily navigated geography, abundant labor and obvious talent.. Nigeria is drowning in her own potential.

I'm no expert on Nigerian economy and politics, but the problems largely seem to boil down to a level of corruption that has won Nigeria fame on every continent. The top levels of the government routinely siphon off most of the revenue at the cost of national services, and every level below right down to the secretary follows suit as much as they can. The motive is not greed but survival, because below the top, no one is getting paid. Westerners think of the bribe-demanding policeman as unprincipled, but who knows when he last received his salary?


Music: So nothing works in the country, but what better a situation to create awesome music? Even if it is almost impossible to find unpirated versions of their work (which is a shame because they deserve massive worldwide support), Nigerian musicians are incredibly talented and I picked up well over a dozen CDs. The best among all of the highly varied and uniquely valuable styles, in my opinion, is the hip-hop. Eedris Abdul Kareem, TwoFace, P-Square, even less artistically impressive crowdpleasers like Dare would absolutely bowl over the American rap scene if American consumers ever got a whiff of it.

I am now in the awkward position of wanting to support the artist, and not actually being able to from the United States. Thinking of writing Google and begging them to start up an international paid music-exchange, in which artists from any country, with or without a label, could connect directly to consumers thousands of miles away. It would have to be big, it would have to be fast, and it would have to be very legit to be taking credit card numbers, but it could revolutionize the global music scene unimaginably.


Most Confusing Ad: I have reason to believe that the following advertising slogan is in English, as that is the only universal language all over Nigeria (there are several strong regional languages that are also international in the region, but I saw this ad in the Hausa, Yoruba, and Igbo areas, and it was the same each time):

FULL GROUND! You sef fit win!

It was accompanied each time by the same gleeful man on a green background clutching a soft drink. I'm not sure what exactly was at stake here, but I'm pretty sure winning was somehow involved.


New Hygienic Lows: Let's stay away from discussing the implications of what may have only been half a dozen showers in the month of May, and touch instead on another issue..
Not even in the States did I typically wash clothes after only wearing them once, given a relative state of cleanliness was maintained; it just seemed wasteful and (let's be honest) it's a pain. Here I have continued this practice out of necessity without that "if still clean" caveat; needless to say within an hour of putting something on it would probably qualify for immediate washing even by my lax standards. As it is, we just can't do that whild traveling, and our clothing sometimes gets a bit... musty. I have now reached the point where certain of my staple wardrobe pieces are still stained after they come back from laundering. Amid my disgust is a quietly growing excitement to never have to touch these clothes again after August 16th.


Best Public Service Announcement: Very appropriately posted in a bus station in Jos with a picture of a man and a woman: "HIV/AIDS: No fit stop for this journey. MAKE WE TALK."


Quotes: A really friendly girl in a share taxi gave me my favorite Nigerian quote without ever realizing what she was saying. Upon hearing that I was headed to the capital within the next few days, she began to gush about how much she liked it, saying, "Oh, Abuja is so beautiful!! .. it doesn't even look like Nigeria."


Food: About three months ago, discussing a rather disappointing meal in Nairobi, David says to me: "Nigerian food is really bad."

I wanted to know how. Was it unvaried? Unhealthy? Composed of low-quality ingredients? Or just very different from a European palette? An entire nation of people can't completely give up on creating tasty daily subsistence, there must be some subjectivity there, or an unusual problem.

"I don't know how," David admitted. "It just is. It just tastes really bad."

I smugly informed him that I was well-used to foul-tasting confectionery, offering a few choice meal examples from the very old-school island where I used to live. Alive or dead, cooked or not, I had probably eaten worse, and felt no great alarm at whatever Nigeria threatened to throw my way.

Just in case, though, I stocked up on a few granola bars.

It's embarassing how wrong I often am, particularly on those same points I love to brag about. Miss Eats-Anything went through those granola bars within the first eight days. Time and time again I ordered a new Nigerian dish, only to wince at the first stench of it being brought out from the kitchen and gag a little on the first bite. The best of it was bland or mildly bitter, a few times even conveying a satisfyingly dull weight that at least promised to keep you full. The worst of it I could barely smell without wanting to retch. I kept trying to eat it, though, which (combined with the imitation swine flu and a delightful bout of food poisoning in Lagos) had the effect that I felt sick almost all of May. The worst part is that finding other, non-local food is often extraordinarily hard. I allowed myself to be led into Mr. Bigg's, a fast-food joint serving some Nigerian blah alongside the usual uspects and - its saving grace - soft-serve vanilla ice cream. After my third bone-fragment-filled bite of a meat pastry pie, I put it down and formally announced that I would be living off soft-serve ice cream for the rest of Nigeria. Unsurprisingly this didn't do much for my continually heaving stomach, but at least it was much pleasanter.


