Memes R Us

My good-but-busy friend Nancy tagged me for a meme. I tend to not like memes, since I harbour a secret conviction that no one else likes to read them, even though I am quite happy to read them when other people do them.
But right now is a perfect time for me to do a meme, and if you really don’t care to learn anymore about ME! you can skip this post. Best of all, I won’t even know. How’s that for guilt-free?
I’m sitting in the in-laws’ living room, playing an extract from the opera Carmen on my laptop. The twins are supposed to decide what instrument the voices of the women are imitating. Yes, we are finally taking that last music exam for CNED, and since I’m stuck sitting here playing them extracts off their music CD, I might as well type rather than just stare at the flowing colours of the Windows Media Player. My in-laws are sitting in their two stuffed armchairs, between them a marble-topped table with a lit lamp now cluttered with today’s paper, which they are sharing between themselves. They are discussing Dobie Gillis, a TV show that aired before I was born and starred Gilligan, only before he was Gilligan. I don’t know what prompted this, but it makes for an interesting time; the CD playing, the twins asking questions and writing industriously, the in-laws discussing 60s TV shows and then telling each other which comic strips are good today.
So, on to the meme.
Here are the rules:
1. Each player answers questions about themselves.
2. At the end of the post, tag 5 people by posting their names.
3. Go to their site/blog and leave a comment telling them they’ve been tagged. Invite them to your site/blog so they can read the tagged post.
4. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve completed your tagged post.

Right, I think I can handle that! Onward and upward! (Kids are reading Narnia again; NOT going to see the movie if I can help it!)

1. What were you doing 10 years ago?
Let’s see, it’s 2008 now. So 1998. Um…the twins were one so that wasn’t the year we took them to Hawaii when they were only 4 months old to meet the in-laws, who used to live there before they moved to Hemet (pronounce Hemet with proper disgust tinged with amazement…they left a tropical island paradise for a small dusty town in the California desert? Yeah).
1998 is pretty much just a blur, to be honest. Elliot turned 3 that year and the twins were one. All 3 were in diapers. Do you mean 10 years ago to the day? Cuz I have no idea.
2. What are 5 things on your “To Do” list?
Finish CNED; celebrate in some way
Go swimming
Pack up my house (after returning to it). Have AWESOME garage sale. Want to come?
Spend significant time with my mother
Move to Morocco (which has a whole subset of things underneath it, including finding a house, getting the kids into school there, learning Darija, meeting the neighbours and making new friends, etc)
3. What are 5 snacks you enjoy? (In no specific order)
Chips and salsa (esp. Kettle Tias and Emerald Valley med salsa)
Kettle chips, especially salt and vinegar or Spicy Thai
Dark, dark chocolate, sometimes with orange peel or coffee beans in it
Popcorn
Handfuls of Honey-Nut Cheerios snuck shamefully from the box
4. Name some things you would do if you were a millionaire.
Hire a really good Arabic tutor for Elliot, a professional. Fly them in from Lebanon or someplace like that. Find a better situation for my mother and pay for it. Go shopping. Move to Morocco by cruise ship instead of cramped airplane. Stockpile rice and give it to poor people.
5. Name some places where you’ve lived.
Nouakchott (Mauritania), Chambery (France), Swansea (Wales), Three Hills (Alberta, Canada), Alturas (California, US), Bonney Lake (Washington, US), Tacoma, West Seattle, SE Portland, Tigard. (you should know where Seattle and Portland are)
6. Name some bad habits you have.
I am terminally disorganized and flaky. I have good intentions but then I forget to carry them out. I am hopeless at thank-you notes, follow-up phone calls, and other forms of adulthood. I spend too much time reading/on the computer.
7. Name some jobs you’ve had.
I worked at a Hallmark store in the Tacoma Mall during Christmas breaks from college, during which I was forced against my will to wear an apron that said “Santa’s Helper.” (Woman: Do you work here? Me: Would I be wearing this apron if I didn’t?) That was the only year I sent Christmas cards, so it wasn’t a complete loss (see number 6)
I cleaned houses in college–it paid well and the people I worked for were really nice. I also was a nanny for a while; pay was room, board, and use of a sweet little blue pick-up. Also, I loved the family I worked for.
8. Name those whom you are tagging.
You know, it’s gotten kind of hot here. Some time has passed since I started this; my sister-in-law is doing Spanish with the twins, who are going crazy because it’s 4 now, the time I said they could venture outside into the hot, hot sun. (They inherited my fair skin and light hair yet I could not convince them or my darker husband that even with sunscreen, people that look like us will burn if they go swimming at noon two days in a row) So I want to go swimming now and I don’t feel like tagging anyone. And, quite frankly, even though it means I’ve broken about 3 of the 4 rules, I can’t see what anyone is going to do to enforce it. Not tag me again? Ooooh. I’m quaking in my flip-flops here.

We’ve Already Started Our Sunburns

At midnight, I was at the library returning the books they wouldn’t let me renew, since they CLAIMED we had already renewed them 3 times. Whatever, Library. I’m sure it was only twice. And couldn’t they have made an exception for us, since we were leaving?
At 1 a.m., I was online registering Ilsa for summer camp. Ilsa decided in January that she wanted to go to summer camp for the very first time this year, with her best-friend-in-America Mariah. Ilsa gives a stereotypical Jewish mother a run for her money, being an A-class Number-One Nag. I had to forbid her to mention it to me again, under pain of Not getting to go to camp, because otherwise I might have gone insane. She nattered on and on and on about camp and could she go to camp and she’d better save money to buy candy at camp and could she ride horses at camp and Mariah said that at camp this happened and this other thing happened too and was I sure she could go to camp and Mariah wanted to know what week worked best and was I sure that she could go to camp? Cuz she needed to know.
This was January, so I got a little impatient. But we’ve had lots of conversations about it since, and eventually I promised her she could go.
But what with one thing and another, plus my extreme flakiness, I forgot to register her. And it was getting a wee bit late in the year, and I could not even imagine the repercussions if, through my own forgetfulness, she didn’t get to go to camp, ever, in her whole entire childhood. So, at 1 a.m. I got her registered.
At 2 a.m. I finished getting all the CNED stuff ready to mail. On Friday, all 3 kids took 5 tests. But Saturday and Sunday were jam-pack booked; Elliot had no shorts or sandals, for one, and Ilsa had no swimsuit, for another, and I still had only one tshirt, and there’s no sales tax in Oregon but there is in California. Plus we had to be at several social events, including one in which I had to clean my house. So I got all the tests ready to mail and packed them in a bag. I will mail them soon. They are still in the van, outside.
I was mostly packed, so after I had done all these things, I just had to fold one last load of laundry and then I was snug in my bed by 2:30 a.m.
They wanted me to get up at 6:00 a.m. but I didn’t want to. So I didn’t. I was up soon afterwards, eyes sore, head aching, to gulp down some coffee and load up the suitcases.
We only forgot one thing (CD for Elliot’s final music exam, which is missing the piece he is supposed to listen to and write his emotions), but we were finally on the road by 8:30.
Some of you might remember that we usually don’t leave till 10:00, but Monday was different. We had to make it Santa Cruz, a 13 hour drive, by nightfall, where we were to reunite with a friend of ours that we hadn’t seen for 10 years or so.
This was Monday; now it’s Thursday. We spent Tuesday in Santa Cruz, hanging out and getting caught up with Bud. Wednesday we headed down Hwy 1 on our way to Hwy 101, but we missed Salinas, we let it get away (just for you Janis Joplin fans out there, presuming you’re there), and we ended up spending an extra 3 hours on the curves and swerves of that cliff-hugging ribbon of asphalt, the one with the spectacular drop-offs that freaked out my younger son. “I can’t believe they don’t have walls!” he kept exclaiming. “If I was doing it, I’d make a tunnel.”
Sure, why not? One of the most beautiful stretches of highway in the nation, and he’d just hide it away.
The extra time on the slow road meant that we hit LA at rush hour, which is exactly like you would imagine it being. So instead of Wednesday being a day with 6-7 hours in the car, it was a day of 12 hours in the car. Eventually, though, we did arrive. We’re here, in Hemet. We have a suitcase full of CNED stuff to mail, and we still need to finish up a couple of things, but we’re here.

