In which the Author Realizes he needs to polish up on his Clichés…

You know, they say (I’ll refrain from the obligatory joke about not knowing who “they” is for the moment) that the journey of a thousand miles isn’t the destination. Or maybe it’s the single step is the whole point. But when you really think about it, that better not be one step too small for man or else you end up falling in between the pirogue and the pier. And why would mankind want to take a giant leap away from paradise?

Confused? So am I. But such is the life at the Campement de Espana, the favorite resting place on my long weekend-long (wait, what?) trip to the Sine-Saloum Delta region of Senegal. If you want to find it on a map, it’s the big green thing between the Petit-Cote (a.k.a. Paradise) and the Gambia (a.k.a. the world’s biggest joke on Africa). If you want to find it in a picture, you can click on one of my picture links over there ------->. I highly recommend it, as it’s a beautiful place.

This trip ranks up there with one of the best weekend trips I’ve ever taken (yes, I know it’s hard to believe but it was even better than that trip through the sulfurous pits of Hell after being dragged (drug?) across sand paper also known as Bakel – not that Bakel was a bad trip or anything…it just hurt). As such, I feel it necessary to share as much of it with you as possible (oh no, you’re thinking…this one’s never going to end!). So we’ll start from the beginning, but keep it short, giving you the highlights:

Ndagane
UFOs, rooms numbered “bonheur” and “chance” (which is French for “happytime” and “lucky” – surreptitious sounding names for rooms that were definitely not rented hourly), and feeling insulted by a man who said we were (I am not making this up) “not real Americans,” nevermind the blue passport that I was waving around in front of him. I might as well light that on fire and throw it into the river because apparently real Americans don’t haggle for a half hour to get $10 off of the price of a pirogue. Evidently the real Americans were the people who payed $230 for a boat ride ACROSS THE FREAKING RIVER (no joke, a piroguerer told us). You see people, you may think you’re doing a good deed and contributing to the local economy when you pay that much for a boat that should cost you no more than $20, but really you're just making the rest of us look bad for being so damn cheap.

Dionouar
The evergreen trees growing on a sandbar protecting a village in Africa should have been our first clue that our trip was about to get a lot weirder (I mean who ever heard of fir trees growing in a tropical climate???). Our second clue should have been the fact that there was nothing at all to eat in the entire village except for the following: bread, canned pineapple, la Vache qui Rit (which is African for “cream cheese that doesn’t go bad even if you leave it out in the African heat for days and days”), and…sardines, sardines, it seems I’ve forgotten my sardines again. Sardines, in fact, are the new tuna (it’s true, you can ask Africa). So for a good 24 hours, which if you’re counting is 6 or 8 meals (depending on if I get my mid-morning pre-lunch snack), that’s all we ate. I’m dead serious. Maybe the mix of old cheese, canned pineapple and sardines created some sort of hallucinogen, but a semi-sleepless night spent sleeping on the ground in a fir-forest in Africa on a sandbar sounded like a good idea (say that ten times fast).

How did it go you ask? Well, I wore my sweatshirt for the first time since coming to Africa (and you thought it was going to be useless. Looks like I get the last laugh now! HA!), and woke up early enough to catch an African sunrise (which depending on how you feel before dawn is either incredibly lucky of me or incredibly unlucky of me). And the rumors are true: sunrises ARE better in Africa. But no amount of out of place trees could have prepared me for the sheer lack of common sense that was:

Foundiougne
The story here is the Campement de Espana. If this were a news story, it would probably be a feature, and the lede (or lead if you’re not a journalist with a spelling problem) would read something like this: If Senegal were the world (there’s no reason to think that), then the Campement de Espana would be Senegal.

By that I mean: it’s Senegal’s Senegal. The place where weird things happen and are completely commonplace. Where goats are tied onto a 7-place by the baker’s dozen (which by the way included a bike and 4 large bags of stuff). Where evil hoards of evil goats roam the streets eating garbage. Where dogs and cats (and goats) all eat together from the same bowl of ceebujen in harmony! (Gasp!!!). Check your common sense at the door folks because we don’t need none of that newfangled reason here. We got our goats and that does us just fine thank you very much. That sort of place.

