Welcome to Cameroon - would you like to argue?

For some reason, my Kenya Airways (KQ) flight gate from Nairobi to Lusaka was never posted, then an hour before it was due to take off, the flight was cancelled. Oh, no! That meant I would have to go to the dreaded KQ transit desk at the Nairobi International Airport. The transit desk is like hell on earth, always full of unhappy people, and those are just the ticket agents. The passengers themselves are truly a desperate and bedraggled lot, straggling in from the ends of the earth to catch a plane to nowhere.

Even I was not prepared for what I saw on approaching the transit desk. There was a large crowd of West Africans, judging by their clothing, clustered around a few Kenya Airways agents, about 10 feet from the desk, shouting and gesturing furiously. Well, actually, they were shouting and gesturing by turns, allowing each one to get a deep breath and unleash a tirade, then catch his breath while the others took a shot. The ticket agents were valiantly trying to get them to calm down, but this had no effect on the crowd. The French speakers among them also needed to time to make insults in English.

It did not augur well for me and the people ahead of me in line that there was such an angry mob just feet away. We hoped that we would be able to book a new flight and get a hotel room for the night without going ballistic like that group was doing. Their onward flight to Dubai had been cancelled.

They were from Cameroon, a people known for their tenacity. The Cameroonians seemed to think that if they shouted long enough and loud enough, KQ would suddenly say, “My word, look, we just found a new plane to Dubai for you, and it’s ready to leave in five minutes. You’re all in business class!” As it became clear this would not happen, and that they would have to wait until the next night, they  got angrier still. Finally, they decided to start an “Occupy” movement in the airport. To our amazement, they began to rearrange the turn-styles in front of the transit desk, to rope the entire transit area off.

We asked what they were doing, and the answer seemed to be, ”If we don’t fly, then nobody flies! We are taking over the transit desk!” Several of the men were large and stocky, and they blocked all access to the agents. Bewildered, and unfamiliar with the notion that if we were unhappy, we could mutiny, we remaining passengers suggested to the KQ agents that they might want to call security to intervene.

The KQ agents called, and after about 10 minutes, a security guard came. He saw the mob, and started to slink away. They would have none of it. They insisted that he come over and arrest them. He smiled. He walked up politely and was immediately surrounded by the Cameroonian crowd, who berated him soundly. A policeman also wandered into view, saw what was happening, and gave them wide berth. His expression seemed to say, “Oh my, that looks very unpleasant. Mustn’t go get myself mixed up in that!”

At this point, we remaining passengers became hopelessly embroiled in the Cameroonian cause. Their fight was our fight. Their delay was our delay. Their anger was… their anger. And they could argue! I could not follow their arguments, but judging from their expressions and gestures, it went like this:

“We are from Cameroon, and we are very angry. “

“Yes, very angry, and we can argue for a long time!”

“Therefore, you must give us a plane to Dubai tonight! Or we will continue to occupy this desk!”

Their anger was generalized from the KQ ticket agents to anyone nearby who might be listening, with the intent being either, we wish to intimidate you as well, or perhaps you‘d like to join us and argue:

“Yes, look how angry I am, my eyes are bulging!”

“Me, I am grimacing at you! Look. My mouth can twist itself in several unpleasant ways!”

“I am irritated, and I have a thick neck, from which the veins are popping out alarmingly!”

“The top of my shaven, bowling-ball shaped head is sweating with anger!”

“Watch out, I am rapidly furrowing my eyebrows at you!”

“See, I am wagging my finger at you, and my bruddah, he is gesturing wildly at the same time!”

The range of sizes and shapes of the Cameroonians, plus the fact that the women had joined in, was an impressive display of national unity, or perhaps of dysfunction. The arguments seemed to go as follows:

“I am a large Cameroonian man, with a substantial waistline, and unless you bring in a forklift to pick me up, I am standing in front of the desk and not moving!”

“I am a small Cameroonian man, but I can SHOUT VERY LOUDLY, and I never get tired of arguing, believe me!”

“We are Cameroonian women, but in spite of our fancy dresses and headscarves, we can still kick your butts!”

“We are from Cameroon, and we can talk very, very loudly, for a very long time!”

“Also, we do not get tired of arguing, even if it does not seem to be working.”

“Do you want to argue with us? Does anyone want to argue with us? Please, argue with us!”