People: So it was kind of miserable to travel through Nigeria, there was nothing to eat, I was almost always sick and almost never sleeping.... but like any country, there is always the saving grace. Though it would surprise certain landlords, in Nigeria it is the people.

A huge percentage of Nigerians live in a permanence of desperation from which they hope to exit by some supernatural or pseudo-magical means. Game shows are popular, as are prayer books promising immediate success in academics and business. A lot of conceived plots for self-betterment seem, frankly but unsurprisingly, to hinge upon leaving the motherland and heading west.

But perhaps adversity is the mother of wit, for it is such a delight to be around Nigerians! There is definitely never a dull moment, and I don't care if one out of two might be formulating a creative ruse for relieving me of the 3.1 million dollars they imagine I possess. Hassled by their corrupt government, frustrated by the lack of services, bright but desperate for a job other than hawking SIM recharge cards and (though they wouldn't agree with me) subsisting on the foulest food in the world, Nigerians still have more personality than the populations of ten other countries combined. The sense of humour, the friendly welcome, the cynical perseverence, and one of the richest musical, art, and literatary traditions on the continent.. Nigerians are the Irish of Africa.

There you have it : The people are why you come to Nigeria.. but since they're all trying to leave anyway, you don't have to bother.


Best Moment: Discussing the meaning and consequences of dictatoship with the serious, intelligent, and generously welcoming MSc students of the prestigious Ahmadu Bello University in Zaria.


Worst Moment: On the morning of our last day in Nigeria, I was trying to open the window to let a little air into the stuffy (powerless) room when the metal casement broke and smacked me in the face. My mouth filled with blood and in a twinkling my lip was the size of a marble. In the midst of the pain the random phrase popped into my head - just one last punch to the face from Nigeria - and made me start laughing hysterically. David came in just then and, what with the bloody swollen lip, had to ask whether I was laughing or crying. I wasn't sure which myself, but for half an hour I couldn't stop, or get that out of my head: just one last punch to the face.


Could I live here? When I was told I would have to come back to the country for even a day after our European jaunt, I began to cry/laugh a little again. I don't think I have to answer this question any more fully.

The Foreigner Tax

"Well, you can afford it"

Haggling for a motorcycle taxi ride in Ibadan, Nigeria, David and I couldn't seem to get anything less than three or four times a generous estimation of the accepted fare. We understand that as an outsider you're always going to pay a little bit more - I think of it as "the Foreigner Tax" - but the prices they demanded were nothing short of sidewalk robbery. Our last (and most formidable) bargaining weapon, the flat refusal and walk-away, didn't even seem to have an effect.

The prices were actually so ridiculous as to render another unusual tactic viable - that of enlisting crowd appeal. Seeing an unconcerned local chillin' like a villain on the sidewalk nearby, I turned and presented the situation, begging his frank opinion.

The man was indeed frank in the most delightfully Nigerian way, but not to the effect that I had hoped:
“Hey, you’re white, so you’re rich! Eh, you can afford to pay any price he asks,” he chortled jovially, in full support of the motorcyclist. The latter bobbed his agreement.

“The richest woman in my country is black,” I informed them both with alacrity.

It's true, but I don’t think they believed me. For them, having white skin was an almost magical passport to huge sums of money, and my claim that I will never know anything like the fortune that Oprah Winfrey has amassed (and legitimately, with her considerable talents) could only be a lie. Even as a wholly grant-dependent student, maybe I do have more than many Nigerians my age. I'm not sure how you would quantify that in terms of the costs of living of our respective countries, or the quality of living, and it is hardly the object of this asinine blog to conduct methodologically valid comparisions between my income and that of the average Nigerian. But assuming I have more, that hardly means I can afford to pay tripled prices through eight months of travel and have any hope of supporting myself the coming year. Besides which, I am still homeless. And even besides that, I was beginning to be fed up with the institutional one-price-for-us-and-another-for-you-whites mentality. Even the entrance fees shamelessly post the discrepancy – Africans - 50 Birr, reads the sign outside Mekele’s National Museum; Foreigners - 300. Considering the museum was built largely with the financial support of European taxpayers, the fairness there is a little fuzzy. The museum would argue that it's reverse fairness: They're just evening out the historical unfairness... and besides, "you can afford to pay it." This ever-present attitude, uncomfortable at first, becomes annoying before long and after a few months, graduates to down-right obnoxious. Post-colonialists can call it whatever they want, but it’s just racism in another dressing.