It’s run by a guy from the Canary Islands with three teeth and a named of Fransisco. He speaks a mélange of French, Spanish, English, and Wolof, alternating between the four as he sees fit and whenever he chooses. But he is the friendliest guy we met on our trip, almost to the point where it was ennerving: “No gracias Fransisco, the four baskets of bread we have on our table are more than enough. But thank you, merci beaucoup.” And “well, if they don’t have poisson at the market tonight then yeah I guess you can kill a chicken for us. But only do what’s most convenient for you.” (notes: these are actual conversations, not made up I promise; and killing a chicken would have been most convenient – but c’est ca l’Afrique eh?).

The place itself resembled a village in a dusty western – it had its good, it had its bad, and it had its ugly. We (or rather I) decided to pay homage to these Westerns in a series of photographs I have just titled “homage to these westerns.” You can find those over there ------> (though without the title…I still haven’t figured out how to sub-title an album and probably never will).

This is an actual photo of an actual map from the Campement de Espana to the Gare routiere in Foundiougne drawn by Francisco. Note the absolute lack of labels, or even direction. In fact, if we were to follow this map, we would have ended up going the exact opposite direction of where we wanted to go. But then again maybe he’s just crazy like Leonardo Da Vinci. (yes, I kept the map, my Handy-Dandy Notebook is starting to become a sort of carry-all for anything and everything that I feel goes in there, maps, factures, bus tickets, anything interesting is either getting written or shoved in the Handy-Dandy Notebook)

I know this can all seem rather harsh, so I would like to say that Francisco was the kindest, most generous, and easy-goingest proprietor I’ve had to deal with and I would feel personally insulted if anyone who went to Foundiougne didn’t stay at his place. If you’re in the area, go to the Campement de Espana. On top of all this, it’s the cheapest place in town.

And that, as they say, is the end of the line. The final countdown. The ultimate sacrifice. The 1000^th mile. The moon.

Love,
Jake

Two for one Week in Dakar

Yes, that's not a typo! There is a super special two-for one deal going on for one day only at the Butter Story.

So here we go:

C.O.P.S.: Dakar

Mom, I’m warning you, you’re going to hate this. But take comfort in the fact that a) I am still alive and c) everything that follows has been exaggerated for the sole purpose of making the more mundane of weekends (except for the one where I was puking my guts out with all the other CIEE kids, but that one had its own…fireworks???) – with the purpose of making one of the more mundane of weekends spent here in Dakar even remotely readable (cause lets face it we’ll have legions of angry readers on their hands if I come up with something that reads like “I went to the market today...it was fun. Yadayadayadda”). Well that and scaring you just a little bit J (I love you!!). So read on to find out how I was robbed and almost killed by escaped prisioners.

Random Market in the middle of busy road (I’m not making this one up)
Saturday, October 21, 2006 16:43:23 (that’s French for “4:43:23pm”)
“Fairing le promenade” (that’s French for “doing the promenade”)

Let’s set the scene: I’m walking down this market, or what passes for a market (since here in Africa, everything’s relative). It’s basically about a half-mile (definitely longer…but I got bored after a half-mile and turned around) swath of concrete smack-dab in the middle of this road that may or may not lead into/out of Dakar centre ville (that’s French for Dakar center city). This swath of concrete has 10 foot iron poles stuck into it in a desperate attempt to keep the sky from falling on the shoppers below. These poles hold up more poles on which we find hanging everything from sheets of plastic to towels to fabric to t-shirts to bras to underwear to iron pots. In short, everything you ever thought could be hung from a pole and some things that you didn’t (one notable exception being the conspicuous lack of goats – ahh Africa, you never cease to surprise me do you?).