What We Do with our Time

We don’t just sit around the house, you know. We do get out and do things, quite often actually. I just don’t always get around to posting about it.
For example, two Saturdays ago, on a day of freezing temperatures and mixed sun, hail, and snow, we went to the tulip fields. Why that day particularly? Because, as I pointed out to Donn when he was griping evincing a certain reluctance about the weather, if we didn’t do it THAT particular day, chances were good we would never do it, like all those days we didn’t go sledding and now all of a sudden it’s May and soon we’re off to Africa again. Lots of Saturdays aren’t free; for example we are busy for the next 3. So I’m glad that I prevailed, and off we went.

We had to drive a little ways into the countryside; the sort of drive that would have been quite normal for my photographer husband before the Era of Excessive Gas Prices, but that now caused him some heart anguish. I packed us all sandwiches and apples, in an attempt to lighten the burden, but it didn’t really cheer him up.
Also, I love Oregon in April.

We had a fun time taking millions of pictures. The cold weather meant that the place wasn’t too terribly crowded.

I was very excited with the macro abilities of my new camera. Donn nattered on and on about how it was a digital enlargement versus a ??? (I forget; something about how it was just cropping and not actually getting closer?), but as I pointed out, It’s me! I don’t care! It looked closer, and that’s all that mattered. There’s only room for one uptight professional in this family.

We went to the Wooden Shoe Tulip Farm, where they charged us $5 for parking in a muddy field, and gave us paper mats for the floor of our car. They had many, many little things set up for your enjoyment. We mostly ignored them, munching away defiantly on our sandwiches, refusing to pay for the dubious pleasure of riding tiny ponies around a tiny sawdust ring. But there were a lot of fun events and good-smelling food available, if you‘re into that sort of thing.
We saw a man making wooden shoes, “Like they did Back Then,” as Ilsa put it.

There was even a wooden shoe for people to leave their excess children in. Or something. Actually I don’t really know what it was for. Floods, perhaps.

Abel decided to climb the rock wall that was set up. It was supposed to be once up for $3, but the nice men let him go up twice.

All in all, it was a great day. It didn’t rain at all while we were there, although once we were safely in the car on the way home, the hail bucketed down, coating fields and houses with a misty white layer of ice. (I didn’t take a picture though)

Last week we went to the zoo. So you can see that we are fun people with a great social life. I’ll post about it soon. Insha’allah, as they say where I’m heading, in less than 3 months now.

On the Train

I’m sitting on a train, swaying back and forth as we glide northwards. We roll through forest filled with the bright new green of spring, past swollen creeks and gnarled branches heavy with moss. Small-town stations feature people huddled against the rain and the backs of dull apartment buildings, cheap because of their location near the incessant train whistles, painted in shades of tan and faded green. On the outskirts of these small towns, abandoned houses with sagging roofs have gardens filled with bright daffodils, probably planted 50 years ago when living near a train had its advantages. At the train crossings, a lone car idles.

I’m on my way up to Tacoma to visit my mother, who’s 84, has Parkinsons, and recently broke her hip. It’s a sad visit. She’s just gotten the news that the assisted living place where she’s been for the past 4 years won’t take her back. They say they can’t keep her safe; they can’t trust this stubborn frail woman to stay in her wheelchair and not get up on her own in the night. I understand this and they are right; she is not to be trusted. There’s something about old nurses, not to mention women of her generation. They think that, having survived so much already, they ought to know what risks aren’t really risky. They are used to being in charge.

She has already gotten the news. My brother and his family broke it to her the other night. I haven’t talked to her since–I don’t even know if she knows I’m on this train, wending my way up through strands of trees still barren and grey on this leaden afternoon in early April. Since the fall and subsequent surgery, she’s been in a nursing home. It is impossible to call her there. I try most days; ask for her extension and let it ring and ring and ring; ask to be transferred to the nearest nurses’ station only to face the same situation.

So here I sit, on a leather seat with plenty of legroom and an outlet for my laptop (although of course no internet connection). Train travel is nice. It’s cheaper than driving, given current gas prices, and it’s relaxing. The station is nothing like airports in our post 9/11 world, and carries a sense of the romantic past that airports can’t pull off.

It won’t be a long visit–just a couple of days. The kids are doing well with school but they still need me. Elliot’s going to make my recipe for spaghetti. He’s done it a couple of times already and it’s very good, and he’s only a little obnoxious when he gives me his tips on improving it, ironically making it the way I actually do. (I never measure spices, just add generously; turns out he does too)

The rain slants against the windows, but after we emerge from a long tunnel, we see the Puget Sound sparkling deep blue under a cloudless sky. That’s just the view from one side of the train, however, and by the time we pull into the station it’s raining again. The nursing home isn’t as bad as many of them are, but it’s not good either. Mum’s room-mate lies on her bed just staring at the ceiling, and doesn’t respond to any attempts at greetings. At meal-time, residents must wear long bibs that reach their waists. The walls are painted a depressing pink. The radio blares non-stop, a soft rock station that probably none of the residents would have chosen. Mum is dressed in clothes that are not hers and that are comically large on her; although to be fair, it’s hard to imagine clothes that would fit her. She’s shrunk drastically, losing 15 pounds in the last month and a half.