And so it continued. The Cameroonians held their positions without serious challenge from either the police or airport security. This went on for about 45 minutes. Like the Occupy movement, the nature of their demands was unclear. The expectation that KQ would produce a plane seemed wildly unrealistic. However, if we could have read their minds, their refusal to stay in Kenya overnight might have read:

“We want to fly to Dubai tonight. We cannot overnight here. The shops there are still open!”

“Yes, we can’t stay here for nutting. We have little time to buy things before returning home.”

“If we do not bring back gifts for everybody, our relatives will insult us, more than we insult you!”

“If we cannot buy things to sell when we return, we will lose money on our trip. We’ll be ashamed!”

“Yes, we are traders; everyone in the community will laugh at us if we do not make a profit later!”

By now, we other passengers had begun to figure out a subterfuge. As KQ agents in neon vests went in and out of the transit area, we could slip them our old boarding passes, and like Aladdin, get a new lamp for old. They slid us new boarding pass on their way back out from behind the desk. The Cameroonians seemed to be aware this was going on, but had decided they could not stop us leaving. Their reaction:

“Aha, we see that you are clever. You are secretly giving the KQ agents your old boarding passes.”

“Ah, they are giving you tickets for the next flight out. Do you think we care? We do not care at all!”

“Oh, you are leaving the transit area and walking back to re-enter Kenya for a hotel voucher?”

(From a distance) “We.. see.. you .. walking.. away.. from.. us.  You.. think.. have.. won... but.. no!”

“We… know… that… you… will...get… a…hot…meal…and…a…nice…shower…and…soon… go…to… bed!”

“You….think….we….will….get….discouraged….but….we….will….never….give….up….or….stop….arguing!”

“You…..think…..that…..being…..patient…..and…..polite…..is…..better…..but…..you…..are…..wrong!’

“While……you……are……wasting……time……sleeping……we……will……be……in……Dubai……shopping!”

Their loud, angry voices faded into the distance. Welcome to Cameroon. Would you like to argue?

The Gum-Shoe Gem Thief of Madagascar

So this is how I happened to become the gum-shoe gem thief of Madagascar; it was really by accident.

I went there for two weeks for work. The real Madagascar, not the Disney animated Madagascar, is known for its gemstones, along with its amazing biological diversity, including bottle shaped baobab trees, and bizarre animals such as the screaming lemurs. But I was not there for trees or screamers.

No, I was there as a mere tourist. I was going to an exotic place, and when you go to an exotic place, and your wife does not get to come along, and your anniversary is coming up, if you have half a brain, you eschew going to see bottle shaped trees and furry little screamers, and you go to get something for your wife for your anniversary. But when you are newly arrived in any country, especially in Africa, buying gems is a tricky business. Especially if you, like me, are a guy with no idea whatsoever about gems, no taste, and no confidence about walking into a gem store where the haughty looks and level of disdain are potentially lethal. So, on arrival, I called an old family friend with whom I worked earlier in Zambia. She had been in Madagascar for a few years, and she was known for her collection of jewelry. She offered to take me to the best gem shop in the capital city, Antananarivo (Or “Tana”), run by Emme. 

Emme is a tall Italian whose well-stocked gem shop seems to attract a fairly discriminating clientele. When we arrived, there was a French couple there. They were impeccably dressed (this goes without saying, but I am saying it anyway). Judging from their appearance and the questions they asked, they had money to spend, but only if they could find gems of impeccable quality. This was made obvious not so much by their words - they spoke in French, which I understand - but there was a subtext running:

French Man (FM): I am lookeeng for zee most beautiful gem stone for my beautiful lady friend (I may be shorter than you, you annoyingly tall Italian man, but I have a lot of money, so don’t waste my time!)

Emme- the Italian Man(IM): But of course, sir, I have the most-a beautiful gems here in-a my store (Italian men are much sexier than you French, you little pipsqueak, even if you have lots of money!)

French Woman (FW): Oh, Pierre, ‘ere eez a beautiful yellow gem! (I am going to eegnore you silly men. I am a haughty French woman, I am so tired of men fighting over me,  just ’urry up and find me a gem!)

I, on the other hand, came in wearing my stone-wash khakis, and my Keen sandals, and carrying a back-pack, showing two things: 1) I was a typical, badly-dressed American with extremely ugly shoes; and 2) everyone suspected right away that I could probably not afford precious gems (diamonds, emeralds, rubies and so on). On the other hand, this could be a trick. Here is what the Europeans were thinking, as I was able to tell from their very subtle eyebrow movements, shoulder shrugs, and general disdain:

FM: (What a badly dressed man, he must be poor, why are you allowing him in your shop?)

