Sure, you’ve probably heard of a few big cases of bloggers being sued or held up to professional standards of journalism that they spectacularly failed to meet, but did you also know that around the world there are over 60 bloggers currently behind bars for writing a lousy blog? The sad truth is that this state of affairs is getting worse rather than better.

Here are the main places where blogging can make you a criminal.

Thailand – 0. Ok, so things aren’t too out of hand yet for bloggers in Thailand. Last year Praya Pichai was detained under the Computer Crime Act of the country and detained for 12 days facing up to 10 years in prison. The charges were subsequently dropped after international pressure. Things aren’t too bad for bloggers in Thailand compared to the other countries below, but it is definitely getting worse. And let’s face it, there is plenty of fodder for government criticism in the land of smiles.

Saudi Arabia – 0. Although there are currently no bloggers in jail as far as we know in the kingdom, Fouad al-Frahan was detained without charge for 137 days earlier in the year “because he violated the customs of the kingdom.” Calling for democratic reforms and sounding off against corruption isn’t going to get you too many friends among the authorities over there. He also blogged about some guys that the Saudis had jailed for terrorism, claiming the charges were fabricated. Fouad reported that he was well treated while in custody, but he hasn’t started blogging again. No surprise there really. Here’s the Free Fouad website.

Egypt – 1. Abdel Kareem Soliman enjoyed the distinction of being the first Egyptian prosecuted under his country’s laws against insulting Islam, sedition and insulting President Muburak – the country’s despotic leader. All of this for referring on his blog to al-Azhar University, at which he was a student, as a “university of terrorism.” He also referred to Muburak as a dictator which doesn’t go down so well in the land of the Pharoahs. There is now a movement to campaign on behalf of Abdel who blogged under the pseudonym, Kareem Amer, which can be found at the Free Kareem website.

Burma – 2. In Burma, things are worse. The government has the country locked down so hard that barely anyone can get on the internet due to government restrictions or just plain poverty, but they have still managed to do what most other authoritarian countries have not – actually imprison a blogger. Nay Phone Latt, an internet cafe owner and blogger, committed the grievous crime of having messages in his inbox that were disrespectful of the government.

Syria – 5. When he started criticising the Syrian secret service, blogger Tariq Biassi may not have thought it would end in a three year jail term. The 24 year old was found guilty of weakening the state and undermining national morale. We guess that the irony of that second charge hasn’t quite caught up with the Syrian secret police. The problem for Syrian bloggers is that the state has decreed that all website owners are to keep records of the authors of stories even though the country’s constitution theoretically grants freedom of speech for writers.

That wasn’t much of a protection for Habib Saleh either. According to Amnesty, there is no information on his whereabouts after his arrest and they fear for him being tortured. You can find some of his best work at Elaph.

Then there’s Firas Saad, a poet who was bringing down the Syrian state machine sonet by sonet. You know things are getting tough when a country is afraid of haiku. He went to the
clink for four years in April of this year for the same charges as Tariq. You can read more about Firas at Free Syria.

Vietnam – 9. The great thing about the Vietnamese is that they won’t even try to hide their contempt of bloggers behind laws that are even remotely related to blogging. For example, Nguyen Hoang Hai who blogs under the pseudonym Dieu Cay was last month jailed for tax fraud. Reporter Without Borders condemned the trial and conviction as “trumped up” and “completely unfounded.”

Not to worry – Nguyen will have 8 other blogging buddies to keep him company in jail. In fact vietnam is a clear second in terms of incarcerated bloggers in the world.

China – 50. It’s concerning that the fastest growing internet population in the world comes from the country that is most likely to put its internet users in jail. Perhaps more worrying is the issue of western companies’ complicity in at least a few of those jailings in order to court favour with the authorities who control access to such a huge market. In fact general censorship of the internet relies on censorship technology developed by western companies and western search engines companies have been known to hand over information that has led to the arrest of those critical of the government in their online writings.

And it doesn’t seem like a lot of Chinese cyber-dissidents report the same good treatment in jail that those in Saudi Arabia have – in fact one blogger named Liu Di (who wrote as “Stainless Steel Mouse”) was held in solitary confinement for a year after she was arrested back in 2002. She was eventually released, but but almost 50 other bloggers remain in Chinese jails. Group punishment is also not out of the question as human rights activist, Hu Jia found out when his family was placed under house arrest. RSF keeps a reasonable list of current inmates in China.

So with that, China is the clear winner of the most dangerous place for bloggers, but special mention should also be made of Malaysia, Jordan and Libya who weren’t mentioned on this list, but have all put bloggers in jail.

By spreading the word about the plight of bloggers, it seems some pressure can be applied to the authorities responsible for these abuses of power so consider blogging, writing, emailing or bringing these issues to the attention of others on the internet.

‘Tis the season to be jolly, for some at least. Elsewhere, ‘tis the season to rampage through the streets, rubbing out your adversaries and making life a misery for anyone that contests your anti-social behaviour.

And so as we enter the final week of 2007, the staff at Polo’s Bastards, tucking into roast goose, washed down with hot mulled wine, present you with their collective assessment of the year’s top ten worst destinations. Always the source of much contention and vehement disagreement from various corners, we expect this year’s compilation to be no different. But whatever you may think of us and our take on the world’s more “colourful” destinations, we think you’ll have to agree that getting upset about a teddy bear’s name is just plain stupid, and murdering monks is dismally short of tactful.

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Iraq

What, wait, aren’t things supposed to be getting better there? Yeah sure they are, for those who may have already survived umpteen hundred suicide car bombs and bombers, extra judicial killings and kidnappings perhaps, but for you Mr. And Mrs. Samsonite, even the best and safest parts of the country may put you on the wrong end of a Turkish JDAM, or stuck at the wrong checkpoint, or tossed unceremoniously into the trunk of a car that you most certainly did not hail.

Your hide is still worth money here or it simply might just be good for a point making beheading on YouTube by all the wrong independent filmmakers, whom have absolutely no axe to grind with you personally, except the one that happens at that moment to be against your neck. Face it does anyone even know how many people are actually still being held hostage in Iraq? Arab hospitality notwithstanding, there are more armaments circulating this country in all sorts of hands and at all levels of technology that while it may be possible to get a cold drink and a tan the potential for so much more than you bargained for, or were willing to pay, is still very much in the realm of possibility.

While the violence and unabated killing seems to be enjoying a temporary lull it really is one of those rare countries where everyone seems to have a beef with someone else, whether it be brand new or a hundred years old. Let there be no doubt here, it’s whether or not the country is even in possession of a future that is still very much in doubt.

Afghanistan

There may be only one place more wary of strangers as a whole than Afghanistan’s hinterlands (that’s pretty much the majority of the country outside Kabul) and that spot too would be inside Afghanistan somewhere. For centuries the tribes and people that populate this country have taken great pride in tossing out occupiers, and now for the past six years the country has been loaded with occupiers from all over Europe and the rest of the developed world. This would be courtesy of an organization called NATO and, all things considered, those locals that are so predisposed to the longstanding tradition of ejecting outsiders certainly have plenty of motivation to get their game on.

Unfortunately for everybody involved – the citizens, NATO and yes you the world traveler of exotic locations, the extreme dichotomy that exists within this physically and culturally stunning country range from “We want our MTV!” to “Sharia dictates that you must be punished for watching it”. Indeed you’ll be punished for any number of apparent ludicrous crimes against Allah by any number of barbaric forms of punishment; all of which for the average citizen and especially for the traveler tends to create a behavioral minefield. Speaking of minefields; this lovely country has more than its fair share of those too, sixth in the world, in fact, not to mention when talking of world rankings it happens to be number one in opium poppy cultivation. So while there may be a myriad of ways to find yourself in a great deal pain, whether through ever increasing rates of suicide bombing via human bombers or vehicle borne devices, kidnapping or random shootings, car or bus crashes on dangerous mountain roads, rampant disease, conflagrations initiated between NATO and the Taliban or the current villainous warlord of the moment, you’ll at least be able to derive some comfort that there will be enough morphine or heroin around to take the edge off.

While Chicken Street and much of Kabul and its populace will invariably be sure to invite you inside their rug shop or café for a hospitable cup of chai and to chat you up and practice your particular language, this will not be the case in the south of the country or in the northwest frontier provinces where tribal law and ‘who has the most guns’ tends to sort out even the most minor of issues. Unless, of course, NATO, the Taliban, Narcotics funded warlords or the Pakistani military decide to put in their two cents’ worth, which more often than not tends to be the case. Expect things to heat up in the upcoming year.

Somalia

How much worse can it get for this poor impoverished, fractured, chaotic pseudo nation? It could always be stated that for a country that has had no viable government since the early 1990’s, it’s not doing too bad. Some folks even felt the leadership takeover this past year by the Islamic council was a step in the right direction, despite the fact that edicts governing basic human behaviors and Sharia-based laws were being declared on a weekly basis. The banning of public showing of movies, and Khat chewing, not to mention simply playing a radio, were punishable offences.

Say what you will about Sharia law but this was enough to prompt Somalia’s powerful neighbor, Ethiopia, to invade to toss these Islamists and their supporters out of power. This took cities like Baidoa and Mogadishu that already had enough violence and chaos and misery, and turned them into full on battlefields, where of course it was the civilians who suffered the most. Like so many forces before them, Ethiopia is now bogged down there following an initial withdrawal and then a quick return to support an outgunned interim government that within weeks of being “returned to power” was once again under attack. If this sounds complicated it hasn’t even begun to bring into play the role the warlords and their affiliate clans play, and the resulting constant, ongoing havoc. When it comes to the deaths of journalists that cover the anarchy, this country is second only to Iraq and it’s not clear where that leaves your camera-yielding white tourist other than dead.

Chronic Khat chewing leaves young, bored, gunmen with very twitchy trigger fingers and enough stimulation to jump into the back of a heavily armed Toyota Hi-Lux, ready to settle some perceived score with some begrudged party. If you plan a visit it is a very good idea to hire this type of crew as a preemptive measure to protect you from the very real threat of kidnapping by the very same people you’re hiring.

And it’s not just on land that you stand a chance of an early demise either: Rampant piracy has led to attacks, kidnapping and hostage taking on the high seas, and any ship or vessel entering Somali waters runs this terrifying gauntlet. The increase in the past year has been dramatic and worrisome for all involved. Relief agencies, the UN and Somalia’s citizens all depend on the goods and services that the maritime trade provides. Without safe, open shipping routes, a large segment of the population faces the prospect of starvation.

