And so?

I've got an 1100 km drive to the airport. It's time to go, finally, before I forget who I am or what I'm doing.

Such a lot can happen in 3 months. This trip started out as an endurance test, with my ex, Jonathan, and there were a couple of times when I wanted to break his jaw. But it got easier as time passed, and we sailed through the world, through the beautiful Moroccan rockscapes, through the olive groves and hamada, to the end of the world on the coast of Western Sahara, and down through Mauritania and that is probably where everything shifted.
Then it was no longer about driving this Volvo with Jonathan, checking my email, and being "away." It was in here somewhere, probably in Dakhla, that I became this trip, or this trip became me. It's a subtle shift, and it doesn't always happen, but it's probably the main reason for going out into the world in the first place, at least to me. It helps to be gone for a long time, and it helps to be travelling in a rough environment, in whatever form that may take, there needs to be risk, and reliance on oneself, and some discomfort, and real consequences if care is not taken. It's not "adventure travel".

It's when things are just rolling, and it's no matter that the only thing you have to drink for 2 weeks is water super-heated in the sun, and no matter that you make the same three things to eat week in and week out, and no matter that there is no a/c, or water to wash with, and dust is everywhere, and the ground hurts your hip when you sleep. The environment doesn't have to be as extreme as this, of course, for this shift to happen, but it was in this case.

And then I felt challenged continually, by the poverty, the lack of rest, the continual demands for gifts, and the totality of the African experience, which, although I thought I knew in advance how it would be, still managed to take me completely off guard. I thought I had seen some of the world, travelling in Asia in the 1980s. But Africa is not really the same. I don't know if you could call most of West Africa "developing." There is a sense of hopelessness, what to do? How to fix this road? What about Malaria? This village needs a well. Never mind tractors, these people need draft animals. 6 of her children died. That one has a distended stomach. That one has never eaten an orange. And it goes on and on. The natural resources these countries sit on are more of a curse than a blessing, like Iraq's oil. This doesn't really fit what I used to think of as "third world." It's more of a "fourth world." Small wars, unspeakable atrocities, staggering disease, dirty water, regular famines, child soldiers and corruption......the unimaginable happens continually, nightmare and hardship.

My dreams were wild the whole time I was in Africa. Sometimes, even in the middle of the day, my perceptions would divorce from reality, and I imagined we were driving off a cliff, or into a truck, or the landscape became only visual, with no meaning, no consequences, no depth. Or we sat feeling the earth shake with the pounding of the surf as fog boiled up over cliff lip and the wild mad sea boomed and thrashed, unrecognizable to me. The African coast was like this. The sea huge, furious, and angry, like it must have been before humans crawled out of it. This was no longer the world I knew, although one could pull out a map and point, and explain, such an explaination only serves to illustrate the divorce from perception, standing on the edge of the world with the terrifying sea that I was afraid to look at directly, or the impossible vast Sahara, and the tiny corner we managed to peek at, stretching on for ever, in colours, and crags, and size that cannot be described. Day after day, like water carving out a canyon, or a small creek bed, our continual motion through this wore away and shaped what it had to. And by this time it's hard to see what's gone, and what's changed, and what now stands out in bright bold relief.

Then it was the end of the road trip, the car gone, and the two of us in Dakar, wandering around the market, like it was 20 years ago. As it was, this was a return to normalacy, setting the experiences of the previous 2 months, and preserving them.

But for me the biggest change was in and after India. I am used to people interacting with me in certain ways. Many people feel envy that I travel, or wish that they had the same life, or think I'm perhaps a bit crazy. Pity was never anything I have felt from anyone, and here it was, in India of all places. What I consider freedom, others see as being alone in world. Coming from Africa I was completely happy to have an operation in Mumbai, it never crossed my mind that I would like to have family members there, which is a good thing, because I wouldn't have had any family members there if I had had the operation in New York either! It wasn't until I saw how upset they were: the doctors, the nurses, the servants, my friend Mohammed. Here I have spent my entire life doing things in this manner, as an individual, not as part of a group, including a family, and it never occurred to me that this would be odd. I was so busy looking through my own lens that I never saw the 10,000 others looking back at me! Far from being a rich foreigner, able to travel and live a great, free and unencumbered life, here I was, sick with no family, and who would take care of me? Who would feed me? Who would advocate on my behalf? What a surprise.

