It’s late winter 2014. I’m at 140 countries. I’m watching TV. The news is on. They’re covering the Syrian civil war. Now they’re talking about the massive refugee camp across the border in Jordan, the fourth largest city in the country, the Za’atari refugee camp, 2^nd largest camp in the world, with 120,000 Syrians, trapped in the camp, until they can return to Syria after the civil war is over. I try to imagine wandering around there. I imagine walking the camp, and finding a widow with children, to give food and other goods, maybe even adopting the family somehow. Fifty dollars a month I’m sure would make a big difference in their life. But certainly there’s no bank or Western Union in the camp, to even send money, right? For a week the thought keeps coming back. Then I take the step. I turn in frequent flier miles to book a flight to Amman, Jordan. I research the camp more. I discover you need a pass to enter. Or you can bribe your way into the camp. I find Saif online, while trying to hook up a car, for both the camp, and also to see Petra (more on that later). Saif let’s me know, it’s not possible to bribe your way in anymore, you must have a pass administered and awarded by the Ministry of the Interior. So I pull together a reasonable facsimile of journalist credentials, write a nice cover letter, describing the true sympathy I have for how the Jordanians have taken care of the Palestinians for a generation, and now likewise are supporting their brother Syrians, (the credentials might have been a little bit fabricated, but the sentiments are true),  and fax it all to my new friend Manal at the Jordanian Embassy in DC. I try not to bother her, I have plenty of time, it’s five weeks away from when my flight leaves. I wait a few weeks, and check in, she tells me that the documents have all been submitted, everything is on track. I wait another ten days, bug her again, my pass for the camp is not ready yet. Time starts to click by. I want to bother her, bother her a lot, but I play it cool, and now I send a final email, four days before I need to leave. Nothing. Two days before I need to leave, I hear my pass is approved. I can’t believe it. I thank Manal over and over. Eventually I will send a handwritten thank you letter to her – she took care of me. But I will arrive on a Friday, and leave early on a Monday, all the way to Jordan and back for just two full nights, and as a Muslim country, their prayer day is Friday, and Saturday is also part of their weekend. So my only chance to visit the Ministry to fetch my pass is on Sunday, the last day I would have a chance to visit the camp, so If there’s a problem, it will be a problem. I email Saif. I ask if there’s any possibility that a driver, can go to the Ministry, and try to pick up my pass. I’ve not given him a penny yet, he’s working on good faith. I know this can’t work, the embassy has already told me I must secure the pass in-person. I scan my passport, write a note, and forward both along with the email from the embassy with my approval reference number. The next day Saif emails me back, and says the Ministry has told the driver to come back the next day, Thursday. Okay, that’s not good, but not bad. Saif asks me, “Are you sure you’re really approved for a pass?” That’s definitely not good. I urge him on, that all is kosher. He’s Muslim, so those were not my exact words. I don’t know if I’ll really get the pass, but I go on a shopping spree. I buy food, toys, and rummage children’s’ clothes around the house. I pack it all in a nice big red suitcase with wheels, that I’ve paid $20 for at an estate sale.

I fly from Dulles Airport near Washington DC, to Toronto. While there, I get the news from Saif, his driver picked up my pass. If I had waited until Sunday, my last day in Jordan, to try and pick up my pass, they would have said, “Come back tomorrow,” like they did two days ago to Saif’s driver, and it would have been too late for me to get the pass. This is unbelievable, it’s really happening. I can’t believe it in Jordan when I’m really holding it in my hand.

I’m connecting with Egypt Air to Cairo, then to Jordan. There’s a cigarette icon on my boarding pass, with no slash through it. Why is this on my ticket. Is it possible that smoking is allowed. I can’t believe it. I get on the plane and find my seat. Yes, I can smell stale cigarette smoke on the plane. This is going to be bad. I sit. I wait for the smell to get worse, but instead it gets better. It’s not smoke. Someone must have food. Of course smoking is not allowed. We land in Amman. I see what looks like my luggage coming off the plane, as the bus leaves from the plane to the terminal. I’m chill. All is on plan. Like a seasoned traveler, or like anyone that can read, I see on the screen, that our luggage will come to carousel 6. I sit and wait. I wait. I wait some more. Hordes of happy people grab their luggage and rush to go home, or visit relatives. I wait. This can’t be happening. No luggage. It’s time finally to go report my luggage as missing. I fein towards the other carousels hoping for a gift, and bingo, that might be my big red suitcase. It comes around, not sure if it’s mine, and I don’t know whether to grab it or not, I act like I know what I’m doing, and read the tag. I can’t read the tag. I can’t see my name or any name. I pull the bag, and finally see my name. My other bag is there too. I’m good.

I grab a cab, make it to my hotel in Amman. My room completely confuses me. First, I can’t figure out the Do Not Disturb outside the door. I tried to flip it, it won’t move. I start to unscrew it, but they wouldn’t engineer it that way. Only later that night, do some of the rooms have their notices lit up, and I realize there’s a switch inside the room.

I never really even figure out the shower. I figure it out just enough so water at the right temperature is coming out the top, but I know I’m not really doing it right.

There’s a secret button to push to make the hair dryer work.

There’s a hidden lever at the back bottom of the coffee pot. I spend five minutes till I finally figure it out.

I see the green light, the TV is on, but nothing shows. It takes forever before I crunch enough buttons at once, that the TV shows a picture.

I need to get on the Internet. I put in my name and password. Nothing. I call down, and finally figure out, that they have my name as MC KAY, instead of MCKAY. And I’m burning up, the AC won’t come on. Finally I remember that many rooms need the key inserted into the slot by the door. I’m finally set.

Time for a beer, down the elevator, I hold the door for a young Jordanian working in IT, his Muslim name is shortened to Dan, so English speakers like me can remember it more easily. He’s even done work in Washington DC. He asks if we should have coffee. We sit and discuss the current situation of Middle East peace. He’s one-fourth Palestinian. His family has documentation showing they own land in Israel, now lost to the Jews in one of the Arab-Israeli wars. Not only do they have this British documentation from the 1920’s, the paper trail goes back much further to the Ottoman Empire. He tells me that Jews will pay big money to buy the original documentation, so they don’t have to worry about lawsuits in the future. I tell him my vision for Middle East peace, is the entire world pays off all the people on both sides to just make peace. His vision is for a simple multicultural society living in peace in Israel. He has Jewish friends. He has Christian friends. Everyone can get along, it’s the governments that make the problems.

He gives me a ride a mile further into the center of the city. We have to make a U-turn near the hotel at Circle #3, and drive past Reem, the top fast food place in all of Jordan. There is a line day or night. They sell $10,000 worth of these sandwich wraps per day. The owner has been offered a million dollars to sell his establishment, and open franchises, but he refuses. I snack there four times during my trip, beginning later that night.

Here’s a video of them in action.

I ask Dan where to eat, I want a local place. He drops me off at the best spot, and tells me to order Mansaf. I have to write it down to remember the name. It’s plain, but the meat is tender. It’s not my favorite meal of the trip, but I’m glad to have had the national dish.

I walk to to the Roman amphitheater. I’m as tired as the stone. When you have to get up early, it’s hard to have a good night’s sleep. So I did not sleep well before flying. Plus I had to get up at 4:45am. So basically had almost no sleep. Then the flights went overnight, so a second night with almost no sleep. Now I’m being baked by the sun. I’m too tired to even walk up the stairs to the top. Pathetic.

I take a cab back to the hotel, then later go out for a walk. I go down a street with pet food stores on both sides. Why does retail work that way, with a city having all the car dealerships in the same area, or in a third world country, everyone selling just melons, or just flowers or in Jordan, olives sold strewn along the road all the way from the airport. Since age 12, I’ve owned three different Hungarian Vizslas, a rare breed, but here I see Vizslas pictured on the bags of dog food.

