China: Welcome to Beijing

I don't consider it likely that the flight to any city on the planet is going to hold anyone's mind terribly captive at 2am and so for the most part I deferred to Ritchie Blackmore and Deep Purple. Even at this time the Beijing airport is bustling and customs is slow by simple virtue of numbers. Beside me is a group of Germans, we're the only white people in a cast of thousands.

At least I'll have people to drink with.

The taxi driver speaks enough English to fleece me. I know it but there's no fight in me. I'm tired and it's... it's not hot or even really humid, it just feels oppressive. We pass skyscrapers that look gloomy due to being bottom lit. It's weird, night time looks grey instead of black.

The hostel door opens on the second ring. He's too cheery for 3am. His English seems more than passable. He says a bunch of things that make sense, it's polite and proper English but I don't hear any of it. I'm beyond tired. I can work it out later, I'm sure.

Tomorrow Cam is always so resourceful.

China: Introduction

I don't know what my motivation for picking China as a destination was. I've got nothing in particular against the place but it's just not Alaska. Or Patagonia. Or anywhere else that remains some scarcely touched pristine wilderness and naturally beautiful destination. It seemed to me - without any prior investigation - that its drawcards were mostly cultural, something that I've managed to resist so far, particularly with respect to the well trodden Australian coming of age Eurotrip.

I wasn't even really looking to go on holidays yet (it had only been six months since returning from my last trip) but after a bit of encouragement from Lorene as she had her own plans for five weeks, three weeks to travel alone and to the beat of my own drum began to tickle my fancy.

None of this explains why I chose China.

I don't think I can adequately do it. It wasn't "calling" me. It's just there. Looming large in all its pre-eminent world super power way. Plus, I don't know many people have been there, certainly not in the way that I imagined I'd go. Ultimately, it just became a case of, "why not?" Upon learning that China has the second most World Heritage Sites of any country (45, behind Italy on 49) and that they were a mix of natural and cultural, some sort of tipping point was reached and my interest was suitably piqued.

So, armed with a hard fought visa, precisely no Chinese and a devil-may-care attitude, three weeks in China became the plan...

Senegal: $2

Wandering around N'Gor on my own, I found myself at the gates to the local football stadium. Asking the guard at the front if I could go in, I was met with a stern "no".

I asked again with a dollar in hand. The gate opened.

For a further dollar, he even left his post and gave me a tour for half an hour.

Still a better pitch than Gibbney Reserve in Maylands.

It's amazing what $2 gets you in Senegal.

Senegal: Toubab Dialao

When picking up the suit, Herve asked what I'd be doing the following day. After learning that I had no plan, he said he'd arrange it but would need $20 to pay for a deposit for a driver. Ordinarily I would have been a lot more circumspect about handing cash over and hoping but in many ways, we had already crossed that bridge with the suit and I felt like I could trust him.

Of course, driving a Westerner out to a remote part of Western Africa for extortion, robbery and/or murder crossed my mind but having already averted a knifing through no good decisions of my own, I figured he was probably on the level.

I met Herve at 7am the following morning and the two hour drive passed with only small event. My ability to get into taxis whose drivers are bold, erratic and treat traffic laws like mere suggestions must be unparalleled. Traffic was reasonably dense and roundabouts fairly frequent. The Senegalese approach to taking them seems to be from the same school of driving as the most ambitious of F1 drivers on the first corner of the first lap (looking at you, Kamui).

Someone's going to crash, just hope it isn't you.

I asked the driver (through Herve) why at one point for a few kilometers he drove on the footpath. His response, "it's smoother!" was simply inarguable.

Toubab Dialao is a satellite tourist town and fishing village. The beach is clean, water is warm, fish seemingly plentiful and the buildings are unfinished. This is typical for most of what I saw in Senegal. Apparently, building carries on until the money is exhausted and then goes on an indefinite hiatus. Some builders seemed wiser than others in electing to offer uninterrupted sea views by leaving that wall until last in some of the many unfinished houses.

Uninterrupted Atlantic Views!

