Guaka! - baksheesh

How I got hold of my bag

Guaka — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 21:16:47 +0000

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The Bulgarian border guards didn't speak English. They also didn't understood why I was sent back. It gave me some courage to at least get my backpack back. When I saw 2 more people on the Turkish side I decided to walk back and give it a try. The baksheesh border cop was human enough to walk with me to the gathering of Turkish truckers dealing with bureaucracy. I hadn't taken Ahmet's phone number, I just knew his truck was yellow. There seemed to be 100s of trucks. And I couldn't recognize Ahmet among the truckers. The baksheesh cop said (in Turkish and body language) that my trucker had already left. Which I didn't believe.

On the way back to Bulgaria Ahmet appeared out of the hurd of trucks. Relief. I got back my bag and shook hands with Ahmet who also didn't understand the miserable man.

Again I walked to Bulgaria in the dark, this time with some more weight (including my laptop and some more essential travel equipment). On the way 2 Bulgarian border officers told me that they never heard of anything similar and that I should just try again. But well, not with the miser that send me back. "Not tomorrow, never can you come back to Turkish", at least, that's how much I understood with my Turkish phrasebook (that has now traveled now back in la Casa together with Marc).

I went to change some money, had to count and recount the money given by the bitchy border exchange woman and went into the warmth of a gas station's shop. No tea. The boy working there was able to tell there was a train to Istanbul from Svilengrad, the nearest town.

After about half an hour a guy with a familiar face entered the establishment. Somehow he started speaking French to me. "Moi je suis un capitaliste." He had the same madness for life, money and women as a loony Ukrainian artist I had known in Paris. Though somewhat less successful.

"Moi je suis riche.", said Angel. Apparently he owned 1 house, 2 apartments and 2 cars. His main occupation was exchanging foreign cash for Bulgarian coins, at least that night. Remarkably the car he had chosen that night had some troubles starting. But I had a ride to Svilengrad, where I took a shower in a luxurious hotel. The early morning light appeared outside when I fell asleep.

I had ruled out the train option when I found out it was only going after midnight. At the bus station in Svilengrad I socialized with some old Bulgarians. The cord in my bag cover had slipped inside and fortunately an old lady was happy to fix it. The bus arrived and took me towards Capitan Andreevo. After everyone had already gotten out of the bus 2 women and a little girl got in.

They were traders and without too much communication we formed a bond. I knew they want to get as many cigarettes into Turkey and well, I don't speak Turkish. They hitched a ride with car (good!), but we got out when there was no movement anymore. We just walked, showed passports here and there. I bought cigarettes (with the money she had given me), walked some more. And more. All the way to the Turkey that was free from corrupt officials.

There I put my bag and the bag with cigarettes down. Shaked hands, said "spaseeba", picked up my own bag and left the cigarettes for them. The taxi leeches were looking hopefully but my response was "autostop" and I walked towards the first trucks I saw.

And of course, the second trucker I saw was happy to take me to Istanbul. And from that moment till the next morning was an amazing succession of Turkish hospitality. He had been riding through Europe for more than 3 months. Of which he had been waiting 1 month in Russia for some papers that didn't happen thanks to baksheesh and bureacracy.

Now he was on his way to Gaziantep, close to the Syrian border. He had to park his truck somewhere in Istanbul though. The thought of heading to Syria was tempting but I had decided to not continue directly.

Aleppo was amazing. Not as much for the scenery as for their people. At a fruit stall I started talking to a real estate agent who took me on a tour through Aleppo. I had no idea I was in a city of 4 million people. The mosque was splendid and the view from the ancient building I was taken to was amazing.

I hadn't read Hitchwiki and just decided to just start walking towards the South and see where I would end up. A German speaking guy told me it was impossible to hitchhike. Heard that before. I just kept on walking and walking until I found a halfway decent spot to stop a car. And got a ride further out of the city, towards a roundabout, where I continued walking

I was summoned by a smiling Syrian cop. It was a funny feeling shaking his white handkerchief. I decided to just sit down and wait. Surprisingly a couple of buses refused his signs and drove on. Finally a minivan stopped. The music they played was exstatic. The landscape magic, though the spell was broken by the large amounts of plastic bottles and other random garbage besides the road. I realized I was in a vehicle that was mainly going around to pick up and drop military personnel.

I'm typing this from E's parents' home. Half an hour across the border that no one has crossed in my lifetime. I got here in a bus (it was dark and her 90 year old grandma forbade us to hitchhike and paid our bus tickets). There were more weapons than I've seen on the other side, and their holders were barely adults.