There is nowhere to have a beer. I’m in a Muslim country. I’m finally directed to an American style wing joint. They have a great beer called Caraka Ale. I look at the label to confirm it’s brewed in Jordan, it is, but by “Colorado Trading Inc.” I’m confused. Later in the trip I have a beer called Philadelphia. One of the waiters writes out an address for a fun local restaurant. The first two lines are written by him in Arabic for me to show a taxi. The third line, I write, and show back to him to read. He stares blankly for some time. He’s confused. Finally I laugh, and tell him that I just made up some scribbles. Now he laughs.

The taxi takes me to the wrong restaurant.  The menu is awful, all tourist food, but finally I realize there is local food from the appetizer section, and I have a fantastic meal, almost all vegetables, tabouli salad the best ever, falafel, raw veggies, tomato, cucumber, Jordanian olives, and hummus w/ meat. Wow.

I sit with a sheik from Qatar and a Bedouin retired commando. I ask the sheik, “Are you from Saudi Arabia?” and before he answers, I remember that the Saudi’s wear a square band on the top of their heads, on their keffiyeh, and his is oval. I’m upset that I asked him when I actually knew he was not Saudi. This is me the next day, telling my driver the story, showing him how I picked up a tissue box from the table, and put it on my head, exclaiming, “Saudi Saudi!” It was quite funny. My driver later stops, and dresses me with a real Saudi fold. But back to dinner. The commando films me saying something in Arabic all crazy, we post to Facebook, and within moments, we have 30 likes. He tells me by the next day, there will be thousands. My kids would be jealous. The rant went something like this: “[Me yelling something in Arabic] Number One!, [same thing in Arabic] Number One!, [something else in Arabic] Number One!!.” The restaurant is nearly empty still at 8pm, we’re almost the only ones there, I’m told that it fills up solid from 3am to 6am, but I bail to go home and get some sleep.

Here’s a half minute video from my hotel’s outside stairwell, during the call to prayers. As Americans we’re not used to hearing the call to prayers, to us it sounds spooky (hard to hear in this video). Notice the giant flag at the end, that’s the King’s palace.

I walk to an ATM machine by the hotel. This is a video of the rat that ran in front of me. I jumped back screaming. Turns out it was not really a rat.

It’s the next morning. I leave in 45 minutes for the camp. Woke up at 4:45am after three hours sleep, could not get back to sleep. Got up, found cold bottled water, hit the can, and eventually fell back asleep. Morning time I’m drinking in-room instant coffee watching the news. So a good meal the night before, good sleep, all set for today. My driver now is 15 minutes late. I email Saif. The driver calls my room. Saif forgot we agreed that driver would call my room. He’s been sitting downstairs for half an hour. My driver’s name is Moumad. He looks dour in this picture, but he’s funny, smart, and over two days we become brothers. He’s Jordanian, but was born in Kuwait, and lived there for 27 years, until escaping just before the Iraqis invaded. His Arab friends told him not to leave, that all would be okay. Those people were mistaken. He’s lucky his family left just in time. In Kuwait he was a mechanic working on Lamborghini’s. I asked him if he ever got to drive them. Kuwait is very small. He said they would inform the police they were going to drive, then scream them to the border and back. In Jordan there are no Lamborghini’s. Jordan has no oil. So Moumad now drives a taxi, but he’s a content man. I tell him that beyond the camp, I’d like to try and somehow step into Syria to collect it as country number 142. He calls Saif, who reacts strongly. Saif tells Mamoud that if we get caught at the border, they will throw him in jail, confiscate the car, but let me go because I’m an American. I have google satellite maps of the area that I don’t need now. I don’t want to risk his livelihood just for my ego.

We see camels. Do not get too close, they will spit at you, or bite you.

We drive for an hour, topping the rise of a hill.  There’s the camp, wide and white on the horizon. I’m excited, apprehensive, anxious. The camp is less dangerous in the daytime. I hope I can hire a bodyguard. I try to not worry. But Mamoud tells me he’s worried about my safety. He knows a doctor working  in the camp. He says refugees don’t have just physical issues, but mental as well, that if you see your father killed before your eyes, then you change, you just don’t care. Likewise Mamoud could have worked in the camp as a translator for $1,000 monthly, more than driving a taxi, but he did not want to wake up and see the sadness each day.

We get to the first checkpoint. My driver speaks with the soldier. Luckily, instead of me walking down the long road by myself, towing the big red suitcase like a big red flag, among a lot of people coming and going from the camp, they let in my driver and our car too. I am so thankful.

Then they let us both, along with our car again, past the second checkpoint, into the main camp. We’re in. I’m incredulous. We drive to an admission center. Some Europeans are leaving a conference room. They’ve just seen some kind of presentation. None of them make eye contact with me. I think we’re all nervous.

My driver and I go into an office. There’s a soldier behind the desk. We talk. Finally my driver leans over and says, “Do you realize you’re talking to the commandant for the whole camp?” I cannot believe I’m in his office, this man responsible for the welfare of 120,000 refugees. The commandant is exceedingly polite, calm, direct, tall, and strikingly handsome. Later I realize I never caught his name. Days after I’m back in the U.S., there’s an editorial in the Washington Post below, a writer visited him the Monday after my Saturday, and mentions his name as Hmoud, the same as my driver, minus one vowel. I ask him if I can take his picture, but he demurs. He says he can’t afford to have mis-comments associated with his picture. We agree it’s a political issue. He’s called out of his office for a minute, and I jump up, and take quick fuzzy pictures of some maps of the camp on his wall, and of his desk, with the previous king, the current king, and the crowned prince.  Even knowing his name, later I google for an image of him, but he has protected himself. 

He questions me, “So what organization are you with?” I tell him Act2 Media, with a straight face. He’s polite, pauses, and does not say, “Sorry, I’ve never heard of that,” but I know he’s thinking it. “How long did I want to stay in the camp?” I tell him just an hour or two is fine. “Would I interview people?” Yes, I’d like to interview a few people. An assistant brings in tea. We move to the bigger issue. He is concerned about my safety. So am I. He makes a decision, and requests a small but stern security associate to escort us both. I’m guessing this official will have to write up a report about my visit afterwards. I also find out that the paperwork sent to the camp, once my pass was approved by the Ministry of the Interior, explicitly addressed the security concerns for my safety.  This security officer is on our team, although sullen, he’s trying to help the whole time. The commandant even approves letting my driver and the car drive us everywhere in the camp with this officer. Then I start asking him questions, questions I would ask anyone in this situation, but strangely they’re the same questions as if I really am a journalist. How many come to the camp each day on average. 200. Didn’t it used to be about 350? Yes. How many are in the camp now, is it 120m? Yes. So you’re at capacity? Yes. You have a new camp, where is that? South, far. And all the overage goes there? Yes. How long have you been commandant? A year. And the Syrians can leave when they want? Yes, but we interview them. If they have a wife and kids, they can’t leave. If someone needs them here, they can’t leave. How do they get to the border, do you take them? Yes we have a bus. What’s the longest a refugee has been here? We opened in July of 2012. “This is all public knowledge,” he says. I say, “Yes, I saw on google from satellite pictures, how the camp has grown,” as I motion big, bigger, bigger with my hands. He laughs. I laugh. The tea we’re served is sweet. I don’t drink sweet tea, but this is a special occasion. It’s time to leave. The tea is so hot, I have not finished it, I drink some more, and although a tiny cup, cannot finish it, but I see no one has. The tea is not important. The offering of the of the tea, the sharing of the tea, is what’s important. At the car, the security officer asks about the suitcase. I ask if there’s a distribution center I can donate it to, if we can’t bring it with us. No. But we leave with the suitcase still in the trunk.

The security officer calls someone as we drive through the camp. He knows I’m looking for a widow with children. We drive, then turn around. He’s made contact with a strikingly tall older handsome bearded Bedouin elder in a flowing white robe, who directs our car to the tent of a woman who has arrived in the camp just six weeks before. I gently take his worry beads from his hand and flick them myself. He smiles.

