Thursday, July 2, 2009

Taylor's Travels: NOrWAY!

I met Steffi on the street in Morocco. A beautiful Norwegian, thought she was playin’ in the majors while I rode the pine in AAA—so cute and confident. Lucky for me she was a sucker for lame jokes and Moroccan bracelets; cause we hit it off, kept in touch, and I thought, Hell, Norway’s on the way home. Sort of.

It’s Norwegian

Norway is an awesome country, and Steffi was anxious to show me everything. Like when we saw deer cross the road one evening, she was floored that I was able to witness this unique Norwegian animal (obviously the U.S is just Hummers and high rises).

Or at breakfast the first morning, when I grabbed a knife to cut some cheese (grow up), she stopped me. Wait! Wait! Wait! She zipped around the kitchen opening and slamming drawers like she was late for a flight and couldn’t find her passport.

Ooo! Here it is!


She held up a cheese slicer (don’t know what its called in English, looks like a cake server with a slit at the base you drag across the cheese).

It’s a -- Ostehøvel! It’s Norwegian.


I felt bad saying it, as she held out the slicer like it was the Holy Grail…

Uh, we have that at home.

What? !
Her heart sank.

While Steffi was a bit naïve in thinking certain things were only found in Norway (learned the phrase burst your bubble too well), she showed me more than I could have hoped to see. Fjords, moose, and reindeer—the place was all that and a side of whale.

Lights On

Steffi didn’t realize it, but all she needed to do to carve a spot for Norway in my heart was draw the blinds. Not only did mountains dip the MLB’s steroid supply and bathe in green paint, but natural light glowed 24/7 to show them off. I couldn’t’ get over it. Steffi had grown up with it, so she was over it. But at 11:30pm, cruising through Vigelandsparken park after sneaking a peak at a Neal Young concert in Oslo, I explained my fascination to her. Imagine, in my 24 years, I’ve never seen natural light at this hour. Never, it’s always been dark. And suddenly, I’m taking flashless photos of statues and it’s nearly midnight.

She began to see my point as the trip continued (not much choice, I wouldn’t shut up about it). Day trips could start at three, no worries about running out of light. Feeling bloated after a late dinner? Go for a paddle. A few times we surfed til one in the morning. As we got out of the water, people would just be showing up.

Stand Up and Get Shot Down

Most of our time was spent in Hoddevik, a small village of about 100 people that sits in the cleavage of two green mountains and hugs a white sand beach. It was there that Steffi managed a three story white house turned B&B/surf shop/playground for the budding Norwegian surf community. We spent most days playing on the grass—mastering the Indo Board and slack line, maybe some beers to test our balance even more. Or skating down the single road that ran the length of town. When there were waves, we surfed. And when there wasn’t, I was keen on trying the Stand Up Paddle board—a twelve-foot surfboard you stand on and paddle like a Venetian gondola. I’d resisted the temptation to try it back home, fearing the ridicule from friends, as SUPs are a nuisance in the line up. But what the hell? I was in Norway, thousands of miles away from judgment.

The first day I took it out, I walked awkwardly down the path with the beast on my head, Steffi right behind me.

You’re lucky you already have a girl here, cause you look so gay right now.


Thanks babe.

Lil Lessons
Strange traveling with someone though, 24/7 with one person after five months solo. I’m surprised Steffi was able to put up with me for two weeks, that she didn’t just kick me out of the car and tell me to ride a reindeer back to Oslo. We made it work though, learning about each other and ourselves along the way. She learned to be friendlier to strangers (Scandinavians are more closed off than Americans) and stress less; I learned to take photos vertically and that I shouldn’t pee with the door open. Things we’ll carry with us.


Norway was sick. Loved it. Such an unexpected detour from my Africa mission, but exactly why I love traveling, why loose itineraries allow for the greatest experiences. And the fact that I got to see one of the most expensive places in the world for less money than I spent for running a red light made it that much better.

As much as it pains me to say it, that was the end. The trip is done and I’m back home to same old same old. No clue as to the setting of my next adventure, but after less than a week back home, it can’t come soon enough.


Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Taylor's Travels: Best of South Africa

Writing a Best of South Africa blog, I feel like parents do about picking a favorite kid. How am I supposed to choose favorites when the whole trip was so lekker? But in honor of those who slyly wink and nod at their youngest after telling their brood that they love them equally (thanks dad!), I’ll have a go.

Favorite City

Cape Town gets a narrow win over Durban on this one. Anywhere that’s got mountains, waves, and wine within 50 sq. kilometers makes me want to get comfy. The maze of mountains and bays and roads made my senses spin—one of the few places where I completely lost my sense of direction. I’d drive around the corner to check the surf, decide to see what was over the hill only to be back where I started. A week driving in Cape Town and I was still saying damn it around every bend. Not a place I mind being lost though. Oh! And there were beautiful girls…everywhere.

Favorite Food
Meat Pie. The mystery of why we don’t have these in the States is up there with Stonehenge.* They’re so fricken good. Doesn’t take a genius (case in point, Australia) to figure out that putting our favorite slow cooked meats and veggies inside a hand held pastry is a winning recipe. I suggest a culinary exchange: we’ll send over our best burrito makers if they send the pies over. I’ll have a Pepper Steak, my good man.

Favorite Word

Lekker. An Afrikaans word meaning cool. Heard it used to describe everything from clothing, people, even the feeling of being inside the barrel. I can picture you now, if you’ve yet to visit SA, saying the word to yourself, LE-kk-ERR. Not so cool when we do it. Hell, I heard it every other sentence and I still couldn’t imitate it. Gotta say it quickly, out the corner of your mouth, LA-CKAr. And throw in bru after it, just for good measure. I’m not alone in loving this word. Friends who’d visited before wrote me while I was there. Dana wondered if I’d met any lekker locals or surfed any kif waves? Trevor asked if the waves had been lekker or lacking? The waves were lekker, Trev. And Dana, the locals couldn’ta been more lekker.

Favorite Saying
This came from a guard at the South Africa/Swaziland border. I’d been dropped off at night after being told by the receptionist at my destination hostel that there would be public transport at the border. I asked the guards with confidence where the bus was. They had a hearty laugh in my face and said the last one left a couple hours ago. Grab some pine kid, we’ll try and find you a ride. So I sat as they stopped each car, asking if they’d be willing to schlep a naïve American to Mbabane. They found me a ride like snap. Two actually. One was a semi-truck going all the way to my final destination, Durban. But I already accepted a ride with another car. And I reserved a spot at that hostel. I guess I didn’t’ put a deposit down. Shoot, it would save me money if I just went straight to Durban. Aaaagggh, I can’t decide!

Hey! One guard snaps me out of my mental struggle. Make up your mind, between two stools we fall on the floor.

I laughed and asked him to repeat it. He did, then explained the saying to me three times, just to make sure I’d got it. While he was proudly lecturing me on the pitfalls of indecision, the semi left.

Most Awkward Moment

Riding my host’s bike to the mall to withdraw cash to rent a car, my phone rang. I stopped on the corner (its dangerous to talk and ride, ya know?). Why hello Leslie! I’m fine, thank you. No, I can talk. Ya, Cape Town is AMAZING!

WHAAAM!

One man darts past me and I make a move to follow. Then I realize that another man running down the other street is the one who just ripped the phone off my ear. I head towards him, set on reclaiming what’s mine. But he’s halfway over the fence already and if I chase him, his homeboy will come back for the bike. What to do what to do? I got it! I’ll yell something at him. Ya, its perfect. Something so clever, so noble he’ll realize the error of his ways, lower himself from the fence, and return the phone with a heartfelt apology…

F**K YOU!

My new SA phone number is 073 986 7238.


Favorite Person

Ok, so I’m just as bad as the spineless parents who can’t get off the fence. Minus the phone bandits, South African’s treated me as family. Of the two months I spent there, I think I paid for lodging maybe seven nights. I spent the balance in the homes of friends, their friends, and strangers. People are SO hospitable down there. I could list all the legends that took me in, but lists are lame and they know who they are.


I’ll claim it: South Africa is the best country I’ve been to.



* After I wrote that I saw this on youtube, essentially solving the Stonehenge mystery. Unreal: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lRRDzFROMx0


Monday, June 22, 2009

Bungy Jump - South African Adrenaline Fix (Part Two of Two)

”How long you think its been since they’ve done maintenance on this thing?” I asked nobody in particular as I peered nervously through the grated metal catwalk towards the river below—it was like walking wet plywood, giving under the weight of each step. The English guy in front of me turned and shot me a glare, ungrateful for my attempt to lighten the mood.

