Phoenix has Camelback and Cape Town has Lion's Head

An incredible view!   No one I knew was enthusiastic about walking to the top of Lion's Head, the pointed mountain to the right of Table Mountain when viewing the Cape Town horizon, so I took a taxi to the parking area determined to make my way to the top. ( Cab driver- Norman, from Zimbabawe, married, 3 year old daughter, 3 years in Cape Town, now owns the older Mercedes he was driving, fare of 50 Rand = about $7 -the kind of information I usually glean from the drivers who are all from other countries.)  I was unsure if I should take the trail by myself so I ask a group of young people just getting out of their cars if I could walk along with them.  As a result of the ensuing conversations I learned that Matthew and John were brothers, sons of missionaries living in Mozambique, students at the University of Pretoria, Ruan and his friend were from Cape Town, one of the other girls, Nerina, was from Namibia, and is a pilot.   The trail circles the mountain twice, beginning as a gradual ascent and then becoming an irregular rocky climb, at one point, a short metal ladder and in another place a vertical ledge where chains and hand holds have been installed to make it safer.   I decided to watch the sunset from a flat area near the summit rather than go to the top of the last rocky pinnacle.   The view from this level space strewn with lichen covered granite boulders was spectacular- all of Cape Town, Table Mountain, beaches along the Atlantic Ocean, ships arriving at the port, Robben Island.  Although the winds were calm where I was sitting, I could see the clouds that formed along the ridges, tumble down the steep slopes and dissapate before reaching sea level.   This same down draft was so strong that it clipped the tops of breakers along the beach sending a spray backward toward the open sea.  Using these same winds, paragliders jump from the cliffs of Lion's Head and can stay aloft for as long as 2 hours!  The pointed shadow of Lion's head crept across Cape Town as the city lights began to glow; a few brave individuals, mere specks from this vantage point, walked through the blowing sand on beaches below, climbers continuing to the summit disappeared among the blocks of stone.  The sun set into a low bank of fog that formed along the horizon, first illuminating the wispy high clouds with streaks of pink and yellow and then suddenly disappearing; time to begin a rapid descent in order to reach the parking lot before complete darkness.  Interesting climbing companions, a breathtaking view, a wonderful memory- another day in Cape Town.

Backpacker hostel on Castle St.

The backpacker dorm experience has not been a problem, perhaps a bit inconvenient due to keeping my things in a locker, but I have learned to fall asleep anywhere.   Most of the travelers sharing the room came in after I went to bed and that was about 1 am, but on the second night several were already in bed by 11 pm.  I did wake up briefly smelling the shoes of the person who had left them near my head when he climbed to the third bunk!  I pushed them as far from my bunk as I could reach and fell back asleep.  Not particularly smelly, but disgustingly ugly are the herbed black pieces of dried flesh decorating the window sill by my head.  I think it is something like jerky, but in  a large chunk.  Because they were attracting ants and flies, I moved them to the outside ledge; however, the next day they had somehow managed to work their way back inside.  (Two days later, the pieces have gotten smaller so I guess someone must be consuming them.) 

The candle light service at the Lutheran Church was reminiscent of those at home where children in the audience anxiously await the final hymn, Silent Night, so they can light the candles setting on the back of the pew in front of them.  Playing with the candles is a continual temptation while standing for hymns, sitting for prayers, scripture readings and solo performances. One of the first announcements was a warning that the wood of the 200 year old building was very dry and that the lit candles were to be held with great care.  The highlight of the evening was the solo sung by  12 year old Lanelle Lewies,  whose angelic rendition of O Holy Night would have brought tears to Jesus himself.  Although he was not from the orphanage that was to benefit from a special offering at the close of the service, he captured the attention of those orphans seated across from me, who sometimes figeted during the other songs, mostly sung in English, but occasionally in German or Afrikaans.  For those two hours, hard wooden pews and all, it did seem like Christmastime.

From Cape Town, South Africa, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

Fast forward to South Africa

A month of journals since my last report- sorry for the delay and it is not because I have been avoiding internet cafes!!!

Pretoria, met and spent time with my friend Emile, young man from Benin whom I first knew while he was working in the hotel Esplanade in Segou, Mali, three years ago.  He introduced me to his Afrikaan friends with whom we shared several dinners and a trip to a water park.  We visited Johannesburg and Soweto with Emile's friends; the mother works at the Embassy of Benin in Pretoria.   Toured the Nelson Mandela House in Soweto, took photos of the World Cup  soccer stadium nearby  and visited the Piet Peterson Museum, named for a boy who was killed during the demonstrations, and dedicated as a memorial to the struggle against apartheid.  I now have a better understanding of the struggle to eliminate apartheid.  In the evening, we shared a  traditional African meal with the family- pap with sauce and a salad.  Pap is the West African equivalent to rice or mashed potatoes, a paste the consistency of mashed potatoes made from white, finely ground corn flour mixed with water.  It is eaten with the fingers, a small portion on the fingertips dipped in the sauce and scraped off by inverting your hand over your lower teeth.  It is sticky enough not to fall off naturally in the process. Pap is nearly flavorless so it is the spicy sauce that you taste.

observations:
First of all, one's brain does not easily adjust to right hand drive cars and the traffic pattern they create.  I make sure I look in both directions before stepping into the street after having someone grab my shoulder a couple of times to prevent me from decorating the front of a vehicle.  Shifting with your left hand is very awkward!
Security:  I must say that I was not prepared for the security measures taken to protect personal property, but am now beginning to accept it.  Security fences surround homes in middle class neighborhoods, solid walls topped with spikes of razor wire, electronic gates, steelo grillwork fences.  Ground floor windows have security bars or interior folding grills like those of store fronts.   Car watchers or security guards are present in all public parking lots  and provide security along city streets.  These attendants are often refugees from other African countries and are willing to work for the tips they receive. 
When we went to Jaco's house for dinner, we passed through a community security gate manned by a guard who recorded our arrival in a register and then lifted the railroad crossing type barrier and opened the sliding electronic gate.  Jaco met us inside and opened the remaining two electronic gates that blocked portions of the long driveway.  His 4 German shepherd dogs met our car near the house.  Whew!  We had arrived at their island of tranquillity, had a wonderful barbeque dinner in their open air lounge with pitched roof of thatch, and then passed through the security in reverse as we left.  Yes, they have many beautiful things to protect, live on about 6 acres of land on the edge of the city, but at what price?  This situation was created by years of restrictions that resulted in a large class of people living in poverty, inadequate education for poor people, xenephobia.   The last time I passed through such extreme security was when I visited an awards ceremony in the Oregon State Penitentury!    I must say that I have seen less of this type of security in Cape Town and smaller towns I have visited. 