We take our shoes off in a little ante-room and all enter this woman’s tent. Her name is Aziza. She’s from Alsuna Maim. It’s a surreal moment. She and her children stop eating to welcome us. Her three young boys are ages 3, 6, & 7. She’s just cooked lunch. I ask her how.

I look to the cookstove in a separate area off the back of the tent along with the few rationed supplies. Introductions ensue, then as a ‘journalist’ I get down to the business of ‘interviewing’ her. I have requested that we find a woman with children, who has lost a husband, and this woman’s husband and four brothers have all been murdered in prison in Syria. He was in prison for a year and a half, until a year ago, she’s told he’s dead. She never receives the body. This should be a moment of great heartache as we discuss it, but she still smiles a lot. I tell my driver, the only one that can speak English, to tell her that she seems very strong. She says she is strong for her children. She’s fairly young. Afterwards all of us men agree that she is attractive. We talk for awhile. Once we’re all comfortable with the situation, my driver goes back to the car to get the suitcase. I offer to go, but he says it would attract less attention if it was just him. We lay the suitcase in front of the family, and I unzip it, showing some things. “This is Cayenne, hot pepper from Mexico, this is Italian seasonings,” my driver translates. I’m nervous. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be a pseudo-journalist or just me. I’m looking in the suitcase, then it hits me, there are my kids’ old baseball gloves. I’m so happy to pull out the baseball and gloves, and then show the kids how to catch a ball in a glove. I try not to be one of those people who subscribe all things to fate, but that I had baseball gloves perfectly suited for her three boys, it did seem like all of this was meant to happen. I’m guessing these are the only baseball gloves in the entire camp. Maybe these boys someday will even have sons to tell the story, and hand down these gloves to. I ask what she’s given each month. She receives $13 in food coupons. Later I’m told they can get a few more things from NGO’s like UNICEF. I gave her some money as well as we leave. I reach to shake her hand. I’m not allowed to shake a Muslim woman’s hand, even my driver later says that he has never touched his brother’s wife in any way, even just shaking hands, so I boldly throw her a kiss and a big smile, pat my heart, with lots of waves, she smiling in return.

This is a half minute of video from inside the tent.

A lot of old women gather outside the tent. I was not allowed to photograph this woman inside, but when she came out of the tent, I took a photo from a distance, and somehow I think she knew and the men approved as well, because she had previously demurred – it was her way of saying thank you.

Here’s a close up of Aziza from the same picture above.

It turns out, there is indeed Western Union in the camp, but we forget to ask for her phone number. My driver and I can’t believe we’ve forgotten. It’s the only way that I can send her more money in the future, to call and tell her a Western Union control number. My driver knows people in the camp, and luckily we took a picture of her ID, so he likely will be able to eventually get her number, and Saif will email it to me. We’ll find her somehow.

This is a video of the surroundings outside Aziza’s tent after we got back to the car.

This is the main street in the camp, Champ Elyses, named by the French NGO’s. This is 8 minutes of one straight shot, so just watch till you get bored, then bail out.

The miracle of the whole event started from a crazy thought in my mind in America, through the email to the owner of a tourist service, to the bond I made with his English-speaking driver, to the cooperation of the commandant, then the security officer, then the elder Bedouin, to finally living this small reality of a dream for perhaps ten minutes. The whole thing will be one of the most memorable days of my life. As we left, the driver and security officer told me that my gift was not to this woman, but that it was a gift to God, and a message of peace to anyone hearing of it. That really touched me. My driver told me that the security officer had worked there for a year, and that this was the first he had ever heard of someone coming with a package of gifts like this, especially alone, and from so far away. Everything I thought about visiting this refugee camp, and gifting a widowed family was very unrealistic, but somehow it  turned out perfectly anyway. The Syrian civil war will continue still for many years. It’s hard knowing when this woman might make it home, and what kind of life she will have once there. I’d like to think that someday, if even in ten years time, I will visit her sons and her there in Syria, and we’ll have another less-arbitrary but still as meaningful experience.

On the way home I say, “Libya, Egypt, Tunisia, Syria, almost Iran, why did Jordan have no Arab Spring.” I already know the answer, that Jordan is governed fairly, even though it’s a constitutional monarchy. Mamoud says, “King Abdullah can pilot a helicopter, he’s a marine, he’s head of all the marines – our king is a real king!”

That night there’s a wedding in my hotel.

I eat at Reem yet again. I go to sleep early, as I need to get up at 7am, to meet Mamoud again the next day, we’re driving three and a half hours to visit Petra. There are many wonders of the world that don’t quite live up to expectations. Machu Picchu in Peru is one that exceeds. Petra I learn is another. The entrance fee is $50. A tour is another $50, but I know I can easily attach myself. I do. And as part of the tour, they hand me another free ticket. I didn’t even have to spend the first $50 if I had known (I’m not complaining). It’s a long hike down through a canyon, about an hour, a crevice at times, till you finally make it to the main area, containing the famous treasury, along with hundreds of tombs and apartments all carved into the sandstone. Petra was deserted in the 13th century, and not discovered again until 1811 (much like Angkor Wat in Cambodia was not popularized in the West till 1850). I highly recommend a trip to Jordan’s #1 attraction.

Here’s a half minute video of Treasury, plus pictures afterwards.

Am finished ‘collecting’ the Western Hemisphere land mass countries (although many Caribbean islands still left to go). Finished w/ Europe. Finished w/ Asia. Am at 126 countries as of the end of this trip to Africa. Running out of easy countries now. Have a lot of Africa left still, and the “stan” countries, that Herman Cain thought were funny to say. Need the war zone countries, they’re not easy. Arab Spring countries now are not easy. Overall my travel is getting interesting (from the Medieval curse, “May you live in interesting times”).

So here I go, leaving while it’s snowing at Dulles Airport, to arrive in a desert country Djibouti, as a friend called it years ago, “the anus of the world.” I’m an aisle-sitting guy on flights, so I can hit the bathroom whenever I want, but got a window seat to fly the one-hour connection from the capital of Ethiopia, Addis Ababa, over the Great Rift Valley, where humanity developed and walked out of Africa. Had read about Lake Assail, the lowest point in Africa, so was ready when I saw it below me, to take a picture. I hate seeing pic’s folks have taken out their plane window, seems pathetic somehow to take photos out of a plane, so novice-like; am sorry to do this, but here’s Africa’s version of our Death Valley [update: no picture available, will explain shortly].

Months back, an industry associate’s significant other, whose company provides security for U.S. personnel, when she heard I was going to Djibouti, asked, “What is Bill going to do for security?” Huh? Wha? I didn’t really get it. A month later, the Washington Post, had a front-page story, running to two full pages inside, describing the U.S.’s largest drone base in the world, outside of Afghanistan. On the other side of the tarmac where we were going to land, is Camp Lemonier, originally a French Legionnaire base, now leased from Djibouti by the U.S. after 9/11, as our only base in Africa, an interesting story about the birds roosting, and goats living there when the U.S. first came in, our assets still on a ship off-shore, till we could clean everything up. Whenever you hear about a drone strike in Yemen, this is the base from where it took off.

So I’ve been hoping to see our drones, but the plane lands the wrong direction for my window view, darn, but whoopee, it’s turning around, and there they are, two drones right outside my window, got a picture, a bit grainy when I crop it closer [update: no picture available, will explain shortly].

A month ago was flying from Paraguay to Uruguay, and my luggage never showed up, was cold as hell, only wearing shorts in Montevideo, all jeans cost $200 there, and they don’t sell relaxed fit, only normal and skinny fit. I’m forced to buy a pair. My butt has not looked so good in pants since high school, but not comfortable. I make it back to VA, days before my bag finally shows up there, I never do receive it in Uruguay. So I just recently had this bad lost luggage incident. I arrive now in Djibouti, and ask myself why was I even thinking my bag would show up. Our flight connection through Ethiopia is a bit late due to the snow in VA. There’s a girl there, waiting for her bag too, I say hello, and ask if she speaks French, she says yes, with an American accent. She has much more faith than me that her bag, our bags, are going to show up. I’m shortly filling out paperwork for a missing bag.