The bridge we were about to jump off was the Bloukrans. It stands 216m above a Garden Route valley floor, and proudly claims to be the world’s highest bungy jump. I was in route to Cape Town after a cooking weekend of surf at Jeffery’s Bay, and my South African friends, Terrance and Miles, agreed to stop and watch.

”Don’t you want to jump?”

”Not a chance in hell.”

Funny how every local I invited gave a similar response. As I left the parking lot to brave the bridge, Terrance and Miles discussed loudly how they were going to divvy up my belongings after I went kersplat on the valley floor.

I asked to be one of the first in our group to jump, since the boys were itching to get back to Cape Town. They said I could go second and told me to sit so they could prep me for the jump. Next to the edge, the reality of what I was doing sank in. I cursed myself for not setting out a clean pair of pants in the car.

A worker approached and introduced himself as John, and asked how I was feeling.

”I’m kaking myself, John”

”Don’t worry man, we do this everyday”

He wrapped some faded padding around each leg. I eyed them skeptically, the way you would a Muslim who boasted about making a mean pulled pork sandwich. My reservations proved warranted, as the Velcro of the left padding peeled off without reason.

”Not encouraging, John”

”Oh, I don’t worry about those, bru. My concern is the rope.”

Mine too. I turned and watched the girl in front of me disappear from the diving platform. My turn.

With my pads feeling like a beltless pair of size 40 jeans, John wrapped the rope around them. He explained the knot he was tying; I feigned attention and thought through the fear of slipping through the pads.

They do this everyday. Don’t think the pads feeling loose is unique to you.

Suddenly, I’m hopping towards the ledge with support from John and his accomplice. I hang ten over the edge and look down.

”You ready?”

”Ya.”

”5”

Shit, maybe not.

”4”

What if I slip out?”

”3”

Look cool for the camera.

”2”

Oh my God oh my God oh my God!

”1”

Screw it.

”Bungy!”

I puff my chest out and throw a swan dive. Five seconds never felt so long, 120 km/hr so fast. I forget what I'm doing and become lost in the sensation of the ground rushing towards me. The wind peeling back my eye lids. Then I slow and the cord snaps me back towards reality. And the bridge. I let out a ”yyyyeeeew!” of relief that the cord worked, though I keep my feet flexed—I still feel I'm going to slip out of the pads.

As I settled into my new life under the bridge (kept an eye out for bats, bums, Anthony Keidis), a man in a red jacket and a bandanna over his face descended the rope. Before I could explain that I had left my wallet back at the car and had nothing for him (South African thieves have gone to greater lengths), he attached a new harness and up-righted me. The new position felt even more precarious than before.

”So where can I safely hold on here?” I didn’t want to accidentally clutch the emergency release or something.

”No, no need, bru. Just relax and enjoy the valley view.”

”Ok.”

I let my hands dangle, trying to relax. About as relaxed as Bush doing long division. Maybe the scariest part of the whole experience.

Back on the bridge, flying from the adrenaline, I thanked the crew and rushed back to meet the boys at the car. They congratulated me and asked how it was? Amazing, so fun, yyyyeeeeewww!

Miles handed me the camera, I could hardly wait to check the jump sequence. With visions of Olympic Platform Diving 2012 seeping into my head, I turned the camera on and scrolled backwards to review my form. The swan in my dive must have had broken wing.


Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Taylor's Travels: South African Adreneline Fix - Dungeons (Part One of Two)

I don’t know what I expected, I mean, they don’t name a surf spot “Dungeons” for its dry-haired, carefree sessions. I knew it wasn’t going to easy. But still, the place was straight raw.

You feel so small out there. Cape Town’s mountains dwarf everything around them and block the rising sun’s light (and warmth) from reaching the water. And the water is no bathtub. It has an eerie blackness to it and the temperature lingers in the low 50’s, quite unsuitable for humans, but perfect for the sea life we saw out there: bull kelp as thick as my arm, jellyfish, leaping seals (I wonder what’s chasing them?), and Sunfish (whose fins stick out of the water and make them look like…uh…the “S” word). There were also penguins, which for me lightened the mood a bit cause as far as I’m concerned, nothing can go wrong with cute little penguins cruising the lineup.

The penguin security blanket was of course to take my mind off of the larger animal I never saw but always thought of. Whitie, Johnny, the Man in the Grey Suit—I’m talking sharks. Never surfed a wave that felt so sharky. Every wave that broke whistled the Jaws tune. Every shadow was the landlord of the sea coming to collect.

Scared yet? I was. And I haven’t even gotten to the waves. Big, powerful, and unpredictable. It was like surfing a beach break with 20-30 foot faced waves detonating all around. That the wave breaks with little rhyme or reason distinguishes Dungeons from other big waves like Mavericks or Todos Santos, which break consistently in the same spot. The first time I got caught inside I felt silly (and short of breath), like I was kooking it by not reading the wave correctly. By the fifth or sixth time I realized it wasn’t just me; Dungeons has a personality all its own, and is quite obviously schizophrenic.

I was feeling fairly brave at this point, surfing at such a gnarly place. Wanna hear something funny though? With all of the uninviting stuff I just mentioned, it was unanimously agreed by the locals that, with the sun shining and little wind, the day was as inviting as Dungeons gets. Just a sec, while my ego deflates. Psshshhhhhh…

There we go.

Even with the realization that I wasn’t as cool as I thought I was, the day was still a blast. The locals helped make it so. Usually with a tight knit group of surfers, outsiders get a healthy dose of stink eye and drop-ins. Not the case at Dungeons. I guess they know the waves will keep people away, so who needs localism? Everyone paddled up to me, the sole unfamiliar face in the lineup, and introduced themselves. They welcomed me and offered advice that I was eager to accept. And like most big wave crews, there were plenty of characters among them.

When I met Frank Solomon in the dark parking lot that morning, he was noticeably hobbling around. I didn’t think much of it, I had other things to worry about. I hitched a ride out on his “rubber ducky” boat and paddled out with him. He then explained that he’d just had six stitches in his foot and it was killing him. He wasn’t about to miss opening day though, and proceeded to throw himself over the ledge of any bomb that came his way.

Then there was Andrew Marr. A bushy-faced big wave charger whose positive energy was so contagious it was almost overwhelming. We’re talking seven year old on December 25 happy. With every giant wave he (or anyone else, for that matter) caught you’d hear boisterous hooting and giggles coming from Andrew. Regarding riding big waves he said, “It just makes you feel good in your heart.” Now, I like to think of myself as a happy guy, but next to Andrew you may as well put me on suicide watch. He’s that stoked.

And as always, where you find big waves, you find Greg Long. The southern California nice guy is one of, and many would rightfully argue the, best big wave surfer in the world right now. He arrived a couple of days before the swell to spend his eighth consecutive winter in Cape Town. I flew in the day after him. He picked me up from the airport, lined up lodging, equipment, and a ride out to Dungeons, going out of his way and acting like he had nothing better to do than hold my hand through the whole process. Once in the water though, he let go of my hand. Then he paddled 30 yards deeper than me and everyone else and caught only the biggest waves that came through. It’s what he does.

We surfed for five hours. I caught seven waves, got spanked on two of them, and was caught inside more than I’d like to remember. But there were no injuries, no boards broken, and no sharks spotted—a successful day of surfing big waves. Everyone was buzzing.

That afternoon, Greg and I sat outside a café in Hout Bay, we ate a big plate of ribs and sipped two well deserved beers. Absorbing the hot fall sun on our faces, we recalled the day’s waves. My heart never felt so good.


For photos from the day, copy and paste the links below.

http://www.surfline.com/surf-news/dungeons-awakens_27201/1/

http://www.zigzag.co.za/site/awdep.asp&depnum=27636_47_11_A151

Monday, May 25, 2009

Taylor's Travels: Jeffery's Bay

When the guard opened the gate and I entered the property for the first time, I felt like Shoeless Joe Jackson emerging from the corn and onto the Field of Dreams. My version though, cause instead of being in Iowa, I was in South Africa. And instead of overlooking a baseball field, I was standing above a wave I’d dreamed of since I first stepped on a surfboard.

To call Cheron’s place a “surf house” is like calling Death Valley “dry” or Angelina Jolie “cute.” An understatement. Every adjective in the thesaurus couldn’t capture the degree to which it oozes surf.

