Having fallen several hours behind schedule, we pulled into Timbuktu’s port (actually a separate city, but more on that curiosity later), in the pitch black as we had been asked to turn off all of our lights and the sun had long since set. Our normally unshakable guide was visibly tense and anxious, taking every precaution in the book, given the numerous recently published security warnings and advisories from nearly every western government regarding Timbuktu and its environs (ie: Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb). The last minutes of our previously languid boat ride were tense and full of oppressing silence, as every one went through worst case scenarios and all of their biggest fears. It was made somewhat worse by the warning we received to remain vigilant once on the shore as many thieves target arriving foreigners in the port. I am happy to say that we arrived without incident. While the fleet of SUV’s that were supposed to be there to ferry us to our hotels were not, we waited without incident and were soon safe and sound and happily ensconced in the relative luxury (electricity and plumbing) of our hotel.

DSC_0256 by anappleanight

Getting to Timbuktu was quite a relief, but that feeling could not compete with the sheer euphoria we all felt upon taking our first showers in days. Wow! I remember when I moved back to the States from Kenya, and quickly lost my appreciation for the hot water coming out of the shower head; we don’t know what we have until we don’t. So Timbuktu… the proverbial end of the road, is a one camel kind of town, and I say that having seen it relatively overrun with visitors for the festival. Having read about Timbuktu’s glory years, as the center for trade, culture, and learning was one thing, particularly as the years in between now number in the hundreds, but the recent travails of the once proud city were hard to hear yet alone bear witness to.

Due to climate change (conservatives take note, if you can overcome your environmental megalomania), the last few decades have dramatically altered Timbuktu in ways that centuries and indeed, millenia, could not. Case in point: as recently as a few years ago, big boats, even ferries, were able to get all the way to Timbuktu, stopping a stone’s throw from the city’s ancient quarter and center of commerce. Now, due to desertification, the Niger treads no closer than 12km from Timbuktu! The only water source to extend to Timbuktu now is an irrigation ditch Qaddafi paid for to supply water to his new hotel project. The ditch is too narrow for even a canoe. This is just one of many severe and all too real anecdotes we heard about Timbuktu while there. It brought climate change home in a way that Al Gore never could.

Author’s Note:

We spent the next days and nights enjoying the surreal Festival in the Desert on the picturesque dunes of the Sahara. I did not chronicle the experience, as it was beyond words… maybe one day. In the interim, check out the pictures and go to the festival, experience it for yourself. You won’t be disappointed.

But first… Paris! First class was surprisingly ehhh, as the seat did not recline flat, which left me at an awkward sloping angle, with every patch of turbulence sliding me further down the seat. That and the guy next to me was violently vomiting (I am worried about him if he cannot handle the foie gras and champagne in first class as he was on his to way to Coite d`Ivoire for two years of Peace Corps!). That being said, I arrived without incident and explored the city. I like Paris, but don`t love it. It doesn`t seduce me like Roma; sing to me like Tel Aviv.

My joie de vivre was quickly interrupted by the news that our wire transfer to our tour operator in Mali did not go through, and the bank had waited awhile to inform me. Thus ensued 8 hours of calls and online chats with Bank of America (costing me 50 USD), with problem begetting problem (online security-transfer limits-wires-utter incompetence). In the end, Bank of America did not solve the problem, their problem, and I will be closing my accounts with them when I return. Yeah, it`s like that!

So with the Paris sky dark and me thoroughly burnt out from sitting in a dreadful internet cafe/call center in Montparnasse all day (literally), our issue was not solved. Elisa heroically came to our aid and got the thousands of necessary Euros in cash to Victoria before Victoria flew to Paris to meet me en route to Bamako. The urgency was immense as the money guranteed everything from a boat (with captain, crew, chef, and camping equipment), to hotels, 4X4s, festival tickets? charter flight… the works. With that settled I indulged. I went to the top of the Eifel Tower, and am glad I did. It was beautiful; Paris is beautiful. I was reminded of why we have stereotypes, as I witnessed not one, but two marriage proposals on the top deck (both said yes; one woman was pleasantly shocked and the other woman was clearly expecting it). After the Eifel Tower I went to La Fontaine Du Mars (http://www.fontainedemars.com), a brasserie that came highly recommended from a French diplomat I know in DC and another friend. It was worth the hype, was as authentic and charming as possible, and the duck confit was the best I have ever had (even better than Dovetail in NYC- sorry Daniella).

In the course of a few hours, between playing tourist and gastronomique, I managed to walk over 10k. I returned to my hotel (highly recommended), fought courageously in a losing skirmish to jet lag, then got a rather unexpected call from Victoria; unexpected because she was supposed to be en route to Paris and over the Atlantic by that point! I`m still not entirely sure that I understand what happened, but I know that Victoria made it to the airport and indeed even to her seat on the plane, but was not in it when the plane took off because the acquaintance of hers (who was booked for the same flight) whose bag she checked, as a favor, did not show up on the flight and Victoria did not want to be stuck taking someone else`s bag through customs. Certainly a reasonable feeling. The consequence: Victoria cannot get another flight until the 31st, so I am flying solo until then. On the 2nd I will be united with Victoria + Elisa and Katie (as originally planned) in Mopti.