The Sheraton has told me they have a shuttle that will be waiting. I walk around the airport for ten minutes, looking for a shuttle or someone holding a sign with my name. I’m giving up, I’ll need to get a cab. I’m standing feeling frustrated, and weirdly, I notice the door right next to me says Sheraton. Huh? Wha? I knock, and sure enough, there’s someone inside expecting me. (Back in U.S., I email the woman at the Sheraton, telling her she should be more specific, and tell customers to look for the office.) I go to the Sheraton. I’ve read about it on Trip Advisor, very funny the descriptions, none good, the most polite saying, “a Sheraton by name only.” My luggage arrives that night thankfully on another flight. I have the hotel go pick it up for me.

I’m at the bar. A beer costs $10. Ouch. I tease the girl bartender at the Sheraton, as she has a hickey on her neck, very embarrassed that I pointed it out, tried to blame it on her boyfriend, “Ya right,” I think; it takes two to tango. Beyond the hickey, I see two small black tattoo dots where her uni-brow would be. I ask her about them, and she says, maybe defensively, I’m not sure, that they’re not religious, just that her mother had them, so she got them at a young age too. I see other women on my trip, with a similar prison-tattoo-looking Christian-cross on their forehead. They are Coptic (or Coptie I think for plural). Beyond the forehead, I see one with small dot and bubble tattoos all along the jaw line; Mike Tyson please take note. I’ve seen these Coptic Christian tattoos in Egypt, and interestingly, on the wrist of the girl that checked me in at Dulles airport to start my trip. But I’ve never seen the upgrade, with the jawline dot and bubble tattoos.

The next night I need a good meal. A French guy, and folks working the bar, recommend a restaurant, a short walk away. I steel myself, and head out into the Djibouti night, a bit apprehensive. I go down to the roundabout, take a right, find the restaurant, and it’s closed. Hmm. I have to decide whether to find another restaurant on my own, further towards the center of town, or walk back to the Sheraton. I decide to head back. The bartender explains that a restaurant would be closed on a Friday night, not like on a Monday here in the U.S., as Friday is the Muslim day of prayer. I understand, agree, and chime in, that Jews have their Sabbath on Saturday, and Christians’ day of rest and prayer is Sunday. Later I think about what it would be like if all three religions of Abraham, had the same day of rest and prayer. The French guy recommends another restaurant. I take a cab. I order the mixed fish, three kinds, with shrimp, and squid. I take a picture [update: no picture available, will explain shortly].

A girl walks in while I’m eating, comes right up to me, is talking to me, I wonder what she wants from me, she’s very bold, then she says something about luggage, and I realize it’s the very same girl from the airport. Turns out, her brother is my waiter. Turns out, she met a U.S. serviceman, and lives with him in Atlanta. My waiter is going to visit them in Georgia next month. Small world.

It’s the next day, morning, and time to fly to Ethiopia. I hire a driver in the morning, and we start off on the 45-minute drive to the border with Somalia. It’s not even really the border with Somalia, it’s the northern part of Somalia, that has broken off, has no government, and is called Somaliland. I have no visa. My goal is to somehow talk my way across the border, just to get one foot over. I’ve done this elsewhere. As warned the day before when hiring my driver, the road is hell, dirt with giant potholes everywhere. I need to make it back to catch my flight, so I’m wishing that my driver would go a bit faster, at least as fast as the giant trucks that are occasionally passing us, blowing dust everywhere. Way up ahead, too quickly to take a picture, I’m amazed to see a troop of baboons cross the road, about a dozen of them. We make it to the border. We go talk to the sole border guard, sitting by the gate, in his blue shirt. He’s saying I cannot cross. But my driver is still talking to him, smiling, begging for me. We’re making progress. Then a car pulls up, and out steps the border guard’s boss, in a white shirt. Now the blue shirt guard is stiffening up. I’m not going to be able to make it across. We go back to the car about 50 feet away. I’m sinking, but I see the border guard walk off to the office. I high-step it to the gate, and before anyone can stop me, put my foot under the gate’s bar, and touch Somaliland. Success. I walk away, then turn back to take a video of the crossing point. The blue shirt guard walks out while I’m filming and starts yelling at me and waiving his arms. I jump in the car [update: no video  available, will explain shortly].

We’re late now, I’m worrying about making my flight. We turn around, and shortly about 20 camels are crossing the road, holding us up. I film it  [update: no video  available, will explain shortly].

We’re driving through the dust, and my driver starts looking out his window in a weird way, and then stops the car. A flat tire. What? No way. Interestingly, we were driving just as slow with four good tires, as we were with only three. Okay fine, we’re out of the car now, the trunk is open, he pulls a spare tire out, pulls out the tire wrench, then moves things around in the trunk, looks me in the eye, and says, “I’m sorry, I left the jack at home, I meant to put it back in the car yesterday.” I’m thinking, why would someone take their jack out of their car? We’re stuck on a desert road, flat tire, no jack, and 30 minutes from the airport. I’m trying to keep myself calm. A giant truck zooms by 5 minutes later. Dust in our face. Five minutes more, and we can see a car way off in the distance. The car finally approaches. Hope. My driver flags him down, but he does not stop. We go back to standing in the silence of the desert. Five minutes later, another car, bingo, they stop, and as the driver helps us, I slip cash into his hand. He’s happy. My driver is happy. I’m happy. I have one of the other guy’s passengers take my picture with the tire repair happening behind me [update: no picture available, will explain shortly].

We make it to the airport, it’s going to be close. I wait in line. I finally check in. The woman at the counter asks me where my ticket is. Huh? Wha? I tell her it’s electronic. She says it’s not. She tells me to go upstairs to their office, and work it out. Oh god. I walk off, leaving my suitcase. She calls me back, and tells me to take my suitcase. I lug it up the stairs, and barely find the office, which is marked with a hand scribbled piece of paper saying, “Office.” I hear yelling from back down the hall. A guard has chased me upstairs. I’m confused about what he’s saying. I finally understand that suitcases are not allowed upstairs. I lug my bag all the way back down, fight through the people in line, to set my suitcase back down where it was before. I glare at the check-in lady, and walk back upstairs. The ticket agent upstairs confirms my credit card info as he processes a paper ticket. I make my flight.

I need to see the Redskins play the Cowboys. The game is flexed to a Sunday night at 8:30pm, which is 4:30am in Ethiopia. I’ve bought a $200 product just to see this game, it’s called Slingbox, you plug it into your TV cablebox at home, and also into your router, and you can watch your own home TV, from anywhere in the world that has internet. But my hotel’s connection is out of service 95% of the time, and worse than a 28k AOL dial-up otherwise. (Sidenote: actor son Marley gets hired for a small role in a TV pilot, but I don’t receive and respond to the email in time, so the casting agent gives the role to another kid.) I sleep a few hours, get up at 3am, and taxi to a Hilton by 4am. The lobby is cold and barren. The reception desk attendant apologizes, that I can’t get internet without a room number, no free wifi. Damn. He recommends the Jupiter hotel. I taxi again. Success, this hotel has a nice bar, one that is open, and the internet is free and working. The connection is slow. When I launch Slingbox, and put the game on, the football players are blobs, worse than when video games were first invented, but at least I can follow the game. The bartender does not give up looking for the game on the TV, and for 10 minutes keeps slowly clicking through every channel they have, and my god, a miracle, there’s the game. Unbelievable. I run at him, and give him a big hug. He’s as shocked getting a hug, as I am that he found the game. We watch the game together, and I teach him the basic rules of the game (you get four downs, to get at least ten yards, to get four more downs, and scores are either 3 for a kick, or 7 for a touchdown, it’s that simple). He gets into watching the game so much, that when his shift is over, he stays anyway, to see the end of the game. Every time the Redskins score, I sing the team’s fight song at the top of my lungs (“Hail to the Redskins, hail victory, hail to the Redskins, fight for old DC”). Every time I sing, Ethiopians peek around the corner, and stare at me wondering what the heck is going on so loudly and so early in the morning. Watching the Redskins win, is the highlight of my trip to Africa up to that point. I take a picture of the bartender standing next to the TV [update: no picture available, will explain shortly].