Without question the south of the country is vastly worse than the northern end, which has for the past several years been trying to divorce itself from its misbehaving brethren to the south by declaring itself the independent de facto states of Puntland and Somaliland. This is done to attempt on an international level to separate the north from the anarchy and violence in the south, and thus engender stability and a better way of life for the northern citizens. So yes it could be worse for Somalia – it could break off the continent and fall into the sea. Expect the grind to continue at its usual steady pace.

Lebanon

For a place with such a perfect Mediterranean location; wonderful historical context; exceeding geological beauty and refined social culture, it sure does have a load of worries. It’s really difficult to choose just where to start with this small plot of land with big problems, but betting people have been talking for some time now about the “if’s” and “when’s” of the next dust up between Hizbollah and Israel. This valid concern might be the top reason any vacation you plan here might most be affected. The last conflict in 2006 left no less than 3 billion US dollars in damage to Beirut alone, and a similar action could be your fastest ticket to ride along with the US marines or the French navy during the next mandatory evacuation, thus placing a sizable kink in your holiday plans of sunbathing, drinking fine wine and café dining. Couple this with an ongoing and seemingly systematic eradication via car bombs of higher echelon Lebanese politicians and civil leaders, and those who tend to be in the same area with them. Syria usually takes the blame here, so it’s easy to see that Lebanon has some serious neighbor issues.

No matter where you go in Lebanon, you will find the potential for trouble for a variety of different reasons. In the south, Hizbollah’s strong hold, you’ll find minefields, some old some new; you’ll find the remnants of cluster bombs that Israel dropped in the area during 2006; and you’ll need to contend with the potential for Israeli artillery to occasionally drop in, or over-flights from their jets that like to buzz Damascus and the disputed Golan, occasionally dropping explosives. But even in the north, on the outskirts of Tripoli, the Lebanese army has spent a great deal of time this past year fighting Palestinian Islamic militants (Fatah-al-Islam), who had entrenched themselves in some refugee camps. Outside of the potential for Pakistan to explode into an orgy of election inspired violence, to many this small country might perhaps have the greatest chance in 2008 to become, once again for all but the most fool hardy of travelers, a “No go” destination.

Pakistan

The nemesis of India just seems to go from bad to worse and this year was a particularly exciting one for them. With tribal problems, Islamist problems, territorial problems, sovereignty problems, election problems, foreign relation problems and the imposition of martial law, it’s a wonder they’re not getting a complex. Of course, the big bang this year (or at least the one that the media bothered reporting) was the public and very messy attempted assassination of opposition leader and former Prime Minister, Benazir Bhutto. With a few hundred casualties, it gave us a good reason to stay away from political rallies in this volatile country. The incumbent PM also had at least one attempt on his life, too. Of course, with the amount of weapons floating around the country (largely thanks to the manufacturing production lines in the North West Frontier Province) combined with a peculiar predisposition to settling differences with said weaponry, it’s little wonder that the politicians of the country are constantly dodging the pointy end of them. Speaking of NWFP, the state continues to stew in a molasses of violent tribal retribution and anti-government sentiment with continued rumors that this is the current hiding place of the big kahuna himself – Osama Bin Laden. The other big problem, of course, is there are the twenty or so proxy Islamist groups that keep popping up in Kashmir to fight the evil secularists in India, though how much control the central government has over them is up for argument.

The lid is beginning to loosen on this powder keg which gives Pakistan a firm spot in our top 10 and a very likely position in next year’s too unless something drastic happens and it changes for the better. With the sheer scope of problems in the country, that is pretty unlikely.

Sudan

The hilarity just continues in Africa, with Sudan getting another well deserved place on the list. Notwithstanding the fact that it appears to be a country with a sizeable population of idiots that believe a teddy bear’s name is reason enough to execute an old lady, Sudan is also mired in as complex tribal and political hostilities as you’ll find anywhere on the continent.

As one of the world’s longest running conflicts and the resistance of the central government to any meaningful actions that could lead to a lull in the hostilities, it’s difficult to see an end to it. With 200k Darfurians already dead and another four million displaced or relying on aid, the counter just keeps ticking. The 2006 Eastern Sudan Peace Agreement didn’t have a lot of support on the ground and resistance of the central government to the deployment of a UN peace keeping force means any real muscle that could help stop the slaughter remains impotent. Clashes between the Government and the SPLM also leaves the Comprehensive Peace Agreement on the verge of collapse with the rebels withdrawn from the Government of National Unity.

African Union troops currently deployed seem to be remarkably ineffectual and are coming under direct attack. Seven aid workers were killed in October alone and major aid organisations (which supply millions of people with their only access to food and water) starting to contemplate withdrawing. Cross border incursions by the government armed militias are also destabilising neighbouring Chad and having an effect on CAR.

As if all this isn’t enough, Sudan Arab militias have struck up a lucrative deal with those humanitarian angels, the Chinese, in which oil is traded for weapons and military training. Nations with a shred of decency walked away from an oil deal with Sudan, but Chinese oil companies saw an opportunity and now two billion US Dollars’ worth of oil each year is shipped out and fundamentalist Arabs draw a handsome salary. With untapped oil fields in the north/south borderlands, it seems only a matter of time before the shaky peace deal falls apart and if the north goes to war against the south again, Darfur will pale in comparison.

Even with all of this going on, Sudanese President Omer al-Bashir had the temerity to term 2007 “the year of peace” proving once again that politicians always have their hand firmly on the pulse of reality. The only question remaining now is whether the international community will have the strength of purpose to pursue a peace operation that guarantees security to civilians now that it is glaringly obvious to everyone that a short or even medium term political solution is a pipe-dream. We’re not holding our breath.

Myanmar

You know things aren’t going great for you as a government when you need to start killing and torturing monks. Now that’s some bad karma. But that’s what happened this year in our favourite South East Asian golden land when the monks started backing up a fairly sizable portion of the general population in anti-government rallies and found themselves on the wrong side of the ruling junta. Now, Myanmar has had its own fairly constant and intense teething problems with pesky things like elections and opposition parties, but beating up on monks was a new low and there were even reports that the soldiers were targeting anyone with a camera in order to stop the story getting to the outside world. Needless to say, the opposition leader, Aung San Suu Kyi remains under house arrest (the only Nobel Peace Prize winner with such a distinction) and journalists have been warned about reporting on the problems with internet access being cut off completely for a time and then restored intermittently.

Of course, we can’t really forget the ongoing insurgency in the country or the massive amount of heroin that comes out of the place, or the 300,000 odd refugees along Myanmar’s various borders. Really, Myanmar has it all!

Now, entering as a tourist, it might seem like a pretty nice place. This is largely due to the fact that the government forced thousands of citizens into forced labour to pretty up the main tourist destinations and thus encourage tourism, which is responsible for a fair amount of the country’s hard currency. The International Labour Organisation stated that it would be seeking to prosecute the leaders of the government for crimes against humanity as a result. With the likelihood of such great national management continuing there is a fair chance that we can expect to see more fun in Myanmar in the coming months and years.

Democratic Republic of Congo

Welcome to the darkest heart…. well one of them anyway. DRC is one of those nightmare places that usually ends up as the background of a flippant Hollywood attempt at depth and insight. Unfortunately for the locals it is all too real.

This year, DRC’s main claim to fame is their love of the child soldier. According to several charities, who still operate in the country, the eastern DRC has seen some of the worst situations for children in recent times (not to mention the displacement of up to 800,000 people). Kids as young as 10 years old are being draughted by both sides of the conflict as front line soldiers, not to mention porters and sex slaves. One exceptionally troubling element of this is that the government (and UN) backed soldiers have also been accused of recruiting children to their cause during an offensive against rebel general, Laurent Nkunda. Spotting the good guy is getting increasingly difficult.

Of course, to add to the lovely ambiance of DRC was a UN report in July by the United Nations Human Rights Council on violence against women that characterised the problem as “extreme” and “pervasive” with local authorities doing little to stem the problem. According to the report, “In numerous cases, male relatives are forced at gun point to rape their own daughters, mothers or sisters.” As for who to blame for the brutality, according to the report, it is “committed by non-state armed groups, the Armed Forces of the DRC, the National Congolese Police, and increasingly also by civilians”. That basically means there’s nowhere to hide. How nice!

Chad

When the UNHCR warns that genocide may well occur in your country, it’s probably best to sit up and take notice. Well, that is unless you live in Chad where it’s just another day at the slaughter house. The country seems to have more problems than Paris Hilton and Pete Doherty’s love child and things certainly ain’t getting any better.

With several hundred thousand Darfurian refugees on the border with Sudan, Chad is now forced to endure constant cross border incursions by the Sudanese armed Janjaweed militia, leading to pretty tense relations between the governments, not to mention the people at the coal face. Combined with another 50,000 or so refugees along the border with CAR, who have fled the fighting there, and 140,000 internally displaced persons of their own, it’s fair to say room is getting a little tight at the inn.

Things couldn’t possibly be complete without a homegrown insurgency, too, and Chad does not disappoint. The Chadian Movement for Justice and Democracy keeps the government on their toes from the north of the country and at least a couple of other groups keep things tense. Banditry is also pretty rife so be sure to keep your iPod at an extended distance from your person so that the thieves don’t take your arm or head too when they steal it.

Sri Lanka

The country seemed to be united at the time of the cricket world cup with a multi-ethnic team making the finals of the event. Unfortunately, the Tamil rebels put a slight damper on that unity when they started dropping bombs at the exact time the rest of the country, including the army, was watching the Sri Lankan team play in the finals. But that’s how things roll in Colombo, where the bombs just keep coming. Sri Lanka lost the cricket and the peace but won a spot on our most coveted of lists.

Unfortunately, 2007 was another less than stellar year for peace on the island, with the Tamil Tigers finding a way to launch their own air raids against various facilities controlled by the central government, and the government finding ways to marginalise human rights groups, who questions their tactics against the rebels. In reality, both sides attracted condemnation for their human rights abuses, but who’s keeping count anyway? Extra judicial killings, “disappearances” and arbitrary arrests under terrorism laws are all part of the local festivities. With a quarter million people displaced and thousands dead, it can only get better… or not.

The Tamil Tigers have taken up a fine tradition from other parts of the world in kidnap for profit, and some pro-government militias have started to take up the fine tradition of child recruitment for military adventures. Fun!

With no viable political solution being discussed, we can only look forward to the party going on. Luckily, the cricket world cup only rocks around every four years.

