Merry Christmas (or) Roman Holiday Part Two

Remember that time we went to Italy?

Our visit to Rome, in an unexpected way, helped us to put Fez into perspective. Ever corner you turn seems to hide some millennia-old treasure, just as it does here. And the fact that most Roman ruins predate their Fessi counterparts makes it all the more impressive. Being able to wander around and see the inner constructions of these early wonders of human invention put our own walled city into its proper relief, shaking us from our (often imprecise) assumptions. Walking these streets in the days leading up to and immediately following Christmas proved incredibly striking...

I'm only choosing a handful of photos here to attempt and represent the indescribable experience of touring Rome. Our time there, for the first time in a while, was spent as true "tourists" - speaking Italian straight from the phrase book, bumping into people because we were feverishly reading our Rick Steves' guidebook, all those things that people do with the express concern of pissing us off here in Fez. We saw the sights, got ourselves lost, missed busses, and stumbled into some of the most outstanding (and understated) restaurants imaginable. In so many ways, the time we passed in Rome was just perfect.

Then we went to Florence and Tuscany...

Check it out - we're in Agustus' house. Yeah, that guy who called everyone to head back home for a census. You may know the story.

The view of the Roman Forum and the Colosseum from the hill. This was what the Emperor saw when he peeked out the window. PS: Got to stand on a rock in the ground where the throne was, where history was decided.

This is what remains of Constantine's Basilica. (The Christians snagged their method of construction from these older justice halls, which then lent their name to the large churches.) If you look really, really closely, you may be able to see Annie standing tall under the arches.

Baby it's cold outside.

Behind the Pantheon.

We snuck into the Colleseum right before we had to leave for Florence. Quaint.

"Do you think that I'm allowed to touch it?"

Merry Christmas (or) Roman Holiday Part One (More Photos)

Taking a much needed break with one of Italy's real treats, literal hot chocolate (what seemed to be melted chocolate in a cup)!

Even Santa went to the "Blessing of the World" after a long night of work.

It's a good thing we ended up in the front row. I can only imagine the sea of umbrellas behind us (and the need for some safety goggles if walking around back there).

In case you missed it, Papa says "Merry Christmas" (in Italian, English, Japanese, Spanish, Esperanto...)

Merry Christmas from the Trevi Fountain! (And yes, we threw our three coins in the fountain, so we should be headed back soon.)

Merry Christmas (or) Roman Holiday Part One

St. Peter's and a Christmas tree donated by Indonesia... Unexpected, eh?

We made it, and we made it back. Upon looking through the photos from our Christmas/Anniversary/Birthday/New Years excursion to Italy, I am stunned by the sheer mass of things we saw and did (and forgot about!).

This was one of my favorite statues that we saw in the vast Vatican Museum. The priest (center) is being held back by the gods because he is trying to warn the Trojans that letting the horse in is a bad idea... and therefore divert the fate set for the city. This is his punishment and his pain.

The internet here in Fez has been spotty, which I'm sure has absolutely nothing to do with the noisy construction that we returned home to. Workers are tearing out the road and replacing gigantic pipes in the street (2-foot-wide alley) behind us. At the same time, I've been seeing folks in blue lab jackets on ladders playing with power lines and, presumably, phone cables. Thus, these posts will be short. Consider it an effort to get something up before we have a communications blackout once again. (Today we had to climb over a pile of mud and rocks to get out of our house! But by the time we got back, the world was flat once again.) (PS: I don't think that was a pun about Galileo, whose museum we visited, but perhaps I should pretend that it was.)

After so many rooms and so many works of art, the world gets a bit dizzy.

Returning to Rome... I'm struck by the number of photos and stories we have of the Vatican. We made it back there more times than I had expected. My parents had told me that they went every day, and I was surprised. But we had more than enough reason to make the subway pilgrimage over and over again. This is partly due, of course, to our impeccable timing. And our absurdly inefficient efforts to see the vastness of what it has to offer. And Annie's last desire to get a rosary bracelet. I'm going to include mostly pictures here, simply implying the stories behind them. If you want to hear more, 'cause you're that kind of listener, you'll have to ask. Otherwise I'll get bogged down in the not-so-interesting details... (Like our Vatican Museum tour guide, who spent a half-hour in front of a TV screen talking about what we would see instead of showing us what was there!) So, here are some photos, and I'll try and post soon in an effort to embellish the rest of Rome.