I go back to the hotel after the game, go back to sleep for a bit, then go out for dinner. I ask the receptionist where to eat, she says there’s only one restaurant close enough to walk to, it’s called 2000 Habesha. I cross the street, and head up. I don’t see it. I keep going. I finally give up, get a taxi, and he takes me back to near the hotel, down a little dirt alley that I had walked by, and there’s the restaurant. I go in. The place is amazing. The have a giant full buffet, with a band playing. I know how to eat Ethiopian. I take the spongy pancake type bread, spread it all over my plate, then put big spoons of various types of food all over the bread. You eat by taking a bit of the bread, and pinching the food with it, no silverware used or needed. The food is wonderful. Afterwards they bring soap, a big silver bowl, and an ornate water jug, and pour water letting you wash your hands. The band is playing native Ethiopian music. The sound is wonderful. The variety of instruments are wooden things I’ve never seen, and make a magical sound. I make eye contact with the drummer, and we smile at each other all night, while I watch various dancers and singers coming out to perform. I go back the next night, the drummer smiles. I go back my third night too, as the food and music is so good. The drummer smiles at me each time all evening. I’m such a regular now, I get up on stage with the singer, and make some sounds. About 30 people applaud when I step off after about a minute. If the band had an electric guitar or two, and a singer like Mick Jagger, they would be world famous. I take a video of the band playing, with close-ups of each of the seven musicians and their instruments [update: no video available, will explain shortly].

I head to another bar I saw, when I missed the restaurant the first night. Inside there’s another band, with dancers, they’re great too. I’m having a super great night. I could not be any happier. I head back to the hotel, go around the corner, and head up the street to another bar. Four guys are walking down the street. There are two really big guys, a medium sized guy, and a little shorty guy. They’re in their early 20’s. I start to walk around them to one side, but they spread out, and I realize I need to walk straight through them, and they’ll open up to let me pass. As I get closer, they don’t open up. The little shorty guy is now on my left. As I stop, he stops, then swings a punch to my face. I turn my head along with the direction of the punch, so it hits with about 20% force. I’m swinging back at him, miss him, and we grapple down onto the street. I’ve seen enough American movies to know it’s easy to throw these bad guys off, and kick their butts. But that does not happen. I’m stuck now, under shorty guy, being choked, down on the street. I’m still confused about why they’re going to beat the crap out of me. I feel hands going through all of my pockets. I’m slightly relieved to think maybe it’s ‘just’ a robbery, they’re not just going to beat me up for the fun of it, which I probably deserve anyway for some cosmic reason. I’m immobile. I can’t move. I try and poke my thumb into shorty’s eye. He closes his eye, my thumb is doing nothing, except making him choke me harder. I’m panicking now, as I get that I-can’t-breath feeling. I realize I’m not going to kick these four guys’ butt. I wheeze out, “You’re killing me, you’re killing me,” and they’re finished. They skip away, laughing. I stand up, still confused, feeling my pockets. My iPhone is gone from my front pocket. I’m finally fully realizing that I’ve just been mugged. I yell at them. I want to yell, “F%$# YOU!!!!,” but I realize they can just as easily walk back, and beat me up, so I yell the worst thing that can be said about you by Bill McKay, “UNCOOL!!!…..UNCOOL!!!”  This explains why I have no pictures or video for this report.

In retrospect I realize that these guys were actually pretty nice. I did not really get hurt. It was a fairly polite robbery. And because I was being held down on the street on my butt, they missed getting my wallet, which would have been a real disaster, in Africa with no credit cards. Later I think I could have instead yelled, “Hey, let’s have a beer,” and maybe I could have bought my phone back.

I fly on to Kenya the next day. I’m a bit depressed from the night before. I want to go home 3 days early (also to see the Redskins play their playoff game). Ethiopian Airlines has no seats to get me home. I call Johnson, the travel agent guy I had spoken to at the tourist counter at the airport. We negotiate for me to get a driver, to take me to the border of Tanzania. Patrick the driver is way cool, fun to hang with, easy to talk to. We drive the two hours to the border. The countryside is beautiful, wide valleys with hills in the distance. The trees are those kind that look flat at the top. It’s just how I’ve pictured Africa. We’re going by folks from the famous Masai tribe. This is the tribe, with the men wrapped in red throws, down to their knees, carrying a stick. It’s like a movie, but this is real and normal. We see them every few miles walking along the road. It’s strange though; where are the huts or houses? I talk to a teenager later in the day, he plays rugby, and wants to play American football, he explains that the Masai don’t like to have their houses near the road. There are no buildings of any kind either. Patrick explains just a few people own all the land between Nairobi and Tanzania, but the Masai don’t care, because they are just herders, and the land owners allow them to walk their cattle everywhere.

I’m having a great day. I’m no longer depressed. I no longer want to go home early. All of a sudden, the automatic transmission car downshifts into a lower gear, all on its own. Huh? Wha? Patrick and I look at each other. We start talking about what could be wrong. We pull over. Patrick grabs my water bottle (I’m still a little insulted by this), and his water bottle, opens the hood, opens the radiator, be careful it’s hot, and pours the water in. It does not top-off. We walk down the little hill to a house. I smile to the family, as Patrick borrows a water jug, and fills it. We top-off the radiator. He returns the jug. The whole time, there’s an old Masai standing with us at the car. I finally ask if I can hold his stick. It’s a small highlight of the day. We get back in the car, drive off, and somehow the car is fine. Life is good. We make it to the border. I’m nervous about getting over the border with no visa, and excited to get my 126th country. We walk past trucks, and the Kenyan border guardhouse, and past an ugly (but beautiful to me) hand painted wooden sign that says, Welcome to Tanzania. Up ahead is another guardhouse. I’m standing just past the sign with a smile. Patrick asks if I want to walk farther, and I say, “No, this is fine.” I laugh, “This is all I wanted.” Patrick laughs too. We turn around. I’m ready for a beer, and tell Patrick such. He points to the gas station on the right, saying we can get beer there. But there are a line of shacks on the left, and one has the letters B A R painted at the top above the doorway. I point and direct us there. We sit. I order a beer. The electricity they tell me has been off. The beer is not cold, but it’s cool enough to enjoy. Patrick and I had agreed to eat at the border. He goes for a walk, while I sit and stare at the women just in front of me on the street side, selling mangoes and other fruit and vegetables. No one pays any attention to me. I like that. Only a little boy is coming up to me, and smiling and laughing. I have another beer. Patrick comes back, and says we can get grilled beef. I say good. He leaves again. In 30 minutes he goes to pick it up to bring back to the shack. I walk with him. We step over the uneven dirt terrain down to another shack. There are two large hunks of meat hanging unrefrigerated in the front. I step inside, and in the back, there’s a grill, with a softball shaped piece of beef on the grill. They take off the meat, and put it on a tray, along with some salsa, and a wonderful corn bread type side dish, which is hard to describe (sort of like if you poured white grits into a pan, let it harden, then cut it like slices of bread, was fantastic). We go back to our shack, with the grill guy following, who then cuts the beef into pieces. The meat is terribly tough and chewy, but has a great charcoal flavor. I like it. We end up sitting at this shack for many hours. It’s perhaps the highlight of my trip to Africa.