I have decided to continue with the original plan, and will fly to Bamako tonight then bus to Burkina Faso tomorrow where we, nay: I, have reservations at a charming hotel in Banfora (http://www.hotelcanneasucre.com). Traveling alone through West Africa is not what I had in mind for this leg of the trip, but the show must go on, and I have never said no to an adventure. I am getting reacquainted with myself on a level of both solitude and discovery that I have not experienced since living alone in Kenya a few years ago.

THIS IS WHY I TRAVEL.

Love to all. I hope to blog again in the coming days.

Unanswered (as of yet) Questions:
-Why in the world does the Louvre have an “r” in it? (BTW- went there this morning. Two thoughts: 1) Cool 2) Louis XIII was not a fan of subtlety)
-How do fat people shower in Europe?
-How is it that this Parisian weather has me lusting for Detroit’s relative mild climate?
-If I try really hard, might I end up with a dignified ’stache?

This was me before:

During:

And after:

OK, I am ready. Let’s do this…

After three months, multiple agencies, and countless emails and conversations, not to mention a scam artist, I am very pleased with our final tour package in Mali. After a week in Burkina Faso with Victoria, we will meet up with Katie and Elisa in Djenne to start the Mali leg of our trip. Here’s what we have planned:

             

 

Mali Discovering & Desert Festival Timbuktu 

Djenné – Mopti – Rivercruise – Desert Festival – Inland Flight – Bamako

 

 

Arrival : 23/12 & 1 january 2010

Departure of the Tour : 02 january 2010
End of the Tour :     10 january 2010
Transport 4 x 4 & Inland Flight

9 days

 

Ø      Day by Day Description

 

 

23/12/01 and 01/01/10 Bamako (2 persons & 2 persons)

Welcome procidure at the aeroport by Touareg Tours Staff. If arrival in the day, you will have a guided visit of Bamako, if nocturnal arrival, direct transfer to the Hotel.

Night at Hotel Cauris Lodge ** ok

Niaréla Bamako 66 79 14 38 (no website)

 

02/01/10  Bamako  Djenné

Free ride of the participants and meeting in Djenné. Touareg Tours is doing the hotelreservation. Check in the rooms : At 13h/ 1 pm on 02/01.

Night at Hôtel/Camp Djenné ** ok

Main Place/next to Mosk in Djenné 20 42 04 97 (no website)

 

03/01/10 Djenné Mopti

Guided visit Djenné in the morning. Departure for Mopti in mid afternoon.

1 ½ h driving from Djenné to Mopti.

Vehicule in Djenné at 15 h/ 3pm, meeting point : Hotel Camp Djenné.

Night at Hotel Y a pas de problem Hotel **(*) (ventilated rooms with inside private shower but outdoor sanitaries/toilet)

Mopti, behind Hotel Kanaga **** on riverside 20 43 10 41 (www.yapasdeprobleme.com)

 

04/01/10 to 06/01/10 Nigerrivercruise Djenné Timbuktu

We will give you meeting point or sent a representative for pinasse departure.

Two & ½ days navigation on the Niger River with a tradional but accommodated pinasse. Through Konna, Debo Lake, up from Sahel environnement to Saharian dune area, discover of the riversides, the African life on Niger rives, as well as the African fauna, such as different kind of birds, and some hippos. The lunch is taken on board, and the diner and nights are spent in camp on the riversides of Niger in the evening.

3 nights in camping

06/01/10  Timbuktu

The great day arrives and we enter in the famous Sandcity of Timbuktu in the morning. Visit of Timbuktu town, the mosks, Djinger Ber, Sankoré, Sidi Yayia, the peace monument an dits history, the by the Unesco restaurated part of the main center town, as well as the houses of Heinrich Barth and René Caillé. In function of arrival time of the pinasse, the visit can be done on 7^th in the morning.

Nuitée à l’hôtel**(*) Hendrina Khan

Quartier Sans-Fils, 20 92 16 81

07 au 9 Janvier 2010  Desert Festival in Timbuktu

At beginning of the afternoon, we start our expedition to the Festivals place and the amazing dunes where the Festival will happens. 3 days amazing music concerts at the official stages, but also, small music bands all over the site, are making “ambiente” all over. It is feast fever in the snow-white dunes. But also, meetings, conferences at the site, and many more : traditionnal games, spectacles, dances, traditionnal plays, animations, and by sure the best musical and artistic concerts from local, west-africain, africain, and international groups. An impressionnant performance in the white dunes of Essakane. You are in Toaureg Tents Accomodation, food is provided by the cook, mineral water, coffee, and touareg tea, whole night over at our campfire to warm up in the cold Saharian nights.

Basic Camp Touareg (Nomad Tent for 3 to 4 persons)

10/01/10  Essakane – Timbuktu – Inland Flight – Bamako

We take the flight (1 to 1 1/2h flight) in the morning to leave for Bamako. Welcome procedure at Bamako Aerport, guided visit of Bamako. Transfert to the airport or to the Hotel.