Merry very belated Christmas to you all!

Michelangelo's Pieta at St. Peter's.

St. Peter at St. Peter's. After the museum, we took a short cut into the church. It was late, dark, and an impressive mix of massive and intimate. This was our first visit, we returned two or three more times after (and never had to wait in the long line!).

Marhaba!

Leaving Amsterdam...

We made it to Fez. The flight from Amsterdam was uneventful (in a good way), but included the stock applause that you seem to hear whenever you land, while flying a lesser known airline, that is. I guess expectations are a bit lower? (I hope that the expectation that we land is not an extreme one...)

The Casablanca airport has been in a constant state of construction over the past few years. This trip, however, we were able to fully experience the shiny new long hallways as we trekked from place to place, hunting for a way back to Fez. The new domestic flight waiting room held us in place for hours when all is said and done. Our 3 hour layover quickly (or slowly, I suppose) became 5, 6 hours long. Suddenly everyone left in the room, at about 12:30 or 1:00am, got up, screaming. The mob appeared to be led by a frail old woman, leading us to believe that it had to do with a domestic argument. It became apparent after a short time, however, that everyone who was supposed to be on our flight was involved. As the mob shifted around the room (following the Royal Air Maroc employees wherever they went, and followed, at a long distance, by an uninterested group of security guards), we were occasionally updated by kind neighbors. I wish my daraja (Moroccan Arabic) were a bit better at this point, I'm sure I would have learned an array of colorful phrases.

Turns out that our flight was canceled. Rerouted to Oujda, which is on the Algerian border. Feel free to scope out a map of Morocco to get an idea of why that doesn't make much sense. Eventually, we were offered a choice between staying the night and taking a 7 hour bus ride. We were itching to get to Fez, so we elected for the bus ride. In the confusion, we befriended another couple, visiting to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. They managed to keep incredible spirits, considering the impressive welcome. For us, though, I think the delay may have kicked us firmly into the correct headspace that will be necessary for fieldwork. Things move slowly, have hitches, and need to be worked out (sometimes loudly). Yet you end up where you need to be. An impressively informal formality pervades these types of interactions and scenes. They took us to get bags, we waited, they took us to a different belt to get bags, waited again... Bags came, after another chunk of time passed us by. Annie's happiest moment was seeing her new sewing machine (from Amsterdam) come down the belt.

Scoping out the new digs

A visit to more baggage areas, an upstairs office, and finally, the curb followed. Turns out someone forgot to tell the bus company that RAM had offered a bus... When we got to the curb, there were two busses, and a mass of further confusion. No one knew which bus was going where, and it turns out that our chosen bus went to both the hotel and Fez. Since those were the only two options, I'm left to wonder where the other went...

The bus was freeeeeezing cold. And 7 hours long. But, alas, we make it to Fez in the morning sun. At another bus station. Just in time for another lengthy wait (for the keys to the house). An insane cat at a coffeeshop kept us entertained. Insane. But entertaining. Eventually, we heard from Mouaniss, who picked us up, found a driver, and got us back to our new home safely and securely. It's just as we remembered, but with some improvements. The staircase to the terrace is no longer death-defying. And there's even a light.

Just in time for Tuesday morning's classes.

 الحمد الله
(Alhamdu li-Lah. Thanks be to God!)

PS: visited the Royal Air Maroc office later in the week, turns out that we can't get any compensation for the affair, and we happened to enjoy a nice, expensive, and cold bus ride.

 الله يجازيكم
(Allah yajazikum. May God compensate you for your deeds.)

The view from our terrace

Stumbling into Surprises, Last Night in Town

Last full night in Ghana. The plan is to head down to the coast, find someplace to grab a bite, and meet Annie at Bywel's, the same place we heard some high life music when we were here a few weeks back.

That's not at all how the night went down.

While walking through something of a beach town slum, I hear some drumming. Crossing a makeshift bridge, I see some dancing. Surprisingly enough, Accra's oceanside coast is not home to international hotel chains or posh pool bars. Instead, it's a 15 year old corrugated steel Hooverville that sits peacefully, waiting as the tide laps up, just feet away. Just beyond this interconnected maze of propped up housing stands the presidential palace, looking like a fort on a cliff from behind.