I mostly agreed with their anti-zionist stance and my subscription of Le Monde Diplomatique only ended when they placed Microsoft ad two issues in a row. I've read a tiny bit of Chomsky (which is still a lot). But seeing is believing. Many mixed feelings.

Three days ago in Damascus

Guaka — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 23:23:11 +0000

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Whenever I set an alarm, I don't actually need it. At 5:30 I woke up, took some food from Cocina Robino, walked to the traffic lights at the Jan van Galenstraat and smiled. After about 15 minutes a painter with an Native American name listening to good old Gabber stopped for me. In an unexpected preview for what was to come he sped through the red light after getting off the highway to pick up his colleague. They were driving to Utrecht and dropped me off at the last gas station on the A2 before the turn to the A12.

My signs were "Arnhem A12 oost" on one side and "Belgrado Istanbul" on the other side. For an hour or so I received a lot of smiles, especially when I told them my actual final destination. I had been smiling and walking around to find a ride onto the A12, in vain. Talked to a guy who would be willing to go out of his way a little bit. Walked back, and then, for the first time in my hitchhike career I was asked to leave the premises (of a gas station at least, some shitty motel manager sent me and amylin away, in the New Zealand rain of 2006). "Company policy", the manager said. "Never experienced this company policy before", I said smilingly. When walking to the Rijkswaterstaat property the guy I talked to waved at me and I was back on track. Arnhem with a trucker, Cologne with a Polish businessman, Frankfurt with a Dutch couple picking up a special bicycle with their bio-diesel minibus.

Before Regensburg I was aiming at a HU car when an elderly guy stopped. "Well", I thought, "never refuse a perfectly good ride". In his seventies, he was still working, driving a big car and, most importantly, picking up hitchhikers at night. Only one gas station further I wrote down "Budapest" and a couple waved at me. Their doglets were not too friendly at first, but in Hungary they were quietly sleeping on my lap and my feet.

Romanians must love (second-hand) German cars. The 1500 km or so from Regensburg to Pitesti was crowded with German numberplates with a little red date mark on the right. Driven by inexhaustible Romanians, but which language to approach them? At the gas station in Budapest there was almost no activity and I spent a couple of hours under a plastic sheet. Since I hadn't been able to find a ride towards Szeged for a while I decided to take my chances and head to Romania.

Three drivers, at least one BMW, many hours on hair rising Romanian roads later it was dark again. And I got into a local bus, to an unknown destination. In the bus, the first angel of this voyage. I was dog-tired and sat down. She asked a question I've forgotten and said "d'accord" at some point. So we switched to French. We went to check a hotel where the rooms appeared to cost more than 60 euro per night. A mix of curiosity and suspicion. I showed her all my papers, my luggage, almost anything I was carrying. Great to see I wasn't dragging around too much after 36 hours on the road. A cold shower, a nice room, some food and big eyes. Started walking in the early morning. Had some local competition/colleague. In Bucuresti it was not clear. People were giving me different indications, but I managed to find a truck stop popular with Turks - right next to one of the country's major continuous traffic jams.

Ahmet was happy to take me to Istanbul. Fortunately my passive-smoking capacity had been greatly increased. Bulgaria was not far away. Nor were the baksheesh hungry Bulgarian border officials. Fortunately (both for me and for them) they didn't bother me. Within Bulgaria we took a break at a truck stop and Ahmet and people around him explained to me in Turkish, Bulgarian, Russian and German that the police were checking a lot. The Turks had decided it was better to drive at night.

We reached the Bulgarian Turkish border at around 3 am. And we got into Turkey when I made a big mistake. Never leave your backpack in the vehicle when you are walking slightly further than 50 meter away.

Now I'm left alone in a hostel in Damascus. A Japanese guy reading, a Chilean couple watching a movie. The fan whirling back time. The streets are full of friendliness, excitement. People genuinely want to meet you here. I don't think I've been able to explain what hitchhiking is to a single Syrian. Confusion plenty, but 30 hours in the Axis of Evil I've mostly encountered unexpecting and unconditional friendliness.

Bijar came all the way from Utrecht. Or rather, from Kurdish Iraq. He was on his way to buy equipment for a business he's developing in the lands of his origin. He signaled his taxi driver to stop for me right before the border. He did almost all the talking (and paying) and we wished eachother good luck in Aleppo.

to be continued...