I came to stay there the same way I came by most of my good fortune in South Africa—Twiggy. Well, actually Twiggy’s girlfriend, Kate, cause he’s never around (this time he was in Chile winning a big wave competition). Kate connected me with Chio (Twig’s cousin) and Gumby in St. Francis. When the surf picked up Gumby and I relocated to Chio’s mom’s house—and oh my, what a house.

For a surfer, there are few homes in the world with such perfect location, location, location as this one in Jeffery’s Bay. It sits proudly at the top of the point at Supertubes, the most famous point break on earth. So close, in fact, that when the waves are big the water reaches the base of the property. Wake-up to first wave takes ten minutes. I mean, it’s so close you could throw a bar of wax at the people about to paddle out! (Seriously though, why would you do that? Not cool). Beyond Supers, through the floor to ceiling windows, you can see Magnas and Boneyards, Super’s sibling waves that, if not for their overachieving older sister, would likely be destinations by themselves. Yep, doesn’t get much better.

I’ll spare you the bedroom and bath numbers—in part cause I couldn’t be bothered to count, but mostly cause it doesn’t matter—the place transcends standard real estate specs. With its location (right on top of Supertubes, I mentioned that, right?) I woulda been content curling up in my surfboard bag fighting off Puff Adders. But this house, as one can imagine (especially one who skipped straight to the photos), was more than a slight upgrade from Dakine digs.

The two-story compound shapes a U so that every room faces the ocean and accepts the rising sun’s warmth like black pavement on a summer afternoon. I’ll tell you, waking up to the sunrise over a six foot set at J-Bay is as good as you’d imagine. In the living room there are two sets of couches; one overlooking the waves and one facing the T.V. If the waves are pumping, there’s no way you’re in the latter set. In between wave watching, you can flip through any of the latest surf mags from around the world. Or delve into the dozens of signed and numbered coffee table surf books that don’t fit on the coffee table, so they’re spread around the place like little treasures waiting to be discovered. Don’t feel like reading? Me neither. Just stare blankly at wooden collectors surfboards that hang out in the corners, or up at the stunning chandelier—no crystal here, it’s made entirely of beach glass.

Not that you’d want to, but you simply can’t escape the sand and surf at this place. Digging into what would be an Apple Upside-down Cake anywhere else is “Jordy’s Pudding” at Cheron’s, named after South Africa’s best surfer, because he once came back after a party and ate a whole pan of it. Or playing a game of foosball, about as far away from surfing as you can get, and your opponent mentions the tense matches that go down between heats when the contest is in town. Freddy P. is unbeatable. Occy is hopeless. But it doesn’t matter if you’re good or bad at foosball, a surf star or surf bum, if you are lucky enough to visit this magical house, Cheron will care for you like family.

Cheron came to Jeffery’s in the 70’s, fell in love with the sleepy, hippie town, and never left. She learned to sew and began making boardies and shirts for local and traveling surfers; the clothes were such a hit that she began her own brand, Country Feeling. Later, she brought Billabong to South Africa, building it so successfully that she beat out companies like Coca-Cola and Nike to receive South African brand of the year. Billabong has since bought her out, so she now splits her time running Country Feeling, a furniture store, and the town itself (the book, Jeffery’s Bay, calls her the unofficial mayor of Jeffery’s). Cheron and Jeffery’s are akin, both built around surfing.

On any given day, when the surf is pumping, people are constantly coming and going. Suiting up. Showering off. Snapping photos. Sipping tea and snacking before another surf. The chatter of great waves caught today and predictions for tomorrow is incessant. It’s like your local surf spot’s parking lot, only for VIP’s and VLP (Very Lucky People, I’m in this category).

In the evenings, people stop in to have a glass of wine and discuss logos and slogans for the Supertube Foundation. Cheron seeks everyone’s input and offers her own like “Make the letters thinner on that girly print. Girls won’t wear anything fat on their shirts, even letters.” Or a WCT surfer on break from the tour will come for dinner. Cheron seems to love the flow of people through the house. She is a consummate hostess, making sure everyone is well fed and comfy. It’s her hospitality that makes this surf house a surf home.

When the waves died and the wind switched onshore, it was time for me to move on. I said my goodbyes, hugged Cheron and thanked her. In her laid back, no worries sort of way she said, “My pleasure, you’re welcome back any time!”

I’m going back this week.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Writer's Block

I guess this is writer’s block, cause when I returned to Durban about a week ago, I had earnest intentions of posting another blog. My whirlwind first couple of weeks in Southern Africa had calmed to a cool breeze and I had experiences galore to document. But I leave Durban tomorrow, and paper is avoiding my pen like it’s filled with acidic ink.

For example, I wanted to write about the two faces of Mozambique I experienced. Tell you about the parties and crowds of Easter Weekend—beers for breakfast and the masses from Jo’burg. About the Afrikaner guy who good-naturedly swiped the beer out of this American’s hand, drank its remains, then bellowed to the barkeep, “Fucking Brandy and Coke…Double!” then made me chug it. How after the long weekend passed and the beaches emptied, I surfed the bluetiful white sand point break solo. I wanted to write about this, but American Idol was on and it was down to the top ten. Allison needed my support.

I wanted also to write about Adriaan, my new friend who I went to Mozambique with. Tell you about his slick ways of getting us to the front of what would have been a three hour border queue, talking fast to officials and distributing Red Bulls and chocolates to appease the people we cut in front of. I was going to tell you all about it, and man, you woulda loved this guy, but the scab on the back of my hand wasn’t going to pick itself.

If not for this damn writer’s block, I would have told you in stunning detail about my trip to Kruger National Park with my friend Lianne and her mother Maryanne. About the pride of lions that guarded the dead rhino from the pesky vultures, and how majestic the giraffes and elephants looked mere meters away from our car. Oh, and the description that never was, of us sipping tea on our front patio watching buffalo meander to the riverbank for a dawn drink? I assure you, you would have been transported to Africa. Been able to smell it. But my book was getting good; the main character, Oscar Wao, had just tried to kill himself. I couldn’t leave him alone.

Who knows, maybe I could have even worked in a couple of amusing moments. Like when Lesley’s four and half year old son, Dylan, asked on Election Day why people were voting again, didn’t Obama just become president? Or when Adriaan called Asian-American Rob “China” (South African equivalent of “Buddy”), only to be politely corrected that he was, in fact, Philipino. Jeeze, you woulda laughed. But cricket was on and I was just beginning to understand the rules. It’s like Baseball on Valium.

For a few days I intended to write about the series of people I’d met that lead me to these remarkable experiences: Jesse took me to a party at Greg’s house in San Clemente when I was 18. A few years later Greg introduced me to Twiggy on the bluff at Mavericks. When Twig heard I was coming to his hometown, he had his girlfriend Kate get me from airport, I could stay at their house. Kate said she’d arranged a ride for me to Mozambique with her old boss, Adriaan, if I so desired. I did, and joined Adriaan and a crew that included Lianne and Lesley; these amazing people responsible for the fun I was having. I was going to link everyone in a thoughtful, flowing way. Even had the first line in my head, “If ever I had doubts that relationships were the key to a rich life, my time in South Africa has squashed them.” I wanted to add to this, I really did. But I was meeting Adriaan at The Bush Tavern for lunch and beers. Priorities.

So I guess you’ll have to wait for this invisible enemy to surrender before I can conquer this blog again and provide you with a distraction from work. It seems South Africa is doing a good job of distracting me from mine.

Author’s Note: I realize that writing these blogs is not my work, but it’s the closest I’ve got at the moment, so just let me have it, ok? However, if anyone has any ideas of how I can make this my work, I’m all ears.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Taylor's Travels: West Africa Recap

The swings have been big here in West Africa. One day I’d be having dinner at the American Ambassador’s mansion in Mali, and the next I’d be eating by flashlight in the humble home of a Guinean man I met in a taxi. One night I’d be over-paying to stay in dingy brothel in Bissau, and the next I’d have my own room and clean sheets at a stranger’s house in the Bijagos Islands. One moment I’d be ready to call it quits after an overnight car ride with 12 people, only to have that mood flipped right side up with a smile from a stranger. Experiences were everywhere; some good, some bad, all rich. Here’s a few.

Eating
Many places in West Africa, it’s not only okay to eat with your hands, it’s the only option. Silverware and plates aren’t available in many homes, so you find yourself with the locals, surrounding a communal bowl of rice with whatever, and digging in with your right hand. And I don’t mean, “eat with your hands” like we do in the States, touching the food with the ends of our fingers, napkin nearby. I mean eat with your hands like grab onto the oily rice and press it into your palm like you’re squeezing a stress ball at work This took a bit of getting used to, but I adapted pretty quickly. Most of the time they’d have some water handy for a post meal rinse, but if not, the inside of my pant leg was a worthy backup.

