The Terrible Cafe Lemsid

 Excerpt from Chapter 7 of my forthcoming book ---Travels with My Hat, 85,000 words 8 pages pictures.         Chapters on Ethiopia, the Royal Tour of Arabia, Pakistan, Egypt, Iraq, Yemen. Pictured is the terrible                      Cafe Lemsid in the Western Sahara, from the final chapter on Morocco.

                                                                

...I’ve often thought I’d found the middle of nowhere on my travels, only to realise that I was on the edge of somewhere, but the Café Lemsid was definitely in the middle of nowhere. Caramel and raspberry red, it resembled a giant lolly that had fallen off a desert transport and surrounding it lay the detritus of local civilisation: burst tyres, perished fan-belts, broken lobster-traps and empty port-a-gas cylinders. A rug was stuffed in a hole in the wall to keep out wind-blown sand, and among items stacked behind its counter were boxes of Gunpowder tea, flour, candles, packets of “Tide”, balls of string and inevitably— tinned sardines.  It’s owner said fresh fish arrived daily from Boujdour, so that even in this god-forsaken place I was able to sit down at a broken table for lunch (grilled dorade).  A lame, fish-eating chicken hopped about for scraps: it would never be killed and eaten, I decided; it was much too horrible. As I settled my bill, a grand-taxi pulled up and I half expected it to disgorge a host of characters from a Fellini  film—dwarfs, transvestites and dancing bears—but they were merely crushed passengers from Dakhla, relieved for the chance to stretch their legs on their long journey up to Agadir...

Coelacanths, moonshine and the scent of ylang-ylang

"When I hauled in the net …..I saw the strange fishtail sticking out and realised that it was different from anything I had ever seen...the fish was a coelacanth believed extinct for millions of years.” wrote Captain Hendrik P. Goosen of catching the first coelacanth off the Comores in 1938.

Publicity surrounding the ‘living fossil,’ - pre-dating dinosaurs by 100 million years - brought attention to the Comores, an Indian Ocean archipelago, originally peopled by Shirazi settlers who arrived with their African slaves. Comorians are descended from these early mixed migrations: 99 per cent are Muslim.

The three islands - Grand Comore, Anjouan and Moheli - lie in the Mozambique Channel. A fourth, Mayotte, while geographically part of the archipelago, opted to remain with France when independence was granted in 1975.

Moroni the Comorian capital, is located on the largest island of Grand Comore. It remains a sleepy, old ‘Indian Ocean Coast’ style town of coral-stone houses lining narrow lanes descending to a harbour filled with wooden ngalawas used for in-shore fishing. A second coelacanth caught in 1985, is displayed in Moroni’s National Museum and in order to protect the island’s only claim to fame, the government declared a section of ocean a National Coelacanth Reserve.

The Karthala Volcano on Grand Comore rises to a height of 2361 m. During a big eruption in 2005, lava ran right down to the sea and due to a shortage of building material, some village houses are entirely constructed of volcanic rock.

The south coast of Grand Comore is lined with coconut palms and pandanus trees leaning over turquoise bays. 1000 year old cycad palms are among several exotic species flourishing in rain forest in theinterior. On coastal clearings, maize, bananas and rice are grown along with the ylang-ylang flower. The Comores are the world’s biggest producer of ylang-ylang, an essential oil in many perfumes. But it takes a lot of flowers -nearly a ton - to distil a single litre.

Island life is low-key except on the occasion of a grand mariage when custom dictates the first born daughter gets a big send off.

As soon as a baby girl is born in the Comores, her family begins building her a house although it may take as long as twenty years, and their life savings, to complete. The groom reciprocates with money, jewellery and livestock. He is also responsible for the wedding feast lasting several days, with hundreds of friends and relatives invited.
<!--[endif]-->

Traditional dancing is central to celebrations. Slow at first, it grows ever wilder, but is always performed in step. Women, their faces painted with white paste which is considered alluring, perform the energetic wadaha miming island chores - milling grain, sweeping, fetching water - all tasks in store for the new bride.