We talk of the past. I ask her questions–when you first arrived in Addis Abbaba, Ethiopia, in 1954, what was it like? Were you scared? What did you think when you first met dad? What was in like when you moved to Beirut in 1963? Tell me about the time you and Dad took my two brothers, then about 2 and 3, on a tramp steamer around the entire coast of Africa and then on to England! And she does, her memory holding steady. She tells me about having tea with the governor of the Ile de Sainte Helene, who was a distant cousin of hers. It’s a good visit. She is lucid, only getting the days mixed up a few times. (And, frankly, I do that too sometimes)

Afterwards, Phil and I stop by her old place to pick up some of her clothes, although he has already brought some to this new place. Where are her things and why have they dressed her in those ghastly pink sweatpants? I determine to find out tomorrow. I collect her old knitting and sewing things for Ilsa; Mum hasn’t had the fine motor skills to use them for several years. I gather photos of family members for her new room; the one of her wedding day, where between she and Dad and the best man and maid of honor, 4 nationalities were represented; the one of all the grandchildren crammed onto a couch, all wearing pyjamas. 

I think I’m too young for this, but I’m wrong. None of us are ever too young or too old for any sort of tragedy, any sort of life event. I may feel cheated, but frankly, without her surprise unplanned pregnancy, I wouldn’t have been born. At least I made it to adulthood with her–my dad died when I was 15.

So instead, I’m thankful for this visit, these connections, these memories. I always meant to record her life and write a book about it. She lived through bombing in Wales in WWII and helped evacuate some children to safety in the countryside; she was a midwife in Ethiopia in the 50s where she delivered the Emporer Haile Selassi’s grandchildren; she met and married my father in Addis Abbaba and they literally circumnavigated the globe for their honeymoon. And that’s not all. But I always put it off, and now I face regretting it for the rest of my life. But I’m going to get what I can out of her, now, before it is too late.

Bored? No, thanks.

Some people have a pathological fear of boredom.
I wouldn’t think I was one of those people. I like quiet: calm rooms with soft light; books and journals; the clicking of computer keys; extra cups of coffee; rain on the windows. In university, when they told me, “The life not contemplated is not worth living,” I believed them wholeheartedly.
Then I had 3 kids in 2 years. Then I took them all to the Sahara Desert, where on any given day you might or might not have electricity or be able to buy butter or be served goat intestines boiled without salt. So one might wonder if I don’t have some issues myself.
Given the chance to have a quiet year back in America, I leaped at it. I envisioned spending my mornings curled up on the couch staring out at those golden leaves and watching the rain fall while I wrote the Great American Travel Book.
Instead, we ended up home schooling. For those of you who have never tried it, it’s crazy and time-consuming. It takes up huge chunks of time. I sit next to Elliot and “teach” him Arabic (really we’re both learning; I speak some Hassiniya but this is classical Arabic, and we’re learning to read it too). Meanwhile, the twins, impatient with their questions, write them on paper airplanes and bombard me from the open upstairs hallway. We are barely into a semi-routine. We are behind in education musicale and arts plastiques. The twins have tests coming up in 8 subjects plus Spanish. (Yes, I’m teaching Spanish too. That’s even funnier than me teaching Arabic–at least I know a little Arabic. Before this, my only Spanish was casa, manana, and hasta la vista, baby! And I don‘t even know what that last bit means.)
So we decided to go to California for Thanksgiving, leave early so that this could be an extended visit with eager grandparents, and do school there. We can’t afford to take this time off, since we started our school year late.
Am I certifiable? I mean, what am I thinking?
My in-laws are great people, generous to a fault, welcoming, never ever taking my husband’s side over mine or making me feel less than a true daughter. But their house tends to be cluttered, in the sense that the pope tends to be Catholic. (Also, if I could ever manage to faithfully reproduce their interactions, I could make a million selling it as a screenplay. No one would believe they were for real. But that’s another story) There is no clear “workspace“ for the kids. My father-in-law watches TV from about 8 a.m. to about 9 p.m.–covering most prime school time hours. My children are very distracted by TV, in the sense that teenage boys are distracted by the presence of a supermodel.
Their curriculum is complete and extensive. Each subject has at least 2 workbooks, plus a cahier de broullion (notebook for them to do extra work in), plus a folder of the tests, plus they have to take oral exams and record their answers on audio cassette. It’s complicated, and you have do everything exactly so.
Nonetheless, we’re loading up the mini-van and taking off for sunnier climes. We’re packing roller blades and scooters for EPS (Physical Ed), swimsuits in a forlorn hope that we‘ll be able to use them (the in-laws don’t heat the pool), and, of course, stacks and stacks of French curriculum. In back-packs. With STRICT instructions NOT to spread it out all over the floor and lose bits of it under the tottering piles of old magazines and papers.
Yes, the chances of us leaving an absolutely essential workbook, say for Maths or Science De La Vie et De La Terre, underneath a chair are absolutely astronomical.
No the chances of finding said workbook left under a chair before, oh, April or May, are not good.
Yes I apparently do have a pathological fear of boredom.
And, another long car trip?
Yep. Another long car trip.
I thrive on stress.

Home Again Home Again

An ironic post title, since we have no home. We have stuff in four homes on two continents, but are once again presuming on the kindness of friends to provide beds to sleep in at night. Portland’s not really home anymore, but then where is?

Note to self: do not write posts after yet another fruitless afternoon spent trying to find someone who will rent a decent house for a decent price to really good renters, stable people who like to garden and who take good care of property, a family who will be here for 10 months. 10 months is good. It is wrong to think that renters have to sign up for a whole year, or to say that if the good, stable renters leave after 10 months you will make them pay $2000 that they really don’t have.

Sigh.

Last time I posted, we were in Crescent City, California—near to the Oregon border. It was Saturday night. In the morning, we got up bright and early. Breakfast wasn’t provided, so we needed to leave the hotel earlier than usual in order to make it on the road by our usual 10 a.m. Donn was secretly determined to make it even earlier, but he was defeated.

You may wonder why we never seem to make it any earlier. Part of the problem is the trunk. A family of 5 went to California for 2 weeks in a Dodge Intrepid. We had 2 suitcases, a camera bag, a baseball bat and ball, a bag of books, jackets, a bag of toiletries, damp swimsuits in a plastic bag, a very full backpack with books, paper for art, paper for airplanes, coloured pencils, and a scarf for dressup, and misc other small things. Donn, who is talented at jigsaw packing, had to redo the trunk every morning, not to mention re-strapping his surfboard on top. It took probably 20 minutes every morning just to do the trunk.

Once the trunk was packed and I had gone through the hotel room two extra times, just to make extra sure that we hadn’t left anything tangled in the sheets or behind the bathroom door, we set off to find breakfast. We went to a place where the typical omelette had 4 eggs, but they allowed you to order a “petite” serving. I went with that option, and had a yummy two-egg omelette with ham, green chilis, swiss cheese and salsa. It was plenty of food—I couldn’t quite finish everything.

