A Little Bit Like Africa

I have decided that there are a lot of similarities between living in Israel and living in Senegal. In many ways Israel is a particularly technologically advanced nation, but in many ways, there is a slightly less modern feel about it. However, unlike Senegal, I like this less modern feel – it has character and energy.

Haifa is already growing on me. A city where Jews, Arabs, Druze and Baha’i live in relative harmony, it feels very much a multicultural city. I hear Arabic as much as I hear Russian. I don’t feel uncomfortable at all when I walk past an ultra-orthodox Jew on the one side of the street walking his son to synagogue, and see a Muslim on the other side on his way to the Mosque. My neighbours speak Arabic, yet half the doors in the corridor have mezuzot on them. Of course, some of the benefits of this multicultural city seem very selfish – I have the option of eating kosher if I want to, but I am also free to go shopping on Saturday. On the other hand, Haifa feels very much like a large town, rather than a city. There is no significant CBD with lots of skyscrapers, people dawdle (except when driving) and the place really isn’t so polluted (but perhaps I’m just comparing to Dakar…).



Today I went to the local shuk in Wadi Nisnas, the majority Arab neighbourhood bordering on my new home in downtown Haifa. Not only was it open on Saturday, it was thriving with people, guarded at all entrances, something which didn't feature on Friday. And as I am still getting used to, I walk past the security checkpoint and casually get asked whether I am armed, in the same manner as someone else might ask me for the time. I walk through the crowds, notice the children’s entertainment, and the band on the roof playing what sounds like a Yiddish twist on Michael Jackson’s Billy Jean. I go in with a shopping list – a new apartment needs a lot of basics. However, a few hundred shekels later, I leave primarily with lots of Middle Eastern goodies. Halva in multiple varieties, more baklava than I can possibly eat (though that won’t stop me trying), fresh pita, chocolate croissants, rougelach (similar to a chocolate croissant, but the chocolate is rolled into it rather than put as a filling, and then it is topped with icing sugar), a half kilo back of za’atar (my favourite spice of all time which seems to be sorely lacking in many countries), and of course, a few things I actually needed…

Going Home

I am about to embark on what is likely to be my last flight this year – the one that will take me to my homeland and hopefully fulfil a dream of almost 20 years. I have spent much of this year doing travel related things: packing up one home of 11 years and one of 2 years (not to mention packing and unpacking through two temporary homes); I have spent more time in airports this year, than even I, as a pilot, thought I would – about to embark on my 40th flight of the year (not counting ones I piloted myself) and my 7th intercontinental one; I have destroyed 2 suitcases and lost numerous items along the way. But now, I am going home – I hope.

This will be the second goal fulfilment this year – the first one being the opportunity to work in a humanitarian aid situation. Done and dusted (but of course, maybe it could be different next time?)

I approach this with much trepidation – so much more than going to Denmark or Senegal. I go without a solid home and without a job, but because I want to. On and off for 19 years I have been thinking about this. Reliving childhood memories of fun, friendships and freedom. Yet I go back with the expectation of hard times, a large pay cut, and still being thousands of miles away from my family. I am excited though – I know opportunities will await and there will be a life to live. It has been nice to be able to say: לשנה הבאה בירושלים (next year in Jerusalem), and actually mean it. It has been nice to think that, although I have rarely been directly affected by anti-semitism in the past, now, I will be living in a place where my government does something about it. I look forward to feeling my religion, rather than just practicing it. I look forward to going home.

South Africa in Senegal

For the non-mutual friends, rather than me trying to reinvent the wheel, it makes a lot more sense to simply direct you to a blog entry written better than I could ever do - Walking with Lions in Senegal.

Out of Africa

Despite everyone still speaking French, Brussels, even if just for 60 hours, was a very pleasant change from Senegal. Although I thought I was getting away from the touts, the cheats, and the average person who simply wants to get your money - case in point, being cheated at the airport on the way out when I thought I was being nice by taking some Euros off a woman who I thought was given them as charity by arriving passengers and giving her CFA, only to find out later that she had substituted some Euro coins for similar looking worthless CFA coins – may be people like that burn in hell! – but back to the story. I was reminded, upon arrival in Brussels, that capitalism simply results in large, organised companies being evil and trying to rip you off rather than individuals doing it in a non-organised way. A coffee in a large cup at the coffee shop chain at the airport results in them taking it a little too literally – the cup is large, but the volume of coffee is slightly less than what would have fitted in the small cup. May that company suffer the wrath of the European financial crisis!

