The Thing About Stilts....

In southern Benin there is a town like no other. Monkeys hump kittens, the streets are paved with water, stilts are a form of currency, and kids run the show.

In the 17th century, while the Beninese kings were busy making a mint from the slave trade, a small group of people decided that slavery wasn't for them. Led by Kevin Costner, they took to the water in rusty sea-doos, creating a town, called in the ancient tongue, "Puuure Wataaa Werld". Things worked swimmingly, literally, as the king's slave hunters were land dwellers, forbidden from going on water because of religious principles.

The village grew from the ground, or water, up, based entirely on Big Bamboo (RIP) stilts. The streets, were therefore H-2-O, and the well, well, there wasn't a well. Indeed.

Now, for some reason unkown to anyone, only the children prospered. And what remains today is a town completely run by kids. While three-year-olds at home are about as useless as Kevin Costner in Waterworld, in Ganvié, 3 is the age when you take to the water to seek your fortune. Most modern fortunes seem to be found selling inch-long fish, or just asking for cadeaux from tourists. Everywhere in the town kids in boats go about their daily business, paddling small canoes, punting larger craft, and tending to their tasks. At night things don't slow down. There's just a lot more crashes.

Furthermore, during our stay, we encountered quite the enthusiastic couple; an odd couple of sorts. One small monkey, named Chumpie, and one small kitten, named Humpie. Hilarity of the indescribable sort ensued. Chumpie seemed to like to grab a hold of Humpie from behind. And, well, you know. Check the pictures. Cuteness and Cuteness (Hi mom).

The thing about stilts is that sometimes you walk on them and sometimes you live on them. Also, sometimes you're 3 and the captain of your own lake freighter.

The Thing About a Good Posse.....

Mmmmm Togo! It's great to be here. A funny thing happened on the way though - did you read the last post. But seriously folks, we'll be here all week.

After lengthy bus rides and too many matches and double beers to count, it was the perfect time to see some sights. But this is Togo, more of a do-it-yourself vacation spot. The supposed highlight of northern Togo is the mysterious cave dwellings inhabited by long forgotten savages. But in order to get there we had to choose our own adventure. Go to page 17 (the next paragraph) if you wish to visit the caves. Or skip to page 25 (the bottom of the post) if you just want the thing about.

Over the course of our adventure we hire a taxi driver named Capitain, are forced to hire two local guides, and baksheesh the local chief. As soon as word gets around that some white guys are paying for a visit to the caves, everyone and their baby pig gets involved: 14 local slingshot-toting children, a flock of sheep, the aforementioned piglet, 5 shirtless teenagers, a guy with a speakerbox tied to a stick, a cow, and the guides we actually hired. We assume that, collectively, this crowd will come together to unravel the unknowns of these long-forgotten, recently remembered caves.

Our hike included beautiful maize and sorghum fields, a steep sprint up a ravine, and then a descent through a metal ladder to the cliffside caves themselves. Our posse led us on a tour through the caves, which actually turned out to be cereal storage facilities built in the 19th century to avoid the taxman. Turned out not to be savages at all. And no one really lived in them. Another mystery solved. Turning to our next mystery we commence our search for Toucan Sam and are led on hands and knees into a narrow bat cave oozing with hantavirus. Probably. However, despite our best efforts, we couldn't locate any Fruit Loops or Trix. We emerged to wash off the hantavirus in a trickling cascade and beautiful views over the surrounding plains tasted better than a bowl of Count Chocula and strawberry milk.

The thing about a good posse is, "C'mon everyone! Some white guys are paying for a trip to the caves! Bring your animals! Someone call Speakerbox!" But no rabbits because Trix are for kids.

The Thing About Game Day....

Sorry for yet another post about border days but it seems as though, no matter how hard we try, things don't go smoothly.

Leaving the town of hot Tamale in northern Ghana, we decide, based on African Time and previous experience, that arriving at 0715 for the 0700 bus would give us only two hours of wait time. Plus, with only 240km to cross into Togo and get to the nearest town, even a Cote d'Ivoire fiasco-like crossing would still leave us with time to catch the blockbuster 1400 match between Argentina and Germany. We pulled into the station at 0704 to find that our bus had left four minutes ago. Dang.

Luckily, the 0800 bus was only forty minutes late and we arrived in the town of Yendi with plenty of time to spare. Only 70km to the border, the timeline looked good - we were still hopeful. With decent directions in hand, we start the walk from one station to the next and are told, 'it'll be on your left, you can't miss it.' Trudging past an empty lot filled with garbage, peeing children, and pregnant goats, our focus is diverted by the unfortunately common attention-grabbing kissy noise and we turn to find a man gesturing to the adjacent lot. This is the station. Oh sweet.