I asked the waitress if people in general, normal plump good-healthy-appetite people like me, actually manage to eat 4-egg omelettes with hashbrowns and toast and a wedge of cantaloupe, and she said yes, and they finish everything. That’s one thing I’m still in shock about—the size of the portions in American restaurants. Friday night, when we ate in a trendy coastal town while searching for a vacancy, I ordered a “small” size of pasta, and it was more than ample—I could barely finish it. No one has ever accused me of having a small appetite, except Mauritanians who are being polite. But I can’t finish my plate at most American restaurants—or more accurately, I do then wish I hadn’t. Why are the portions so big? My theory is so that people feel they’re getting their money’s worth. Any other ideas? Anyway, I’m not complaining—the twins have healthy appetites and they split a normal-sized plate and were full.

So yes, it was 10 a.m. when we hit the road, tummies full and trunk perfectly packed, heading into Oregon. Finally, we could get Ilsa to stop asking when we were going to get to Oregon! We triumphantly pointed the sign announcing this milepost.

The Oregon coast looks like what I think a coast should look like. There are rocky crags and sandy cliffs and wind-carved cypress and cedar; the nearby hills are coated with fir and pine and the ground is thick with ferns and brambles. And it was a perfect late-summer day to enjoy it. The water was a perfect blue, crashing white around the black seagull-covered rocks. I wanted more than anything to walk along the edge, filling my toes with sand and wetting my ankles in the surf, but it wasn’t possible, so we continued to drive north.

Heceta Head Lighthouse. Can you see this picture? I can’t, but I’m hoping you can.

When we got to Lincoln City, we hit traffic. We stopped for black-walnut ice-cream cones and popped into a surfboard shop to browse their end-of-summer sale, but the traffic didn’t abate. We turned off the coast highway at that point and headed towards Portland, over the Coast Range of forested mountains, a road whose every inch is familiar because we have driven it so often in years past. We got to Portland about 9 p.m. that night, thankfully emptied out the trunk one last time, and moved, once again, into our friends’ basement, where we remain while we search for a house. Anyone got any leads?

 

Elephant Seals & Elk

Friday:

With great effort, by 10 a.m. Friday morning we were walking briskly down a seaside boardwalk, a full 15 minutes north of our hotel, on our way to view elephant seals, or possibly sea lions. We had pulled over to the side of the road and piled out of our car to stare out at the seagull-covered rocks, but Elliot’s sharp eyes first spotted the moving lumps far down on the beach. We ran for a closer look. The elephant seals lay on the beach as dead, occasionally taking a huge deep breath, or flipping sand up on their backs. The children turned into a flock of seagulls themselves: Dad! Dad! Look! Look! It’s moving! It’s putting sand on its back! Take a picture! Take a picture! Dad! Dad! Loo-ook!

In the water, two seals frolicked. We could see their sleek black heads appearing and reappearing over the clear green water. Ilsa and I thought they looked like they were kissing; Elliot and Abel thought they looked like they were wrestling. Who knows?

We drove on up the coast. The weather was strange; hot sun on our backs, cold sea wind on our faces. Unfortunately, this weather pattern created a lot of sea fog. We were driving along the coast, but could only see the ocean directly below us. We’d stop at vista points, and from that vantage point could look back to see the fog rolling into inlets, but looking westward was like looking from an airplane. It was a little disappointing, and it didn’t really help us make any better time, since we still kept stopping and looking.

 

It was fascinating, though, watching the fog rise from the water. The clouds would appear dense, deep grey or thick white, from a small distance, but as one approached, they would wisp away, soar above us, ephemeral.

Highway One is not for those wishing to make excellent time, even for the many (many) retirees in their sleek little convertibles, whizzing round the curves. It winds. It hugs cliffs. It makes huge hairpin bends round little sea coves and inlets. All this takes time to traverse. We left bright and early (after a very nice continental breakfast with cinnamon rolls and coffee that claimed to be Douwe Egberts and probably was, only with a lot of extra water added), but we did not make good time.

We stopped for espresso at the Ragged Point Resort Espresso Bar, where the kid apparently felt no need to change to coffee grounds between making my double espresso and making Donn’s. Too bad, eh? Just a little bit of effort could have made it worth close to the $3 he charged Donn for the swill he served him. I mention this because, if you are ever driving up 1, I recommend you avoid Ragged Point espresso bar, and if they ask you why, TELL THEM! Donn compared it to the reason why he couldn’t get film processed in Mauritania, which was because they kept on using the chemicals long after their usefulness had expired. But in a trendy, expensive little resort, you might expect something better. You wouldn’t get it, though.

Eventually, we made it to Carmel-by-the-Sea. It was nearly 2 by this point, so we pulled into the mall just off the road to look at lunch options. Carmel is a lovely area, and it’s a lovely mall. It’s the sort of place where just driving into the parking lot makes your clothes suddenly fade, wrinkle, and go out of fashion, but other than that it’s lovely. We bought picnic things (bread, fruit, cheese) at Safeway and went looking for the town of Carmel proper. A couple of wrong turns later, we drove down its charming streets, and ate our lunch leaning against a huge cypress tree on the beach. The weather was clear and warm (well it would be! Those folks would not tolerate fog!) and we had a delightful time. Then we visited Photography West, a famous gallery, where we viewed original prints by people like Ansel Adams, Brett Weston, Paul Capinegro, Morley Baer, Christopher Burkett and Imogen Cunningham—whose portrait of Frida Kahlo was stunning, intensive and thought-provoking. I nearly bought a small copy of it, but when you’re looking at the original, a notecard just won’t cut it.

It’s been a long time since I’ve viewed photographs by someone other than my husband, and Donn and I both enjoyed the opportunity to experience a slice of life beautifully re-created through someone else’s eye. We wanted to visit the Weston Gallery, and spend time looking at other types of art as well. Carmel-by-the-Sea is full of galleries. But it was already well past 3; we needed to move on.

This part of California smells soo good. The air is spicy with the scents of juniper, cypress, cedar, wild sage, and eucalyptus. The coastline is rugged and rocky, the water is shades of aqua, turquoise, and indigo, and the hills are covered in…some kind of plant…in shades of rust and tan and a vivid deep green.

By the time we were driving through the towns just south of San Francisco, it was just before 6 p.m. Too soon to stop. We drove on through the town and over the Golden Gate Bridge. Disappointingly, the fog was so thick you couldn’t even see the top of the bridge itself, much less anything of the bay. We planned to stop just out of ‘Frisco to the north. This was a grave error on our part. You may have already noticed that it’s Labour Day Weekend, but we’ve been living out of suitcases since mid-July and haven’t readjusted completely to life in the US, and we’re fuzzy on dates most days.