Cape Town:
Emile came to spend time with me in Cape Town, thus my use of the pronoun "we."

This beautiful city is located in a spectacular setting; ocean on one side with white sandy beaches, rocky promentories, hidden coves, Table Mountain and Lion's head forming the backdrop.  We took the cable car to the summit of the mountain in order to a birds eye view of the area.   This rocky, windswept landscape, a world heritage site, is covered in fynbos, a combination of low growing plants that sustain one another and that is found only on the cape.  The weather can change quickly with moisture in the strong updrafts forming dense clouds and fog as it reaches the flat summit.  Flowers are in bloom from miniscule rock plants to proteas and a kind of white straw flower, all bobbing and dancing in the strong breezes.
Table mountain in the afternoon, the Green Point Soccer Stadium at night.  The Mandela Challenge, an annual game between teams from  the USA and South Africa was sold out days before the game.   Our "challenge" was how to obtain tickets for this unique opportunity to watch a game in a world cup stadium.   Confident that it would be possible to attend, we walked with crowds of spectators, tens of thousands of them, holding valid tickets to the stadium following the route that had become legendary during the World Cup matches-crazy hats, colored wigs, national flags, and yes, vuvuzelas!  Near the entrance it was obvious others were also seeking tickets at the last minute and that a few people had them to sell in spite of the law banning such sales and the watchful eyes of everpresent security personnel.   When a transaction seemed to be immanent, a cluster of people would gather drawing the attention of the police.  We observed what was happening, but were not able to find anyone from whom to purchase a pair of tickets.  At one point we witnessed a seemingly successful transaction; the two happy fans left for the stadium and the police quickly surrounded the unfortunate seller, took his wallet and emptied it of the cash he has received!   We did not want to be involved in a similar situation.  With his trained "African" eye, Emile observed the body language of a seller of vuvuzelas who apparently had tickets to sell, but who was waiting for someone willing to meet his asking price.  Inconspiculously, and unsuccessfully,we attempted  to negotiate a reduction to his 800 Rand demand for tickets that originally sold for 100 Rand each,  alas, American major league prices of over $100 for the pair, but determined to attend the game we succombed!  Emile walked along side the seller to verify the authenticity of the tickets while I counted my Rand notes,  at the ok signal from Emile, I quickly caught up and slipped the money into the seller's hand and kept going toward the entrance.  Success!   It was exciting to be inside this unusual structure, a giant, flat, silver colored oval that flares outward from bottom to top, has three tiers of seating, an oval opening over the field, turf grown from Oregon grass seed, and lighting along the edges of the central opening that resembles a giant diamond neckless.  We were seated in the lower tier behind one of the goals with a good view of the field.   A military band played both national anthems, President Zuma of South Africa arrived, ceremonies for the Nelson Mandela Childeren's Fund were held and the game began.   The stands were filled with spectators wearing yellow and green, the incessant sound of vuvuzelas filled the air and occasional attempts were made to start the "wave."  With less than 6 minutes left in the match, the Americans scored the only goal, leaving South African fans quiet and disappointed.   The lady seated next to me explained that many South Africans who had not previously attended games, were now doing so thanks to the excitement generated by the World Cup.  Previously thought of as a lower class, and perhaps "black" sport, the crowds have become much more integrated, a positive step for South Africa.

Reflections on water

The Niger River overflowing its banks at the end of the rainy season serves as a partial barrier to the sands of the Sahara.  Source of life to those living along its banks, the Niger forms a delta, not at its mouth, but in the middle of Mali, bright green fields of rice, the breadbasket of the country.  Its surface teams with pinasses and pirogues, those long narrow, hand-crafted wooden boats that ferry people and products between cities, towns and villages.  This is where women do their laundry; those without water at home come to the river to bathe; herds of cattle and flocks of goats and sheep quench their thirst along this vast stream; fishermen catch fish to feed their families and dry the rest to sell in the markets. 

Away from the Niger it is a different story.  The first activity of  the day, for mainly women and girls, is to walk to a source of water and carry it home in containers balanced on their heads.  A few fortunate ones have sealed wells with hand pumps; however, most go to an open well where they must hoist buckets full of water without the aid of a pulley, the edges of the well revealing deep grooves formed by years of raising buckets with ropes or cords woven from the fibers of baobab bark; some go to a stream and others to an open pond shared with animals.   I always feel conspicuous with my ever present plastic bottle of pure water which costs more than most inhabitants earn in a day, but which I must drink in order to avoid getting dysentary.   The empty bottles are recycled, but not in a conventional way; children fight over them in order to have a container for their water.  A bottle left by the roadside will eventually be claimed by someone herding animals or walking to work in the millet or maize fields. 

