...they can’t shoot me if they can’t find me!

When you travel, you learn about new about new cultures and new beliefs.

I came across a new phenomenon this week…the overwhelming belief in something called the “witch gun”.  I met a young man, Paul, who was in tears; he had just learnt that his younger brother had passed away at the age of 24.  He was trying to explain the events that lead to the death but I wasn’t following…the brother got ill…seen at a private hospital…went to a herbalist (natural healer)…diagnosed with witch gun…too late…died.  WTF?

One of the English speakers who was with us pulled me aside to explain: Paul’s brother had recently graduated nursing school and gotten a job.  Others were jealous of his success.  Someone would have gone to a traditional healer and stated that “they wanted to do bad on him”.  The traditional healer (or sorcerer) would have decided the best potion to use, and then loaded it into a ‘gun’.  He would then approach Paul’s brother, while in an invisible state, and shot the gun.  Most likely he would find pellets (sometimes lead or sugar or peppercorns) embedded in the skin but sometimes you just hear the noise and the magic is just sprinkled on the skin.  After being ‘shot’ he would have started to feel ill…Western medicine won’t help…sometimes seeing traditional healer might help.  The healers can cut out the pellets and the surrounding skin (to remove all the magic) but only if seen early enough.  Praying – either to Allah or God – will help more than any medicine.  The suspicion amongst the staff was that Paul’s brother likely didn’t pray hard enough.

I am not making this up.  Quite often it feels like I am on an episode of Punked or candid camera…so far no one has jumped out to say “just kidding!”

I did a little reading; apparently the blaming of unexplained deaths on paranormal events is normal practice in Guinea and Sierra Leone.  In a way I can understand it…there really is no ability to diagnose a lot of things here.  An 18 y.o. dies after a headache – back home a CT reveals a ruptured aneurysm in the brain, here…shot by a witch gun and inadequate praying.  A 22 y.o. dies after some shortness of breath – back home we discover a pulmonary embolism (blood clot in the lung), here…shot by a witch gun and inadequate praying.

I don’t know if anything I have done here would have upset anyone enough to resort to black magic but to be safe, I shall don my own cloak of invisibility when I am out and about…they can’t shoot me if they can’t find me!

’til death do them part - how to survive a West African Wedding

Yesterday I got to experience a bit of local tradition…a wedding. I wish I could say I was close friends with the happy couple but I can honestly say that I have never met the groom and I allegedly attended a few meetings where the bride was present.  As a foreigner in the area, this means I have an obligation to attend. The invitation wasn’t exactly personalized; it was attached to the bulletin board at work. It is unlikely that many of you will ever have this form of social obligation…but in case you do…I thought I’d give you some tips for preparing and let you know what to expect.

1. Obtain the lapa (local fabric) that the bride has selected. Make sure you pick the lapa assigned to your ‘group’ (family of the groom, coworker of the bride etc)

2. Find a tailor and order your custom made wedding attire. 

3. Find an appropriate present, wrap it in aluminum foil (and be prepared to dance the gift down the aisle during the ‘presentation of the gifts’ portion of the program)

4. Plan to leave your home at least 2 hours after the listed start time.  In our case was arrived 2.5 hours late, which translates to 3 hours early.  Bring a book and some cash to hit up a local bar while waiting.

5. If you are an ‘ipoto’ be prepared to get paraded to the front of the hall with no regard to any social anxiety that you may have…no sitting in the back and sneaking out here!

6. People bring whistles. And the frequently blow them to celebrate their happiness. Your ears may bleed, bring some cotton.

7. Prepare for complete pandemonium when the bride and groom arrive – as in they actually cannot make it up the aisle due to being mobbed.

8. There will be a program handed out to you…it will not be followed. I can guarantee that there has never been a branch of Toastmasters in West Africa – they have no problem standing up and talking, and talking, and talking. I am talking about even the baker of the cake stands up to give a speech. Your book will be hard to read at this stage as people will continue to be staring at you and taking photos and videos…reading a book seems a tad tacky.

9. Bring some water if you choose to eat the food – very spicy. Unlike weddings I have previously been to – the food is served directly to you while you sit at your seat (no table). Here you try and balance the plastic plate on your lap while trying to identify the meat – pretty sure it was goat. Anything you don’t eat will be collected by local kids who come into the wedding scrounging for food.  

10. Hopefully you remember your dancing shoes! Anytime there is a lull in the excitement, the officiant will once again call out “thanks ex-pats” and then have the DJ play a catchy little number. People will just wait for you to stand up and dance – sometimes at your seat, but also be prepared to get up on stage. 