The music and dancing that I'm slowly stumbling into is part of a royal drumming school, and 30 or so people are digging into the sound as the sun goes down. I stand, noticed, but untouched, and start passing by the group's concrete stage. Rounding the circular building, I found the head drummers, who invited me in and introduced themselves and their resident white guy, Claas (Klaus).

Gettin' down in the back...

Claas, from Germany, does most of the talking, although his English is staggered and smells of gin. He has been living with Senegal (the royal drummer) and the rest while making a documentary film on the group, who had just performed for the president the previous afternoon. Ghana's royal drummers are chiefs, and they claim authority over the musical/ritual activities of small regions, with Senegal, the leader of the Osu neighborhood, declaring his hierarchical dominance over the rest of Accra.

I'm excitedly pulled into one of the corrugated houses, and I find myself standing in front of a full bar. The English Premier League is playing on a TV set. Everything short of darts. Claas orders a Star beer, asks if I'm interested. No, haven't eaten dinner yet! I change my mind when I see the tasty beverage in front of me. He also gets a "Striker" - about 2 shots of gin in a plastic, sealed pouch. The 'tender has to find the scissors to clip off a corner and fill a glass, along with some lime juice. "Claas, that's my summer drink of choice right there, a gimlet!" He's surprised and gets excited. Later in the night, I have one of my own and we toast my lost wanderings while sitting in a shack/bar looking over the coast.

Claas and Senegal, chillin'  hard. Yes, that is the ocean in the background on the right.

I went back the next day - left my notebook at one of the bars. Claas and Senegal wanted pictures, hundreds of pictures of the school and the young drummers. A guitarist was visiting the night before, he was still there in the afternoon, giving us the chance to jam a bit, playing a bit of reggae and a great "Hey Joe." As a member of Fela Kuti's band, I was a bit star-struck, and he was a fantastic player. Me, I was using an acoustic guitar that was missing a string, forcing me to play as a bass. I'm more comfortable there, anyhow, but when the drummers joined in, my straight reggae lines suddenly felt much, much more difficult. I made it, and didn't make a fool out of myself in the process. In the end, that's all we can hope for, eh?

Lessons from royalty.

Annie and I left that night, Friday. Her boss took us out to a meal of Ghanaian food, complete with fried plantains, spicy sauces, perfectly mixed spiced rice, and large plates of grilled fish. All alongside the local milk stout. Perfect.

Delta, in trying to keep us "safe," took us through 18 checkpoints and consumed the 3 hours that we spent in the airport (good thing we were early!). They let us on, found a place for the kora, and plopped us in our spots. Bam, going home. Two movies, a book, and some TV later, we were in Atlanta.

I finished "On the Road" just as we came home. Felt right.

The drumming and dance school.

The Other Saint Louis

She finally found one she likes. She has since found many more.

Left yesterday morning, 7am, for what was supposed to be a 3 hour trip. The destination, Saint Louis, was the previous capital of the region. The French used it as their center for the entirety of French colonial West Africa. Saint Louis was the hub that administrated over Mali, the Ivory Coast, Guinea, Senegal, etc. As a result, it's booming with old colonial architecture.

Well, it was. And maybe is, but not during Ramadan.

Conducting business.

After the 5 hours that it took to get there, we dropped Annie off at the university, where she was to conduct a whole slew of interviews. Dirt roads, dirt parking lots. The things that you take for granted. I couldn't imagine the University of Florida with goats wandering the main lot. Later in the afternoon, though, Annie had to worry for her hair as they started to get closer...

(Her hair is ok.)

A moment of repose.

It was good to get out of the big city. We passed people waiting for buses, small-scale farmers collecting their wares, thatched huts inside concrete compounds, twisted trees that seemed to jump right out of a film, horse-carts, children porting water, and the most well-dressed hitch-hikers that I've ever imagined. Especially the women, decked out in expensive fabric, home made dresses.

Most everything was closed for the holy month. The hotels in Saint Louis date back to its glory days, but alas, I was denied entrance. I had two qualifications in finding a place to spend my afternoon.

1: Air conditioning.
2: A toilet with a seat. (I didn't even need TP, had my own tissues.)

First try: small bakery, coffee shop. No air con, no seat on the toilet. But it was inside, and I was hungry, so I sat. Even got some WiFi. Since I had some work to do, I decided to give it a chance. After a half hour, they closed and kicked me out. Dang.

Second try: ran into the taxi driver, who wandered into another restaurant. Looked good, but lacked, again, on both necessities. Plus, I had just eaten a slice of pizza, so no need to stick around. I was hot.