Water, the source of life in Mali serves additional purposes in Morocco.  Every mosque has a ready supply of water so the faithful can perform their ablutions prior to praying.  In cities, fountains decorated with colorful tiles often occupy the center of public squares or courtyards.  Each neighborhood in the ancient medinas was required to have a public water fountain where residents could come to fill containers.  In palaces and royal gardens, elaborate systems of fountains were constructed using gravity to move the water from one location to another.  Bubbling, dripping and flowing water provided a soothing sound, a cooling effect in hot climates and a pleasing images.  Not to forget the hammam.- another requirement for each neighborhood along with a mosque, a fountain and a public oven.  This contemporary version of the Roman baths is a social tradition for some families, a necessity for personal hygiene for others.  The wood burning furnace situated  below the hammam heats the water to scalding temperatures while providing residents who have no stove at home with a place to have their food cooked. 

Cross the narrow Strait of Gibralter, a waterway that witnessed the departure of Columbus and other explorers, go up the Guadalquivir River and into the beautiful city of Sevilla for more water effects.  One legacy of the moors was their love for water.  It spouts from elaborate fountains in elegant plazas, drips from moss covered basins in obscure corners, babbles in geometric alabaster sculptures in courtyards of hotels, restaurants and public buildings.  Orange trees in the courtyard of the cathedral are irrigated by a network of small canals leading to the base of each plant.  And then there are the gardens of the Reales Alcazares, the royal palace, where every vista and pathway is enhanced by a water feature, many reflecting the influence of the moors. 

What a pleasure it would be to travel the world without having to buy and carry a bottle of pure drinking water!   Could the day possibly come when everyone would have access to a fountain, a faucet or a well that provided eau potable?  Let's hope that it is not simply a dream.

Ah, Sevilla!

Yesterday I walked throughout the central part of the city, along the Guadalquivir River and took photos, only stopping to visit the Torre del Oro, a tower that has been guarding the city since the moors ruled this city.  My quest for graffiti and street art was successful, walls along the river, under bridges and in a skate park.  I have learned that those who look like they are living on the fringes of society are most likely to have the information I seek.  

No need to ask for help or directions today.  This morning I headed straight to the cathedral to beat the daily crowds of tourists.   Bells ringing in the Giralda, the moorish style tower that originally served as the mineret to a large mosque on this site, and at 30 plus meters was once the tallest building in the world, caught my attention.  I entered a small back entrance and joined a handful of worshippers and small group of elderly priests who were reciting chants.  I had not intentionally planned to attend mass, but suddenly remembered a similar early morning experience in the Granada cathedral.  Mass is still free, but tourists pay an entrance fee!  Sunlight illuminated stained glass windows that sent streams of colored light against flamboyant gothic arches.  This structure, the largest of all gothic cathedrals, and third largest Christian church- after St. Peters in Rome and St. Pauls in London, is breathtaking by both its size and decor.   A massive guilded alterpiece dominates the space behind the high alter while an elaborately carved wooden choir area provides seating for clergy, two gigantic pipe organs with intricate carvings forming its sides.   The remains of Christopher Columbus occupy a prominent place on one side of the nave, his coffin borne by statues of kings.  Beautiful and inspiring,  a perfect place to contemplate life, history, art.  This cathedral is truly one of the greatest religious structures I have visited.  It reflects both the past riches of Spain and the religious fervor of its people.  My mind continues to process the experience- angles, arches, color, gold, space, incense, bells, organ music, robes, statues, echos, silence.  

Outside, I pass a row of horse drawn carriages waiting for customers, cross a small plaza and arrive at the entrance to the Alcazar, once home to moorish califs and today the official residence of the king and queen of Spain in Sevilla.  There is an occasional advantage to being over 65, free entrance this time to the main palace, 4 euros for the audio guide and entrance with a small group to the private rooms.  Here I view a continuation of the moorish art I saw in Morocco, this time with an Andalousian flair, horseshoe shaped arches, elaborately carved plaster walls, intricate woodworking, arabic inscriptions, colorful tiles, more beautiful than the Alhambra, more extensive than the mosques and private residences of Morocco, this residence to untold califs, kings and queens, is a marvel beyond description.  One leaves with the sensation of visual and mental overload.  Fortunately, the next experience entails a walk through the extensive royal garden complex.  Water elements, an important part of moorish architecture and culture, abound, reflecting ponds, tiered fountains with dolphins spouting water, low circular and star shaped fountains from which small amounts of water bubble, often flowing quietly into an ajoining fountain at a lower level.  Stately palms, fruit laden orange and lemon trees, a true arboretum with winding pathways, a labyrinth of royal proportions formed by well trimmed hedges, a rose garden with the last blossoms of summer, pergolas, benches, a gentle breeze, cloudless blue sky, autumn warmth, soft sunlight.  I watch a class of students from the Escuela des Belles Artes, easels set before scenes they are capturing on canvas.   Having taken time to reflect and record my impressions, I will now leave my bench in this idyllic garden, return the autoguide, find a sidewalk cafe where I can order a late afternoon lunch and continue to enjoy Sevilla.

Return to Tetouan

It begins as a low solitary note that gradually increases in volume as it is joined by others adding depth to the chorus that breaks the silence of the early morning; not unlike the sound of the concertmaster's bow as it invites the orchestra members to tune their instruments, one note becomes many; nor unlike the crowing of the first village rooster whose song is soon joined by a cacaphoney of others believing their flock should wake up at the break of dawn;  it is the 5:15 am call to prayer from the minerets of this ancient city of whitewashed walls nestled at the foot of the Rif Mountains in Northern Morocco.

This morning I am restless and have trouble returning to sleep, my mind drifting from scene to scene of the week that has passed since my return to Tetouan.  How can I ever forget the warm reception from the El Haddad's, the family that hosted me for six weeks, twelve years ago when I arrived on my first time to the African continent as part of a small group of teachers selected for a Fulbright Exchange?  At that time, the family had young children in school, Aissame, Huda and Safae.  They took my hand as we crossed streets, walked in the old city, and in the evening, I helped them with their homework.  Today Safae is completing her university studies, Huda teaches English to middle school students and Aissame is married and lives in France, where finished his university degree.  Farida still manages the household, this time in their new apartment that overlooks the city, always creating meals worthy of the finest restaurants, especially the traditional Friday afternoon couscous.  I go off to school with Abelouahed as he makes his rounds teaching English to students of various ages and levels at a public school, private school and English Language Institute.  I enjoy teaching his classes whenever possible.