I went to Thailand, still feeling this, certainly not lonely, it's not a simple thing to explain, how this felt. I had good friends at this conference, and I certainly felt supported. But this feeling from India is now there in me. And it has nothing to do with feeling pity for myself, it's something that came in and grew where it was supposed to, where it could not come before, and has given me a breathtaking new dimension in perception. I feel as though I've received a great gift, and this is a natural and right thing to feel, and some old habits and attitudes drop away, and it's good to see them go for change is life.

But here in the Middle East, once I finally stopped, and the nearly 2 weeks I have spent here in Salalah have added to this. It's already easy to meet people in friendly Arab countries, and I think Islam is a great part of this, because the Islamic world is usually concerned with hospitality, generosity, and community. But in the time I've been here, I've met so many people, and my interactions are different than they were in my previous life. They are better, richer, and more satisfying. It's also made the experience of being American more serious, even a little bit shattering. But it's the reality of who I am, wandering through the world like this, and how odd it is for most people, and it's odd for me too, I guess, although nothing seems more normal. But I feel as though I took a place in this world, finally, and not just scuttling along the edges of some open place or back room.

Life. Thank god for it. AlHamdulilah.

This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land

The Dhofari climate is wonderful: desert, with monsoon. The air is clean and clear, the mountains stand out sharply in the distance, the ocean is warm, clear turquoise, gently lapping onto white sand beaches, completely unpopulated. The town gardens, separating the beach area from city centre, are a forest of coconut palms, banana trees, papaya and mango. These blow and wave in the wind, as you might see in SouthEast Asia, but against the background of desert and mountain it's really a remarkable contrast. The roadsides are heavily planted with trees, with flowers, with hibiscus and jasmine, and in the evenings half the town comes out to excercise, to walk and run in the sweet evening air, in much the same way as you might see in Santa Barbara or New York, but with different outfits.

The people are very kind, polite to an extreme, and it's only after a week here, of seeing some of the same people every day, that I am beginning to get a sense of how the US is now percieved here and in the world in general, with the disaster we caused in Iraq. There are quite a few Iraqi refugees here in Oman, arriving within the past year, and I've had a good opportunity to sit and talk with a few of them. No matter what Americans might think about throwing our young soldiers into that hideous maw, to lose themselves, to commit crimes, to kill other people and to have their brains blasted out, and whether they are for this or against it, I think it's quite interesting that Americans seem to see it as largely an American problem and the emphasis is always on "our troops" and "we need to bring them home now" as if that will make the fiasco disappear (although in a sense I suppose it will, by taking it off the nightly news,) or "we must support our troops" as if throwing them into harms way is in any way supportive. It's almost like this war is wholly an American war, and the millions of suffering Iraqis are just background numbers.

There doesn't appear to be much conversation (in America) with this shellshocked populace. Then there seems to be a kind of desperate desire to wash our hands of this problem, saying that we should leave and then it will be "up to the Iraqis to make it work." That's kind of a breathtaking attitude. Didn't America used to be a refuge? Wasn't it Americas pride to stand up for the underdog? Weren't we once a generous country? Didn't we once have some moral backbone? Didn't we create this? Our children should not be sent to fight this idiotic war, certainly. But do Arabs bleed differently than Americans? Do they grieve less? Are they not also our human family?

We have destroyed that country. Damn Saddam Hussein, we have made it even worse than he did. We have failed in every possible way, even failing to treat our own veterens with dignity, respect, and kindness. Iraq is a living hell. There are millions of refugees pouring out of that shattered state. Humanity has been lost and the unspeakable occurs daily. And those responsible? Our elected representatives? It's hard to understand their motivation.

But is it a "civil war" or not? Who cares? That is the industrialized world's way of hiding. Remember the definition of the word "genocide" being debated at the UN while the madness overtook Rwanda?

That this cartel still inhabits the White House is terrifying. And when I hear, day after day, how stupidly my country has blundered, again, and how it looks in the eyes of the world, then I feel ashamed. Because I agree with most of what I hear. And yet no one I have met has put blame on American people, just the government. I wonder if, were the tables turned, Arabs would encounter as much thoughtful understanding as I receive here.

Many people here know that Americans are afraid of Arabs, that they believe all Arabs are terrorists, that the world is a scary, dangerous place, and Al qaeda is lurking behind every bush, waiting to kill them. This is well known, because here in the Middle East, like in America, people also have TVs, they have the internet, they have education. The terror Americans feel for their world is percieved by many.