Saly - not quite Scarborough Beach

The local 'Picaso' taking my purchase (bargained from 60,000
down to 20,000 CFA) off the frame.

Saly is one of the resort towns of Senegal (the other one being Cap Skirring). It is a around 80km South of Dakar (which means anywhere from 50 minutes to 2.5 hours driving) and serves weekend holiday makers as well as Europeans on package holidays. It has sun, beaches, and clubs. My reason for going: the beaches. I wanted to get away from Dakar for a weekend, relax on the beach which would hopefully be nicer than the ones in Dakar, and just enjoy a quite weekend. Well, on Senegalese standards, it lived up to these expectations. Therefore, if you're in Senegal, it makes for a nice getaway - though I certainly couldn't recommend making an effort to specifically come here from another country - that, is something I don't get...

Oh, and don't watch the video below if you're planning on having fish for dinner...

A Cultural Divide

Since it would obviously be politically incorrect of me, and perhaps even racist by some, to generalise about negative aspects of a group of people based on their culture, I figured, since today was full of great examples, to write a post about the massive cultural divide between myself and 2 particular people – they happened to be taxi drivers in Senegal (although the latter, in a sense, drove a car and accepted payment for the ride, I’m not sure if he really was a taxi driver…) In case someone happens to misconstrue this as a generalisation about Senegalese (heaven forbid), I will throw in an example of the cultural divide between myself and a certain aspect of bureaucracy – the other person happens to be an Indian.

Stuck in Friday arvo traffic - downtown Dakar

Taxi!

So after deciding to take a weekend break at the seaside resort of Saly, I flag down a taxi after work to take me to the Gare Routiere, from where I will catch my sept-place taxi to Saly. The conversation with the taxi driver, before I get in, and following the standard pleasantries, goes something like this (I have translated in a way that I assume I would sound in French).

Me: I would like to go to the Gare Routiere. How much?
Driver: blah blah blah blah. Gare Hotel blah blah blah.
Me: No. Gare Routiere (this time, pronounced differently, just in case I got it wrong first time).
Driver: Blah blah blah. Gare blah blah. City blah blah?
Me: Not city. Near Point E. Before Place de l’Indepdance. I want to go to Saly. Sept-place taxi. Gare Routiere.
Driver: Ah, Point E. Ok.
Me: No, NEAR Point E. But Not Point E. Before Place de l’Independance.
Driver: Ah, Place de l’independance?

Senegal v2.0 – Since I have so much trouble putting this into words…

When people have asked me what things are like in terms of housing in Senegal, I have found it very hard to describe the situation. I still find it very hard to describe the situation. So moving into a new apartment upon my return from a 2 week hiatus, I decided a photo blog might be the easiest way to describe the situation.

Despite coming to an agreement with an agent regarding an apartment. I was to pay 20,000 CFA per day for an apartment I liked on the 3rd floor. Whilst in Australia, that all of a sudden became 600,000 CFA per month, with no partial months, making my rent essentially 23,000 CFA per day. What choice did I have? Well, apart from give the agent less of a commission (ie., tip). Then I return to Dakar, go to the apartment, and discover i have been given one on the ground floor. After a few bullshit stories in terrible English with some French and Wolof thrown on, I accept it because I literally do not have a choice. Now, to describe the place. On the surface, at a high level, it looks like a pretty reasonable place – it’s not luxury, but it does look OK. But dig a little deeper, and you learn a little bit about housing in Senegal. And keep in mind, this housing is some of the more western housing around.

Entrepreneurship in Senegal

Not 'the' beach, this one is further down the road on the Westernmost
point of the continent

After visiting the beach yesterday afternoon for a bit of R&R, my interaction with the local entrepreneur got me thinking about about entrepreneurship in Senegal. Something that exists on a completely different level to the capitalist entrepreneurship I am used do. Of course that does exist here, but to an extremely limited extent. Here is my experience, at my local beach – I go there because it is a 10 minute walk away, and I’m not actually sure there are any other beaches in a reasonable walking distance (I use the Australian definition of a beach here – where land meets ocean in the form of gently sloping soft sand into the water – some rocks are acceptable).