A few days ago I walked into the real estate office of Badr Jbari, a handsome 30 year old businessman, whom I had last seen twelve years ago when he was a high school senior in Abdelouahed's English class.  A smile and firm handshake quickly became a warm embrace as he recognized me, my brain racing to make my stored mental image of him catch up with reality.  It was Badr who had volunteered to show me through the medina in order to practice his English, and who had invited me to spend a week with his family in Marrakech at his grandmother's home.  Memories of that experience and medieval city are firmly engrained in my mind- snake charmers, bathing and a massage in the hammam, riding in horse drawn taxis through the old city and the unforgetable farewell rabbit dinner!  Today, he and his friends will drive me to the nearby city of Chouan, a picturesque berber city famous for its distinctive architecture and talented artisans.

Could this be the next Badr?  Yesterday, 15 year old Redr, son of a local doctor, and his friends Anas and Nafal, accompanied me to the old city so they could practice their English.  We visited shops, took photos from rooftops, passed the entrance to the royal palace and watched part of a Barcelona football match in a cafe.  These friendly, motivated and focused students are part of the new Morocco I am seeing at every turn.   They no longer express  desire to escape their country as is the case in many of the truly impoverished nations.  They are proud of their country and want to be a part of its future.  Highways are crowded, construction sites busy, new apartment complexes line wide avenues, people relax in landscaped parks and resort cities resembling those of France and Spain line nearby beaches.  Twelve years have passed, and what a difference; new young king, a new era, a new outlook for Morocco.

Adama Diarra, medical student

Son of his father's third wife, Adama joined the community of children already belonging to this family of the village blacksmith.  His oldest half-brother is about the same age as his mother!  The non-biological mothers of this family are referred to as "maratres" and children having the same father are all considered brothers and sisters.  Father is about 70 years old and his wives' ages range from about his age to that of Adama's mother who is about  45 years old.  Exact records are not kept; thus, ages and birthdays are approximate.  Adama has two sisters and one brother, all younger than he.

Blacksmiths are an essential part of rural village life.  In fact, they are considered a cast, tend to live apart from the rest of the village and often intermarry with members of families of other blacksmiths.
In Kassa, this isolated Dogon village, the blacksmith makes and maintains the tools needed for planting and harvesting crops-millet and a kind of corn referred to as wheat, fabricating metal items for the village and making shotguns and pistols from scratch.  The village shop, known as the forge, is not only "home" to the sons of the blacksmith, who must learn the family trade, but a normal hangout for other village boys.  Beginning by pumping the sheepskin bellows when the coals needed to glow, Adama learned the art of smithing from his father, grandfather and uncle.

At the age of five, Adama's mother took him to visit her parents in another village, where her father was the blacksmith.  One morning, Adama awoke to find that his mother was gone.  He cried for days, not understanding why his mother had abandonned him without an explanation.  He now understands that his mother was an only child; her parents were older and needed someone to keep them company and help them.   Over the years, Adama became very attached to them; was treated as their child and worked with his grandfather at the forge.  When he was 8 years old, they received a notice that he should attend school.  Although he liked school and was most often the first of his class, he remembers that the teacher beat the students, and that he was hit on the hand, fingers and head.  Grandpa thought that "un forgeron n'est pas fait pour etudier"  - a blacksmith is not made for studying- and that it was sufficient to learn to read and write a letter.  His grandmother told him that since he was always first in his class, that others  would want to hurt him -"lui faire mal."   The teacher commented to the class one day that "Adama est le plus petit de la classe, mais il est le plus grand" - that he is the smallest of the class, but at the same time, the biggest.   When someone new moved to the school and competed with him for first place, he sometimes cried for being second, but his grandmother once again comforted him saying that it was not always necessary to be first.
One year when it was time to take the final exams, Adama did not have money for the fee for all of the exams.  He passed two of the three required, but when he returned later with money to pay for taking the exam, it was too late.  The teacher advanced him to the next level anyway based on his high scores on the first two exams.

When Adama completed the equivalent of elementary and middle school, his parents agreed to let him live with an uncle in Sevare, a city far from the village, so he could attend high school.  He cried after his brother left him there, as he did not know the uncle and his family.  He had never been to a city; all was new and different; they paid little attention to him as he was just an extra person in an already crowded family.  One night they locked him out of the house just for spite, and he remembers it well because the next morning he was covered with mosquito bites!  He continued to do well in his studies, especially liked biology, and his teacher encouraged him to apply for medical school.   He already has this in mind since as a child he remembered the good work of a doctor who had treated people in his village.

Adama passed the competitive exam and was admitted to the first year of medical school along with about 2000 others.  His housing was in a university facility; however, since all of the beds were already filled, he was required to sleep on a mattress that slipped under the lower part of bunk beds.
His nose nearly touched the mattress above him, he could not turn over and he had difficulty sleeping.  For part of the year he ended up sharing a larger bed with another student.   The government gave him the equivalent of  10 dollars for his expenses, so eating twice each day at the local village restaurant that served rice with a sauce for 20 cents, was a necessity.

End of the first year and Papa Jon enters the scene-   Adama was returning from Bamako to Kassa to visit his family and took advantage of the long bus ride to review for his final exams.  Although I was seated next to him, I saw that he was studing medical books and  did not to disturb his deep concentration.  Finally, I spent about an hour talking with him, learned of his dream and discovered that only 300 students would be allowed to continue their studies.    We quickly exchanged email addresses before I reached my destination and I told him that I would pay for his medical books  if he was accepted for the next year.  Adama completed his exams and stayed at his uncle's house helping in the blacksmith shop while waiting for the results.  He was afraid to call to see if he had passed and only learned of his success when a friend who was also at the medical school called him.

