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...

EPIC WALK - GREAT READ

SAHARA: by Paula Constant

It is with regret that I have reached the end of SAHARA, the account by Australian writer Paula Constant of her epic walk across the Western Sahara, to Mali and ‘not quite’ Niger where authorities forbade her to continue across this volatile belt of Africa with on-going Tuareg dissent and latterly, an active al-Qaeda cell.

Indeed God knows what might have happened had she continued her journey. While courageous, the plan must be seen as politically naïve considering the events, sometimes tragic, that have befallen travellers in this desperate part of Africa.

SAHARA is long — almost 400 pages, but I found it gripping from beginning to end, and while I hold the above view, I found it a rivetting read.

Though haunted by a failing marriage (the least interesting part of the book) and plagued by difficult guides, perpetual interest in herself — as a lone white woman walking with camels — burrs catching in her clothes and a urinary tract infection about which she is brutally frank—Paula still managed to write a diary after walking an average 25kms a day, from well to desert well.

Her writing is achingly descriptive of a landscape that often has little to describe. And it is never repetitive. We encounter the nomad tea-making ritual on a dozen occasions, but something colourful is always included to make it different to the last one.

Her character comes across as tough, honest and determined, and her writing flows easily from page to page, like the great dunes she crosses with her camels.

I particularly loved the part where on hearing the evocative music of the Saharoui, she and her two guides jump up, stamping out a rhythmic dance on the desert sand. “Madani and I dance with our arms up and out to the sides ..he stamps his feet and cocks his hand over his head…I hold my arms out and turn my hands, my hips roll and twist beneath my melekhva.” ( the sari-like dress worn by Saharoui women).

Paula Constant is one cool head and one helluva writer and I feel her publisher—Bantam— might have done her better in the choice of paper, and a cover that does not buckle up.

And while the writing can stand alone in this powerful account of ‘love, loss and survival’ it begs for pictures of the splendid and maddening people she met en route. Especially her nomad guides— M’Barak, Madani, Mohammed, Ali and Ibrahim.

Bantam 2009— ISBN: 978-1-74166-929-9

Images of the Western Sahara: www.copix.co.uk

Thoughts and Truths on Travel Writing

It is my belief that the days of freelance travel writers doing a quick tour of a place, sponsored by this airline, or that hotel are over. Finished. Dead in the water.

Future travel guides are likely be written by a local since all things considered, sending a travel writer out from London or Sydney, to write about somewhere, thousands of miles away, is curious. Even arrogant. And certainly costly.

Travel writers must accept there are good regional journalists, both local and/or expatriate, who need only follow the publishing brief. And should their writing fall short, it can always be polished by an editor.

A former travel guide writer, I was always conscious that ‘Joe Public’ normally only gets one annual holiday. I therefore made damn sure my advice was correct. In Bali, I once drove 50 miles to check an hotel when the owner didn’t even offer me a drink. And I waited an hour to meet the owner of “Rick’s Café” in Casablanca. Ditto.

Such energies were not always supported by the publisher. As writer, I had first refusal to an update when due to editorial ignorance, I was not always free. Like requiring a revision on a Muslim country during Ramadan. Or a giving a three week deadline to update Malaysia, during the rainy season.

A major UK publisher went ahead, without my knowledge, and reprinted my Seychelles guide, three years after the original printing. The new edition bore my name, but it had not been updated. The reason given was that it was not cost effective…

I had a similar experience with a guide to Oman, a country whose development I’ve followed since 1975. The publisher did a reprint, eight years after the first edition which I only found while browsing in a bookshop. When I called to query what was going on, the editor said they’d done a ‘desk job.’

A desk job! On a country such as Oman where change is like a thunderbolt.

I will say no more, except to suggest that the comments of the paying public on an internet site tend to have more credibility that many a guide-book.

Images: www.copix.co.uk

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.
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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

HIGH COST OF SOLO TRAVEL

When will Single Travellers receive a fair deal?

The market caters for single home-owners, single parents and single dating, but apart from a few operators offering mundane package tours, solo travellers are ignored.

I cannot be alone in finding holidays that appeal, the penalty for my interest being that I must pay for two. Me and myself.

I refer in particular to `flight specials` (with pp in small print) and to hotels charging double room rates, for single occupancy.

"To awaken quite alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world," writes Freya Stark, who frequently travelled alone in areas where few Europeans had left a footprint.

I agree. And perhaps the greatest pleasure of single travel is to be able to plan a day, without having to juggle with what a companion wants to see/do. (There be nothing worse - as an African proverb says, than a `bad` travel companion).