Hotel Cauris Lodge ** ok

 

11/01/10 Bamako

Free time

Hotel Cauris Lodge ** ok

 

12/01/10 Bamako

Day Use 1 dbleroom and then airport transfer

 

 

 

Baco Djicoroni Ouest ACI  – Bamako – Mali  – Tél/fax. : +223 74 05 65 60 ou

International telephone : +352 621 15 44 99  – E-mail : info@touaregtours.com

Sarl au capital de 1.000.000 F.CFA – N° RCCM :   2002 – B 07 – 65  -  Agrément n° :   02 – 09/VS/ CNPI – GU  www.touaregtours.com             

 

 

This posting has been a long time coming; parts of it have been written in Cairo, Egypt, the Sinai Peninsula, Eilat, Israel, Jerusalem, Israel, Newark, NJ, Detroit, MI, and Baltimore, MD. My recent travels might surprise many of you, as last you heard I had successfully fled Kenya and made it home to Detroit. Several important decisions have been made in the interim, and I thought I’d send out a quick (and final) update as I wrap up this chapter of my life and begin a new one. But first, the exciting and recent stories of my travels…

With several weeks to kill (more on that later) and not much for me in Michigan beyond exorbitant amounts of snow (and my lovely ladies), I decided to make good on several goals/promises to myself, as well as to take advantage of some serious frequent flier miles. So off I went, back to the Middle East!

I had been to Egypt several times from Israel, but had never left the Sinai Peninsula, and fount that to be a real shame. What’s more, I found myself genuinely craving the maddeningly ridiculous feel and ferocity of the third world. I do not use that term in a politically incorrect or loaded way, but rather, to describe parts of the world severely lacking basic infrastructure, and as a result, have pronounced poverty, chaos, and passion. Living in downtown Mombasa imbued me with a real appreciation for third world urban experiences, and Cairo seemed to fit the bill perfectly. In addition, my new found understanding of and familiarity with modern Muslim culture left me wanting more after my abrupt departure from the once friendly confines of Mombasa.

Multiple friends have remarked on how sadistic/senseless/stupid I must be to have chosen to go to Cairo to relax. After all, Cairo is a steaming mess of 18 million people, and is known for its chaos and disorder, not to mention seemingly open hostility to foreigners. Not exactly a Sandals resort in the Caribbean! I love my friends, but severely differed with them on this one, as that description of Cairo only served to further entice me. Plus, as well traveled as I am, how can I say “been there, done that” when I hadn’t even seen the pyramids (the only remaining of the original 7 Wonders of the World, not one of the many so called 8th Wonders of the World that range from the Leaning Tower of Pisa to the world’s largest ball of twine)?

The pyramids were truly all they are cracked up to be, and then some. I was very surprised by just how awe inspiring and impressive I found the Giza Plateau to be, having expected the pyramids and sphinx to be somewhat less than stellar, as so many things we build up to mythic proportions turn out to be when encountered in person. To explore the plateau I hired a guide and horses, and had one hell of a time. I bribed a guard to let me climb one of pyramids (the 4th largest in Giza), explored some tombs with ancient hieroglyphics, and generally just gazed at the pyramids. I also got some great pictures: http://www.flickr.com/photos/anappleanight/.

My time in Cairo was perfect. I spent several days barely talking to anyone (in fact, I played more charades more than actual speaking due to the language barrier), eating amongst the people, and generally just being content. No small feat for someone of my demeanor coupled with the events of the past months in my life. What’s more, after my time spent living amongst and interacting with the majority Muslim population of Mombasa, I feel very at home in the Muslim world, and feel lucky to have realized that “Muslim” as a catch all is as meaningless as “Arab,” with peoples of both sets coming from a million backgrounds and lifestyles, often times having less in common with each other than with this Jewish guy from the American mid-west.

After several delightful days in Cairo (while there I also visited some amazing Mosques, the ancient Islamic quarter, some shukhs, The Egypt Museum, and many things I could not fully comprehend), I boarded a bus to Taba, the border crossing with Israel on the Red Sea. It was long day (understatement), but a great experience nonetheless. It took me 14+ hours, two busses, and three taxis to get to Tel Aviv, and on the way I watched the varying and infinite landscapes of the desert role by. As usual, the real experience was in the journey, not just the destination. I met a few American Peace Corps members on the bus to Tel Aviv, and thoroughly enjoyed trading war stories with them, as they are all living in Armenia and had some unique insights into living abroad amongst the natives. None of them had been to Israel before, and it was a pleasure sharing some recommendations and opinions about Israel with them, as Israel has given me so much and I can point to Israel as being responsible for some major (and positive) decisions/directions in my life.

A quick back story to make way for the next part of my journey: the most incredible part of my tenure at the Embassy was the people I met. In one case I gained not just friends, but family. The Public Affairs Department’s secretary was a lovely woman by the name of Nurit Levy. She is insightful, wise, and as loving as they come. It wasn’t long once I started at the Embassy before we spent significant parts of the work day talking. Whether I was helping her with her English or she was advising me on recipes for my dinner parties, we quickly developed an excellent rapport. It wasn’t long before I became the best of friends with their youngest son, Maor, who had joined them in Washington, and a major admirer of her husband, Mickey, with whom I was known to enjoy an occasional cigar in the Embassy’s basement. Mickey, as some might know, is “kind of a big deal” (as my sister likes to say), having served as Jerusalem’s Commander of Police during some of the worst times of the Second Intifada. As a result of his heroism and humility Mickey is beloved by Israel and is an amazingly kind and gentle soul. He often tells me that I am like a son to him, and having him and his family in my life has been a real blessing.

Mickey’s posting as Israel’s Police Attaché in Washington ended last fall, and the Levy’s moved back to Jerusalem (they are 8th generation Jerusalemites!). It was with them I spent the majority of time in Israel, and to say I had a fabulous time would be a gross understatement. Liron, their 20 year old daughter is a fireball and a delight, and I had a fabulous time hanging out with her, in both Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. She is wise beyond her years, and the discussion I had with her had me revisiting past episodes in my life (i.e.: loving a shiksa!). While with the Levy’s I was lucky enough to see the camera control rooms for Jerusalem’s traffic and roads and the Old City, meet some of Israel’s business barons (complete with a strutting peacock), have dinner with many Chiefs of Police from the States (Austin’s and New York’s MTA were my favorites), as well as have a unique experience at the Kotel (Western Wall).

