Will you join me? – Kaolack, SENEGAL

NOTE: this rant is only one brief moment of the journey and doesn’t reflect my feelings towards Senegal, Africa, etc, but rather to show that not everyday on the road is great – sometimes things go wrong and also to show my own personal madness and being the honest egg that I am I have included it here …

Here I am enjoying yet again the ambience of another grotty, overpriced hotel room bombarded by traffic from the front and bleeping goats from the back. Non-stop is the noise. Scooters, trucks, taxi, all battered and some really banged up and most bleeching smoke and horns. The clip clop of donkey carts the only soothing sound amid this miracle of noise and smoke.

On a main road; and if I was not here then it’s just mud and puddle, trash and stench and broken sewers, swarms of demented flies and street junk amid people that claims to be the route typical of this town. The place is a fuckin’ mess – like so much of the modern urban world. My guidebook says it’s worth a couple to days to soak up the urban charm – like fuck, more like inhale the hell of filth and hopelessness; having seen a huge chunk of the world I can said that is just another shit-hole equal in elegance to any fucked mess in India or Africa or elsewhere.

Unlike other towns in Senegal - like the mega-friendly holy city of Touba - here the people barely notice you: the lone white face; they seem happy to sleep or sit by the side of the road bored as fuck, watching another day pass.

I mean, as I entered the town I saw a completely naked black man standing in the street with a large limp penis and nobody even looked at him !!! – so what chance do I stand? I swear: I felt black, anonymous. I wonder would nakedness have worked for me? Maybe if I was juggling an elephant – maybe 7 elephants, then all eyes would’ve said - Hi white man. 

I chose this cheap hotel cos there was little choice … and at $17 you could do worse – like last night – but here the prices are largely for doubles and thus as I travel solo I could travel cheaper as two: anyone care to join me in a tour of West Africa’s worse hotels? I didn’t think so; so long, MRP, ya sucker.

The bottom line is this: French West Africa is overpriced, uses a currency called the CFA, supported by France, that makes the country for a backpacker often close to European prices at mucher lower standards …

This $20 room here will cost you $5 – 7 in SE Asia; and it will have a fan – it’s hot and humid, a very simple bathroom attached, maybe … or usually a shared squat bog where the other guests are so lazy as not to flush it but leave turds for the next to disperse. Off course, constant noise is included in the price. And for sure – mosquitoes and flies past as the local wildlife (but one look out the window at the traffic will verify much more wild-life as scooters zip and weave endlessly and if your wondering why I’m not describing the scenes outside it’s cos I’ve chained and padlocked the balcony doors close as they don’t lock and the “closed” door now offers a little noise reduction; otherwise you could swear I’m sleeping on the street). Often the water stops when you most want a shower – luckily a bucket of water can be found by the management. So far in Senegal there have been no power outages …

Coming from orderly and clean (sometimes dirty-air) Seoul – Korea recently, it had taken a while to get used to urban Africa again, and I’d forgotten how smelly, wretched and filthy African urban centers can be – mostly the sprawling chaotic suburbs but Mauritania takes all the awards including highest rubbish mounds in streets and more wrecked cars than street lamps awards … But don’t get me wrong: I love Africa.

This is my third time here, and remember I come from New Zealand and so the crap that I spew here now about the state around me is the truth of this small moment: the price I pay to travel, to get local, to see and experience urban Africa as it really is; besides I can’t afford $50 – 100 rooms to lock myself away. This is it; take it, inhale deeply, glad to be here! Will you join me?

Hours later, after a siesta & a meal in a fly-blown bar – fuckers on my face, in my beer – with kitsch painted pics of hip boys and hot chicks, of tribal bare-breasts in jungle and a true African hunting his dinner, I ate chicken shwarma that has now forced itself out prematurely … another rush to the loo and hell, this one tasted so good, well, obviously not that great, that I ate another for dinner at the same place, and had a few of beers.

I get home to this room along the dusty, dirty, hectic streets and a few people finally notice that I’m juggling elephants and say, Hi white man. Bonjour, Cava?