IM:  (Yes, I know what you mean, but on zee other hand, perhaps he’s a wealthy American , you know, one of these computer geeks who invents a useless thing like Facebook and becomes a billionaire! I heard that Mark Zuckerberg wears flip-flops all the time, yet he could buy my store with spare change)

FM: (Yes, it is extremely annoying, even zough zey are very badly dressed, zey just keep inventing amazing new sings wiz names zat are ‘ard to pronounce in French, like “FASS-BOUK”; it is not right!)

IM: (Yes, and FB is-not a very good for Italians, because you cannot even hug-a your friends online!)

FM: (Eet eez very stupid, zees Fass-Bouk,  to ‘ave so many friends eez not good for French people!)

So there you have it, our family friend (Barbara) and I were probably the poor country cousins in the gem shop. But you can never be sure, and customers are customers, so Emme attended to us. There were lots of fabulous and fascinating semi-precious stones, many of which I had never seen; some names were new to me (though probably well-known to most gem-lovers): citrine, morganite, titanite, and tourmaline. Our friend Barbara asked to look at some of them. Emme handed her some little display boxes, which had transparent lids for easy viewing. She turned over a box and looked at the price. He showed me a box with a beautiful, big tourmaline, a really stunning red stone.

After looking at it, I turned over the box to look at the price, not realizing he had removed the box lid. The stone fell right out of the box. I felt it hit my foot. I looked down. It was gone! Emme was shocked.

He and Barbara looked at me in concern. The French people looked disgusted. More sub-text followed:

IM: (Who is this clown you have-a brought into my store? Is he a thief? If he is a thief, I will kill him!)

Barbara: (I can’t believe you dropped an expensive gem and lost it after I brought you in here!)

FM: (Zees eez what you get when you allow zees badly-dressed American into your store. You see!)

FW: (I am going to eegnore zees people. Eet eez not my problem. Please keep pampering me, cheri!)

So with all eyes on me, and a rather expensive looking gemstone gone missing, the pressure was on. I had to drop to the floor to find that stone. Otherwise, I’d be soon be dead, or off to a Malagasy jail!

I laid on my belly on the floor and peered under the display counter. It was so dark that I could not see a thing. Emme gave me a small light. I peered into the dark,dusty space under the display counter, but still could not see it. What, I wondered, were they all thinking about me? Given that I had dropped an expensive gem within five minutes of entering, one can safely presume that they concluded I was either a complete idiot, or a clever jewel thief, or both, playing a scene right out of a Pink Panther movie. So, while I was on the floor, the sub-text kept running among those watching me root around down below:

Barbara: (I only brought this pathetic loser here because he wants a gem for his wife, who’s my friend!)

FW: (Too bad, sorry for you, we women know zat all men are pathetic, unless zey are also very reech)

IM: (SMS’ing a “friend” on the phone: Please send some large, very mean men here. I have a thief! If he does-a not find-a  my gem, I want-a you to follow him when he leaves and break-a his two legs, OK?)

FM: Zees eez intolerable! Too be badly dressed AND to lose gems AND be zee center of attention!)

But despite how embarrassed Barbara might have felt, she had no choice. She had brought me in, and she could plainly see how inept I was at finding the gem. She got down on the floor too. Sub-text:

Barbara: (I can’t believe this. I cannot ever come in here again unless we find that gem. Now I have to get down on the floor and help you to find it, since men can never do anything right on their own!)

Now we were both on our bellies peering under the counter. Still nothing. As if this was not enough, the French woman (FW) and Barb began to bond silently around the issue of how pathetic and useless men are. The FW also got down on the floor. Emme was holding his head in his hands at this point. I don’t think he had ever had so many of his customers down on their bellies on the floor before.

Though no words were spoken there was a sub-text once again:

FW: (You are an American woman, but we ‘ave some-sing een common: we both know zat men are idiots. That stupid fool will never find any-sing. So I must get down on zee floor and ‘elp you to look!)

Barbara: (Yes, you are right, even if you are French, and you have a wealthy man who is buying you an expensive gem, we have to stick together, or all will be lost. You look to the left, and I’ll look to the right)

FM: (Mais non, eet eez not posseeble, my beautiful French woman is now on zee floor helping zat man. ‘e is very clever, no? ‘e pretends to lose a gem, and now zee women feel sorry and ‘elp him search!)

IM: (Clever or not, if he does not find my gem, I will pretend it is OK, but I will have him killed. Watch!)

