tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70349333492118267492024-03-13T12:15:42.945+01:00Peripatetic LifeBlog experiment 1.0: Thoughts from Angola (and a few other places)Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-68848680619557364272009-09-27T20:15:00.003+01:002009-10-10T20:31:04.225+01:00Leaving LuandaSomehow, 15 months has passed since I arrived in Angola, and just like that the MBA Enterprise Corps assignment is over. There were several going away parties the final week in Luanda, but the most touching was our team lunch held at Jango Valero on the Ilha. I knew something was up when Wilson, an Angolan colleague, brought a guitar case to the outing. The mystery was solved before long, when he broke out with his special song. I didn't know what to expect, but luckily the cameras were rolling.<br /><br />The meal was great (lobster on the buffet line is never a bad thing) but I was caught off-guard when it became clear I was expected to make a speech. I had been so focused mentally on trying to finish work projects and figure out my packing strategy (it's not easy to pack after living somewhere for 15 months when you're constrained by airline baggage policies to get all your stuff home!) that it never dawned on me that I should prepare some remarks. Of course Burch - the MBAEC volunteer that I arrived with 15 months ago - spoke well and from the heart, which made my speech seem all the more inadequate. I stumbled through it somehow and nobody threw any food at me so I'm taking that as a sign that my comments were acceptable. I was honored to have the experience and look forward to keeping in touch with the team.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Wilson's going-away tribute:</span><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyc60pEYMxBZLe-8vIwWKmvKTJ-y0EaovrPDZcrssgZWFA2rmG6zs2y2Q4cE2Uwr7l5TvRzlMkEc1n2CVzLsA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-7625835057012963542009-09-19T23:55:00.005+01:002009-09-20T00:28:24.642+01:00Malanje<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxdnShqTtW2_UcnBhvfRD3ucQE_MkhKUd8P0_fbCAOhjRyw36b3NPZZvOzyRYraxQomBUi8pxMKlSgZdB_tlhb9R1X21oIDTlGvKij_nxpD2TrTqgkLPiYR6CVexJduQYXXT7hSdKJAiA/s1600-h/kalandula2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxdnShqTtW2_UcnBhvfRD3ucQE_MkhKUd8P0_fbCAOhjRyw36b3NPZZvOzyRYraxQomBUi8pxMKlSgZdB_tlhb9R1X21oIDTlGvKij_nxpD2TrTqgkLPiYR6CVexJduQYXXT7hSdKJAiA/s320/kalandula2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383320324090525474" /></a>I may have saved the best weekend trip for last. I have been impressed with the potential for tourism in Angola, and a quick trip to Malanje last weekend only reinforced that opinion. The ride from Luanda involves a gentle climb through a large imbondeiro (baobab) forest to the town of Dondo, at which point we continued in the direction of Malanje only to find that a bridge was under construction about 20 minutes down the road. There were cars waiting, so we thought it might be a temporary close. Rolling down the window to ask for an estimate, we were told that the bridge should be open by Monday (it was Saturday morning). We found an alternate (unpaved) route and amazingly didn’t end up losing much time.<br /><br />The Kalandula Falls (known as the Duque de Bragança Falls during colonial times) were impressive. The remarkable part about it for me was that there is absolutely nothing stopping you from walking right up to the edge, and falling over should you be so unlucky. The large sandstones in the river bed atop the falls are full of carved graffiti from colonial times and make for some interesting reading. During the visit I kept thinking how waterfalls are a curious attraction. I think they are beautiful, but what exactly are you supposed to do there? I find myself staring at the falls in sections, fixing my gaze on one section of water’s journey downward and then picking a new section when the water I was previously watching is down. Then I focus back to take in the overall scene. I mean, what else could you possibly do? It sounds so boring when you’re writing about it, but people travel hundreds of miles and sometimes base their entire vacations around doing nothing but what I just described. Maybe it’s inspiring. In any event, I spent some time scrambling on the river rocks taking care never to get too close to the edge. And then it was time to go, which was fine by me.<br /><br />After a quiet Saturday night in town we got up early and drove to the Pedras Negras area, which was another surprise. The road leading into the main area isn’t marked, but we were able to confirm the route by stopping to ask one of the locals in a nearby village. At this point I got out of the truck and rode standing up in the truck bed as we drove down the dirt road through the massive rock formations. We came to another village (Pundo Andongo), this one with paved roads and electricity – a definite leftover from Portuguese times. On the other side of the village was an area with footprints in the smooth rock with a barrier. It turned out we were visiting at the same time as the delegation from the “Miss Malanje” pageant that was due to be held the following weekend. The contestants were taking cheesy photos with the rocks in the background and it was awesome. We asked someone what the footprints meant and got the reply that it was the “footprint of the queen.” Highly doubtful, but we didn’t press for more details. After exploring a bit more and summiting one of the rocks for an impressive view it was time to start the long drive back to Luanda. We took a different route that was in even worse shape than the previous one, and after three hours of shock therapy it was a relief to find the asphalt again. The highlight of the return trip was the need to ford a river with a steep incline on the opposite side (the adjacent bridge was not yet open). We watched a semi full of Coke bottles take two tries to make it up, but luckily we fared better.<br /><br />Throughout the weekend drive we passed many villages made of mud dwellings with straw roofs. It seemed to be the season to put on a new layer of straw, which makes sense since the rainy season is just around the corner. We’d pass women beating cassava into paste to make funge with the large wooden utensils I had only previously seen in the anthropology museum in Luanda. There were pigs, goats, and chickens roaming around the villages and kids playing soccer. None of these villages had power or running water from what I could tell. It was a glimpse into a life from another century…<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Road hog:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jbJ7Mlr1JojgTMgTxkPBGdid06y7QoUli_eVO5UV6S5MFgHqLl9TQAkkX3S2lSSGRKe2tDTkngYhhbDVpSGmEqSnHEHJ4ZNOEN_wK1f3BeVTsC3nrbyNFOkXhXQWex0JvLr-t_wO0t4/s1600-h/roadhog.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jbJ7Mlr1JojgTMgTxkPBGdid06y7QoUli_eVO5UV6S5MFgHqLl9TQAkkX3S2lSSGRKe2tDTkngYhhbDVpSGmEqSnHEHJ4ZNOEN_wK1f3BeVTsC3nrbyNFOkXhXQWex0JvLr-t_wO0t4/s320/roadhog.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383321111289803762" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Driving through the Baobab Forest:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYF_F4ONwfGPBDMyYx3t3wlLSMrMQIqg0eKEcMHwWO_7WmnW7bJFlVPCikvUSTDRzXTWCD039feTdvnBPl3NShxOJlck7IPSdHsltL3X0cVq-kIU7e6HxY0cF8nN90s-eO73jMc8ET6oA/s1600-h/imbondeiros.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYF_F4ONwfGPBDMyYx3t3wlLSMrMQIqg0eKEcMHwWO_7WmnW7bJFlVPCikvUSTDRzXTWCD039feTdvnBPl3NShxOJlck7IPSdHsltL3X0cVq-kIU7e6HxY0cF8nN90s-eO73jMc8ET6oA/s320/imbondeiros.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383321103128925842" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"The Queen's Footprint":</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FrpX2udIQKaSNLtiU9giVB9ZOEUpWgAOTiNfLXs5bZ0-O5K5mbKikgMdzf45K1-jQXu7pJYbqpTth0KwHSrUTj_vDuYvK2xRxPq_j5lO5qHkKUXxvAB8bK-LgPRLReJcTQSzv6AgHeY/s1600-h/queen'sfootprint.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1FrpX2udIQKaSNLtiU9giVB9ZOEUpWgAOTiNfLXs5bZ0-O5K5mbKikgMdzf45K1-jQXu7pJYbqpTth0KwHSrUTj_vDuYvK2xRxPq_j5lO5qHkKUXxvAB8bK-LgPRLReJcTQSzv6AgHeY/s320/queen'sfootprint.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383321120514612130" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">If at first you don't succeed:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifw5_es3P8AIOne3vbMw62PMuCRyi7HzFpktvdx97EbxDcJYZ4oaNSweo6uIjqw-kaKp_HU1N7zTqfvi0jA0pTw8I-rxwsQJVKarYdwOiZP-aiIiR5qMBYuvnilSJDEnKrG-bIm1fPuy8/s1600-h/coketruck.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifw5_es3P8AIOne3vbMw62PMuCRyi7HzFpktvdx97EbxDcJYZ4oaNSweo6uIjqw-kaKp_HU1N7zTqfvi0jA0pTw8I-rxwsQJVKarYdwOiZP-aiIiR5qMBYuvnilSJDEnKrG-bIm1fPuy8/s320/coketruck.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383321097115774562" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Approaching the Pedras Negras:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIr8AcOdoN_Y1o7RMC6TBAP7wPaMf2IfU86MPuXt_9sBTwIO_1uKgealUfTEPpv_87shE1IxL18VOvOs_-bE_c5d02kloqO9VbyfRaf-TiCxV_ktpC2qCZYD8i65GVTs9gkcQ8zkYZX4/s1600-h/pedrasnegras1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIr8AcOdoN_Y1o7RMC6TBAP7wPaMf2IfU86MPuXt_9sBTwIO_1uKgealUfTEPpv_87shE1IxL18VOvOs_-bE_c5d02kloqO9VbyfRaf-TiCxV_ktpC2qCZYD8i65GVTs9gkcQ8zkYZX4/s320/pedrasnegras1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383322357778794930" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Looking down to Pungo Andongo:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFuN_WvL34J0RuVEry5bMEOeK2l36uOIIV1fZ57w31yQh3I-FnV0op60ITWFUAZ-gP-2N7VsmC9ugrE27RMSvuJQT7OhoG37zHBMB3m44UR89dfsXT_drM3snlYgVV39kAM-7DKExsgk0/s1600-h/pedrasnegras3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFuN_WvL34J0RuVEry5bMEOeK2l36uOIIV1fZ57w31yQh3I-FnV0op60ITWFUAZ-gP-2N7VsmC9ugrE27RMSvuJQT7OhoG37zHBMB3m44UR89dfsXT_drM3snlYgVV39kAM-7DKExsgk0/s320/pedrasnegras3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383322376326736994" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Last look at the Pedras Negras:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1u8NMAzRmZlBZCdEEx4lkvSoaGWBqpqKOONfb1oJYrAuBpyiibaDzZNJlVmz00clvx59z-rR_MQOob45YNmqoaOAdIxF9MMBkGJUJ84e0efQ1Z75_8QZT_uM3BGNV9lO4KBXaDPCrlCw/s1600-h/pedrasnegras2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1u8NMAzRmZlBZCdEEx4lkvSoaGWBqpqKOONfb1oJYrAuBpyiibaDzZNJlVmz00clvx59z-rR_MQOob45YNmqoaOAdIxF9MMBkGJUJ84e0efQ1Z75_8QZT_uM3BGNV9lO4KBXaDPCrlCw/s320/pedrasnegras2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383322365972166674" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-46704146654078274502009-09-17T16:29:00.004+01:002009-09-17T16:45:36.330+01:00Soyo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4iA4kx5foIc7xsdYsPWWGf7IpclVc3pjAJBxUUpGqtLKSx2Rg4U-k6VckS3mbrbHTO4mD2giWej8-tXLcgSxiIP1RwgG_fzW8qlf30aTvvCLVVYwXICNR7PyIus7FrlKNiZEXkhUUX8/s1600-h/soyoairport.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4iA4kx5foIc7xsdYsPWWGf7IpclVc3pjAJBxUUpGqtLKSx2Rg4U-k6VckS3mbrbHTO4mD2giWej8-tXLcgSxiIP1RwgG_fzW8qlf30aTvvCLVVYwXICNR7PyIus7FrlKNiZEXkhUUX8/s320/soyoairport.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382459929216754386" /></a>July was a month for unexpected events. In the same day, I received news that the father of one of my colleagues had passed away and that another colleague had to be medically evacuated to South Africa. That was a pretty big blow to CAE’s operational capacity, and as a result of the former event I found myself on a flight from Luanda to Soyo bright and early at 6am on a Sunday morning (following the night of my birthday party...I was not exactly chipper).<br /><br />The NGO I work for has been contracted to lead a series of business training classes for potential suppliers to Angola LNG, which is the company constructing the country’s first liquid natural gas processing plant. A separate huge project involves building a deepwater port so tankers can export the processed LNG. It’s a big deal, and Soyo is a small town so the impact is visible everywhere. I got to meet the small business owners participating in the training (the week I happened to be there the subject was health and safety standards at work), and noticed a notable drop in the level of sophistication compared to some of the companies we work with in Luanda. Most of them were thrilled to have access to the training courses though, and the level of participation in the courses was high.<br /><br />Geographically speaking, Soyo is an interesting place. It sits at the point where the Congo River (the world’s 2nd largest in terms of volume) empties into the Atlantic. Across the river, barely visible on the horizon, is the Democratic Republic of the Congo (formerly known as Zaire). The roads in town are mostly fine, sandy dirt that make travel in a 4x4 not just handy but a requirement in some neighborhoods. I have no idea how people get around during the rainy season – some potholes on the unpaved neighborhood roads would be enough to drown my car from back home. On the main road in town ladies hold up large lobsters as long as it takes to sell them. The main type of fish is different here too – large freshwater river fish that you just don’t see in the Luanda markets.<br /><br />On the other hand, anyone that thinks life in Luanda or Benguela is hard should spend a few days here before complaining. For one thing, the phone and internet connections are horrible. It’s not that the connections are bad, it’s that you can’t make connections in the first place. It took me 20 minutes of continuous attempts to reach my driver to let him know I was done with dinner. The dinner on that occasion was another thing altogether – I waited 90 minutes for my meal to arrive. I hadn’t expected the wait and wasn’t prepared with anything to occupy my time. I tried sending amusing text messages to friends back in Luanda, but the network kept telling me it wasn’t possible. I entertained myself by counting the rats running around the trash heap at the house under construction across the street, and wondering how many of those rats made the trip across the street to visit the kitchen of the restaurant I was frequenting (which I had picked, incidentally, because someone told me it was the best place to eat in Soyo). I discovered a very crude graphics game called “Snakes” on my cell phone and resigned myself to playing it instead. My order arrived eventually and it was actually very good (the bill for my grilled side of chicken and French fries plus a small bottled water came to $25).<br /><br />The living conditions here are another story altogether. I’ve never seen anthills being formed inside a house before, but the house in Soyo proved there’s a first time for everything. Running water in the house relies on turning on a pump, which frequently breaks (or won’t work when the power is out, which fortunately is not very often). Forget about hot water. It’s quiet though, which is a welcome relief on the weekends compared to Luanda, where lately it seems impossible to escape party noise until after 5am. At least there was that…<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">It was an interesting day at the market:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26ackvO1rptrB2FrXXcHWBf3tTkx9rqtboeTtHh0wExqQX3i5EQnBBfe_1lY8LeBHKUDhMIbMAfIvXqM2lammWN6QJaR1sxDCz9g-kL7hTm3lMT7cpZEwrlk2_y9ULIxTm-VCWSO2Tgc/s1600-h/barackundies.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26ackvO1rptrB2FrXXcHWBf3tTkx9rqtboeTtHh0wExqQX3i5EQnBBfe_1lY8LeBHKUDhMIbMAfIvXqM2lammWN6QJaR1sxDCz9g-kL7hTm3lMT7cpZEwrlk2_y9ULIxTm-VCWSO2Tgc/s320/barackundies.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382460490779602402" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The giant baobab is helpful for giving directions:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-iRtEnQdQDEXMFdi-1-uPL53Mz4DUHMTC7HXkOESlikGJLQN-qd_Se80TxZjaj1-RRQ3fpuVS92DTVnpCh__6tJoY6xSc7XxZUsQsASwaVyMOvTLl02fhQ1UdmEGvdSsvo-oiWlyBv0/s1600-h/baobab.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5-iRtEnQdQDEXMFdi-1-uPL53Mz4DUHMTC7HXkOESlikGJLQN-qd_Se80TxZjaj1-RRQ3fpuVS92DTVnpCh__6tJoY6xSc7XxZUsQsASwaVyMOvTLl02fhQ1UdmEGvdSsvo-oiWlyBv0/s320/baobab.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382460483935416066" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The aftermath of a day at the market:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkLyG1UB9PURPIkAWI6onx_LCSKmccaRRkDclWWzVqIVDM4GAQj_qyEmhfvAUf5KlIbtQaQpDGbgeuPDXEP81vSwpyVwWIpk5LWbCKc1zJLvcrDfYM5LdPknEVbpI0cvcoIE4X7EK2aI/s1600-h/soyomarket.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkLyG1UB9PURPIkAWI6onx_LCSKmccaRRkDclWWzVqIVDM4GAQj_qyEmhfvAUf5KlIbtQaQpDGbgeuPDXEP81vSwpyVwWIpk5LWbCKc1zJLvcrDfYM5LdPknEVbpI0cvcoIE4X7EK2aI/s320/soyomarket.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382460474833572754" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Leftovers from the war slowly washing away:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj29ZMaLcHArXHP2X7aTivciHfEoL4kP1BixaaZbNZVWFYUcls0Lup2FZrbqTgYNXQI6aLOhlrb5Y3ccI-b6CTw2yS_pLRzju93_a_U5iZ5pxpsNajLB5-xBzuBNVsRHRDFLphriHkUKXg/s1600-h/soyobeachtank.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj29ZMaLcHArXHP2X7aTivciHfEoL4kP1BixaaZbNZVWFYUcls0Lup2FZrbqTgYNXQI6aLOhlrb5Y3ccI-b6CTw2yS_pLRzju93_a_U5iZ5pxpsNajLB5-xBzuBNVsRHRDFLphriHkUKXg/s320/soyobeachtank.