Year two and one small step closer to realizing his dream, daily life for Adama remains a struggle.  Other students have financil support from their families, while he has none.   He has to do everything for himself, works at his uncle's forge during vacations and distributes ice cream to local vendors in order to earn a little extra money.  Second year students receive about 55 dollars  to help with lodging expenses and 25 dollars per month for food; they have no funds available for buying books or supplies; they are often required to purchase  copies of professors' lectures.  The students had to go on strike in order to force he government to pay the promised allowances for food and lodging on time.

This year I visited the room where Adama has been living for the past 3 years, toured the campus and met some of his fellow medical students.  He shares a 9X15 foot mud brick room with corregated metal roof with another student.  While his roommate sleeps on a metal frame bed, Adama sleeps on a thin mattress on the dirt floor.  During the rainy season, water sometimes leaks in around the walls and he has to move his bed to keep it from getting wet.  He keeps his clothes, his stethoscope and white lab jacket worn when working in the hospital in a suitcase at the foot of his mattress.  His books are stacked on a small table near the door where he can read during the day in this room that has no electricity.  Other students live in similar rooms in the cluster of buildings where they also share common primitive toilet facilities.  They eat most of their meals in the small cafe that prepares rice and three kinds of sauce daily.

Adama has completed his fourth year of medical school and is taking his final exams this week (October 2010).  After returning from our excursion to his village, Adama spent every day reviewing for his exams; his favorite study location, an abandonned construction site in the brush (la brousse) near the university.   If the professors had not gone on strike, he would have finished his exams before my arrival and we could have spent more time together.  I also learned upon my arrival that the computer that students from Lakeridge High School helped send to him, was not working and that he was trying to have it repaired.  If I had known, I would have brought another one for him.  In spite of the challenges, Adama has already delivered babies, helped with surgery, treated patients with infectious diseases and has spent all of his free time volunteering at the hospital in order to gain as much practical experience as possible.  He knows that the people of Mali need more specialized doctors and skilled surgeons, but he has not yet determined a speciality- perhaps pediatics, ob-gyn or surgery.  By preparing and defending a thesis, Adama will receive a PhD in addition to his MD.  He was elected vice-president of the student medical association and is among the top students of his class.

During our time together, Adama was exposed to a life he did not previously know: hotels, restaurants serving complete meals, air conditionned rooms, travel by 4X4, conversations with people working with NGOs, museums and concerts.  By the time I said farewell to Adama at the Bamako Airport, I was convinced that both of our lives had been enriched and that our friendship would endure.  We will certainly see each other again.

Le petit prince

Packing up and leaving a place you have stayed for several weeks is often difficult.   Themes and characters from Le Petit Prince by St. Exupery come to mind- the pilot; the little prince, the rose, the fox.   One spends quality time with others; cree des liens, creates friendships, and thus assumes some responsibilty for protecting and maintaining them.

I gave Adama a final hug- a strong embrace, and then looked back to see him standing at the entrance barrier and wave a final good-by.   He has to review for his final exams and doesn't need any distractions.  He will make a dedicated doctor with a promising future and I am satisfied that my visit has expanded his horizons.   It would be so simple to tour, photograph a place, and then leave; however, spending time with people you encounter, eating together, meeting family members, sharing experiences- all of this complicates matters and makes a departure more difficult and even emotional.  My connection with Adama Diarra requires a separate chapter, so I will reserve that until later, but there are mini-stories as well.

Mathias, the 38 year old father I met sitting in front of a tailor shop on the edge of a very poor neighborhood, not working because he has malaria, planning to return to his job at a milk processing plant the following day, finally taking some medecine from a pharmacy after using traditional remedies (cheaper) that don't work.
I walk across the dirt street to the entrance of the building where he, his wife who is 7 months pregnant and their 3 year old daughter live in a 2 room apartment.  They cook in front of the door and use communal toilet facilities.  Mathias and I walk through neighborhood streets, step over and around raw sewage, pass the locked faucet where they must pay for buckets of water used for drinking and cooking.  Bathing water comes from an open well and often causes their skin to itch.    Studying to become a teacher, Mathias discontinued his studies because he would  have been sent to a distant rural village to have a job, with wages on which he could not survive.   He accepted his current job in order to marry and begin a family.  His salary of 120 dollars per month barely pay for his lodging and food and he walks 30 minutes each way to his job in order to save the 20 cent mini-bus fare.   We entered the neighborhood school where I met some of the teachers and observed classes of 80-100 students.  The students stood when I entered, some of them showing me the cardboard "slates" on which they were practicing letters of the alphabet.  
This is the real Mali!    I invited Mathias to meet me in the hotel courtyard for a few more hours of conversation before I left.

Bakary Camara, the waiter in a small Lebanese restaurant near the Hotel Tamana.  After discovering he was from Guinea, I wanted to learn more.  With his boss observing his every move, there was no possibilty for conversation in the restaurant, so I invited him to the hotel courtyard during his free time.  He has a degree in accounting, left Guinea due to political unrest and accepted this job while looking for something more permanent.  The restaurant owner is very controling so he has to be careful of his every move- long hours, one day off per week, and wages that only leave him about 10 dollars per month for food; this in a restaurant where the average meal costs 7-10 dollars!   Great insight into the motives and practices of foreign owers in developing African countries.   How are the people of Mali supposed to raise themselves out of poverty?

I walk home on a narrow raised pathway through small, raised plots of soil where lettuce is being grown, mostly for upscale hotels.  The worker who is in constant motion catches my eye- the man irrigating each plot by throwing his watering can into an open well, pulling it to the surface and spreading the contents on the next 2-3 plots.  A hummingbird, a bee, a butterfly?   Probably in his 40's, missing his front teeth, this man has the physique of an athlete who spends every morning at the gym.

On to Morocco.

