An Open Letter to Mr. Hartwick...

The following is an open letter to Mr. Peter Hartwick, in light of the fact that he will soon be joining us. His addition to our adventure team is highly anticipated and hotly discussed, finally we will be complete.

Dearest Peter,

Please bring the following from home, we trust you will have enough room in your bag.

- One spicy tuna roll, eight pieces of salmon sashimi, vegetable tempura, two chopped scallop cones, and one miso soup
- 150 pairs of underwear (one for each day left, so we never have to wash them again)
- Canucks car flag (for future bush taxi rides)
- One Grandville Island summer mingler
- A pillow that isn't made of plastic bags, hay or cottage cheese
- Three empty kleenex boxes and eighteen elastics for making box guitars (we miss jamming)
- Hugs from our dads - we'll catch our moms en route (and make sure to not hug anyone else in between us and our dads)

Can't wait man!


PS. We're in Sengal in a city called Saint Louis and heading south, we meet Peter in Dakar in a week. Woo Woo

The Thing About Camel Trekking ...

All saddled up and nowhere to go. Well, no where in particular. Leaving from the town of Chinguetti in Mauritania, we commence our three day Saharan camel trek. Prepared for heat, thirst and plenty of walking, but there was something we could not have prepared for; something crazy.

Dunes stretching into the horizon, each day we walked in the morning beside our two camels, stopping before the heat of the day to rest under the shade of a thorn bush, for at least 5 hours. Our very quiet guide, Solimann cooked us a lunch feast of rice and veggies, eerily similar to our dinner meal of pasta and veggies, no complaints though. And every morning we woke up to a breakfast of bread cooked buried in the sand under coals from the night's fire.

Most of each day's walking was through an ocean of picturesque golden sand dunes, and wadis. Each night we bunked down in the desert expecting a glorious apparition of innumerable stars. Here is where things get weird. After a normal weather day on the first day and night, as we settled down for the second night we both felt something falling on our faces. Something wet. We assumed at first that each of us independently had become spitty talkers, but the reality was far more shocking. As our sleeping blankets and mats became increasingly soggy, we realize what it was. Rain!! In the desert! In the Sahara desert, the big one!! It pourned off and on all night, and we woke up damp to a beautiful sunrise. Weird.

The thing about camel trekking is, apparently sometimes you get soaked in the desert. Who would have thought?

The Thing About Iron Ore Class ...

You may have heard about first class, maybe second class, some of you even third class. But
Mauritania has a different class all of its own. Iron ore class.

So we find ourselves waiting to board the train leaving Nouadhibou, a wait which lasted 6 hours and was highlighted by our refusal to give a policeman a bribe. When it finally arrived in all its glory, over 2 km in length and dusty as hell, fridges, goats and people are frantically crammed into the passenger car. This is where the ore class comes in; we had opted for the free ride, also we opted to take it easy. Ore class means clamouring onto one of the empty ore cars, immediately being coated in a seemingly permanent layer of pinkish red ore dust.

We attempt to make a break for our own private car, but our neighbours insist we join them. We all climb aboard, gear in tow and we're off into the Saharan sunset. By the time we realize what's happening, and that everything, including us is covered in red dust, our car mates have set up a carpet and fire and are offering us sweet mint tea. We settle down in a circle on the carpet and the food is ready, goat and rice for dinner, eaten with our red ore stained hands, delicious and amazingly unexpected. We're on an ore car for gosh sakes!

Finally, with the food finished, we are literally tucked in under a blanket with our Mauritanian travel buddies. We settle into an amazing starry Saharan night.

Now at this point there are no downsides. You might even think that this free ore car class could be better than the crammed in steerage class. But there is a glaring downside besides the dust. Due to the fact that this is not a passenger train, when the engines change speed, a shockwave caused by the cars smashing into one another reverberates along the entire 2km of train. The terrifying sound of the cars colliding along the length of the train can be likened to the approaching whine of an incoming bomb. The explosion of this 'bomb' is the violent shaking of the entire ore car. Jarring physically, traumatizing mentally. For the few days after we suffered a mild case of post traumatic stress, grabbing at any solid object for support at any abrupt noise.

All in all, we agreed that this was by far a highlight of our trip so far, not to mention waking up to watch the sun rise over ther Sahara, enjoying yet another three cups of mint tea. We make it to Atar pink and exhausted.

The thing about iron ore class is may not be high class, but it could just be the best class there is. Except for the PTS.

Cheers

The Thing About No Man's Land...