Besides getting to know Jerusalem beyond the tourist sites, I spent some time in Beer Sheva visiting some old friends (Israeli) and a former intern (American). The fact that my relationships with friends thrive no matter the context never fails to enthuse me. In Tel Aviv, one of my three favorite cities (tied with DC and Roma), I reconnected with some great friends, both old and new, and spent a moment imagining the life I could live in Tel Aviv. My trip was PERFECT. But fear not Jewish mothers, for my intention to live in DC is as resolute as ever.

I will not be returning to Kenya to work, for several reasons. This is mostly due to the crumbling infrastructure and continuing instability in Kenya, and my dislike for the way my NGO was being run. Simply put, good intentions are not enough in the development field, and that combined with putting my life at risk again does not make for the most desirable situation. I sincerely enjoyed my time in Kenya, and though time heals most everything, I think that there will always be tiny hole in my heart for what happened there and my friends I left behind.

The situation in Kenya is still far from resolved as the basic tenants of the situation remain unresolved. I say this despite the fact that a basic power sharing agreement was signed last week in Nairobi. Until there is a solution that Kenyans (not just their political elites) buy into, things will remain unstable, with sporadic bursts of violence and unrest across the country. My friends in Mombasa are trying to resume their normal lives, but are finding it very difficult, with many having lost their jobs, and random unrest an omnipresent threat and reality. With increasingly more distinguished international mediators and pressure, I remain hopeful that the initial agreement will pave the way for meaningful reconciliation. It is now up to the Kenyan legislature to act vote the new agreement into being.

With returning to Kenya not being an option in the short term (feasibility and stability) and long term (career and personal wise), I have decided to return to DC (I kept my apartment with a sub-letter in my stead), and enter the corporate world. The next weeks will be very telling, as I try to obtain a job in the strategic communications/PR field. In short, I realized that despite my wonderfully diverse experiences and eclectic resume, I am still lacking a defined skill set. It is with that in mind that I am embarking on this new career, intending one day to return to the NGO/non-profit world to put my skills to work helping others. I feel somewhat guilty and apprehensive about working for a company instead of a cause, but I feel that long term this is the best move, both personally and professionally, and that I am a worthy cause as well.

In the past weeks I have reveled in the knowledge and humility of just how young I am. Though it seems absurd to talk about switching careers at the tender age of 23, that is exactly what I am doing, and I couldn’t be happier. My modus operandi of late has invoked the old adage: when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I can say with confidence and enthusiasm that I am making some bad-ass lemonade and am savoring every drop. If my final stop on this frenzied ride is a comfortable, warm, and hopefully fulfilling life back in Washington, then I consider myself to be more than lucky.

I am looking very forward to resuming keeping regular company with my amazing friends in DC, and to delving into a new profession. Last time I lived in DC I certainly lived it up, lapping up all the opportunities and diversions that go along with living in a vibrant city. This time around I look forward to living a simpler lifestyle and settling down a bit. With that in mind I intend to get a puppy (hypoallergenic) and a motor scooter (Vespa) and join a boxing gym. I am also very excited to announce that I am starting a book club for connoisseurs of modern fiction.

And so my friends, as this chapter in my life winds to a close, I bid you adieu (at least as far as mass emails go), and I extend my most heartfelt gratitude for your support, counsel, and humor that have served to fortify me through the ups and downs of the past months. The journey has been incredible. I look forward to seeing you all sooner rather than later, and to sharing in your simchas and shondas.

Much Love,
-DJT

P.S. In the course of my travels I have occasionally opened my eyes to the world around me, and on a select few occasions, thought about what I witnessed. Below are some of these observations. I hope that, at the very least, you find them amusing.

Observations:
Defining Ourselves- In the Hebraic tradition a man is defined by the past, his origins, his family, with his name ending in Ben ________ (son of _______). In the Arabic tradition a man is defined by the future, his offspring, with his name ending in Abu _______ (father of ______). I have not, unfortunately, arrived at any insightful interpretations of this reality, but am working on it, and in the meantime, would welcome yours.

Everything is Relative- Station wagons are considered to be very cool in Kenya. Why? People pimp them out like it’s their job, then cruise around with the tinted windows rolled down and their cheap speakers turned up. I just don’t get it.

Facial Hair- I grew a ’stache in advance of my trip to Cairo. In all honesty, I look terrible with a mustache, but felt that even a little bit of pronounced growth would grease my interactions with the Egyptians I would encounter. Keep in mind, I admittedly look less than charming with a mustache (think: used car salesman or confidence man). As Austin’s Chief of Police told me, it is obvious that the mustache is not me! Despite this, and my mother’s implorations, I went ahead with the ’stache, and could not have been happier. Case in point: I walked down the most touristic street in Cairo, wearing a ball cap and sneakers, carrying shopping bags, and generally walking around with my head in the air. Despite all this, I was consistently and repeatedly mistaken for an Egyptian, being spoken to in Arabic, and once I had made clear that I did not speak Arabic or was from Egypt, many a people insisted that my parents must surely be Egyptian, as I so clearly resembled an Egyptian! So take that ’stache naysayers! Epilogue: I shaved it as soon as I got to Jerusalem.