Getting there

A main goal while in Mali was to meet the family, and visit the Dogon village of, Adama, the student I have known since my last visit three years ago.   This meant a round trip of at least 1200 miles from Bamako using a 4x4 with driver, meeting a guide who knew the roads and villages and spending 8-10 days en route.  

We began the trip by driving for 12 hours from Bamako to Mopti, arriving after dark.   Pot holes in the highway, donkey carts, herds of cattle and flocks of sheep and goats crossing the road, villages holding markets, lunch stop for rice with gumbo sauce; a long tiring day through the brousse- brush and pasture land punctuated with some large trees, lots of millet and corn fields, ponds and water holes where cattle drink, children splash and swim, people bathe and women wash clothes.   Since the rainy season has just ended, there is plenty of water everywhere and the grass is still green.

Overnight at the Pas de Probleme Hotel in Mopti, visit the port filled with wooden boats called pinasses that transport people and products along the Niger.   The marketplace is always animated with people selling everything imaginable and the boat building and repair area filled with activity- blacksmiths fabricating metal parts and carpenters working with the long wooden planks, both being assisted with their sons.   Buy cases of bottled water and some other supplies that will be needed in an area where stores and shops do not exist and leave for Bandiagara, the beginning of the Dogon region.   We arrive at the end of the Bandiagara escarpment that rises out of this vast plains and desert area and descend a very steep winding paved road to the villages at the bottom of the cliff-  one sign announces a 16 percent down grade.   I wonder if anyone bothered to check the brakes!    No more paved roads, and in fact, places where there are NO roads.  This is the country of pathways, donkey cart trails and traces in the sand.  The Dogon people raise millet and a kind of "wheat" that grows on stocks that look like corn.  Children watch the cattle as they go to graze each day, mothers and daughters spend the day pounding millet and preparing meals, fathers seem to spend many hours conversing in the shade.   Maybe this isn't totally fair, because I think everyone helps with the planting and harvesting of crops.   Overnight under a mosquito net on the roof of a mud adobe brick building counting meteorites and watching the stars, morning investigating the ruins of a former civilization that lived on  ledges of the cliff.   Off to the next village fiording streams, avoiding eroded trenches, dodging animals- me seated in the back seat bracing myself by using both hand holds above the door.  Time to climb to a village located on the top of the cliff, a 2 hour climb up a steep ravine, climbing over boulders and up stones arranged as a rudimentary stairway.   Is it really about 95 degrees?   We consume 2 liter bottles of water that immediately leaves our bodies as sweat.   My second time to this village called Beignemato; located on the edge of the cliff, it has fantastic views of the plains and villages some 1200 feet below.  It is definitely worth the climb. 
Back down the trail and on to the next village.   Three nights and 12 villages later we arrive at our destination, Kassa.  The final day of driving was worthy of a TV commercial for Toyota Land Cruisers!   First of all, the guide did not know the way, so we had to ask villagers and herdmen along the way- traveling through sand dunes with no visible road, trails between fields of millet, and fiording streams and standing water.   At one point we arrived at a river where a herd of cattle was crossing with water nearly over their backs.  The guide entered the water to find a more shallow area and finally located a crossing only one meter in depth- still a challenge for the 4x4.   I held my breath as we pushed our way through the 100 foot width of the stream under the gaze of nomad herdsmen, astonished cows and even a camel!   We arrived safely without the motor stalling and continued on our way.   The roadway became bed rock and large stones, impossible for the vehicle to continue.   We packed essential items in a backpack, took bottles of water, and walked the last 3 miles to the village in 90+ degree heat!   Warm greeting, friendly appreciative family, wonderful connections, part of another chapter.    We only stayed one night since the driver and guide camped at the foot of the mountain and we were unsure of the road conditions for the return.   Ate the chicken that was offered to me as a gift, accepted mangos and bananas for the trip back and said an emotional farewell to the family.   A memorable and exciting experience§

Madrid to Mali

Sorry that my blog has not been able to keep pace with my adventures!  There is no way I can tell about all I did in Spain; however, I will say that Grenada, Barcelona, Madrid, Toledo, Segovia and the village where I stayed with Bouba and Maria, Cerceda, all added to my knowledge and appreciation of Spanish history- and yes, Catalonia!   Good food, great art, interesting people.  That said, they could smoke less and learn to clean up after their dogs!

Fast forward to Mali-

24 hours - different worlds - I know, I understand, I have been here before, but can one ever be prepared for the contrasts?   Arrival in Bamako after a short, night flight from Madrid via Casablanca.  6 am arrival, streetlights seen through the plane window outline the limits of the city, a bumpy landing, strong braking on a short runway, passport control,  check for yellow fever vaccination ( if you don't have proof, they vaccinate you on the spot), luggage inspection.   My friend, Adama, was waiting at the exit and ran to greet me with the most sincere hug I have ever had.  Tears swelling in his eyes, and in mine,  head pressed tightly against me as he repeated, "Papa, tu es la!  Papa, tu es la!"  5 minutes, 10 minutes?   His dream come true.  Landing in sub-saharan Africa is unlike landing anywhere else I have been.  You are immediately struck by the reality of life in a developing country and it is an emotional experience.  Once again, the kindness of strangers.   Adama had long anticipated my arrival because I had taken an interest in him and his dream of a medical career.  The hug and the greeting was heartrending- an amazing reward for a small gesture whose importance I had perhaps underestimated.   We reflected on our original encounter- three years ago, a long, hot, mostly silent bus ride, seated next to a young medical student taking advantage of his time in the bus to review for his exams, frayed books with loose pages and photocopied texts.  A brief conversation and exchange of email addresses as we arrived at he crossroads where I got out; not even a photo.Three years later, I discover that he did not have enough money for the bus ticket and needed some of what he had for food.   The driver had allowed him to ride for the money he had left, and there happened to be an empty seat next to him when I entered.   This morning, quality time together, breakfast of nescafe and bread, a walk through dirt streets to the river, a detour to visit the neighborhood market that is beyond description, getting lost in unmarked streets on the way back to the hotel.  Voila!   My adventure in Mali begins.  