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get on with it. So I’m walking down the middle of this market thingy admiring the Ferrari towels, smiling a little bit at the American flag fabric, and wondering exactly how many Senegalese football jerseys am I going to have to buy before I leave this place, when, like in any other place where there’s a million people all trying to fit through the same one person passageway, I ran into an emboutteillage (that’s French for “bottleneck” which oddly enough is French for “traffic jam.” Go figure). A dude walks up behind me and starts fiddling with my back, left pocket. Which, as anyone whose anyone (or maybe no one) knows, is where I keep my Handy-Dandy Notebook (you know, the one with the cheeseburger and fries on it that my sister Megan gave me – see Megan, I am using it!).

After the fiddling (which I just assumed was because someone thought I was cute), I touched my hand to my back left pocket, just as a precaution (that and well, I like touching my notebook – it gives me magic powers I’m pretty sure).

My heart stopped: empty.

Now before we go any further, a brief digression. Maybe you’ve seen me scribble some useless note into my Handy-Dandy Notebook. Or maybe you’ve been lucky enough to have your name jotted in there, hopefully next to some sort of goodie that I need to buy you. Or maybe you’ve been lucky enough (only if you’re really, really lucky) to have heard a story that came out of my Handy-Dandy Notebook. Take my money and I’ll be upset, maybe even mad. But take my Handy-Dandy Notebook and I’ll unleash the unholy power of the Seven Seas (only after they’ve rushed through the seven levels of Inferno) upon thee. Take my Handy-Dandy Notebook and I will not rest until I sit down at the table of vengeance. And may God have mercy on the soul of the poor guy who takes my Handy-Dandy notebook. Such is my wrath (the point of this is that my notebook is kind of important to me).

A kid makes his way in front of me. First mistake – letting me see you. I look over his shoulder. Second mistake – letting me look over your shoulder. I see him getting ready to pass my Handy-Dandy Notebook off to an accomplice. Third mistake – stealing my Handy-Dandy Notebook.

This kid had three strikes against him (and no balls) in my baseball game. And I was pitching. He was seconds from having the unholy power of the Seven Seas gone through the seven levels of Inferno wrought against him. Woe betide he!

(Children under the age of 18, anyone who doesn’t have a strong stomach, anyone who thinks that I am a peace-loving kind of guy and wishes to keep thinking that, and Mom – you may want to skip the rest of this).

I tapped the kid on the shoulder, reached over his shoulder, and took my Handy-Dandy Notebook back. No questions asked.

Needless to say, the kid booked it. I can’t say I blamed him. He was mere seconds away from having the unholy power of the Seven Seas passed through the seven levels of Inferno and onto him and he knew it. I knew it. And he knew I knew he knew.

I’d have left too.


Route de Ouakam (pronounced root de wakam)
Saturday, October 21, 2006 22:18:19 (that’s French for “10:18:19pm”)
“Fairing le promenade” (that’s French for “doing the promenade”) (again, I know – it’s pretty much all I did on Saturday).

So I get a call from mon ami (that’s French for “my friend”) Scott saying that he’s going to go out with his host brother and some of his friends along with a couple of kids from CIEE for a walk along the beach (how romantic, right?) and would I like to come? I oblige and walk to meet him at school.

I’m walking down the ancien piste (French for “used to be a runway apparently” – I just found this out today) and walk past a banana seller. Now for anyone whose been walking to CIEE at 9.30 at night past a banana seller (and this may or may not be you), bananas look pretty darn good when you’re walking to CIEE at 9.30 at night past a banana seller. So I bought one and kept going.

The thing about walking to CIEE at 9.30 at night is that bananas not only look pretty darn good, they taste REALLY darn good. I’m talking fantastic, the best banana you’ve ever eaten pretty darn good. It was firm, yet soft enough to fall apart in your mouth. Sweet, but not too sweet so as to overwhelm your taste buds and a subtle hint of freshness. Immediately I plan to buy more bananas, and not just one or two bananas either. I’m talking a whole kilo of bananas. Yeah. That’s how good they were.