Inside my festering suite I undress before the sweats hit in and enter the bathroom to slip savagely on the floor coming cracking down on elbow and ribs and think fuck, I’m okay, what a fall, ouch; lucky I’ve had a few beers to ease the fall. The fall in a puddle without drain; the room a humid, relentless squeal and shit I think maybe it would been best to stay longer at the bar … the hooker in the wheelchair was cute - and she waved to me: will you join me?

                                                                          *

PS: One week later: Have to say that Senegal has been really great but that my ribs still hurt from the fall to the floor and yes, the electricity went down that night I wrote, with a massive thunderstorm – but anyway I’m now staying in a nice hotel – very nice for $30, to use their in-room internet to upload this story, to have A/C, a real bathroom with hot water and towels!, a good bed and much needed sleep. But mostly I’ve waited out the weekend here in Ziguinchor cos the fuckin’ ATM ate my Visa card yesterday morning and I have to wait til Monday to see if I can retrieve it …

The ups and downs of travel are endless fun … the perfect honeymoon: will you join me?

VIDEO: crazy old woman – Morocco

Crazy old woman - Morocco, 2007

I was relaxing on my bed in a family guesthouse - smoking hash & drinking red wine - in the historic old town of Essaoiura on the Atlantic coast of Morocco when the shouting from below my window caused me to witness this …

MOROCCO – Confessions of a traveling vegetable #1

 

old fortress town of Essaouira  

Am sitting here with aspirations to be a (more) complete bum, waking up late towards midday, having an omelette, orange juice and coffee and then a beer and then lying on upon my bed, staring at the ceiling, daydreaming, drinking red wine and sucking hashish cigarettes across the afternoon and evening and wondering about everything and nothing … Been 5 days of this now – on the desert Atlantic coast in Sidi Ifni, and  really the past 3+ weeks have been this haze since arriving in Morocco; only the location has changed, as the blur has been constant.

Has taken a bit of software-reprogramming jumping straight into Morocco since leaving my comfortable, easy, dull existence as an English teacher in Korea, and the only continuum is large consumption of alcohol … mostly to enhance the enjoyment of my new life situation and recently partly cos I’m having writer’s block, or simply I can’t be fucked writing. I start a paragraph, a story with good intentions to blog and within 10 minutes it’s like: Why bother? You really wanna read this shit … ?

Anyway, if you’re still reading coming to the mess, bustle, heat, madness that is Morocco couldn’t be different from the calm, orderly, cyber-tech city of Seoul but I knew what I was in for as I was here in 1991 and experienced much beauty and chaos. Now the experience is quieter, away from the north, the tourist centers, the touts, the carpet sellers, the-Hey-mister, friend-need-something?

What I really needed when I arrived was to fuck … but before that happened I spend a week alone, smoking hash in a traditional room of a family town house in Essaouira, my window overlooking the main market thoroughfare across the old walled, coastal fortress town. All I did was eat grilled meat with salad taken back to my room, and stared out the window, drinking beer & red, and smoking up the whole week wondering where I was? Where I’d been? Where am I going next? I was the prefect zombie – mute, relaxed and not attacking anyone – but I’m sure the locals thought me insane: sitting at his window for 7 days, staring at the world.

Okay, I did get out for a few hours – walked around to take some photos, used the internet, talked alittle, bought food, water, alcohol, hash. 

Yet the single craziest – they were a few – thing that happened that week from the view from my window, a few meters above the street was this that I wrote at the time:

An old veiled woman is shrieking outside on the street below, screaming at a smiling young man working within a small-scale building site. He can’t stop smirking; meantime she’s throwing stones from the pile of gravel at him, now in the direction of all the young men. It’s crazy, then over. But within minutes she has returned and now grabs a large rock and heaves it as the boys are laughing but yelling a cautious tone – maybe:  careful, careful, no, easy lady – as she spits venom and continues the stone throwing assault as others watch as and walk by. I begin to video this scene. I saw the initial clash and it seems that something stones, sand shoveled, a loose beam narrowly missed the old woman and she I assume, said watch out, or be careful, ya trying to kill me? Off which the youth cheekily replied, what’s it matter – you’re nearly dead! Or as I imagined something to this effect as she went crazy.