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And so as the new year unfolds before us, keep a mental note of this list of unsavoury spots and book yourself a nice skiing holiday in Austria instead; or a beach holiday in the Bahamas; or a barbeque at Ayers Rock. And if you simply can’t ignore that irresistible urge that’s drawing you to a night’s partying at the Hard Rock Café, Mogadishu, then don’t say we didn’t warn you.

From all at Polo’s Bastards – Go well.

Authors – Rob Wood, Steve Strommer and Lee Ridley.
Photography – Michael Cordoni, Lee Ridley, Sean Rorison, Vince Gainey.

A summary of the world’s worst travel dstinations of 2005, as chosen by Polo’s Bastards.

2005 has been another bumper year for finding adventurous places to travel. There was certainly no shortage of natural disasters and the seemingly never-ending supply of wars and conflict has made certain parts of the world a miserable place for many unfortunate souls. It comes as little surprise that the top ten worst destinations fall into just two continents – Asia and Africa. In truth, we could easily find ten countries in Africa alone that could warrant being on this list, but in the interest of fairness, we’ve nominated just four. Also, it would be true to say that the Americas escaped by the skin of its teeth, with Colombia being the most probable “number 11”. Whether you agree with us or not, this is Polo’s Bastards’ top ten list of 2005’s worst destinations:

Iraqi National Guard. Photo by Lee Ridley

Iraq
– was there ever really any doubt that Iraq was going to take out the number one spot? Anyone who ventures into the Sunni Triangle seems to be taking their life in their own hands, and other areas of the country still don’t seem to be a picnic. The Kurdish autonomous north of the country is, perhaps, a little less dicey for the adventure traveler, and is a place where your guard can be dropped a bit as you walk the dusty streets talking to the locals about their hope for a better future. Nevertheless, the sad thing about this country is overall it’s a pretty nasty place to be caught with your pants down and we can’t see it leaving the number one spot any time soon. It will almost certainly be years, if not decades, before Iraq even leaves the top ten.

Somalia – This ugly conflict became mainstream viewing when the Ridley Scott film Black Hawk Down hit the shelves in Blockbuster Videos. Without a central government since 1991, the ongoing power struggle between the country’s warlords has turned the horn of Africa into a lawless wasteland, where the only rule is the rule of the gun. Journalists and travelers can fly into Mogadishu easily enough, but if they want to set foot outside the airport they are strongly advised to hire their own private, heavily armed guards. Failure to do so could seriously jeopardize the already slim chance of surviving the day intact. Daily rates for an armed escort range from a couple of hundred bucks if staying within the Mog, and several hundred bucks if going up-country, making Somalia an expensive as well as dangerous place to spend time.

Afghanistan – Following the promise of good times to come, the country once again seems to be receding back into the contentious ranks of the world’s most dangerous places. It culminated this year in the deaths of two Japanese school teachers who ventured into the wild southern regions of the country around Kandahar. By all accounts, many areas of Afghanistan are falling back under the sway of extremists, and Kabul itself is even experiencing its own fair share of terror attacks – enough to make all but the hardiest of travelers a little wary. Whether you’re in search of the fabled Minaret of Jam, the pastoralist Kuchi shepherds, or your latest bulk opium order, Afghanistan has a wealth of travel experiences just waiting for the foreign visitor. So long as they’re aware that Taliban-sponsored suicide bombs, IEDs and unexploded ordnance all list among the country’s attractions.

Warning Unexploded Ordnance. Afghanistan. Photo by Dan Quinton

Thailand – OK, so Thailand is a great tourist Mecca and it’s not exactly what we would normally call
‘dangerous,’ but this year it gets a spot on the list because of the Tsunami. The Tsunami was on Boxing Day, 2004 but the effects were mainly felt in 2005, with the extent of the damage coming to light up to several months after the event in some areas. The cleanup is still going on and bodies are still being found a year later. This, along with the ongoing hostilities between the government and the restive Islamic militants in the southern provinces, is putting a lot of doubt into prospective tourists’ minds, causing them to look towards alternative shores for their annual hols. Until these concerns disappear, this wonderful country will continue to struggle as a result of the depleted supply of tourist dollars.

Sudan – This one is also gearing up to be a permanent resident on any top 10 list of worst destinations. With the ongoing tensions between the government and rebel groups, as well as the government backed (or at least not stopped) genocide, any areas outside the capital are looking shaky for travelers. In the beleaguered western region of Darfur, murder and rape is commonplace as people cower in the IDP camps, fearful of setting foot outside in search of wood to make cooking fires, lest they encounter the murderous Janjaweed militia. In the northeast of the country, the marginalized Beja people are also dissatisfied with their lot and, led by the Beja Congress, are uprising against the central government. Travel permits are required to head into this region, and Khartoum simply isn’t issuing them. Peace has allegedly finally come to the south of the country, thanks to the tireless efforts of recently deceased John Garang. However, the cross-border activities of the Ugandan Lords Resistance Army in the far south, close to the town of Juba, means that the shit could hit the fan at anytime, with little or no warning.

Janjaweed. Darfur. Photo by Vicent Gainey

Chechnya
– It doesn’t get too many travelers at the best of times but even journalists fear to go to this former Soviet state. The insurgency is in full swing and the school hostage drama at Beslan shows just how far they are willing to go. Even if you did manage to reach the capital, Grozny, with your life intact, it’s unlikely that you’d find a hotel to stay in, as the city lies mostly in ruins, following the Russians’ capture of the city in 2001. We don’t imagine that Club Med has too many plans in the near future for this place.

Indonesia – Now this country isn’t dangerous per se, but there are so many elements of danger that it gets a spot on the list for the worst destinations of 2005, from the second Bali Bombing incident to the Tsunami. Indonesia is also home to the insurgent movements in Aceh and West Irian, neither of which are getting enough coverage in the press and both of which are extremely difficult for travelers (especially journalists) to get to. Killings and suppression of the media are an almost daily occurrence.

The Palestinian Territories – Despite the ongoing efforts of the international community, the Palestinian territories seem to sway only between bad and terrible as a place to travel. Just last week two foreign nationals, there to help educate children, were kidnapped by insurgents and later released. Foreign aid workers report being beaten by settlers. The military controls population movement and curfews are often enforced. It’s probably not on Paris Hilton’s list of places to visit.

Uganda – For some eighteen years now, the Lords Resistance Army, fighting the Ugandan government in the far north of the country, have made the region a no-go area for all but the most determined of travelers. With a reputation of being among the most evil, murderous gang of cold-blooded killers on the planet, the LRA’s practice of child abduction for the purpose of turning children into soldiers is deplorable enough. Forcing those same children to kill and mutilate their own family members as part of the indoctrination transcends most people’s idea of unspeakable horror. To journey into this area along the border with southern Sudan, truly is to journey into the heart of darkness.

Aftermath of the Tsunami. Sri Lanka. Photo by Richard Everingham.

Niger
– Last, but by no means least, Niger, rated as the world’s second poorest country, takes number ten in Polo’s Bastards’ worst destinations of 2005. The famine stricken south of the country has already claimed countless lives through malnutrition, and as the year draws to a close, official figures put some 30,000 children at risk of an unsavory demise unless food aid arrives very soon. For the aid-workers, journalists and casual travelers, the horrors of seeing starving children is just a fly-drive away, as the worst affected areas of Niger are easily accessible along the length of the country’s southern highway that runs between the capital, Niamey, and Lake Chad to the east.

…So here’s to whatever lies ahead in 2006. No doubt continuous headlines will tell of conflict, disaster and despair. And we will just strap on our desert boots, sling a small pack on our back and camera on our shoulder, and go and see for ourselves. I suspect that the list above will be largely unaltered this time next year, with perhaps just a couple of changes. The sabre rattling between Ethiopia and Eritrea is reaching fever pitch, so don’t be surprised if both countries are adorning our pages sometime soon. Also, as Ahmedinejad furthers his plans for nuclear development in Iran, the US are gonna get real itchy, meaning the Middle East will remain just about the tensest place anyone could wish to be. On top of that, earthquakes, wild-fires, tsunamis and El Niño are sure to make life a misery for countless many. Happy new year.

Author – Rob Wood and Lee Ridley

Strabo at the time of Jesus mentions 26, already ancient, Albani tribes in the Caucasus that, by linguistic argument, included the Chechens (and Ingush). Most of the 55 ethnic groups in the Caucasus mountainous region between the Black and Caspian seas speak unique Caucasian languages. Chechen is a Northeast Caucasian language called Veinakh, meaning ‘our people’. Language, people, culture and religion are absolutely different from Russian.

Russia, since well before the 16th century’s Tsar Ivan Grozny (same name as the city, meaning ‘Terrible’) regarded Caucasus as a buffer between the then Ottoman Turkey, and Persia. As part of the long-advancing Russian fortified line, Grozny was founded as a fortress in 1818. During the 1800 – 1864 Russian subjugation of the Caucasus, Daghestani and Chechen Mountaineers resisted though outnumbered 100 to 1, notably under Daghestani – Avar Imam Shamil, from 1831 to his honourable surrender in 1859. That period was followed by many seeking exile in Ottoman lands.

Stories of the war were famously recorded by Tolstoy and Lermontov, who were stationed in Grozny.

In 1823 oil was found in Grozny but not exploited industrially until 1893 when the train line was built.

The Chechen Soviet Autonomous Republic was imposed in 1922 and then changed to Chechen-Ingush Autonomous Republic (ASSR) in 1934. In 1937 14,000 Chechens were purged, and in 1944 Beria and Stalin liquidated the ASSR and deported 390,000 Chechens and 90,000 Ingush, on the pretext of collaboration with Nazis, in spite of 40,000 Chechens fighting with distinction in the Red Army. 20% of those deportees died in frozen cattle trucks on the journey to Siberia, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. In total, 200,000 Chechens and 30,000 Ingush had died in harsh exile by 1957, when Krushchev restored the Chechen-Ingush ASSR. In 1952 316,000 Chechens were registered in Central Asia.

Grozny had become the 2nd oil refinery centre in the USSR by 1989, when its population was 400,000, of whom only 1/3 was Chechen. There were 294,000 Russians in Chechen-Ingush ASSR. In the 1989 census there were near 1 million Chechens counted in the USSR, of which 3/4s were in Chechen-Ingush ASSR.

The break-up of Soviet power saw Djokar Dudayev democratically elected president in 1991 for Chechen independence, which was blocked by Russia. Russians left Chechnya and by 1993 the population of Grozny was 118,000.
Between December 1994 and August 1996, the 1st Russian war was waged on Chechnya, which resulted in extensive destruction. Dudayev was killed in April 1996 and Maskhadov made a peace agreement with Lebed-Yeltsin in September of the same year, which the Russians, incidentally, never implemented. For example, they failed to rebuild Grozny, which had suffered worse bombardment than Berlin, and an estimated 24 times bombardment of Sarajevo.