Crowd surfing in Bamako

Guaka — Mon, 21 Mar 2005 03:50:25 +0000

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It's the beginning of what people call spring in colder areas of the world, 2:30am and I'm crowd surfing in the streets of Bamako. About 6 men are trying to lift me into a black van. One of them tries to grab both of my arms, so I decide to give him my left arm and he attaches it to the van using handcuffs, leaving my right arm free to make a phone call. Off we go, on a ride that seemed to last for ages... It was the first time I felt cold in Bamako.

So, these men are policemen. The police, man's best friend. It's probably not the worst thing that can happen to people in Bamako, but given that it was the third time I was stopped in 3 weeks or so, it's definitely one of the more prevalent evils.

Two weeks before

So I haven't written yet, that two weeks ago I was walking on the Bla Bla / Sky Bar street with Awa, when suddenly two motorbikes stop. The policemen are asking for our IDs, which we're showing them. The cop sees 1996 on my shabby-looking paper and is complaining. So I have to explain that Dutch driving licenses are valid 10 years and show him the 2006 that's not written on the "main part". No problem. Awa's ID card, however, needs some more inspectation and the guys start asking me for 3000 CFA. Apparently some kind of seal was missing. Since it's a ridiculous demand I refuse to give them money. They decide it's time to drive away, with Awa's ID, me running after them and stopping them. Apparently their fangatigi is only 100 meters away. Awa is very reluctant to go there, but I wasn't going to get away with the ID just like that. After five minutes of silence and discussion the chef decides to take a look at the papers and starts his bike. (I haven't told much about prostitutes yet, but the crowd seemed a mix of whores and cops...) Fortunately someone offers him a torch and he checks it for about 5 seconds, and we're off.

One week before

Evasion Jazz Club is an amazing place. It is has a fabulous atmosphere. And it has Adama. He's a great musician. He plays guitar and sings. It's not really Jazz, but it's a thing not to miss. I've probably already recorded 2 hours of this stuff (in pieces of 3 minutes; Canon did a great job with the Ixus, but I hate the fact that they put this stupid restriction when filming; time for free software cameras?). I hope I get his permission to put it online under a Creative Commons license, so that you can enjoy a tiny bit of it as well, and so that he'll be able to get gigs in Europe... We're driving back and suddenly I see we're approaching a car full of policemen. A cop comes over and asks us for our ID's. I show my driving license, no problem, Josh shows his ID, and the cop starts nagging that one should always carry an ID. Josh starts being aggressive, getting his mobile and saying he's gonna call the Canadian embassy. I don't feel like the guy taking another peek at my license, so I try to chill Josh and take over the conversation, saying that from now on we'll always carry ID, and sorry for the inconvenience, bla bla bla. The cop seems to be happy with the respect shown and lets us continue our path.

Last week

. (http://www.industree.org/guaka/gallery/Bamako-3/img_3127)

Three o'clock in the afternoon Josh comes over and tells me Amadu, our beloved Dogon guard, is taken by the police. It's hard for me to believe that a person so nice could do anything that would cause the police to come over and take him into custody. The story becomes even more ridiculous when later that day they come to arrest Issa Yat, Geekcorps' driver, as well. Later that night it appears that it has something to do with a stolen mobile phone. Amadu and Issa don't return that night. Fortunately they return during the next day. Apparently, here in Mali, the police actually arrests people, while they're working, lets them sit in jail for the night, on the suspicion of making the mistake of buying a stolen phone. (Oh, if your old dust collecting phone is still working, please send it to Mali instead of throwing it away. It has the power to keep people out of jail...)

Last night

What happened? Do I know? I was going out with Issa Dolo and Mame and it was getting a bit late. We're walking around through the streets of Korofina (area in Bamako), looking for a cab. Right in front of Bla Bla Bar the cab stops and a bunch of cops show up at our windows. Well, no problem. I get my driving license to show it. Well, problem. They're not happy with my driving license and ask me to get out of the car. I'm like, WTF is this? I'm not getting out of the car, and tell them my passport is at home, if they want we go there so I can show it - hoping that they'll leave it at that. But, no, in Mali one is to carry an ID at all times. If not, one is to go to the bureau and pay a fine. I ask them if it's just money they want. No, they say, they don't take money. I am to go to the bureau. Three cops are standing next to the car, ready to drag me out of it. I figure that it's probably a better idea not to let them. The moment I step out of the car they start pushing me towards the van, and naturally I'm saying things that one shouldn't say to coppers - even if you think they don't even know what it means. And suddenly I'm crowd surfing, again. Last time must be more than 6 years ago. Back then the crowd was huge, happy and partying. This time it was a flock of underpaid uniforms.