The world has opened up these past 15 years, mostly due to the internet and mobile phones and such things. But America seems to sail on blindly, unaware and unconcerned with the world outside the dome that covers her.

Ironically, it seems you don't need a totalitarian state to oppress the citizenry--under the right circumstances they will do it themselves.

I certainly feel safe and welcome here in the Gulf, but I no longer recognize the United States.

Another World

I managed to limp to Thailand--really wanted to go to the agarwood conference, and basically collapsed into it. For the next week I did nothing except sit places, try to listen to lectures, talk to my friends, eat a little, and smell things. It was a good convalescense, albeit a bit short. I could have stayed another couple of days relaxing on Koh Chang island among those delicious Frangipani trees. But instead I made my way to Bangkok, enjoying that for a couple more days before taking myself off to the Gulf.

The GulfAir plane reeked of agarwood. They must burn it in there every day--what a delightful departure from the airlines originating in America, where bringing out the tiniest drop of lavender is enough to start self-righteous complaints and claims of allergies and general angst! Happily this is not the case everywhere and all through the flight people doused themselves in rich, ripe, robust Arabic perfume oils. You could probably smell that plane going by!

It's another abrupt change to Oman, all desert and beaches, with strict architectural guidelines and flowers covering every possible spot, where the Sultan won't tolerate a single piece of trash, and is so secure in his rule and the respect of his people, that you can roll right up the the palace gates, and listen to the cries of birds and lap of the ocean inlet in this serene peace amid the glow that emmanates from it.

Hospitality here is legendary with good reason. Please excuse the generality but Muslims, and Arabs in particular, are incredibly generous and warm, welcoming guests with almost embarassing kindness. And so is the case here. I took a taxi from the airport to a hotel I have never been to, and even changed my room, yet within an hour I was out with one of the hotel staff, who had finished for the day, and he was showing me how to get a sim card for my phone, and even signing for it himself so I wouldn't have to go to the trouble of taking out my passport. He drove me all around the city, the souk, the palace, the beautiful corniche, took me to a fabulous hole-in-the-wall restaurant where the Bangladeshis made fish and the Pakistanis, bread. And on and on. I barely had time to wash my hands and redo my lipstick before we were off. Only in the Gulf does this happen, or at least, only in the Middle East. Makes the general American attitude toward Muslims all the more unfathomable.

Upon arriving home for the night, I walked into a cloud of frankincense smoke in the lobby. I dashed over to the burner and everyone acted astonished I loved it, and brought out a kilo bag from under the desk. I stuck my head inside and breathed deeply, and the promptly selected the biggest piece, a chunk the size of my fist, and gave it to me, wrapped up in some nearby tissue. I had to take it upstairs with me. And then I just bathed myself in the smoke, inbuing my dupatta, my hairs, my skin....such a rich green sweet undernote the frankincense has here in Oman.

Tomorrow I will go south toward the Frankincense regions of Dhofar, and have already rented a car. It's about 1100 kilometers, traversing oryx reserves, bird reserves, and I'm not sure what else. I am doing a little groundwork to bring an aromatic tour here in 2008. Someone's got to do this! It may as well be me!

Indomitable Spirit

Seems like a full few days. I flew from Dakar to Mumbai at the very end of February, stopping in Nairobi for a day. I hadn't realized the obvious, that Africa is huge. It's 10 hours from Dakar to Nairobi and another 6 to Mumbai. I settled into a very nice hotel and went to see my friend Mohammed; I needed to get right into my business affairs there because I was only staying 3 days, having a conference to attend in Thailand.

The second night I woke up with acute discomfort in the right upper abdomen and could not get comfortable or fall back asleep. By the time noon rolled around even I, a complete bloody minded fool, had to acknowledge there was a problem. I had been rolling around my bed since the middle of the night and couldn't even get up to make a cup of coffee, which I didn't want in any case. That told me I was seriously ill, and needed to see the doctor, so off I staggered, to the hotel's medical suggestion.