Maskhadov was democratically elected president in January 1997.

Though the true numbers of Chechen casualties was not known, Ahmed Zakhaev gave estimates of 200,000 with hundreds of thousands of refugees in Ingushetia, Daghestan and Southern Russia. There were also 15,000 elderly Russians killed in Grozny, leaving only some 30,000 survivors.

The Sept 1999 apartment bombs that former Col. Litvinenko has exposed as agent-provocateur, Stalin-style actions, in addition to warlord Shmail Basayev’s (more below) ill-judged incursion into Daghestan in August, condemned by Maskhadov, were Putin’s pretext for election victory, linked to 2nd war that effectively continues today. June 2000 saw Chechen, Akhmad Kadyrov, appointed by Moscow as administrator of Chechnya – the population of destroyed Grozny varied between 90,000 – 190,000 (rising to 223,000 in 2002).

The nature of war changed in June 2000 with the first suicide bombers in Chechnya, and in July 2002 in Moscow. Always condemned by Maskhadov, responsibility was claimed by Basayev. In Oct 2003 Kadyrov was ‘elected’ president in deeply flawed elections. Putin took the war outside of the Russian Federation, when Yanderbayev, Dudayev’s brief successor before Maskhadov, was murdered in Qatar by two, since convicted, Russian SVR agents in February 2004. In May 2004 Kadyrov was murdered in the Stadium bomb on Victory Day, leaving his savage son in charge of Chechen self-policing. On 8 March 2005 Maskhadov’s corpse was exhibited as a Russian casualty, and the best peace negotiator, who Putin repeatedly refused to talk to, was lost. On 10 March Basayev promptly announced a successor – Abd al-Khalim Saidullayeva, who Zakhaev had said was an an anti-Wahhabi cleric, who had been close to Maskhadov.

Among many other NGOs, Amnesty I, Memorial, Helsinki, HRW, IWPR, US State Department and the UK Home Office CIPU have all reported massive Human Rights abuses, but Europe and US have virtually remained silent. Russia has leadership of G8 this summer with a large conference planned in summer 2006. Will anyone mention what’s going on in Chechnya? More importantly, will they discuss that what’s happening can technically be defined as genocide?

Chechen social history
Chechnya occupies a small diamond-shaped area less than 150km across. The top is plains and the lower part the heartland in the northern Great Caucasian Mountain chain. From antiquity there were volnaya obchestva, similar to & smaller than ancient Greek city-states – polis, ruled by a local council of elders. Similar to the Highlands of Scotland, over 130 clans or teips were recorded in late 19th century with combined clans or tukkhum. In spite of Shamil’s attempts to impose Sharia Islamic law, and in later years moves to impose Tsarist Russian law, the traditional Customary Law system called adat continued – and does today. The worst aspect was blood feud vendettas that were stopped in 1923, but reappeared after the Soviet period.

Sunni Islam spread during the 18th and 19th centuries in a predominantly animist society. Membership of Naqshbandi and Kadyriye Sufi tariqats were inherited within families and clans. Fierce Soviet suppression of Islam from 1928 to 1938 was only eased during Glasnost when c1988 people were permitted to go on Hajj to Mecca. Young men were targeted by well-financed Saudi Wahhabis and converted, which split families because Wahhabis ban sheikhs, shrines and the act of revering ancestors, an essential part of Caucasian Sunni Islam. The independent warlords, such as Basayev, have converted to Wahhabism and claim responsibility for suicide attacks in Russia and Chechnya. My Daghestan academic colleague Dr Magomedkhanov estimated that by 2002, some 25% of young men in Chechnya were Wahhabis, compared to 5% in neighbouring Daghestan.

Parties involved in the Chechen war
It is usually confusing to work out who is responsible for what, in Chechnya, so here are the ‘participants’. On one side, there is the Russian Army, which is making a living by extortion following cleansing operations, black market in arms, drugs & trafficking of people. The Russian FSB, put in by Putin to balance the Army and according to ex-Lt. Col. FSB Litvinenko, likely as corrupt; And the pro-Russian Chechen administration and security personnel.
In the middle are Chechen, Russian and multi-national organised criminal groups.

On the other side are the Maskhadov pro-democratic separatist rebels, such as Zakhaev; the independent Chechen warlords, such as Basayev, who are Wahhabi fundamentalist and, according to President Putin, who seeks to link the war to international terrorism, foreign Islamist and Arab forces. However, only Russian-made arms have ever been found in Chechnya.

Of course, rapid changes in local conditions have given rise to a variety of different alliances, and the organised criminals are often part of most of the above groups. The victims of this war are the civilians in Chechnya, a diminishing number of refugees in Russia and an estimated 15,000 dead and 60,000 – 100,000 wounded Russian military, who have returned to their homes throughout Russia; and of course tens of thousands of brutalised FSB officers who have served 3-6 month tours of duty!

Polo’s Bastards’ Contributor, Vince Gainey has recently returned from a 6 week posting in the middle of the Darfur Crisis in West Sudan with a major international aid agency. Previously, Vince has spent time in The Sudan both in the 80’s and the 90’s, accompanying cross-border aid convoys into northern Ethiopia, following the big famine. He also worked in the western provinces of Kordofan, and in Darfur, on longer-term development programmes and, more recently, has spent time in Southern Sudan, managing a major aid and humanitarian programme.

Here, Vince describes how The Sudan has managed to spiral out of control and into the situation it currently finds itself in. – Editor.

Sudan, quite frankly, is a mess. In fact, it has pretty much always been a mess, but the mire is getting deeper by the day. Having just been on the verge of clambering out of 20 years of conflict in the south, and with a peace agreement within spitting distance, Darfur then erupted. The two issues are not of course unconnected: The SPLA (Sudan People’s Liberation Army) rebels of south Sudan have been fighting the Islamist Government in Khartoum for 20 years in order to achieve greater regional autonomy in the south and a greater share in the wealth of the Sudan as a whole. The oft-vaunted public message about this being a Muslim-Christian conflict, is a gross and inaccurate over simplification of a far more complex conflict.

In October 2002 a cessation of hostilities between Government and SPLA forces was declared and since then the two sides have been edging closer to a comprehensive peace agreement that will give the south a high degree of political autonomy (including exemption from Sharia laws) and, after a proposed 6 year interim period, allow a referendum to give the south the opportunity to opt for total separation from the north.

With peace close in the south, other marginalised peoples of Sudan saw their chance: The peoples of Darfur in the far west have long been isolated from political and economic power in Sudan. This isolation has cost them dear in terms of development and the region shows few signs of having benefited from the oil revenue that has purchased new warplanes, and tanks, and rebuilt the government ministries in Khartoum. Darfur has always been bandit country out on the fringes of society and the law. Much of North Darfur is open desert where Arab nomads have always been the only inhabitants tough enough to survive and, through that toughness, have exercised their own laws and codes far divorced from central government.

West Darfur is the mountain fastness of Jebel Marra, rising to over 10,000 feet above the desert, high and cool, and inhabited by the Fur people (“Dar Fur” means Land of the Fur). South Darfur is savannah country inhabited by farmers of more African extraction, and seasonally by nomads, using the green lands to feed their cattle and camels in the dry season from October to June.

Darfurians have had little opportunity to benefit from the political process to date or from the income flow from Sudan’s increasing oil exports (over 300,000 barrels a day now, and rising). Scattered armed resistance throughout the state crystallised in 2003 into a full armed rebellion against the central government, led by two military factions; the Sudan Liberation Army (SLA) and the Justice and Equality Movement (JEM), the latter having a strong Islamic agenda, being closely aligned to the Islamic Ideologue, Hassan El Turabi, former Eminence Grise of the current government and since 2001, their Bete Noire.

Picture: The relative normality of life in Khartoum; The Friday afternoon ‘Dervish’ dances by the Sufi followers of the Saint Hamed en Nil in Omdurman.

The SLA launched a surprise attack on El Fasher, the state capital of North Darfur in April 2003, and this attack acted as the catalyst for a major government offensive against both rebel movements. The Government, on the verge of ceding much power in the south, were determined that this pattern would not be repeated elsewhere in Sudan, and so cracked down hard on the Darfur rebellion. This crackdown included a full conventional military offensive but also the arming and mobilisation of Arab militias to terrorise the ‘African’ population of Darfur, seen as the backbone of support for the rebellion. This technique has been used extensively in south Sudan in recent years where similar Arab militias known as ‘Murahaleen’ have massacred and driven Nuer and Dinka nomads from their homes in the southern oilfields to clear them for major oil exploitation.

The Government has cynically exploited the rivalries between farmers and herders (familiar across the world where these lifestyles clash) to arm the Arab herders and use them as a proxy army against the farmers, seen as the main supporters of the rebel movements. The Arab militias have come to be known to the world as ‘Janjaweed’, a word that means bandit or outlaw. This is a serious misnomer though, as all Arabs seen on horses or camels have been tagged Janjaweed when they are simply the traditional nomads of this region. All the peoples of Darfur are Sahelian or Saharan people where African and Arab have become mixed, blended and confused. At face value there is little to distinguish a so-called “Arab” or “African”. Such distinction is more a state of mind than anything overtly physical. All the peoples of Darfur are Muslim; there is no religious element to this conflict.

Such has been the success of this tactic that whole regions of Darfur are now effectively emptied. The villages are burnt, the fields abandoned and the people driven into vast camps for the internally [eternally? - Editor.] displaced. Many have died, perhaps 50,000, though figures are unreliable and up to a million are in the camps, either inside Darfur or across the border in Chad. Food production in Darfur has hence, ground to a halt. It is now the middle of this year’s rainy season, and with the farmers off the land, there is no prospect for resuming production for at least another year into the 2005 rainy season, if security permits. The crisis is therefore actually only just beginning, as the international community must now commit itself to feeding these one million plus displaced people for at least the next year

Despite the rhetoric of the UN, the US Government, the European Union and others, the Government of Sudan has not made significant progress in the last month on bringing the militias under control and protecting their civilian population. Attacks still happen, militias still terrorise the population outside the camps and women are still being raped in large numbers when they step out of the relative safety of the camps to collect fuelwood and water. The militias now are a law unto themselves. Darfur is wild country where there was always little government control. Now that the tiger has been given its teeth there is little anyone can do to bring it back under control, even if the Government seriously wanted to.