Images from: www.copix.co.uk

Preview: for publication in 2012

Travels with My Hat is the memoir of an Australian nurse who through skill and determination, switched careers to become an award-winning travel writer and photographer. It is a colourful record of her experiences defined by travel, undertaken on her own initiative, often without official help, and frequently against all odds. “We don’t know who you are,” she was told by the travel editor of the Daily Telegraph on arriving in London in 1974. “To get a name here, you need to write a book.” Which is exactly what she did. Publication of The Gulf States and Oman in 1977 brought a deluge of commissions on the Middle East. Books followed on Jordan and Pakistan. Christine was invited to visit Iraq by the Ba’athist regime of Saddam Hussein. Since visas were not issued to British journalists, she returned home and obtained clearance from the Iraqi Vice-Consul in – of all places –Bondi! Her journeys to Iraq, Ethiopia, Egypt, Yemen, Pakistan and Morocco are rounded off with letters to her mother who had never left Australia. We join Christine avoiding bandits in Yemen, diving in the Red Sea, and dining with Arab sheikhs in a racy account of forty years of travels when only one of a thousand and one problems, was being a young, western woman working in a man’s world. I have occasionally wished I were a boy, she writes in a chapter on Yemen. Not for the penis per se, but for the freedom it allows a man, since reality for a woman traveller is that her sex presents constraints…

Photos by Christine Osborne

www.copix.co.uk

http://travelswithmyhat.com

Experience, travel and

EDIBLE BUSH TOURS IN AUSTRALIA'S RED HOT CENTRE

Witchetty grubs were on the breakfast menu at Kings Canyon, a rugged gash in the George Gill ranges near Alice Springs, in central Australia. It was not my ideal way to start the day, but I managed to swallow one by pretending it was scrambled egg.

Jacinta, my aboriginal guide, next offered me a green plum (reputed to be the world's richest source of vitamin C) and as we continued our morning walk, she plucked other edibles in what appeared to be inhospitable bush. She found desert raisins and rock figs and pointed out the tracks in a dry creek bed made by a goanna, another aboriginal delicacy. Then suddenly she bent down and scrabbled in the sand.

‘Charlie Quink-Quink,’ she showed me a tiny termite in her hand. 'We put him on our breasts to make them bigger.' Was it ground into a paste like a quandong kernel, or crushed and painted on like milkwood, I wanted to know? ‘He bites your nipple and makes it grow,’ she giggled.

The Northern Territory Conservation Commission grades Outback walks as easy (Emu), moderate (Sand Goanna) and tough (Rock Wallaby).

The walk up Kings Canyon, a height of nearly a thousand feet was all Rock Wallaby, I decided on the hot climb, but my efforts were rewarded on reaching the top to find a great view and an oasis of exotic plants, including pre-historic cycad palms. Two backpackers who had also made it to the canyon rim had stripped off and lay stark naked beside a rock pool.

Sneaking away, I missed the track and spent a frightening hour walking round in circles. It’s easy to become lost in the Outback. Rangers advise you carry a litre of water to drink for every hour you walk, and to leave a note on the car windscreen saying where you’ve gone.

It is three hour’s drive from Kings Canyon to Uluru, the huge monolith which sits on the horizon like a giant cow pat. Climbing it is an equal challenge, but its Anangu custodians would prefer you didn‘t. More than 600 millions years old, it is a sacred site and every nook and cranny has a significance in their Dreamtime.

I felt to climb the rock would be like wearing shoes inside a mosque. But another reason was the gusts of hot wind. As I stood at the base, a variety of headgear came whizzing down from tourists climbing above me: Terry-towelling hats and Akubras landed in the bushes. Even a white canvas hat embroidered Wimbledon 2010 floated down like a lob by Venus Williams.

Sightseeing alternatives to scaling Uluru include peddling slowly round it on a bicycle, flying across it by light aircraft, or drifting over it in a hot air balloon. There are also guided walks lead by softly spoken aboriginal guides who point out bush edibles such as those I sampled at Kings Canyon.

The best time to visit Central Australia is between April and September which corresponds with the local winter. $25 entrance fee to the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. Free access to Kings Canyon.

Images from www.copix.co.uk

DELIGHTFUL DRINKS

My list of memorable drinks runs from coffee in a Bedouin tent to pineapple crush under Polynesian palms. While most were genuine thirst quenchers, others were significant for the occasion. Or the surroundings.

I recall a tangy limoonada (fresh lime-juice and 7 Up) in Persepolis after following my guide – an energetic man named Mr. V. Piroozi – up stairways lined with Achaemenian bas-reliefs, under soaring arches into vast audience rooms and along columned halls. Finally I had leant against a huge winged bull – one of the guardians of Persepolis – and declared I was parched.

Loosening his tie, Mr. V. Piroozi agreed it was time for a drink and muttering that it was fortunate it wasn’t Ramazan, he drove at speed to my hotel where I slumped in a chair and listened to ice tinkling in the glass. As the outside temperature passed 45c, Mr. V. Piroozi and I ordered a second, then a third limoonada. Until the hotel finally ran out of limes.