We ended up paying the tripled fare to go to the bus station. We didn't have a choice, we wanted to catch a bus to Osogbo, and in sprawling Ibadan it would have been several hours' walk otherwise. We swallowed our pride, hopped on, and soon arrived at the side of a crammed minivan happy to welcome us aboard. It was a bad morning for our pockets, though, for there was to be another race-related battle over our seat prices. Neither of us was particularly disposed for that, and there ensued a small scene before things were settled. It felt good to finally be on our way, but I would be displaying my character in an artificially benevolent light if I omitted my highly cranky response to our price problems. A good twenty minutes of the bus trip were spent in self-righteous reflection on African race-based attitudes... especially with respect to my own purportedly racist country.


"Welcome Aboard"

I’ve come to expect certain depreciated standards from the vehicles we depend upon to bum from city to city. I’ve learned to look past the rips, holes, or lack of upholstery and ceiling, to accept each new iteration of smashed windshield as that car’s personal artistic expression. I know well that the dusty, worn dials for climate control on the dash are really just decoration, and never forget in selecting my seat to check which of the windows – true climate control – are stuck shut or open. I get surprised if someone produces a latchable seatbelt and makes me wear it; less so if they produce a detached one and make me drape it as we roll through checkpoints. I’m familiar with all the grunts and groans of an overloaded engine on its last wretched axle, don’t mind waiting at a stalled car for a bit of a push, and always use the external door handle through the window when I want to get out. I watch for stab-happy screws, the odd nail, and rusty exposed bits of metal. But despite their scars, the vehicles can go, or be persuaded to, and that’s all that really matters.

(One thing, however, is guaranteed to be in perfect working order on any car, station wagon, minibus, van; or taxi – the most important organ of any African transport – the horn. Without a working horn, you can’t do squat with a car in a city, though your chances might be better in the countryside. Even in a small town, though, you won’t get far without your horn.. I once spent fifteen minutes timing the longest silence between honks while waiting on a street curb. The record was 4.12 seconds.)

Occasionally the above guarantee - that of go-ability - collapses, and you end up on the side of the road with your bag while the driver tinkers with the engine, everybody looking a little awkward and cross while passengers make that decision to hope or jump ship. Such happened on our way back from Osogbo to Ibadan later that afternoon. The size of the vehicle and decripitude of its engine meant that soon well over a dozen people were lined by the side of the road with their baskets and backpacks. With little else to do, we desperately waved at any passing driver who might have a mind for pity or profit. Another van pulled up and managed to squeeze in a couple of our party, but other than that it seemed a bit hopeless.

We got lucky though; before long a nice-looking sedan - not the type you expect much from in the way of hitchhiking - slowed and stopped a bit ahead. David, I, and another high-class-looking dude, who had been among the most energetic of wavers, all ran up to meet it. The couple inside were quite polite and friendly, and welcomed all three of us to share their leather-upholstery air-conditioned backseat. A moment's guilt about the rest of the passengers - formerly my companions in distress - was admittedly not enough to persuade me to turn down the cushy ride, and we all eagerly hopped in.

The car stereo was playing something saucy that I hadn't heard before and assumed by the language to be local. I was enjoying the style, though I had no idea what it was, when the woman went to change it and pulled out a massive sheaf of CDs. David saw my eyes widen with greed; how I would have LOVED to go through each one of those artists – most of them likely local or regional favourites! – but I would content myself with whichever she chose to showcase for us.

Outside of rap and R&B we were far from American musical territory, but of course the one CD she chose was an American artist, and soon the dinky plinks of a 50s crooner were blaring in the backseat. Gah, such disappointment!