I sit down on the sand, specifically not taking advantage of one of the half broken umbrellas or partially torn up straw mats. Within seconds, I am approached by a hustler, calling me mon ami and asking for 2,000 CFA! Although this at some point in the conversation changed to 1,000 CFA, and I’m sure is different for every person at the beach, I wasn’t up for it. I figured this is a good opportunity to practice the little French I know, since the gentleman does not speak English. “Why?” I ask. He explains. I have little idea what he’s saying. We go back and forth, with half of the conversation being me telling him that I don’t understand or him telling me that he doesn’t understand English. My argument (armed with knowledge I gained from my colleagues) is that this is a public beach, I am not using any of his ‘equipment’, so why do I need to pay? His argument, I think, is that just like I have a job, he has a job, and it is related to the beach. It seems as though he is telling me that he cleans the beach and makes it look presentable. Admittedly, the beach does look a 100 times nicer than most public spots in Dakar. There is very little rubbish there, the sand and rocks are clearly separated in a way which didn’t occur naturally. Still, I argue – I a coming here to read my book and swim. If I use his services, I will pay. After 15 minutes he decides to leave me and give me free passage.

Love Of My Life

To my dearest Jessie,

I know that technically, I saved your life once, long ago, when we first met. But ever since then, I feel like you have saved mine countless times. Perhaps not physically, but emotionally. You have been with me as long as I have been an adult and although I feel like I have already abandoned you, I can't bear the thought of not being greeted by you ever again.

The true meaning of friendship

Hello. My name is Kevin and I've been diagnosed with a mental illness.

Whinging is my middle name, and this blog posting will probably demonstrate why. I have decided to 'come out' and write this because I have realised that there still massive prejudices and taboos in this world against mental illness. The phrase covers such a broad range of things, yet it evokes emotions in so many of the worst kind of disease possible. It is as if, ticking a form on a box saying you have a physical impairment causes people to immediately assume that you must have Ebola, without considering the possibility that you stubbed your little toe when you were 5 and the hairline fracture never healed properly, causing you a small amount of pain whenever you walk. Taboos in today's society which despite all the efforts of some great people and organisations around the world, still result in a massive amount of unbelievable discrimination. Given the statistics, I know there will be a few people reading this post who will at some point in their lives be in a similar situation to me, and I hope that they will learn from my mistake.

Depending on which statistic you see, mental illness affects somewhere around 20% of the population at some point in their lives (some stats indicate this figure is as high as 33%). But those numbers are immaterial. The key thing being, it affects many people I love, and it has affected me. As a result of this, I have been in the past, and still am today, discriminated against. No matter how many people rightly say that mental illness is "just another disease" and shouldn't be treated differently to any physical disease, it still is. The average person, and the average authority is scared of it and doesn't know how to deal with it. People do not understand it. Why it is easier for people to understand leukemia than depression, I have no idea. Neither are visible to the naked eye, yet for some reason, the 'physical' explanation is a lto easier for many to swallow.


I know that in personal relationships, honesty is always the best policy, but all of us are confronted by other situations where overt honesty leads to difficulties. Everyone in life has countless experiences of this, and I have had many small ones (take the example of admitting to being an asthmatic when wanting to SCUBA dive - I always achieve my goal in the end, but with a lot more effort and costs).

258km in 6 hours - The Road to Saint Louis

One restored building, and its mirror image across the street, 'about' to be restored

No, I haven't made it over to Missouri, USA. I have just headed up to a town which provides a strong reminder of the French presence in the area. Both because the town was named after the French king at the time (but seriously, to add 'Saint' in front, does seem a little obnoxious), and also because of the fact that Saint Louis served as the capital of French West Africa for over 2 centuries. The town, another one of Senegal's UNESCO World Heritage Listed sites is part crumbling to bits, and part remnants of its colonial past.

Above: Silting from the artificial break in the sand banks is very evident.
Below: the locals enjoying some colonial shade.

Going Colonial in Gorée

I have quickly realised that my blog entries about touristy things are going to be extremely different to what I'm used to writing. Primarily because tourism (which for me - is more or less doing or seeing something new in a different place) is totally different to what it is in Europe. Essentially, it is a lot more limited by that definition. There aren't that many places in Senegal that I would say I would want to go to from a tourist point of view (of course, this is solely my opinion). Either that, or my enthusiasm for travelling has waned a bit (possible, but less likely). Within Dakar, I don't have that much enthusiasm to go and 'see' things, but I guess that's because the few cultural sites are all in French, and there isn't really a heck of a lot of 'beauty' around. Nice architecture is lacking, as is places of natural beauty.

Enter two things to do. SCUBA diving, and visiting Gorée Island...

The Kindness of Senegalese (and work..)

The friendliness and generousity of people in Senegal cannot go unnoticed. Unfortuntaely, with my limited (or should I say, lack of) French, the only appreciation I seem to be able to show is "merci", or the occassional "merci beaucoup". It just doesn't seem to do it justice.

Musings on Dakar - Part 1 (most likely...)