11. Be prepared to sit through a random skit. You won’t know what’s happening but at the end…Satan walks down the aisle. 

12. Sometimes the wedding will be crashed by ‘traditional drummers’ who just walk around, banging on drums and begging for money. Don’t be alarmed when the police show up and remove the uninvited drummers. 

At the end of the day, you will be exhausted and possessing a headscarf and skirt you will likely never wear again but you’ll be able to say you survived, and even enjoyed, an African Wedding.

New recipe!

 
Our truck makes a turn from the tarmac road and start rumbling along a dirt trail…the scenery is often thick jungle that encroaches on the roadway, frequently getting caught in our vehicle, but when we pass a clearing…you can see nothing but lush hills and palm trees in the distance.  There are easily 50 shades of green at every turn.  We cross streams on log bridges and pass goats grazing randomly along washed out roads.  Motorbikes and Toyota Land Cruisers are the only vehicles you’ll ever see out here.  And then…with no warning…we pop out of the jungle into an opening with a small gathering of mud huts.  People call out “ipoto” (foreigner) to us as we pass, taking a break from chatting with neighbours or grinding grain to frantically wave.  The children get so excited and chase us down the road – I guess there’s not too much action in these villages.  Just a few seconds later, after successfully dodging chickens and children, we are past civilization and back fully immersed in the jungle.  These settlements are not big enough for the health units we are searching for, so we continue on until we reach a village

with slightly bigger handful of huts.

My portion of this exploration is over pretty quickly; I speak with the health worker, review the supplies and then head out to have a look at the overall health of the village.   You can tell quite a bit by looking at the cleanliness and chubbiness of the kids, the obvious skin infections, the quality and colour of the hair etc.  I was needlessly worried about finding people to meet; the population came to

the clinic to greet us…all of them.  It can be a little overwhelming to be facing a few hundred people and no real way to communicate but we got on pretty well with facial expressions and charades.  The adults would usually wander off after a bit to tend their fires or finish laundry, while the kids remained to stare.  I discovered early that a fun game is to flinch like I’m going to chase them…this sends them running and giggling in droves…until they come back to do it again.  Sometimes I would have them show me their water source (stream) or their food source (crops, goats and the forest for bush meat).  At a few places I found it quite overwhelming; many of them were scared but wanted to touch my skin or hold my hand.  One village had a man that spoke English, I asked why there was such a fuss to see me, Ipotos had been in country before…so why the fascination?  “They have only seen them drive by, never standing in front of them”, was his reply.

In a few places it seemed important that I meet a prominent member of the community.  I met a chief, a few teachers and Michael.  Michael makes shoes, fixes plastic buckets and hunts monkeys.  They brought me over and presented him with great reverence…if I understood the local language I’m sure someone was urging me to courtesy.   Despite my lack of protocol knowledge, Michael and his tribe invited me to stay for dinner, even to help catch it.  He showed me the trees where we could hunt the monkey at dusk…

Recipe
1.      Shoot the monkey in the tree; collect it from the forest floor.
2.      Tie the money to a large stick, place over a roaring fire.  No need to skin the monkey…it’s better to roast whole and let the hair burn off
3.      Cook for about 1-2 hours, depending on the size
4.      Serve with sauce

Despite the tempting offer, I politely declined the offer of a primate feast and we continued on our way.  Just a few kilometers later I saw a monkey…I wonder if he knows he’s on the menu for tonight…

Whose never had an Oreo before!?

Enroute between Shiraz and Isfahan, our car pulled over unexpectedly to the side of the road.  Yesterday, I had asked our guide to point Iranian nomadic people to us.  I meant, point them out as we drive by, not pull over so we could stare at them.  I frantically tried explaining this to our guide who just smiled and said, “no, no, it’s ok.  We will go meet them”.

Before we went to Iran, people were telling us to be careful…they hate Westerners.  ‘Argo’ was pretty much my only barometer to base my Iranian knowledge on.  So, I was a little apprehensive that these people on the side of the road were going to be down with two tourists pulling over just to see how they live.  Stern expressions greeted us, Jen and I stood back while our guide chatted away.  Within seconds beaming smiles crossed our new hosts faces as they eagerly pulled us out to see their crops.


Proudly they walked us through fields of sunflowers, corn and beans.  They showed us the creek where they do their laundry and let us play with their kids.  One of the older ladies pulled out a handmade bag to show us, I naturally assumed to sell us, and turned to ask the guide to find out how much.  Confused he just said, “how much?  She is trying to show you because she is proud of it.  It’s her bag”.  Oops.

The rest of our time there was a bit surreal for two people used to travelling and being constantly harassed to buy things, get a massage, take a tour etc.  People being genuine…it was a bit unusual.  The hospitality continued and within a few minutes we were led into a tent to be served food.  Aiming to impress us they pulled out freshly made thin bread, sheep butter, goat cheese and grapes – quite the spread for random strangers who forced themselves upon you one morning.