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382460466233692434" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-29237637809914043612009-09-05T16:53:00.004+01:002009-09-05T17:06:49.922+01:00Luanda International Fair (FILDA)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-OrYSndDx40Md1nakqe3PnHZooIpLHkXD0P98_2Sc5Ke-vNHLg8JvYyxx4nPSZaoSS63I32j_-mpQR9kfi8zTXA2d37gs8Gje8Q1HTdROYheN2jTCEqLjTQE4csftZ64fvDgR_5DLyZk/s1600-h/FILDA6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 203px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-OrYSndDx40Md1nakqe3PnHZooIpLHkXD0P98_2Sc5Ke-vNHLg8JvYyxx4nPSZaoSS63I32j_-mpQR9kfi8zTXA2d37gs8Gje8Q1HTdROYheN2jTCEqLjTQE4csftZ64fvDgR_5DLyZk/s320/FILDA6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378013477099522434" border="0" /></a>By far the biggest networking event of the year for CAE, FILDA (Feira Internacional de Luanda, or Luanda International Fair) was held at an event center just off the road to Viana. Traveling to get to the event is like driving through some kind of post-apocalyptic traffic nightmare, but once you arrive it’s pretty much like most conventions I’ve ever been to. There are several pavilions, and anyone interested in doing business in Angola has a presence. Some pavilions are sponsored by countries (Portugal, Brazil, and Spain were the most prominent) and others by companies (dominated by banks, oil companies, and Chinese manufacturers).<br /><br />We were there to register new clients and to make our presence known to the oil companies, who are our major partners (my NGO helps small Angolan-owned companies win contracts with the oil multinationals operating in the country). The highlight of the fair was the visit by the Angola Minister of Petroleum, who turns out to look a lot like Teddy Roosevelt. He spent a solid 5 minutes at our booth, which is more time than he spent talking to Exxon, who were our neighbors across the hall (a fact the Exxon representative commented on afterwards).<br /><br />It’s no question that Angola’s economy is growing rapidly, and it was exciting to see the interest in the country at the fair. If only participants didn’t risk dislocating vertebrae on the road to get there…<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Brazil one of the major countries participating:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4KT7hLth5M9TcnSLwtPZJwHpyDqvgQYMkbtI7AfvcKirtb27bPS4mSSgAWpETa-P2I1wZH7TfKNgnOccFIMgfdW8ICpLS9iqi3UohA5L9o_McLDXJHpZaoe5UIvQ5gzgxB0HPNUyXrw/s1600-h/FILDA5.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4KT7hLth5M9TcnSLwtPZJwHpyDqvgQYMkbtI7AfvcKirtb27bPS4mSSgAWpETa-P2I1wZH7TfKNgnOccFIMgfdW8ICpLS9iqi3UohA5L9o_McLDXJHpZaoe5UIvQ5gzgxB0HPNUyXrw/s320/FILDA5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378013975339813970" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But wait! There's more!</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjI3POOZqcMx-n0mn5v6vSZ2sfS8Xh9Ic7DM-ArBlGgG3dOpdiElNgP1MmbxI7P0y-kP8EqmnZ0AvQ5GWeKlQ09DJMbDjsLF7SK5jF_oV04CpO06T4WRRnrQQELP6GTzghAsxZB1UHO8/s1600-h/FILDA4.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjI3POOZqcMx-n0mn5v6vSZ2sfS8Xh9Ic7DM-ArBlGgG3dOpdiElNgP1MmbxI7P0y-kP8EqmnZ0AvQ5GWeKlQ09DJMbDjsLF7SK5jF_oV04CpO06T4WRRnrQQELP6GTzghAsxZB1UHO8/s320/FILDA4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378013971587932194" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Earth-moving equipment a popular item:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu7c7iiTVZgJUu6GLL80DjmF9J_la5Pq_z-Ux8WjQQCrx5byUFGbyzw-kFD9_aAnl8XJzCAtA8c9rkbaPOJ9cfigVIMkHNas_aAw2UIaBLmdNCDXXnDkoUJIAzZUDUHSWx8FNjUSOdvjQ/s1600-h/FILDA3.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu7c7iiTVZgJUu6GLL80DjmF9J_la5Pq_z-Ux8WjQQCrx5byUFGbyzw-kFD9_aAnl8XJzCAtA8c9rkbaPOJ9cfigVIMkHNas_aAw2UIaBLmdNCDXXnDkoUJIAzZUDUHSWx8FNjUSOdvjQ/s320/FILDA3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378013961310009698" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sweet, I was needing a snag. I wonder if I can tek it away?:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi84b7zj9h1Y9Ti3_7b82Utuug2K-_fH1JkcvQL8k95z5zBNxNd6FFftju0KJn_txgv-zQ_NMHK3oRHyll8-vDMqa6J3ol028B1e9knaokmn9n5y_5QrT0_1COYTeidhs7ynmWeKI_arp4/s1600-h/FILDA2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi84b7zj9h1Y9Ti3_7b82Utuug2K-_fH1JkcvQL8k95z5zBNxNd6FFftju0KJn_txgv-zQ_NMHK3oRHyll8-vDMqa6J3ol028B1e9knaokmn9n5y_5QrT0_1COYTeidhs7ynmWeKI_arp4/s320/FILDA2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378013958097958514" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Ministry of Petroleum is Angolan Teddy Roosevelt:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG52nWOTVCOF4BdbxmHqvTvMAfihFmSQww9QiFIgaK4bJ7l7jO_70qzgXf3-k1_qVW76-MtEMTJMAWgSvFS7fUu8zbv10hm27DnIE8HQnf_jyZQObmJ59BwqVxk-t1kCUbRE5ViDz_f2s/s1600-h/FILDA1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG52nWOTVCOF4BdbxmHqvTvMAfihFmSQww9QiFIgaK4bJ7l7jO_70qzgXf3-k1_qVW76-MtEMTJMAWgSvFS7fUu8zbv10hm27DnIE8HQnf_jyZQObmJ59BwqVxk-t1kCUbRE5ViDz_f2s/s320/FILDA1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378013949833284514" border="0" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-8237869572068242622009-08-20T18:21:00.007+01:002009-08-20T18:53:34.805+01:00Ghana: SignsThese signs pretty much speak for themselves. I'll just add that this phenomenon was probably the best unexpected feature of my trip to Ghana - it may have been unbearably sweaty, humid, and hot at times, but these signs never failed to put a smile on my face.<br /><br />Vote for your favorite!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">2-Pac. Jesus. Car decorations. More in common than you might think:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdnaixtBi5NVPBKfqONLG0dl3iyHFuqHWCqmzHZXow1UC6Yi7IAFzK01E2ooUJkA5MmvE5cxT4uj7U89ZnZJ9f5nZGcvDKcGNJEW-5pkW5GhxkPuVJLE7FxbwCMV-ltmCFSM8yhWLWUUk/s1600-h/GhanaSigns6.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdnaixtBi5NVPBKfqONLG0dl3iyHFuqHWCqmzHZXow1UC6Yi7IAFzK01E2ooUJkA5MmvE5cxT4uj7U89ZnZJ9f5nZGcvDKcGNJEW-5pkW5GhxkPuVJLE7FxbwCMV-ltmCFSM8yhWLWUUk/s320/GhanaSigns6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372100932674762162" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">No laughing matter:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif0_Fa10EnPIqkPxEOqv90leR6Mhm0Z9hC7UoSihX_HSfHYaunB8Jy8rc8_5o5qh6TaVXgNo8J8rCqgrP2k2IxDjXSelJ4eKw7ZsTh5-D7F9GopHztvXSg2fjNmb_IIUbpESO4_9EYtFQ/s1600-h/GhanaSigns5.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif0_Fa10EnPIqkPxEOqv90leR6Mhm0Z9hC7UoSihX_HSfHYaunB8Jy8rc8_5o5qh6TaVXgNo8J8rCqgrP2k2IxDjXSelJ4eKw7ZsTh5-D7F9GopHztvXSg2fjNmb_IIUbpESO4_9EYtFQ/s320/GhanaSigns5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372100923873130578" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Bordering on creepy:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAGTZKb_17gHr5SKRDPl3ylHVgWxpkBuxbysjDk03lA1xhqRMgmQfl5EGXY2692wwFZIirWHMuetkufRXmg9gcTOyh0rQqHzOvDcVWSARvAgkBpYdtan-X5Ldam-0daNpB6hlhfpidmEw/s1600-h/GhanaSigns4.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAGTZKb_17gHr5SKRDPl3ylHVgWxpkBuxbysjDk03lA1xhqRMgmQfl5EGXY2692wwFZIirWHMuetkufRXmg9gcTOyh0rQqHzOvDcVWSARvAgkBpYdtan-X5Ldam-0daNpB6hlhfpidmEw/s320/GhanaSigns4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372100912837368754" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Late realization that it's better to sell more than one phone:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaESTYTKnJroscNPuM5a1z8FYp28XYMcWUZNuQrxQUc0ABWK9Xgwq2MuIfv7pAVtgD5zcZI2FgPkSojE-tRBdahjee9kdQfgI0Y_l2OEKQO2sMjyJZcP5wMd2m_0FM5Oa6ob2eyzjW3gM/s1600-h/GhanaSigns2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaESTYTKnJroscNPuM5a1z8FYp28XYMcWUZNuQrxQUc0ABWK9Xgwq2MuIfv7pAVtgD5zcZI2FgPkSojE-tRBdahjee9kdQfgI0Y_l2OEKQO2sMjyJZcP5wMd2m_0FM5Oa6ob2eyzjW3gM/s320/GhanaSigns2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372100906539569762" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Advertising lesser-known skills of the almighty:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAiXgvn7wPbbK8YsXqdAb5mxNcib3wqYm3aOfRCwes_NVyEHiZhnMaY9wlwPbxkifQwws7YXZi2FnLs81ND2g6xgkY-9Ol2RqseUKpX5C-1h-Is7VlThoxH19sfN6QdyM48sgUZ81kNaw/s1600-h/GhanaSigns1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAiXgvn7wPbbK8YsXqdAb5mxNcib3wqYm3aOfRCwes_NVyEHiZhnMaY9wlwPbxkifQwws7YXZi2FnLs81ND2g6xgkY-9Ol2RqseUKpX5C-1h-Is7VlThoxH19sfN6QdyM48sgUZ81kNaw/s320/GhanaSigns1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372100897838977794" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you brought her too:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz7nKSTVZY2-JhglqcY9Ow55tgh2fKThxHUQi8W7aSdlQIeUDonNAOQCKA8udOafvUeGXecHdMpTOdR1zaj2qvB-c2OI83FPYD05PqelfPLVLZmbeGX8XnaK1SzCtE_L-UnWvLFRC6kJw/s1600-h/GhanaSigns8.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz7nKSTVZY2-JhglqcY9Ow55tgh2fKThxHUQi8W7aSdlQIeUDonNAOQCKA8udOafvUeGXecHdMpTOdR1zaj2qvB-c2OI83FPYD05PqelfPLVLZmbeGX8XnaK1SzCtE_L-UnWvLFRC6kJw/s320/GhanaSigns8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372105007935708994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Pretty high service promise:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI38qyXO-X5cn5GzsuYWK7rs20vnh8S3XjmiCuBVA6hrcZWQITBY-J9cY1-EmU7h5tIsX9BiJcLOfGBsJ6kIzFPA3rYPVBLVUq3qptjNEAI5sR2v1SMV757ZKCKYVNOl50bn-SjrPcvOg/s1600-h/GhanaSigns7.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI38qyXO-X5cn5GzsuYWK7rs20vnh8S3XjmiCuBVA6hrcZWQITBY-J9cY1-EmU7h5tIsX9BiJcLOfGBsJ6kIzFPA3rYPVBLVUq3qptjNEAI5sR2v1SMV757ZKCKYVNOl50bn-SjrPcvOg/s320/GhanaSigns7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372102110933854082" border="0" /></a><br /><br />If you haven't seen enough:<br />http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=131004&id=718810927&l=b922e19f74Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-20656677878327455452009-08-18T20:22:00.012+01:002009-08-20T18:31:26.073+01:00Ghana: Top TenIt might sound strange, but my fascination with Ghana started with a 5th grade Cub Scout project. My den (Indian Nations Council) introduced us to a pen pal organization and we were assigned addresses to write to. The project turned into a kind of competition to see who could get the most number of people to write back, and at one point I was writing to 25 pen pals from all over the world. My first one, however, was from Sunyani, Ghana. That pen pal relationship lasted for over a decade, and as a kid I remember getting cuts of kente cloth, leather goods, and cedi bank notes in the mail. Ghana always seemed like an impossible place to get to, and even from within Africa it took a fair bit of planning. But it was worth it.<br /><br />Without any more babble, my top ten from Ghana:<br /><br />1. CAPE COAST CASTLE<br />Built by the Swedes (who knew the Swedes were building castles in Africa???) and later occupied by the British, the castle’s started as a post in the gold trade but became a symbol of the slave trade. The dungeons where slaves were kept prior to leaving the “door of no return” left me speechless. President Obama visited here last month – many of the slaves that came through this castle went to the United States.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwU06d7mKfrLX0r1qVVyfbQKNYke5qiJ6j5I5oS4Su9ETiq1ujJBbxhXBGFvJM8BI5Bjtx6tUNw9Sfnr4UdrH-YKM8HO7kvyl45X8iD1gQEuQ5i9LaGICC8zVBgXn2iuxPbfkVCzo0JZ8/s1600-h/CapeCoastCastle.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwU06d7mKfrLX0r1qVVyfbQKNYke5qiJ6j5I5oS4Su9ETiq1ujJBbxhXBGFvJM8BI5Bjtx6tUNw9Sfnr4UdrH-YKM8HO7kvyl45X8iD1gQEuQ5i9LaGICC8zVBgXn2iuxPbfkVCzo0JZ8/s320/CapeCoastCastle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371778102522716370" border="0" /></a><br /><br />2. ELMINA - CASTLE AND POSUBAN SHRINES<br />The castle in Elmina (20km down the road) is the oldest European-built structure in sub-Saharan Africa still standing. Started by the Portuguese and then occupied by the Dutch I thought it was even more interesting than Cape Coast Castle. The Posuban Shrines (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/09/travel/09ghana.html?_r=1) and the Dutch cemetery were also worth visits. Don’t believe the neighborhood kids when they try to charge you to take pictures!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Not your everyday shrine:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobCVD8y2cfwKC5MVn2GZ-9WRl8DJUy7R7cb8PaoElcXwsSfhbgLJmVS8hO5xLoJhW1WGyGfN8tObhxTNWzp10kr8GnmgHepkxiqEnDR6UNUK2KjiOEZ_tfKz2O4kauzwZbQ8gZx4PmTY/s1600-h/PosubanShrine.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobCVD8y2cfwKC5MVn2GZ-9WRl8DJUy7R7cb8PaoElcXwsSfhbgLJmVS8hO5xLoJhW1WGyGfN8tObhxTNWzp10kr8GnmgHepkxiqEnDR6UNUK2KjiOEZ_tfKz2O4kauzwZbQ8gZx4PmTY/s320/PosubanShrine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371780318390853586" border="0" /></a><br /><br />3. TRO-TROS<br />This is definitely not the most comfortable way to get around, but absolutely the cheapest. I went 40km for about 75 cents. You have to wait for the vans to fill up before they leave, but depending on the route this usually doesn’t take long. The commercial activity surrounding the vans while you wait is excellent entertainment anyway. Tro-tros have their own slogans too – the best I saw was “If you don’t get into heaven, don’t blame Jesus.”<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Pick your seat strategically:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSDrdTX0IjxprNz5ADvODXJnuAccZbvJe5hPztDzqdGo-M0VBQ7FsBZsTf7wc6on8JbB9EpEq9xwDABXjEcRr6_ry4tRvPiaNwkPqDN8cAFEJMyHZVBdt0QP2xFlUI35ZsCeGnwPcteU/s1600-h/TroTro.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSDrdTX0IjxprNz5ADvODXJnuAccZbvJe5hPztDzqdGo-M0VBQ7FsBZsTf7wc6on8JbB9EpEq9xwDABXjEcRr6_ry4tRvPiaNwkPqDN8cAFEJMyHZVBdt0QP2xFlUI35ZsCeGnwPcteU/s320/TroTro.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371780933515517506" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yogurt vendor while waiting for a ride to Kumasi:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmftrEnTIEpyal9KNsuo_HbMQQ3aA2DM60jGcHZhZmg4xM1F8VchNB1eZMt-d04fylyfUolNCuPO8j3-tjHmaF6smqHq7ZI5LDhUIodvvO9G8HB_fKezDR16KKVuY82x9mbUKjV5Hum20/s1600-h/Vendor1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmftrEnTIEpyal9KNsuo_HbMQQ3aA2DM60jGcHZhZmg4xM1F8VchNB1eZMt-d04fylyfUolNCuPO8j3-tjHmaF6smqHq7ZI5LDhUIodvvO9G8HB_fKezDR16KKVuY82x9mbUKjV5Hum20/s320/Vendor1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371780944625244354" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />4. KUMASI BUS STATION<br />I arrived at the chaotic scene at dusk and a Ghanaian woman that had been on my tro-tro from Cape Coast for the previous 4 hours took me by the hand and led me through the maze. She said that people related to the chiefs would try to steal me. I later realized she probably meant steal “from me”, but I couldn’t get the thought of being kidnapped out of my mind. I wasn’t scared but took her advice and followed her to a safer place to get a taxi to my hotel. Only to find out that we had basically walked right past it and that I didn’t need a taxi anyway…<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Please don't steal me:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF2HVfv81imeGTBvt3XHSgXBAMGj9IE3VKjoojqLAAAGVdRimxzNIzNkMRTqRb8gLP4I5mVE3vxl2oESsTcjrcNlQdI8T_mI7UuM6BI0mecO1g_N1t0XbfiF37CpOPKRCnbcEVx85k5OQ/s1600-h/KumasiBusStation.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF2HVfv81imeGTBvt3XHSgXBAMGj9IE3VKjoojqLAAAGVdRimxzNIzNkMRTqRb8gLP4I5mVE3vxl2oESsTcjrcNlQdI8T_mI7UuM6BI0mecO1g_N1t0XbfiF37CpOPKRCnbcEVx85k5OQ/s320/KumasiBusStation.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371780295453151330" border="0" /></a><br /><br />5. KUMASI MARKET FIRE<br />The 10-acre market in Kumasi is theoretically west-Africa’s largest. I had reserved an entire morning to explore it, only to have selected the day that a big chunk of it burned down. Instead of browsing I started taking pictures of the aftermath. What struck me was how nonchalant most people were about the tragedy. Many people had come to see what happened and carried on laughing and joking like they were going to see a soccer game or something, others were going about their business trying to sell whatever they could in the streets in the true market spirit…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7z_JsDjqXaUPan9xXJJgN3hOmo167a53Qp86_VSzeqM3CTYuM5GrWLZpIgfilmQs7bhwmWY39OmbAUxWkxvAJCKM-l28camJKOR0236pb0FcGDuSfeAcWz-fG0K_Us5uocQq7G5K3IY/s1600-h/MarketFire1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl7z_JsDjqXaUPan9xXJJgN3hOmo167a53Qp86_VSzeqM3CTYuM5GrWLZpIgfilmQs7bhwmWY39OmbAUxWkxvAJCKM-l28camJKOR0236pb0FcGDuSfeAcWz-fG0K_Us5uocQq7G5K3IY/s320/MarketFire1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371780307860977298" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBiy5Qmt4kC5xgVodif2SPRrsWyTYY3qU0u60s8lzUX2xZjcJ7mWG3Jm5OPgdYb0QHBtmev1UEZku8QEInS-zWr439XFiDjozeohSCfhkGK49s4W8cYXd-tqMALbLC5cL4jeEVZB8VsG0/s1600-h/MarketFire2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBiy5Qmt4kC5xgVodif2SPRrsWyTYY3qU0u60s8lzUX2xZjcJ7mWG3Jm5OPgdYb0QHBtmev1UEZku8QEInS-zWr439XFiDjozeohSCfhkGK49s4W8cYXd-tqMALbLC5cL4jeEVZB8VsG0/s320/MarketFire2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371780311004227586" border="0" /></a><br /><br />6. SUNYANI SNAILS<br />The lady at the market stall in Sunyani was laughing at me, but I just couldn’t believe the size of the snails she was selling. They were literally the size of my hand. She offered to cook one for me if I bought it, but somehow the thought of a snail that size just wasn’t appetizing. Cute little escargot in garlic butter is one thing, but that satisfying squishy sensation didn’t seem so appetizing writ large. They were fun to look at though…<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You'd need a special escargot pan to cook these suckers:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOySDcmm1vCdZUzdckE6mHlEpAVxTyouUGh3oVZAymM9syEltxIJ8ViFKn51QPC-3DCz7vQM55xIVT5F6mThsOTYQPum2hAt8zuah1jLfd9cRb30QRpqQIitDd_rFhSGtk7fzS01o6Y4M/s1600-h/SunyaniSnails.