Bougainvillea creeps over walls onto the streets, boys play endless games of beach soccer for kilometers, women wash clothes by the water, men fish just offshore, dogs laze on the sand moving only to go between sund and shade while tourist meander between hotel bars and cafes along the beaches and terraces above.

N'Gor and Toubab Dialao are both tourist-centric places but I welcomed the differences. Where N'Gor was full of pleasant (and some not so) ambushes, here people pretty much ignored you and for a day, that invisibility was very much welcome.

English was on short supply in Senegal, this had me smiling.

Toubab Dialao; shopping capital of Western Africa.

Senegal: Knifed

In the afternoon waiting to pick up this suit, I spent some time at an internet cafe across the cul-de-sac from my hotel, mostly reading news, cricket and sending a couple of emails. Leaving in the late arvo, a roaming street vendor approached me about 50m from La Brazzerade. The street was still busy, plenty of the stalls were still selling things, and there was lots of human traffic about. He had a basket of things taking up both of his hands, like a washing basket would. He starts yapping away at me rapidly in French. When I finally got a moment, I said I couldn't understand him.

He switched to broken, searching English.

On top of this basket was a styrofoam board with holes punched through it. In the holes pairs of sunglasses sat propped up. Some were a little scratched, most just looked like knock offs. "Want sunglasses?"

I pointed to my forehead where a pair of sunnies were perched. In case he missed the gesture, I deadpanned, "I've already got some".

He smiled, "OK OK!" and in putting the board on the ground greater revealed his basket. A length of rope was tied in a circle and on it watches were kept; all showing different times, many scratched to shit and looking pretty secondhand. "Want watch?"

For the second time, I fended off the would be salesman, by gesturing to my own watch, significantly less scratched and showing a time I believed.

He smiled toothily, "OK OK!" Delicately, he put the watches atop the sunglasses on the ground, getting to a collection of small cardboard boxes in his basket. Opening one, he pulled out a bottle of fragrance, half full. "Want perfumes?"

It'd be a cold day in hell that I'd catch myself carrying perfume but I got away with, "no, no woman, no girlfriend, no wife".

The toothy grin persisted, accompanied with a now customary "OK OK!" and he began placing those items on the ground beside the rest of his booty. Now, his basket was mostly empty. He pulled out its last item.

A knife.

Oh fuck.

I took half a step back. It was broad daylight and totally in public. There were dozens of people around, many quite close. I'd so far been reasonably lighthearted with respect to this nonexistent transaction but it had drained from me now, leaving uncertainty and a very real amount of fear. He stepped forward, knife extended, still smiling.

Smiling, as this was probably how he came to obtain these things he was now "selling" and he'd just ostensibly hit jackpot for future sales. I was rooted to the spot. Through the toothy grin came, "want knife?"

I could hardly believe it. Right hand diving into my pocket, I retrieved and unfolded in one motion a knife that Russ had given me last year.

"Nah mate, I've got a knife."

He kept smiling, gathered his things and wandered off, wishing me a good day. I went and found beer to heavily self medicate with.

Senegal: The Suit

While in South Africa, Lars sent me an email detailing his plans to take me to a charity ball themed as a prom while we were going to be in NYC. Part of this email implored me to obtain a jacket and pants in the interim, something I figured might be an interesting thing to do in Senegal.

I mentioned this to Herve whereupon he wasted little time taking me to a tailor. Between the tailor, Herve and I there was an obvious and probably insurmountable language barrier. Furthermore, I suspected he probably wasn't able to actually produce what I wanted. Herve must have realised this also as we left shortly thereafter and he asked again what I wanted.

With a change of tact I said, "James Bond's clothes". His eyes lit up.

He made a phonecall and we were walking again, this time coming to an internet cafe. I was perplexed. Herve and the proprietor talked briefly before pulling out four grainy black and white photos; one each of Sean Connery, Roger Moore, Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Craig, all in Bond suits. I grabbed the picture of Craig and then we departed, this time Herve took me to his house. My being perplexed still hadn't subsided.