Time was ticking past. Ten-fifteen minutes of frantic searching revealed nothing. The women continued to communicate silently with each other, using their international women’s mental telepathy ability:

Barbara: (Do you suppose it would occur to him to look in his shoes? Do we women have to think of everything? What if you and I just keep thinking the same thing? Do you think he will hear us?)

FW: (No, men are very, very stupeed. Zey are babies who never sink of any-sing zemselves. We will actually ‘ave to say eet out loud, and then geev ‘im a look zat weell make ‘im feel very, very stupeed)

To my surprise, the two women simultaneously and without any apparent means of coordination, gave me a withering look of scorn, and told me to take off my shoes and look in them. I felt very, very stupid. Why hadn’t I thought of it? It was so obvious. A baby could have thought of it. Thank god for women.

So I took off my shoes, the big, ugly Keens sandal’s with the thick, criss-cross leather straps, and a rubber cap over the toes. I pulled and peered at the straps and banged the sandals to see if a gem would drop out. Nothing.  My face was hot and I was sweating. Emme kept watching me very closely. My backpack had also been on the floor. He asked me to empty it, turn it inside out and shake it, just in case; I did as asked. No gem came out. Emme acted very nice, and said he was sure it would turn up eventually:

IM: (I am smiling at you, but meanwhile, very dangerous men are waiting in case you try to run away!)

The two women: (We both know the gem is in one of his shoes, but he is just too stupid to find it. How long will we have to keep giving him this withering look of scorn before he figures out what to do? If it were not for women, the world would grind to a halt within days, and all life would cease. Honestly!)

Under the continued look of withering female scorn, which was much worse than the anticipated bodily harm that Emme would have visited upon me if I had not found the gem, my male “lizard-brain” finally activated and began to function in something approaching an effective manner. In desperation, I took off my sandals one more time. This time I looked at them more closely. The rubber cap on the right foot had separated from the leather straps. There was a gap. I pried my finger into the gap and felt a small lump. It was the gem, perfectly hidden inside the rubber cap of my sandal. Almost a perfect heist!

The ladies smiled in triumph that their telepathic messaging and withering scorn had once again done the trick; it always does. Emme sighed in relief. He said I should go ahead and select a gem, which I did. Semi-precious of course.  I paid. Emme, and  said good-bye. As I left, he quickly sent out another SMS

IM: (SMS: He did not steal-a the gem, it was in-a his shoe. Abort, abort! Do not break-a his two legs). (Thinking to himself:  OK, you stupid American, you have-a paid, now leave and NEVER COME BACK!)

FM: (Zees eez outrageous, you ‘ave eegnored me, and ‘e ‘as cleverly treecked my beautiful lady to get down on zee floor! Now I weell never buy any-sing.  I am now leaveeng your gem-shop een protest!)

With that, the Frenchman shook his head as if to say he had found nothing of interest, grabbed the hand of his lady friend, and quickly departed with the customary salutation to all, which all French people are forced to utter before leaving a shop, even if they are disgusted:  “Au revoir, messieurs, mesdames!”

And that, my friends, is how I almost became the gum-shoe gem thief of Madagascar, frustrated the rich French man, and mystified the Italian owner of the gem store, but still avoided injury in the end . If not for the women, and their irresistible force of their withering scorn, my legs would have been broken, and I would still be languishing in a Malagasy jail, with the gem sitting right in the toe of my sandal.

(So, for those who may be curious, the stone I got was an aquamarine, a very light sparkly blue color, and very reasonably priced. Our friend Barbara took me to another shop, a goldsmith, who let me design a ring. My wife loved it.)

The Twain Meet at Nairobi's International Airport

The “Twain Meet” at Nairobi’s International Airport

(East meets West, Left meets Right, Twixt meets Twain)

Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta International Airport – truly an international crossroads for Africa, the Middle East, the Subcontinent, and Asia. Peoples of all shapes, sizes, and modes of dress frequently pass, through from the most exotic-sounding places, like Yemen, Abu Dhabi, Pakistan’s tribal areas, the Hindu Kush, and so on. Everyone is going to some far-flung place, it seems. But despite being able to fly from one end of the earth to the other, when it comes to navigating your way through the airport on foot, no one knows on which side to walk. Most of the former British colonies drive – and walk – on the left, while just about everyone else drives – and walks – on the right.