The thing about Africa is, no matter how hungry you are or how bad you want a kilo of bananas at 10.00 at night, it is guaranteed that you will not be able to find them. So I’m walking all over Mermoz (the neighborhood in Dakar, not the airplane pilot who crashed there and gave the place its name) looking for a kilo of bananas, meanwhile looking for my friends, all the while trying not to get killed by cars rapides (not rapide at all), taxis, and stray banana peels lying in the street mocking me in my quest for a kilo of bananas.

Finally I succeed, I find my bananas, and I find my friends. I ask Scott which beach we’re going to walk on romantically with 6 other people and he responds cryptically: “I heard there were some prisoners who escaped from jail today. Do you know anything about that?”

Um, no. But I do know that I do not want to be walking on the beach at 11pm at night if there are escaped Senegalese prisoners running around. Neither does Scott. Nor anyone else. So we don’t. We decide to go to Le Regal (that’s French for “Toubab place that’s cheaper than Caesar’s”) for milkshakes, fries, and pizza. It was yummy.

* * *

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, I thought Jake had a really dangerous weekend where he got robbed and almost murdered by escaped convicts?

Yeah, well I mean I gotta tell you guys something so that you read this.

Love,
Jake

In a Heartbeat

So for those of you who don’t know, last week was our mid-semester break. We had a week to do whatever we wanted, some kids went hiking in Mali, some went traveling around Senegal and the world’s biggest joke on Africa: the Gambia (a region known in most geography books that bother to deal with this dry, flat portion of the globe as Senegambia). I joined the ranks of those traveling far and wide to visit significant others and went to Ghana to visit Devon.

A few weeks ago I wrote about Slok Air and the very real chance that I might get stuck in a country that a few years ago was wracked by civil war while they threw goats up onto the top of my plane. (Un)Fortunately (depending on how you look at it), the airplane trip was relatively uneventful except for delays both going there and coming back…which was really to be expected since this is Africa and any planning in Africa requires about an hour or two extra “shit happens” time (cause shit just happens here). If you’ve got the time, and are looking to save money, I’d actually go so far as to recommend Slok Air in a heartbeat. It’s really a classy joint. They serve their “distinguished” passengers (that’s right I was distinguished!) decent meals to a soundtrack of smooth jazz and R&B love songs depending on which way you're going. The service is friendly and you get to see a few nations that are trying to make their way out of civil war. (note – Liberia has beautiful beaches and a whole lot of UN helicopters. When those UN helicopters leave guaranteed to be the next hot vacation spot.)

I'll tell the rest of the story from back to front because it’s more confusing that way and the more I can confuse you the more I can trick you into thinking that I’m a good writer. When I got back to Senegal, the question everyone had on their lips was: “How was Ghana?”

The answer: “It was…clean!”

“And Green!” I added after the original shock wore off.

“No you're making this up” people would say (I’m seriously not kidding about this one, people didn’t believe me – not that I can really blame them).

“No I swear. Cab doors stayed closed, and they opened them when you wanted them to. There wasn’t trash everywhere on the roads. They had stoplights. And get this…there were actual rules. And people followed them!”

At this point I would usually get laughed out of the room. But it’s true. Ghana is clean. And green. And it has rules that are followed. I’m sure Devon and her friends got sick and tired of me saying things like “I can’t believe how clean it is” and “What is that big brown thing with the green tuft on top of it?” and “Oh good a goat I feel home now.”