After examining me he noticed my liver was engorged and very painful--he sent someone upstairs for bloodwork and then they hustled me off to a specialist for sonogram, etc.
Seems my gall bladder was infected and impacted and had been infected for a while, most likely. I'd had intermittent fever in Africa but ignored it because I could. And now that I remembered, I had been very uncomfortable sleeping on my right side for some time, particularly on the ground.There was a big gallstone, blocking the bile duct and everything was inflamed. While not life threatening at the moment, I was advised that there was a significant infection present, and that in the best case scenario the gallstone would drop back into the gall bladder and would remain status quo. Or it could continue to block it, resulting in a buildup of pus, or the stone could go the other way, with equally disastorous results--acute and life threatening infection--a mess. And if I was away.......The only solution was the removal of the offensive organ, the gall bladder. And if I didn't want to do this in India, I should at the very least check myself into the hospital for a couple of days of intravenous antibiotics and fly back to America at the earliest opportunity and have this operation.

But that meant I would miss this conference, which is an agarwood conference, and something I was really looking forward to, and so I decided to just have the thing taken out in Mumbai, rest a day, and then go to the conference the day it started, and not 2 days early as I had planned. After all, it's not like I have a surgeon on call in New York. I don't know any doctors, and imagined explaining the emergency nature to my stingy insurance company and the fighting that would ensue. And Mumbai looked pretty good, especially compared to Africa, in terms of hygiene. And I guess I am really not bothered by many of things that apparently bother Americans when hospitalized in India, whatever they are.

I didn't even bother to go back and get my things at the hotel. One of the managers, who had come to the doctor with me, went back for my ipod, and I checked in for surgery the next day.
The room was quite nice, private, with a bed for guests, and a basket of crockery. It's unknown for people to be hospitalized alone in India, The family is always present, visiting, feeding, preparing, talking, arguing. But it was just me and I sent a few emails and text messages from my bed as I got prepared in all the ways you do for surgery. I sent Jon, who had just flown to the UK, a message saying where I was and that I'd named him next of kin and to please keep his phone on, but he didn't get it for a few days, until he turned that phone on in the first place.

So after a drugged night's sleep, and still in considerable pain, the next morning commenced with more of the preperations, and by early afternoon I had met the surgeon and the anestesiologist and, clad in white cotton pyjamas and cap, was wheeled in to the surgery. But just as they came for me, a woman came in and announced it was time to call the family. Well, sorry, I said. No, I had to do it, she replied. I just closed my eyes, what could I do? Then call the embassy! she exclaimed. Well, no, sorry, I don't know anyone there I replied. She fumed and started to tell me they had to have another signature, had to have permission, blah blah, on and on but I just turned on Krishna Das and closed my eyes. It was her problem now; I had already explained to the doctors that I was alone in India and the surgeon even allowed me to take my ipod in so I could listen to the Hindu prayers I love so much. I explained that I knew the Hanuman Chaleesa and the entire operating staff was impressed and happy about this which was good because I wanted to make sure that while I was under, all conversation would be positive and gentle. I don't know how that woman dealt with the lack of signature because all of a sudden I was semi-concious and being wheeled down the corridor and I could see my friend Mohammed there--Tom had called him from the store and he rushed right over. I hadn't wanted to tell anyone I was there; it's quite possible I am insane. But he learned of it and came, and waited and talked to the doctors and stayed with me and petted me and that was very nice.

It felt better immediately, having this infected organ out, and they had done laproscopy so there were 4 small holes instead of a huge slice out. I got a few strident emails and texts from people concerned, but it was over before I had time to worry.

Then they kept me in the hospital for the next night and part of the next day as well, before discharging me. The Indian doctors are very good, no disputing that. The nurses are unfortunately very young, and they don't consider gentleness an asset. Even though some of them were very kind, every touch was rough, and if something hurt, like at the site of the iv, which slipped out of my vein, they they would continue to give injections there, and even flick at the sore point, asking repeatedly if this was the area that was paining. It's quite a breathtaking experience.

Back at the hotel I had a day, and a night and somehow, it's like when they took the gall bladder they hit an adreneline button, or maybe it was the drugs, but I couldn't sleep, even though I knew I needed the rest. But sleep I didn't, couldn't, and 36 hours after the operation I flew to Bangkok for my conference--thank goodness it was only a short flight. Very difficult, and I was beginning to grow worried near the end, from some pain and small breathing troubles, but I survived this too, and managed to lug my sorry self through the airport, through customs, and to the car, and then to the hotel, where I expected to rest, but the presentation part of the conference was only 2 days and I had already missed half of one so I rallied, and went in for the afternoon, so happy to see my friends who were there. I had emailed and told a couple of people what had happened so I felt safe and comfortable arriving late and walking slowly like an old lady.