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOySDcmm1vCdZUzdckE6mHlEpAVxTyouUGh3oVZAymM9syEltxIJ8ViFKn51QPC-3DCz7vQM55xIVT5F6mThsOTYQPum2hAt8zuah1jLfd9cRb30QRpqQIitDd_rFhSGtk7fzS01o6Y4M/s320/SunyaniSnails.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371780341336781906" border="0" /></a><br /><br />7. PROJECT "AFRICAN SHIRT"<br />I decided I was going to buy fabric and have a local tailor make some African shirts for me. The trip to the market was fun in itself, and I picked out three patterns (I can’t trust my taste so I was trying to hedge my bets). I had asked a local what the price for fabric was so I knew if I was getting ripped off, and remarkably nobody tried to. The price to sew a shirt was cheap enough, so instead of picking one piece of fabric I had the tailor make shirts with all three designs I had bought. The grand total for the fabric and tailoring for all three shirts: $18. I was kicking myself afterwards that I didn’t buy some plain blue cloth to make more shirts – the style is very comfortable in the humid climate. Something to keep in mind for the next visit.<br /><br />8. NOVELTY COFFINS<br />This is sort of in the “you have to see it to believe it” file, but I really liked the spirit of the novelty coffin shops. Film projectors, Mercedes-Benzes, airplanes, chili peppers, elephants, crabs, soda cans, wrenches – you name it. I left thinking that being buried in a novelty coffin is sort of like getting in one last laugh at death, and I have to say I like the idea. I’m not sure it will convince me to change my preference for cremation, but it definitely had me thinking. It’s about $700 for each hand-carved and painted coffin, but you have to figure out the shipping. Apparently that doesn’t stop some people - the shop owner I talked to said he gets orders from the US all the time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRxxC8AQ8Vvf2X0GE5P72GulAj92Rx090iym_zFkLYJZLeCr1sZsHLRgTbtPVJZW_pivAjgqUwdyIxUYUJpdI-GR8hesI_Yd2WHajZrFwrEfiJaYmxb2iNtZERG1ncQXDfJpED9vzwxg/s1600-h/Coffin3.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRxxC8AQ8Vvf2X0GE5P72GulAj92Rx090iym_zFkLYJZLeCr1sZsHLRgTbtPVJZW_pivAjgqUwdyIxUYUJpdI-GR8hesI_Yd2WHajZrFwrEfiJaYmxb2iNtZERG1ncQXDfJpED9vzwxg/s320/Coffin3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371778130647108034" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTBjv0d6rifdRaufwxSBbPLc-bo_dm9QZ0DAldz3-t79OOGGs79pXPTSTUElq4xKdKhp-IdgOjdlaKDJBGqjrQ2HGkKAx1SKaW0vO8PKciqRHwSz33ZurvmSBu1PgYFRuUQJMcxRx2meQ/s1600-h/Coffin2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTBjv0d6rifdRaufwxSBbPLc-bo_dm9QZ0DAldz3-t79OOGGs79pXPTSTUElq4xKdKhp-IdgOjdlaKDJBGqjrQ2HGkKAx1SKaW0vO8PKciqRHwSz33ZurvmSBu1PgYFRuUQJMcxRx2meQ/s320/Coffin2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371778120549935202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapwciBki2qIZdA44kNoaWgADGVH-viKIX-MTX7RDTbc2ZQZX1m79XSEEZmRATQUc2OXZ9BiXqGxoeaDeXt5etR3Vq5976av1BjEIEmx1Z_1xp7vNNsNbhTUksfWTMb7ucr4bcwCU1Wj0/s1600-h/Coffin1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapwciBki2qIZdA44kNoaWgADGVH-viKIX-MTX7RDTbc2ZQZX1m79XSEEZmRATQUc2OXZ9BiXqGxoeaDeXt5etR3Vq5976av1BjEIEmx1Z_1xp7vNNsNbhTUksfWTMb7ucr4bcwCU1Wj0/s320/Coffin1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371778113507720562" border="0" /></a><br /><br />9. KAKUM NATIONAL PARK<br />I was expecting this to be kind of gimmicky, but actually it was pretty cool. I was stuck between a couple from Holland and an evangelical family from the US that had moved to Ghana. The patriarch from the latter group tried to chat me up and I ran away as quickly and tactfully as possible. My escape allowed me to focus on the perspective the canopy walk offers. It was obvious a lot of the surrounding forest had been cut down, but what was left was still impressive.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hang on!</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcVFRIemc20_UbJlv373OQzFVYOUUXLAdOlUgIwEYwPuFOCFOPhGdQ0t-6lcjG0akQOlq2QMNVZE9BT-tntIhqvQugM0kj9csALehoXxP1zMF8lA9sotBfLVXH1x_ISrqngRYAP5n4tFM/s1600-h/KakumParkCanopyWalk.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcVFRIemc20_UbJlv373OQzFVYOUUXLAdOlUgIwEYwPuFOCFOPhGdQ0t-6lcjG0akQOlq2QMNVZE9BT-tntIhqvQugM0kj9csALehoXxP1zMF8lA9sotBfLVXH1x_ISrqngRYAP5n4tFM/s320/KakumParkCanopyWalk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371778136766412098" border="0" /></a><br /><br />10. SIGNS<br />One thing that struck me the most about Ghana was its entrepreneurial spirit. There are lots of small shops each with their own personality that speaks to a savvy marketing sense. Religious themes were the most common, often with humorous results. I'll post separately, because there are just too many to choose from and this is already a long post...<br /><br />Click here for more photos: <span><br />http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=142489&id=718810927&l=43f1f3b170</span>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-61090422915796831412009-08-16T14:34:00.003+01:002009-08-16T14:39:16.033+01:00Ghana: Getting ThereOne of the best parts about the trip to Ghana this past May was just getting there. I was flying on points, and was required to have a nearly 24 hour layover in Johannesburg. For those of you looking at a map, you’ve realized this makes no sense. It’s like flying from Dallas to Miami to get to Seattle. But that’s how the African infrastructure works – there aren’t any direct flights between Angola and Ghana, and it makes more sense to connect in Johannesburg than, say, London, which would have been the other option (and with only two flights a week to most European capitals, not a very convenient one). <br /><br />It turns out the adventure started as soon as I got to the Luanda airport, when I had one of three possible departing times to consider for my flight. My printed reservation had one time, the public information system at the airport had another, and my printed boarding pass had a third, representing a possible departing time spread of 3 hours. On a previous trip to Johannesburg the original reservation document was correct and the other two were wrong (including the boarding pass). This time it turned out the boarding pass was correct. I try to get to the airport ridiculously early (I recommend 5 hours ahead of time, because of this and other unpredictable nonsense), so I was never really worried, but anyone uncomfortable with uncertainty would probably have had a heart attack. After I sweated my way through the immigration line (they really need to think about getting some AC in that hall) and passing through the Kwanza shakedown (you have to open your wallet and show the police you’re not taking any Angolan currency out of the country, which is illegal), I was on my way at last. <br /><br />I landed in Johannesburg after the 3+ hour flight on a Friday evening in time to have dinner at a Thai restaurant with some friends in the Melville neighborhood, enjoyed a night out, slept in, did some shopping, and got back on the plane the next evening for the flight to Accra. Once there, I was pleasantly surprised to discover my hotel had fast wireless internet and I promptly set about downloading podcasts and episodes of Saturday Night Live to watch back in Angola when the power goes out. I was loving Ghana already.Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-73967820278953940612009-08-08T11:12:00.003+01:002009-08-08T11:24:03.274+01:00It's a bay! It's a toilet! It's the Luanda Marginal...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNDkAqU9el1XIOVBh2SEYIKzHl-JZaLtMv7-yhFaV66U3S1FGEFjBDL6lWShQv3H8nGZYsianQHK7xh-eRhkP4V7GbHvECm2jJ9olHa4cTN0EZrwi1srBbMZpo5HKRhyCHoviFnrhaN88/s1600-h/Marginal1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNDkAqU9el1XIOVBh2SEYIKzHl-JZaLtMv7-yhFaV66U3S1FGEFjBDL6lWShQv3H8nGZYsianQHK7xh-eRhkP4V7GbHvECm2jJ9olHa4cTN0EZrwi1srBbMZpo5HKRhyCHoviFnrhaN88/s320/Marginal1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367534139066643810" /></a>Like many things in Angola, the Baía de Luanda has enormous potential. Unfortunately, it’s currently running for the title of world’s largest toilet.<br /><br />I’ve been lucky enough to get a six-week house sitting gig at an apartment located on the Marginal, the main thoroughfare in Luanda that happens to border the bay. My duties include walking my friend’s Rhodesian Ridgeback twice a day along the wide Marginal sidewalk. I’m also able to walk along the same sidewalk to work, which has been a welcome respite from Luanda’s traffic. Normally the flat 20-minute walk would be a great way to get to work. It’s winter now afterall, so the temperatures in the morning and evening are comfortable low-mid 60’s and perfect for a stroll.<br /><br />Despite the potential, my experiences on the Marginal have been less than savory. Not a day goes by where I don’t see someone walk right up to the edge of the Marginal in broad daylight, unzip, and relieve themselves right into the bay. Public urination is a competitive sport here, so that’s nothing all that unusual. I’ve also seen kids crawl down to “go potty” directly into the bay, and then proceed to wipe their bare bottoms by dragging them on the concrete edge of the sidewalk that drops down into the bay afterwards. All in broad daylight.<br /><br />As if that’s not enough, the city’s sewers dump directly into the bay and anyone walking along the Marginal sidewalk doesn’t have to guess too hard about where the exit points are. The smell has been particularly ripe lately, to the point where I’ve caught myself gasping in disbelief as if I were trapped in an elevator next to someone with a horrible gas problem. The water usually has a slightly glowing greenish hue along with the permanent mess of floating refuse, which on several occasions has included dumped refrigerators and other large appliances. I’ve also witnessed people on at least two occasions walk up the edge and dump garbage bags right into the bay. Rats and cockroaches rule the sidewalk at night, a fact the dog reminds me of when she decides it’s time to give chase to either.<br /><br />The bold disrespect for what should be a point of civic pride is depressing. Someone pointed out to be earlier in my stay here that “African priorities aren’t always the same as Western priorities.” Perhaps, but one would think that the government would feel a little more responsible for doing something to clean things up. Apparently people just don’t care (at least not the ones dumping their human and household waste in broad daylight).<br /><br />And yet, it’s hard not to imagine a clean Marginal with parks and water taxis taking passengers to and from the clubs and beaches on the Ilha on the opposite side. It could be charming, and there are redevelopment plans posted on billboards along the sidewalk. Nothing has happened in the year that I’ve been here, and these are the kinds of experiences that make people cynical about the future while they book the first possible flight out of here after their contract duties have been fulfilled. Weak civil service organizations, a totally unfree press, and a lack of political will make it too easy to maintain the status quo. Unfortunately none of these factors seem to be changing anytime soon, so I’ll keep holding my breath on my walk to work…<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Tomorrow: Plans for a greener, cleaner Marginal:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjypI3lZJ5uW4T8H_GOJ1mE4dIS8lDRKA-T-44kTEFSjzrEo0cn9O1aQPxHQWJyq2Fd6YUWVktYKEQoT6NpwNuUKhmjfVyeL1zXR4EvQTPJ9_EMw2Ya41vMyM3rIhs4bVVwEC8SgEtzgKc/s1600-h/Marginal3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjypI3lZJ5uW4T8H_GOJ1mE4dIS8lDRKA-T-44kTEFSjzrEo0cn9O1aQPxHQWJyq2Fd6YUWVktYKEQoT6NpwNuUKhmjfVyeL1zXR4EvQTPJ9_EMw2Ya41vMyM3rIhs4bVVwEC8SgEtzgKc/s320/Marginal3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367535509204091954" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Today: Not so clean, not so green:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Mzy-Zr_t0Ja2k0wL0Dwq8zBu1csLB8DUqEsdDEIceLXIqmEiDNa0_ZuNsiO1mm054hOm911oIunJLn03lkNssqaKclBAz6B76_b9X2RHW-Tukifxl8h6oZOP3YeJ8mIRYQPG9dw9mQQ/s1600-h/Marginal2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Mzy-Zr_t0Ja2k0wL0Dwq8zBu1csLB8DUqEsdDEIceLXIqmEiDNa0_ZuNsiO1mm054hOm911oIunJLn03lkNssqaKclBAz6B76_b9X2RHW-Tukifxl8h6oZOP3YeJ8mIRYQPG9dw9mQQ/s320/Marginal2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367535505030361570" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-58332818280027810492009-08-05T11:13:00.006+01:002009-08-06T19:56:35.147+01:00The Age of Jesus<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPdWggwICF_8sjE0Xea45GMvUdB3BXdcFO6cPMX3PlbCghNw0xBw5M-eoj8IiF5kuPwfKJNbZX8IpvFI-8EImKedXhFiLvQ6fX8iEnb6G2nrvwUkjX9Y_Kw3_Cn8B4wXdHB09n6Expm8/s1600-h/Bday1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYPdWggwICF_8sjE0Xea45GMvUdB3BXdcFO6cPMX3PlbCghNw0xBw5M-eoj8IiF5kuPwfKJNbZX8IpvFI-8EImKedXhFiLvQ6fX8iEnb6G2nrvwUkjX9Y_Kw3_Cn8B4wXdHB09n6Expm8/s320/Bday1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366925682532954786" /></a>I turned 34 recently, and for once I was looking forward to turning older. Until this month, whenever someone in Angola would ask my age, the unanimous remark was that I was “the age of Jesus.” This always led to an awkward moment – what do you say when someone has just compared you to someone who was crucified at your exact age? Turning 34 was a relief in that sense – turns out I’m not the savior of mankind either (its own separate relief). On the other hand, my country’s constitution still considers me too young to be president, so I figure I have at least another year to consider myself too young for serious responsibility. After that it’s pretty much downhill until the AARP benefits kick in, so I hope to enjoy it while I can.<br /><br />I’ve never been one to make a fuss over my birthday – being a summer day I never celebrated it in grade school and my family always seemed to be on vacation when I was a kid. I never got in the habit of having parties, and even a short blog entry seems a bit indulgent. In any event, it was nice surprise when a group of friends invited me out to dinner and drinks this year. The pepper steak at Fortaleza Restaurant was tasty and the house party afterwards festive. Too bad I had to get up for a 6a.m. flight to Soyo the next day. More on that later - for now a big thank you to my Luanda friends for making<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">It's not a party until you rearrange the refrigerator magnets:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FFl3rqNZgvgMSRARmWGg5j8ISnDAZK3QhlDW3NebOFyTIyLtHevlDE3Cpt5cwfqwEG5jCp8eS7S70UEnLDXfDMRTXRAtHZhnuJVszeDG7naAvGi0m7O72W67i3MhO7zNJf8CVO_zGoI/s1600-h/Bday4.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FFl3rqNZgvgMSRARmWGg5j8ISnDAZK3QhlDW3NebOFyTIyLtHevlDE3Cpt5cwfqwEG5jCp8eS7S70UEnLDXfDMRTXRAtHZhnuJVszeDG7naAvGi0m7O72W67i3MhO7zNJf8CVO_zGoI/s320/Bday4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366925185900579234" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">A promising sign for the evening:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrh6cgClLdC09Fe7ooZCIb1HAAipLu2VMLpkAoU-GyxRUd5dSYnV1jaZhYN0HFxFthy0orwRjeSi6r1Kjf9thfqnScpLEScmGiRFyVv3TjQiHjZrwWwN6JQlQ31WvsnvA4v0cQWTTcDV8/s1600-h/Bday3.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrh6cgClLdC09Fe7ooZCIb1HAAipLu2VMLpkAoU-GyxRUd5dSYnV1jaZhYN0HFxFthy0orwRjeSi6r1Kjf9thfqnScpLEScmGiRFyVv3TjQiHjZrwWwN6JQlQ31WvsnvA4v0cQWTTcDV8/s320/Bday3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366925181229572434" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Thank you!</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZB89Z9h21XRj8GxD2zj5FmPwPOnDR-dXqbnVYvHd9hl2wpT9pbCJYegb0feLcHgs7B30CrQmWYoQ5EDvZ2zMIw4JHlpLs33r0ljCJTYPqKZzBS_b8hrz1qVfopZxaxvTb2EIkvOxIOBo/s1600-h/Bday2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZB89Z9h21XRj8GxD2zj5FmPwPOnDR-dXqbnVYvHd9hl2wpT9pbCJYegb0feLcHgs7B30CrQmWYoQ5EDvZ2zMIw4JHlpLs33r0ljCJTYPqKZzBS_b8hrz1qVfopZxaxvTb2EIkvOxIOBo/s320/Bday2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366925178797982562" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-23726933113951284002009-07-28T21:23:00.006+01:002009-07-29T06:39:24.463+01:00Luanda League FutebolOne of the newly arrived MBAs and I have taken an interest in the local soccer league, and have managed to see a couple of games so far. There’s a stadium two blocks from our office, so on several lunchtime outings we passed by to ask the security guards hanging out at the stadium what time the next game would be. The answers varied, but after three such trips we ended up with 2 votes for 4pm and 1 vote for 3pm. We tried to look in the newspaper to verify the time, but that effort (and a related attempt to find start times on the internet) didn’t prove fruitful. We put our faith in our research and planned for the 4pm start, only to arrive halfway through the first period (the game actually started at 3:30pm).<br /><br />Ticket prices varied widely – from 500 Akz to 4000 Akz (the latter with access to a buffet lunch). Jeff and I opted for the 500 Akz seats, and found ourselves sitting next to a rag-tag band featuring trumpets, trombones, drums, and the plastic blowhorns that are the scourge of African soccer games (get ready to hear about this during next year’s World Cup). The stadium seemed to be designed to hold as few spectators as possible and featured no concessions the day we were there. Although the stands were hardly full, there were enough fans to teach me some new choice curse words. Turns out the team owned by the president’s son defeated the team owned by the president (2-1). Judging by the small crowd at the game, most people in Luanda could have cared less. There are other much more popular teams though, and we’re hoping to catch one of them next time…<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Estádio dos Coqueiros - somebody stole the seats:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3mCoealnEtyC0P01lsBhPUPBWAy7KjdkVmYB5mdy0WUq8d8LT4Gvwvp8nHJUk4LDP7qQahNgVMzYKGciMw9Ouss8sfhakAsfn_X1DAFr_1eZTS5r9IuM2X4mQB7WvPdW0t8SmBsDK-YY/s1600-h/SoccerStadium.