Love- My relationship with Israel is truly of the love-hate variety. Since I was introduced to Israel at the age of 15, we have had a passionate love affair, but not one without occasional bitterness and tension. I have been to Israel may times (approx. 15), but until this past week, had not been for two years, the longest absence in my adult life. The year I spent working for Israel’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs at the Embassy of Israel in Washington, DC was a good experience. To have had that opportunity and responsibility immediately out of college was fundamental, and I do not have any regrets about having worked there.

At the same time, as many of you know, the bureaucracy of the system was slowly beating the life out of my soul, and to stay at the Embassy was simply not feasible. Now, almost 10 months since resigning from the Embassy, I am able to reflect on the experience with a clarity tempered by time. I realize that a bitter taste was left in my mouth from the Embassy, and that recapturing and embracing my love for Israel was critical, and could only be accomplished by returning to the land. After seven short days amongst friends, family, and strangers in Israel, my love for Israel is as strong as ever, and I already pine for my return, shocked that I stayed away for so long.

While working at the Embassy I was privy to an insider’s look at the machine driving Israel’s foreign relations. The peace process, or lack thereof, was something I addressed every single day as I spoke to groups of Americans from across the country. I had the opportunity to meet with several of the lawyers and negotiators involved in the direct negotiations with the Palestinians, as well as the diplomats coordinating the process. Though I gained many insights and much experience while working at the Embassy, I realize now that I also lost hope; hope in the process, hope in peace, hope in reconciliation. After all, how can peace be made with a people and a culture, which those charged with bridging the gaps, do not understand themselves?

In addition, I was privy to the process of advancement within the Ministry, and what I saw was far from confidence inspiring. In many cases, “yes men,” or maybe better put, people who shied from rocking the boat at all costs, were those that advanced through the system. As a result, the culture is one of unquestioning acceptance that does not encourage new or innovative thinking. That genuinely saddens me, especially as I think back to many conversations I had with diplomats as they related how their efforts/initiatives had been stymied or blocked time and time again, for no other apparent reason that because they were outside the box.

And so, I was disappointed with the mode of operations at the Embassy, but would be far from surprised if bureaucracies around the world function in similar fashion. No matter, working at the Embassy was an experience I will not soon forget, and one that I will never regret. Peace in the Middle East…

Arsim: for those of you interested in learning more about a unique segment of Israel’s population, follow the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1q-RQlfiISA&feature=related

Fujo, Swahili for loud noise, is the catch all used to describe the events that begin immediately after the polls closed and continue to the present moment. The fujo has touched every corner of Kenya, killing hundreds and displacing thousands, all the while plunging Kenya into a decline it will not soon recover from.

I was in Mombasa until the morning of January 1st. In the days of the fujo I witnessed things I had only previously only glimpsed on the movie screen or documentary footage. I saw hundreds of women and children chased down my street by an angry mob in fast pursuit while throwing large stones. I saw government troops fighting riotous mobs in the street. I saw a vibrant city known for its relaxed air and freewheeling fun die in a heart beat. And what I saw is nothing. Men were burned alive a few blocks from where I had taken refuge. Churches were burned with hundreds inside. Cars were stopped, and their passengers lynched if of the offending tribe.

Throughout this, 99% of the stores and shops shut down. The price of bread has now more than doubled, and most are without cooking gas yet alone food. The banks are closed, and so the populace goes without both money and food.

During a lull in the violence a friend, no, a brother, of mine and I braved one of the most affected neighborhoods in Kenya to get to the airport. Leaving when I had the opportunity to was one of the hardest decisions I have ever been forced to make. While Kenya is not my country, in the few months I have lived there, mother Kenya drew me into her warm embrace and I described Kenya as the place I lived, not just worked. And so, in leaving, I not only left behind my home but countless friends who cannot or will not leave. I am overcome by a deep sadness and an unforgivable guilt, two emotions I look forward to overcoming upon my eventual return to Kenya.

During the days and nights of the fujo, as the battles raged nearby and with the constant symphony of angry cries, gun shots, and tear gas canisters, I spent a few moments now and then writing. Below are a few excerpts. I share them with you, not as a testament to what I survived, but as a reminder as to what is still taking place. The story, the headline, the news is no different than hundreds of other similar occurrences throughout the year that we glimpse as they scroll across the bottom of our television screens, but I bore witness to the all too real situation on the ground. My thoughts and prayers continue to be with my friends and loved ones enduring the fujo and the rapid demise of, what was, one of Africa’s remarkable success stories.

Helpless
The night is quiet. Too quiet. Long periods of utter stillness are interrupted by flashes of violence. Mobs of young men parade through the street showing their political resolve and demonstrating their commitment to their ideal of democracy. Their vision is clouded by their lust for violence, justified by their desire for justice. Justice at any price. Innocent pedestrians have been stoned in the streets. Shops have been looted. Houses are being reduced to ashes.

In the midst of this impending chaos we have nothing to do but sit and wait. Every flight is full. Many of the roads have been closed by mobs burning tires and anything else they can get their hands on. The situation will get better. There is no doubt. But it is equally certain that it will get much, much worse before any improvement is seen. No matter the content of the announcements made and election results revealed, a significant portion of the population will be angered.

The most threatening factor is that, as it appears now, those who will be the most upset are also those with the least to lose. A man with nothing to lose is the most threatening. Many have declared that truth over the centuries. I have always believed it. I only hope I do not learn the lesson first hand.