And crazy she went further – she returned minutes later below my room where it stands above the covered, narrow alley, with a wine bottle and smashed it against the curb. She began throwing shards of glass at the young men; one perpetually smirking – he couldn’t keep back his grin if his life demanded it. She was eventually coaxed away by a middle-aged male … But later returned again, to throw more stones and shout.

>>> VIDEO: watch this crazy incident here

And now back in Sidi Ifni, I feel that’s enough writing … More wine and hash please, waiter.

> photos of Morocco

On a bus with the smell from hell – CHILE

Thought I’d woken to someone shitting on my face; my sleep interrupted by a fuckin – truly, fuckin’ – horrendous stench while travelling the dull bus journey back to Chile from southern Argentina.

Others – the few foreigners around me at the rear of the bus were pulling the most-ugly faces and near vomiting, truly, as I realised the smell was coming from the on-bus toilet, opposite me.

Jokes were exchanged – including the dead rat one – to the point of despair, for the smell was terrifying. One young Brit stated it was now the 6th flush of the toilet we’d heard as he struggled to open the unopenable-locked, A/C bus window as his girlfriend gagged beneath her scarf as the smell of shit absorbed our entire world. SMELL FROM HELL; never have I encountered such an evil sensory commotion.

Absolute panic and disgust as a German guy punched open the roof-top vent to – as he said – “help inhalation”. Crowd anticipation mounted for the smelly fucker to exit and show himself … come on ya cunt … Die … then it happened. And we burst into hysterics – exiting out of the bog was a slim, beautiful, blond Latina.

I let out a few comments that got others laughing: “Fuck, that chick’s got one dangerous arse … Man, lucky, her boyfriend’s a sensitive, caring guy”.

The bus attendant – urged by gasping passengers – entered the hazard zone – hell-of-a brave guy – and sprayed some cheap scent, on which I commented “Great, the smell of roses and shit,”.

That wasn’t enough to quell the stench. So he returned with bleach to extinguish the rotting-pig - the wafting ammonia fumes stinging our eyes and nose.

Following that nasty adventure I made it to the Torres Del Paine National Park, stunning for its horned peaks, turquoise lakes and glaciers, where finally, I could inhale deeply …

> photos of Chile

Head over the edge #1 – Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA

Was wanting to sleep but had a hot arse too close to my face  … she sleeps as the traffic rakes the street downstairs as I lust over this bottle-blond’s varnished nails, her lightly tanned neck and wrists chained in gold – maybe I’m not her first customer … maybe it’s not love, afterall.

I can remember – bits, anyway, of last night; she sucks so well – but not her name. Half a dozen beers, a bottle of red and half a litre of whisky and not even a headache now – yeah, age has blessed me with a tolerance to alcohol: getting old’s fun.

I’m 36 soon. An old cunt (or maybe, just a cunt). In a recent e-mail Mum asked me how I intended to celebrate my birthday and I had to reply nothing different: Drunk and in bed with a babe (it’s not my birthday for 2 weeks but I thought I get in shape for the event …).

Been doing a lot of soul searching these last few days. You know, age and getting old and what’s my life about shit. 

Thought it time for a change … Surprise. I’ve found Jesus – thought I read the bible this evening – yeah right; or maybe I’ll marry this bleeding blond – intense fucking bought her period on prematurely – beside me. Wrong again TV game-show losers, not you, my friends, but the glamour-hungry wankers on TV which I have with the sound down; yeah, I’ve finally found the meaning to life: to CONTINUE.