Author: Vincent Gainey

Route six, Iraq – AKA “MSR Topeka” (Main Supply Route Topeka), as named by the UK coalition forces, is a long, worn, and neglected jugular through the heart of Shia Iraq, running roughly south and east from Baghdad to Basrah – the second city. It winds its way through 260 miles in a slow dance, mirroring the route of the Tigris River, and sometimes too close for comfort to the political and physical border of the foothills of Iran.

I’m in Qurnah, the supposed site of the Garden of Eden, a smallish market town, nestling at the great confluence of the two mighty rivers that make up the boundaries of ancient Mesopotamia – the Tigris from the north and the Euphrates from the west. Here they form the Shatt-al-Arab, which sleepily washes down through the balmy port of Basrah, over the sunken wrecks of warships, and eventually eddies into the Persian Gulf.

Route six runs through the legendary marshlands of the Madan, the lost tribes of Iraq -The tragic “Marsh Arabs”. Saddam Hussein’s legacy for most people in Iraq is the ongoing war of attrition, between Iraqi and westerner and foreign fighter; between Shia and Sunni; His legacy here, in places like Qurnah, is the absolute destruction of a whole system of living.

When he drained the marshes because he could not tame the Madan; ancient tribes such as The Fartus, The Feraigat and The Shagambeh, Saddam turned a once bustling and fertile ecosystem into a dustbowl. And when he fought a futile war against Iran for eight years, the area suffered even more. Today, the ‘Marshland’ that used to stretch for ninety miles, from Amarah down to just north of Basrah, is a barren desert for the most part. Hulks of tanks and other military hardware lie rusting in the disintegrating wadis and dry canal beds.

Why am I here? Well, parallel to route six and accessed by it, is a brand spanking new 400kV power line that carries electricity from the Al Hartha power station in Basrah, north 260 miles to where it’s desperately needed in Baghdad.

I first came to Iraq back in October 2003 as part of the security element for TFRIE (Task Force Restore Iraq Electricity). This is an organisation of multinational companies that make up part of the infrastructure re-building programme, initially under the control of the, now defunct, CPA (Coalition Provisional Authority). TFRIE along with other entities, such as TFRIO (Oil), were tasked with quietly assisting Iraq in getting back off its knees, and bringing amenities to areas which had long done without or with very little; It has been a complete success.

The pylon line was non-existent in large sections: stolen, blown up, or pulled down, so engineering and construction companies from the US, UK, India, Turkey and Iraq were brought together and constructed the line pretty much from scratch.

I was there as part of the team ensuring the safety of the people involved and to create a local Iraqi guard force to ensure it stayed up once the multinationals had finished the task.

Picture Right – ‘Memorial of Bahjat Yusuf’ The memorial to the young Badr martyr in the main street of Qurnah. Bahjat was a militia man who hid out with the Madan when the repression of the southern Shia was in full swing in 1993. One day he entered Qurnah with a friend and attacked the Ba’ath Party offices, heavily defended by government police. He managed to kill eleven Ba’athists before he himself was gunned down.

After many setbacks, many of which stemmed from the culture clashes and varying work ethics among the foreign companies, phase 1 of the task was completed on schedule in February 2004. George W. Bush announced that the line was energised and much backslapping went on between the parties involved.

I left the area for a three-month spell in Nasiriyah and returned to Qurnah in August 2004. The line has stayed intact, apart from one pylon, which was pulled down near Kut as a result of a tribal dispute. The pylon was swiftly reinstated.

I’m out and about most days with our team of Iraqis and multinationals. We spend our time motoring along route six, meeting all kinds of people as we go about our business of safeguarding ‘the line’.

To my knowledge we are unique among foreign contractors: Most live in cabins inside compounds, or inside plush hotels in Baghdad’s Green zone; Their only interaction with Iraqis is on the roads, as the cut them up in their huge, armoured Fords and GMC’s. We, however, employ many locals; over 90% of our company here is made up of local people.

We live among the people in Qurnah, housed in one of our Sheikhs’ properties. We eat local food and enjoy the company of our Iraqi hosts; it is a great way to earn a living; Baghdad and Fallujah may as well be a million miles away.

Picture Above – ‘Mohammed Bahkr al Hakim’ A mural depicting Mohammed Bahkr al Hakim in Qurnah. The leading figure of the Shia uprising against Saddam’s regime in 1993. Bahkr hid out in the remnants of the Marshes with his Badr Militia after the uprising was brutally crushed.He was murdered on 29 August 2003 outside the Imam Ali mosque in Najaf. A massive 750kg car bomb killed him and 200 followers. Moqtada al Sadr is the prime suspect in his murder and the subject of an arrest warrant. Bahkr was closely aligned to Grand Ayatollah al Sistani, the leader of the moderate majority of Shi’ite Iraq. In an odd twist of fate many of these murals are daubed, very artistically, over portraits of Saddam Hussein.

Our local guards on the pylons are paid by their respective Sheikhs, who we pay in bulk for this purpose.

Picture: Right – ‘Pylon Guard, Qurnah’ – The front line against the “Ali Babas” – the ubiquitous Iraqi term for robbers and thieves. There are thousands of armed criminals in post war Iraq.Some of our Shiekhs may have dabbled in this enterprise in the past. But, as the saying goes – set a thief to catch a thief!

Because each section of the line runs through a different tribal area, our company employed a Sheikh Liaison team which went out meeting and greeting the people of the fiercely tribal Madan, and Fallah (non Madan, village Arabs). You want guards on the line…you employ the Sheikhs’ men: The pylons, otherwise would not last 24 hours.

The line will eventually be handed over to the EPSS (Electricity Police), although the Sheikhs have threatened to pull the pylons down if these “outsiders” replace our company. Madan folk have a healthy distrust of official bodies, and with good reason considering the Saddam regime. The EPSS are seen as corrupt and not to be trusted, so we (the company, that is) could be here for a very long time.

The locals are great – warm, friendly and very hardy.

When we first came out onto the line, people were suspicious; very few foreigners have been here lately. For some of the more remote areas the last westerners to trundle by in their strange vehicles could well have been the British Expeditionary Force of WW1, in the presence of the legendary T.E. Lawrence.

But once people became used to our 4×4s, we were waved at and offered tea and such. Kids still run after us shouting “Ar teeny my, Mistah!” – “Give me water, Mister”. The boys are loud and cocky, the girls shy but just as curious.

Islam caused the women of the area to scurry away from us at first, but now they are comfortable that we pose no threat to them or their Muslim rules regarding such contact. A shy smile and a quick wave show us just how welcome we have become here.

By and by it is a happy environment, an area that has seen so much tragedy over the years has retained its dignity and human warmth.

There have been troubles – Amarah remains a dangerous town, out of bounds to civilian contractors and a stronghold of Muqtada-al-Sadr’s Mehdi Army.

Qurnah however, retains its allegiance to the murdered Mohammed Bahkr-al-Hakim, the great upstart to Saddam and the subject of the arrest warrant of Sadr, who it is alleged ordered the death of this moderate Shia cleric.
Hence the relative safety we, the foreigners, enjoy in Qurnah.

Majarr-al-Kabir is the old Madan town where six British Royal Military Policemen were slain by the mob last year. Many of the people we have met expressed shame at this tragedy, although they have now moved on from this.

The future looks decidedly brighter in this forgotten corner of Iraq. It is a place where one feels a great link to the tragedies of the past. The Madan, the British, the Turks have all brushed with sorrow in this desolate area. It has escaped the ravages of the rest of the country during this latest tragic episode of Iraq. I hope it can avoid the strife for a lot longer, but that may not be easy.

I feel privileged to be here now. I have a job that is part of something that is making a difference, even if it is to only understand a bit more about our different cultures. I have a duty to see it out, whatever happens.

Author – Billy Kaye

I’ve never understood to what to attribute the prevalence of gold-capped teeth in Northeastern Nicaragua. For some, it seems like a fashion statement. For others, it seems the last line of defense against the total loss of dental capacity, a life restricted to mashed cassava and gummable beans. The truck driver was somewhere in the middle, blings in the grill, a sweaty unshaven man clad in a dust covered Hawaiian shirt.

Every year when the local roads deteriorate to vast stretches of muddy, cratered waste, the local government wakes up from their bathtub-rum addled haze and pitches a bitch against their treatment by Managua’s elite. I’ve been in Puerto Cabezas, the “urban” center of the Northeastern Atlantic region of Nicaragua for better part of two months, trying to gather together the materials needed to finish the construction of the region’s fourth (to be) operating room. But in response to the absolute dilapidation of the road connecting Puerto to the outlying villages and the Western coast, a blockade has been instituted, shutting off the city from the outside world.

So to pass the time while the supplies sit somewhere between here and Managua, I decide to put on my journo boots and put together a decent piece on the situation. I head toward the blockade on the outskirts of town, a pathetic cluster of punished school busses arranged in a wavy V pattern, with shirtless Miskito Indian men controlling the influx/efflux of all traffic with a piece of rope.
For a blockade, it seems a little on the weak side of things. No guns. Definitely no tanks. Not even coils of concentration camp razor wire or tire spikes. Just a rope and some dirty school buses.
I find the Jeffe of the group and get into the clichéd list of questions. Why the blockade? What is your group called? What are your demands? Don’t you think that you guys would be taken a little more seriously if you wore red bandanas on your face, draped bullets across your chest, and gave yourself an acronym?
He explains that the blockade has been established by a all those affected by the practically impassible conditions of the road. Bus drivers, truck drivers, local merchants, and the regional government. They are shutting down the city until the Central

Government makes a concrete promise to fix the “highway.” He explains that the trip from Managua– a 340 mile expanse of practically nothing– is taking drivers between 8 and 12 days. I calculate 8 to 12 days of driving in the states: N.Y to L.A, back to N.Y. with a comfortable stop off in Vegas.
Our conversation attracts a group of truckers that all want to vent their frustration with the road. I ask if there is a close section where they could take me to snap a few pictures. “One kilometer,” they say, “very close.”
I jump in the stripped-out cab of the gold toothed trucker’s rig and head off into Nicaraguan nothingness. The back is piled with empty soda bottles and 7 men who whistle when boxes fall to the mud. After 30 minutes of bumping down the road, waving around my shiny new mini dv cam and mini disc I wonder if something was lost in the translation of “very close.” I ask the trucker.
“We’re close, right? How much farther?”

“Yes, we’re very close. Just two and a half hours.”

“Um…senior, I cant go two and a half hours.”

“But you must see how bad it gets. Its beautiful.”