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3mCoealnEtyC0P01lsBhPUPBWAy7KjdkVmYB5mdy0WUq8d8LT4Gvwvp8nHJUk4LDP7qQahNgVMzYKGciMw9Ouss8sfhakAsfn_X1DAFr_1eZTS5r9IuM2X4mQB7WvPdW0t8SmBsDK-YY/s320/SoccerStadium.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363619648593305650" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Police-to-fan ratio approaches 1:1</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbwET54RkHKK_GmR9JgbxN97H4Kj4xTuHkqigLzzFCgmnOkcxQxD8E5MGXojqKNKo0LxDIzDSls97dMs_OHg19gV75XMu9QMDpH_6jyPZgu182Jh_9pws69wO1zd_AxKMHMt2x1b2tZY/s1600-h/SoccerSeats.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbwET54RkHKK_GmR9JgbxN97H4Kj4xTuHkqigLzzFCgmnOkcxQxD8E5MGXojqKNKo0LxDIzDSls97dMs_OHg19gV75XMu9QMDpH_6jyPZgu182Jh_9pws69wO1zd_AxKMHMt2x1b2tZY/s320/SoccerSeats.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363619639969665250" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Just happened to catch the aftermath of the game's first goal:</span><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwuSmNPp3DjI17zCsY53Y-TDWJnUw5bBoFwNOU70GMHVdET0vlb-3sfEeIMZGmmOmRF0p57ys-xhjJVS5TN-w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-41264558568136839172009-07-27T21:00:00.005+01:002009-08-08T11:25:00.015+01:00Gasosa!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ESyIFRBOf92zZsvavMkxLa_4Df_le5gf21DW31D9hTEVo-XzKdGpNF7tsiZgMZhDeUseiODI_pLwO8qkpj1y692qPfganQvXXFIESfHOunvJsIs7o-n6tw4s-3LZDN9wX8zbAhhhFJk/s1600-h/Airport+Sign.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ESyIFRBOf92zZsvavMkxLa_4Df_le5gf21DW31D9hTEVo-XzKdGpNF7tsiZgMZhDeUseiODI_pLwO8qkpj1y692qPfganQvXXFIESfHOunvJsIs7o-n6tw4s-3LZDN9wX8zbAhhhFJk/s320/Airport+Sign.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363232651035732722" /></a>It finally happened. Taking the photo to the left landed me in my first incident with the Angolan police, and my first out-and-out request for a bribe (or gasosa in the local Portuguese slang, which is also the word for a soda). I’m proud to say I managed to maintain my dignity. I was snapping away from the car as we drove by the airport to drop off a colleague, and my decision to take a photo of the airport sign turned out to be controversial. Maybe they were embarrassed that the word “internacional” was missing the final L? There were three uniformed police officers standing nearby, and one motioned for us to pull over. The same officer then started questioning me regarding the photo, asking me if I had a tourist visa. I said that I actually did have a tourist visa, which is true, but I didn’t have my passport with me at the time to prove it. He asked to see the photo, taking my camera and showing it to the other officers. One went so far as to say “that is proof” in a tone that indicated he thought he was pretty clever. I got a chuckle out of that comment – there were general mumblings of my crime and that I would need to pay a fine, etc. I was taught in grad school to call the bluff in this situation and demand the officer write a ticket, which is what I did. I was curious to see what the suggested remedies to this situation might be however.<br /><br />Throughout the whole ordeal I was polite, saying I was sorry but reiterating the fact that I did have a tourist visa (apparently this gives you the right – or privilege - to take photos of airport signs in Angola) and I also pointed out politely that there was no sign stating that photography was not permitted in the area. By this time I was out of the car (I don’t take well to strangers handling my camera), and an Angolan colleague that was in the car with us had also gotten out to try to help me. First they wanted three phone credit (which is sold via a system of prepaid cards with scratch-off codes), then cash, and after refusing and reclaiming my camera we just walked away. It was kind of weird how they just let me go, but I think they knew I wasn’t going to be worth their time. Wasn’t there an airport to protect anyway? Keep up the good work fellas…Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-51192435205238603082009-07-12T13:21:00.002+01:002009-07-12T13:37:46.000+01:00Subas: the original hangmen?I'll get off the macabre topics eventually, but after confirming a peculiar cultural practice related to death at the Anthropology Museum recently I thought this one was worth sharing.<br /><br />A "suba" (I'm probably not spelling this correctly) is a village elder that is respected and relied on for advice when important decisions are being made. This person wears a special hat that signals his significance. So far, so good. The odd part comes after this person dies, at which point the dead body is hung in a public place by a noose around the neck. The body hangs there as long as it takes for the head to detach itself from the body, at which point the head is preserved in a special hut where the heads of previous subas are kept (I have no idea what happens to the body). The hut then serves as a sort of inspiration center for future generations of community leaders when seeking guidance. <br /><br />I first heard about this practice from an Angolan colleague in Benguela, but the practice was confirmed this past week by the curator of the Anthropology Museum in Luanda. The curator noted this kind of thing doesn't really happen much anymore, but that doesn't take away the fascination value for me. <br /><br />I remember seeing the nooses used to hang famous outlaws that are part of the exhibit at the gun museum in my hometown (J.M. Davis Arms and Historical Museum :: www.thegunmuseum.com), but using something similar to hang someone as a sign of utmost respect is a visual that just doesn't go away easily.Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-2672966730610730292009-06-27T14:45:00.002+01:002009-07-12T21:54:34.335+01:00Bye Bye, BenguelaMy last few days in Benguela were quiet and spent mostly by myself. I’ll miss the privacy and the wireless internet, but mostly I’ll miss the relaxing weekend days I’ve become accustomed to. On what was my next-to-last Saturday in Benguela I took advantage of the fact that the weather is finally cooling off to going for a walk around town, which is pretty much my only entertainment since I don’t have transportation. The goal was to check out a recommendation for ice cream at a place called “Sete” or “seven” in Portuguese. Seven flavors? Seven hundred kwanzas per scoop? These were things I was thinking about as I made my way through town. I arrived and ordered the baunilha and maracujá, otherwise known as vanilla and passion fruit. As advertised it was good ice cream, and I struck up a conversation with the friendly scoop ladies while enjoying it. I asked which flavor was most popular, and they proceeded to give me their entire inventory list (so much for my attempt to conduct flavor research). I left and promised to return the following day, when they said they would have pistachio. That’s a flavor worth returning for, after all…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLk3UGCzpqBW1FgW-zMU6NoqjD3GBY4nhSlSDLSjlTqhLXQITAmGy03T0fnH-lGH8YUCG-HJYeAeeEqUZQ8VhXtr3VxCLDoG5bDNX8FQAJMzWeaE2PgphR2vEKKdHQQRiYIvHzsriC5I/s1600-h/BGAWalk4.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLk3UGCzpqBW1FgW-zMU6NoqjD3GBY4nhSlSDLSjlTqhLXQITAmGy03T0fnH-lGH8YUCG-HJYeAeeEqUZQ8VhXtr3VxCLDoG5bDNX8FQAJMzWeaE2PgphR2vEKKdHQQRiYIvHzsriC5I/s320/BGAWalk4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357678134546130162" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I continued my walk by the Kalunga, the outdoor cinema that’s across the street from the Chinese restaurant, and shuffled on towards the Praia Morena beach. I sat on the beach wall reading for a bit, enjoying the breeze until I realized my legs had fallen asleep and I would be better off on a park bench instead. I stumbled my way to the park as my leg muscles woke up and finished the book there (“Mother Tongue” by Bill Bryson…an entertaining history of the English language for anyone that’s interested in that sort of thing). Afterwards I just continued home, content with my day’s activity and relegating myself to an evening of watching the rest of the episodes of RuPaul’s Drag Race that I had downloaded onto my iTunes in Germany.<br /><br />Just as I entered the house I got a call from my friend MCM, who has a weekly hip hop radio show in Benguela. He wanted to know if I wanted to come do the show with him and before I could respond with my standard “is a fat baby heavy?” reply he was outside my door to pick me up. I had no clue what to expect, but it turned out to be a blast. I was laughing in the studio when he introduced me as a “cool brother” and the show’s guest for the evening and was impressed with the smooth way he handled the portion of the show when he takes calls from listeners. The upside is that I got introduced to some great lusophone hip hop music.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtmmeVAr0b7HrHqqN1qVA8NTkThqGxCYIGc7cQOCAYb5IgN9S4NokrwA5FuX9paNwhqw-KMCXk9xXSwfpYcjRNJLjcAaUzLA1cMUnvZYU_SdJmkOoEF-wPgV8Ys1YTIIk4ewOK863h63Q/s1600-h/HipHopShow.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtmmeVAr0b7HrHqqN1qVA8NTkThqGxCYIGc7cQOCAYb5IgN9S4NokrwA5FuX9paNwhqw-KMCXk9xXSwfpYcjRNJLjcAaUzLA1cMUnvZYU_SdJmkOoEF-wPgV8Ys1YTIIk4ewOK863h63Q/s320/HipHopShow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357678123722847570" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Afterwards I spent some time driving around town with MCM, and after telling him about my ice cream adventure earlier in the day he insisted we try a different place. I was scolded when I reached in my pocket to pay for my cone – in Angola whoever comes up with an idea like this also expects to pay – and I enjoyed helping #2 as we discussed politics on the dirt sidewalk near the ice cream stand. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was lactose intolerant and hadn’t planned ahead to bring enough lactaid pills with me, but I decided to accept the kind gesture and brace myself for the consequences later. It was worth it in the end – not such a bad way to wrap up my time in Benguela…Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-91025549151300243392009-05-19T02:45:00.000+01:002009-05-19T02:46:18.430+01:00War StoriesEarly in my time here I took a trip to Huambo. It was my first visit to a part of the country that witnessed much of the fighting during the country’s 27 year-long civil war. It was also my first introduction to the kind of war stories that many people in Angola carry with them. The story of Africa has proven that natural resources are as much a curse as they are a blessing, and Angola was cursed twice, with wealth in both oil and diamonds. Angola’s civil war lasted so long in part because one rival faction (the MPLA) controlled the oil wealth while another (UNITA) controlled the diamond wealth, the fortunes of each side roughly following the relative value of oil versus diamonds. As the buffer zone between the diamond area and the oil area, the central provinces (like Huambo and Bié) suffered. <br /><br />The story was emphasized recently when a driver working for my NGO was recounting his life story. Wilson was from Huambo, and was a young boy when the fighting broke out anew in 1992 after UNITA disputed results of an election that handed victory to the MPLA. His parents were active politically, and he recalls being forced to watch as his grandmother was handcuffed and forced to jump off of a dam to her death. He told me how after that incident he fled with his mom and siblings on foot towards the relative safety of Benguela. “On foot” in his case meant barefoot, and he told me the trip took two weeks. He was young and his family didn’t have many ways to support themselves, and tears came to his eyes as he talked about working as a car wash boy before earning enough money to get a driver’s license. Car wash boys are everywhere, and washing cars is one of the principal ways unskilled young men can make some money. Shining shoes is another way (the dusty environment make this a necessary service – the same could be said for washing cars), followed by selling snacks on the side of the road as people sit in traffic. Wilson must have been a great car washer, and a diligent saver, because those kids don’t make much. He worked his way up to become a driver (a good one, at that), and has dreams of returning to Huambo someday. He’s married, has a child, and loves music. He’s 26 years old. I didn’t know what to do when he started crying in the car while recounting this story, but I offered what seemed like an insufficient “I’m sorry” and didn’t say anything else. <br /><br />After a moment Wilson continued by recalling memories of semi-trailers full of mangled bodies being driven around town – who can say whether to intimidate people or to simply dispose of victims of the violence. Wilson was of the opinion that Savimbi (the UNITA leader) was so ruthless because he felt it that dos Santos (the leader of the MPLA to this day) was a kind of imposter. As I understood his reasoning, the controversy was due to the claim that dos Santos wasn’t Angolan, with the rumor being that his family was from São Tomé. Since he wasn’t Angolan, so went the argument, he shouldn’t be president. Hardly a reason to murder of course, but so goes the logic. In many people’s minds there is still a dos Santos credibility question – perhaps most telling in the mind of the president himself, since he has still not set a date yet for a presidential election (the first since 1992) due this year. That is not exactly the action of a man confident of his legitimacy, but what do I know…Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-60579663966847684862009-05-16T12:52:00.006+01:002009-05-16T16:13:06.496+01:00Rest in PeaceThis year, the estimated life expectancy rate in Angola is 38 years (37 for men, 39 for women). In other words, a baby being born in Angola today can expect to live, on average, to age 38. In fact, of 191 countries in the world, Angola ranks 190th in terms of life expectancy – only tiny Swaziland is worse (due to the country’s AIDS crisis). To give you some perspective the US ranks 30th in the world with an average life expectancy of 78 years (75 for men and 81 for women).<br /><br />When I read that statistic before coming to Angola I thought surely it was a relic of the war years, and that the data needed to be updated to reflect the reality of peace that arrived in 2002. After ten months here, I’m no longer surprised. Death is all around, and not a week goes by without news of someone’s cousin or aunt or parent or child passing away. The war may be over, but the battle to survive still isn’t easy. There are car and motorcycle crashes too numerous to mention. Colleagues forward gruesome photos of crash victims by email and somehow manage to look at them without wincing (I couldn’t). Every week someone is coming down with malaria (called paludismo here) and there are plenty of other illnesses to worry about. A rabies outbreak in Luanda killed something like 80 people one weekend earlier this year. This is especially worrying since there is a worldwide shortage of the rabies vaccine and I was told I couldn’t get one before coming here. I was told I had to contract the disease first, and then I could be treated, which isn’t the most comforting thought. It’s also not comforting to know that the streets of Benguela are full of stray dogs – some aggressive – and since I don’t have any transportation here I’m walking amongst them daily. I have to check my usual appreciation for my canine friends and usually cross the street to walk on the other side if I see suspicious-looking animals. I’m digressing, but you get the idea.<br /><br />At least several times a week when making client visits or bumming rides with friends on the weekend, we will pass a funeral procession. This usually involves a lead truck with the grieving parent or partner or next of kin surrounded by dozens of others in the truck bed with the coffin, followed by a trail of cars and motorcycles, and sometimes other trucks full of friends and extended family of the deceased, all heading to the cemetery. After someone dies, the funeral is usually held the following day, although it could be delayed by a few days to give relatives in other parts of the country time to travel.<br /><br />Following the funeral, there is a period known as the “óbito” or what westerners might consider a wake, except that it happens after the deceased has been interred. The period for the óbito varies depending on the age of the deceased and ranges from a few days to up to a week according to my colleague who explained all this to me. During this time friends and relatives visit the family of the deceased and offer condolences and specially-prepared food. In the event of a woman who has lost her husband, traditional cermonies are sometimes performed to make her “marriable” again. A month after the death occurred, another event is held, this time usually more of a party or picnic to commemorate the deceased. Yet another event is held a year following the death. Understanding these traditions helped make sense of the frequent absences from work with “óbito” as the stated reason.<br /><br />It’s a sobering fact of life here, but as someone that’s no stranger to death (there are no living relatives on the matrilineal side of my family) I thought the traditions were interesting.