With that insight clarified I drink another beer on this fine non-stop afternoon… and solemnly swear, to continue to be a toxic prick addicted to sex, stimulants and wandering. MUM: a thought: maybe you should censor this for the grandparents: I feel it may get …

Check the flesh. Today -  “I shot the sun … “  yeah, right. Actually I’m hallucinating. BUT I believe I’ve been in Buenos Aires a month and have been a total slut (Do sluts pay for sex? Cos I’ve been cashing in the pesos rapidly in hope of getting automatic entry to heaven, you know, my charitable, selfless work supporting women internationally … )

Ahh, yeah … Actually all the chicks I’ve been with here have been pros. And all of them have been very loving … I remember her name now, cos she’s just left at 4.13 pm. Shayla, a some-what Arabic name. She wants to ring me … PLEASE, yeah, habitacion viente-ocho (Room 28). Before she left, like the other ladies, she cleaned my room: ashtray emptied, condoms disposed from the floor, even, folding my clothes. A very inclusive service – indeed (house keeper and lover). 

I met the last lady in the same club as Shayla, she’s an exotic dancer for it’s an Arabic / Greek-theme night – sex, not disco – club. The other woman, Angelina, has left yesterday for her native Brazil and wanted to take me with her … tempted but probably would’ve been disasterous (reading my past serious relationships with loving but crazy pros: RE: Erica, Indonesia.). Both ladies are bottle-blondes with dark eyes (and shaven pubes) as was the one before these two.

I’m seeing a trend here … I usually adore dark skin and dark hair … but all the woman here are white and of Spanish or largely Italian origin. In fact BsAs is the whitest place on earth: I’ve counted four blacks, 2 dozen indigenous brown Andeans and a million whites in a month in this city of 11 million. Surely, the least colored city in the world (in the large downtown districts, anyway). 

Last week I tried to get it together by leaping from a small plane. SKY-DIVING. Tumbling, falling -and freaking, yeah, floating fast at 210km/hour for 5000 feet … parachuting the last 5000 to land fuckin’ ecstatic. Wonderful hit, but it didn’t last long. I believe I’ll take the slow, emphasis slow, ferry across the River Plate to Montevideo, Uruguay – soon, another country to kick my latest mind-less addiction.

Must leave Buenos Aires, where the prettiest – white – woman in the world reside (forget my raving about Santiago de Chile some months ago; BsAs is it. Immaculate bodies and supermodel looks – pity I land all the fat chicks – not really, anyway, Latino women are the true goddesses). Heaven help me in Rio; God save me in Colombia … (where life’s, and the powder’s too cheap and the girls too easy). Ahh, fuck it: life’s to be explored …

Went to a football – soccer – match in a huge stadium of manic supporters: I have the Latino fever; the passion.

At 36 I’ve resolved to go all out … Breasts or bust … Having not slept for days (or is that, daze) you can dismiss this ramble as shit; maybe, one day, I’ll grow up.

My 36th birthday resolution: NEVER SURRENDER (or not for another year, at least).

Love flowers & &&, &, something real sexy – MRP

PS: Maybe I should write a book titled: ‘How to Impress Whores, DESPITE Having a Beer Gut’  

Fuckin’ tourists! – Cusco, PERU

FUCKIN’ TOURISTS – I wish Bin Laden was here to lessen the pollution …!

Thought I’d start on a different note – cos not everyday am I feeling in love with the world and I don’t want to mislead you about the nature of 2lst century travel, nor of the moods of this traveller.

Often these past weeks I’ve really had to try hard to stay enthusiastic about being on the road. The nausea started in northern Bolivia and has heightened dramatically here in Cusco, Peru.

THE PROBLEM, my problem, is the masses of stupid fucks here.

I can understand the attraction of Cusco but the people it attracts are generally dull … those middle-aged package sheep who go to pretentious plaza cafes accompanied by their aloof attitudes. Or the classic American campus geek on a summer school outing, shrieking loudly and bitching about her friends.

At a series of Inca ruins yesterday I encountered some examples. There were these harmless chicks who just sat upon a mountain vista of a almighty ruin and reading novels (nothing related to S America; one was by Nick Hornby and I wondered why bother being there? After all you tend to read to be transported elsewhere).