Memorable Foods
I’ve found that I associate a specific food with each country I’ve visited. Sometimes it’s the food a nation is famous for (like Morocco and its delicious Tajine), but often it’s just the cheap stuff you buy on the street.

I will link Senegal with bean sandwiches. I’d buy them every morning from a street vendor on my way to check the surf. It was so simple—cold beans on a baguette, with a bit of homemade mayonnaise and some hot sauce. The lady would start making it when she saw me walking down the street. It cost about 30 cents.

In Mali I’ll remember the white rice with green sauce you could buy just down the street from where I stayed in Bamako. The sauce was intimidating, it looked foul. Maybe it was the surprise of its deliciousness that made it memorable, because when the peanut and veggie concoction hit the lips, I was hooked. It didn’t hurt that it was only a quarter.

I can’t say that the Guinea’s food left a pleasant taste in my mouth. When staying with local families, as I did a lot in Guinea, you eat what they eat. They eat “toe.” I don’t know if that is how you spell it but that’s how you say it. Not to be narcissistic, but I think my toe probably tastes better than this thick sauce. The issue was not the flavor, it didn’t have much, but the consistency was that of congealed snot. The white rice it topped did little to save the meal.

In Guinea-Bissau, it’s all about the peanuts. The family I stayed with in the Bijagos Islands sold them in front of their home, and after every new batch they’d bring me a stomachs worth of them. You know how in a bag of peanuts there’s always a few that were maybe left in the roaster a little longer and have that delicious cooked taste? All of these were like that. And they were still warm, fresh off the fire.

Favorite Word
Wow. In Wolof, the most commonly used language in Senegal, this means, “yes.” When I first got here I heard it constantly and subconsciously thought that people were just always in awe. Turns out they were just giving the green light for hot sauce on their bean sandwich.

Expat on the Back
I guessed that West Africa would be the most difficult part of this trip, as much for the lack of tourist infrastructure as the loneliness of traveling in a place where westerners don’t usually travel. I was right that few travel here, I met only a handful in the past couple of months, but they do live here. They teach at international schools, work for NGO’s, and are Peace Corp Volunteers. I met so many great Americans here that its taken on a home away from home feeling.

I stayed with the Newton family (from Georgia) in Bamako. The father, Alex, runs USAID in Mali, while his wife Betsy runs the household with a no nonsense, fun attitude that had me taking notes. With the family, I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, swam in their pool, and played their ten-year-old son, Simon, in ping-pong to determine the champion of the African continent. He stomped me.

After a month of grueling travel, returning to Mike and Devon (from California) in Dakar, I may as well have been coming home. They’ve lived here over a year, teaching at the International School of Dakar. They took me into their home, complete with western comforts like hot water and Internet, as they do countless travelers, Peace Corp Volunteers, and friends of friends. During my ten days with them, they included me in their lives, towing me along to dinner parties and ultimate Frisbee games. When I thank them they just laugh, say its no big deal, they’re just racking up good karma points. If karma is real, these two will have so much stashed away they’ll be passing it onto their grandkid’s grandkids.

Favorite Custom
The greetings in Dogon Country, Mali. When passing other villagers, my guide would dive into this elaborate word dance with them, everyone knowing the steps almost too well:

-Poi?
-Wa.
-Sewo?
-Sewo.
-Umana sewo?
-Sewo.
-Uni sewo?
-Sewo.
-Gui Sewo?
-Sewo
-(In unison) Wa napu Sewo

Essentially this translates to, how are you? How are your parents? How are your children? Sewo means fine. You can’t blame them for being somewhat tired of the whole charade; they performed this greeting with about as much conviction as a fifth grader reciting the pledge of allegiance.

Least Favorite Custom
Pssssst! That’s how people get your attention in here. I’d be walking down the street and hear the noise. I’d turn around looking for the leaky tire, only to find a bus driver waving me towards him, asking me to get on his bus going the opposite direction. The illogical requests that followed it were nearly as bad as the sound itself.

Thanks, but Thanks
It’s customary in West Africa, when eating around others, to offer what you have to the group. I always did this on bus and taxi rides and people would silently take a cookie or candy. No thanks needed; it’s just what you do. What confused me is when I offered someone food and they nodded and said “merci,” and then just sat there. I’d wait patiently with the bag of goodies extended towards them, which made them nod faster and thank me again. Well fricken take one already! I’d think. But this was there way of saying, “Na, I’m good right now.” Even after I figured this out, it was still tough to retract an offer from someone as they’re nodding at you and saying thanks.

Favorite City
Bissau, Guinea-Bissau. The underdog of West Africa, this capital city doesn’t even have electricity most days, but holds a unique charm that sets it apart from its neighbors. There are no high rises, just faded pastel colored buildings slowly corroding from the salty ocean air. Mango trees line the dusty streets, bottoms painted red, green, and yellow, like Bissau’s flag. Aesthetic appeal aside, Bissau’s main attraction is its people. Unlike Dakar or Bamako, when someone approaches you and initiates a conversation in Bissau, there’s no ulterior motive—they want to be your friend. They’re among the friendliest people I’ve met in this world.

Most Awkward Moment
The “disco” in Bubaque, Guinea-Bissau. I was staying with the family of one of the many friendly locals I met in Bissau. I arrived on a Friday, and about four seconds after intros and pleasantries, a young girl in the family asks if I want to go to the disco that night. Since I’ve adopted a “just say yes” attitude on this trip, I said yes. God, a sprained ankle would have been SO convenient that night.

We get to the disco around ten. There’s three people there. The music is blaring and all in attendance are on the dance floor, making like Billy Idol and dancing with themselves in the mirror. It’s still early at this point and I’m convinced more people will come, so I head to the bar to grab a beer, ahem, soda—my host is Muslim. Damn. I sit back down with her and we maintain a delightfully awkward silence for about a half hour. Even if I want to, I can’t converse with her—she speaks no English and my Portuguese/Creole isn’t all there. Around 11:30pm nobody else shows up, so I decide to pull the band-aid off. I drag her out on the dance floor. We maintain a meter between us and bust some moves. I do a sober white guy dance, as loose as rebar. She does an uncomfortable foot shuffle, one eye on the door, as if she’s waiting for her ex boyfriend to arrive so she can make him jealous. Well, he never shows up. Nor does anyone else. When we leave around midnight, the same three people are there, dancing in front of the mirror.

Scariest Moment
Boat ride from Bubaque back to Bissau. They’d loaded the boat full of people, rice, cows, chickens, pigs, and goats. The seas looked calm when we left around three that afternoon, but soon after departure the wind picked up, creating relentless short period swells that slammed the port side of the boat. My worry turned from my electronics getting wet to whether or not I could swim to that distant island. The locals on the boat didn’t worry about that, they couldn’t swim. With each increasingly bigger wave, another person would cry, another person would get soaked, and another prophet would be summoned to protect us on our journey. The towel I loaned to the soaked kid sitting next to me was now covered in his vomit, and the smell from the cow’s waste dominated the sea air. It was a tense five hours, but we arrived to blacked out Bissau unharmed, elated to be alive.



I almost want to include something about how difficult it was to travel by road around here, but the wound is still fresh and I’m not quite ready to talk about it openly. Maybe someday. For now, I’m off to South Africa. It’s bittersweet to leave here, but I’m confident that good people, good waves, and good roads are waiting for me in the Rainbow Nation.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Taylor's Travels: Guinea

Leaving the village on our first hike, I was surprised by the rapport my guide, Hassan, had with the neighborhood kids. When he greeted them, a crying child’s grimace turned to grin and they beamed like only kids can when he leaned over to pinch their bellies. I don’t know how you say “uncle” in Pular (the local language), but I’m sure it’s an endearing term Hassan hears often. After that hike and the ones that followed, seeing Guinea’s larger than life landscape through his imaginative eyes, I too would become a member of the Hassan fan club.

I wasn’t even planning to go to Guinea, but I had to return to Senegal from Mali and it was the most logical route. I’m thankful I did, though, because it showed me a place unlike any I’ve seen in this world. Not long after passport stamping, I was met with stunning scenery that was surpassed only by the people, who opened up their homes to me with hospitality you only seem to find in the poorest of places, untainted by tourism and western greed.