I decided that that’s ok, because I have a ride back.

“You are going back, right?”

“No. No. I’m going to Managua.”

Shit.

Its a hot day, soon to be turning to a long evening. With three hours of daylight left before the nighttime swarm of Mosquitoes, something fierce that comes out of the grassy swamps, I decided to make a rapid executive decision.

After thirty minutes of contemplating my situation, seeing the gringo laden with expensive cameras, thinking about the sweaty truckers and thirsty mosquitoes, having that vulnerable “what the crap did I get myself into” feeling, and ultimately hearing the distant twang of dueling banjos as played by mariachis, we come across a particularly bad section of road.
“Here. Perfect, I’ll just snap a few pictures of this and wait for another truck heading back to Puerto.”
“Ok. You can take pictures, but its not safe to wait here. You come with us.”
I take the photos of the truck making its way through knee-deep mud. The truckers insist that I stay with them until another truck comes along. We head off again, all 180 degrees of the wrong way.
It’s thirty more minutes before another truck comes along. It’s the same fashion as the current: shirtless, sweaty trucker chic. My anus shivers.
After ten minutes of drivers haggling, the gold toothed man tells me it’s ok. The passing truck will take me back to Puerto. I jump on the back, nestled between a huge leaking tank of diesel fuel and some bags of strange looking roots. The men stare at me. But I’m happy to be headed in the right direction.

A good twenty minutes pass before the truck makes a horrible noise and comes to a harsh, metal-on-metal stop. The men dismount, and crowd around the undercarriage. I sneak a peek, seeing a mangled, dangling drive train. One of the men asks me if I have any money. I wonder what he’s looking to buy. I tell him no, just cigarettes. He helps himself to all of them.
More waiting, this time relieved by another beaten truck loaded with sand and gravel. I flag them down, and ask them if they’re headed to Puerto. “Yes,” they inform me “after a few more loads of dirt.”
I spend the next hour shoveling sand into the truck, learning about opportunities in the dirt-faming industry of the area. “Its free,” they say. “We just take it and sell it.”
I make it back to Puerto right as the sun dives behind the slash-and-burn clear-cut horizon, knocking a pile of dirt on the highway when I dismount the truck. I push it into a pothole with my foot and smile at the drivers.

Until the central government convinces the people of the Eastern Atlantic region that they really do give a flying fuck at a yucca tree about the laughable road, the city will stay blockaded. Today they closed down the airport, the bank, the pier, and all state government offices that represent the Pacific coast. They want to cease all revenues, including taxes that may reach the government and big business from operations in the area.
With an estimated revenue of $80 million per year leaving this region from fishing, mining, and lumber headed for the pockets of Managua’s few elite, this place defines the word ‘enclave.’ There is no sustainable economy to speak of. The investment in local infrastructure is the bare minimum needed to extract the resources. And with the pipe shut off by the blockade and all of my exits closed, I’m curious how the next few weeks will play out. Right now I’m running out of money. The supplies for the operating room have not arrived, and I don’t think they will. So I’m looking for other ways to pass the time other than playing journalist, and dirt farmer is looking like a much more profitable field.

The spell of Liberation, a narcotic with which the world over dreams of acquiescing their souls, was cast upon Blaine today.

In our convoy we crossed the border under heavy protection and witnessed the Birth of a Society, a City, a Nation; these proud men and women have thrown off the yoke of oppressive imperialistic dictatorships and now see for themselves the glories that the dream of democracy can provide.

There must be special mention for the Women of Blaine. Now that the Women of Blaine are free, they are able to talk amongst one another, buy meat and cheese without fear for worry of retribution. They shall not fear random canings or rape, or be confined to their homes.

They may even wield a weapon if they so choose, the weapons of Glory that can be found all across America, God’s most Blessed country, this great Country.

Its town of Blaine is free.

In my flak jacket and helmet I braved my shaking bones and soiled pants to witness its suddenly Liberated streets. Soldiers across the world, this is what you fight for. This is the gift of Freedom, and a bountiful gift it is indeed.

Twenty one months after my initial meeting with Rugabo, in August 1995, he made international headline news when his body was discovered, shot dead along with an adult female. The motive appeared to be kidnap as the poachers had made off with a baby gorilla, although it was subsequently retrieved a few days later near the Ugandan border and successfully returned to its family. The perpetrators were rounded up and six men were prosecuted and sentenced to between 15 and 20 years in prison. However, the damage had been done and the following years saw what was left of the Rugabo family slowly decline in numbers.

At the end of November, 1996, the national park infrastructure on the Zairean part of the Virunga Volcanoes was destroyed in the civil war and a number of guards killed. The gorillas were not directly affected, but the temporary disappearance of tourism will have seriously impacted any anti-poaching measures that were in place at the time.

Life after Rugabo

At first, following Rugabo’s murder the family scarpered into the surrounding forest and became unapproachable, but after only a few weeks they allowed park rangers close enough for them to be observed again. An ageing female had initially taken on the dominant role and had led the family to safety before submitting leadership to a Blackback male called Lulengo.

Things went well under Lulengo’s leadership until early 1998 when a lone Silverback by the name of Mapua roamed into the fringes of the family’s home range and attacked Lulengo. The confrontation lasted for 15 days and resulted in Mapua successfully splitting off a young adult female and a juvenile. They were followed out of the range a short while later by another female and her baby. In September of the same year, Lulengo’s family were caught in the crossfire of the ongoing military operations that had plagued the region for the previous four years. Two young gorillas were killed, including the one that had been kidnapped as a baby and reintroduced following Rugabo’s death.

By the end of 1998 Lulengo had finally matured into a Silverback but his family numbered only 5 males following the departure of the last remaining female in October of that year. In all of this time, no babies were born.

In February 2002, one of the remaining males, Pilipili had matured into a Silverback and departed the group, taking Karema, an adult Blackback with him. The last report to come from the Virungas, regarding Lulengo’s group says that the two remaining Blackbacks are expected to become solitary animals, thus rendering what remains of the family dysfunctional. In short, Lulengo has fulfilled his duty to ensure the young would grow up.

Group Dynamics

The family history since Rugabo’s death in August 1995 is as follows:

- beginning of September 1995: 23 individuals
- end of September 1995: 17 individuals
- June 1996: 13 individuals
- July 1996: 11 individuals
- December 1998: 5 individuals
- December 2001: 3 individuals
- May 2002: 4 individuals. The fourth gorilla was a solitary animal who joined the family but only stayed for a few weeks before moving on, evidently unimpressed by the shortage in numbers and the total absence of females.

Research shows that against all odds, the population of Mountain Gorillas has grown by 11% since 1989. This was in no small part down to the concerted efforts of the park rangers who continued to carry out their duties even while civil war raged around them.

A war in which over 70 of those rangers lost their lives. In July 2003, the total number of surviving Mountain Gorillas was estimated to be at 672 and some might be optimistic enough to say the future looks bright. But as long as this part of the world is ravaged by corruption, despotism and civil unrest, the future of Gorilla gorilla beringei is likely to be as dark as the continent they live on.

“I will eat you alive.”

The young Japanese tourist stared at me helplessly as the customs guard grinned and said something that I didn’t understand. I would have helped him had I understood at all what in the hell he was saying, but I didn’t. In Dakar, tourists are separated and fleeced in an ever so friendly way. This is not like other African megalopolises I have visited, indeed there is a civility to the fleecing, but a fleecing is a fleecing whether you’re smiling or crying after it.

Out into the glaring crowds. A few police to keep the order, and a throng of black men in brown striped shirts surrounded me and started in; the game had begun. I was expecting this, said no thank you, I’m fine, please go away. Which they did, for awhile. Yet one guy stuck around, hung around me while I stood behind a cordon in a line of Senegalese waiting to change money. It was there that he pulled out a very official looking card that stated he worked for the airport as an information guide, which I assumed was a good thing. Hangers-on usually don’t have fake IDs, and I usually trust my instinct these days. He must work for the airport then – that means I should be able to trust him, marginally.

Of course, I had never been to Senegal. After my money changing he was still there, waiting. Of course, this should have been in a sign, but when dealing with scammers you rarely get the time to really ponder all of the signals; you need to act, and act quickly. I hesitated for a moment and then followed him out into the night, where he found me a taxi. Good, I thought. Things took a turn for the worse when he hopped in the back.

I knew that wasn’t right – that told me immediately he was a scammer of some sort, and I opened the door in the moving taxi and motioned to get out – in most countries that I’ve done this, it’s enough of a drastic action that the taxi driver will slow down and things will be renegotiated. Yet here, the scammer kept yelling at the taxi driver to keep moving; this wasn’t a robbery, I knew that much, but I wasn’t particularly interested in handing this guy any money.

Conversation ensued. I told him I didn’t need him to go to my hotel with me, and didn’t need him at all. He agreed he’d just leave a few kilometers away from the airport. Indeed, he did, but not after a raging argument with me about money, and how much of it he should get.

These guys are aggressive. Far more aggressive than the last rip-off artists I had to deal with, in Armenia, two months ago. He demanded 3000 CFA(about 5 Euros) for his time, which I flatly refused, and began arguing politely back. As a Canadian, my mild-manneredness is both a blessing and a curse. It helps me diffuse a lot of otherwise intense situations by responding with a very quiet voice, and that often leaves people looking for a reason to pound me into the ground very confused as to what to do – he’s harmless, why touch him? Yet this guy knew he was in the wrong, and he knew the louder he yelled and the more he cut me off when I tried to say something, the faster I would just try to get rid of him with money. On the other hand, I’m rarely blunt enough to get rid of people quickly, and try to work my way out of these situations with as little bad blood as possible between me and the opposition.

I tried arguing; but a tactic I would discover more and more in Senegal was being cut off when I tried to explain things, reason the price out, discuss why things shouldn’t be the way they demanded. They would just simply cut me off and repeat their last statement: “I helped you, you give me 2000 CFA!”

“but you—”

“I helped you, you give me 2000 CFA!”

“you didn’t—”

“You give me 2000 CFA!”

And then I try another approach, which is what he wants, and the disjointed argument continues -

“I’ll give you 1000 CFAs.”

“1500! I helped you!”

“no, 1000.”

“1500! I helped you!”

“Fine. 1500.”

I had been duped by his fake ID. After all of my travelling, I can still get scammed. Really, I don’t think any amount of travelling is ever enough to protect oneself against all scammers – you can create flat out policies of never dealing with the locals, but that is stupid since you’re probably travelling to get to know the locals in the first place. Yet, I’ve met travellers like that – aggressive, belligerent, mean, all of these things can bite you in the ass later on. I’m not a super-cheap traveller, I don’t mind reimbursing people who help me. But slimy scammers get on my nerves.