More to come as we attend ceremonies marking 50 years of independence for Mali tomorrow morning.

Barcelona

Found a pension, which you will find out more about later, and headed straight for Barcelona's most famous landmark, the Sagrada Familia designed by Antoni Gaudi.  Massive religious buildings are othing new or unusual - the Haggia Sophia and Blue Mosque of Istanbul are both very old and immense, the romanesque and gothic cathedrals of medieval Europe stand as a tribute to religious fervor and skilled construction techniques, the ornate baroque churches and cathedrals evoque yet another architectural style and time of religious zeal.   Fast forward to Barcelona where I gaze at unusual modern spires surrounded by six towering cranes, walk through an interior construction site resembling an ancient forest and climb narrow spiral stairways leading to the bell towers topped by colorful ceramic and glass sculptures, all of the time, sharing the space with some 300 workers attempting to complete this project in another 20 years.  I am actually witnessing the construction of a cathedral size church!  In the past, there must have been religous pilgrims, foreign travelers and curious local citizens who walked through gothic construction sites or watched stone masons and sculptors accomplish their work.  It is one thing to peer through an opening in the temporary barrier around the construction site of a skyscraper, but quite another to stroll through a vast project begun over 100 years ago.  Amazing, impressive and moving!  Only photos and some knowledge of Gaudi's style can adequately convey the captivating beauty of the Sagrada Familia.  Sorry, but the photos will have to come later.

As I write this entry sitting in a cafe facing the Casa Batllo, I am looking at the facade of this elaborate house designed by Gaudi.  Straight lines have been replaced with gentle curves, flowing walls, wavy rooflines and stairways that seem to melt as they connect the levels of the house.  Ceramic tiles and colored glass add visual interest and beauty to the style. 

There is a great Picasso museum in Barcelona that houses much of his early work.   It is especially interesting because it pre-dates the abstract style that we most often associate with him. 

Last night I attended a concert by Manuel Ferandez, a well-known and very talented guitarist, held in the Palau de la Music- concert hall.  The building is as amazing as the musician- grand staircases, Tiffany style glass panels in the ceiling, sculptures of animals, people and trees surrounding the stage, huge ceramic roses lining the support beams- all very beautiful.

Returned to my pension and discovered a new "solution" to the game of Clue.   The plumber did it with a screwdriver in the bedroom!   The sink in my room was plugged so one of the employees attempted unsuccessfully to clean the trap and drain.    When I got back to my room following the concert, the door to the neighboring room was open, light on, a screwdriver laying on the floor in a pool of blood that was leaking into the hall.  A crime scene? No one in sight!   When I went to the front desk, the employee appeared with a large bandage around his thumb!  He had cut his thumb on a broken ceramic tile while attempting to fix the problem.   Still not able to use the sink!

Granada- adventures and impressions

The Alhambra with its thick imposing walls and square towers, elaborate palaces reflecting two very different cultures, formal gardens and fountains, dominates the old city and attracts droves of curious visitors from around the world.  However, it is the labyrinth of steep walkways and narrow streets, paths and alleyways, all paved with time-worn polished stones that keep me exploring day after day.  What lies around the next corner?  a fountain flowing with pure drinking water, a hidden garden, an amazing vista, another convent or monastery or maybe an ancient moorish hammam.   Just wish the locals would learn to clean up after their dogs!

My exploration is only limited by my finite amount of energy ( I must confess that I took a 2 hour siesta between sentences 3 and 4 of this entry!!!

This morning I walked along the small steam at the base of the Alhambra, stopped to look at the mega colony of feral cats that inhabit the area under an ancient arched stone bridge,  and then ventured through a partially open doorway of the monastario de san bernardo.  I found myself interrupting an intimate morning mass, one priest and seven nuns, all elderly, one of whom signaled for me to join them in the chapel.   With all eyes upon me, how could I refuse.   Jean-Paul Sartre wrote ¨No Exit¨ and Henri IV of France was quoted as saying ¨Paris is worth a mass.¨  I couldn´t turn around and leave and Granada is definitely worth a mass, so I joined them for the next hour.  Forgot my hat when I left and retrieved it later at the window where they sell sweets made at the monastery, along with a half kilo of cookies that cost me 6 euros! all handed to me through a turnstyle that prevents one from seeing the person to whom you are talking.   

Off today to have a couchsurfing experience!

Magic in Granada

Mediterranian light, hot sun, narrow streets providing shade, white stucco walls, tile rooftops, steep cobblestone streets, paths and stairs paved with small river stones arranges in patterns- wow! who had the time and patience to do all of that work? pedestrians, scooters and motorcycles, fascinating architecture, all of those impressions and sensations in a simple walk through the city.

The artist I met told me of an interesting place to hear traditional music and see authentic flamenco- an open air theatre overlooking the mountains and the Alhambra.  Found Ricardo in the Plaza Nueva, proposed the concert, and proceeded to walk to the Sacramonte neighborhood known for its cave dwellings and gypsy inhabitants.   Three musicians, guitarist, violinist and singer, prepared the mood for the entrance of a stately flamenco dancer.   Four dances, each in a different style dress, expressive hand and finger movements, emotional facial expressions, turns, kicks, staccato taping of the feet, castanets, swirling scarves, all under a starry sky, rising full moon and illuninated moorish walls.  Tradition!  Tradition!  Tradition!