My arrival in Douki, a village in Northeastern Guinea, was more of the same. The kids greeted me and took me by the hand to an open-aired bungalow and plopped me down in a hammock. The leader of the pack, a six year old whose booming voice and presence was belittled by the snot bubbling from his nose, emptied some peanuts into my hands and demanded, “Mange!”

As I relaxed and enjoyed the snack, Hassan Bah entered the hut and enthusiastically welcomed me.

“Yes of course I have a room for you!” He said, voice raspy from too many cigarettes.

The deal: $20 for lodging, three meals, and guided hikes.

He gave me the guest book to flip through while he went to prepare my hut. The book featured hike descriptions, guest testimonials, and a brief history of Hassan’s life—born and raised in Sierra Leone, lived in Mauritania and Spain, Spanish is his favorite language. When he took me to my room I said “muchas gracias” and he gave me a wide grin, his crooked white teeth accentuating his under bite. “De nada,” he said. We spoke the rest of the time in Spanish.

But Hassan didn’t talk much; he let the land do the talking. We were based a kilometer from what is known as the Guinea Grand Canyon, a 2,500 foot valley laden with lush forests, precipitous rock formations, and cool rivers. Etched into the area are a series of barely visible paths the locals use to access neighboring villages and waterways. Exploring the Eastern rim of the Canyon, Hassan would take the lead. If we passed a patch of thorny plants, he would slow to a near stop to get my attention. If it were slippery he would alert me by extending his arms sideways, like a child pretending to be an airplane, and continue descending. It wasn’t that he couldn’t say, “Hey, careful here, buddy,” he spoke English and Spanish perfectly. But I think he wanted to maintain the serenity of the quiet valley, not pollute the air with unnecessary words.

There were times though, when Hassan was all too happy to speak.

“Look there. This is the head of a General. You see? There is his face,” Hassan’s arm outstretched and pointing to what looked to me like a rock, “and his hand is coming up like this, because he is thinking.”

This was Hassan’s hobby, finding faces and figures in the rocks.

“And there, you see? It’s an elephant. And over there, look, there’s a woman. Do you think she looks sad?”

“No, I think she is just admiring the view,” I reply.

Some of his pet rocks really did look like the figures he claimed them to be, but others, like the General, would have required an altered mind state to see. It was fun solving these stone puzzles, and I tried to match Hassan’s imaginative visions.

“Look Hassan, that one there! It’s a turtle…but he is angry…because he dropped his cigarette.”

I spent a few days in Douki exploring the area with Hassan. We scaled rocks and peered over the ledges of thousand foot cliffs; we explored caves and bathed beneath waterfalls; we even spotted baboons, both the animal and rock varieties. It was a magical place that, minus an ocean, was all I could have asked for; the distinct lack of tourism added to the charm. This was an area that, if in a more developed country, even Senegal, there would be entry fees, tour busses, huge hotels and hustlers. But because Douki is in one of the poorer African countries, politically volatile and without much press, it (and its people) remains pure. The kids in Douki, for example, thank you for taking their picture—in Mali they extend their hands expecting payment.

It’s a unique place.

We left Douki on our final hike just before sunset, as the call to prayer bellowed from the Mosque’s loudspeaker. Hassan seemed distracted, and I noticed him walking faster than normal. He lead me a short distance through the bush and down to the edge of the canyon, where a ledge dropped a thousand feet straight down to a small village on the valley floor. He sat me down on a rock and pointed out a vulture that glided with the updraft off of the cliff side. I followed it with my eyes, jealous of its ability to soar freely above the immaculate land. When my eyes returned to Hassan he was hastily removing his shoes. Then he turned his back to the sheer cliff, closed his eyes, and knelt in prayer.

Only Hassan. Only in Guinea.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Taylor's Travels: Mali Road Trip

Lonely Planet lists travel times between West African cities as follows:

Dakar to Bamako—1-3 days
Bamako to Djenne—8-12 hours
Mopti to Timbuktu—10-24 hours

I read this and make a mental note, “Road travel unreliable, be patient.” But I largely ignore the extensive and varying travel durations. In my optimism (read naivety) I assume that between the publishing of the guide book and my arrival, West Africa will have sufficient time to pave their roads and patch their tires, and I’ll be skipping between destinations like I was on the autobahn. I obviously forgot the fun little word play on “assume” my mom taught me as a kid.

I’m in Djenne to see its famous Monday market and giant mud Mosque, but I’m heading to Sevare in the afternoon; the trip is meant to take just under two hours. Seems easy enough. I do laps through the busy market in the morning then head to the group taxi stand and buy a ticket. I ask the driver when we are leaving.

“When the car is full,” he says.

Not exactly what I was looking for, but OK. I find a patch of shade and I sit. An hour and a half later the car is full, and 11 of my new buddies and I pile into a dilapidated station wagon and are on our way. On the dirt road out of town, I can feel the scraping of the car floor on the ground as we waddle through holes in the road, the car seeming to buckle under the cumulative weight of the passengers and their bags of rice. At least we’re moving though.

We’re moving until the river crossing, where we just miss the ferry. The midday sun makes shade a rarity, but I find a thin patch near the car and I sit. 45 minutes later we are across the river and onto a paved road, “its all downhill from here,” I think to myself.

Not that it’s going to be a comfy ride. It’s 100 degrees, my shirt sticks to me like duct tape, and the hot wind blowing through the open windows can’t seem to find a passage between my seat mates and me—the car is packed beyond belief. But at least we’re moving.

Within five minutes we get our first flat tire. Damn it. I find a tree that looks lonely and plop down underneath it, ready to wait. But to my surprise the driver has the thing changed before I can even get my book out, and we’re back in the car. NASCAR pit crews beware if this guy ever makes it stateside.

I drop the ball when I sit back down. The locals who flank me, in their infinite crowded car experience, establish superior leg and shoulder positioning, and I’m left leaning forward with my knees glued together, trying to find a happy place. It may be cramped, but at least it’s hot. And at least we’re moving.
Around the time both my legs have officially fallen asleep, we make a curious turn 90 degrees off course, into a village with a funny name. Another flat. 15-20 minutes, max, the driver assures us, and disappears into the village with the mangled tire.

I’m a pro at this point. Shade. Sit. Bring it on. The quick fix of the first flat is but a distant memory, not to be replicated this time. I rest near the car with my back against a mud home, and spend an hour enjoying the harmony of the metal workers shaping cookware (TINK! TINK! TUNK! TINK!) next to me and trying to recall the meal that could have caused my churning belly. When the 250 pound woman on my right begins nursing her toddler, I take a destinationless walk. I return some 15 minutes later, and, like coming back from the bathroom with your food waiting for you, the driver is attaching the repaired tire and we are again moving.

I know better than to have any hopes at this point, so I’m not disappointed or surprised when the driver turns into a town to “pray” (I mean come on, you can’t argue with Allah), and then backs his car into a service station. The good news is the sun just set so shade is not an issue, and the red African soil and I are now well acquainted.

In a half hour the service boys have our chariot laced up and ready, and we depart on what would be the final crawl to the Sevare finish line. We arrive in one piece. Total time—just under five hours.

Of all the virtues I hope to acquire through travel, patience is the one I am perfecting in West Africa. Unscheduled stops and flats, rivers and roadblocks; I’m learning to take deep breaths, relax, and sit—cause this could be a while.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Taylor's Travels: WAISTed

Coming to Africa, I had a picture in my mind of how it would be: women in exotic dresses carrying buckets on their heads, barefooted kids playing soccer in dirt streets, and villagers gathering along the shoreline to view the day’s catch. You can imagine my surprise when, in addition to the aforementioned expectations, I found hundreds of American twenty-somethings, all night parties, and softball.

I met Mike Dvorjak surfing in front Dakar’s Club Med. Originally from Half Moon Bay, he is living in Senegal with his girlfriend Devon, teaching at the International School of Dakar (ISD). Before the session was over he told me about a softball tournament going on in Dakar, and invited me to check it out that afternoon. It sounded too weird not to have a look.

I didn’t know what to expect. After all, we were in Africa, not exactly known for its baseball fervor; how big could a softball tournament be? On the other hand, Mike said he was making a documentary on the event, and he had some serious looking cameras.

When we passed through the security gates at the ISD field, I thought I’d stumbled out of the corn and onto Kevin Costner’s Field of Dreams; it was an oasis of America in West Africa. Coed teams played softball on green grass. Spectators in lawn chairs consumed hot dogs, peanuts, soft serve, and beer. Teammates exchanged high fives. Children chased foul balls. It was like home.