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Rest In Peace:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZ3BBjsjiuhWkjUIMscN744UtiAB5N0Uf70oNywyo224Bk1HBxSjA7WOZh1ciZbLnhu-DL0JhWyV563tiAVKJV61mz9XBEYh5IthD-G0HqfqEoZaq8SeCZgdv4e_bYKqLM42LzWoLX5s/s1600-h/Procession1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 168px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbZ3BBjsjiuhWkjUIMscN744UtiAB5N0Uf70oNywyo224Bk1HBxSjA7WOZh1ciZbLnhu-DL0JhWyV563tiAVKJV61mz9XBEYh5IthD-G0HqfqEoZaq8SeCZgdv4e_bYKqLM42LzWoLX5s/s320/Procession1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336389120892683458" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A common sight - black cross on door means closed for funeral/óbito:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhHrH8jbdYSjgUjE-vGLkHvSvPEpGZT0tOF9XCaReTCXrctarFbDu9v4TBBbSqQi93eGPiX8aeSau-X0lHYbuoo58Zr3HRgVlpufWzwLm1HRJDmbIllF0iJREtO4AIj7MyNS20Xg-fneM/s1600-h/BlackCross.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhHrH8jbdYSjgUjE-vGLkHvSvPEpGZT0tOF9XCaReTCXrctarFbDu9v4TBBbSqQi93eGPiX8aeSau-X0lHYbuoo58Zr3HRgVlpufWzwLm1HRJDmbIllF0iJREtO4AIj7MyNS20Xg-fneM/s320/BlackCross.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336389118199625042" border="0" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-34462357315612332432009-05-14T21:48:00.006+01:002009-05-14T22:21:20.457+01:00Berlin<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoK3dYqfPDUpVxkDm_AGPbb1gkJWP8eXxWMQNMVStjrh3xBWbko4V6FZ-aycQ1xqRDP-cEKaL52tyerLPlsdATUqEF9Np6Q7qeHJBsdruBvnjGWYFbSXebdDXXoobq5kTDpaDRBvORZnk/s1600-h/BerlinSign.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoK3dYqfPDUpVxkDm_AGPbb1gkJWP8eXxWMQNMVStjrh3xBWbko4V6FZ-aycQ1xqRDP-cEKaL52tyerLPlsdATUqEF9Np6Q7qeHJBsdruBvnjGWYFbSXebdDXXoobq5kTDpaDRBvORZnk/s320/BerlinSign.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335787094196457314" border="0" /></a>Truth be told this wasn’t the first time I’d been in Berlin. But the previous time involved a midnight stop at the train station when I was traveling with my friend Slacky from Sweden to Prague during college, and I just don’t think that counts. Within thirty minutes of landing at Tegel airport I had taken a bus and a subway and checked into the hotel near the Gedächtniskirche – German efficiency was a welcome change.<br /><br />After sorting out room keys and hotel policies my first order of business was to scope out the local Thai food options – I left the reception desk with addresses for the three nearest choices and it wasn’t another half an hour before I was sitting down trying to savor (instead of inhale, which is what I really wanted to do) my curry lunch special. I was in heaven.<br /><br />I met my Tbird friend later that afternoon and for the next five days managed to keep a pace that I never would have thought possible. We made good use of the train system getting around – Berlin covers a huge expanse – and I felt we did a fair job mixing tourist duties, nightlife, and oddball stuff. There were a few sleeping hours in there somewhere, but not many.<br /><br />Here’s a countdown of nine things I’ll remember:<br /><br />(9) BURRITOS<br />There’s a place that makes them fairly true to the form I was used to in San Francisco. It was unexpected but welcome – next to Thai food probably the cuisine I miss the most from home.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Missing The Mission:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh29AmZxjFR6OTeZt0xed1yZECikxjNAJvKxIhRRGYDT9wxUcjzuFqF5d2sI4Zf7_-OLm3WvE5zNO3R9FU-qF_VCnQlYOISS9IuV-T-eEpsFKtxOuQjT8ktmB3F5or8fZ1b30KQwhmmYmM/s1600-h/Burrito.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh29AmZxjFR6OTeZt0xed1yZECikxjNAJvKxIhRRGYDT9wxUcjzuFqF5d2sI4Zf7_-OLm3WvE5zNO3R9FU-qF_VCnQlYOISS9IuV-T-eEpsFKtxOuQjT8ktmB3F5or8fZ1b30KQwhmmYmM/s320/Burrito.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335786842371932738" border="0" /></a><br /><br />(8) THAI FOOD<br />I promise I’ll move away from food-related highlights soon, but I had a total of 5 meals at Thai restaurants over the course of a five day visit. Mmmmmmm.<br /><br />(7) BAUHAUS<br />Good design puts me in a good mood – the Bauhaus exhibit was small but well organized and the guy at the front desk that took my money was really friendly (probably from being surrounded by inspiring design).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigeNYPodnni3zW78KFQiWQs0iuy3JIJgQujUIbkiODPvDPZHQJpPlW5BIObG6Vh7R4RkVQTEE-tUM5veYM1ybcHqQgNSSV1ROUZjeDBcQLUbjJ-Lo_mdmF9E_3zp_VmQ0ksY4ylb1HwMM/s1600-h/Bauhaus.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigeNYPodnni3zW78KFQiWQs0iuy3JIJgQujUIbkiODPvDPZHQJpPlW5BIObG6Vh7R4RkVQTEE-tUM5veYM1ybcHqQgNSSV1ROUZjeDBcQLUbjJ-Lo_mdmF9E_3zp_VmQ0ksY4ylb1HwMM/s320/Bauhaus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335786836378471826" border="0" /></a><br /><br />(6) UNPLANNED DAYTIME ADULT BOUNCY-CASTLE FUN<br />Or Jupiter Jump, or whatever you want to call it. It was inside the exhibit hall that the United States donated to West Berlin in the 1950’s. Hassan and I first thought the building was closed but then walked around to discover that it was in fact open, and that there was an industrial strength bouncy castle just waiting for us to enjoy (the exhibit security people encouraged us). It was cool for about 5 minutes, until we realized that we were actually exercising, at which point we promptly stopped.<br /><br />(5) CITY BOAT TOURS INVOLVING FLAGRANT BEER CONSUMPTION<br />I don’t think I really need to elaborate on this one, but the warm sunny spring weather made this kind of outing somewhat obligatory.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaoSEaJP-FHCPgdX7qbYlOpUzx262aVt0FJMQqmKvm3It_b3bJQsnIpqKkAMHIxQFqjRcblfssF8y3T0VySPZH_LsJ267NekS-gyxeCkNKk74X4FAqM_0TiwqPNTM__eS8eLACxk5o7Hg/s1600-h/BeerBoat.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaoSEaJP-FHCPgdX7qbYlOpUzx262aVt0FJMQqmKvm3It_b3bJQsnIpqKkAMHIxQFqjRcblfssF8y3T0VySPZH_LsJ267NekS-gyxeCkNKk74X4FAqM_0TiwqPNTM__eS8eLACxk5o7Hg/s320/BeerBoat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335786841686332722" border="0" /></a><br /><br />(4) THAI FOOD<br />Okay, I lied. But this will be the last time I mention food. Promise. Man I miss Thai food…<br /><br />(3) CLIMBING REICHSTAG DOME AT NIGHT<br />Two earlier attempts to climb had been thwarted by the long line permanently stretching into the lawn area in front of the building. Being the long Easter holiday weekend I think many out-of-towners had the same idea we did. We finally suceeded one night, and the experience was worth the wait. The design idea is that the public can access the dome for free – once in the dome there are mirrors that reflect downward into the floor of the legislature, so that the elected officials can look up at any time for a reminder of who put them there. Doesn’t sound like such a bad idea…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBBCs2IAl6CbpZafz1g-0uj8frU943-q9B5yJKyvZ4eiglzyT2TTuwb9iQ747C2Bwd4qMA_0vOctaA8e3MXIaWcvTq-3Id1Z3xEj5dvRT_ecfV2AiJiZLr4ZpFo9IkHdlmZ1CbxYi5I-s/s1600-h/RtagLookingDown.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBBCs2IAl6CbpZafz1g-0uj8frU943-q9B5yJKyvZ4eiglzyT2TTuwb9iQ747C2Bwd4qMA_0vOctaA8e3MXIaWcvTq-3Id1Z3xEj5dvRT_ecfV2AiJiZLr4ZpFo9IkHdlmZ1CbxYi5I-s/s320/RtagLookingDown.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335792609650800466" border="0" /></a><br /><br />(2) MEMORIAL FOR MURDERED GAYS<br />The holocaust is well known – and rightly so – for the murder of Jews. Six million of them. What is lesser known is that the Nazis targeted other groups, including homosexuals and Roma (Gypsies). Across the street from the Memorial for Murdered Jews is a Memorial for Murdered Homosexuals. I did not expect to see this. Inside the memorial is a video showing two men caressing and kissing. Again, something I didn’t expect. After so long in homophobic Angola (where being gay is against the law) it was refreshing to see a monument denouncing the very intolerance I’ve felt the pressure of since moving to Africa.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio69nUxnVvYgngaml66gZxmvoeCNHt0hmN7M-X18nY7cNzuQyNli-MbAzg6V90EvLYpdOhGrmJ0DAJ-V0Rf9obxr72mlz-U4pdwiLGisaIsndpyUA5Czro0_AIU6SV6fjI6YoJJ8elT8E/s1600-h/GayMemorial.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio69nUxnVvYgngaml66gZxmvoeCNHt0hmN7M-X18nY7cNzuQyNli-MbAzg6V90EvLYpdOhGrmJ0DAJ-V0Rf9obxr72mlz-U4pdwiLGisaIsndpyUA5Czro0_AIU6SV6fjI6YoJJ8elT8E/s320/GayMemorial.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335786848737749458" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A few weeks later, a colleague sharing a ride with me home from the Luanda office asked to see my photos from the Berlin trip. Seeing as how we were in a 4-hour traffic jam (to go all of 3 miles, but that’s another story), I didn’t think anything of the request, until she got stuck on the photos from the Memorial for Murdered Homosexuals. She asked about it, and I explained everything in a somewhat clinical (but honest) fashion, and did so while being careful not to come out. It was uncomfortable. I have no idea what must have been going through her head then, or even now. I’ll pretend she’s gay herself until further notice. It helps me sleep better…<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Explain This To Your Angolan Colleagues:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKgf_cnqjAHhtKcddaPoqSp0jJ_R0bZ3ALqvgtw2xHwrrJjmY-QXZWAbcD_NYl1hUn_QH80kEJE9Yd25paM_wZuGG_FVVPdAW_peQxncleVLs47Okcq45vxN3ZBnzV-jbxcdSch87Ilvc/s1600-h/ExplainThis.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKgf_cnqjAHhtKcddaPoqSp0jJ_R0bZ3ALqvgtw2xHwrrJjmY-QXZWAbcD_NYl1hUn_QH80kEJE9Yd25paM_wZuGG_FVVPdAW_peQxncleVLs47Okcq45vxN3ZBnzV-jbxcdSch87Ilvc/s320/ExplainThis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335786843453139650" border="0" /></a><br /><br />(1) BEATING DRAG QUEENS AT PING PONG<br />We set out to find a dingy warehouse-y bar called Dr. Pong, where communal ping pong is played. The idea is that everyone brings their bats (I didn’t know this was the techincal term for a ping pong paddle until this trip) and forms a big circle – everyone gets one volley and keeps moving around in a circle. When someone misses a return that person sits out, reducing the size of the circle. Eventually two players are left, who then play an actual game. When the game is over everyone is back in the circle and the cycle starts over. We found Dr. Pong. But then we found something way, way better.<br /><br />It turns out there was a gay version of communal ping pong happening at another bar in the same neighborhood, so after a group conference lasting about a picosecond we were on our way to venue #2. Hassan and I were kindly given bats and we didn’t waste much time jumping into the circle. Now, to be fair, not everyone in the circle was a drag queen. Some people were just drunk, and others clearly had no business playing ping pong. These factors go a long way towards explaining how I was able to win a round. It was random. It was exhilarating. It was my favorite moment of the trip.Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-15611455894770691482009-05-10T20:31:00.006+01:002009-05-10T20:54:38.694+01:00Berlin - Just in the Nick of Time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivex2PKSQyGpavGd02NtC3tF4gif0JKGKJaZW4caEMPN3QNuKwo5xTk0kMf63E5wjZBm9YHL5XLyXAET8PcDk4vQ0KvIjWhdAoonv3DbI-XwdjV_uXNN4WEt2YglzLPK3Y5IH9TLhF1jE/s1600-h/TAAGBook.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivex2PKSQyGpavGd02NtC3tF4gif0JKGKJaZW4caEMPN3QNuKwo5xTk0kMf63E5wjZBm9YHL5XLyXAET8PcDk4vQ0KvIjWhdAoonv3DbI-XwdjV_uXNN4WEt2YglzLPK3Y5IH9TLhF1jE/s320/TAAGBook.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334283155396686450" border="0" /></a>When I first got to Angola, one of the volunteers I was replacing had some parting advice: plan trips at least every three months, because after that amount of time this place will drive you crazy. I heeded that advice, and so far time has proven the sagacity of those words.<br /><br />The week before I went to Berlin was easily the lowpoint of my time in Angola, and I’m not sure it was a coincidence that the magic three months had passed since I had last been out of the country. No electricity and a busted generator meant no relief from the 90+ degree weather (I had to flee to a local guesthouse to get any work done). Hot, humid nights had me trading sweating for sleeping. We didn’t have any running water for 4 days, and when it came back it was so full of filth it was unusable for another whole day.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hmmmm, suddenly I don't feel that dirty: </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7-8rc3y8prT7uE295wFieSGssTiHFYRpHYARrsTdzYcL3AHeQo8Vb97ibfiFPCcPmFUuEw80H4HHmlntz_0_Elrb6T3Qi_AyhStRUEi9bTj1TMG48-sSRfLSSs9v5azyphyphenhypheneQ7qAE6g/s1600-h/BGAWaterCrisis.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7-8rc3y8prT7uE295wFieSGssTiHFYRpHYARrsTdzYcL3AHeQo8Vb97ibfiFPCcPmFUuEw80H4HHmlntz_0_Elrb6T3Qi_AyhStRUEi9bTj1TMG48-sSRfLSSs9v5azyphyphenhypheneQ7qAE6g/s320/BGAWaterCrisis.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334281200955101074" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I had planned to spend the weekend in Luanda before flying out to Berlin on the weekly Monday night flight (Lufthansa flies to Angola a grand total of once per week). I was happy to escape the horrible conditions in Benguela but the feeling of relief ended rudely when I arrived in Luanda to a car service that had decided to flaunt its incompetence in grand fashion. Instead of being picked up at the airport when I arrived (and after arguing for an hour on the phone with a dispatch guy just as flummoxed as I was about why there was no car at the airport to pick me up), I decided to make the 30 minute walk with my luggage, carrying my suitcase on my head because the road was too muddy to roll it.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Try rolling your bag through this (the intersection nearest the Luanda apt):</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5zE32-OlsABJbQ7ew9wRI0dDdmMn057qtJJu6e6ddzWUAEJla38KPPjS33QrGDcdAXclDwV-aLdL7AiYiKQ6ZaOi4A6PbbOgP74f4A4sRCta7SpFVPMZFou8CgJhz4LIhm4eadNRTWJg/s1600-h/RollYourBagThroughThis.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5zE32-OlsABJbQ7ew9wRI0dDdmMn057qtJJu6e6ddzWUAEJla38KPPjS33QrGDcdAXclDwV-aLdL7AiYiKQ6ZaOi4A6PbbOgP74f4A4sRCta7SpFVPMZFou8CgJhz4LIhm4eadNRTWJg/s320/RollYourBagThroughThis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334281792508830754" border="0" /></a><br /><br />All of our Angola training suggested this was a horrible idea – that I basically made myself a walking target. Unfortunately my temper had reached a boiling point and I must have really looked crazy, because everyone I passed quickly got out of my way. I arrived to the Luanda apartment setting a new personal sweat record, but was grateful that at least there was power and I could take a quick shower before going to a pub quiz being hosted by the British Embassy (I was running late, which was the motivation for my defiant walk). Little did I know at the time, that would be the last of the power in Luanda before my trip 3 days later. Another three days of bucket showers and uncomfortable nights (not only does the AC make it possible to sleep, it keeps the mosquitos under control) awaited me. You would think our organization could organize a working generator given the frequency of power outages, but you would be wrong.<br /><br />I did receive some good news the Monday I was to leave though – I had scheduled a consultation with a recommended local dentist to see about a couple of fillings my dentist back home said I needed. After pulling new x-rays the local dentist didn’t see anything wrong (and was more than happy to let me see for myself), so I left relieved not to have to worry about getting dental work done in Angola (especially since one of those fillings had previously been determined to be a possible root canal). More good news game when I made it to the airport to check in. I was given a pass to the VIP lounge without asking (I hadn’t shaved in almost a week by this point due to the lack of water…I must have looked like I needed a break), and I quickly established myself next to a large air conditioning unit blasting 17 degrees C. Relief at last. I was finally smiling.<br /><br />I entertained myself by downing the slightly-stale white bread sandwiches filled with questionable meat-like product, washing them down with a tonic water. I asked to take a look at the suggestion book I had noticed when I had entered, and was rewarded with entry after side-splitting entry. My favorites were an entry that included a drawing of a crying traveler (apparently the conditions of the lounge weren’t always as adequate as the day I was there) and another entry by a man claiming to have broken a bottle of Johnny Walker (and offering to replace it by leaving his number in a script that suggested he had enjoyed most of its contents anyway).<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">There, there...at least you were on your way out:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ73MOFkSpdXgfyR96zSQs9IDhkDP0-jRNgMy1eWTrIPpGd6F0kQSMXDLkptRt1QqHhgkRSJMcyneH-Uj0RNOk5LSiNodPABYwgunO13K7CPUNTO8QKftx6blhVq-2S8QsynhTM20842o/s1600-h/Book1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ73MOFkSpdXgfyR96zSQs9IDhkDP0-jRNgMy1eWTrIPpGd6F0kQSMXDLkptRt1QqHhgkRSJMcyneH-Uj0RNOk5LSiNodPABYwgunO13K7CPUNTO8QKftx6blhVq-2S8QsynhTM20842o/s320/Book1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334282821260902466" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Are you this honest when you're sober?