The presentations were good, and I even slept that first evening, although not the second, and then we have been upcountry in the days since but today have finally reached a beautiful location where we will stay three entire nights. I have not slept in the same place twice after having this operation and it's been 6 or 7 days, but I made the conference, have met my friends, and fulfulled all my obligations and followed through on all my plans, even with major surgery and organ removal in the middle of it. So I am a little bit pleased and happy, and look forward to my life without this thing. It had to have been a detriment, I feel too much better without it.

Sometimes You've Got to Bleed a Little

Easier said than done. Banjul is only 300 km from Dakar, about 170 miles. We started out at 9 in the morning but first had to go to the travel agency for a morning dose of chaos. It appears my ticket was not possible to issue as an eticket (whoops) and so they had to issue a separate one, on another airline, through Calcutta to Bangkok. The taxi driver was waiting next to his sparkling new car, a Senegalese guy residing in Gambia so he would know the rules for getting over the border and into Senegal. Senegal is a horrifying mess for cars to get into as they won't allow in any car over 5 years old etc etc and take plenty of money from you for escorts, and the like, to make sure you don't leave the atrocious thing in Senegal.

Finally got the ticket squared away and off we roared to the ferry. I need to be clear once again, this is the main North/South route along the Atlantic coast of Africa. There is no bridge over the River Gambia, only these 3 ferries, and nothing else for almost 200 km upcountry, along a very bad road to the crossing at Farfenni.

We arrived at the ferry terminal and tried to squeeze into line, I guess the driver thought he'd just pay someone a bribe and we were in, but everyone had paid bribes that morning because 2 of the 3 ferries were broken. Each ferry takes about 8-10 cars and 2-3 trucks and that is really squeezed on, you can barely get a piece of paper between them. There were a lot of cars waiting that morning, at least 30, and so many trucks that there was nearly a weeks backup for them. The ferry, supposed to leave every hour or so, was now operating at 1/3 capacity. Tempers were a little thin I guess.

We tried to wedge into the line, perfectly normal behavior I'm told, but we nearly started a riot. A menacing crowd closed in, screaming at the driver in Bambara, pounding on the car, while Jon and I casually pretended we weren't there. One guy had to be forcibly held back as he tried to tear our driver limb from limb. Finally we backed out and took a place on the oposite curb, a place that meant nothing in the scheme of ferry line-ups.

Just then the ferry limped in, unleashed a crowd of people, animals, and vehicles, and then died. So no ferries. The situation looked a little bit bleak. Our driver, whose name I no longer remember, had wanted to arrive in Dakar by early afternoon, and envisioned a relaxed return to Banjul by night. But already it was 10:30. There were no ferries in the immediate future and cars enough for 3 or 4 at least, before we got a chance to get on. And this being Africa, there is no limit to what can happen. There was no upper limit to our possible waiting. All day? The next day? The next one? We had two options: wait and take the ferry when we could, with there being virtually no chance, even if they got one going, that we would leave before 5, and much likely much later. The other option was to drive upcountry, to the ferry at the Farfenni crossing, where the river is much narrower but the road is "bad."It was 180 km on this bad road, yet we decided to try it. After all, many of the small roads leading out of Banjul had been metalled, even though the maps had indicated otherwise. Perhaps there was some modernization going on? Oh the innocents!

Our driver was clearly unhappy he had taken on this job, we grumbled east, and the road was not too bad! First paved, then graded, then going down another level to rutted, but still we were able to keep up a decent average speed. After some hours of this, it must have been about 2 or three in the afternoon, it felt like we must be close, and sure enough, the road was a little better. So where's this bad road? I asked, yawning a bit. I chuckled to myself--we had driven over much worse in Mali. And then I saw it.