I am in a compound in a wealthy, residential area of the island of Mombasa. This area is off the beaten path of Mombasa’s main roads, and in theory, of the riotous mobs sharpening their machetes as I punch these keys. The family I am with is not scared. They have based their faith of a safe outcome in two seemingly opposed sources of strength: Allah and firearms. No matter what happens through the night, they will head the call of prayer, just as the mobs will follow their leaders’ calls to violence. Failing divine protection, there is a robust collection of guns and ammunition in the compound. and an over abundance of men skilled and ready to use them, should the need be.

Sadness
Sadness weighs me down like the pangas and machetes in the hands of the men in the streets. It is a burden to be sure, but I unwillingly shepherd it, unlike the men who dance with glee as more fuel is poured on the fire. The city, closed and shuttered, is teeming with thousands of men with nowhere to go and nothing to do. These same men have scores to settle and bloodlusts to sate. They may be lulled into a daytime stupor, but their collective rage will continue to simmer until it boils over with the setting of the sun each night. Until the politicians, nay, the riot provoking talking heads, fundamentally alter the status quo with concrete steps towards reconciliation, the country will continue to tear itself apart, tribe by tribe, city by city.

The violence yields no progress, only death, pain and death. The violence will know no end until the leaders of these warring factions make genuine attempts to put out the fires they have so methodically been stoking. For the opposition to acquiesce is nothing less than an outright acceptance of an election so obviously rigged by the incumbent that his methods were reminiscent of cheating on a primary school exam, rather than a presidential election. And the incumbent, acting more and more like a dictator with each passing day, will not make any concession, as any step in that direction will b e perceived as a tacit admission of fraud.

Fireworks
The ground vibrates with the almost rhythmic boom, boom boom of distant explosions. The sky is aglow. A faint orange interrupted every so often with bursts of violent red. I know that the city is at war. The people are looting, fighting, killing each other. They have been at it for days. Yet, I have hope. It is January 1st, and it has been this new day, this new year, for but a few minutes. I hope with all my heart that the rumblings felt throughout my body, throughout my being, are the same that all my brothers and sisters are feeling as they usher in the new year around the world. Fireworks, symbolic of celebrations and joy, would be wholly out of sync with the blood in the streets, but completely appropriate considering the calendar. I hope that the glow in the sky is of fireworks being launched in celebration and exploding with joy, instead of marking the loss of yet another house and home for a family caught in the crossfire.

Happy holidays from Rome!  I arrived here yesterday after an overnight journey from Mombasa.  I left the grueling African sun and 100+ degree weather to arrive here in Italy to the cold cold weather of December in Europe… without a jacket.  Luckily, today my jacket will be arriving care of my ladies!  My mother and sister are en route for a holiday we all so thoroughly crave, and each others’ company, which we all so thoroughly need.  The next ten days will see us explore Rome (probably my favorite city in the world), drive through Sicily, and then spend an extended weekend in a mystery locale.  The girls only know it as Destination X, and I am rather impressed with myself, considering how many months after initially planning our itinerary, I have managed to keep the details under wraps, especially in the face of persistent pestering from two fiercely querying Jewish women.  But I digress…

I thought I should send out an update to reassure you that Africa has not yet swallowed me whole, but rather, is slowly but surely eating away at me.  I am doing my best to stay happy and healthy.  I will briefly update you on my relatively mundane life, and further direct you to my blog ( http://www.anappleanight.com/wpblog), where I have been writing extensively on many a topic, including street children, my puppy, being white in Mombasa, a Muslim funeral, and what I will be pursuing upon my return home.  Let it suffice to say that I could, and just might, write a book on my experiences living and working in Kenya.  The snapshots I provide on my blog are my attempt to provide some insight into my daily and unique experiences.  I sincerely hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

I have been living in Mombasa now for 10 weeks, though it seems much much longer than that, and not at all in a bad way.  Rather, a lot has happened and I have truly adapted to a new life.  It has been a challenging, trying, and modestly rewarding time in my life.  I doubt I will ever look back on this time as the best, but it is surely an opportunity and experience that will expose to me things that I otherwise would not encounter, and from which I will always benefit.  In addition, my perspective on the world, one which I have always endeavored to challenge, expand, and challenge again, has been given a crucial dose of the have-nots, a critical yet often and easily overlooked segment of our brethren.

My health situation has been incredibly difficult, as I have visited the emergency room three times now.  I now have the doctor’s cell phone number and the administrative staff knows be my name; perfectly nice people, but not my top choice when it comes to people I frequently see.  I have suffered from anti-malarial drug side effects, diarrhea, fatigue, insomnia, viral infections, the flu, and god knows what else.  Despite all that, my body continues to prevail, and I can only continue to hope that, despite logic and experience, I will adapt to my newly adopted home despite all of its malicious maladies.
Psychologically and emotionally I have reached a plateau of moderate contentment.  As I have become more familiar with my surroundings and its previously foreign rhythm of daily life, I have begun to keep in synch and embrace the tempo.  I continue to be blessed with amazing friends, but am sorely lacking friends from the western world, people with similar backgrounds experiencing similar things with whom to process my experience.