Welcome to Léopold Sédar Senghor  (Dakar) International Airport 

I have only been here a short time, but I have already noticed so many things that stick out to me. Some of them stick out because I have simply been transformed to a different climate, different culture, different language and different life. Others though, simply do not have explanations because in any context, they simply do not make sense. In no particular order, this is my list of impressions of this hot country of which I have only touched upon...

• The unofficial taxi driver coalition in Dakar believes that if enough of their members honk at you, you will eventually get in one of their taxis and pay for a ride.

• In terms of equal standards, accommodation costs are slightly higher than Scadinavia, yet taxi rides are about one-twentieth the cost, even though the cost of fuel is roughly the same (on the other hand, the standard of the taxis themselves, can't really be compared...)

• It is nigh on impossible to find a self-service laundrette. But there are plenty of "pressing" shops that will clean your clothes (I have a feeling they actually dry-clean...) at a handsome cost per item (a load of basic washing just cost me 16,800 CFA / $33)

A busy round-a-bout with 3 Nescafe vendors (2 seen here, partly
blocked by a ubiquitous yellow taxi)

• Instant Nescafe from a street-seller in a tiny plastic cup is the height of coffee culture, and can be found on every street corner.

• Forget Japanese, European and American cars, Iranian and Indian cars rule the roads here!

• Forget BP or Caltex, here we have OilLibya!

• Like most non Anglo-Saxon Western coutries, the people are some of the most warm, welcoming and genuinely friendly people ever. Spend a day driving a new colleague aroundn to help him find an apartment? No problems. Invite a relative stranger into your house for a meal? Of ourse. Whilst overfriendliness tends to raise alarm bells with me, the worst thing that is likely to happen here as a result is daylight robbery by the street-seller or taxi driver.

Bumper Cars in Dakar

Today I got a ride to my hotel with a Japanese woman in the office who happened to be leaving at the same time as me and heading in the same direction. When I mentioned that I thought she was brave to drive here, she told me that it's not so bad, and I only need to go to downtown to see 'bad' drivers. Wow! I've seen good-bad drivers (Israel), crazy-bad drivers (Bangkok), and now, scary-bad drivers (Dakar). There was certainly no need for the humanitarian aid agency I work for to have a rule about no driving when on deployment, there is no chance in hell I would chance it here!

Dear Boss, I hereby tender my resignation...

Dear Boss,

I hereby tender my resignation with immediate effect. As you are probably unaware, there are numerous issues with my job and the current workplace which makes my continuing employment here untenable. Although, these in themselves, are reason enough for anyone to leave such a workplace, I have greater things coming my way right now.

I was planning on tendering my resignation in a few weeks' time anyway, but an opportunity has been delivered to me which gives me need to hasten that act. I had planned to leave your employ at the end of July and enjoy a month or so holiday before spending the Jewish New Year with my family in Perth. Following that, I was to move permanently to Israel. This is is a plan which has been roughly (and I use that word in its extreme sense) been in place since late 1993. The dream of returning to live in Israel has always been with me, and, as a wise sage once said (I hope she doesn't mind me quoting her here...):

If I don’t go, I will be forever plagued by the ‘what if’ and it will eventually consume your life and cause me to blame any future failings/mishaps on not ever taking the plunge.

It has already plagued for for a long time. But the fact that I tend to be attracted to certainty (in some aspects of my life) has held me back. No more. It is time to take the plunge and live my dream.

A Divided City No Longer

Pariser Platz - named so many years ago to piss off the French

I have always been amazed by the concept of war, especially, past wars. Mostly, because they don't make sense, but also because countries tend to behave in such ways which make even less sense. Even equating countries with toddlers doesn't quite explain things. The results of WWII are evident throughout Germany,  and although Berlin nowadays acts like one city, it is quite clear from how it looks that there are two sides to the coin.

A Wandering Jew in Berlin

Walking along the East Side Gallery - a remaining part of the Wall

With tens of thousands of Jews living in Berlin now, I wonder to myself a little bit, "why?". While I wonder that, I think others may wonder why Jews even want to visit the city. However, Berlin is, on the surface at least, an extremely multicultural city now with people of all different sorts of colours and backgrounds roaming around. On the one hand, it's hard to imagine the horrors of 20th century, but on the other hand, walking through Berlin, it's hard to forget them too.

The Opposite of Tears of Joy (Smiles of Frustration?)