Up ahead, shimmering in the distance, and looking like something the Israelis cluster bombed, was a sad little greyish strip laying unhappily on a strip of red laterite, much of which would show through the gray as we passed over it. This was the road. Once it had been paved, no doubt with all the good intentions in the world, but then time had stopped, as occurs with some frequency in Africa. And 10 years later? 15? Only 5? Through the heat and the rainy seasons, this road had disintergrated piece by piece. To say it was "potholed" does not begin to convey a sense of it. These were potholes in all their varieties, the ones that rip off your gas tank, the ones that shred your tyres and bend your rims, the ones from which no exit is available, like that famous pothole in Nigeria, I can't remember the nane of it, where an entire town has grown up around it, where only one car at a time can enter, and then must hire someone to winch them out the other side. This was the road. Usually when the road is really terrible people just drive alongside it. That's normal. But here, driving alongside had been going on for so many years that the road had worn down a metre, so there was no skating back and forth, picking the choicest parts of the road and the shoulder, this was a commitment. Once you were off the road, it was at the cars roof level, and you had to hope there would be some leveling off in the future and not just a melting away of the road. There wasn't any other traffic, except the occasional person walking. So I shut my mouth and held on and so did Jon and the driver cursed every time we hit bottom, which we did rather often, and we continued on like this for another few hours, finally making the ferry crossing just in time to see the ferry sail away.

Our driver was near tears. It was now 5 pm. He should have been almost home and we hadn't even crossed the river yet. But despite his dire predictions, the ferry came back and within an hour we were on our way across, pressed like sardines in on the tiny ferry--room for 4 cars and 1 truck, but fortunately only at 15 minute journey. Aha! Our luck had changed, it seemed! All we had to do now was cross this easy border, which of course would be easy because we had no car, the car was new, was a taxi, was not ours, was coming back, had all its papers, etc. But we were incorrect.

Jon and I got stamped through, no problem. But the taxi had only two days insurance left and they would not let him into Senegal without 10 days minium. No he couldn't pay anyone, no to all the normal questions one thinks as ways around a block like this. The customs agent bought Jon and I each a coffee while this was sorted out.

Eventually it was decided that this taxi could take us to the carpark and find us another taxi to take us to Dakar. I didn't know if the driver had the money or how much and we didn't have enough CFAs to pay the fare, and it was getting dark now and we were Farfenni. A friend of a friend was expecting us at her home near Dakar, and kept texting, quite reasonably, for estimates on our arrival. It got later and later but fortunately she was occupied socially and so this didn't turn out to be such a big problem.

Jon and the two taxi drivers started the usual negociations, hand shaking, laughing, smoking, arguing, in French as usual. I quietly called the travel agency who got us the taxi driver and told him what was happening and he told me that the driver had all the money. Relieved, I hung up and walked back just in time to hear the driver say "I don't have enough money--you will have to pay this other driver CFA 15000 (about $30) extra. So I muttered to Jon, under my breath, in Spanish, "He's got the money" and Jon asked for it and of course the driver didn't have it, all he had was this tiny commission he was already giving us, and on and on so I called the travel agency back and put the agent on the phone with the driver this was supposed to take care of everything but of course it didn't and the arguing went on and the sun sank lower, and I went and stood by our taxi to discourage members of the large crowd going through it, while Jon and the two drivers stood under a tree and the arguement went around and round. Suddenly Jon noticed CFA2000 in the drivers shirt pocket and just as the driver was protesting his innocence and lack of funds for the fiftieth time, Jon pointed out the money in his pocket: What's that then? Oh this?? The driver was astonished to see it! He had forgotten all about this and would just count it! But Jon was too quick for him, grabbing the whole wad from his hand and counting it himself. Not surprisingly, the whole CFA 50000 was there. What a drama.

So we piled our things in the taxi ---we had to buy all the seats, but the road was surprisingly decent to Dakar and we got there at Midnight. Since we had left at 9 am, it had only take 15 hours, an average of 12 mph. It was fantastic to get to Dakar, enjoy a cold drink, and snack, and then sleep in beds, after bathing in a hot shower. The woman we stayed with, a friend of a friend, is a Candaian teacher working in 2 year stints around the world. She lives in a lovely clean neighbourhood by the sea, covered by bougeanvillia and palm trees.

Dakar was having elections two days hence and the sitting president, Wade, was the favourite and since then he has won the election again I believe, becoming president of the Repuublic of Senegal for another term. His colour is yellow and thousands turned out for him wherever we went. In one square a smiling troupe of legless children flopped around in their yellow t-shirts handing out Wade propaganda, to the great amusement of the crowd.

I'd love to write more about Dakar but cannot right now because I have to go lay down. I flew to Mumbai for a day or two to pick up a few things, and one day after leaving Africa, bang, I landed in the hopital with an infected gall bladder, and had it taken out here at Bombay hospital. I still have a few things to do, and then must catch my plane to Thailand, so will describe this part later.