I will say that while there were goats in Ghana, they didn’t seem to have the run of the streets like they do in Senegal. Which either comforts me because it means that evil goat’s aren’t taking over or scares me because it means Devon won’t have an army of goats to defend her should the stray dogs and cats unite and rebel against the Man. And the prospect of dogs and cats uniting is probably what scares me most…

So Devon and I divided the week between Accra (which is clean, and green, and has rules) and this area called the Volta Region (which is green, and hilly, and has an actual lake). The Volta region managed to be both breathtakingly gorgeous (I’ve got pictures up over there ----->) while at the same time restoring my faith in the fact that mountains AND large bodies of fresh water exist (both of which are in short supply in Senegal). We stayed at this place called the Xofa eco-village (pronounced like the dorm at GW that manages to be both the nicest and worst of the freshman dorms – HOVA). Now I don’t speak a word of Twi (well that’s actually a lie – I know four: etesen, medaase, ankaa and oburoni which mean “hello,” “thank you,” “orange,” and “white man” respectively – thanks to Devon for the correct spelling), but I can guess that “Xofa” is Twi for “paradise.”

We stayed in this little mud and stone hut with a thatched straw roof. There was no running water, no electricity (we had to use kerosene lamps at night). Yet somehow this place managed to be paradisical. I guess Africa is the same all over really (remember Toubab Dialow – paradise even with mosquitos, no water pressure and bad lighting).

We took a canoe out to an island (well I guess canoe is a relative term – it’s my understanding that canoes are supposed to keep the water out, not let it in) where we hiked around, walked through a real live African village, saw real live African villagers, and jumped off a real live African cliff (a big yellow steel T floating in the lake). Then we came back and had to get back to Accra, so we took another canoe ride to another real African village where we hiked up a “small small hill” which is apparently Twi for “heap big mountain” to catch our tro-tro, which is Twi for “really nice Alham without goats,” which took us back to Accra.

I have a confession to make, this has probably been the hardest post I’ve had to write thus far. Not because I didn’t enjoy my time in Accra, on the contrary, I loved it and would go back there in a heartbeat. But if you’ve been reading my blog closely at all, then you might notice that a pattern arises in my posts. They’re about rediculousity, outrageousness, and general madcap mayhem that occurs in Africa. And here’s the thing about my Accra trip, which in and of itself is probably the most outrageous thing that happened: nothing outrageous actually happened...

I mean sure weird things happened, like the time I ordered yam fries, expecting orange fried sweet potatoes and getting something like a tough French fry, but that was probably my own fault for expecting something like sweet potatoes in Africa. Or that time we ordered chicken (Yes! I had Chicken!!!) at the beach and they said it would be a while and was that ok. It’s Africa so of course it was ok (you know the extra “shit happens” time I was talking about earlier), but we apparently missed the part where he said he had to kill the chicken for us, so when we heard a few screaming clucks followed by a THWACK and then silence we really shouldn’t have been as surprised as we were.

But for how weird these situations were, they were isolated incidents, and really nothing to write home (or a blog post) about. And that in and of itself is outrageous, and a little disconcerting to be honest. Am I just becoming jaded to the crazy stuff that happens in Africa? Or is it something more sinister, like hoards of evil goats roaming the streets of Dakar causing all sorts of outrageous things? Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll find the answer in the second half of my stay here (yes I know, hard to believe its already half over).

Love
Jake

Ps – apparently google (the greatest invention ever) now has a picture posting service online, which I plan of utilizing fully. You can find it by following the google picture link over there-----> right under the link to Karly’s blog (which should be updated since she returned safely from the Casamance – a region that is known in Senegal for, beautiful beaches, green trees, wild animals and periodic separatist conflict). I mean it’ll be the same pictures as the other one, they just upload faster so if im online at the same time as you, you’ll be able to see them better. And I think the google one has more bells and whistles and fancy things like that – so you’d better be wearing your fancy pants if you’re gonna go visit that one. Anyways, I’m rambling.

trying hard, oh so hard (but ultimately failing) not to use the title "its a small world after all"

You know, no matter how hard i try, no matter how far i run i just cant escape brookfield. i figured africa would be a good place to go...i mean its remote, third world, dirty, poor, hottt (yes with three t's) in short everything connecticuts not. this next story goes under the heading of "you know the worlds way way too small when..." its a story that would make tom friedman proud.