As for my work, I find it incredibly comical and slightly cheeky when I consider how many of you have let on that you think I have spent my time in Kenya digging latrines.  For the record I have not even seen a shovel, nor would I, realistically, last an hour digging in the equatorial sun, in this, the hottest time of year in the tropics south of the equator.  My time can best be described as fulfilling several roles, some prescribed, others adopted on the fly.  Most of my time has been filled designing and implementing a Population Density Assessment for Kayafungo’s 4 sub-locations and 25 villages.  This has entailed the training (through a translator) of close to 100 volunteers, mostly consisting of village elders and first wives, the design and translation of the forms, glossaries, and guides, and the patience and forbearance to carry out the assessment.

The results have yielded the clearest picture of the region on record, and will go a long way in the final decisions concerning the routing of the water pipeline.  The rest of my time has been spent schlepping all over Kayafungo and Mombasa speaking with everyone from the community water boards, Chief, and Assistant Chiefs, to bigger government bureaucracies, engineers, community members, and many of the 18 candidates for the position of Kayafungo’s Development Councilor, with whom I will closely work once Election Day comes and goes at the end of this month.

I had not anticipated that I would be playing the role of researcher here, but alas, the job needed to be done.  Working for such a small NGO has its advantages and disadvantages; I try to concentrate on the former, but find myself frequently beleaguered by the latter, namely a lack of both experience and resources.  Despite this, I continue to remain committed to the work I came for, and will renew my contract at the end of the year for another three months.  Needless to say my professional life has witnessed quite a transition, one totally lacking glamour, but I am have no doubt that I will retain my cocktail party skills for my return.  Until then, please have a cocktail for me…

The fervor leading up to Kenya’s second democratic elections has been… intense.  Kenya’s democracy is still quite fragile, with the presidential incumbent, Kibaki, having been elected just 5 years ago, after 23 years of Moi’s dictatorship.  The northern part of the country has been ripped apart by tribal violence related to the election that has displaced thousands, and frankly, justifies many of the lasting stereotypes sub-Saharan Africa so desperately needs to overcome.   I will be returning to Kenya just in time for the elections, and remain wearily enthused and optimistic that Kenya will keep it together and democracy will prevail.  Believe me, if it doesn’t, you will hear about it.  I don’t say this to scare you, but rather, to convey the fragile African world in which I live.

And so my friends, I must bid you arrivederci.  Your email updates and calls continue to be the highlights of my days and weeks, and are a constant source of juicy information, gracious encouragement, and necessary reminders of where I come from and just how amazing the people there are.  Thank you for your continued support.  I hope that the new year is one of health, happiness, and the right amount of adventure for you and your loved ones.  As several of you prepare to come and visit in the coming months, I again extend the invitation to the rest of you.  In the words of Hillel, if not now, when?

Much Love,
-Daniel

P.S.  Now that I have rejoined western civilization (defined by a fast internet connection speed), even temporarily, I have uploaded some pictures of my flat, car, and life to http://www.flickr.com/photos/anappleanight.  Enjoy…

Happy holidays from Rome!  I arrived here yesterday after an overnight journey from Mombasa.  I left the grueling African sun and 100+ degree weather to arrive here in Italy to the cold cold weather of December in Europe… without a jacket.  Luckily, today my jacket will be arriving care of my ladies!  My mother and sister are en route for a holiday we all so thoroughly crave, and each others’ company, which we all so thoroughly need.  The next ten days will see us explore Rome (probably my favorite city in the world), drive through Sicily, and then spend an extended weekend in a mystery locale.  The girls only know it as Destination X, and I am rather impressed with myself, considering how many months after initially planning our itinerary, I have managed to keep the details under wraps, especially in the face of persistent pestering from two fiercely querying Jewish women.  But I digress…

I thought I should send out an update to reassure you that Africa has not yet swallowed me whole, but rather, is slowly but surely eating away at me.  I am doing my best to stay happy and healthy.  I will briefly update you on my relatively mundane life, and further direct you to my blog ( http://www.anappleanight.com/wpblog), where I have been writing extensively on many a topic, including street children, my puppy, being white in Mombasa, a Muslim funeral, and what I will be pursuing upon my return home.  Let it suffice to say that I could, and just might, write a book on my experiences living and working in Kenya.  The snapshots I provide on my blog are my attempt to provide some insight into my daily and unique experiences.  I sincerely hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

I have been living in Mombasa now for 10 weeks, though it seems much much longer than that, and not at all in a bad way.  Rather, a lot has happened and I have truly adapted to a new life.  It has been a challenging, trying, and modestly rewarding time in my life.  I doubt I will ever look back on this time as the best, but it is surely an opportunity and experience that will expose to me things that I otherwise would not encounter, and from which I will always benefit.  In addition, my perspective on the world, one which I have always endeavored to challenge, expand, and challenge again, has been given a crucial dose of the have-nots, a critical yet often and easily overlooked segment of our brethren.

My health situation has been incredibly difficult, as I have visited the emergency room three times now.  I now have the doctor’s cell phone number and the administrative staff knows be my name; perfectly nice people, but not my top choice when it comes to people I frequently see.  I have suffered from anti-malarial drug side effects, diarrhea, fatigue, insomnia, viral infections, the flu, and god knows what else.  Despite all that, my body continues to prevail, and I can only continue to hope that, despite logic and experience, I will adapt to my newly adopted home despite all of its malicious maladies.
Psychologically and emotionally I have reached a plateau of moderate contentment.  As I have become more familiar with my surroundings and its previously foreign rhythm of daily life, I have begun to keep in synch and embrace the tempo.  I continue to be blessed with amazing friends, but am sorely lacking friends from the western world, people with similar backgrounds experiencing similar things with whom to process my experience.