Now, a culinary Magellan I am not.  Jen is far more adventurous when it comes food, particularly unpasteurized, unrefrigerated products served out of the skin of an animal on the side of a road in Iran.  This is the only explanation I have for how she was able to just dive right in.  My ingrained Canadian, be polite at any cost self, finally manned up and took a cautious bite…and it was…awful.

I can’t lie.  The butter and cheese were some of the worst things I ever politely ate, and I once ate a tarantula.  But the bread was fine, and the grapes were divine.  So, attempting to favour those two items while practicing visualization techniques to get the dairy products down, while Jen did her part, we managed to put a nice, polite dent in their spread.

How do we say thank you for this unique experience?  Our guide said that any attempt to give money would be seen as offensive…so we gave them the only possible gift we had…a sleeve of Oreos.  Purchased on a whim at the Dubai airport for emergencies, the gift was greeted with confused looks.  The trade embargoes in place mean that they had never even heard of Oreos before.

I’ll be honest, I’ve had some pretty cool experiences in my time.  But, standing there on the side of a highway in Iran, introducing a nomadic family to delicious Oreo cookies…it ranks up there as one of the best.

Your whole world can change in the blink of an eye…

When I landed in Paris on Friday, my biggest worry was that I wouldn't have anything dressy enough to wear to the Christian Constant restaurant that my Dad raved about.  Within hours I was mentally reviewing the pros of sleeping on a bench versus a bush.

The nightmare stared at Charles De Gaulle (CDG) airport.  One minute I was loading my luggage onto the shuttle, next I was frantically searching for my purse...my purse that contained absolutely everything (passport, phone, kindle, all credit cards, bank cards, cash, sunblock, glasses, insurance cards, drivers license etc.)  I had stopped to help a lady and in my exhaustion simply left by bag behind.  It wasn’t some clever multi-person scheme…just fatigue and poor decision making on my part.  The bag was gone. 

The next few minutes were chaotic…lost and found wanted me to stay but one of the other shuttle divers said a black bag had been found on another bus.  With my crappy French I was able to negotiate myself onto the bus and a ride into downtown Paris.  Only to discover…it wasn’t my “sac noir”.  With no options, I walked 3 hours through the streets to my pre-booked hotel.  On the way I was trying to decide if the bush (possibly hidden from other people) would be a better option than a bench (raised off the ground and away from rats).

Fortunately, the desk clerk took pity on me with my pathetic story and tear-stained face and allowed me to check in with a screenshot of a passport and the credit card on file.  I still had my iPad and I was able to get a hold of my pilot brother who tired to wire me money during his layover in Nice.  But without proper ID, Western Union wouldn’t release the funds.  I found 300 AED in my iPad case that Western Union agreed to exchange to euros if I would agree to take my sobbing mess out of their lobby.  This gave me 60 precious euros to survive with until my passport could be replaced, in 5 days.

I have never been in a situation like that before - no money, no ID, only speaking some of the language...and it got me thinking.  The world is in the middle of one of the worse refugee crisis’ of all times.  One day, you are safe at home…next you are fleeing for your life, trying to decide if you should sleep on a bench or the bush.  I can't imagine what the refugees all over Europe go though everyday. The feeling of having nothing and no hope is gut-wrenching - and the whole time I knew my situation was temporary. A few well e-mails and messages and I had people trying to help from all over the world.  I had offers from people to fly to Paris to bring me money.  I had people calling friends and the hotel to try and send me food.  And I was still scared.  I was always going to be ok, I had many places to call home to return to, and I was still scared.  Imagine having no where to go because your homeland is at war.  The feeling that no one wants you and you have nothing - literally nothing.

Today I received an email that my bag had been found. When I picked up my bag at CDG, I heard the whole story…my bag was turned in by the very man who stole it. 

CDG has homeless people. One of them watched me set down my bag to help a lady with her stroller. When I walked away from my forgotten bag he picked it up. Exhausted travellers are not unusual, he ahs done this many times.  He always claims that his friend takes the money…the USD and Euros were gone.  But EVERYTHING else was there…just the cash and a bottle of water were missing. 

I'm not angry. Normally I would be furious - demanding they review security tapes and prosecute the man who robbed me (I've done it before). But, I have a bit more empathy today. I was really hungry yesterday and scared to spend any of the little money I had on food. It was raining but I walked because I didn't want to spend any money on public transport. While I was scared of the unknown, I would have been absolute terrified if I didn't have a safe place to stay. So... if a couple hundred euros can help someone not feel like that - even for a short while - it's a small price to pay.

(A special thank you to everyone, literally around the world, who offered assistance. It's been a long 48 hrs but it's all resolved)