Friday of Labour Day Weekend, in a trendy vacation spot, looking for lodging in the small coastal resort towns of Marin County, one of the nation’s more exclusive areas. Picture the Nomad family in their borrowed Dodge Intrepid with a surfboard strapped on top, slowly driving from town to town. In Stinson Beach there were no vacancies to be had at all. (I wanted to ask about the stables, but Donn wouldn’t let me) In Olema, there was one—a mere $150 for a room with two whole twin beds. It was dark of course, and here we were in an area of incredible scenic beauty, driving blind, seeing the occasional deer and a beautiful moonrise, but missing everything else. In Tomales, the Continental Inn (Providing Rest for Weary Travelers since 1889) had a sign saying they had vacancies and please ring for service, but no one came. In desperation, we finally did what we should have done all along—we turned around and headed over to Petaluma and from there up the 101—a bigger highway, more populated, and not nearly so trendy. We stayed in a wonderful, heavenly Best Western with two queen beds in Rohnert Park, checking in just before midnight, and crawling thankfully into our beds with nary a thought of writing a long blog post.

Saturday:

The so-called continental breakfast was like nothing I ever had in France—it included make-your-own waffles, toast, boiled eggs, yogurt, fruit, cereal, muffins, and juice. There was even a bottle of Knott’s Boysenberry Syrup. We all chose different options according to taste, and everyone left happy—even the grown-ups, who still stopped by Starbucks for double espressos.

Today was gorgeous; sunny, warm, the sky that intense blue that presages the hue of autumnal skies. It felt like the first of September, actually. The weather was warm, but there was that hint of heaviness, that slant, to the light, and the vineyards we drove through, full of rich purple grape clusters, were beginning to show hints of red and yellow in their leaves. We went wine-tasting, bought fresh strawberries (that were every bit as good as Oregon berries, I must admit; they were super!) and ate them very quickly because they were so good, and continued up the 101.

We had initially planned to cut back over to the 1, but if we had, we’d probably still be just a few miles north of San Francisco. The 1 is gorgeous, if you don’t get fog, but it is very slow and windy. If your kids get car sick, forget it. Mine don’t, but even they were beginning to complain of tummy-aches. Instead, we headed north up 101, which heads through the Redwood Forest over to the coast, where it joins the 1 anyway.

And really, the 101 is very nice and we’ve decided to never-ever do the I-5 route again. Our road wound through vineyards and up into hills covered in magnificent oak trees, with glimpses of green rivers at the base of rocky valleys. By lunch time, we’d arrived in Willets, self-proclaimed “Gateway to the Redwoods.” We’d enjoyed our picnic in Carmel so much we decided to do a repeat today in the Redwoods; we couldn’t find a picnic table (we could have if we’d kept going, but we were hungry) so we stopped in a turnout in the forest and picnicked quite happily amongst the trees.

The redwoods were terrific; all they were supposed to be. We didn’t do all the touristy things, but you should if you come this way (drive through a tree trunk, visit the Confusion Room where apparently gravity doesn’t work); we just need to return this car at some point fairly soon, so we didn’t take time. That was okay though. The real point of the Redwoods is the trees themselves.

 

I asked Donn to take this picture to send to my friends in Mauritania. They won’t believe it! And this isn’t the biggest or anything; just a fairly typical Giant Redwood, one of the oldest living things on the planet.

We drove down Avenue of the Giants, stopping frequently to get out and admire the mammoth, ancient, enormous, add more adjectives here, trees. The air was fresh and spicy with ferns and redwood; the kids climbed on fallen logs and yanked their heads up to try and see the lacy tops stretching far above us.

Traveling for days in a car with your nearest and dearest can be a stretching time, especially when said family keeps buying lots of fruit. I personally feel that I have heard enough jokes about gas, cow herds, methane production, etc. to last more than a lifetime, although I have a feeling I haven’t fulfilled my quota just yet. Overall, our kids are great travelers—which is just as well, since they all took extended plane rides before they were 6 months old, and haven’t stopped for very long since. Donn and I are very sensitive parents. “Look! This is beautiful! Stop reading! Turn off your Game-Boys,” we told them. “Enjoy this! Yes, you have to!” And they did, some of the time anyway.

We arrived at the coast and I saw a herd of elk feeding in a marsh just below us. We stopped but it was too late for anyone else to see them, so we drove on. Suddenly we saw another herd, this one close to the road, near a sign that said “Elk Viewing.” I suppose they must salt the lawn there or something, because the herd was definitely wild and yet used enough to people to not panic when a small child near us slammed the car door and started yelling at his father. We were much more circumspect, and joined the other snapping photos. At first, the leader, he of the biggest antlers, hung out in the background, but then he apparently decided it was time for his photoshoot because he ordered the herd off to the side, then slowly stalked the lawn, turning his head left and right. It was very amusing, and I guess a sign that even here in the north, we’re still in California. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

We drove through Humboldt County and on up the coast, planning to stop for the night in Crescent City—nearly to Oregon. We got into town just before 8, and drove in dismay past motel after motel displaying “Sorry” and “We’re full” and, often, simply “No.” Finally, we found a small, unexciting hotel with one room left—two double beds. We took it. We’re glad. Abel is sleeping on the floor, his bed made out of two bedspreads, but we don’t care. We went out for some adequate Thai food and everyone else is already asleep. Tomorrow, insha’allah, we should make it back to Portland. The kids will be happy.

Surfer’s Point, Santa Claus Lane, and the Santa Monica Blvd.

All good things must come to an end, but we’ve decided to prolong our vacation as long as we can. We are en route back up to Portland, but instead of booking along the soul-less I-5, we are taking our time, driving up Route 1, which hugs the curves and cliffs of the coast and offers glimpses of the deep blue Pacific.

We left Hemet at around 10 on Tuesday morning (see previous post), and drove across to the coast. We had an errand to run in Beverly Hills (doesn’t that sound exotic? It really wasn’t), and then we drove down the Santa Monica Blvd, fringed with palm trees, to the ocean. We headed north up the Pacific Coast Highway, through Malibu and Ventura. We stopped at Surfer’s Point in Ventura, where Donn surfed and the rest of us hung out on the beach in the late afternoon light. The twins collected rocks, Elliot dozed in the sun, and Donn caught a few rides in the small, rough waves.  We watched kite-boarders float high in the air, and carve plumes through the ocean; we saw brown pelicans diving for fish. That first day, we went as far as Santa Barbara, where we planned to stay 2 nights with our friends Jeff and Bonnie. (They’re friends of Donn’s from when he was in high school. Isn’t he amazing?) We spent that evening barbecuing hamburgers, hanging out around their fire pit making s’mores, and relaxing in their jacuzzi under a brilliant moon.

In the morning, we got up to Dutch Babies (a kind of grotesquely-named oven-baked pancake) with fresh berries and maple syrup. We headed out as a group to hike Cold Springs, approximately 3 miles, half of which is uphill, and half of which is down. (Guess which part we liked?) Last year, we did part of this same hike, and I remember being amazed at the beauty of the area. The hills behind Santa Barbara offer an amazing variety of foliage, mixed with multimillion-dollar homes. (Oprah lives in the area; do you know she has not called me once? And this despite a nice conversation I had with her guard last year) Cypress and eucalyptus mix with palm trees and bougainvillea, and the dusty switchbacks of the trail open up to vistas of blue ocean and distant views of the Channel Islands. The kids clambered on rocks and crossed clear brown streams on pale fallen logs.