</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwGEerIMEQNSgF4MTGnDO8D6MXbodFJeT3zL8voF3l3PqvF1uwfSYXbnb2mVNgmoZrbswiDCUzDatQmwiACxpfxATr3v515CocLpjI5pzqGTq_vmewII2v_poTIWzxX9kynbx49zpmPU/s1600-h/Book2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHwGEerIMEQNSgF4MTGnDO8D6MXbodFJeT3zL8voF3l3PqvF1uwfSYXbnb2mVNgmoZrbswiDCUzDatQmwiACxpfxATr3v515CocLpjI5pzqGTq_vmewII2v_poTIWzxX9kynbx49zpmPU/s320/Book2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334282829113973506" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I was in a better mood already, and slept like a baby on the redeye to Germany...Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-35331419243539788322009-05-01T11:54:00.006+01:002009-05-01T12:16:32.494+01:00Lubango & Namib<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTv-HEFaq5523T-tguueuBThwAnh5zqJ1dReF5sr41zxO60GAkbKgkz82HoVzmVkGqyIr27H6yLnY3dsN_rjFEKbIKBtEyCI2yBWtpcH0HPIUtS9BSX9zwHBapr1NLA0nSM0-sOQsTay4/s1600-h/SerradeLeba.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTv-HEFaq5523T-tguueuBThwAnh5zqJ1dReF5sr41zxO60GAkbKgkz82HoVzmVkGqyIr27H6yLnY3dsN_rjFEKbIKBtEyCI2yBWtpcH0HPIUtS9BSX9zwHBapr1NLA0nSM0-sOQsTay4/s320/SerradeLeba.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330807943658547010" border="0" /></a>The one thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to stay in Benguela for the long weekend. I had heard a lot about Lubango, which is the major Angolan city in the south of the country, about 7 hours by car south from Benguela. Earlier efforts to find a place to stay there didn’t work out (Angola is a bit short on lodging options and even the simplest accommodations are rediculously expensive), and the morning of the day I was to travel I still had no idea where I would sleep. In a last-ditch move I called a friend from the gym who had friends in Lubango and asked for help. In twenty minutes I had an invitation to stay with a friend of his, and two hours later I was on the road, catching a ride with some coworkers that were heading there to visit family.<br /><br />As is the case for any roadtrip, the journey really is half the story. The road to Lubango is about 340km or so. It rises from sea level at Benguela to about 5,500 feet at Lubango, and about half of the total distance is paved. That means the half that’s not paved takes the most time, or about 5 hours of the total 7 it takes to make the trip. Cows and goats have free reign in the countryside, and the rainy weather sometimes makes for trouble on the dirt tracks. There are only a few towns along the way and very few options for roadside snacks or gas (and you don’t know where some of those homemade snacks have been, as a week-long sickness reminded me on an earlier roadtrip to Huambo), so pre-trip planning is definitely more important than it would be back home. The road inclines through baobab forests and keeps climbing through rich farmland until reaching Lubango, which is like a breath of fresh air.<br /><br />Lubango is green, organized, and did not suffer as much as other towns during the war. I not only had the best pizza I’ve ever had in Africa there, but the best toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich too (imagine!) To top things off the local beer – N’Gola – is by far the best I’ve had in Angola. I don’t know if it’s the cooler climate (I found myself wishing I had brought my jacket even though it was the height of summer), the green surroundings, or the good cheap beer, but Lubango won me over in an instant.<br /><br />I met the stranger that would play host to me upon arrival - Tony invited me into his tin-roof one-room abode and quickly made me feel welcome. The next-door bathroom was interesting and involved a spigot coming out of the wall about four feet up from the floor, so I got through the weekend washing my face but never endeavored to take a shower (cold water showers in the hot Benguela climate are one thing…but cold water bucket showers in a cold climate required a level of filth that I did not manage to achieve during my stay). I met his friends and we watched some cheesy Brazilian soap opera called “Negócio da China” before heading to the “mall” for dinner at an Italian restaurant. The mall was a scaled-way-down replica of the Shops at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, complete with a crude and ultimately unconvincing attempt to paint clouds on a blue ceiling.<br /><br />The highlights of Lubango included the following:<br /><br />Serra da Leba (pictured above)<br />A series of switchbacks signals the transition from the high plateau to the plain below that leads to the coast some 140km to the west. The scene is depicted on the 5 Kwanza note (with a value of about 7 cents it’s the bill everyone hates to accumulate).<br /><br />Cristo Rei<br />There’s no danger of confusing this replica for the one on Corcovado, but it does occupy a commanding position overlooking the city. It’s worth a trip for the views, and to see the cows grazing on the steep cliffs.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIjSvkRacTgQ3SQuXa5AYoXzy3ZR4pZH71cJLZ83TLhl_nPQaSWpMfHvLTlqx4kyVHf0WMS0lNyYK6K6JdjllVToLAyTZDfQStSY5GE44NoyZtf89wvWsLZAvMVaxDeeCpvmP3YAfO0I/s1600-h/CristoRei.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIjSvkRacTgQ3SQuXa5AYoXzy3ZR4pZH71cJLZ83TLhl_nPQaSWpMfHvLTlqx4kyVHf0WMS0lNyYK6K6JdjllVToLAyTZDfQStSY5GE44NoyZtf89wvWsLZAvMVaxDeeCpvmP3YAfO0I/s320/CristoRei.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330811670329563378" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Tundavala<br />You could be forgiving for thinking you were in Switzerland, at least if the fog lifts long enough to see the green valley what must be several thousand feet below the rocky outcropping you’re standing on. I had to catch my breath when the fog lifted – partly because it was so beautiful but mostly because I was trying to calm my fear of heights. The fog closed as quickly as it opened and I ran back from the edge.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPiCh596McNPBhx-GusGm1DO27Xhd8JBGbFbiUZ7-anRLS_-AK8ak5Agnp_xvb7mkBMqJIYzLAr2UTCzVFFFgH_6aqF2OBPxWsKIO44H3pTTarKRuytOVdoC5Ni5IHeLdLq0liKe0VqE/s1600-h/Tundavala.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPiCh596McNPBhx-GusGm1DO27Xhd8JBGbFbiUZ7-anRLS_-AK8ak5Agnp_xvb7mkBMqJIYzLAr2UTCzVFFFgH_6aqF2OBPxWsKIO44H3pTTarKRuytOVdoC5Ni5IHeLdLq0liKe0VqE/s320/Tundavala.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330811666778781538" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Planalto Café<br />The best coffee shop I’ve been to in Angola and home to the aforementioned toasted ham and cheese, of which I think I ate 3 during the weekend. The quindim was delicious too.<br /><br />Huila Café<br />Home of the best pizza just about anywhere!<br /><br />On Saturday I convinced Tony to drive to Namib on the coast, and against all protocol I took the reigns of the rental car and enjoyed the leisurely two-hour drive to the coast immensely. The terrain changed from verdant to desert in that span and it was fun to watch the transition. It just so happened that we arrived at the same time as some of Tony’s friends from Lubango and our united group took advantage of the “Festival of the Sea” which involved live music on the beachfront promenade. There may have been a beer or two invovled, and our planned return to Lubango was pushed back by several hours on account of us having crap-tons of fun. The redbull at the brand-spanking-new 24h service station on the way out of town was a lifesaver, and we arrived back in Lubango without any trouble.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Namib Beach Promenade:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjllKDoMQwKdYP7rIvQijh3y9A1In5EOylDnzSRRVHZMKfxaC9QAZWQeg-7Cp8TSSy6ExNX8vsO7CNLBdK6RnQ71sAByPdj_nRDKUxSzyCrtiuL2t4E1CoRdK2ig1jUjVIWDdbs-UdWU/s1600-h/NamibBeachwalk.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjllKDoMQwKdYP7rIvQijh3y9A1In5EOylDnzSRRVHZMKfxaC9QAZWQeg-7Cp8TSSy6ExNX8vsO7CNLBdK6RnQ71sAByPdj_nRDKUxSzyCrtiuL2t4E1CoRdK2ig1jUjVIWDdbs-UdWU/s320/NamibBeachwalk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330809178622593586" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />No, I don't want to date your cousin:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF0b4DXLwmACIA11IS3awEou_cLNHVr9QChszmxeyL2I3-5Vi9jJRhCL-tH-RZEss0PfqbmfVJPoCH_I5iZ6TsL-lhtvz2j7378maYLgzIBIppJwss-JEsTfGzRR7n2C9EAB2F0GzHLGU/s1600-h/MyCousin.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF0b4DXLwmACIA11IS3awEou_cLNHVr9QChszmxeyL2I3-5Vi9jJRhCL-tH-RZEss0PfqbmfVJPoCH_I5iZ6TsL-lhtvz2j7378maYLgzIBIppJwss-JEsTfGzRR7n2C9EAB2F0GzHLGU/s320/MyCousin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330809543702895490" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Making friends quickly in Namib:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn1J8a6YmBiEPgXwq4tnNDzpuubiKN-E_XAj__3VN-TC_Dlt35tBax7UXAk3n7_HVv7N8qvfivoJRI_W0obCE0pXGGvkPd4OeRpYv59IvBbo0S0fb62CFqC5wG3B3uUmsqr7bWFkKslcM/s1600-h/NamibGang.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn1J8a6YmBiEPgXwq4tnNDzpuubiKN-E_XAj__3VN-TC_Dlt35tBax7UXAk3n7_HVv7N8qvfivoJRI_W0obCE0pXGGvkPd4OeRpYv59IvBbo0S0fb62CFqC5wG3B3uUmsqr7bWFkKslcM/s320/NamibGang.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330811660430011730" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I wasn’t able to join my colleagues for the ride back to Benguela, so I bought a bus ticket for the journey instead. It was pretty uneventful, although we did have to take a detour around a muddy section of the highway where some semis had gotten stuck. I remember some sections being pretty dusty, but didn’t account for how this would affect the luggage I had stored in the back until I got to Benguela and my black bag had turned brown. I discovered that whacking the hell out of the bag with a broom and using compressed air in the crevices will clean things up in a jiffy. Add that to the list of things that Angola has taught me…<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The local 7-11 comes to you:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOPuyEPY9U-oSWWuKm-IfGTOfxSK_ZSC09eDTbFAv35zeZaVZh8Lsp-RrKp55y_rj-zZ_P8Rgc2-oU6FBMngz5psJ9irTomRKj7A4u0hbCY4oG9Vijb3pEKfR4SUS5XjbsY5Jjer_bPQ/s1600-h/Local7-11.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOPuyEPY9U-oSWWuKm-IfGTOfxSK_ZSC09eDTbFAv35zeZaVZh8Lsp-RrKp55y_rj-zZ_P8Rgc2-oU6FBMngz5psJ9irTomRKj7A4u0hbCY4oG9Vijb3pEKfR4SUS5XjbsY5Jjer_bPQ/s320/Local7-11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330811672013155522" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A sticky situation (this is the main national north-south highway):</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBXd9tBUy6yebRmfde4wCKVmvrBfdHYeR8UJoMnySrjouPsbMLJstgZyx6hJ-lHroWH1p8taMTsUTTKXv83Aq11JamdVRRDMXJ3pzlv7sENIeGS_8OU_EoqdzvftXIQZgBenGvKMFGUQ8/s1600-h/RoadtoBenguela.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBXd9tBUy6yebRmfde4wCKVmvrBfdHYeR8UJoMnySrjouPsbMLJstgZyx6hJ-lHroWH1p8taMTsUTTKXv83Aq11JamdVRRDMXJ3pzlv7sENIeGS_8OU_EoqdzvftXIQZgBenGvKMFGUQ8/s320/RoadtoBenguela.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330808659774221586" border="0" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-73305944274891767412009-04-25T14:16:00.002+01:002009-04-25T14:27:23.170+01:00Palm Tree Hurdling: A Cape Town New Year's Tradition<span style="font-style: italic;">This entry is long overdue - internet access robust enough to load the video simply doesn't exist in Angola, so I had to wait until a recent trip to Germany to load it. Let's take a trip back in time...</span><br />***********************************************<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ0mLLG0wevA0fdFoVtE-O1x987fu_PGOKKNEWpOG67-6Oqzp9kqgbZl341j04nDZmpaSyseVokS_E-mCHYl5ndQ2Jq694FypYWBsvPCUIlv7OImA42-EMHmj3VyqrA821YKJFtjVEx6Y/s1600-h/P1190561.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ0mLLG0wevA0fdFoVtE-O1x987fu_PGOKKNEWpOG67-6Oqzp9kqgbZl341j04nDZmpaSyseVokS_E-mCHYl5ndQ2Jq694FypYWBsvPCUIlv7OImA42-EMHmj3VyqrA821YKJFtjVEx6Y/s320/P1190561.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322989608324548226" border="0" /></a><span><span>Cape Town is a city you come back to. Like Rio de Janeiro or San Francisco, the geography commands your attention and won’t let go. I was there first with my dad and then with a friend from Seattle stopping through in the middle of his grand African adventure. In ten days we (respectively) covered a lot of touristy stuff, and that was all great. On a personal sidenote, I particularly appreciated the showers that involved the luxurious notions of pressure and hot water.<br /><br />The one event that stood out this time was one I enjoyed alone, however. My visiting friend decided to stay at the hotel and prepare for his flight later that evening and I ventured out with the goal of discovering the Minstrel Parade, a local new year tradition in a similar vein to Philadelphia’s Mummers. Or something like that. My travel literature mentioned how the surrounding communities form “minstrel” groups, make their own costumes, and practice dance moves to the year’s theme song, and then parade through downtown Cape Town singing and dancing to welcome in the new year (now it was starting to sound more like Carnaval in Rio, so my curiosity only grew). If my literature is correct, the tradition dates back to the abolition of slavery and was a way for the colored and black population to celebrate their freedom. I also read something about the groups being encouraged by American sailors that had been in town during some long-ago new year, which is why some of the groups are still named after American battleships (I saw the Pennsylvanians, but apparently the Alabamians are in there too somewhere).<br /><br />Who wouldn’t want to check this out? Apparently nobody I was talking to. The receptionist at the hotel desk rolled his eyes when I asked where the parade route was, and my Capetownian friend had no interest in joining me (and my traveling companion was busy folding clothes). So off alone I went.<br /><br />Things didn’t start well. I found the end of the parade route in a neighborhood called Bo-Kaap and watched one marching group finish up and load into the buses that were waiting to take them back to the townships. Some drunk dude asked me to take his photo, which I did, and then when I showed him he tried to steal my camera. I was sort of expecting this and was holding firmly, then yelling at him to take his hands off. His nearby friends pryed him off of me and told him to cut it out, then apologized to me. I shrugged the incident off and decided to get some breakfast. I was also starting to understand why some locals didn’t get excited about the prospect of attending this event.<br /><br />After some coffee and eggs benedict (hold the hollandaise) I was ready to try again. My waiter was enthusiastic about my attempt to watch the festivities (finally somebody with a pulse) and directed me to a better vantage point. That’s how I found the main avenue for the parade route – a wide street with proper crowd control procedures and police supervision. So I found an opening next to the fence blocking access to the street and waited. People around me had tents propped up so they could take naps between performances, others were smoking hookahs. After awhile I realized that I wasn’t hearing much English – Afrikaans was ruling the day on this parade route, the language of most of the coloured population that had come to watch the festivities.<br /><br />*******************************************<br />Sidenote #1:<br />Race-related vocabulary in South Africa is a specialized field – somebody please correct me but my understanding is that “coloured” in SA primarily refers to descendants of East Indian slaves brought by the Dutch in the 17th and 18th centuries. I think it can also mean people of mixed race. By that definition our new president would be “coloured” by SA terms.<br />More details on racial vocabulary: http://www.southafrica.info/about/people/population.htm<br /><br />Sidenote #2<br />While English is the lingua franca in South Africa and a compulsory subject in school, it is the mother tongue for less than 10% of the country’s population, ranking 6th after Zulu, Xhosa, Afrikaans, Sepedi, and Setswana. Thus, conversations with strangers can be a little more labored than you’d expect and I kept having to strip idiomatic expressions from my dialogue to be well understood. That said, the English accent from SA is one of the best in my book.<br />Awesome website with more detail on the linguistic fabric of the nation: http://www.southafrica.info/about/people/language.htm<br /><br />********************************************<br />The video below pretty much says it all – I was about to stop recording when the palm-tree jumper showed up. You have to admire his confidence in thinking he could clear the second tree, and his recovery from the failed attempt could be described as, well, “festive”.</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwhHGOWMnJr--MGcX0Ig9qNfhEZHOk12QxDpp1Tdsw8Sq9buUQDHVYtn8a1f6iyI3ApM0I-U3uiYZDFdtGjbA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /></span><span>The parade lasted all day. And all night, until about 11pm. Traffic was a mess and getting across town was impossible. I experienced the latter trying to get to the trailhead to Lion’s Head so I could summit in time to watch the sunset (now I really understood why some didn’t want anything to do with this parade). I made it in the nick of time (both to the trailhead and to catch the sunset), and on the way up the trail (and on the way down), the music from the streets made for a nice backdrop. Happy New Year, Cape Town!