26 August- history and culture at its best.   The day of my much anticipated visit to the Alhambra began when I climbed the steep street to the entrance.  No need for a trip to the gym today!  Stair step machine, treadmill, weight lifting (my backpack with cameras) and sauna (the hot weather) all combined in one seven hour visit.  The Moorish architecture brought back memories of palaces visited in Morroco and in Istanbul.  The workmanship is exquisite- horseshoe shaped doorways, colorful tiles, traditional plastered ceilings that resemble honeycomb covered by spider webs (the best description I can provide!) courtyards gardens, fountains and verandas.   Fortunately, the fountains still flow with cool, pure water, a much appreciated comodity on a hot summer day.  The famous lion court fountain is being restored, so only the newly cleaned lion sculptures are on display.  When the project is completed, it will be a stunning fountain, once again the signature image traditionally associated with the Alhambra.  From the fortified watch towers, the guards certainly had a panoramic view of the city and the area and were well protected from any attack.  Small windows allow a few rays of light to illuminate the stairways inside walls that are nearly two meters thick.  Following the retreat of the Moors, Charles V added his palace to the complex.  This unusual building consists of a square several stories high encompassing a circular opening in the center lined with columns made not of marble, but of a cement like composite whose stones that have been sanded smooth.  (Just use your imagination!)
Another rewarding but exhausting day!   Off to photograph graffiti and wall art tomorrow!  Culture of the 21st century!

Number 1 - PDX to Spain

Sorry- photos will follow when I get used to the system!

The Kindness of Strangers...  or Thank You Hannibal!

Even though the lights of Mexico City interrupted only by dark triangles created by mountain peaks or ancient temples, spread to the horizon, I was dreading the 12 hour layover preceding my flight to Madrid.  It had been one topic of discussion with Hannibal, the Dell coputer representative sitting next to me during the flight.   We walked together through immigration and to the exit where I began following the flight crew toward their hotel, the El Camino.  At the entrance to the airport Hilton, Hannibal suggested he might get a favorable rate since he often stayed there with his family.  At the check in desk, he commented that he had accumulated a ridiculous number of hotel points and that he would call to get me a room for the night- end result, a free room and a good night of sleep before continuing to Madrid.  Thanks again Hannibal!

Madrid airport-  Bouba, my friend and former guide from Mali, and his Spanish wife, Maria, met me at the airport and drove me to their apartment about 30 minutes south of Madrid.  It was exciting seeing Bouba in Spain after only having spent time with him in Mali.  In addition to experiencing daily life in a small town, I have taken the bus to Madrid to visit the Modern Art Museum, walk around the center of the city and relax in sidewalk cafes.  Saturday we drove to historic Toledo where we explored maze of narrow streets, visited the amazing cathedral and had a wonderful dinner seated under the head of a brave bull who lost his life and one ear to a skilled matador! 

Monday, Bouba and I took the bus to El Escorial, a short distance from Cerceda, their village.  Although the monastery was closed, we walked around the grounds, took photos and ate a nice dinner in a cafe overlooking the monastery.   Afterward, we walked through an exhibit of paintings of a local artist and enjoyed our conversation with him.   If only I spoke and understood Spanish!!!!

It´s Wednesday and I am in Granada!  Arrived by train last night and have a hotel room since none of the people I contacted about couchsurfing were available.  Graffiti everywhere around my hotel so I walked the streets taking photos.  I continued up narrow cobblestone streets and stairs in a neighborhood called Albaicin to a viewpoint overlooking the city and discovered an area of street art.   While taking photos I greeted a lady going to the market, and was still there when she returned.   When I told her about my interest in street art, she invited me to her house to see a book of art featuring a well known street artist from Granada, Elninodelaspinturas, and told me where to find some examples of his work.  Since I must have looked very warm, actually I was sweating under the hot sun, she asked me to have a beer, then it was lunch and conversation.   I discovered that her husband is a famous sculptor and she does engravings and book illustrations.   They live in a house that is "troglodyte"  not sure of the adjective!  as the back of the house is comprised of caves and only the front two rooms have windows and doors to the outside.   Gespacho, chicken and bread followed by a puree of frozen fruit and the coffee.  Another example of the kindness of strangers. 

I will be off soon to find more street art!  Fun! 

Final days before departure

Out of my house, using free wi-fi at coffee shops and book stores!   Living out of a small suitcase so I don't disturb the contents of my backpack.  Driving a borrowed car.   Setting up a phantom life in Oregon so businesses will not know I am gone.   Making sure my mail will still be delivered to the appropriate addresses.   Thought I might just drink water on the plane, but am revisiting that decision.  
Next message will be from Spain.

Getting out of town!

Leaving for a 9 month around the world trip is not as simple as it seemed when I scheduled the flights.   Rent the house, arrange financial affairs, update vaccinations and assemble a medical kit, send for visas where required, choose a backpack, select clothes for 9 months and a variety of climates, notify credit card companies, get a new debit card, and yes, even arrange an extension for tax day.

With 220,000 miles, American Airlines allowed me to schedule a maximum of 16 flights within a 9 month period, flying business class!  Oh yeah, I will be stretching my legs on those 12 hour flights!  Departure will be August 16 and return date, May 2, 2011, with the following scheduled stops:  Portland, Dallas, Mexico City, Madrid, Johannesburg, Capetown, London, Mumbai, Hong Kong, Bangkok, Sydney, Melbourne, Aukland, Los Angeles, Dallas, Portland.  I will use these cities as hubs to visit surrounding areas and have already scheduled a flight from Madrid to Bamako, Mali and Casablanca, Morocco.  From Bangkok, I plan to visit Cambodia, Laos, Viet Nam and Myanmar in addition to various regions of Thailand.   Will keep you posted as I proceed.

In addition to keeping in touch with family and friends throughout the trip, my blog will be used by my grandson's sixth grade class as a social studies unit encompassing world cultures, geography and history.
Not only will I illustrate my adventures with photos, but I intend to visit schools and seek activities of 11 year olds that I can share with his class.

My grandchildren call me Papa Jon, and I have become Papa, or Papa Jon, to many of my friends and acquaintances around the world.  

Thus, ciao until next time,

Papa Jon