I finally got to my hotel and the squalid room was a ridiculous € 24; Dakar is, in fact, one of Africa’s most expensive cities. No budget accommodation, no value for money whatsoever. I had only arrived here since a visa for Mauritania seemed like a real hassle to get back in Canada and thought a day or two in Dakar wouldn’t be too bad an idea, I’d see one of the continent’s major cities and it has good flight connections back to Europe, much easier to get in and out from here than Nouakchott which is only served by Air France three times a week, when the airport isn’t closed as a result of the coup attempt. I entertained the idea of heading out to see Dakar’s legendary nightlife that night, but my fatigue got the best of me and I just plain passed out before I could figure out where to go.

Sunday morning; I’ve been travelling without a watch for about 4 months now and have found the experience interesting. I don’t know what time it is, just that it’s light out and something must be open. I was wrong – Dakar is absolutely empty on a Sunday, all day – from the travel agencies, to restaurants, to supermarkets, to the banks; this is especially strange for a country that is 80% Muslim, yet the Catholic minority exercises enough power that shops must honour this requirement to be closed not only on Friday but also on Sunday. Productivity is not one of Senegal’s strong points. So out I went, wandering around.

A few people chatted to me, interchangeably in English and French; I was wandering around aimlessly, looking for anything that was open, anything worth seeing; the Place de L’independence is hopelessly dull, the president’s mansion has one sole guard in front of it in ceremonial costume, and the streets are empty. In most cases, when in a city with scammers lurking, I’ll duck into a shop or restaurant to lose them. But this was not possible in Dakar on a Sunday – there was just nothing open. There was nowhere to be but out on the street, in plain view, with the scammers on the prowl.

I had been ready for this – indeed, the tactics used in Dakar would have to be good for me to be fooled. And guess what – they were good.

“Ah, you know me – I’m from your hotel,” the man stated, smiling softly; he didn’t look familiar, but hey, last night was a blur from my jet-lagged self and it may have very well been possible. He said he was heading home from work, and we walked together talking about Senegal, Canada, and he took me to some tourist sites, around in a circle as I had meant to walk anyway; so, there was little reason to part ways. Had he tried to tug me in a direction different from that which I was going, again, I wouldn’t have gone. But ah, he is an adept at these sorts of things; mild manneredness simply did not cut it when dealing with individuals like this.

Again we walked, and headed toward the largest market in town. It was slightly bustling, but not very; we walked amongst empty stalls, he greeted one large fellow whom shook both our hands. It all seemed to stem from large African friendliness. Indeed, these men seemed harmless, the entire place a harmless third world atmosphere. I asked him if he wanted money; I was up front that his help was not necessary, and I would not be reimbursing him for showing me around. “Ah, all I want from you is a postcard,” he said, smiling. Throughout our encounter he would highlight that fact, and that relieved me. A verbal tranquilizer, and I only realize it now. Few beggars, few touts; he walked with me, and eventually, predictably, led me to a fabrics shop.

Inside it was quite impressive, and I pretended to be interested, just to be nice. They said they were funded by UNESCO and some other projects to keep these people employed. Another fellow led me around, showing me all manner of crap with typical West African patterns, puffy backpack bags and small hand pockets, shirts, and traditional clothing. Anything that sort of caught my interest, they set aside. Then we went across the street and began to negotiate a price.

This shit wasn’t cheap. Unlike other African textiles I had bought over the years, these prices were high. I didn’t have much cash on me to begin with, after all, I was intending to do an afternoon of street wandering. He wanted something like 50,000 CFAs for the whole lot of stuff that I did not even want; I notched my assertiveness up a notch and told them I only wanted the small pocket bag; he wanted 15,000 CFAs for it, which I told him was ridiculous. I eventually got him down to 5000 CFAs, about € 8.3, and ended it at that. The shop owner stormed away, clearly disappointed. I smiled; these people take me for yet another typical tourist, which I am not.

But in other ways, I am. The fellow whom I met on the street continued his wandering with me, and invited me into a bare African bar. Another fellow from the clothing shop had joined us on our street walk, me flanked by these two touts. Yet their demeanour was not as such; they were trustworthy, calm, and not persistent. A huge difference from the tout I had to deal with back at the airport, these seemed much more the type of Africans who are just friendly and curious about foreigners in their town than the ones out to fleece me. So I played along.

Sitting down at the bar, some fellow approached us, and he handed me a small wad of paper; I felt a lump in it. He smiled and said “here is my gift to you! I have had my first child, after five years of marriage. It is customary in Islam for a man to give a gift to the first stranger he sees, based on his profession.”

My first thought was that he had handed me a small wad of drugs and was colluding with the police to get me arrested; he picked the wad of paper back up, opened it, and staring back at me was a glistening lump of solid gold.

Of course, my first thought after that was that it must be fake; yet I consider myself reasonably knowledgeable as to what real gold looks like, as opposed to fake gold, painted gold, brass, yellow metal, and so on. This looked real. I also considered where we were, in Africa, and it is far more likely to be real gold simply since Africa’s resources are based more on pure original metals than fake ones.

We chatted for awhile about Senegal and Canada, exchanged addresses. The other two showed me some traditional Senegalese toasting methods, and it all seemed like a very typical meeting between tourist and African lower class urbanites. He said that tomorrow he would be having a celebration that would go on all day for the new baby, with hundreds of people to come wish the new child well, and he would name the child then. He then invited me to the ceremony – perhaps, knowing full well, that if I’m a tourist and want to experience the culture, what else would I say? I could show up for a small period of time, I offered.

Being goaded by the other two men, who told me this was a very special gift, I began to become quite convinced. The object looked real, the man who handed it to me seemed real. The two other men, one of which worked at the shop and I automatically assumed wasn’t a scammer, looked real. It was all very convincing; so when the man who handed me the gift got up to visit the washroom, and the original man I had met on the street began to tell me that I should give him some sort of financial recompense to help with the celebration tomorrow to celebrate the birth of his child, I felt obliged to help. Help being the operative word; not a gift, not a scam, not buying anything; I was helping this man with his celebration, since knowing that families here are poor but must perform their traditions as required, regardless of the cost. All of this made sense to me, and most importantly, did not at all seem like a scam.

He told me that I should give the other man about 30 or 50 thousand CFAs to help him buy food, like a bag of rice, to help out with the celebration. The other man came back; this was where I could find out for sure if these people were scamming me. Indeed, the other man came back and looked at me expectantly; perhaps this should have been enough, and it is all and well for me to sit and write this now, looking back on it; yet then, his look seemed expectant of someone mild mannered like myself. The first man, who told me that I should compensate him, said to him, “so I believe this man has a gift for you.”

I told them that sorry, I was out of money. After all, I had bought that little pouch for 5000 CFAs and being too smart to wander around with too much money on me, was now officially broke. All three of them looked quite shocked, and also quite sad. I read the mood, and they definitely seemed disappointed.

The operative word here is disappointed. Had they seemed angry, aggressive, confused, or concerned that the situation was out of their control, I would have known right away. Before Senegal, my experience with scammers was always that they will become aggressive or frustrated if the situation seems to be unfolding out of their control. Yet they seemed real; so I offered up the next possible step, that I would go back to my hotel and get some money for them. They liked that idea. We hopped in a cab together, I told him the name of my hotel(ah, retrospect…. I should have had the first man I encountered name the hotel…. Hindsight is always 20/20 as they say), and we drove there. “We are waiting,” the original man said.

Being quite convinced of the situation now, I handed over 20,000 CFAs, about € 34; lower than what he had suggested, but too bad for them; I knew the price of money and that was a sizeable donation already. Also, if the wad of gold he had given me was real, that was still a great deal for an ounce of real gold. Of course, they never actually -said- it was gold, or anything, other than jewelry. In that they are right; I have yet to do any testing of the metal. And at this point, what difference does it make? I’ll put it in my travel treasure box; there’s a story behind it, that should be enough.

I handed over the 45000 CFA notes and immediately saw him tuck one aside for himself, and hand the rest to the other guy. I didn’t seem to mind that he was taking a cut for himself, after all he had spent the morning with me showing me around.

And, that was that. I agreed to meet them all at 10am the following day for the celebration, as they called it, and went back into my hotel room. But not before being hit up by a young fellow from Guinea, who showed me his passport, his pictures of his drums, and told me he just wanted to visit and chat at his shop just around the way. That seemed odd, since I told him I wasn’t going to buy anything anyway. I suppose he assumed that I might change my mind if I would just go there, but for me, I wasn’t having it. I thanked him but told him I had work to do in my hotel room.

I felt good about the situation; I thought, also, that I was out too early and the travel agencies might open up later in the day. They didn’t. But on my second foray out of the hotel, a larger man started walking with me, chatting. He seemed friendly, more real; he seemed concerned, interested, spoke reasonably good French but often I had trouble understanding him because of his accent.

Indeed, as an aside, the French accents in Africa are hard for someone not fluent with the language. He asked me once, “TeeVee Espagne?” to which I responded no, I didn’t watch TV while in Spain. He repeated: “TeeVee Espagne?” and I looked at him, confused. Finally, in his broken English, he said “You – live – Espagne?”

Ahhhh – he was asking “Tu habites Espagne?”, though, it didn’t sound like that at all. Also, the Mauritanian consular officer asked me twice, “KanTee ParTee?”, and I just stared at him. Finally he said “WHEN – you leave?” Ohhhh — “Quand tu partis?” Sheesh. I would have never figured that out.

Anyways, this guy seemed real. He also said he knew a lot about Mauritania, and I told him that I might be going there; after I sorted out some info about plane tickets to Sierra Leone and Liberia. We sat in a taxi, and he pulled out of his pouch some letters and pictures from other tourists. He was a guide.

We spent the better part of the afternoon sitting around, him and his friend who spoke very good English, chatting about guiding and whether or not I needed one. His English speaking friend was definitely smarter than him, and more calm; my schedule wasn’t set, but their prices seemed reasonable. 20,000CFAs for two people, including his own food, accommodation, and transport, and it seemed agreeable. I agreed to meet him tomorrow and chat about the thing a bit more. Also that afternoon both of them told me that I was indeed the victim of a scam about the celebration, and it would be best not to go through with it as certainly they were just setting me up to extract more money. I had my suspicions, and actually hesitated of telling these two guys about the thing, as I was expecting them in fact to tell me that I had been duped. Perhaps I just wanted to stay comfortable in my bliss that Africans actually wanted to be kind to me here. Silly me.