I think I get a kick out of things going wrong, finding someone or something to blame, and then investing all my energy into somehow extracting my revenge. This tends to occur in the following form:

1. Me, the helpless victim, tries to purchase goods or services from big business.
2. Big business screws me over by not delivering as promised.
3. Consequently, I suffer some massive injustice. This may be that I end up having to pay an addition $3 to get something fixed, am uncomfortable in a plane because I get stuck next to some person who takes up my seat as well as theirs, or something similar. Either way, the injustice I suffer, is, naturally (when I argue about it), roughly equivalent to WWIII.
4. I pull out the Bacher gene (that part of the chromosome inherited from my maternal side of the family) and complain. This is the part that I may get the slightest kick out of it. I complain verbally or in writing. Whichever way I do it, I don't stop until I get my way. Of course, sometimes the effort is way more than the argument is about. But it's about principle and the satisfaction it brings. It feels little better if I can tell myself that the other party has somehow learnt from their mistake.

Lounging Around Lubeck

Why Lubeck? Why not?

How much is that doggy in the window?
Woof woof. Woof woof.

Honesty, not always the best policy

I am angry tonight, because once again I have been fooled into thinking that honesty is the best policy. I'm not saying that lying is the way to go, but leaving out key pieces of information is definitely the winning combination. For the second time in my adult life, the Australian government has screwed me over with respect to important things in my life because I give away too much.

The first instance, I had better not discuss here in too much detail - but lets just say I learnt from the mistake of honesty. The net effect? I am saving myself $500+ per year and the past half dozen years or so have proven that no one is worse off as a result.

A day or two after being offered my job in Denmark, I got contacted regarding the possibility of working in Antarctica with the Australian Antarctic Division (AAD). It was something I had applied for many months earlier after meeting some people who had worked down there, and discovering that there really was a possibility I could work there too. The place had always fascinated me, but I had put it together with becoming an astronaut - something I was unlikely to do unless I was one of those rich tourists. But these people made me realise it was possible. But after not hearing back from my application, I had given up. When this possibility reappeared, I got super-excited, but after much deliberation, I decided that a bird in the hand was better than two in the bush - so I stuck with Denmark.

Fast forward 16 months and another application with the AAD for their annual intake, and I receive an email notifying me I have been shortlisted and invited to attend a selection centre. Great! I was even going to be in Australia round about that time, so figured I'd be able to coordinate something to make it. In the midst of emailing back and forth with HR, I suddenly receive an email stating that I "do not meet the necessary medical checklist requirements". What?!? Although I truly believe 'tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. In this case, I had been handed a winning lotto ticket only to be told the next day that the jackpot was $0 due to a technical glitch! And what is this "medical" condition I have? Asthma. Yes, the 'condition' suffered by around 1 in 15 people. And when I say 'suffer', I mean, a couple of times a year I take the odd puff on the Ventolin - because I know how to look after myself. But no, this is enough, I'm told, to immediately rule me out of ever working for the Australian government in Antarctica (the Yanks would take me, I'm told...). And why? Because it's just too risky.Argh!

So the lesson here? Don't disclose something you don't have to. If you think you know better, you probably do. If you are confident that hiding something won't do any damage, but will get you what you want, then hide it. I am yet to determine whether this adage applies in general, or only with the Australian government. They're up to 2 strikes - one more, and they're out!

White Out

Our village of Val d'Isere can be seen at the bottom of the valley.

Rather than waste precious electrons on the 'printed' word, I will let the photos do the talking here. One week snowboarding in the French Alps, right near the Italian border, with a good friend of mine from Australia, equals an awesome time, great boarding (for me, as an Australian, but I'm sure more fresh snow wouldn't have gone amiss), awesome food, lots of pains, and best of all, no fractured scaphoid!

Tasting Torino

Our four nights in Turin were meant to ease us into the holiday spirit prior to snow-boarding. However, both of us managed to come down with pretty bad colds which, if I were at home, would have been a great excuse to stay home in bed. However, I am not one to waste a good holiday, especially when it involves eating. I got the low-down on what to eat and where to eat it from a colleague of mine, and was ready to take all of his suggestions on board...

Piazza Castello and the Royal Palace

Hamburgers

The engineer in me was totally fascinated
by the train being able to roll onto the ferry
for the crossing to Germany.

As every intelligent person knows, Hamburger refers not only to the delicious meal, but to a person who comes from the German city of Hamburg. In fact, in adjective form, it also refers to anything of Hamburg origin. Unfortunately, when one does not understand German and therefore cannot understand the words that follow 'Hamburger' on a restaurant menu, it is only natural to assume the item is something along the lines of two all beef patties special cheese lettuce onions on a sesame seed bun. Well, one is wrong.