In the afternoon, we went to the beach. The water was icy to our Saharan skins, but we braved it anyway, swimming desperately in an attempt to warm up. When I got out of the water, I felt hot, and my skin was tingly and lobster-red. We braved kelp beds, and the kids stuck their fingers into the open mouths (orifices?) of shell-encrusted sea urchins to feel them slurp closed—eww! We walked under ridged sea cliffs, and the kids explored smuggler’s caves (“Mom, look! A Starbucks cup!”) and climbed as far up the crumbly rock as they could make it. We saw dead lobsters and lots of seaweed, in all shades of green and purple, including some that looked exactly like lettuce.  A pod of dolphins passed by, their grey skins (hides?) shiny in the sun as they flipped and dove under the bottle-green waves.

Today, Donn got up early and went surfing with Jeff, while Bonnie and I took the kids on another walk. Then I drove up to meet him, and we headed on up the coast, through San Luis Obispo and Morro Bay and Cambria, to San Simeon, where we are staying. We rolled down our windows to smell the eucalyptus trees’ spicy, vaguely medicinal smell; we drove through groves of cypress and incense cedar and Ponderosa pines. (And there’ll be a lot more of this tomorrow!)

We stopped at a fruit stand to buy 3 generously-stuffed baskets of fresh, just-picked strawberries. California strawberries are not as sweet as Oregon ones, she said loyally, but these were good: enormous, jewel-bright, plentiful and cheap. We gorged ourselves as we drove along, knowing that they wouldn’t keep and needed to be eaten up immediately.

San Simeon isn’t much more than a wide spot full of hotels along a small coastal highway, but it has its own charm—especially in its beach. We‘re approaching one of the prettiest parts of the coast—not to mention a part made famous by, and famous for, its photographers. We didn’t want to miss it in the dark, so we stopped early tonight. We swam in the hotel pool, walked along the beach at sunset, then drove into nearby Cambria for pizza. Cambria is a charming little town, and has several espresso stores—I’m sure we’ll be back for breakfast tomorrow, before heading on up the coast towards Big Sur, Carmel, San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge, and then the Redwoods.

I’m going to post this tonight, but Donn’s already snoring. Check back later, when I’ll have added photos and erased this sentence!

In the Land of Smog and Palm Trees

We’re here. I have been working on a post in my head for two days now, in between frying in the heat and feeling grumpy about it all and not winning Mother-of-the-Year. I was going to post from the Ramada Inn (Santa Nella) last night but I didn’t, mostly because it was midnight and some family members were feeling a little testy. We’d driven 715 miles by that point though, and made quite good time.

Some similarities between our I-5 road trip and our Nouakchott-Dakar road trips; we STILL don’t have AC! In Mauritania, we didn’t have it because there wasn’t a mechanic in the entire country who could fix it. Here, we don’t have it because it’s a borrowed car. Maybe we’ll get it fixed? I hope so. You’d think after 5 ½ years in the desert, I wouldn’t mind the sun beating down on me, but in fact it’s had the opposite effect—I feel I’ve already fulfilled my lifetime total of glare.

We made very good time, whistling through the Grapevine (hills near LA), whizzing down I-5. The smog started early, almost as early as the palm trees. Tomorrow I will write all about it, get out those phrases that are rattling through my head. But tonight, I’m too tired, and besides we’re going to watch a movie. Just wanted to say: we’re here, the pool is good, and I hate road trips. No really.

So here’s another photo from the Marrakesh market. This really has nothing to do with I-5, but I have them on my computer and I’m so happy to have a good connection so I can post pictures. Is this not the most boring post ever?

These great glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice were just 40 cents each.

This is the medina in Rabat.

Road Trip!

I recently read WackyMommy on road trips and I realized, anew, what a strict, old-fashioned mother I am. Tomorrow, we set out to drive the 1200 or so miles from Portland, Oregon, to Hemet, California. Hemet is where my in-laws live. We’re doing this without DVD players, fun little special toys, or anything other than grumpy parents saying, “NO we’re nowhere near there yet.”  This takes a certain amount of courage.

Every time we come to America, we do this drive. We always intend to drive us the coast and we usually end up spending every minute possible in Oregon and then booking down I-5 as fast as possible (while still officially keeping within the posted speed limit, of course!). I-5 is a highway that runs down the West Coast from Canada to Mexico. Towns and businesses have sprung up along it like trees along a riverbank; it has spawned its own little subculture, as highways tend to do, towns that appear bland at 55 mph (and no higher!), full of grey concrete buildings, sometimes more picturesque and intriguing in the manner of lives glimpsed, but often just places to drive through on your way someplace else.

Usually we do these drives in a mini-van, but this time we’re driving a borrowed Dodge Intrepid. We told the kids, “This is not an airplane; you don’t each get a carry-on.” They are sharing an overstuffed backpack, full of books and card games. I do have a bag full of snacks; I’m not totally evil. The car has a radio and…ready?…a tape deck. We don’t own any tapes.

Me? I don’t get carsick, so I’m taking 6 books which should last me 2 days no problem. I’m hoping to be like all those cool bloggers out there and post from the road! We’ll see. Road trips down I-5 are a little different than road trips from Nouakchott to Dakar.

In the meantime, I leave you with this image from the market in Marrakesh; these are tea glasses for sale.

You Never Know What Skills You’ll End Up Needing

This is part 3 of an irregular series in which I present for your reading pleasure events that happened here on Planet Nomad before we got internet at our house and discovered the joys of blogging. It’s so long that I will just briefly say THANKS for all your comments (I made my goal of 20 comments on a post—best ever!) and now I’m tempted to fish for compliments more often

In November 2002, Debbie and I decided to attend a conference being held in Dakar, Senegal. Neither of us wanted to drive, because when driving cross-country in Africa it’s handy to have some men around; to deal with police checks (police relate better to men), to change flat tires or deal with engine trouble, to scrape locusts off the grill in the event of an invasion, to deal with the myriad problems that can arise. Flying is expensive. So we decided to take bush taxis.

Our husbands drove us to the southern edge of the city to the taxi stand. The stand is a dusty lot filled with taxis; old Mercedes sedans, made to sit 5 comfortably, were parked in vague rows, between which strolled merchants selling tiny packets of cardboard-like biscuits, bottles of juice, long-life milk packets, and other things useful on car trips. We emerged cautiously and were instantly mobbed. Taxis wait until they are full to depart, but Debbie and I had already decided to splurge and buy an extra seat. We traveled the first stage of our journey with a Liberian couple that we knew; between the 4 of us, we bought 6 seats and so could set off at once. Sure it was a pinch to spend the extra $8 or so, but we thought it was worth it to sit with a mere 3 adults in the back, instead of risking being squished in with a traditionally-built African woman, or a man in a voluminous robe who might be subtly friendly.
Soon we were whizzing our way south. The weather wasn’t unbearably hot, and the open windows provided a pleasant enough breeze. The first stage of our journey, Nouakchott to Rosso, passed uneventfully. The taxi dropped us off near the ferry.