Apologies for the delay in our blogospheric contributions. A combination of gargantuan battles against tiny parasites, inordinately long bus rides, and juvenile behaviour has kept us from purging our story stash. But we digress...
We were all set to move south from undisputed Morocco into disputed Western Sahara. Things go south in more ways than one as, 9 police road blocks and 14 hours of bus riding later, our patience is thin. After passing a surprising number of empty prefab concrete communities in the middle of nowhere, we begin to wonder what all the fuss is about. The dispute has lasted 40 years, Morocco is blatantly in the wrong, and wasting money to save face isn't helping.
Another digression. Apologies.
We recharge in Dakhla and arrange a ride for our final kilometres across the border into the mysterious land of Mauritania. Aren't you excited too? Next morning we depart: Evan, Dan, one short quiet Mauritanian, another big jovial one, and our perky driver Issalamo. Against better logic and judgement, according to us, Issalamo decides on a departure time of 10am, perfect for driving in the hottest part of the day through the oven they call the Sahara. Of course, windows shan't be opened and A/C can't be workin'. Broken only by a quick tea and camel tajine stop, we reach the border 6 hours later soaked in sweat and just a little thirsty.
Now, nothing of major note transpired at either border, but it was what transpired in between that was of note. Five kilometres of land-mined, roadless, discarded appliance and gutted automobile strewn no-man's-land separate the borders of these desert nations. Our faith in Issalamo builds as he navigates the maze with cool confidence under his cool shades. Alas, we crest a hill and what do we find coming at us from the other direction but a truck with driver leaning out the window, waving frantically in our direction. Brakes slam. Confidence shattered. We reverse slowly, Issalamo shaking his head all a bit confusedly. After our detour we are assured it was only a sand pit but, eyeing up the twisted wrecks all around us, assurances were not going cheap. Talk either.
Headachen, dehydrated, and exhausted we arrive in Nouadhibou only to proceed for an hour to stop at various homes to pick up people, hunks of dough, bottles of cooking oil, and to say hi to Issalamo's friends dodging goats and children the whole time on the sand streets. As you might imagine, the hotel beds never felt better.
We've made it to Mauritania. And this feels a little more like the Africa we had imagined. The thing about no-man's-land is, you won't find us behind the wheel. Boy Howdy.

Photos to come, stories as well. Patience. That's what it's about here.

Heartwick Cup scores: Evan 3, Dan 4

The Thing About Bagging Peaks...

Towering about the beautiful mountain town of Chefchaouen stands the unattainable peak of Jebel el Kalaa. Needless to say, our minds were set on one thing, bagging the peak. We set out at the break of 10 on a crisp morning, equipped with our finest shorts and hiking attire, after a nice breakfast en route of french baguette and goat cheese. For most of the morning it was an all uphill trek, through gorgeous valleys, meagre forests and tiny hamlets, finally throwing us out onto a windswept ridge, below the summit. As we braved on the wind was relentless, our shorts flapping and water supply at a dangerous low. After piling on our last aricles of warm clothing, we were ready for the summit bid. Then, finally, success! There was no more mountain, all that was left were stunning views of the entire region. Feeling accomplished we enjoy a trumphant lunch of mackerel in tomato sauce and bread and plan our descent by a different route.

Peering down from our summit perch we spot what can only be a shelter, built for lesser hikers to spend the night before they attempt the unattainable. Upon closer inspection it,s a modest farmhouse. Three teenage boys are busy tilling the steep hillside fields. They are more than happy to point the route down, one they no doubt travel daily.

The thing about bagging peaks is ... it,s more rewarding when no one lives on top.

Also, a relevant update:

The Hartwick Cup of Catan scores: Dan 3, Evan 2

The Thing About Picking up Moroccan Women...

Two PM. Last Sunday. Rabat, Morocco.
After rocking the local kasbah, we head down to the neighbourhood breakwater for a lovely promenade and sit. A popular pass time for the elderly, families, and the local single crowd as well. After a brief stroll we sit down on the rocks. Two young girls sidle up to the next rock over, also seemingly for a sit. As the moped traffic picked up, we realized this was no ordinary promenade. This is the equivalent of a friday night at the local pub.

A steady stream of boys and men parade by, never missing an opportunity to flirt with the girls. Flirting meaning what can only be assumed to be teasing and cat calling. Then things started to happen. First a young gentleman, we use that term loosely, wearing a saggy speedo, complete with cigarette behind his ear strolls up to the girls to show them his pubic hair, only to be honked out of the way by a suave looking sir, riding what must only be his trusty steed, a very shiny moped. Wearing a pink dress shirt and matching pink tie, as well as euro styled gelled hair, chin strap beard and shades, he starts with a hand shake and a few words to the girls. Next thing we know they are on his moped and away they go. Another successful afternoon in Rabat.

The thing about picking up Moroccan women is you gotta have a moped. A chin strap beard doesn;t hurt either.

As for more serious things, we are having an amazing time. Climbing mountains, exploring thousand year old medinas, eating tasty cakes and delicious sandwiches. And our trip onward is alive! We have our Mauritanian visas!

Best witches
D and E

The Thing About Expectations...

The dream is alive! Welcome to another blog post. Lots has happened since our last post.

Our last night in London was spent drinking beers of the world (including a Moroccan variety) with our hosts Sara and Nikki and our good English friends Rob and Charlie. The night actually never ended (what Charlie would call a "through") as we caught a 2am bus then a 6am flight to Marrakech, Morocco.

We made it!! Our first day in Africa. On the bus ride to the central market we were in full preparation given our expectations of a world of ridiculousness; flying monkeys, sizzling snakes, tantalizing tagines and one million people yelling. Then we arrived. A huge half empty square crawling with middle aged european vacationers in full traditional travel attire. But in fairness, we did see a monkey.

The square did liven up at night when no fewer than 100 portable food stalls materialized all serving the exact same menu. Walking through every tout tried in dubious sincerity to convince us that their stall was superior to all the others. After choosing one somewhat arbitrarily, we sat down to a tasty but overpriced and meagre meal. Expectations of wonderful cuisine were not met but the market was in splendid full swarm... 1 for 2 isn,t bad!

Morning after this culinary disappointment and we were on a mission. And success! Not two blocks outside of the central market we enjoyed two wonderful meals both totaling less than the price of a pint at the Coppertank. Deep fried fish, warm bread and sauce, lentil and chickpea soup, and the ubiquitous mint tea all washed down with a sizzlingly hot sugar coated doughnut. Oooh yeah!

The thing about expectations is to keep them in check until you,re done exploring. We,re taking this lesson straight to the fried fish bank.

Love from Dan and Evan