</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Making friends along the parade route:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg127CIHCLqgw9NId0husdH3q5ThETpGjVgovXKePW86SbYWy8NSWDpOLxO5dFOtGvcKlv7xH8nMWoaGstQeacmGpz-Ax-vJEFR_vu4pxzmQg_iVaxATfyblUvKt0BV91ZXAYsWZDiqvb4/s1600-h/CapeTown3.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg127CIHCLqgw9NId0husdH3q5ThETpGjVgovXKePW86SbYWy8NSWDpOLxO5dFOtGvcKlv7xH8nMWoaGstQeacmGpz-Ax-vJEFR_vu4pxzmQg_iVaxATfyblUvKt0BV91ZXAYsWZDiqvb4/s320/CapeTown3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328607058992110450" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Shoprite "Pennsylvanians" Rock the Parade:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyDuBZkGgHUn9240lBLGWFFpCw_rs9x8zHMzpjSEezsyE4-O8XIwuqUB0_QjGPGRw2whA3X1Odknhc7jP02boVBf3SEU9OJHB1FSwNFFnX_QE6_jhNvfS59TUbf5lcMwKaeIxtDS82qGQ/s1600-h/CapeTown5.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyDuBZkGgHUn9240lBLGWFFpCw_rs9x8zHMzpjSEezsyE4-O8XIwuqUB0_QjGPGRw2whA3X1Odknhc7jP02boVBf3SEU9OJHB1FSwNFFnX_QE6_jhNvfS59TUbf5lcMwKaeIxtDS82qGQ/s320/CapeTown5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328613777222531762" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This lil' guy looks like he needs a break:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IGQQ5nVwdzwuXXEiw_r1zPeCUAWg1Tg4kmdgSRESW1p3CK6K7yNHL7wFTbpkqS8Com2oc2DuLFfxxi8NrsmtWfWRYTD17QvhXg_MaQ_V017sKQhj3rhm1H9vf1siaZXVqkpPfbwBnNM/s1600-h/CapeTown4.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IGQQ5nVwdzwuXXEiw_r1zPeCUAWg1Tg4kmdgSRESW1p3CK6K7yNHL7wFTbpkqS8Com2oc2DuLFfxxi8NrsmtWfWRYTD17QvhXg_MaQ_V017sKQhj3rhm1H9vf1siaZXVqkpPfbwBnNM/s320/CapeTown4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328611783950891026" border="0" /></a></span>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-56083814103233906372009-03-21T18:28:00.004+01:002009-03-21T19:07:54.299+01:00Mr. Benguela 2009<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6G3nFeSuMdXZWVHvNWwXJYX6uz4zyY-LUJ2DZKqvviWPupvTly1zqSIWqc-h21f7ijM8NyYsxdFLEBNupv_Kghq-wEmp_gPFmsdqQKx3XFUy9FB-OCFUYzxEfDJ4mhqS1isVjtIQtzZc/s1600-h/P1200204.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6G3nFeSuMdXZWVHvNWwXJYX6uz4zyY-LUJ2DZKqvviWPupvTly1zqSIWqc-h21f7ijM8NyYsxdFLEBNupv_Kghq-wEmp_gPFmsdqQKx3XFUy9FB-OCFUYzxEfDJ4mhqS1isVjtIQtzZc/s320/P1200204.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315703335926297346" border="0" /></a>Angolans seem to love beauty pageants, and unlike Americans they have no problem parading around attractive young people without regard to gender. An Angolan friend of mine was organizing the “Mr. Benguela” event and was surprised by my enthusiastic response when he asked if I would be interested in attending. The fact that I could channel my enthusiasm through a female date visiting from Luanda was all the better.<br /><br />The excitement we both had leading up to the night was tempered immediately when the sponser for the event abused us with a 47-minute power point presentation about globalization that appeared to be a summary of Thomas Friedman’s “The World is Flat.” While entertaining ourselves by swapping text messages with notes like “he is sucking my will to live” and “OMG, is he still talking?”, he rambled on and on, apparently unaware that he was standing between both the evening’s entertainment and, perhaps more importantly, the promised post-event dinner. The crazy part was that this presentation was apparently part of his sales pitch to get us to visit his table full of jewelry and shoes. Poor guy. Poor, clueless, sponsor guy.<br /><br />The pace and audience interest picked up considerably once he finally shut up and the 22 candidates for Mr. Benguela entered the performance area and began a choreographed hiphop dance intro. The rest of the program invovled novel talent competition ideas, mostly centered around the theme of “Drugs Aren’t Cool.” There was a skit involving soccer players shunning a friend that was trying to convince the others to try pot. A surprisingly similar skit appeared later titled “Basketball” with pretty much the same plot. There was traditional dancing and some pretty bad singing, but my favorite event was something called “Locutor” on the program. This involved one candidate acting like a radio reporter, interviewing other candidates on the social ills of youth drug usage. Tragically, there was no swimsuit competition.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The "Locutor" in action:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-NoBDX2o-S8uarQgRy28hShEF8ZWK7CxW0sW8LIY0QV3-WeeGBrB10ytdzgBefmdKPJ9pJepkdQ-hx8vWRcegpdWwnAhmFo0r30Jqje4I-ldWkKbd8MysgyiWusvzSOM4bka58GOZDY4/s1600-h/Mrb2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-NoBDX2o-S8uarQgRy28hShEF8ZWK7CxW0sW8LIY0QV3-WeeGBrB10ytdzgBefmdKPJ9pJepkdQ-hx8vWRcegpdWwnAhmFo0r30Jqje4I-ldWkKbd8MysgyiWusvzSOM4bka58GOZDY4/s320/Mrb2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315702367011529378" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The unofficial "look good in a wife-beater" competition:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnf6k0wu7cgtXOblasweYECzOAldC5Pu6nLoObyQIWaVv10rHSjGTQOcu4VW9D1We1nevmTGEtz1B034zFZyPtAzgCtvgTnISloyUqQvRWxcuu0JWB6Lcc4ut8Jf6b-foxmFJPb-Tdz0/s1600-h/P1200167L.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnf6k0wu7cgtXOblasweYECzOAldC5Pu6nLoObyQIWaVv10rHSjGTQOcu4VW9D1We1nevmTGEtz1B034zFZyPtAzgCtvgTnISloyUqQvRWxcuu0JWB6Lcc4ut8Jf6b-foxmFJPb-Tdz0/s320/P1200167L.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315702286034409042" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Scene from "Basketball"...or was it "Soccer"?</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0EK5SSotPCrLE8Jsd9mnDDPQXQXQz8cmI3HKyTLRKOciuZn9wAKyItakpQ6jF_cieEfc-1lPbt3rs_TqHHWAVqoGkKBVTU1qTQsSJ8-8RaqhyDK_zQAAD3cRVWczfZFzdhRwHxe9Gvk/s1600-h/P1200184.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0EK5SSotPCrLE8Jsd9mnDDPQXQXQz8cmI3HKyTLRKOciuZn9wAKyItakpQ6jF_cieEfc-1lPbt3rs_TqHHWAVqoGkKBVTU1qTQsSJ8-8RaqhyDK_zQAAD3cRVWczfZFzdhRwHxe9Gvk/s320/P1200184.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315702285735600418" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The night ended without a winner being named – apparently this was only the first phase “introduction” of the candidates, and a second phase selection process happens later. Way to keep us in suspense, Mr. Benguela 2009 organizers! We enjoyed the aforementioned dinner with some quality champagne-like product that proudly advertised itself as “naturally lively white” and called it a night shortly thereafter. All in all not bad for a random Thursday night’s entertainment…<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">An "essence of champagne" beverage thoughtfully provided by the event sponsors:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPmCceHoUdr0nG-nLEWjd6g6IAXae85GjzYBfEgxRF6T-S4GQUgwalGxwwxo3d_dBcOxUI3C_OssLfH5iZ0g-Qt9Wu-JYBMfqLD5iiPyq_nryFBJEAT0kh9oO_q37k94KJ9ZNZvDhONQ8/s1600-h/P1200197.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPmCceHoUdr0nG-nLEWjd6g6IAXae85GjzYBfEgxRF6T-S4GQUgwalGxwwxo3d_dBcOxUI3C_OssLfH5iZ0g-Qt9Wu-JYBMfqLD5iiPyq_nryFBJEAT0kh9oO_q37k94KJ9ZNZvDhONQ8/s320/P1200197.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315702270406349810" border="0" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-38861604832628007642009-03-14T14:54:00.010+01:002009-03-14T15:37:35.324+01:00Spin the Wheel o' HolidaysI think I’m getting a taste of what it might be like to be a federal employee back home. Since New Year’s Day we’ve had four public holidays here, with four more on the calendar before the end of May. That definitely beats the New Year’s – to Memorial Day holiday drought that I’m used to.<br /><br />A brief summary of the Angolan holiday calendar to date:<br /><br />5 JANUARY: MARTYR’S DAY<br />I have no idea what martyr-related event this is supposed to comemorate, but I appreciated the chance it offered to rest after a stressful trip back to the country after spending New Year’s in Cape Town (blog post about that pending, but I haven’t had a connection strong enough to post the accompanying video).<br /><br /><br />4 FEBRUARY: START OF THE ARMED STRUGGLE DAY<br />Somebody needs to come up with a shorter name for this holiday, which comemorates the start of the Angolan independence movement in 1967. Or something like that. The holiday seemed to parallel the American 4th of July, which brought back some hazy memory of my social studies teacher saying that revolutions usually starting in the summer (don’t tell the Bolsheviks).<br /><br />Anyway, it was one of those random middle-of-the-week Wednesday holidays that seem sort of clunky. In a way it forces you just to relax though, and I took an invitation to spend the day at the beach with some new friends from the gym. The day was relaxing, even though the refreshments my friends brought left something to be desired (canned processed meat was a little too abundant).<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Making new friends at the beach:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYAjkhVt7MPt-VWBrwARoOov5JmQyvVj_Nn-WLKE6_8paDXgzfHSngjZyrClaYAfexxklI75Po0DN5eNXykiYL7RVkITnENfyDfZM0yI2cjzr3wpLOGCzPnuR1qOiF7UrF25I9mAe1k9E/s1600-h/P1190637.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYAjkhVt7MPt-VWBrwARoOov5JmQyvVj_Nn-WLKE6_8paDXgzfHSngjZyrClaYAfexxklI75Po0DN5eNXykiYL7RVkITnENfyDfZM0yI2cjzr3wpLOGCzPnuR1qOiF7UrF25I9mAe1k9E/s320/P1190637.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313042795307915026" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Here's to the end of the armed struggle:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8IVFGp76MfJsKSPd8F_ebu6hdM2RuACkbs3eHorz-rU-Ix_ABEC2O6plkOFgGLLprjfM0rRc10pP7dclH4xSAcEQisv_vtCCE9WwK13zZ3Oq6Yhje3pTfQsEgnwbMK_7EfjCiInKDhuo/s1600-h/P1190633.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8IVFGp76MfJsKSPd8F_ebu6hdM2RuACkbs3eHorz-rU-Ix_ABEC2O6plkOFgGLLprjfM0rRc10pP7dclH4xSAcEQisv_vtCCE9WwK13zZ3Oq6Yhje3pTfQsEgnwbMK_7EfjCiInKDhuo/s320/P1190633.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313042779147110322" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />24 FEBRUARY: CARNAVAL<br />After reading a description in the Lonely Planet guide about Angolans parading around with semi-dead cats to celebrate Carnaval I had some pretty high expectations for this holiday. To my surprise it turned out to be not much of a big deal, especially in Benguela, which swaps holding a parade with its sister city Lobito, 30 km to the north. This was Lobito’s year, so when I left the house with camera in hand all I found were some kids from Benguela boarding a bus heading north. I spent the day reading in the park instead, enjoying the shade and cool sea breeze while trying to avoid getting pecked by a persistent rooster. All things considered not a bad way to spend a holiday, if a little less festive than one might expect for a day associated with revelry. In fact things got even better when I met up with a friend to share a carbonated malt beverage and a huge plate of freshly prepared french fries while watching the parade in Luanda on television at an outdoor bar.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Who could resist reading and/or playing with chickens in a park like this:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPdLXl4apWFyO3Ts5DaW5MCba5JkfxiqbiXXmELwF_satqK8DM1ymV39YJLFaI6YavM_4t7vEMwjNKiiiCOWot9fzW6z39r9xf3xqwEovBwxblEudBmowCAx63UySbqilZrpxSMkngQg/s1600-h/P1200049.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPdLXl4apWFyO3Ts5DaW5MCba5JkfxiqbiXXmELwF_satqK8DM1ymV39YJLFaI6YavM_4t7vEMwjNKiiiCOWot9fzW6z39r9xf3xqwEovBwxblEudBmowCAx63UySbqilZrpxSMkngQg/s320/P1200049.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313051134958834466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Watching the events in Luanda in comfort and style:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlt9mFIJ_9Z7OlZgQyy7dn9TeE42OyOJoWTG5CifSYlJ40761Wgm30nvqY_39-HVYsAD0M8TkYWO4MNK4E9SBj03C-CWqm_-azt-Dzr9P5fFlhHuKcws9743Fb7-XcLI2LHV373Y5oB4/s1600-h/P1200070.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlt9mFIJ_9Z7OlZgQyy7dn9TeE42OyOJoWTG5CifSYlJ40761Wgm30nvqY_39-HVYsAD0M8TkYWO4MNK4E9SBj03C-CWqm_-azt-Dzr9P5fFlhHuKcws9743Fb7-XcLI2LHV373Y5oB4/s320/P1200070.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313050115370749906" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The real highlight was a 2-stage beach party held the previous night (the first stage was the prior Saturday night) in Baia Azul, about 30 minutes south of Benguela. It was a pay-one-price-all-you-can-eat-and-drink affair, and I made sure I got my fill of grilled chicken and red bull in between attempts at dancing. The locals took the costume aspect of the party to heart, with results ranging from entertaining (sexy nuns seemed to be a popular choice) to disturbing (adult diapers entered the picture at one point). It was the best party I had been to in a very long time.<br /><br />PS: Don’t believe the Lonely Planet comment about Angolans parading semi-dead cats around Luanda. An Angolan friend debunked that story, so there you have it.<br /><br /><br />8 MARCH: INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY<br />This was observed here this past Monday, which made for a 3-day weekend and a perfect excuse to take a trip somewhere. I hitched a ride with some coworkers to Lubango, about a 7-hour trip south of Benguela in a region much cooler and more lush than anything I have yet experienced in Angola. It was nothing short of friggin’ awesome and deserves it’s own blog entry, so stay tuned for more details. For now I’ll just say I’m glad the regional bus lines offer separate compartments for humans and live fowl.Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-64170030204440855902009-02-28T16:25:00.008+01:002009-02-28T17:20:45.776+01:00Dia dos Namorados<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPnrtxhqsRDYpv6CGxZnLf6tvgUM0G63-YdYkQ6-d4qt6CUVGJQ_fKCsPXjbEX3AHwrwefGv5Yd3GhwD8a-vnntJQwic-9tTgiqAqaq3KZeZ6-20kO9xVRGluTqRZ5hOBCfi55pqCha8/s1600-h/TheatreSignCrop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPnrtxhqsRDYpv6CGxZnLf6tvgUM0G63-YdYkQ6-d4qt6CUVGJQ_fKCsPXjbEX3AHwrwefGv5Yd3GhwD8a-vnntJQwic-9tTgiqAqaq3KZeZ6-20kO9xVRGluTqRZ5hOBCfi55pqCha8/s320/TheatreSignCrop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307879236307417458" border="0" /></a>I had a feeling it was going to be a good night when I was sitting at the beachfront bar watching Fedde Le Grand videos projected on the big screen (“Put Your Hands Up For Detroit” had taken on a new meaning recently after I discovered a South African brand of refreshing vodka beverage called “Detroit Dash” at a local bar, but I digress already). It was Valentine’s Day, after all, and to my surprise it is celebrated seriously in Angola, where it is known as “Dia dos Namorados.” Streetside vendors were hawking stuffed animals and flowers everywhere, and I had tickets to a play at the same cinema where I had been the solo customer to see a movie a few weeks prior. This time I knew I wouldn’t be alone though – I had a date with an American friend in town from Luanda and was excited to share the wonders of Benguela’s cultural offerings.<br /><br />The theatre was decorated with roses fastened to the seats lining the aisles, and rose petals littered the seating area floor. Chalk outlines of hearts and other symbols of the day added to the décor. After taking bets with my date about when the show would actually start (only about 50 minutes after the posted start time), we were startled by a ruckus at the back of the theatre – apparently this troupe liked dramatic entrances. It took all of about two minutes for the first character to die from a stray bullet, but the character did live long enough to grace the audience with an incomprehensible soliloquy before expiring, which was sort of a classy way to go.<br /><br />The rest of the play featured poor lighting and bad sound projection, to the point that the Angolan audience was shouting “speak up” and “turn on the lights” periodically. While there were some technical problems, there were also some pretty awesome moments, like when one of the main characters became possessed by a witch doctor in a dramatic scene involving red floor lights and dry ice smoke. Even more dramatic was a subsequent scene when the same character was exorcised by a charismatic preacher and turned into a chicken. A live chicken. Looking back, the preacher waving around the chicken as proof as God’s glory was probably the highlight and worth the price of admission alone (for those keeping track of the Angolan live entertainment industry said price of admission was Akz 1,500 or $20).<br /><br />It was the best Valentine’s Day I can remember.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Pre-Light Dimming Look at Stage:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfq09zpoxaoT7goflxsqpY5lhZ3DiyK87les9QxERH979LL1l9HQD6_nDty-XuQFhj_7FYM-SVOw1v1H6ko1VLPDCIn10wN2DBcGg6-rIloXH2ty-f-nAZdaQ0W5FfjjD4WfETWMfyizU/s1600-h/Theatre1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfq09zpoxaoT7goflxsqpY5lhZ3DiyK87les9QxERH979LL1l9HQD6_nDty-XuQFhj_7FYM-SVOw1v1H6ko1VLPDCIn10wN2DBcGg6-rIloXH2ty-f-nAZdaQ0W5FfjjD4WfETWMfyizU/s320/Theatre1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307881601001504098" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />The crowd at the posted starting time (it filled up much more eventually):</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1F8xyORWSDaSMQObBkqSs_jfO6ASAwQj-ofDT26zCgk-_WcdW3sDCSvdDATlnvYWB4a192AL9MeMLHm6aUXujPAB9ru2ExHJBdOx2Mfnkb0wxFyVbj05cLJFMcPjkuKHP-u1dxkCdsWg/s1600-h/Theatre2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1F8xyORWSDaSMQObBkqSs_jfO6ASAwQj-ofDT26zCgk-_WcdW3sDCSvdDATlnvYWB4a192AL9MeMLHm6aUXujPAB9ru2ExHJBdOx2Mfnkb0wxFyVbj05cLJFMcPjkuKHP-u1dxkCdsWg/s320/Theatre2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307881991809994978" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Gene Kelly greets you on the way out (have you seen Xanadu? Run, don't walk):</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcPYFUGs8ztoqrRqIkMXk-5QPT-chyphenhyphenSkKdDYIzdsgLodKBSh-sJ_vSbkIkYAbNvLP-ydB5ITb8NJNmjoFWllVB4AvygDn2_eOpHaeIrfc-j6HLXnDJbrQW5qDeAwhoVdxvG6jRqg3qnf8/s1600-h/Theatre3.