As for my work, I find it incredibly comical and slightly cheeky when I consider how many of you have let on that you think I have spent my time in Kenya digging latrines.  For the record I have not even seen a shovel, nor would I, realistically, last an hour digging in the equatorial sun, in this, the hottest time of year in the tropics south of the equator.  My time can best be described as fulfilling several roles, some prescribed, others adopted on the fly.  Most of my time has been filled designing and implementing a Population Density Assessment for Kayafungo’s 4 sub-locations and 25 villages.  This has entailed the training (through a translator) of close to 100 volunteers, mostly consisting of village elders and first wives, the design and translation of the forms, glossaries, and guides, and the patience and forbearance to carry out the assessment.

The results have yielded the clearest picture of the region on record, and will go a long way in the final decisions concerning the routing of the water pipeline.  The rest of my time has been spent schlepping all over Kayafungo and Mombasa speaking with everyone from the community water boards, Chief, and Assistant Chiefs, to bigger government bureaucracies, engineers, community members, and many of the 18 candidates for the position of Kayafungo’s Development Councilor, with whom I will closely work once Election Day comes and goes at the end of this month.

I had not anticipated that I would be playing the role of researcher here, but alas, the job needed to be done.  Working for such a small NGO has its advantages and disadvantages; I try to concentrate on the former, but find myself frequently beleaguered by the latter, namely a lack of both experience and resources.  Despite this, I continue to remain committed to the work I came for, and will renew my contract at the end of the year for another three months.  Needless to say my professional life has witnessed quite a transition, one totally lacking glamour, but I am have no doubt that I will retain my cocktail party skills for my return.  Until then, please have a cocktail for me…

The fervor leading up to Kenya’s second democratic elections has been… intense.  Kenya’s democracy is still quite fragile, with the presidential incumbent, Kibaki, having been elected just 5 years ago, after 23 years of Moi’s dictatorship.  The northern part of the country has been ripped apart by tribal violence related to the election that has displaced thousands, and frankly, justifies many of the lasting stereotypes sub-Saharan Africa so desperately needs to overcome.   I will be returning to Kenya just in time for the elections, and remain wearily enthused and optimistic that Kenya will keep it together and democracy will prevail.  Believe me, if it doesn’t, you will hear about it.  I don’t say this to scare you, but rather, to convey the fragile African world in which I live.

And so my friends, I must bid you arrivederci.  Your email updates and calls continue to be the highlights of my days and weeks, and are a constant source of juicy information, gracious encouragement, and necessary reminders of where I come from and just how amazing the people there are.  Thank you for your continued support.  I hope that the new year is one of health, happiness, and the right amount of adventure for you and your loved ones.  As several of you prepare to come and visit in the coming months, I again extend the invitation to the rest of you.  In the words of Hillel, if not now, when?

Much Love,
-Daniel

P.S.  Now that I have rejoined western civilization (defined by a fast internet connection speed), even temporarily, I have uploaded some pictures of my flat, car, and life to http://www.flickr.com/photos/anappleanight.  Enjoy…

The men jostled one another to carry the coffin on elongated poles, just like the Covenant of the Ark of the Israelites.  Though instead of being awestruck and intimidated by its contents, each man tried his damndest to carry the coffin, if only for a second, to fulfill his communal role while paying his final respects to his mother/grandmother/wife/aunt/neighbor/friend/etc…

The procession was not one of sadness, but of purpose; not of grief but of finality; not of pain but of thankfulness for God’s mercy, as Salaama had suffered for long enough.  Her life cycle had ended while the circle of life continued, round and round.  Onlookers knew what was happening and stood by out of distant respect or continued their business out of economic necessity.

Turning left and through the cemetery’s white gates, the procession entered the park like burial ground.  Instead of playgrounds with swing sets lay grassy fields with rectangular mounds.  The coffin was carried to a freshly excavated hole; rich soil piled high all around, exposing the depths of Salaama’s final resting place.  At the very bottom of the hole was a crevice no wider than a mattress is thick and no deeper than a couch is tall.  Her sons gingerly slid into the hole while we crowded around looking down, all the while being careful not to step on the graves of others long since passed.

Next came a symphony of cohesion rooted in respect and reverence.  Respect for Salaama and reverence for her remains.  A green sheet was spread over the hole as some around the grave held and flapped it, all the while covering the hole underneath and Salaama’s sons inside.  From one end of the grave Salaama’s remains were delicately slid out of the coffin and seamlessly under the sheet and into her sons’ arms.  Those above the grave could see nothing of Salaama’s remains or her sons laying her down for her eternal rest against the shade covered rear wall of the cemetery.

After her remains had been placed in the crevice and covered with luscious bundles of green grass, Salaama’s sons were hoisted out of the grave by the outstretched hands of their friends and family.  The crowd of men gathered closer as the earth was returned to its original place, only now, it served to seal Salaama’s remains.  Delicate care was given to the even distribution and hand spreading of the earth until it filled the entire hole.  But it did not stop there, as the men continued to pile on dirt, creating another rectangular mound in the cemetery.

All the while one of Salaama’s brothers recited prayers aloud, in a call and response pattern with the crowd.  When the spreading and packing and finishing touches had been completed, a young Imam said a final short prayer, and the crowd quickly disbursed, manhandling their cell phones like long lost lovers and shaking hands with one another like candidates running for election.  Salaama had been buried.  It was time to eat.