Turns out, my arrival in Senegal coincided with the West African Invitational Softball Tournament (WAIST). Half sporting event half spring break, the annual competition is held over a three-day weekend and is comprised mostly of Peace Corps volunteers from around West Africa, with local and expat teams rounding out the field. For three days the party doesn’t stop—it was a bandwagon I was happy to jump on.

The party’s nucleus was the American Club, which shares a fence with ISD. Like a country club without the golf course, the American Club boasts a swimming pool, tennis and volleyball courts, a lounge, a bar, and a snack shack. People came and went between the four softball fields to regroup with friends, take a dip in the pool, put some pink on their pale skin, and drink cold Flag (the local beer). The latter fueled the weekend

God knows these guys earned it. Peace Corps volunteers sign up for a two-year service, not knowing where in the world they will be placed, for the sake of helping others. They live with villagers, eat their food, and learn their local dialect. They each specialize in sectors like sustainable agriculture, women education/empowerment, and business development, and teach the topics to the locals. You can imagine how they look forward to WAIST, a trip to America without leaving the continent, after being stuck in a village for months on end. It made me feel silly that a few years ago I wanted to go somewhere for spring break to get away from “stressful” college life.

At WAIST, funky haircuts and costumes are not the exception but the rule. I doubt if anyone in West Africa has ever seen such a concentration of Mohawks and Mullets, and I know they haven’t seen sporting events where the players dress as pirates or play in their underwear (unless they attended WAIST any one of the last 36 years of its existence). The debauchery in the American Club extended onto the softball diamond, with outfielders setting down their beers to chase fly balls, and a girl with a boom box pacing the foul line, dancing to hip hop beats and riling up the players and fans. Never had the Peace Corps looked so appealing to me.

While WAIST is a diversion for most teams, some, like the Pirates of Mauritania, take the event seriously. This Peace Corps team spends months dispersed throughout the Sahara, and they see WAIST as an opportunity to reconnect with an American pastime and their love for competition.

“Most of us have athletic pasts. We played sports in high school and some of us in college, and we miss it,” said one Pirate. “Add to it that we’re alone in the desert most of the year and it makes WAIST that much more special. We want to win.”

Blocking their path to the tournament trophy was Senegal Three, a strong team of local Senegalese players who narrowly beat the Pirates in the finals last year, and looked likely to repeat. The Pirates, however, sought revenge.

It was around this drama that Mike focused his documentary. He filmed all of the Pirate and Senegal games, contrasting athletic and competitive Senegal Three with the Pirates, a team that practiced once a year and was relying more on heart and determination than softball skills. Mike lost sleep praying to the softball gods to put Senegal Three and the Pirates in the final.

It seems the gods were listening. In the semi-final match up between Senegal Three and The Gambia’s Peace Corps team, Senegal was trailing by three runs. In the final minutes of the hour long game, with the bases loaded, Senegal Three hit a Grand Slam to win it. The Pirates had already clinched their spot in the final, and the storybook match-up would unfold Monday afternoon on a legitimate baseball diamond that overlooked the rocky Atlantic coastline.

A wild Sunday night turned into Monday morning very quickly for most WAIST attendees, but sleep deprivation and hangovers hindered few from attending the game. Hundreds showed up, 95% of whom rooted for the Pirates, and it was standing room only along the foul line (except for one young volunteer, who was so hung over that she slept in the middle of the herd, but she did show up). Hats were removed when a player from Peace Corps Guinea tooted the national anthem on his trumpet, and the crowd sang along in near unity. The Pirates finished their final beers before the game, and Senegal Three was up to bat.

I’ve witnessed some exciting sporting events—overtime hockey shootouts, buzzer beater basketball wins, even Barry Bond’s 756th homerun—and I am dead serious when I tell you that the excitement that surrounded this game was up there with all of them. Double plays were made, leads were exchanged, and homeruns were hit. The game’s excitement was matched by that of the crowd, with girls dressed as pirates storming the crowd to announce the score after an inning, or dig their hooks in the dirt and yelling“AAARGGHHHH!” Music was blasted and chants were yelled. We jumped and screamed when the Pirates scored and nervously covered our moths when Senegal Three retook the lead. It was like being at a local team’s home game

After a rollercoaster forty-five minutes, it became clear the day belonged to the The Pirates. They beat Senegal Three 11-6. The crowd rushed the field. Beer was shook and sprayed. The MVP was named.

The elation on the faces of the players said it all—they were hometown heroes, and they managed to become so in West Africa. With the softball, the Peace Corps, the expats, and the food, America had reincarnated in Africa. If only for a few days. While it wasn’t what I expected when I arrived, WAIST provided fun, excitement, and a valuable lesson—home is where you make it.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Vego Sego

Life’s good when Vegas awakens your hidden dance moves to the sweet melody of Paul Oakenfold...

Taylor's Travels: Best of Morocco

The Morocco leg of my African journey has come to a close. As I write this, I’m on the plane to Senegal, reflecting on the happenings of the past five weeks, and want to share some of the some of my favorites with you.

Favorite Food: Tajine. This Moroccan staple can be found everywhere, though maybe not now because I may have eaten them all. Tender chicken or lamb hidden under a mound of veggies and potatoes, slow cooked in a clay pot and served to you steaming hot, the juices still bubbling, begging you to dip your bread.

Favorite Dessert: Coconut Hamburgers. At least that’s what we called them, as these cookies tasted like macaroons and were shaped like burgers. I say dessert, but I ate these things day or dark, pre or post meal. (The best way to ensure room for dessert is to eat it before a meal). In Marrakech they cost 15 cents. I wanted everyone around me to be hooked too, like a dope head trying to recruit others so the pleasure will be less guilty. “Hey! Psst! Ya you. Wanna try? First one’s free…”

Favorite Word: Upsaha. We learned this was the Arabic word for “cheers,” and used it every chance we got, sure we were impressing the locals by branching out beyond “hello” and “thank you” (“Salaam Aleikum” and “Chukran”). Then one night we were having tea with a local in Essueira and said “Upsaha,” tilting our mint tea towards him. He said, “Don’t say that. Nobody says that,” and made us feel about this big. But we later learned the guy was a lemon and continued with our Upsahas.

Favorite Saying: “In Morocco we go slow in the morning and not fast in the afternoon.” Speaks for itself.

Favorite Surf Spot: Inside Anchor Point. The actual point at Anchors is overcrowded and a bit soft, but the inside can have waves that look like the Superbank. If you’re willing to fight the current (not the crowds though, cause everyone is on the outside perfecting their cutbacks), you’ll be rewarded with long, square tubes. Morocco’s most visible secret spot.

Favorite City: Fes. I could have flown by Fes in a plane it would have been my favorite. It’s a sprawling labyrinth of narrow alleys, markets, and mosques, all perfectly placed between green mountains that make the buildings look like legos. Add to it a handful of generous and kind people I met, and my two day stay there seemed way too short.

Favorite Custom: Hand holding. Its nothing sexual (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but you’ll often see men holding hands when they talk to each other. They just made it look so natural and manly, like a high-five after a workout and a couple shots of Jack. So guys, look out, I may just hold your hand when I get home. Mostly because I love the custom, but also cause I want to see how awkward it makes you.

Speaking of awkward…

Most Awkward: Hands down the award goes to my time spent at the local “Hamam,” or bathhouse, in Fes. I was staying with a local guy (I met on the train ride up) and his family, and since there isn’t hot water in most of Fes, he invited me to the Hamam to clean up. I saw this as an opportunity to experience the culture and eagerly accepted. Long story short you strip down to your underwear and walk into these tile steam rooms, dozens of dudes sitting around and not only bathing themselves, but each other too.
So this is where the saying “you wash my back…” comes from, I thought.

I was clueless as to protocol and had to be told where to sit and which buckets of water to fetch. My host coached me through the whole thing, the five year old next to me getting similar instructions from his dad. Before I knew it there was a Hamam attendant dousing me with buckets of scolding water and telling me to lie down. If this all seems a little weird to read about, please, imagine how I felt. Then the guy starts a two-handed scrub of my back with a loofta, just leaning into it like he’s striping the deck of a boat. It felt like 80 grit sand paper, and I literally saw piles of dead skin piling up next to my face. I wanted to throw in the towel (then wrap it around me and get the hell out of there), but this torture was going on all around, and I didn’t want to be the sissy white guy that couldn’t hang.