Last night, call it 11pm i left my toubab cousin brinans house and went home. as my luck would have it my family locked me out of the house (though maybe they were trying to give me some sort of hint..in any case i didnt get it and started ringing the doorbell. after about 10 minutes this guy comes up to me. after the reqisite 15 minutes of greetings..."how are you? hows your family? hows your health? i hope nobody is sick? how are you? whats your name? whats your last name? where were you born? alhumdililahi? where did you grow up? how did you sleep? (never mind it was 11 at night) how are you? where do you come from? fan ngay joge? alhamdililahi! and so on and so on"

its fairly obvious at this point that im a toubab (the moon was full..that must have given me away) and so he asks me if i speak english. i say i do. we start the whole thing over in english...

15 minutes later, he asks me where in america i live. i gave the only answer that makes any sense to anyone here: near new york city. roughly speaking thats true, and its a lot better an answer than "connecticut." most people here have heard of new york city. like the west coast, nobody here knows connecticut...or so i thought.

"oh yeah? i lived in new york...white plains actually." he says.
so i told him i lived in connecticut...anyonewho lives in white plains knows connecticut.
"oh i lived in stamford too for a while"
this is starting to get weird.
"no kidding? do you know danbury? i lived right by danbury." i say. i figure that since both stamford and danbury are on rt 7 theres a fair chance hed heard of it.
"yeah i used to work in danbury. at the circuit city. i was the manager there.. you know the one, right across the street from that big market..."
"stew leonards!" i said.
"yeah, you know it?" he asks.

lets pause for a moment here. not only do i know of circuit city, but i bought my ipod there. i have multiple friends who work at the circuit city (well actually my sister has multiple friends who work there but you know this is africa and your friends are my friends, and my friends are your friends, and the more we get together, the happier well be). i have multiple friends who work at the aforementioned stew leonards (theyre really my friends too!).

"yeah i know it. i live in brookfield." i told him. now anyone who works at the circuit city would have to be either dead or confined to a hospital bed to not know brookfield. you could throw a rock from circuit city and break a window in brookfield thats how close they are.

"oh up the super 7?" he asked. now its weird.
"yeah, right by four corners, you know the intersection with the four gasstations?"
yeah yeah yeah, my office was right near there," he says. you know instead of going left to new milford you go right and theres that plaza?"
"yeah yeah i know it" i say. but knowing it is a bit of an understatement. i got my haircut at that plaza. my first job was at a pizza place in that plaza (all two days of it). im familiar.

at this point someone finally opens the door. i leave abu, as hes called, go inside into my room and then proceed to freak out that here, in a back alley of a neighborhood in dakar senegal, i just met a guy who i very well could have bumped into back home in ct...

but thats not the weirdest part of it...the weirdest part of it is that no goats were involved in this story in any way whatsoever. none.
now thats freaky...even for senegal.

love
jake

Behold the power of GoogleEarth

For all of you cyber-stalkers out there, there's a new tool available that can make it 100% easier to find me (even though I'm in Africa).
It's called GoogleEarth. But beware! Many hours can be spent searching the globe in...um...search of interesting things like crop circles, airplanes or people.

Add to that list where Jake is living and studying while in Senegal.
And so without further Ado, i present to you the coordinates of both my house and School in Senegal:
School:
14°42'16.40"N
17°28'45.70"W

That should take you to the center of Suffolk University, Dakar Campus. If you look closely, you might be able to see the goats that often dominate our basketball court and soccor field.

Home:
14°43'3.10"N
17°28'14.14"W
That should take you to exactly on top of my house (or Hannah's if I goofed a little bit and missed but its ok cause she lives right next door to me). If you look closely, you can see cousin Brinan's at the top of the screen at the end of the alley I live down and the alham parked constantly outside my house for no real reason. Luckily, the area is goat-free (for now).