We take a seat in the small hut 'station' and play the waiting game. We're good at that game. "The bus will be here any minute. Don't stray too far. Don't eat any meals. Don't explore the town. Don't go to the bathroom. Okay pee on that goat. He deserved it." We're paraphrasing a bit but FOUR HOURS! This wouldn't have been so bad had we been expecting it but the constant reassurance that the bus was seconds away made the situation far more aggravating. Finally a rumbling off in the distance signified the approach of our converted-cargo-van bus and nearby women frantically grab our daypacks, aggressively toss them into the back window and motion for us to do the same. Clambering up the side of the bus, Pete's shorts come out of the exchange the worse for wear. He is now permanently flying low. A pair of inconspicuous boxers he does not own.

The sun is low in the sky as we arrive in the 'border' town of Tatale just in time to find out Germany has trounced a Messi Argentine squad 4-0. Dang. Asking around, reports as to the actual proximity of this town to the border vary widely from one mile to twenty miles, taking between five minutes and two hours to walk, depending on who we talk to. Polling the audience was always the worst lifeline. What the hell? Seriously? You live there! If we can't trust you then who can we trust? Ourselves? We opt for the latter, and decide it's within walking distance. Tough break. A crusty, dusty, blusty hour later we still haven't made it. Double dang.

Now in these parts, there's a local expression: when the going gets tough, Mohammed gets going and the man himself appears as if on a cloud. Okay that was just black smoke from his trusty taxi-moto, the Obamacycle. Now we know what you may be thinking: three boys, three bags, one Mohammed, and only one motorcycle. The above expression held true and we all mount Obama. Four in a row and bags on the side. No problem. Let's just say we haven't been that close since that time in Freetown.

The actual border festivities were surprisingly smooth and decidedly less cramped than our ride. As the sun set over the beautiful jungle hills of Togo, we sped off down the road, dodging potholes and chowing on bugs. Our arrival in Kara at 2100 was a triumph of human spirit and endurance. Ultimately, we watched neither match that day. Dang.

The thing about game day is you win some, you lose some, and sometimes they take forever.

The Thing About the Hunt....

The sound of insects is almost deafening. Nothing stirs except the slosh of our Wellingtons and sweat slowly slides down the brim of our pith helmets. Trudging through the muddy, sparsely treed grassland, we are on the lookout for the hardest prey to track - Man. Just kidding - the Mighty Elephant. Senses heightened, suddenly Evan stoops and spots a scuff mark in the dirt, clearly caused by an oversized upper incisor (photo 1). Quickly looking around, Dan locates gargantuan footprints leading off into the distance (photo 2). We put our f$#@ing game faces on. We're now in the Green Zone. The hunt is afoot.

Rushing off at a breakneck pace, startling bush buck and kob, we are in hot pursuit of our ivory-tusked payload. For such a large animal, Elephants are surprisingly adept at evading the untrained hunter, but for seasoned safariists such as ourselves (photo 3), their attempts are pitiful. We are soon on the scene of an Elephant smorgasbord. Risking life and limb, we leave the treeline to approach our quarry.

Alerted by a disturbed flock of birds (and perhaps our noble stench) the Elephants flee on all five limbs. But not before we got a few good shots at their retreating rumps. Point Umoja. Game over?

A sound sleep followed the previous day's triumph and we were awoken by a soft snuffling outside our window. Quickly donning our finest hunting garb - fruity briefs and parachute boxers - we throw open the sash and behold! The hunters had become the hunted. Snuffleupagous maximus? No! Warthogius smellnostrainus? Never! Redassimus baboonicus? Not a chance! Just feet from our balcony, our stealthy opponent had us hemmed in (photo 4). Point majestic Pachyderm.

The thing about the hunt is, despite our safari skills and pith helmets, we're still no match for nature's big boys. Dan's lost three monocles this week alone. Evan's snuff box is dangerously low. And Peter is awaiting the next steamer to London town.

The Thing About Moms....

After the trials and tribulations of Cote d'Ivoire - the confrontations with rebels, the religious revelations, remembering French again (or in Peter's case, comprehension issues), poisson brasse and Drogbas, and the relaxing coastal resorts - we were anxious to cross the border into Ghana.

Dan's mom, Elaine, is working for Doctors Without Borders in Uganda and, as we were roughly in the neighbourhood, decided to take her vacation with us. In Ghana. At a five-star resort. To quote Elaine, "I've been camping for 8 months. I see real Africa every day. We're not roughing it." Music to our ears.

Now you can't just dive headfirst into tranquility. Preparation is essential. After crossing the border, we decided to embark on a preparatory exercise and test our relax mettle at the Green Turtle Ecolodge. We are happy to report that the initial relax was an overwhelming success and, worries waylaid, we headed off to Elmina Bay Resort for the real deal.

Now close your eyes and imagine a windswept, deserted tropical beach. Coconut palms swaying in the wind, pool glittering in the late afternoon sunlight, a scantily clad waitress with a tray of...... wait! Your eyes are still open!

In any case, you get the picture. The resort digs were quite the change from our daily deal. Pizza vs. weird spaghetti, rice and sauce, pterodactyl wing combo plate. Warm shower vs. no shower or cold bucket shower. Flushing toilets vs. flushing toilets (long story but there is a big difference). Clean towels vs. mildew and iron-ore stained towels (we're sure we all still have towels in there somewhere). All of us in different beds vs. all of us in one bed. It was a splendid week and we left feeling recharged and ready to once again pile into 15 passenger vans with 20 other people.

