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.

The Thing About Liberia '77.....

Great news! They have rice and sauce in Liberia too! After weeks of roughing it with extreme humidity, no running water, and one hour of electricity per day, at best, we fall into the lap of luxury in, of all places, Liberia. A huge day of travel crossing the border from Sierra Leone and we are spat out in front of the ‘Liberia ‘77’ team pad. Dusting ourselves off, we climb the steps into a beautiful house with hardwood floors, a fridge, couches, real kitchen, running water, and two cats. Purrfect.

The crack ‘Liberia ‘77’ filmmaking team consists of director Jeff Topham, brother Topham and still photographer, Andrew, and Evan’s mom, Melanie, the producer. Their Liberian driver Mickey Watkins adds zany comedic antics to the proceedings. The documentary tells the story of Jeff and Andrew, as they return to the country where they spent a portion of their childhood, roaming the jungle, suckling mangoes, and hanging out with their pet chimpanzee Evelyn. Having left prior to the 1980 coup that marked the beginning of the country’s descent into chaos, the return journey of the Topham brothers has dredged up memories, exposed interesting questions about the long-term obligations of foreigners in colonized lands, and illuminated surprisingly little contrast between the Liberia of today and that of 40 years ago. A lot has happened here but war has frozen progress in the ‘70’s - pictures taken today are unnervingly similar to those from the Topham archive.

Needless to say, our filmmaking skills were immediately invaluable to the project. Tasks included cold Club Beer re-stocking, hang out DJ playlist making, gourmet meal preparation, cat petting, and general enthusiasm and positive attitude dispensing. With our presence, it is clear that productivity increased threefold - one fold for each of us. Even aided by our expertise, filmmaking is exhausting work and after a couple of days, we all needed a break. To the coastal town of Robertsport for some surfing and more serious relaxing! Others hung ten in the barrel, building shacks in the rip curl while we were tossed around in the waves, trying not to get hit by the actual surfers.

The thing about ‘Liberia ’77’ is it’s shaping up to be a doozy and we were glad to be there to hang. Check out the website for breaking news and updates.
www.liberia77.com

The Thing About Freetown.....

When we last left our heroes they had narrowly evaded capture by the Gambian drug squad and subsequent interminable incarceration in unspeakable squalor. Now, after weeks of silence, they return with news from the steamy wilds of Sierra Leone…

Flying into Freetown we had no idea what to expect. Okay we had some idea what to expect. Scenes from Blood Diamond and passages from wartime chronicles, ‘A Long Way Gone’ and ‘Ambushed,’ sprang to mind. We’d be lying if we said we weren’t a little bit nervous. To ensure a safe and smooth entrance, we thought best to arrive in the Sierra Leonean capital, a city with intermittent power and no reliable water supply, at 2300. The ferry from the airport pulled in to the dock three feet short, requiring a flying leap into knee-deep water. Apparently this was standard procedure as there were plenty of boys ready to give us piggyback rides. We politely declined and waded ashore into the heart of darkness. Walking up the unlit road, lined with ghostly faces illuminated only by small propane burners grilling chicken, we were unnerved to say the least. Nervously and thankfully stumbling out onto the main road we hailed a cab - a disco cab stuck in the early 2000s when Christmas LEDs were all the rage. We dodged container trucks and motorbikes into the downtown core, occasionally foraying into hilly, cratered side streets, only to slide back down into the thick traffic.

*Pulled up to PZ around 0007 or 0008, said to the cabbie, ‘yo holmes, smell ya later.’ Looked at throbbing mayhem we were finally there. To sweat our balls off – princes of humid jungle air.*

Our search for a hotel was longer than expected as homophobia in Sierra Leone generally bars same-sex groups from sharing a single hotel room. In our desperation we found a kindly night clerk, presumptuously named The General, who was willing to look the other way and let the three of us share a king sized bed. Snuggle Town!