We followed the rat race through some claustrophobia inducing alleys, bustling with people, stalls spilling out of side rooms and completed with unhygienic smells. Herve passed through a door on the right which opened into a dusty courtyard. Cats and a couple of roosters played in the shadier corners. The buildings enclosing it looked half finished. One was missing a fourth wall altogether (like only the best Boston Legal episodes).



One of Herve's cats, I suspect that this one could entertain itself forever.



A few women met us in the courtyard, Herve introduced them as his daughter, wife and mother in law. None of them spoke English so the interaction was very reliant on smiling, nodding and finger crossing. His wife measured me up in a fashion that I would best describe as endorsing a lot of hope and eschewing the carpentry maxim of, "measure twice, cut once".

Herve said she'd be going into Dakar city to get a suit, as to whether this meant tailored, stolen or retrieved from a coffin, I wasn't sure and wasn't willing to traverse the language difficulty to find out. Dutifully, I handed his wife 30,000 francs and crossed my fingers once more. The way I saw it, these 30,000 francs would buy me one of three stories and lessons.

a) Don't be so trusting of people, don't pay in advance and you'll keep your money
b) Be sure of the quality of the product before you part with cash
c) A bit of faith and ~$50 will win you a form fitting super suit in Senegal

Herve said he would meet me at La Brazzerade at 6PM to bring me back to his house to pick up the suit after his wife came back from Dakar. With that in mind, I spent the afternoon divided between the internet cafe across from the cul-de-sac from La Brazzerade (a story in itself) and the bar at the hotel. At 6PM I relocated myself and my beer to the front of the hotel. For an hour and a half I watched two local women (prostitutes) kick, scratch and scream over a client. This was all in a completely foreign language, but it required very little translation. Even here, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

I relocated back to the bar at 7:30PM, a little disappointed that I had allowed myself to be swindled quite so easily. Copping it mostly on the chin, I settled in, filling my evening in with drinking, observing shameless Frenchmen and some writing. Otherwise engrossed by my own company, I was a little startled some time later in the night by Herve when he came and sat down at my table. Lighting a cigarette, he said that my suit was ready and he was here to take me back to his house for it. Finishing my beer in a time that would make most students blush, I put my things away and followed him into a now abandoned but just as smelly and claustrophobic maze of alleys.

On arrival, his wife was in the courtyard beaming. The cats, roosters and other women were nowhere to be seen, a young boy instead seemingly in their place. I gave his wife a toblerone bar, left over duty free from Johannesburg. Her beaming smile broadened. Herve retrieved the suit from a hanger on the clothesline in a corner of the courtyard. From ten feet, it looked a faultless replica. From two feet, it just looked faultless.

I tried it on, the fit was perfect. Herve's wife said something in French about being dressed fit to meet the president. This was probably a small exaggeration but I was certainly fit to attend a charity ball in NYC the following week...

Senegal: Ile de N'Gor

The easiest achieved on my new to do list with Herve was traveling over to Ile de N'Gor on one of the frequently operating ferries/boats that seemingly moonlight as sieves. Handing Herve the equivalent of $2, he sourced return tickets for the both of us and handed me a life jacket whose best days as a flotation device were probably in the '80s. I'm not a great swimmer but I'd be pretty concerned with myself (or dead) if I failed to make land on either side (400m tops) never mind any one of the dozens of nearer moored boats. Regardless, this nod to health and safety in an African nation - however notional it may be - was both amusing and a little heartwarming; at least they seemed to acknowledge the porous nature of the hull of their vessel.

Ile de N'Gor is very simply a tourist island. There are a handful of hotels, restaurants, bars, markets and homestays aimed at different sized wallets. It can be traversed on foot in under half an hour and reasonably well explored in half a day. It was here that I met Africa YeYe, a man who paints sarongs, makes and plays bongo drums and is more than half a dozen beers in before midday, everyday. Among the five or six of Herve's friends that I would meet, the camps of thought on Africa YeYe's boozing would be evenly populated by people regarding it as tragic or legendary.

For the princely sum of $2, Ile de N'Gor is well worth braving maritime rescue for. It's a little more spacious and less helter skelter than continental N'Gor, I suppose owing to the fact that it's almost exclusively a tourist trap...