Normally the blessing of such songs is that they’re short - they may be trite, but at least it's only about 90 seconds' worth of trite. Unfortunately, in this particular case the remixed quality of the heavily scratched CD considerably prolonged the song’s original length, and we listened to the singer’s plea to “Put your sweet lips closer to the telephone” for about ten minutes before a bump in the road instantly transferred us to another song. From there we bounced around between half a dozen different verses of about three different songs (without, thankfully, ever landing back on “Sweet Lips”). The couple in the front never noticed a thing, and suspecting it was all for our benefit we never made a peep, but by the time we arrived in Ibadan half an hour later David and I were ready to never hear “Mary.. marry me” ever again.

“Man,” David groaned quietly upon exiting the car, “that’s enough to put you off marriage for the rest of your life..”

But though we had expected to pay something for such by-the-road service, we soon understood the three of us were rather the couple's guests. There would be no payment. If African price-fixing is stunning, let it be said that so is African generosity. But thinking of all the other stranded passengers by the side of the road, I remembered with shame my crankiness of the morning. I said we got lucky, but it wasn't really luck. Though I hated the institution that produced it, David and I had been picked up with Mr. High-Class largely because of being white.
However wrong it is, white means class, white means money; white means that a luxury sedan gliding south in air-conditioned comfort.. that wouldn't normally have stopped for hitchhikers.. did.

Punch Buggy

When I was a child, one of the magical and increasingly rare highlights of any day was to land a victory punch on an unsuspecting companion in the classic game of Punch Bug Spotting.

Never would I have believed, until five months ago, that there existed Americans who did not know of this game; cautious in my recent experience of punch-bug ignorance, however, I will explain the rules. They are but two: that (1) Whosoever espies a true, original, Volkswagon bug in any recognizable state of repair has license to [gently] punch their companion, while informing the victim of the color of applicable punch-buggy for their verification. Naturally, rule (2) follows that since any spotter can punch, after revealing the presence of the bug in question the punch initiator had better protect him or herself from an eye-for-eye reprisal by calling "No back-tacks". These are the only two rules, rendering the entire planet a free-for-all for whoever has the quickest eye, fist, and claim-calling combination (which I usually didn't), and explaining why the game was so enormously attractive to the five, seven, or ten-year-old versions of myself.

I say five, seven, or ten, but in truth I have never really stopped playing the Punch Bug Game. It is more the sad disappearance of true VW bugs around the time of their modern replacement than any onset of maturity that caused bug-punching to peter out of my life in middle and high school. My assumption at the time was that true punch bugs were nearing extinction, and that I had better get used to their sleek, shiny, more highly evolved strain and relegate the days of the true Punch-Buggy and bug-punching glory to the fond memory archives of my childhood.

But not so.. punch-bugs, I have been delighted to discover, live on in their own unassuming afterlife.. for Africa is where punch-bugs come to die.

I first noticed this on a side street in Khartoum, probably not more than a week into the trip. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a sight I hadn't seen in years, one that made my heart leap so suddenly with unexpected joy I almost forgot myself before leaping into action - had David already seen it?? - I flew to punch him first, hollering the triumphal cry of the puncher: "BLUE-PUNCH-BUGGY-NO-BACK-TACKS!!"

David stopped short, staring, bewildered at his lightning defeat. Well, of course I could sympathize with that - he had just missed the only punch-bug opportunity either one of us might see for the entire trip, and even in my impromptu victory dance I well understood that anyone would be upset.

David, however, was remarkably obtuse to the causes behind the swift and unexpected blow he had received. How foolish, to forget such a classic game - even in a ten-year lapse of punch-bug activity - or fail to apreciate the implicitly global nature of the playing field! I began to chide him mericlessly for it.

Difficult and slow was it for me to grasp that David - hold onto your hats here - had never played the punch-buggy game and - WORSE - did not even know of its existence. !!! The mind boggles. What about popular culture?? I demanded. Books, television, movies?? "Heck," I demanded in frightened defense of such a time-honored institution, "what'd you think we called them 'punch-buggies' for anyway??"

He denied ever even having heard such a term.

Well, I wasn't about to let his incomprehensible ignorance rain on my punch-bug parade; it was just too bad he was the only plausible victim within arm's reach for the next eight months and when we (incredibly!) saw another VW bug two weeks later, he was pummelled a second time. "Green-punch-buggy-no-back-tacks!"