We start our drive back to Nairobi from Tanzania. Almost immediately the car downshifts all on its own again. Our speed drops from 60mph, to 30mph, and even at that slow speed, the gear is winding way too high. We’re both nervous we’re not going to make it back. Patrick had bought a jug, and filled it with water by our shack, and now is pulling over often, to pour more water into the radiator. The car is running hot. The car is burning through gas quickly with the high rev’ing of the gears and engine. We pull over every 15 minutes. The car for some reason is now belching fumes inside the car. We put up the windows, but that doesn’t help. We put the windows back down, but that doesn’t help either. I can’t take the fumes. Now I hear this loud banging in the trunk. I look at Patrick. He looks at me. We realize the car is backfiring. Now the fumes are getting even worse. My eyes are starting to burn. Occasionally I put my head out the window, and gulp down fresh air. Occasionally the fumes go back to just being bad, instead of terrible, and ironically I’m relieved to have them be just bad, when before, the bad level had seemed terrible. We drive along with the winding gears, and backfiring, for hours. Each hill we go up makes everything even worse. I see some buildings, and say, “Oh, we must be close to Nairobi now?,” and Patrick responds, “We’re halfway there.” I’m sad. We keep stopping for gas over and over. Why doesn’t Patrick put more gas in the car, instead of just a little at a time? We’re out of gas now. We’re on the side of the road trying to flag down cars. I’m remembering being stranded from the flat tire incident earlier in my trip. This is my second time to be stranded. Patrick is waving, and a car pulls over. Patrick leaves with the car. Someone from the car stays with me. I make small talk with this guy. A Masai herding his cows, comes over to stand as well. This is when the teenager comes and discusses American football. The four of us stand there on the side of the road for half an hour. Patrick finally arrives back, pours some gas, and we’re on our way with the fumes and backfiring once again. Our two hour drive from Tanzania turns into a five hour drive to get back, but we make it. I see Patrick a few times over the next few days, he eventually takes me to the airport, and I find out, the problem with the car was the clutch for the automatic transmission.

Back in Nairobi at night, I don’t want to get robbed again, so I’m taking taxis at night, even if I only need to go two blocks. While standing one evening getting change at the Hilton reception desk, another guest comes up, complaining that he was just accosted at the ATM across the street by men demanding money, but he ran away back to the hotel. He said there were people outside the bank, and even a security guard, that did nothing to help.

I go each night to a club I had read about. I have a great time. There’s a band. On my last night, coming out of the bathroom next to the stage, someone from the band hands me a jingly percussion bell instrument, but I’m having a hard time shaking it in unison with the band. So I hand it back smiling, and start to sing instead. The guy motions to an open mic on a stand, and once again, I’m on stage now, singing with the band, doing a bluesy howling American rock counterpoint, to the lilting high vocals of the other two singers. I’m singing any nonsense words that pop into my head, but it’s good I know, because I’m in tune, on key. I go back around the corner to the table. Patrick is there. I tell him I was just on stage singing. He starts laughing hysterically. He tells me that everyone over by our table, out of sight of the band, was asking, “Wow, what’s that, a new sound?”  He tells me I sounded good. I’m laughing hysterically now too. My trip to Africa is over.

Here I am in West Africa. Sometimes I’ll be somewhere, and just for a second, I’ll blank on where I am as I look around, and have to ask myself, “Where AM I,” then have to think for half a second, and say to myself, “Oh yes, I’m in Ghana,” or wherever. I’ve had a bunch of those twists in the last week.

I get to Dulles airport to fly to West Africa the day after Xmas. I booked via Expedia, and I’ve never had a problem, but at the ticket counter for KLM, nothing, they’ve never heard of me, I show them my Expedia booking number, and itinerary, and they continue to look at me like I have three heads. The guy goes in the back. The guy comes back out, nothing. So I call Expedia, and they say I never paid for my tickets. What? So I work with the guy at the counter to rebook the whole thing. Time is clicking away. He’s all nervous like me, trying to bang this whole thing in before it’s too late to leave, which it’s pretty close. So my fare now is hundreds of dollars higher, pain, but at least I’m back on plan. He looks up at me, and says, “Your credit card just rejected the charge,” (little do I know, that this is just the beginning of my money issues). Luckily, I have an AMEX card with me, and bingo, I’m back on plan. I have a new Visa card. I still have no idea why it locked up, I’m not going to call the US from Africa to talk to someone in India, and cost me $50 to figure it out right now.  I rush to the gate, and to compound being late, I get off at the wrong stop on the airport tram, but I make my flight.

I fly to Africa via Amsterdam, but because I paid extra for the flight (read: Business Class, ouch), I realize I may have access to the KLM lounge in Amsterdam. It works. I’m in. I eat three plates of food, while drinking many fine Heinekens, all free in the lounge. I find this dark resting room thing, that I’ve never seen at an airport before, and go in to get two hours sleep. That does not work out exactly. I find one of the resting lounges they have, but they’re all curled in a way, that you can only lay on your back. So as I do my best to drift away, I realize this room with little cubicle things for each of us, is full of loud snoring. I never really sleep. I come out later, and get on my laptop for a bit, before catching the flight to Accra, Ghana.

I’m now in Ghana. I’m going to through customs. I’m through. Great, that’s 114 countries I’ve been to. I go to the bathroom while waiting for my baggage, and hear a guy in the stall  throwing up his guts. As I leave bathroom, I pass another guy coming in, and we smile at each other about what we’re hearing from the stall. Welcome to West Africa.

My bag, where is my bag. I wait forever. No way my bag made the flight. Visions of no toothbrush in the morning or anything else, till finally, god is great, my bag shows up. I’m back on plan.

I look for the ride I arranged with hotel. I see a guy holding a sign with three names, one of which sounds interestingly like mine; Gilliam (much like William) McVey (much like McKay). I go up to the guy, and say my hotel name, and he nods yes, but not convincingly. I say the name of the woman that runs the hotel, he looks confused, I’m certainly confused, and he responds with a guy’s name. I say the woman’s name Donna again, and he says yes. Good. I’m on plan. He’s waiting for two other people as well, so after 10 minutes with this guy, I get bored, and tell him I’m going into the other greeting area where there’s a bar, I’ll have a beer, and as I walk down the gauntlet of folks, there’s another guy with a much less confusing sign which says, William McKay. Great. I’m on plan.

So this guy’s name is Nana. He’s 27. He’s not the driver, but he has a taxi for us.  He sort of works for the hotel, and also makes and sells shoes, sewing beads on flip flops, or using cheap leather sliced through rubber to make sandals. Thus begins my four-day adventure with my new best friend, Nana.

I’m fine in the room for two days, then they ask me to move to another room. I had said I was going to be there for two days. They can let me stay longer, but someone else reserved that room. I go up to another room, which sits by itself, sort of hanging over the street. All night long, for the next couple nights, I get no sleep, hearing dogs, cars, music, machinery, trucks, laughing, yelling. In the morning, there was even a weird clicking on the window for five minutes. I open the curtains, and it’s a bird, flying repeatedly into the window with its beak. What? I’m guessing that the window was mirrored on the outside, and so the bird thought it was another bird of the same species. The TV only gets one channel. I’d say at least it was good that it was in English, but it only showed old shows from the 70’s, which weren’t even good then. After the first day in the room, the TV no longer works at all. The shower has no hot water.