I was not very keen on a guide, but if the price was right I knew he could draw me in closer to African culture than otherwise. As a white man, you are always on the outside looking in on these situations; with him, it would be easier to hang out in typical places and get the African experience. It would be less an anthropological trip and more of an interaction with the real local culture.

The following morning I left early to find out if the travel agencies were open; they weren’t, and had they been I would have never seen the guy again. As I left the hotel the man who I had met on the street first the day before, followed me and told me that he was there to make sure that I would be at the celebration, to which I smiled cynically and said “you bet I will be,” and told him I had other things to do first, so I was off the hook. He was trying to walk with me, but I went determinedly in a different direction and he, trying not to look too obvious, let me go.

So back around to the hotel I went, and there he was, waiting; my guide, that is. I was suggesting to him that perhaps he could go with me to the celebration, he was a big guy so perhaps a little violence could ensue and I could get my money back. He suggested against it, despite my best efforts.

As for him, if the price had not been reasonable I would not have gone through with it. I was also trying to scare him, make him hesitate, as those sorts of things bring these scammers out of their usual zone of control and into my own zone where I see them for who they really are, and not the effrontery, the mask that they bear for the foreigners they aim to deceive. He sat beside me in the travel agency as I inquired about prices to Freetown and Monrovia; I had thought that people in West African countries would be well aware of the situation in Liberia, but he proved me wrong. He was blissfully unaware of the problems, merely suggesting something under his breath about “la guerre, la combate”, but otherwise he was still interested in pursuing a journey with me. So off we went to the Mauritanian consulate so I could secure a visa.

The consular officer was bumbling around somewhere far from his desk so the guide helped me find him. I filled out an application, handed him some photos, and he spoke to me in broken French. Then on a calculator he punched in the amount I needed to pay for the visa: 33,500 CFAs. That seemed pretty damned high, since my 5 year old guidebook put the price at only 4000, but I suppose it’s possible. At any rate, how can I argue with him? Can you bargain with consular officers? If I was being ripped off, is there any way for me to know?

The visa would be ready at 2pm. So, we went back to the guide’s house. He seemed happy with the situation, but I still had some reservations. First, 20,000 CFAs seemed quite high for the region, even for two people. Second, I had told them I would be journeying for 10 days when in fact I was only going to be there for 7 days. So when he asked me again if all was well, I told him yes, 105,000 CFAs was fine for a week. He got angry – 150,000 was what he wanted, and that was that. I told him that seven days at 15,000 CFAs was 105,000, and not 150,000. He told me to wait, as his English speaking friend would be getting back soon.

When he did, we spent two hours renegotiating the price. At one point, almost relieved, I had them finally accepting that my budget could not include a guide. And I could leave on amicable terms with these two. Yet somehow he figured in that it would be enough; I told him I did not want someone else dictating my eating habits, and I would pay my own way for food. So 7 days at 12,000 CFAs, I said. “Is that enough for two people, and enough for him to save money each day?” I asked.

“Yes, that is enough,” he said calmly. Ah, good. On top of that he would get 15,000 CFAs as a financial gift as well. I would give him 50,000 CFAs now, and 50,000 later, in Nouakchott. It sounded good to me, and we agreed.

Certainly both of these people were concerned about the scamming that went on in Dakar. They tried their best to present themselves as genuine businessmen, as knowing how the western business mind works. You present a product, offer a price, and that is open for negotiation. Once the deal is agreed, you can’t change the price. If something comes up along the way, then it is the merchant’s problem to fix and not the customer’s.

The guide was, indeed, helpful. Everything he did I could have done myself, but it was fun to hang out with him, and he knew his stuff reasonably well. He enriched my journey, and although unnecessary, his help was welcome. Not once after our agreeing on the price did we have a dispute, and I treated him to several beers and cokes over the course of 5 days. Even upon our arrival in Nouakchott, after I handed him the other 50,000 CFAs, did he not ditch me, as I was half expecting. He was usually concerned for my well being, although this diminished upon our rearrival in Senegal.

In retrospect – again – perhaps he was a little out of his element in Mauritania. He said he knew the place, and he had many Senegalese friends who worked in Nouakchott and we hung out with them, but he was well within his stomping grounds in Senegal. Touts couldn’t even get near me in Mauritania or Senegal, but upon our rearrival in the Senegalese border town of Rosso his attitude had changed. This was day 5.

Touts were indeed hassling me, and he was more interested in his cigarettes. We went to the same tea house as we did on our first time here, and he had given me 10,000 CFAs as I needed 1000 to pay the police to stamp my passport(now….. was that a bribe? It seemed odd to me, at least); he disappeared for a few minutes to change the 20 US dollars I had given him in return for the CFAs. He came back with a 10,000 CFA note and a somber look.

Earlier, in Nouakchott, we had agreed that since he wanted to buy a rug there that I would give him 25,000 CFAs in Saint Louis when we got there and he would reimburse me when we returned to Dakar. So he had bought the rug, and now he was showing me the 10,000 CFA note and telling me that it was all that was left of the 100,000 CFAs that I had given him.

Not only did he want the 25,000 we had agreed upon, he also wanted 40,000 more for food and for “mes petites jeunes, ma famille” back home in Dakar, so they could eat. I acted shocked at all of this – first of all, we had agreed on 100,000, basing that on hours of negotiation and constant questioning of whether it was enough. And not only was it supposed to be enough for 7 days, but it should have left him with 15,000 at the end for himself. Yet now here he was, telling me that he had blown it all, and he wanted more.

I tried several tactics to get to the bottom of his motives. He had been generally good to me, but now he was back at square one in the trust department with me. I asked him where it all went – the hotel in Nouakchott was more expensive than he had anticipated, he told me, and he needed to spend more on that. I found that odd as we had slept on squalid mattresses in a communal room for Senegalese shift workers – how could that possibly cost more than he anticipated?

Just as with the tout, when I offered an alternative, he would cut me off and repeat what he said last. “Quarante mille CFA!” he persisted. So after those, I had to pause. He tacked on the fact that I should think of his hungry kids – so I paused and thought. To diffuse these situations, as always, I slowed the conversation down. To speed them up adds emotion, gets him worked up, and since he was a bigger and louder person than me only the reverse could work. So I took long pauses between when he said something and I did – I acted shocked that this had happened. However, I did not get angry.

Getting angry did cross my mind. I’ve learned to apply and remove emotion as necessary, to get through these situations. However, I have been angry in Africa before and it has never provided a positive outcome. A waitress came over with some Senegalese tea, which I had been drinking incessantly for a week, and I refused it.

I told him that the 10,000 CFAs was all I had as well; there was nothing left. We had already been through this in Nouakchott, since I told him the same thing there when he asked if I could forward him some money in Saint Louis since he would not have enough if he bought that rug in Mauritania. I told him I would, but he would also have to reimburse me for the 5 dollars’ service fee that the card company charges.

So again, he told me I would have to use my card to get all this money. To him, and often to many Africans, there is no time but the Present; the past is gone, the future does not yet exist. All he knows is that I can walk into that little room, put in my plastic card, punch in a secret code and voila! Instant money! Shower him and his family with unfathomable gifts! Never mind that I will have to pay it later, or that it would mess up my finances for this year’s later trips, to him this did not matter. My welfare did not matter; or at least, not as much as his own. After all, I can always get more money, but what about him?

There was no way he was getting an extra 40,000 out of me; even if he had in fact blown all of the money, and his body language and facial expression did seem real, that simply showed me that he was ultimately an incompetent guide and I should have nothing to do with him from now on anyway.

Yet I need to consider this as well – if I stormed out of this empty restaurant, perhaps he had set something up. He greeted many people when we first passed through here, and it was quite possible he had set up some sort of trap that I would get robbed with force if I refused to provide the extra cash.

So, considering that, I asked him what time it was. 4:30pm. I asked him if it was possible to get back to Dakar by the evening. “Oui, mais ou est-ce que tu dormir?” he asked. Where would I sleep, he wanted to know – nowhere, I told him, I’d take a flight out.

With my tickets, there is no such thing as a change penalty. Africans(and most people in general) think that plane tickets are rigid things that cost a chunk of money to be changed. Not in my world – I use this to my advantage, since I can skip town at a moment’s notice if I feel like it. Or to get myself out of spending another 24 euros on a shitty hotel room.

“Allons a Dakar,” I told him. He began to sip his tea, and get ready. I just picked up my bag and walked briskly out of the tea house, never looking back. Okay, I looked back once, about 75 metres later, and saw him slowly heading toward me. Another young fellow asked me where I wanted to go, and I said Dakar – he pointed to the Peugeot by the gas station. I hopped in – there wasn’t room for him. The car full, I was worried about letting my bag sit in the back, but a girl smiled and said that it’s okay. I paid the 5500 CFAs to get back to Dakar.

The kid sitting beside me on the long taxi ride asked where I would be going in Dakar; I said the airport. He nudged me when it was time to go, I found a taxi driver and a reasonable price to the airport. The kid hopped in the back.

“Tu vas ou?” I asked him, inquisitively.

Only a few blocks along your way, he said. That sort of gift I can handle – after all, he helped me find the closest place for the shared taxi to stop so I could get to the airport, and in return he wanted to get dropped off about 2 kilometres away. A modest gift like that for a modest bit of help I can handle.

But so often in Africa the people there want everything from the white man – it’s never a dollar or two, it’s a hundred dollars or two. It’s never a small favour, it’s references and a plane ticket to Europe. It’s always the world, and they always seem to get angry when you don’t give them the world. I am always ready to help out these people with modest requests, but rarely are the requests modest – and I am just left with them being angry at me since I don’t meet their ridiculous demands.

However, I left Senegal reasonably unscathed. The four flights back to Europe that evening were populated by hundreds of people with their Senegalese guides helping them check in and fill out their paperwork, Europeans sporting those African backpacks and clothes, one guy who bought two dozen wikker pots and needed each of them wrapped individually. Twenty-something tourists carrying around Senegalese musical instruments and wearing full length West African clothes; the whole check-in area was awash with people who were far happier than I, and had spent far more money than I.

Dakar is not a bad city; but I can recommend many other African cities which have better food, cheaper and nicer accommodation, and friendlier people. Being the only country in West Africa that a Canadian can get into without a visa, it was an obvious first entry point for me. But in the future, the hassles of being there far outweigh the hassles of me getting a visa back home.

So long, Dakar – I won’t be back. But there are plenty more from where I came from.