The confusion of the first attack was now replaced with an annoyance that threatened to grow dangerous if my hit-and-runs were repeated. A small voice of reason piped that I should let it go; it wasn't worth it, it wasn't adult, and it wasn't fair in any case to play against an uninitiated. But punch-bugs were too deeply absorbed into my character - years of being punched by my quicker, smarter sisters and much quicker, smarter dad meant that a punch-bug victory was like a golden trophy, the pennant of glory for the youngest and slowest member of the family to wave in triumph for the few hours (or minutes) before it would inevitably be snatched back: the Holy Grail of my childhood. Despite losing almost every time, I had revered the Punch Bug Game with an ardency explicable only by my youth (but which the onset of adulthood has done little to erode). To let a VW-Bug pass quietly by with no comment, as if nothing had happened, was unthinkable.

And besides, I had fully explained to him both rules. He was just as eligible as I to be the puncher instead of the punchee. As far as I was concerned, the playing field was level, and let the punching begin.

Not even I expected the massacre that awaited in the capital of Ethiopia, however. The streets of Addis Adeba were lined with '60s Volkswagons in all shapes and sizes, and classic punch-bugs proliferated in every color of the rainbow. (No, really - favorites were burnished gold, turquoise with white racing stripes, and iridescent purple.) After perhaps his 20th time getting punch-bug-punched, David announced in a voice that brooked no discusion that he was through, and declared a moratorium on the Punch Bug Game.

I was nettled. This was the punch-bug paradise I'd been waiting for since age 10, when true punch bugs began to melt out of the West like roaches at a Raid party. No Punch Bug Game? On what grounds?? "You know, you can play too," I charged. "I don't wanna play!" he snapped. I was pretty sure the maneuver was illegal but could think of no, and mutinously began to count up all the punches I was missing out on. I made it to 77 before we left the capital a day later.

It was well into March before I ventured another punch. I had let about a dozen beautiful opportunities slip by, quietly tacking them on to my embittered total of Denied Punch Bugs, but as the memory of the Addis VW Spree faded I began to hope for a gradual and perhaps unnoticeable punch-bug recussitation. My first tentative efforts, quiet and delicate, won looks of contempt but no damning decrees, and soon we were back to the normal pre-Addis level of a few punches a week. I'm not actually a terribly observant person, but after a decade of scouring streets for a punch bug even the chancest glimpse of one of those pastel rounded roofs has the effect of a mild electric shock. Before long, it had a similar effect on David, who began to associate old VWs with vague yet impending danger. He never attempted a counter-attack, though, preferring to retaliate with snide comments relating to his being engaged in some other task, such as finding a taxi or changing money, which might have trumped vintage-car spotting. Such remarks always carried the unmistakeable whiff of superiority; the implication, of course, was that perhaps I ought to restructure my priorities.

I knew better.

But as always happens when one's competition is sub-par, I too got slower, and lazy. No need to race to the punch, really. It would still be there, and let's face it - so would David.

And so it happened one watershed morning about four months into the trip that, as I drifted in and out of cognizance in a share-taxi station wagon, David caught sight of a punch bug and thought : Red-punch-bug. With a stroke of brilliance he identified the ready opportunity and a negligent victim, and spluttering "RED PUNCH BUG! RED PUNCH BUG!" he began to wail on my shoulder with the zeal of a beaten-down underdog suddenly clawing its way to the top. He was so excited that he punched me six or seven times. Irked at the unexpected reversal, I archly informed him that You're only allowed one punch per bug, before punching him back because he had neglected to preclude that possibility by calling no back-tacks. He was oblivious to anything but his triumph. The impossible had come; he had beat me at my own game; anything could happen. I was similarly affected and began to keep greater vigilance, getting him back with another one a few hours later.

At five months, I have now probably punched David close to five hundred times (not counting, of course, the Lost Bugs of Ethiopia). For his part, David claims 24 victories, a modest total until I add that 22 were in the last fortnight, and 21 of those this afternoon in a memorable drive through what could only have been the Final Resting-Place of Punchbugs while the other passengers leaned away from us with looks of alarm and disapproval. Then the moment came - a white bug loomed up suddenly by the side of the road. Instantaneously, we both whirled in our cramped seats, fists almost colliding on their way to target, blurting "WHITE PUN--" Recognition dawned of mutual victory and mutual defeat, and I realized: He is worthy of the Punch Bug Game.

I suppose every master worth her talent must one day come to see herself challenged by her prodigy... but I pity the next person he takes to Africa.