On another warm, if emotional occasion, I discovered horchata while waiting for a train in Spain. A refreshing drink based on almonds, it raised my spirits after my idol - a matador of some repute- announced plans to marry his childhood sweetheart. Devastated, I headed for the station, and to this day I still associate horchata with memories of the bullfight and the hiss of steam, as slowly, interminably or so it seemed at the time, we pulled out of Valencia.

A third memorable drink was on the lush Pacific island of Moorea. I was cycling around the island when my companion – a young Tahitian – had pulled off the road and shinned up a palm. Knocking off a coconut, he slid down again and chopped off the top with his machete and cupping in my hands, I let the sweet fluid flow over my face and into my mouth before diving into the blue lagoon to wash it off.

The interesting aspect about all these drinks is that none of them contained alcohol and leafing through my notes, I see that others are also alcohol-free.

Today even supermarkets stock tropical fruits so why not try mixing your own? All you need is a juice extractor or a blender, and with a little experimentation you can create wonderful beverages for warm summer days. Here is a starter to your own inventions:

ALMOND DRINK

1/2 kilo (1 pound) almonds

500grm (½ pound) sugar (or cup of cane syrup)

1 ½ litres water (warm)

Dash almond essence

Slice almonds and crush in a coffee grinder. Add to a food processor with other ingredients and work until smooth. Strain through a muslin cloth. Chill well and serve in glasses garnished with a cinnamon stick and a rose petal.

c.Christine Osborne

Image: www.copix.co.uk

DO YOU WRITE TO TRAVEL OR TRAVEL TO WRITE?

OR DO YOU WRITE BECAUSE YOU TRAVEL?

There`s been much recent discussion about travel writing and who is a professional travel writer, as opposed to a backpacker and/or a holidaymaker, writing about their travel experience.

It`s genuinely impossible for a guidebook writer to stay in every single hotel, so apart from writing that it overlooks a beach/garden/parking-lot, and that it costs xxx per room, he knows nothing of the reality of actually staying there: whether reception was surly/welcoming, towels changed daily/never, food brilliant/awful etc.

When I was writing travel guides, I made it a point of inspecting every single hotel I mentioned.

My routine was to ask to see a standard room where I always did five things: flush the loo, pump the bed, check the lights, available hanging space and door lock. But whatever I wrote, it could never equate with the experience of someone who had personally stayed there.

Which is why though I may still read a guide-book for other advice, I refer to hotel reviews, written by guests, on internet sites such as Trip Advisor.

It has nothing to do with whether, or not they`re professional travel writers, and all to do with their experience. Clearly, a professional writer may have more knowledge, but in simple terms of what the average person needs/hopes for on a holiday, the opinion of other travellers, is the more valid of the two.

c.Christine Osborne: author guides on Thailand, Malaysia, Seychelles, Morocco, Bali.

Image: Marriott Hotel, Cairo, Egypt

Source: copix.co.uk

SUDANESE WOMEN WHIPPED FOR WEARING TROUSERS

In 1993, I was invited to a WTO conference in Bali, but was refused admission at the door because I was wearing trousers. Not just any old pair of trousers, but a fashionable trouser suit. As a result I did not attend at all, because I had brought no dresses on the long flight from London.

Now I`m appalled to learn that the well known Sudanese journalist Lubna Ahmed al-Hussein is to be flogged for wearing trousers in a restaurant in Khartoum. And that women whipped earlier this month included some from the animist and Christian south where the Muslim north's sharia law does not apply.

Sudan is not high on most lists as a holiday destination, but potential women visitors should take heed. Remember, too, the British teacher Gillian Gibbons, arrested in 2007 for calling a toy bear Muhammad.

Is it any wonder that regimes such as that of dictator Oman al-Bashir give Islam a bad name?

His own punishment should be to be brought forcibly to London to see the shortest of shorts being worn this summer. Perhaps he would suffer a heart attack when the world would have one criminal less.

More power to your arm Ms.al-Hussain. I shall watch your trial with interest and wish you all the best.

c.Christine Osborne: former editor Two Niles/Sudan Airways flight magazine.

Image: Scene in Omdurman, Sudan

Source: www.copix.co.uk

SPICY PRAWNS

EASY-PEASY COOKING

Serves 2-3

18-20 medium-size green prawns

3 large cubes garlic

1 tps sambal paste

Black pepper and salt

Coconut milk

Lemon

Thai fish oil

Chopped tinned tomatoes

Butter

2 teacups Basmati rice

Place the crushed garlic, pepper and sambal in a tablespoon of

butter in a skillet and cook for one minute, shaking all the time.