Now my money problems really start. Turns out in Ghana, and most of Africa, debit cards and credit cards don’t work like they do in the U.S.  Nana and I go to an ATM. Neither of my ATM cards work. We go to another. Nothing. We must have gone to about 8 before giving up. The next day I go to the Citibank, my bank, but we can’t find it. I had googled it, found an address, but turns out it does not really exist. There are no Citibanks anywhere in West Africa. But at another bank a lady tells me to go to Ghana Commercial bank, and finally, thank god, my debit card works. The way things work here, is that there’s no difference between debit cards and credit cards really, the key is whether it’s a Visa card, or Mastercard. Almost no bank is affiliated with Mastercard like my debit cards. And my other problem is for my Visa card, I have no PIN. I would rarely ever want to charge my credit card to get cash in the States, so I have no PIN (I’ll get one now when I get back). I go back to the bank the next day, and get a bunch more money. I’m leaving Ghana soon, so need to change it back into dollars. The woman working at the money changer place, turns out has a daughter living in the town over from me in Herndon, VA, but that does not stop her from giving me at least one counterfeit $100 bill that gets refused later by a hotel. The only thing that has saved me, is using Hotels.com to pay for all of my hotel stays, otherwise I’d be destitute living on the streets, selling coconuts.

So for four days, I go everywhere with Nana. We got to Reggae Night one night at the beach. There were about 1,000 folks partying at night on the beach. I was the only White person there that I saw for most of the night (which instead of being nervous, I kind of like).

Nana had this habit of going crazy with cabs. He’d say he wanted to show me a bar, and he’d point, like it was just down the street, we get in a cab, and go forever, 30 minutes way across the city. For that cab trip, it was mainly so he could be seen with me, back over where he used to work. Or same thing another time, he wants to show me his son, so we get into a cab, and 30 minutes later, we’re finally there. When you’re jet lagged and not getting any sleep, it’s hard to eat. And it’s hard to feel comfortable eating food you’re not used to. So you’re rarely ever full. Many days I go the whole day with one small meal, once as bad as a single can of tuna and crackers for the whole day. So one night I’m talking about how Jamaicans have meat patties. And we talk to a woman that mentions a place that sells them. So we hop in a cab, and you guessed it, 30 minutes later we found the place, the third long cab ride that Nana snookered me into. The good news is that although the bakery mainly sells sweets, we see the very last two meat pies they have – we just barely score them. And the place next door cooks us an order of fried rice to share, the last meal they cook before closing. We were right under the wire on both counts. God has smiled on us, I’m finally full.

Other highlights with Nana included taking footpaths through the squatter neighborhoods (I always smile to myself, thinking about folks that I know, that would freak out with the poverty and trash, plus it’s easy to feel paranoid where you so obviously don’t belong, but I’m used to it), and seeing Nana’s son, such a handsome baby boy.  Also I hung with Nana on New Years Eve, and the bar we were at had their own professional quality fireworks that were shooting up in the air right outside the front door. It was all smiles and laughs from everyone standing around (you were never quite sure, which direction the thing was going to shoot, so a lot of nervous laughter).

Okay, I left Ghana this morning by hellish bus at 6am, and spent maybe 7 hours going across Togo, and I’m now in Benin. I’m up to 116 countries now. Tomorrow I’ll go to Nigeria, but just for a day, then back here, and fly to Senegal the next day, and will have some days to make it to Gambia. They don’t have much in the way of taxis here in Cotonou, Benin, seems you hop on the back of a motorbike to get around, the guy is wearing a special yellow shirt uniform, it cost me $8 to go maybe four miles from the bus drop-off, to my hotel, my luggage up on the guy’s handlebars, pretty sure that was more like a $2 or $4 ride, but they have you nailed when you get off of the bus, all White and desperate looking. It’s worth paying a bit extra, you just say the hell with it, grind through your trip trying to ignore having to overpay, no reason to freak over an extra $4 loser fee.

I’ve decided to treat myself to a real dinner. As I mentioned, it’s really hard to eat on a trip like this, when you’re tired, and hot (I’m trying not to say hungover as well). You have to force yourself to eat, especially knowing you may want to have a couple beers later. And in Ghana NO fast food joints of any kind. For my whole trip here in multiple countries, I have not seen a single McDonalds, or Wendy’s or even a Jollibees. So am at a Novotel and just ordered a steak. It’s expensive, so I won’t mention the price, most of you know that I’m generally cheap as hell on these trips. I bring it up to mention, that the sides included french fries or boiled potatoes, and meanwhile the lamb shank on the menu comes with mashed potatoes, and I knew when I asked for mashed potatoes as my side, it would be a problem. Right, the waitress said no. So I said, let me talk to the chef. So I follow her, stand outside the kitchen, and 3 minutes later, she comes out from a different door saying no, and then has me talk to the manager, a giant defensive lineman looking guy, same deal, he’s like, “Oh, we don’t have lamb tonight,” when I’m asking about mashed potatoes, not lamb. I give up. I order boiled potatoes, and ask for butter, and say I’ll make my own mashed potatoes. I know they will show up with no butter, or as I’m in a French speaking country, they will show up “sans” butter. I told the waitress three times, and the manager emphatically – do not overcook my steak. Okay food is out, streak is fine. I’m happy. Smart move to take care of my self with actual food. No butter as I expected for the potatoes, but the little peppercorn sauce for the steak works perfectly on the potatoes (and they claim the peppercorns are locally grown).

Back in my room now watching TV. Try to imagine watching U.S. football with a French speaking announcer. It’s Houston Texans vs. Tennessee Titans. The only word I’ve understood the guy say is, magnifique.

Okay, the poverty is certainly rampant here, but the time I spent in Ghana I have to say was remarkable for how nice the people were. They’re all mellow, nice humor, just amazingly sweet people. I was there for a few days, before I even saw my first policeman. These people are all the same, mellow and cool. I’m thinking that maybe the slaves came from here for Jamaica, I even looked it up on Google, and it looks like this country was one of four main places they came from, but I’ll forever think the majority, and the culture of Jamaica came from this place, it’s stunning the similarities. If Ghana was closer to the U.S, it’s somewhere I would visit again, but I guess that’s what Jamaica is for.

Ghana version of beachfront property.

I’m holding Nana’s son Desmond. This is NOT my son, I repeat, this is NOT my son.

Got my hair cut, barber was cool.

Downtown at beach, swimmers and boats.

My local bar, would sit and watch the world go by at sundown, talk trash with locals.

Next to the bar, this woman sold pork. They called her the Pig Lady.

The long wharf where the slaves would walk down to be loaded on ships.

One of the places the slaves were kept.

Another place the slaves were kept.

Building a boat.