After shedding about three pounds of skin (screw weight watchers), the guy starts cracking my back in every conceivable uncomfortable manner. With each crack he was yelling “HAH!” like he was a black belt punching through a board. By the end I was just cracking up, it was all just so weird. Combined with the fact that through the whole process everyone was watching to see how the newbie would react, and it takes the cake for my most awkward experience in Morocco.

So, I’m on my way to West Africa. The cute check-in girl waived the 150 Euro fee for my surfboard, and I have a free seat next to me so I can spread out. Off to a good start on the second leg.

Taylor's Travels: A Regular

Regulars have always intrigued me. You know them, the people who frequent restaurants and bars, sitting in the same place and ordering the same thing every time. The servers know their names and ask about their families. “That would be cool,” I think, then reconsider when I imagine the monotony of it all. Same food and same scene would get boring. But when I found myself calling out to Leela of Aftas Café in Taghazout, Morocco, asking for the same chicken, chili, and goat cheese pizza I’d ordered my past six visits, I realized I may have just become a regular, if only for a short while.

Nobody called it Aftas, though; they called it “the Café.” As if there was only one in town. It sat on the beach above the colorful fishing boats, shaded by an oasis of ivy that draped down the stone walls. There was outdoor seating, but I’d usually gather with friends inside, where long cushions lined the cave-like lair. Lonely Planets and board games littered the empty tables. Moroccan cloth covered the walls, but graciously made room for an obligatory Bob Marley poster.

I’d sit with my best local friends, Younes and Tarik, play heated games of Jenga, and speak of the day’s surf. Leela would serve us.

Leela was an adorable young lady from the Sunshine Coast of Australia, and was working for her friend and fellow Aussie, Devvy, who opened the Café a few months back. (I didn’t see Devvy much, as she was always dealing with something; a broken fridge or a repairman who couldn’t come to fix the stove “because its raining”). Leela, poor thing, was clearly torn between being on vacation and working. She would chat you up for five minutes before realizing the next tables coffee was up four minutes ago. Or come around and ask you if it was you who ordered the cake.

“Nope. Wasn’t me.”

She’d give a confused look around the restaurant and say, “Oh well. Whoever it was, they’ll ask for it again.”

But after a mistake she’d be quick to appease you with a gorgeous smile and some brochette on the house. Plus, her Laissez-fair attitude towards service fit with the laid back atmosphere of the Café; like the rest of us, she was in town for a good time. Except when she had to kick out stray dogs and cats, or Taghazout’s resident glue sniffer, who would march dejectedly into the Café to bum a Dirham or a smoke off the patrons. Then she was all business.

Younes lived next door to the Café. He owned a local surf school and tour company and could usually be found at the Café. He spoke perfect English and, from his years working with international clientele, had picked up a worldly vocabulary and sense of humor.

“Jeeze Younes, where are all the girls man?”

“Ah mate, sometimes they come through but most of the time you’re stuck with Pamela Handerson.”

He was a wealth of knowledge of the local area, and had classic stories of creating and maintaining his business. Like when he was getting started and barely knew how to surf himself, so he would drive his clients an hour and a half north to teach them to surf at the one break he was comfortable surfing. Now he goes to any of the of beginner waves within ten minutes of town. In one lesson with a dozen German girls, Younes gave them a healthy shock when, before the pre surf calisthenics, he stuffed a sock full of sand down the crotch of his wetsuit. “Alright, jumping jacks!”

He would order the lasagna, and for dessert the chocolate mousse.

Tarik was fluent in four languages: Arabic, French, English and Norwegian, but spoke mostly with his face. The showman of Taghazout, he’d have anyone within earshot leaning close when he told stories, punctuated with dramatic pauses and cocked eyebrows. I couldn’t get enough of his tales of growing up surfing in Morocco. He told me about sneaking out of his house to surf at five AM, behind his father who was going to morning prayers at the Mosque, Tarik peeking around imagined corners to reenact the scene. Or how, because of a surf wax shortage, he’d collect discarded cheese wrap from his rich friends and melt it onto his board for traction, the deck swollen with lumps of bright red Edam remnants.

If the subject wasn’t surfing, he’d talk about his tenure as a rapper in Norway. While he spoke little about his group, I learned plenty of his brushes with international rap stars: Wyclef is a God. Pharell is a jerk. 50-Cent is short.

His language was littered with phrases he’d picked up from travelers, “What the fuck?” and “Are you crazy?” appearing in nearly every sentence.

“Hey Tarik, were the waves good today?”

“Are you crazy? It was good, man.”

At first I was a little uncomfortable with it, like he was saying I was dumb for not knowing the waves had been good. But I soon learned it was just his special way of saying “yes.”

Tarik also ordered the lasagna, but lived for the coffee and chocolate brulee that Devvy should be famous for.

I spent my last night in Taghazout in the Café. The regular crew was there, among others. Tarik debuted his new rap, an ode to Jenga in the tune of Manu Chau’s King of the Bongo (Mama was the queen of Jenga, Papa was the king of Jenga, I’m the king of Jenga too, what the fuck you gonna do?) Younes concentrated on his lasagna before downing his mousse in less than thirty seconds. Leela booted out the glue sniffer in between not taking orders. And I ate my last piece of pizza. I’ll miss being a regular at the Café. The food was delicious and the atmosphere welcoming, but mostly I’ll miss the characters that kept me coming back, time and time again.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Just Far Enough

Life’s Good When…you’re on the road towards a party most likely to meet your expectations of a great time. Just far enough out of town to be considered a road trip and making new CD’s is a necessity. This past weekend my travel partners and I left town mid-afternoon south for San Louis Obispo (SLO). Our cause was to celebrate a good friends birthday, relieve ourselves from the weekday regimen, and enjoy our short get away to the fullest.

We set out with clouds in the sky and wet roads from a mid-morning rain. To me this meant more exciting driving conditions. Of course because of precious cargo (passengers) I would have to be on my best driving behavior, keeping the 100+ speeds to straight-aways and just long enough for the thrill without the ticket. Although enjoying the cloudy scenery, for my travel partners rain would ruin their intentions to wear dresses and boots for the evenings events. To eager to get to our destination weather worries faded, we stopped for nothing and kept the music up beat.

Taking just under two hours we arrived in SLO around 3:20pm. Expecting to greet the birthday girl, we were welcomed by two strangers I’d never met, the roommates. Happy to be free from the driver seat I chilled out with the comfort of knowing I didn’t have to move from the broken back couch I was sitting in for two hours; cocktails began at 6:30pm, dinner was at 7:30pm.

When five o’clock hit, the living room went from about 15 people to five guys. The assembly line had started: shower, hair dryer, curling iron, make-up etc. Whether it’s one girl or ten an hour and half for getting ready seems to be a popular time frame. Now for guys, it's more like in the movies when the guy walks into the airplane bathroom (lavatory) closes the door, opens it a second later and walks out in a suit. Regardless, the time is worth it.

The preliminary stages of a great night started with cocktails at the Del Mar Bar. Once everyone was unable to drive safely the taxi cabs arrived and shuttled us down town. We arrived and filtered downstairs to a basement like special events room fully decorated and staffed. Here’s where the expectations would be met. Dinner for fifty, open bar, and good company, all compliments of the birthday girl’s parents. Extremely generous is what comes to mind when I think of this family. As the night carried on the staff quickly caught up to our drinking abilities. With every new drink a new conversation would start, vaguely remembering details, but confident in our enjoyment. After speeches and laughs from friends and family we departed at 12:30am from a dinner that began at 7:30pm.

At this point the birthday girl had thrown in the towel and retreated back home. This left about twelve of us out and finishing the night at a small bar dancing. Last call put us on the street, directionless, but happy. With rationality out the window we began walking not really comprehending how far we had to go; about two and half miles.

Once home we all piled on the living room floor, shouted at each other for about ten minutes, and finally passed out almost instantaneously. Dazed and confused, the morning brought groans and pain. Luckily I had consumed just enough water the night before to keep my head from pounding out of control. Keeping the blanket over my head to avoid conversation, I tried sleeping, failed, and inevitably wound up listening to multiple girls “catch up.” Switching from one hip to the other on a thin carpet floor I tried with desperation to sleep off a night overly consumed with fun and alcohol.

As we said our good-byes two things were on our minds: In-N-Out Burger and our beds. We accomplished one within twenty minutes of leaving San Louis Obispo. Eager to get home and rest, we were cruising, doing a safe 75mph and listening to the “chill playlist.” Reclined in shotgun and spread across the back seat my travel partners were out for the count, an hour of silence past slowly. We were close now and all thinking about one request: be cloudy and rainy at home so when we arrive we can melt in our beds guilt free. Our request was granted.