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcPYFUGs8ztoqrRqIkMXk-5QPT-chyphenhyphenSkKdDYIzdsgLodKBSh-sJ_vSbkIkYAbNvLP-ydB5ITb8NJNmjoFWllVB4AvygDn2_eOpHaeIrfc-j6HLXnDJbrQW5qDeAwhoVdxvG6jRqg3qnf8/s320/Theatre3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307882469010154178" border="0" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-35756680224398562562009-02-21T13:27:00.018+01:002009-02-21T14:12:40.407+01:00Angolan Cuisine: A PrimerA lot of people have been asking about the food here. The short answer might be a little disappointing, because grilled chicken with rice and french fries is a pretty staple lunch here, and that’s just not very exotic now, is it? There’s also no exotic game meat compared to what you might see on the menu in other southern African countries (sorry, kudu lovers). Steak and fish round out the main protein sources, as well as canned beans, corn, and peas imported from either Portugal or South Africa.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Typical self-prepared meal (rice, canned beans and corn, and ground beef, with mangoes for dessert and "30 Rock" DVD for entertainment):</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCn1fTSWxqk7WXjSB2lhIlU3qQMYl9A1MPJkii33KPP8JdNl7Sk3MKIFxWNRaj7JAfPzOgNFqeGplP9SySYHmOF1FaHGhDVROCptm6In2au9MxaCvpCYF04eHPFnrGAVbn2oXvgUBumQ/s1600-h/BGAMeal.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCn1fTSWxqk7WXjSB2lhIlU3qQMYl9A1MPJkii33KPP8JdNl7Sk3MKIFxWNRaj7JAfPzOgNFqeGplP9SySYHmOF1FaHGhDVROCptm6In2au9MxaCvpCYF04eHPFnrGAVbn2oXvgUBumQ/s320/BGAMeal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305235082621880290" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Like anywhere though, there are a few local specialties that might raise an eyebrow, so I’ll summarize these along with a few notes on how food is different here, after all.<br /><br />SUMMARY OF SOME ANGOLAN FOODS<br /><br />FUNGE<br />Made with either corn flour or manioc flour, this is the most common Angolan comfort food. It’s basically a white-ish pasty substance, at times gelatinous, and nearly always flavorless (at least when I’ve tried it). Some Angolan friends insist it does have a flavor, but I think that’s pride talking. Think of mashed potatoes meets homemade glue, minus the potato flavor. Hungry yet?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Manioc (cassava) flour drying:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNK2ThW6AmJMzyAITIp3jYF_GvzlV_TeO6YHVjAsroKdmB0YFH0qil52xcFgunXIeFEEf9YZdjhG9ODg2XOF9xrtjtEBnhWVsjRFmsEz6BX_g77k6ecFN5Z343BpA4VJj_F4WQCIqS33g/s1600-h/ManiocDrying.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNK2ThW6AmJMzyAITIp3jYF_GvzlV_TeO6YHVjAsroKdmB0YFH0qil52xcFgunXIeFEEf9YZdjhG9ODg2XOF9xrtjtEBnhWVsjRFmsEz6BX_g77k6ecFN5Z343BpA4VJj_F4WQCIqS33g/s320/ManiocDrying.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305231364038801586" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The final product (www.pbase.com/arodri3/ image/59692522):</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMEZJaNRyI1nRLLdSC1NtY77_ghlmBVEIX3VNldtkiHZHqywxIbgiMF0EHKikJp98CjZGjQf05MOpU9SVTx6Snz53Onhwy4JA7LDFVE9AvIZhBIv9s2i0uoXcOY0FJ_JkpXyfoVIv5GpA/s1600-h/Funge.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMEZJaNRyI1nRLLdSC1NtY77_ghlmBVEIX3VNldtkiHZHqywxIbgiMF0EHKikJp98CjZGjQf05MOpU9SVTx6Snz53Onhwy4JA7LDFVE9AvIZhBIv9s2i0uoXcOY0FJ_JkpXyfoVIv5GpA/s320/Funge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305227433865352962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />KISANGUA<br />Fermented corn beverage, low alcohol content. Thirsty yet?<br /><br />BAOBAB POD SOUP<br />I haven’t tried this, but hear it’s done. Even my Angolan colleague admits it's not her favorite food…<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The trees:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUlgrM_wFacz17itGLriws07UTI_Czo-7fr-2BsQ1X5rq1c-YBifSVENeGm2dwtMEofAWEfm-jJVEH6n5YP-Ovc0berG15xfSNfmPIN-WwDm_Y_N9BuvoCSpEtdb3-am6LCTebXlBLVxA/s1600-h/Baobabs.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUlgrM_wFacz17itGLriws07UTI_Czo-7fr-2BsQ1X5rq1c-YBifSVENeGm2dwtMEofAWEfm-jJVEH6n5YP-Ovc0berG15xfSNfmPIN-WwDm_Y_N9BuvoCSpEtdb3-am6LCTebXlBLVxA/s320/Baobabs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305232283366879026" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The pods:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVuLD7CLS3A1hV67CqqLyti0k5DtNHFMkzHxYvLHQ9IsIs2FhriatwLUHgHELzeJ_uFq35uDB-tZiH1g3aiHmZSii_DO-4ZHzrREJSjGzjs260vLc2Lnjud1pbbCCvNpZRxB0LkB-yWqI/s1600-h/Baobab+Pod.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVuLD7CLS3A1hV67CqqLyti0k5DtNHFMkzHxYvLHQ9IsIs2FhriatwLUHgHELzeJ_uFq35uDB-tZiH1g3aiHmZSii_DO-4ZHzrREJSjGzjs260vLc2Lnjud1pbbCCvNpZRxB0LkB-yWqI/s320/Baobab+Pod.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305231897200061794" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />BEANS IN PALM OIL<br />Heavy texture, also found in cuisine of the Brazilian Northeast (it's called dindê oil there).<br /><br />DRIED, SALTY FISH<br />Grouper (garopa) is the ubiquitous main catch, and cod (bacalhau) is popular too. You see the salty stuff in roadside stalls and in the supermarkets. I’ve yet to try it but will give it a shot one of these days.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Take your pick!</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLjzTzJOVviWH4EszD_PvVyqFiSbcU8EnS6dFFEuG_iS7aToahXGhsrt0aQuFlUYzWH0HEvYWFKJUhexOV7HB2oEZqxgvXKKM9XbsdXPJwEavfRM8-roEQsKLYhmDlRhgwrA8fVC5CKYU/s1600-h/DriedFish.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLjzTzJOVviWH4EszD_PvVyqFiSbcU8EnS6dFFEuG_iS7aToahXGhsrt0aQuFlUYzWH0HEvYWFKJUhexOV7HB2oEZqxgvXKKM9XbsdXPJwEavfRM8-roEQsKLYhmDlRhgwrA8fVC5CKYU/s320/DriedFish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305235900753472802" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />SWEET STUFF: SUGARCANE, PINEAPPLE, AND MANGO<br />The cane is my least favorite of the three - it's a lot of work per calorie and although it was sweet it left my throat feeling a little scratchy. The local pineapple crop was a pleasant surprise though. I never liked pineapple back home but here it seems juicier and sweeter. As for the mangoes, they are fresh off the tree and so juicy it ought to be a crime. A clear highlight of the local culinary options. It would be my favorite if it weren’t for…<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Not so sure about the sugarcane:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcMr61q0aggczmvz6WKYKmT0hoUyRIpyYumn5i_BcXu-gHRvE3fzNi74RLFyfAwioNclgYDBLCWhgMBo2oDqDiAhafNgjdA0Fl5ozODBpjMNw5goa_PgkFN-6JaT0NW2oLJMMe9GjX4I/s1600-h/SugarCane.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcMr61q0aggczmvz6WKYKmT0hoUyRIpyYumn5i_BcXu-gHRvE3fzNi74RLFyfAwioNclgYDBLCWhgMBo2oDqDiAhafNgjdA0Fl5ozODBpjMNw5goa_PgkFN-6JaT0NW2oLJMMe9GjX4I/s320/SugarCane.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305235612803971538" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The pineapple comes to you:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQGEWKRlw-O3xWuoNgLfsmDPhkIMP3SWhRd9184K4d5s6MBbf4GZs9Nr2UU-oPutdJcSz2Kj29lnGeA1GDYT_JyHdJIEd23JLkCQrjyQs4V7iUD5I9aZChsRbIbGCkZMHruE9XdcR5K4/s1600-h/PineappleHeadLady.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQGEWKRlw-O3xWuoNgLfsmDPhkIMP3SWhRd9184K4d5s6MBbf4GZs9Nr2UU-oPutdJcSz2Kj29lnGeA1GDYT_JyHdJIEd23JLkCQrjyQs4V7iUD5I9aZChsRbIbGCkZMHruE9XdcR5K4/s320/PineappleHeadLady.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305235372722067186" border="0" /></a><br /><br />GINDUNGO<br />The best aspect of Angolan cuisine, bar none. It’s the local hot sauce, usualy homemade, that gets better over time and can really pack a punch. With this stuff even funge might be palatable. Maybe.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Bonus Photo: TAP Air Portugal meal on the flight from Lisbon prompting my traveling colleague to comment "that looks like something I would actually make":</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOK9Q5lFGeF0rEHWoVcw-rp39-R62u0aCTMyDGyNfM3LHtq8rWT3XXAnndCaDpPAZgqlEYjvGInlBbNCNVmsDxHKRpzehYu6082RvyJw_gjxKFH9eyFE8jPaqeTnsg1iotK7Cgw6vs3Kk/s1600-h/P1140858.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOK9Q5lFGeF0rEHWoVcw-rp39-R62u0aCTMyDGyNfM3LHtq8rWT3XXAnndCaDpPAZgqlEYjvGInlBbNCNVmsDxHKRpzehYu6082RvyJw_gjxKFH9eyFE8jPaqeTnsg1iotK7Cgw6vs3Kk/s320/P1140858.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305227665140699474" border="0" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-78175079411369578592009-01-31T16:55:00.005+01:002009-01-31T17:16:37.303+01:00An evening at the, um, "movies"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhHZLpirqFEPrEYJcVPvpbHv4wuZBNnuUoNtnMqaAXlJXonILpvJMlQ7I-CJw1sqgyxBvAGjV-jTaQyP0hhCYE4WFohwF9gdcm3stgi0DN9kKD64oBPzQEFrNIt5PAtdUfNZvhcjgw8UA/s1600-h/BGACinema.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhHZLpirqFEPrEYJcVPvpbHv4wuZBNnuUoNtnMqaAXlJXonILpvJMlQ7I-CJw1sqgyxBvAGjV-jTaQyP0hhCYE4WFohwF9gdcm3stgi0DN9kKD64oBPzQEFrNIt5PAtdUfNZvhcjgw8UA/s320/BGACinema.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297488605506650354" border="0" /></a>I was excited. This was my second weekend in Benguela and since the first consisted largely of seeking refuge from the afternoon heat in the house, I was determined to be more social. I don’t know many people here yet, so I spend a lot of time alone on the weekends. I also don’t have transportation, so my travels are limited to where my feet feel like taking me. In order to break the ennui, I decided on Saturday that my feet would take me to the beachside bar where I could read and enjoy a caipiroska (or two) while watching the sunset. It wasn’t a bad plan, and I had fun. <br /><br />On the way there I stopped by the Cinema building to see what might be on offer, in hopes that I could extend my evening via some kind of passive entertainment. I knew that sometimes they held live plays there and about once a month they even showed movies. This was my weekend, it seemed, because they were advertising a movie that very night and the following Sunday. It was an Angolan-produced film, which only served to increase my curiosity. <br /><br />After the sunset I raced home to change clothes and head back out to the theatre. I was a little worried about showing up 10 minutes late, but when I got there it turns out they decided not to show the film that night. “Tomorrow” was the answer I got from the only two people I could find near the entrance to the theatre. So much for my Saturday night at the movies…<br /><br />Sunday was a new day and I was not about to give up on my quest to see this month’s movie event. I showed up at about 10 minutes before the advertised time of 6:40pm and was told they weren’t selling tickets yet, so I just sat on the steps and waited. Around 6:45pm they let me buy a ticket (1000 AKz, or $13.33) and I stepped inside the cavernous two-level 2,000 seat theatre. I should have known I was in for something outside the normal movie-going experience when I asked to use the bathroom before the show and was led to a side room with a quarter inch of standing water. I tiptoed into a stall and raised the toilet seat, at which time the compartment above the toilet that holds the water fell off the wall. There wasn’t any water in it thankfully (apparently it had found its way to the floor already), and I race tip-toed outta there as quickly as possible.<br /><br />Back in the cavern I picked a seat about 4 rows back from the front and sat down in anticipation of the show. Some disco music was playing in the side speakers lending a festive atmosphere, but I looked around and noticed that I was completely alone, surrounded by 1,999 empty seats. Around 7:15pm the show finally started, apparently just for me. And the army of mosquitos surrounding me. I took to slapping them as best I could but it was a fool’s effort, and lucky for me the mosquito parade lasted the entire show. Did I mention there was no air conditioning and the temperature in the theatre was a balmy few degrees hotter than it was outside? Good times for all.<br /><br />The film (oh, right! I came to see a movie!) was called “Dimo and the Home for Boys” and I braced myself for some serious content when the film was dedicated to abused children during the opening credits. The movie opened with the story of a young boy that preferred art to fishing, which apparently was problem enough for his father to try to kill him first by drowning him and then by chasing him out of town with a machete. <br /><br />At this point in the plot the power cut out, and I was sitting alone in the cave unable to see anything. The lights came back on after a minute, but the outage required the viewing audience (i.e. me) to re-watch the first 20 minutes of the horribly depressing plot (apparently advancing the DVD to the place where we left off was too difficult). <br /><br />Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse the two technical employees that had previously been running the show from the balcony decided to sit and watch the movie from below. Proving Murphy’s Law infallable, they chose to sit directly across the aisle from me, and proceeded to talk through the entire movie. I got up and moved to the front row to focus on the show. <br /><br />The rest of the plot involved Dimo (the kid with the infanticidal father) getting picked up by a truck driver who takes him to Luanda. While there, Dimo lives at a home for abandoned kids and eventually his talent as an artist is discovered. His father chases him to Luanda and, upon realizing how others appreciate his son’s talent, asks forgiveness and reconciles with the young boy. At least it had a happy ending. I walked home. <br /><br />Can't wait for next month's show!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Proof of Purchase:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVw2tbl8qrZMX7Tmr_g0Ib0IXlV4dBN60ZPzIbbT3anvAxyLbElQES-zaC2JWtPsgMWSGAcvcXsvdb6M-hBEdJjiZw102abtwpUJn3kymKDKDRVSvd37A6JkzZEh06SD-8_l7__4GasSE/s1600-h/CropMovieTicket.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVw2tbl8qrZMX7Tmr_g0Ib0IXlV4dBN60ZPzIbbT3anvAxyLbElQES-zaC2JWtPsgMWSGAcvcXsvdb6M-hBEdJjiZw102abtwpUJn3kymKDKDRVSvd37A6JkzZEh06SD-8_l7__4GasSE/s320/CropMovieTicket.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297488888533436818" border="0" /></a>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7034933349211826749.post-40364239808649094672009-01-23T22:30:00.000+01:002009-01-24T09:38:04.616+01:00Cockroach Comeuppance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkcckTMZEB4RytVxReKH_99KSqWTXP3xNwdSbo3EsPknKz-RxwVFGpusv91yVSnvkukt8Fz112acmLsEo0Y1UBPGK1bkGvbtGf40fPFRMU4CM-2F8uOMSlncrdat1yiQVNembxTKg2Bio/s1600-h/P1170958.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkcckTMZEB4RytVxReKH_99KSqWTXP3xNwdSbo3EsPknKz-RxwVFGpusv91yVSnvkukt8Fz112acmLsEo0Y1UBPGK1bkGvbtGf40fPFRMU4CM-2F8uOMSlncrdat1yiQVNembxTKg2Bio/s320/P1170958.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294775735454253682" border="0" /></a>Benguela is a tropical climate and it’s not a huge surprise that when the lights go out a secret kingdom of giant cockroaches emerges in the kitchen at the house here. There is no plumbing under the kitchen sink so water and food particles just fall to the concrete floor below (seriously) which leaves a nice smorgasboard for the critters (in addition to creating a nice rain-like sound effect). I’ve tried to inspire a conversation about serious fumigation efforts, but since that involves buying something and since my organization doesn’t have any money I’m resolved to just live with the critters for now. I’ve gotten pretty good at stomping on them (after the initial shock of their sheer size wore off), which isn’t easy as they can sense the arrival of the bottom of my shoe and scurry around in erratic patterns to make it difficult. That just makes it all the more satisfying when I do nab one, and I’ve started to keep a tally just for kicks. I’m up to 8 so far this week.<br /><br />More impressive are the cockroach population control tactics of a certain species of lizard that also inhabits the kitchen. The Portuguese name for this animal is the “jacaré da parede”, or, literally, “crocodile of the wall”. They are gecko-ish white animals that blend in to the wall and move suddenly, which usually makes your heart stop for second before you realize what’s happening. I was hoping these animals had an appetite for cockroach, and one Sunday afternoon I came home to proof that my wishes had been granted. I have no idea how this particular gecko managed to catch this particular cockroach, but I arrived in time to watch the feast. I have a feeling Mr. Gecko didn’t need to eat for awhile after digesting this meal, but I hope he’s hungry again soon and brings his hungry gecko family with him. It was a cheap thrill but hey…you take your entertainment however you can get it here. Enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyO43zqrEeuRRkZvVR_vhw1SIS0vL2KwYMzUFRheE4kBdFNje-WWp_Osi889jv3qi31dKSBrUyoRlS2GtCTfw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Peripatetic Lifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05160546299298510757noreply@blogger.com3