Third try: the riverside pool bar. Yes! Toilet seat! Outside, boo! It was hot, but I was done of wandering. So I sat. A few hours of writing online course materials for UF, and it was time to move on. So, three tries, and no one really passed my two-teired test. I believe that the city has much, much more to offer, and I'm sure I'll be passing through again sometime to check out the old hotels and bars.

Hiding from the heat and hunger of late-afternoon Ramadan.

Ride home? Lots of pictures. Also, waaaaay too long. We managed to find the only taxi driver who wasn't in a rush. He even slowed down to close to a stop whenever he saw an animal to photograph! We were ready to get back to our posh hotel. We eventually did, where we sat on the roof and ate a delicious dinner to make up for the unprecedented hassle of the day.

Tonight we're off to Accra. We leave at 12:55am. Hopefully it will go better than last time...

La Fourchette (The Fork). We found a way to spend over $50 on dinner, enjoying a meal that would have been impossible to afford stateside. I had a "tornado" of beef with vanilla sautéed and puréed potatoes with a glass of cab. Annie had a type of fish that was cooked in such a way that it caramelized on the outside. And, the obligatory giant bottle of water...

Mali just couldn't bear to have us leave!

Our neighborhood in Bamako

Yesterday afternoon (Friday), we went to the airport, bags packed, ready for the next adventure. Sadly there was an intermediary step that we had yet to discover. After going through two security/passport checks, we stepped up to the Ethiopian Airlines counter. Just as we were feeling triumphant (sometimes every minute detail feels like a victory), the man at the counter dropped the news: we had no ticket. We questioned him, argued with him, showed him how we made it here (to Bamako) from Accra on the same bits of paper, but he was staunch, showing us his passenger list (27 people), and pointing out the severe lack of Witulskis.

Thus began the afternoon. Annie fought with the main Ethiopian Airlines desk while I waited with the bags. We needed to buy a new one. Nope, no credit, only cash. Well fine. Somehow, who knows why, both ATMs at the airport are down. Seriously? A woman at the airport bank offers her a ride to the nearest ATM. No, there isn't room for the bags. Chris continues to wait (this time outside, where he is covered with 15-30 flies at a time, it seems).

While describing the ordeal to the woman from the bank in her red station wagon, her tire blows. Yes, that's right, a flat. "Madame, vous n'avez pas de la chance!" Our flight is leaving soon, and we still have no ticket. PS: Annie's phone has no more battery. Some fella on a scooter offers his help. Chris is still waiting. Flies. Everywhere. ATM #1, nope. ATM #2, also doesn't work. ATM #3, no luck. Back to the airport...

Meanwhile, the woman at the bank returns to the airport, asks me where Annie is. Eh? She was with you! Amidst the confusion here she comes, rolling in on the back of a half-scooter half-BMX bike.

Ethiopian Airlines flight to Dakar takes off. We're in the parking lot.

Time to find a new flight. Air Mali's office is here, there are people inside... What time's the flight? They don't know. They don't know?? We have to wait for the woman who knows. Where is she? No idea. Ok, we'll wait. We wait. Still waiting. Sitting with the flies. Still waiting. Finally, a phone call. Later tonight. What time? Tonight. Ok. Je comprends. C'est bon.

The man Annie's been working with throughout the trip arrives, jolly as always, and whisks us away from the insanity of the airport! We go to a travel agent, get a ticket, he takes us to a great hotel restaurant to get some lunch, we eat, sit in the air conditioning, have a beer, drink some coffee, watch an American movie on TV. We rest, recoup from the afternoon, and prepare ourselves for the second try, which works without a hitch.

Air Mali treats us well, we get the first row, plenty of space, a meal (on a flight that was only an hour and a half!), and some sleep.

Our taximan pontificates about the virtues of women and how men must treat them well, we arrive at our hotel, the Djoloff, which is perfect in every way. (Hot shower with water pressure!!!) This morning we sat on the terrace, overlooking the ocean. Dakar is the Westernmost point of the African continent, and we're only a few streets from the ocean. The air feels like it should, sitting, watching the small fishing boats. A new day, in a new place.

So far, the only picture of us together! On the terrace of the Hotel Mirabeau in Bamako. (The new terrace, at Hotel Djoloff, makes this one look like just a bunch of useless empty space, which it was.)