In all seriousness though, the relative affluence of Ghana has been overwhelming and in stark contrast with the last three countries visited (Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Cote d'Ivoire). There is a large middle class with fancy cars, clothes, and disposable income. Much to our delight, ATMs are everywhere. However, counter-intuitively, Ghana, with seemingly the least pressing need, appears to be the nation with the highest number of NGOs and ongoing 'development' projects. Our interactions with volunteers and practitioners have pitched us headlong into the African aid debate but we'll leave that for a different forum.

The beach is done and it's time to head inland. In fact, it's time to go to Togo. Indeed.

The thing about moms is they seem to be turning up in all the right places. Thanks moms. In the spirit of our new 'Leave No Mom Behind' initiative, we can't wait for the last stop on the Umoja tour - Victoria, BC, where, after high tea at the Empress Hotel, Deb Hartwick will lead us on a tour of their new kitchen. There will no doubt be tasty treats whipped up on the new stove.

The Thing About TacomaDome....

The following post is to be read in the aggressive, red-neck voice of monster truck rally advertisements.

Youve heard about it, you've read about it, you've even dreamed about it!! One night only, September 10th, 1990 - The Consecration!!!

161 meters of unadulterated piety.
Over 350,000,000 reasons to see this baby in action. That's one for every dollar spent.
Featuring 7400 square meters of pristine stained glass ridiculosity! Including all your favorite colours and Saints.
It's taller than St. Peter's, houses more people than GM Place, and is sure to be louder than Talledega Racetrack on Maxxxxxxxxxxx.
Only 150,000 tickets available. You'll pay for the whole pew but you'll only need your personally air-conditioned edge!

Bridging the gap between the divine and the earthly, we bring you an entire den of lions vs. one man, Daniel. Big Mama Mary Africa vs. St. Peter and the Apostle Dream Team. The final act, Jesus vs. Basilicasaurous.
You'll think you've died and gone to Evan!

'Pious Riot' will be churning out your favorite hymms all night looonnnggg. Dont miss the grand finale.

Coming straight out of Yamoussoukro, Cote D'Ivoire: Basilica de Notre Dame de la Paix.

One night only
The Pope will be there. Will you?



The thing about the TacomaDome is it's got nothing on Basilicasaurous.

The Thing About Rebels....

Ahoy ye scurvy sea dogs!
Things have sure changed since the last time we spoke, or we spoke to you. No comments again! Does anyone read this?

Departing from the lap of luxury outside Monrovia, Evan immediately falls victim to the unthinkable, the uncurable. Well, kind of curable. Okay, he's fine now. Malaria! This latest development stranded us in downtown Monrovia for a few days longer than expected.

Back on the road, comfort is at a premium and the price is going up, as we're crammed into the back seat with an elderly man for 8 hours. Arriving at the Liberia - Cote D'Ivoire border, comfort is indeed a distant memory, as evidenced by the UN fortress that separates the two countries. On the Ivoirian side we have our first encounter with rebels. Lots of them! From every angle! We gingerly walk across the frontier straight into a small hut filled with fatigue wearing, gun toting teens. And to be even more cliche, they want money - how original.

Now before we proceed, a little history, Cote D'Ivoire is still in the midst of a lengthy civil war. Recently, however, the Forces Nouvelles (rebel forces in the North) have begun working with the government army and in certain aspects of civil service.

So, back at the border post, we reluctantly hand over some money to the rebels, and continue on to the government passport hut. We pass the majority of the government border patrol playing a huge game of checkers, huge not for the stakes, but for its literally oversized novelty board. Immediately after entering the "office" we're asked for a second bribe of the same amount as the one paid to the rebels. Explaining that we just paid this amount and weren't keen to pay again the officer loses it. But not at us. He storms off down the hill yelling at the rebels. Apparently we're only supposed to pay one bribe per crossing, and it goes to him. An argument ensues, highlighting the absurdity of a conflict where both sides are highly corrupt, and exposing the thin veil of recent cooperation between these two sides. The conclusion of the argument was that the sheepish rebels, surprisingly, gave us our money back, which of course was promptly passed on to the other guy. No money, no stamp is the rule. A model for success and a happy democracy.

Stamps stamped, things grind to a halt. After already having traveled for 8 hours, little do we know it will take us 4 hours to travel the 25km, through rebel territory, to the nearest town. The short trip couldn't get underway until the car filled up. Only problem, no one else was crossing the border that day; or ever. Once underway, this time 5 of us in the back seat, a thunder, lightning, and rain storm in a leaky hunk of junk, ensured that we were soaked through. Gigantic potholes and incessant road blocks with requisite bribe demands (elongated by our polite refusals to pay)ensured that we arrived sore, hangry, frustrated, and well after dark. Party!

The thing about rebels is travelling in their zone gets awkward. Especially if you don't want to be a traveling ATM.