Other notable points of interest:
Mahmadou's Fruit Stand:
14°42'27.37"N
17°28'49.00"W
Um...basically where I buy my apples, oranges, and bananas while trying to help a Ginuean living in Dakar with his English which is much better than my Wolof. All in all a cool guy.

The Goat that I pass every day that's always eating cardboard:
14°42'26.82"N
17°28'47.74"W
Just down the road from Mahmadous. I think I've figured out the solution to Dakar's trash problem. I won't release specifics, but let's just say it involves a huge herd of goats...

That's really about it. But now you can see the walk I take home every day...just follow the roads from School to Mahmadous to Home. That's it.

Just watch out for the goats.

Love
Jake

How to say “Sketchtastic” in 4 different African Languages:

There’s but one word you need to know: Slok Air.

Yes, Slok Air (wait a minute…didn’t he say one word?). As my plans for the mid-semester break are being finalized, and the trip to Ghana to visit Devon is being planned (wait, is he really planning? Gasp!), I’ve come to realize that the Alhalm trip that I took from Kaolak to Tamba, rather than be the exception, is in fact the rule. And Slok Air is definitely the Alham of the African skies (hey, maybe they should hire me as a marketing consultant).

Let me explain.

First, a bit about Slok Air, just to scare the pants off of yall (I can’t believe he just said that. That’s it. I’m not reading anything else by him. Ever again.) and to hear you say “Wow, what a brave kid that Jake is.” Slok air is the airline that I will be traveling from Dakar to Accra and back, and happened to be the cheapest ticket. The fact that they issued me a handwritten ticket should have been my first indication that something was up. But this is Africa, and I believe that the power was off when I went to make my purchase so I just figured it was the travel agency’s version of candles: a low tech, if somewhat inconvenient, backup when government incompetence and infrastructural mismanagement collide.

A brief, but relatively easy Google search revealed the following facts: that Slok Air used to be run out of Nigeria before it had its license to operate suspended (which sounds much more exciting and dangerous than the truth – it was shut down as part of the president’s anti-corruption crusade). After it was kicked out of Nigeria, it immediately (were talking same-month immediately) reopened in the Gambia where it is currently headquartered. The mighty Slok Air fleet is a whole 6 Boeing jets with a medium-to-biggish digit (I’m thinking 5 or 6) in between the two 7’s.

But how is all this like an alham? Well, apart of the incredible sketchiness of it all, my arrival in Accra will be preceded by short stops in Banjul, capital of the Gambia, Freetown, capital of Sierra Leone, and Monrovia, capital of Liberia. Like an Alham ride, the vehicle makes stops at almost every conceivable place along the way to pick up and discharge passengers (in the case of an alham, the person standing on the side of the road will suffice, in the case of Slok Air, an airport, no matter if its located in a country that was just a few years ago in the throes of civil war). Like an Alham ride also, the tickets are handwritten. Like an Alham they’re both cheaper, and more frequent than the 7place (which in the African aviation world is probably something more like Air Senegal – more expensive and cramped, but faster).

But don’t worry Mom, I’m sure that this whole adventure is perfectly safe. A Google news search of Slok Air turns up nothing but a few articles about guys railing about corruption in Nigeria, and I’m pretty sure that someone somewhere would have written something if a plane crashed in Africa. Furthermore, the fact that it is/was based out of Nigeria is probably a good thing since Nigeria is something like the regional powerhouse on account of all its oil money – which explains how they could afford the Boeing 75/67s. And that’s probably the best bet of it all – the fact that I’ll be traveling in (relatively) modern American made airplanes.

In fact, the biggest issue that could arise is that I get caught in a massive collision of government incompetence and infrastructural mismanagement that seems to wrack and paralyze developing countries.

Which means that the most likely scenario for disaster has me sitting in a Boeing 75/67, on the runway of a former war-torn country, counting goats as they’re strapped to the roof of my plane.

Let’s just hope I don’t get goat peed on.

Love,
Jake