The Senegal River serves as the border between Mauritania to the north and Senegal to the south. The town of Rosso is split by the sluggish brown water; there is Rosso, Mauritania, and Rosso, Senegal. In between, a simple ferry runs several times a day, although it doesn’t keep to a strict schedule. For example, the 10:30 ferry may leave at noon.

Since we had only ourselves and our bags, we didn’t need to wait for the ferry, a process usually rendered obnoxious by heat and curious children. Instead, we opted to take one of the many wooden pirogues bobbing about near the shore. A pirogue is sort of like a dug-out canoe in shape. We boarded quite quickly and wobbled our way to an empty spot along the edge.

The crossing was brief—it’s not a very big river. We hit the other shore with a bump, and everyone arose and began pushing their way off the boat. Debbie and I were cautiously balancing our way forward, when a wave from the ferry smacked our little pirogue. I sat back down again with a bump, but Debbie overbalanced and ended up on her back, skirt fallen round her hips, feet up in air over the bench. And this in a place where ankles are considered a little racy! I helped her up quickly and then we had to sit back down again because we were laughing so hard. (Aside: Debbie is a great person to travel with)

We made it out of the pirogue and began the steep climb up the slippery rocks to the road. I lost my footing and came within two inches of taking out a large Pulaar woman, dressed for travel in a royal blue satin robe with gold trim. She shot me a look that would have scared me to death if I believed in the Evil Eye.

The border crossing was no worse than normal. We eventually sorted everything out, and walked several blocks to the Senegalese version of the taxi stand to find a taxi to Dakar. Again we bought extra seats, and again I sat by an open window as my hair and nose filled with dust.

The conference went well. It was held in the same hotel that Mike and Robert stay at in “Endless Summer,” for all you surf-freaks out there. When it was time to return home, we went again to the taxi stand in Dakar. This taxi stand is bigger than the one in Nouakchott, choked with dust and trash and people selling items and people buying items and people haggling over prices—sort of a combination mini-market/taxi stand.

We found places in a sort of station wagon. We bought an extra seat and wedged ourselves into the very back, knees near our chins, contemplating how it would have been possible to fit 3 adults in that little space, thankful we were rich enough not to have to find out.

The ride from Dakar to Rosso takes about 8 hours. We left about 6 a.m. The taxi whizzed along, stopping occasionally in tiny roadside villages for cold drinks and snacks. By about 11 a.m. we were in dire straits. The taxi had stopped in a really remote village, and Debbie and I crawled out to stretch our cramped limbs. We were desperate for a spot of privacy, so in great determination we crossed the road, heading for a field with some lovely big tall weeds. We soon discovered, however, an obstacle; a deep ditch full of fetid water, too large to leap, extending as far as we could see alongside the highway. What to do? We glanced back at the taxi and saw that it was ready to depart, waiting just for us, a taxi full of men glancing our way. Some of the villagers were also out for a glimpse of the white women squished in the back of a taxi. We looked at each other in despair. There was no way we could get back in that taxi and wait any longer to relieve ourselves.

I can’t speak for the whole continent, but in my experience Africans have no trouble relieving themselves in public. Round here, it’s a common sight. The world is their toilet. Their wide robes sweep to the ground, providing them some modestly, provided they are wearing robes. But for Debbie and I, it was a whole new experience. We were wearing long skirts, but they weren’t as wide as a muluffa. Hopelessly Westernized as we are, we were also wearing underwear, which complicated things. Also, again as complete newcomers to this sort of thing, we were more concerned about drips and drops on ourselves than we should have been. We were as behind a tree as we could be, but we were definitely not private. No, we basically were in full view of the men in the waiting taxi, the fascinated villagers, and any passing cars.

In spite of that, we felt better as we regained our cramped quarters in the back of the taxi.

You just never know what skills you’re going to need in life, do you?

Our second pirogue crossing wasn’t as exciting as the first—perhaps Debbie felt she had already shown enough of herself to the world, and the Mauritanian side isn’t as steep so I had no opportunity to nearly knock anyone into the river. We were directed to a fringed cart drawn by a horse (our lives are so picturesque!), which we rode for about 3 blocks to another taxi stand. By now we were getting tired. It was early evening and we’d been traveling all day. We paid for an extra seat and shared the back seat with only one other man, who was very polite and squished as close as he could to the window; a pointless gesture since the seat had no springs left. We all 3 kept sliding, inch by inch, closer and closer to each other with each little bump on the road, until we’d all end up squished together in the middle and have to pull ourselves apart again.

Debbie and I split up once we made it to the outskirts of Nouakchott; she took a city taxi to her house and I to mine. After a joyful reunion with my family, I shook the dust from my hair and went off to shower and contemplate the joys of locked bathroom doors.

it’s like another planet…

This blog will be random thoughts on living and raising a family overseas. We live on the Atlantic edge of the Sahara Desert, amongst a people whose culture has changed more in the last 20 years than in the previous 1000. A lot of times, it’s like being on another planet. We deal with the same issues as any family anywhere; just sometimes they look a bit different. We teach English and photograph, and spend a lot of time standing in line to pay bills. Our kids go to French school and are ashamed of our thick American accents when we speak to their teachers.

In order to give you a better picture, my first post will be a (far-too-long) description of a recent trip we took to the interior…

 

Our trip to (fa-la-la!) Boumdaid…and beyond!

 

The kids are all in French school, which means they get a week off at the end of February for the excitingly-named Vacation of February. (vacances de fevrier…doesn’t that sound better?) We decided to take a trip into the interior with our friends T and D and their son E.

We left Nouakchott at 2 p.m. on Feb 28, a mere 5 hours off schedule. I won’t go into all the boring reasons why; the only one you care about is that a power outage the night before had made packing, filling up huge containers with filtered water, etc. difficult. We drove about an hour out of town and stopped for lunch off to the side of a big dune, where there was an overgrown thorn bush/tree for shade. 3 hours after that, the sun was sinking to the horizon, and it was already time to stop for the night. The nice thing about Mauritania is that this just means turning off the road at a likely-looking spot, driving until you feel you have some privacy, and stopping. We set up our tent, and the kids scattered to look for firewood. We were in an area with bushes and trees and dust, which meant that our stay would be enlivened by herds of goats, camels and cows, wandering through to strip the grey-green leaves off the thorn bushes. Also, that meant we needed to keep an eye out for their herders, who have a disconcerting way of appearing just as you’re sure you’ve gone behind a big-enough bush for privacy!