Throw in the prawns and cook quickly until pink on both sides.

Do not overcook them. Remove to cool.

To the skillet, add a cup of coconut milk, a cup of tinned tomatoes, a splash of fish oil, and a squeeze of fresh lemon. Stir and heat, but do not boil. Add the prawns and stir until hot enough to serve.

Serve with boiled rice.

Garnish: finely chopped coriander leaves.

c.Christine Osborne

Image: The Big Prawn, Ballina, New South Wales

Source: www.copix.co.uk

FUTURE OF TRAVEL PHOTOGRAPHY

Christine Osborne, wonders about the future of travel photography as it grows increasingly difficult to record lifestyles in the developing world.

Camera equipment has always been a prime target among the poor citizens of developing countries and after more than twenty years of travel photography, I was expecting my number to come up. But I was caught off guard when a knife was pressed between my ribs in The Gambia.

I`d just taken some pictures of a fisherman pedalling along the broad Atlantic beach. Until now, it had been an exhilarating walk -blue skies, few hustlers, no tourists - until finally I had the stretch of sand to myself.

Sitting down on a log, I took a soft drink out of my bag which also contained a classic Pentax, veteran of travels to more than fifty countries, a jacket, and my bikini for a final swim.

With the crash of the surf, I didn`t hear the two men creeping up. An arm grabbed my camera-bag, the knife was withdrawn and before I could say `good morning`, the thieves were sprinting off.

Having protected my gear in Nairobi, Havana and Djakarta (all notorious spots for thieving) I stood up dismayed. Not only had I lost my old mate, but they had taken my notebook recording every photo I had taken.

Were the robbers locals, or did they come from the dissident region of the Casamance in southern Senegal? The only certain thing was that apart from my equipment, a watch and around 700 dalasi - about $70 - they were now the wealthiest men in their village.

Like everyone who came to hear of my misfortune, the police wanted to know why I hadn`t taken a guide? But after two weeks of paying a boy to accompany me, I had grown tired of the patter: could he have my address, could I take him back to London and would I marry him (!) that I had decided to spend my final day alone.

It was a lesson well learned, but what can one do, about countries dependent on tourism? I should be able to provide an answer, but in truth I do not know.

What I do know is the problems of the developing world : foreign debt, AIDS, unemployment and the effect of inappropriate tourist behaviour, are making it increasingly difficult for a photographer. In my own case to photograph a text book for an educational publisher.

You`ve only to see the numbers of western women walking hand in hand with local youths to understand a of respect. In Egypt I was propositioned by a driver taking me to Luxor airport at six o`clock in the morning!

And `Go to hell!` a boy had shouted when I no thanks, I didn`t need another guide.

Tourists have also thrown so much money around the markets that it has become impossible to even photograph a basket of peanuts without being asked for baksheesh.

And while the problem reaches a peak in winter-sunshine destinations in Africa, many people in developing countries marketed by Western tour operators, now earn a living exclusively by posing for pictures.

Don`t think the Ifugao women wearing national costume in the Philippines are sitting on a wall above the rice terraces for the sake of nothing to do. They are waiting for a coach to pull up and for tourists to take their pictures, the financial reward being split with the driver.

Pretty children playing flutes in the Andes, the camel-men at the pyramids, fishermen in Zanzibar - what photographer has not been terrorized by water-sellers in Marrakesh who are convinced they`ll appear on a postcard, and want a cut of the profit.

Even my own project - to photograph primary schools in The Gambia - made no difference to some people. `I don`t care what you`re doing. You`re making money out of us!` screamed a woman selling cassava in Banjul central market.

While tourists are wrong to consider it is their divine right to photograph local people, it is sad and worrying that confrontation has reached boiling point.

Underlying the problem is need and supply, but the travel photographer moving quietly about, and in my own case often spending a lot in local restaurants and on guides, is the one who suffers when the coach-door slams and the tourists move on.

Travel insurance enabled me to replace my equipment, but I still lament the loss of my notes. If someone had been able to translate them, the thieves would know that as well as my picture captions, I had addresses of the people who, instead of demanding money, had asked me to send their photo - a schoolboy who had shown me the stone circle near Georgetown, the chief of Juffure, the village made famous by Alex Haley`s novel “Roots", a woman winnowing groundnuts and a group of men who had allowed me to photograph them playing bao under a baobab.

To them I am the photographer who broke her promise and they`ll never experience the thrill of getting their picture in the post.

c.Christine Osborne

Image: Street corner Banjul, Gambja

Source: www.copix.co.uk