The result in an airport where the two groups – the left-walkers (LWs) and the right-walkers (RWs) are almost equally represented, is that there is no right or wrong (or is it no left or wrong)? As you move through the airport towards your flight gate, this is one of the most common scenes:

A RW and a LW approach each other going their opposite ways. Realizing that they are about to collide, they each take that automatic evasive side-step we have all learned to employ in such situations. However, since they are used to walking on opposite sides, they step the same way. Result: stale-mate. After a moment’s hesitation and confusion, it dawns on each of them what has happened, and they each take a step in the opposite direction, at precisely the same moment, bringing them right back where they started. Determined not to be outsmarted, they begin to execute an intricate series of maneuvers to skirt around each other: head feints, lunges, foot fakes.  Nothing works, and frustration begins to build.

Flights are now calling for immediate boarding, last call for flight such-and-so; panic ensues. At this point, they grasp each other firmly by the shoulders, and much like Olympic wrestlers, each tries to thrust the other aside. There is grunting and sweating, and there is considerable swearing (in various languages),  but since no one understands anyone else, no offense is taken, and serious violence is avoided:

  

Language/Insult Made:                                             What is Heard:   

Chinese: Wrong-Footed Running Dog Lackey!             错足走狗的走狗！

Hindi: Even your cow does not know how to walk!                  यहां तक ​​कि अपनी गाय के लिए  चलना के लिए नहीं पता है!

Swahili: My camel could dance better than you!                        Ngamia wangu hakuweza danse bora kuliko wewe!

Urdu: You could not teach a hungry goat to find pasture!          پ ایک بکری نہیں سکھایا چارہ تلاشکرنے کلئے کر سکتا

Finally the two wheel around suddenly in a half-circle. Believing they have freed themselves of their adversaries, each one turns and races off, relieved, in the opposite direction, but unaware that they have reversed course, and are now running back to where they started from.

Not to worry, though, because before long they lock-step with another passenger, and soon they wheel around and head in the right direction again. Using a newly-found sense of detection as to who is a RO and who is a LW, the craftiest among them soon learn to execute skillful maneuvers will in advance, and avoid any further collision courses, laughing at beginners who are still toe-tied.

Hardy travelers brave potentially fatal levels of boredom not to mention voracious mosquitoes while traveling to remote islands overseas

Ok folks, this is a rant. Be prepared. I'm sure Madagascar has it's good points, but I haven't found them yet.

(Here goes - this is what's on my mind after 4 days in Madagascar, roughly divided between a dreadful hotel and a work assignment, with no tourism activity or redeeming personal or social interaction of any kind...)

So... here I am in Antananarivo, Madagascar. A fascinating place, right? WRONG! IT's an incredibly BORING place. It would be hard to imagine a more boring place on Planet Earth. I am staying in the Hotel Sunny Garden. Now, you say to yourself, that must be a nice hotel which is both sunny and has a garden. Right? WRONG again! It has been raining non-stop since I arrived, and the garden, if you want to call it that, consists of a few remaining patches of soil which have not been paved or cemented over, in which a few trees/bushes grow.

The more accurate name for the hotel would be "World's Most Boring Hotel Based at a (get ready for this one) Toyota Dealership in a Remote Third World Island Nation's Capital." Yes, "Tana" as the locals call it, is the capital of Mada (another short-hand version of the full name). An enterprising Malgach (the name of a ciitzen of Mada) came up with the novel (but not noteworthy) idea of building a hotel next to a Toyota dealership. Even more novel is the idea of having the guests drive THROUGH the Toyota dealership on their way into the hotel parking area. As we all know, many world travelers who stop in third world capitals for a short hotel stay often decide to buy a Toyota to take home with them. What an idea!!!

Not content to have hotel visitors drive through the dealership, the owner of the hotel had other brilliant ideas, such as hiring hotel staff who excel at having the most bored and disinterested expression possible. You want a room? I don't care. You want to order dinner? Not my problem. You want your room cleaned? What does that have to do with me? To be fair to the employees, this is most likely another of the owner's bright ideas. Make people work at least 12 hours a day, provide no training or motivation of any kind, pay them almost nothing, then see how they treat people. For some reason, although the employees are still here when I leave dinner, and arrive before I get up for breakfast, they lack excitement.