It`s not selfish. Neither is it strange. Any genuine solitary traveller will confirm that travelling alone is the best way to meet local people and to explore the culture that you have come from far to enjoy.

The Victorian women travel writers Isabella Bird, Mary Kingsley, and Marianne North, all travelled alone, each of them proclaiming that companions were a nuisance..

And in those days, there were no sites such as www.journeywoman.com to provide helpful advice for independent feet.

Perhaps `men` have a similar website. My appeal is for all single travellers.

c.Christine Osborne

Image: Woman traveller Indonesia

Source: www.copix.co.uk

KEEP THE FLAG FLYING

The Indian government is to prop up ailing national airline, Air India, whose losses are reported at $50 million a month. Conditions have been laid out that Air India must meet, in order to secure the bail-out money. Or else..

Air India was my preference for the `great flight` from London to Sydney. 9½ hours to Mumbai made an excellent break-point. The service was gracious, and the light vegetarian food, ideal for flying. Then their Australia service was suspended. Alas.

I have subsequently flown on just about every other carrier: Singapore Airlines, Qantas, United/Air New Zealand, British Airways, Gulf Air, JAL, Malaysian, Alitalia, Korean Airlines, Cathay Pacific, Thai, Garuda, Pan Am (that was).

Some good, some not so good, others terrifying.

On one flight to Sydney, I made a list of ALL the carriers I had EVER flown with. The entry was accepted by Guinness World Records but I rather feel, during her term as US Secretary of State, that Condoleezza Rice may have flown on many more. (It was not the frequency, note, but the greatest number of different international airlines).

One of my favourite trips was on Korean Air when the stewardess wheeled a library up and down the plane. Problem was the only book in English was Tolstoy`s War and Peace which would have taken several trips to Sydney and back, via Seoul, to finish.

The longest flight was on Grrr- Garuda - 45 hours - due to a hard landing and a 15 hour delay, in Abu Dhabi.

The most frightening was a BOAC - VC10 when our engines caught fire and we went down the slides and ran for our lives: 20th Sept 1971, in Singapore.

And the outright best? Well, a good flight depends on so many factors - plane, crew, food, check-in, in-flight entertainment, but all things considered, I would say the south-east Asian airlines

come out tops.

c.Christine Osborne

SPOTLIGHT ON MALACCA

Malacca is an engaging old town whose architectural gems include Portuguese, Dutch and British buildings, Chinese temples and Nonya (Straits Chinese) houses. Easily seen on foot.

Best Sights : Dutch town hall and clock tower on Red Square, Cheng Hoon Teng, oldest Chinese temple in Malaysia (1646) Baba Nonya Heritage Museum, a unique insight into the Nonya`s opulent lifestyle in Malaysia, at the turn of the century.

Must Do: take a trip down the Malacca river. Look out for the old Chinese clan buildings and unique Malaccan-style wooden houses with long verandahs and tiled steps.

Local Food: Malay and delicious Nonya cooking, especially Laksa lemak soup.

Best Shopping: antique furniture and clocks on Jalan Hang Jebat.

Location: 90 miles east of Malaysian capital Kuala Lumpur. Express bus services.

c.Christine Osborne author - Essential Malaysia-AA.

Image: Nonya house, Malacca, Malaysia

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

BLUE MOUNTAINS NATIONAL PARK

MY BOY`S BEEN FOUND!

The area where Jamie Neale, the British bushwalker went missing, is the Blue Mountains National Park, a World Heritage Site located in the Great Dividing Range, 70 miles west of Sydney.

The name `Blue Mountains` derives from the blue haze produced by oil exuding from the gum-trees - more than 91 eucalypts have been identified - which cover the area in often impenetrable bush.

Few bushwalkers are aware of the park`s spiritual significance to aborigines of whom the Gundungarra and Darug are the main local tribal groups. Features in the landscape, perceived as merely a rock, or a waterfall, have powerful mythological and ceremonial links with their ancestral Dreamtime.

Weathered rock up-thrusts, known as the Three Sisters, photographed by coach-loads of tourists every day, are in fact Meehni, Wimlah and Gunnedoo from aboriginal legend. To protect them from harm, a witch doctor turned them to stone, but before he could reverse the spell, he was killed in a feud with a tribe lower down the mountain.

Before white men came, aborigines lived in this natural wilderness eating `bush foods` along with killing the odd wallaby, or two. Still today, there are no facilities.

Jamie survived by eating berries and sleeping rough, only a mile away from 3-star restaurants in Katoomba, the town above the Jamieson Valley where he was found. It`s a very spiritual place: note the names.

C.Christine Osborne

Image: The Three Sisters, Katoomba, NSW

Source: www.copix.co.uk