That night we had a big bonfire under the stars. I slept at the very edge of the tent so I could stare up at the night sky. It was a clear night, and the stars hung close enough to touch. We could pick out different constellations even though we are Astonomically Ignorant like most other Americans. For the first time, I could see enough stars to make out shapes. Maybe those ancient Greeks weren’t on mind-enhancing drugs after all! I could see the Scorpion’s tail, and Orion’s bow, and the wavy Hydra.

Wednesday:

Next morning, we were eating our cereal and long-life milk when a camel-herder appeared. First he asked if we needed anything. He and his family and herds were camped not far off. We said no thanks, so he asked if we had anything we didn’t need!

All that day we drove through the glare and dust along Mauritania’s East-West Highway. It’s called the Road of Hope, and was built during the terrible droughts of the 70s and 80s. For many nomads, their only hope was to follow this road to reach the coastal capital city of Nouakchott. We stopped occasionally for cold drinks in the small towns which have sprung up along the road, in the manner of small towns and highways anywhere in the world. We would instantly be swarmed by the local children. They are somewhat accustomed to seeing Westerners drive through in their big 4WDs, so they’d approach to demand a gift or a pen or whatever they could see through my window, but would stop, entranced by the vision of blond children in the back seat. “Tfayla! Tfayla!” (Little girl! Little girl!) they’d yell to their friends, who would scamper up. The twins quickly got tired of kids reaching through to touch their hair, or of requests for their toys, or just of being stared at. Sometimes I got tired of feeling like an animal in a zoo and demanded, “Have you never seen people before?” but I tried to just ignore them.

We reached Kiffa about 5 p.m. Kiffa is a regional capital; a small city with electricity, pharmacies, an airport, and other amenities. We stopped for cold drinks and a visit with a mechanic, who checked a leak we’ve had “fixed” at least 10 times over the past year. Then we began our Quest for the Road to Boumdaid! Since there are no road signs, you follow the time-honored way of the desert and ask passers-by. The problem was that everyone had a different opinion. We drove up and down the same stretch of road, being told that we’d just passed it, or that it was just up there round that corner. Finally we were off, on a road surprisingly graded and smooth (but not paved), through a strange sort of countryside. It was almost a savannah. The ground was covered with a pale green sort of straw, and dotted here and there were spindly trees that would afford absolutely no privacy to anyone more than 4 inches wide! I wondered about camping, but near sunset we came to some dunes. We bumped up to a wide flat spot and stopped for the night. In the near distance, a purple-black plateau rose into the sky. We climbed the nearest dune to watch the mango sun set in shades of red and the sliver of new moon sinking towards the west. The kids played on the dunes, running and jumping, in the process filling pockets, hair, and ears with reddish-gold silt. Again that night, the stars were like an added presence, their distant fire instilling a solemn sense of joy.

Thursday:

We were only 50 kilometres from Boumdaid, the town we’d planned to reach on Tuesday night. We didn’t hurry in the morning, sure we’d be there in an hour. Wrong! This was four-wheeling, bumping over dunes, sahel grassland, more dunes, through strange trees, round the sides of rock plateaus. It took hours. We came to a tiny village built on the side of a massive dune. As we approached the village, hoards of children ran towards us. The first reached us. “Go back!” he shouted, sweeping us away with his arms. “This is not the right road! Turn around!”

Amused, we stared at him. “This is the way to Boumdaid?” I said.

“Yes, but Kiffa is that way!” He pointed back the way we’d come. “You want to go to Kiffa.”

Most villages in interior Mauritania don’t have electricity, but many have one or two little shops with ancient fridges powered by butune gas bottles. Our AC doesn’t work, so we drive through the sand with our windows down, and by this point, our tongues were practically hanging out with thirst. We had plenty of warm water, but were fantasizing about cold drinks. T asked a boy of about 11 or 12, “Is there a fridge in this village?” “What’s a fridge?” was the respose. Guess not! We drove on.

Boumdaid was a tidy town with a yellow school, shiny new solar panels and several anti-desertification measures in place. No cold drinks though. We determined our road and left.

It was nearly 3 before we finally reached the village of Lig Dame, 15 km beyond Boumdaid. On the way, we’d met some of the inhabitants, who offered to show us the way to their village. They were excited to meet Americans. “Did you hear about Lig Dame in Nouakchott or in America?” they asked, and were disappointed when we said Nouakchott.

From Lig Dame to the Canyon was only about a kilometer. An elderly man named Mohammed clambered into our car to show us the way. We drove through the afternoon heat and light to a place on the edge of a wide, dry riverbed, full of scattered milkweed plants. The milkweed plant is the main plant of the desert, and they can get really tall and produce a purple flower. Mohamed has staked off a section of this flat sandy area, where he has a well and has planted date palms.

He volunteered to guide us into the Canyon of the Barking Baboons (note: its real name in Hassiniya means Green Water. BORING! We’ve renamed it, in the time-honored tradition of travelers and explorers through the centuries.). We set off, straight up the side of a dune, in the full strength of an oppressive afternoon sun. Mohamed set a terrific pace, climbing easily and without apparent effort. We strung out behind him. Several kilometers higher, we gasped in relief to enter the shade. Mohamed couldn’t find the “path” so we clamoured over enormous boulders.

Soon the canyon’s inhabitants came to see what was going on. Their furry little faces peered over the edges of the rocks, looking down at us. Apparently, an argument broke out between them, and they began fighting and barking ferociously. The sound bounced and echoed and magnified in the rocks, making the children a little nervous. The babboons surrounded us in a loose circle, and followed us as we continued our rock-climbing. We finally came to some still green water. The big question in these deep desert oases is—are there crocodiles? Mohamed said no. We’d hoped to get a swim in, but the sun was already sinking behind the canyon walls, it was a long way back out and we had no light with us. The baboons were getting braver and angrier too, scampering all over the rocks with ease while scolding us and each other furiously.

On the way back, Mohamed found the actual path, which made our going much easier and quicker. He took us down a little gully and showed us rock paintings—drawings of men on horseback hunting what were obviously giraffes. They were incredible. We tried to figure out how old they might be—minimum 1000 years, most likely several thousand. Perhaps only 10 other Americans have ever seen them. Doesn’t this make you want to come visit us?

It was dusk but we could still make out the path as we emerged gratefully from the canyon. Mohamed offered to take us into another canyon, where, he promised, there weren’t monkeys but there were crocodiles! That night we didn’t even bother with the tent, but slept under the stars. The villagers generously offered us a large hunk of raw meat, and you could see their puzzlement at our contentment with tinned ravioli, with its minimal prep time.

In the morning, Mohamed came to say goodbye as we prepared for our 2-day trip back to the city. He milked one of his camels for us, thereby showing us the true hospitality of the desert by giving us one of their greatest delicacies. Camel’s milk is thinner and saltier than cow’s milk. You can buy it in little cartons in the city, but the real way to drink it is still warm, from a big wooden bowl, with little hairs still floating in it. Even urban Mauritanians dream of this.