Add to this the attraction of the most bored and unfriendly guests found anywhere on the planet, and you have a really explosive mix. The standard is to seat you for dinner opposite an old, bored, drunken reprobate (I'm not sure they are really drunk or reprobates, but I'm on a roll, so work with me here folks) who will stare at you unflinchingly during your entire dinner without any sign of recognition that you are: 1) a human being; 2) you are equally as bored as the person staring at you; 3) if you spoke to each other, there is a small, very small, chance that it would relieve the boredom. So I sit down at my assigned table, nod politely in the direction of the old, bored fellow opposite me, who then ignores me entirely.

Note that the ability of old, drunken reprobates to ignore others in a run-down third world hotel cuts across language barriers. Tonight I was seated opposite an old French guy, who repeatedly stared in my direction, but who just as persistently refused to acknowledge my existence, peering through his deeply hooded French eyes in a typical, guarded French way. At one point I burst out laughing at something funny on a website. He stared at me in a most disgusted manner, as if to say, "Vraiment, monsieur, to laugh, it eez so ...not French!"

Add to this delightful mix, which I have been enjoying since my arrival on Saturday, the presence of hordes of voracious mosquitoes who roam the restaurant and feed on the clients at will. The hotel is located in the industrial area of town, which gives you an idea of the beauty of our surroundings, and is close enough to drainage ditches and large bodies of standing water to provide highly productive breeding grounds for multiple species of mosquitoes, who have learned that the hotel guests are corpulent, red-blooded, juicy morsels.

So the main entertainment in the evening, at dinner, other than staring fixedly and implacably at other bored guests without acknowledging them, is swatting mosquitoes. When one has finished dinner, grown tired of staring at others and being stared at by them, and has killed one's nightly quota of mosquitoes, it is then finally time to retire to one's hotel room.

There, in the privacy of one's badly designed hotel room, one has one's own personal supply of ravenous mosquitoes, which one is not obliged to share with anyone else, as well as the choice of watching a pitifully small number of TV channels while sitting under a mosquito net, which is intended to repel mosquitoes, but in reality closes you in with them instead.

Yes, the clever owner, who never seems to tire of trying out ways to drive away customers, ensuring that they never, ever return, has provided mosquito nets that are not treated with any sort of insecticide, becuase let's face it, that would just make it too easy for guests to relax, and what would be the fun in that? No, these are just netting material, with no mosquito repelling or killing properties whatsoever. Now, it takes your average mosquito, whose brain weighs about 0.0000000001 grams, about 2 seconds to figure out that if it gets inside the net with you, you become its prisoner. You have conveniently volunteered to close yourself in to a small airspace from which there is no chance of escaping its bloody bite.

Yes, folks, this is life here at the Sunny Garden Hotel here in the industrial area of Tana, on the island of Mada. Won't you please come and join me? I have a table ready for you, and want nothing more than the chance to stare impassively at you, hoping that you might choke on a fish bone, or otherwise encounter some form of misfortune so as to entertain me.

Do pop 'round, won't you? Cheerio!

My Two Centuries in Africa

Hmm.

You're wondering: Has this man actually been in Africa for two centuries? Is that possible? Well, I am old, but not that old. But I have been in and out of Africa for 30 years, during the 1900s (starting in the 1980s, continuing in the 1990s) and now past the Millennium. So, technically, that makes two centuries, right?

Anyway, what is this blog about? Well, I just recently discovered a blog called TexasinAfrica, which posted a hilarious youtube video about a young man who wants to get into aid work. That was me 30 years ago. Actually, we didn't have Bono 30+ years ago, when I started, and we didn't even have Band-Aid back then.

So aid work wasn't as "glamorous" back then, and in a way, that may have been better. But the texasinafrica blog made me think: Is there something I can share based on my two centuries in Africa? It's still early stages for me. I don't have answers to all the big questions, and probably never will. But in spite of all its problems, the disappointments, and the hardships, I still think Africa is magnificent, wonderful, fascinating, even funny.

That might seem odd to some people, but I've been observing Africa for a long time, and I thought, why not share my observations? This won't be political, or academic, or controversial. I like the continent, the people, the cultures, the history, the music, and of course, the magnificent natural beauty of a vast, ancient land mass.

The blog won't have an agenda, or a lofty purpose. It may strike some as frivolous. That's OK. There are a lot of people who are far smarter, far more serious, and for more focused. Let's just have fun with this blog.

And that's all I have for you right now. It would be great to find kindred souls who would like to share their appreciation of Africa, ask questions, and obtain answers and feedback (not just from me but from other readers of the blog). Share great books, great music, great thoughts, great events, great news, great people.

I guess that means this blog will aim to be optimistic and enjoyable. Hope that's ok with at least some folks.

More later...