The next morning, despite the previous night’s apprehension, we quickly warmed to the open demeanor of the Freetownians and the vibrant clamour of their city. An aspect that Dan fell in love with was Mama Africa and her sizzling street food operation. On the same corner of downtown Freetown, the winning combo of rice and sauce has kept loyal customers coming back to this sister-run bench and cauldron for eighteen years! And, to Evan and Peter’s delight another sister served Fanta and Coke across the sidewalk. We were regulars in no time.

The thing about Freetown is it’s best served hot and sweaty with a side of rice and sauce.

The Thing About Drug Squad Interrogations......

After waiting 3 hours for the bus to leave and then a jarring and cramped 8 hour ride from Dakar, we successfully negotiated the border crossing into The Gambia. Border officials were surprisingly friendly, making jokes about hidden swine flu and bombs in our bags. All-in-all, it was a very cursory search. Home free.
A routine passport check at the Gambian River ferry terminal quickly got awkward when we were ushered into a side room by a pair of undercover officers from the national drug enforcement squad. Naturally, we had nothing to hide, however our copious amounts of unmarked pills in plastic bags caused a great deal of suspicion. Things started off with a stern talk about the Gambian Drug Act of 2003, 'the full extent of the law,' and thorough bag searches where we were queried as to the exact function of each drug, cross-referenced against a hand-written bible of illegal tablets.
The only minor confiscations were some of Dan's birthday chocolate, Canada stickers, and Pete's unmarked blue sleeping pills. Things took a turn for the comical when the 'interrogation' devolved into Pete getting invited out to the pub by one of the officers and Evan and Dan whipping up a batch of water purification drops for a very elated and thirsty drug squad member.
The thing about drug squad interrogations is, armed with chocolate and mystifying water droplets, things can quickly turn into sweet hang time.

The Thing About Dakar...

In the small town of Rufisque, Senegal, we hunt for a car to take us the final leg of our Pete-less adventure. Not just any car. Da-kar.
We easily find a friendly driver with a shared taxi at the right price and hop in for the short jaunt. Problems. Immediate problems. The engine won't turn over and, no matter how many unpaved back alleys we are pushed through and how many donkeys our motorless car dodges, nothing is doing. Finally, out of nowhere, Dr. Dakar replaces our driver and expertly starts da-car in second gear without breaking a sweat.
We're then on our way into the thick smog soup of the autoroute. Just as things start to get congested, our driver deftly swerves into a side alley. Nothing like a secret shortcut - problem solved. Alas, the secret is not so secret and everyone is onto us. Imagine the back alleys of your neighbourhood all of a sudden filled with buses, trucks, regular traffic, and donkey carts. Not an ideal route. Our driver, forever the optimist, pulls another trick out of his sleeve in attempting a daring bypass of a line of da-cars. Trouble resurfaces as the route is blocked and we are now blocking all traffic. Apparently, in the mayhem of it all, this was still a ticket-worthy offence. One traffic fine later and we're back on the autoroute.
Gridlock once more but now the eight lane highway also has eight lanes of walkers filled with hawkers for all your rush hour needs. For the next 45 minutes, inching along, our driver desperately bargains out his window, with any passing car, to try and make change for a large denomination bill.
Last hurdle over, we settle in our beds to the smell of schwarma and wait for our glorious reunion with Pete.
That's all for us. Over to the man himself.....

Whats it like arriving in Dakar at 2:30am? Pure gold if you have two hairy faced besties waiting for you on the otherside of a fence. I started my journey in Van with connecting flights to Salt Lake City, Paris, London, Casablanca and finally Dakar...big day to say the least. Along the way I encountered Rabimovich, who had knocked himself out on the bathroom floor of London customs, he proceeded to go into minor cardiac arrest, while bleeding from the face. With no help from Londoners, who continued their normal bathroom activites, I sprung into action. Finding the nearest airport security we got "Rabi" (as his screaming Serbian wife called him) on his knees. Seeing as this was customs I had a line up to attend to. Not to worry though Rabi was okay and where might you ask was he traveling to? Canada of course!

The thing about Dakar is... no matter how you get there, in da-car or in da-plane, there are crazy adventures to be had!
Off to the Gambia!

P, D, and E

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