In the van

I'm sitting in the van, my left arm is attached to the back of the bench. The wind is blowing through my hair. My company consists of (probably) 4 policemen, one with a big rifle, 7 other people who were unfortunate enough not to have ID on them. And then there's 3 more cops in the front of the van. I start to talk with the cop next to me. He's not unfriendly and I don't really remember what we talked about - but it must have been about the Malian police. I find out we're headed for the bureau du sixième arrondissement. Always good to know. Armed with this knowledge I tried to take a chance with my free right arm. I called Josh, Laura, Ian, no response. Of course not, people are supposed to sleep at such unholy times. Then I remembered that Laura might actually be close to another phone and I managed to speak to her, which was a great relieve. Ian called me back some time later. Cold. People on the side of the street wonder what a tubab is doing in a police car and I wave at them with my left hand, which is responded with a seemingly warm waves. It's amazing, what thoughts enter one's mind in such situations. And mine was still pretty good. I was thinking about the other people in the van, who don't have a mobile phone, don't have an embassy to call, don't have colleagues who are able to come by to pick them up in the middle of the night, who probably don't have a job or money to buy more than the bare essential. I was thinking of people all over the world, taken away by police, army, militias. Brought somewhere. Anywhere.

And I thought of 5 months ago, when I was summoned to a police station in France, to my great disbelief. For tapping on a window for just a tiny bit too long. Back then my world seemed annihilated - and I thought it was me, the great annihilator. Later I found out that act of destructive madness was actually the best thing I had done in at least the last 3 years.

Is it funny when people grabbed from the street are entering your office?, I asked the laughing policemen. Not very prudent. But it might have shown them that it's not me who's the dog. I set down next to the other delinquents. Observing. Listening. Bambara. Finally it was my turn. They asked me for my name and instinctively I asked them if they wanted to know my Malian name. The same time I realize that that might have been a very stupid question. However, it seems to break the ice, and they ask me if I speak Bambara. Awo, I say, n'be bamanankan fo doni doni, which is probably smart, as long as one only understands doni doni. If you only speak a little bit people realize I might actually be able understand what they're concocting, so they won't try. I tell them we're I'm from, what I'm doing, and one of them even asks me why I don't want to "informatiser la police malienne". I don't speak out what's on the tip of my tongue (something along the lines of "over my dead body") and politely say that Geekcorps doesn't have the capacity right now, and that it might happen if there is some money to actually do that in the future. So I had made clear that I wasn't going to pay any "fine", that I was told a driving license was sufficient, both by the embassy (a lie) as well as by my chef (true) and that I was friendly - enough. Enough to melt the ice. The fangatigi told me they'd drop me at home the next shift... Relief. Snoring policemen.

And African music TV. Lots of music from Angola. Is that the Portuguese influence? Thoughts of Juliana then cross my mind, radiant and blind, a girl from Angola - today I received her "groetjes" through Joris.

A while later I feel my phone shaking and I realize in all my bewilderment I've forgotten to make some phone calls to people who are probably slightly worried about my situation, for which I am sorry. Ian was ready to come over to get me out of my situation, and I tell him it's fine. Everything under control.

Issa

. (http://www.industree.org/guaka/gallery/Bamako-4/img_3498)

The policemen had also asked me whom I was with, which I told them - one good friend and one friend I've seen a couple of times. I was not mistaken. While watching TV with the policemen involved in heavy discussions about women, mafia, Issa suddenly came walking in, accompanied by the police. I told him I was fine. I wasn't really sure how my situation was, so I decided to go with the flow, sit down, don't say more than necessary and just wait. After another ride in the van, this time not handcuffed, at 5:30h I was home again, finally. Fortunately for the person who thought the police was after him they dropped us off right in front of Geekcorps HQ. The signed letter with Geekcorps and USAID logos I found on my pedestal cupboard will stay in my wallet for the rest of my stay in Africa. And this night I will not easy forget.

Today

Ok, I haven't yet printed the copy of my passport. But I did add the emergency number of the Dutch embassy to my phone - please, people, do the same before you go to a country where you'd rather not bump into the police. Oh, sorry, that could be any country these days, especially if you're skin's just not white enough