Stephen Conway

Friday, February 6, 2009

Taylor's Travels: Lessons from a Travel Buddy

They say (or at least my mom says) that if you really want to get to know your friends, you should travel with them. You will learn things you loathe and love about them, and it will teach you in a few weeks what a few years of local friendship won’t reveal. I just spent the last three weeks with Trevor Nelson, a relatively new friend from Santa Cruz, and learned heaps of useless and amusing stuff about him. Or so I thought.

1. He eats terribly slowly. I’d be finishing up my couscous and waving the waiter down to order the obligatory post-meal mint tea, only to realize he’d yet to move on from his salad. I couldn’t figure out where I was losing him. During following meals I slowed down and tried to match his pace, quickly learning where he was lagging (or I was speeding)—chewing. Trevor chews his food like he’s searching for a tiny piece of glass in it. I tried it. I took a bite at the same time as him and chewed. Chewed. And chewed. When the consistency of the food made Gerber’s seem like an overcooked rib-eye, I swallowed. Trevor continued for another ten seconds or so.

Another factor, though this is like faulting a headwind for slowing down a car with a flat tire, is his meticulous condiment preparation. While I would stuff my face (M.H.) with fries drenched in ketchup, he would take each one and rotate 3/5 of it in ketchup before indulging.

I was unconsciously trying to be the master of efficiency, maximizing the amount of food consumed in the least amount of time. But Trevor’s leisurely eating style reminded me that we were having a meal, not running an assembly line. If I relaxed and enjoyed the food, atmosphere, and company, the meal would be more enjoyable. Not to mention my digestive track would thank me.

2. While he chews, Trevor tends to stare off into the distance, a look on his face that suggests he is thinking of ways to solve the world’s economy or musing on the meaning of life. It’s likely though, that he’s thinking about socks. I learned of this Lieutenant Dan-like obsession mid-way through the trip, when he first ran out of freshies.

“Dude, do you have any of my socks in your bag?”
“No. Why would your socks be in my bag?”
“I dunno. Maybe I’m tripping, but I thought I’d brought more and I’m out.”

I suggested he wash them, but he gave me a smug look like, “You’ve got a lot to learn, kid,” and went out for a new pair.

One to three days later (depending on the shoe-to-sandal ratio) he would do it again. He’d look at his socks in disgust, maybe attempting the awkward foot-to-nose leg lift to catch a whiff, and declare “Gonna go get socks.”

White, black, checkered, it didn’t matter as long as they were clean and soft. He’d throw the old socks out like a junkie does an empty baggie, with a disregard for the past and anticipation for the next fix. Each time he’d slip into a new pair of fake Nike socks, I became progressively envious. His socks were making him happy. Mine were not. I would struggle into my washed Costco socks, stiff from the residual detergent I’d failed to rinse out, and wonder if Trevor was onto something. Maybe happy feet make for a happy traveler?

3. Trevor is easy, and to me that’s the most important characteristic of a good travel partner. He travels with an open mind and pliable plans, and answers any “This or that?” question with, “Whatever, I’m easy.”

“You want to go to Marrakech or stay in Taghazout?”
“Whatever, I’m easy.”
“You want to eat in or out?”
“Whatever, I’m easy.”

At first it was simply refreshing and made life easier for me, I could call the shots. But after getting this response over and over, I saw the benefit really lay with him. No plan was concrete, everything was possible, and whatever happened he would be cool with it. This attitude is worth more than money or languages while traveling. The millionaire fluent in Arabic might let a Moroccan rain storm ruin his vacation. Trevor would go play in the puddles (then promptly change his socks, of course).

While I like to believe that I share these easy going tendencies, Trevor is clearly easier than me, and showed me how smooth life’s sail could be if I loosened up even more.

Trevor is back in the states now, and I will finish the trip solo. He rubbed off on me, unintentionally teaching me small life lessons during our trip, things that will make the next few months more enjoyable. In fact, as I write this, my feet rest snuggly in a fresh pair of socks that feel like down comforters on my toes.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Taylor's Travels: A Taste of Morocco

From New Album 10/5/08 11:52 PM


Our rented Kia Picanto sounded like a semi-truck down shifting every time we accelerated. We’d knocked off the pipe that connects the engine to the muffler on one of our many off-road surf checks, and were getting disgusted looks from every pedestrian we blared past. You know your car’s in a bad way when you get stares from locals in developing nations.

Trevor and I had opted to drive north for a week or so to escape the tourist saturated surf town of Taghazout, hoping to see a more “pure” Morocco. It appeared that first, however, we would have to fix the car. Dealing with car troubles is a chore anywhere, but the frustration compounds when you throw in language barriers and the fact it wasn’t even our car. I’d have preferred a spinal tap to dealing with this little issue.

After a deafening five-hour drive, our engine drowning out every Mosque’s call to prayer, we found a service station in our destination city, Safi. We were relieved when a Good Samaritan, out of sheer kindness, offered to lead us to a mechanic who could weld the pipe back into place. (In Taghazout or Marrakech, one would have surely demanded a fee for the inconvenience). The mechanic got to work under the car while we idled anxiously in the dirt square, willing him to make haste so we could catch the low-tide at the local point break.

The first few children arrived discreetly and kept their distance, backs to the yellow homes. We waved and said salaam, they giggled and hid behind one another. Slowly, a few more groups appeared, employing the same bashful tactics as the first. We smiled and approached a few of them, and offered our hands. All scattered except one brave boy of about eight-years, who accepted a firm shake of Trevor’s hand. The flood gates had opened. Word had spread around the neighborhood and about fifty kids converged to shake our hands and ask our names, which they struggled to pronounce. We got their names too; Abdel, Hacna, Ahmid, and a couple dozen Mohammads. They spoke to us in excited French and Arabic, and we lectured in English about the importance of avoiding drugs and alcohol and staying in school (although it was 11am on a Monday, so we may have been a bit late on that one).

Before we knew it our car was fixed. We thanked the big bellied mechanic and paid him for parts and labor, all 100 Dirham ($12) worth, and were on our way. The kids ran along side our car, which now purred like a new vacuum cleaner, waving and bidding us bon voyage. We drove towards the surf, which didn’t seem to matter much anymore.

This morning we awoke to victory at sea and little hope for a surf. So, after a petit-dejaneur, we found our way back to the neighborhood to visit with the community we’d bonded with yesterday. We assured the worried mechanic that all was well with the car, then bought out the local shop’s supply of lollipops. We thought the kids had swarmed yesterday. It was chaos. Under the watchful eyes of Muslim moms behind Burkahs and windows, we distributed the candy and a few dozen pens I’d brought from home. They were elated and so were we.

It was difficult to leave, as much physically as emotionally with the scores of wee ones encircling us. We started with car issues, one of the most annoying things on earth in my mind, and left with just what we’d drove north looking for—a taste of Morocco.

Morocco

Monday, January 5, 2009

Board The Earth

Life’s Good When…Your adventurous thrill seeking behavior delivers situations that are often best described as “Gnarly.” For most the idea of swinging fiercely from a chairlift with steady 60+ mph winds is insane much less desirable. Nevertheless, we’re out there searching for and savoring these experiences.

Pulling into the parking lot of Mt. Bachelor earlier this morning, instead of being the first one on the chairlift I found myself contemplating with others, “to board or not to board?” With one chair open, 60+ mph steady winds, and whiteout conditions, my concern was not about the conditions. Rather, how long before every lift closes to high winds and I’m left without a refund!

The choice was simple and a half an hour later I was riding to the top. After a couple runs of gusting winds, white outs, and unpredictable terrain I found myself on the lift next to a stranger. Glancing over at my fellow thrill seeker, I saw a significantly elder man with a frozen solid mustache and a smile. Inching our way closer to departure the chair seemed to rapidly increase momentum sideways as the chair climbed. As the end of the line rose over the horizon we stopped, waiting. Stopping meant one thing in such a scenario, heavy wind gusts. The chair bobbed, dipped, dived and swung violently as we clinched to the chair like magnets. Yelling, “YEEWW” and thinking, “this is awesome” (hooting and hollering seemed appropriate) letting my chairlift companion know that I was psyched about our intense ride. Surprisingly my reaction was followed up with an enthusiastic response, “ what an experience!”

We parted ways as our chair crept past the ice landing (being one of the last chairs up before shutting down.) As I strapped in, turned my music up, got my bearings two things registered: thrill seeking is important, and Life’s Good When… You Experience!

Stephen Conway