Another harmless, gormless couple had stripped off to undies, and were sunbathing (and not a swimming pool or beach in sight).

One group of 4 English toffs passed me without acknowledging me or my greeting but later when they were fumbling about for 10 minutes trying to find the other way down from the Inca rock, a little panicked, and ‘not wanting to damage their cameras’, I pointed out the route and they suddenly turned ever so pleasant.

But what really set me on-fire was when some old American guy started screaming and waving me away with his hands: Outa my photo! I didn’t even see him – so crowded was the site: each person sharing a turn to interrupt another’s shots. Anyway, I gave him a loud - “Fuck off! You’re not the only one here, ya cunt!”

That same cunt was at the site less than 10 minutes as he was swished away within his stupid-arse tour group. And he’d have his photos and boast over some sycophantic dinner party that he’s been there, that he’s experienced Peru.

So call me a travel snob, a complete wanker or a ignorant leper, but it seems that tourism is strangling special places, rapidly depleting the world of any real travel adventure and intelligence – so get there now friends, within the next 10 years to your dream destinations. Or don’t bother (unless a war breaks out: then perfect travel, those early post-war years).

Me: I’ve suddenly been enlightened: I’ve finally realised that I’m just another dickhead like the rest of them (and even stupider, for being here during the height of the peak season). It’s all so clear now: I need a beer …

> photos of Cusco, inca sites, Peru

Being a novelty – Isiolo, KENYA

From my diary:  

Outside the local mosque I greet people with (the Arabic but universal-Islamic/Muslim greeting): Salaam Aleikum / Peace Be Upon You; to their replies: Aleikum wa Salaam / And Peace Be Upon You.

For hours many smiles and long, curious looks or exclamations in Swahili: “Jambo!” (Hello) or “Mazungo!” (white person).

Two elderly tribal women stopped and stared. Ali, an English-speaking Muslim, laughed when he heard what they said to one another: He translated what they said of me: “How can a woman have so much facial hair?!”

Two small girls, watching from some metres away, found the courage to shake my foreign hand. They soon began plaiting my hair as Ali and I continued chatting, still seated on a log in a muddy lane alongside the village mosque.
        
A young woman stopped to talk. Soon she invited us to her house. There we met Consolota’s two sisters and four young brothers. She said her family was small; some here had 20 – 24 children (polygamy is common). Consolota had recently finished high school exams and heaps of Good Luck cards were strung above this room of bare concrete floor with two tattered sofas. The shack’s mud walls painted white - cracked but decorated with Jesus and Virgin pics. Consolota apologised for their poverty.

She made us a tasty meal of fried rice and tomato with lumps of meat. Afterwards, when we were wandering back Ali said Consolota had told him in Swahili that she liked me. “She was a tough woman, from the Meru tribe” he said. “She can suck all the water” (oral sex). And he recommended that I sleep with her.

I replied “Could get too complicated; maybe she wants to marry me.” “No,” insisted Ali, “she just wants to try a white man.”
           
On the way to my (rundown) hotel-room I pass one of the staff and she greets me with “I would like to spend some time with you.” I smile and continue. Then as I unlock my cabin door she shouts across the courtyard “I am coming.”

“Are you?” I reply (with a whiff of sexual inneuendo that was lost on her). She enters my room and gazing round, smiles and informs me she’ll return …

She’s now returned, having watched me wash my hair in the basin outside. “You have lovely hair,” she says. “Can I be in your company?”

I don’t answer.

“I want to sleep with you. I love you.” It seems she learnt English from T.V soaps. She has all the one-liners. I’m stumped. I haven’t asked her but now she’s making my bed. She’s no princess, rather big, with a braided mohawk, and wearing a t-shirt which states – Jesus sets you free.

I reply “But you don’t know me,” trying to put her off, “I could be a bad man -” But no … she responds “When I first saw you, my heart jumped.”