I hire a taxi from Benin to drive me to the border of Nigeria, so I can walk across the border, and come back. It was hell at the border crossing. There were multiple windows and desks on each side of the border, plus on each side of the street as well, depending whether you were coming or going, and the second I step out of the cab, guys are in my face asking where my luggage is, to get a tip out of me, I have none, I’m just going over the border and back, the hustlers are confused, I push past them. Every time I finish with one window, someone else is trying to help me, but they don’t work there, they just want money, and you can’t tell if they work there or not, very confusing, very uncomfortable, extremely stressful. One guy is begging, he’s down walking on his knees. Another guy is bow legged, and struts like a chicken.  I tell my taxi to wait, I naively say I’ll be back in 10 minutes. Little do I know, the process of hitting all the windows and tables, three in Benin going in, three in Nigeria going in, then three plus three coming out, just doing the paperwork takes an hour. Once I get into Nigeria, they speak English. I meet Maybel as she’s doing my paperwork, I explain that I collect countries. She and her worker friends crack up when I say I’m just going over the border for ten minutes. They’ve never heard of such a thing. I tell her that I would love it if someone could have one or two beers with me. She brings a guy over that works there. I end up leaving with him and another guy. I think we’re going to just walk 20 yards or such, and find a place to have a beer. Instead, we go to his car, and start driving. After driving for about 10 minutes, I say, “Sorry to sound paranoid, but my taxi is waiting,” and they nod, and keep driving. We end up driving another ten or so minutes, pull off the road, scrape the car on the curb, then drive through grassy sand areas to some shacks on the beach. Turns out the beach was great. I was kicking myself, because I would have liked to hang out there. We walked down and met the tall guy’s two daughters. We walked back up the other way, and viewed the 500 folks there partying. I wanted to stay, but was already paranoid about my taxi leaving without me. We drive back. I go back over to Maybel, tell her that the two guys beat me up and took all my money. All the other people working there were listening too with shocked faces, then I laughed, and we all laughed. I showed her the pictures of the beach, and just like my taxi driver later, she was really surprised I made it all the way to the beach. Now it’s time to go back through customs. I’m not really feeling good. I feel kind of weak and feverish. I also need to move my bowels. But nothing to do but hold it. I get through the Nigerian customs, but at the last window for coming into Benin, this big giant guy asks for his New Year present. I try to laugh it off, but he’s not laughing. I say I have no money, which is almost true. He and the nicer guy both start saying the stamps in my passport are messed up, that I’m missing one. I’m getting indignant.  The deformed guy with weird legs I saw on the other side of the road, is now on this side, and chicken walks over to where I’m having my problem, and starts screaming stuff in French at me. The only thing I understand him say is, “American criminals.” I’ve gone through Benin customs once already when I first came into the country by bus, and I know there’s no charge, and I know this guys is just extorting me. We keep going back and forth, it gets to the point that he’s threatening me, that I’m in big trouble about my passport, to the point that he says my taxi is going to have to drive all the way back to Cotonou city in Benin to get enough money to get me out of this jam. I hold firm. I stand there for 10 minutes, they finally relent, as I leave, I throw a 5,000 CFA note at the guy, worth about $12.50. I’m not sure why I did that, didn’t need to at that point, guess I was thankful, and gave him the money, because I did not HAVE to give him the money by then, plus I was still worried he’d yell after me, so $12.50 is worth the insurance plus I gave him the money in a screw you anyway kind of way. I find my taxi. I really need to go to the bathroom. My stomach does not feel right. We have a 40 minute drive. Waves of needing to go to the bathroom start crashing over me. I’m holding on. We finally make it to the city, but I’m still not sure I can make it to the hotel. I keep thinking of the mess I’m about to do in this guys taxi. It’s not going to be pretty. We pull up to the hotel. It’s a miracle. I’m still intact. Now I have to wait for the elevator. Damn you elevator. I make  it to my hallway, but I may not make it. My body is convulsing. I’m walking pigeon toed and stiff legged down the hall. I can make it. I’m going to make it. I make it.  Unbelievable. But I’m sick now. I’m sick all night. The next day, after an Imodium tablet, and starting myself on antibiotics I brought just for this scenario, I’m 90% better. I’m at the airport to go to Senegal, my bag just passed through the metal detector machine, WITH my water on the side, WITH my laptop inside, and WITH my shoes on. WHAT is the purpose of this metal detector?

Maybel who helped me at Nigerian customs.

My two Nigerian friends at the beach with friends and family.

Again my two Nigerian friends, up the beach the other way, big party.

I fly into Senegal. I googled “Dakar to Gambia” and found three different folks to email about getting a ride for the day to my last country Gambia. One never responds. Another wants $270. Another wants $250. But then the woman emails again, saying she can get me into a car with a couple from the UK, so I only have to pay my third, about $85. I’m happy. At first we were going to be going the first morning after I fly into Senegal. Then it gets moved to the next day, which is tons better, so I can get some sleep, plus recover a bit more from my stomach thing.  My flight is delayed by an hour. Our flight finally arrives, and I have to fly from Benin, to Nigeria, then to Burkina Faso, then finally to Dakar, Senegal, the whole thing taking 5 hours. I get to the room at 2:30am. I am so happy to be in a Novotel hotel, my first time ever, I’m in civilization, I have CNN, I’m going to sleep, all is good. I slowly unpack, organize and such, and by 3am, I’m in bed, then think to check email, and aghast, the car journey has been moved to the next morning at 5am. Now I’m only going to get 2 hours sleep. I get a call at 6am, within minutes I’m downstairs, and meet Ali. He’s cool. He’s my new Nana. But when we start driving, the trucks and traffic are emitting so much exhaust, that it’s pretty intense smelling in the car. After awhile, I realize it’s not from other cars, it’s from our car. The car has no AC, and I have to endure the exhaust smell from 6am to 9pm to drive to Gambia and back. I make two sandwiches and grab a hard boiled egg off of the breakfast buffet they’re just setting up. All day long I look forward to eating my hard boiled egg. Later at the border with Gambia, I finally crack my egg open, and it’s raw. What a disappointment. The next day I see they have a special hot water bath to cook your own egg. We drive for an hour, to a seaside resort town called Saly, and pick up the couple from the UK. Ann is White. Her husband is Nigerian, but speaks with a British accent.  They’re both extremely interesting and we trade stories the whole way to Gambia. They sold their house in the UK, and are going to just spend all their money touring Africa for two years. They’re part of an overland group that is touring in a giant truck thing, but they splintered off for awhile to spend more time in Senegal. There’s this weird dust all day long, that is making the palms of my hands continue to turn black. It’s weird. I can’t really explain it, but all day, this weird black dirt just starting showing up on my palms. I kept joking that I was turning Senegalese. I wasn’t doing anything with my hands to make them dirty, it was just happening on its own. On the way back, there was a giant traffic jam, so our driver got off the main road, and we’re driving on these dirt trails, all around this absolutely massive quarry complex. We take 10 minutes to just drive completely around the quarry. We’re lost, so every time we see a person, the driver asks which way. We finally make it to the entrance/exit to the quarry, but there’s a rope up blocking us. Security comes over, yells at us, and tells us to go back the way we came. Our guy politely begs and argues. The guard finally smiles, and lowers the rope. But we’re still lost driving through these neighborhoods. We finally talk to an old man, and he agrees to get into the car, and show us how to get out. We drop him off five minutes later, and the driver gives him a small tip. We fight traffic all the way back through Dafar. All these folks really want to listen to is Youssou N’Dour. I bought two of his CD’s about 20 years ago. He has an amazing voice, so I was happy to listen to him for hours. I take out my iPod, and use a male to male plug, to attach to the Aux of his car player, and let them hear Shakin the Tree, the song he did with Peter Gabriel. I buy the latest Youssou N’Dour album off a guy on the street while stuck in traffic, for about $1.50. We test it in the car player, it works. Finally I’m home at the hotel, I have two beers at the bar with my dirty self, then I’m crazy happy to go take a shower. For a couple days, from my 8^th floor room facing the ocean, I can see a restaurant I want to visit, and finally now, I’m there for lunch, just had fish soup, Senegal was as a French colony so you know the bread is going to be good here, just like in Vietnam where the French were before us, best bread in Asia.

Baobab tree. Super cool looking, they’re all along the highway in Senegal, supposedly live for thousands of years like our Redwoods.

These folks showed up while I was taking the photo of the tree.

Here’s my fish soup, the coast of Dakar on the left here in Senegal, at this super cool French restaurant and bar that I’ve been looking at from my hotel 8 floors up, finally made it here, great seat overlooking the water, and the island off to the right, is known as a former slave island point of transit, but I went online, and it’s not true, was not a main slave site. I’ll take the ferry over there tomorrow anyway, Goree Island. 1,000 folks live there on 100 acres, a UNESCO site. This seat is the best spot I’ve been on for the whole trip, so glad it’s on my last full day here, kind of a celebration.

Tonight’s my last night here. I’ve had some exceedingly tough work on this trip, but I’ve never felt in danger, and the highlight for me, has been the people, both the tourists I’ve met, and particularly the locals I’ve gotten to know. The people are what I’ll remember most. I’ll come back to West Africa and other parts of Africa in the next couple years and collect more countries. There’s plenty of poverty here, but the negatives we hear about in the press for Africa, are just like how years ago, the world thought NYC was a dangerous place, it’s overblown. As I always say, it’s good to get away, and it’s good to go home. Can’t wait to get to my house, and have my traditional welcome back to the USA meal – Kraft Macaroni & Cheese.