International Programs Office
Student Success Center
Room 0300
Campus Box 1159
Tel: 618-650-2419
Julie Beall-Marshall
Study Abroad Coordinator
jbeall@siue.edu
Dr. Ronald Schaefer
International Programs Director
rschaef@siue.edu
Ian Williams, SIUE Political Science & French double major, is the first SIUE student to ever receive the prestigious and competitive Benjamin Gilman Scholarship. The Gilman program, sponsored by the U.S. Department of State, Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, offers scholarships for students who have been traditionally underrepresented in education abroad. Ian received a $5000 to defray costs of his Fall 2006 study abroad program in Dakar Sengal. During the Fall/Academic Year 2006-2007 application cycle, the Gilman International Scholarship Program received 1,007 applications for 389 possible awards.For more information on the Gilman Scholarship Program, go to: http://www.iie.org/programs/gilman/index.html
Ian departed for Morocco, North Africa on June 20, 2006 and will make a 2 month trek through Western Sahara, Mauritania, and Mali, before arriving to Dakar, Senegal to begin his semester of study abroad through CIEE. While abroad, Ian will be checking in with SIUE to report on his experiences every 1-2 weeks. Check this site often and follow Ian on his exciting journey.
Entry #1 - June 24, 2006
No Hippies in Casablanca
"Sir, while you do not require a visa to enter Morocco, I must inform you that you will be denied entry if you have a hippie appearance," I was told by the straight faced agent at the American Airlines desk at Lambert Airport. Could this be true? Is the Kingdom of Morocco, a once famed haven for hippies and hash now turning away it's most loyal tourist demographic? Has the country changed so much in the four years since first set foot on her dry, North African soil? I guess I would soon find out.
The flight was harrowing, wracked with delays, airplane malfunctions, and in-flight meals. Yet 36 hours later, I arrived in Casablanca, weary and numb. I spent my first few days in Rabat, the glistening capitol. Modern, sheek, and just plain too cool for school, it could easily be a qaurtier on the outskirts of Paris. I briefly returned to Casablanca to obtain a Mauritanian Visa. I then took to train to Meknes, and on that journey, standing crammed against the window on an overcrowded passenger car, I saw my first sight of true, and shockingly desperate poverty. Much of the housing on the far outskirts of Casablanca consists of shacks with metal roofs which are have large stones piled on them to keep the roofs from flying off from the wind.
Meknes, where I am presently, is a fantastic city. As I walked through the Medina, the old city, I reached complete sensory overload. Narrow streets with vendors selling any kind of fruit and vegetable, fish, meat, shampoo, shoes, clothing, anything one can imagine. I wound my way throughout the alleys, moving from souq to souq, seeing all kinds of industries. A souq is a quarter of a medina which specializes in certain type of industry or trade, such as leather tanning, or textiles. The craftsmanship here is truly remarkable.
Tomorrow, I'm heading to a small mountain village called Azrou. I am enjoying my time in Morocco completely, yet the task of crossing the Sahara looms over me. I'm both excited and daunted by the challenge.
Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca:
Entry #2 - July 2, 2006
Saharwian Medicine
My journey seems to have taken a sudden change of course. Since leaving Azrou, through a happenstance set of circumstances involving several camels and a pretty redhead from Dublin named Eileen, I have found myself for the past couple nights in the company of a nomadic Berber family in the high dunes of the Erg Chebbi in the Sahara desert of southeastern Morocco. They came from a tribe of herders, goats primarily. This was by far one of the most interesting experiences of my life. While in the desert however, I was taken quite ill in my stomach. The wonderful family did everything they could to help me back to health. They gave me several different blends of local desert grasses mixed with tea that were supposed to be good for the stomach. Despite these remedies, I my condition continued to decline.
Feeling the need to take more drastic measures, the family called upon the services of one of their tribal healers. As I laid in misery on the floor of a tent made from camel skin, a middle aged man came inside and signaled for me to lay on my stomach. He reached his hands underneath my abdomen and began pushing upwards. He then put his hands on my back, pinching pieces of my skin and actually lifting my whole upper body of the ground. This hurt immensely. He continued to do this, slowly working his way up to the top of my back. He then began squeezing my left shoulder, gradually applying pressure to my upper left arm. This was all extremely painful, as the force he was applying was great. As he reached my lower arm, he began pinching the web of my left hand between my index and thumb. This went on for about 10 minutes. He then took two turban wraps, tying one of them tightly around my left arm, and the other he balled up and placed against my stomach. About 5 minutes later, he removed the both wraps, and I, exhausted from the whole event, fell fast asleep until the next morning.
As I woke up the next morning to the sounds of crowing roosters and goats, I was feeling much better. Whether this was a result the treatments I received from my amazing hosts, or simply my body's natural healing process is a mystery which remains buried in the deep shifting sands of that beautiful Saharan erg.
Entry #3 - July 17, 2006
The Train
The train from Nouadhibou to Zouerat is something of a legend in Mauritania. An iron-ore train, carrying minerals from the Zouerat mines to the port of Nouadhibou has become the main form of "public transit" between the two cities. It is also famed as the longest train in the world, roughly 2.5 to 3 Km long. This is an account of my experience with the train.
I arrived at the station at what seemed a good time, around noon, the train scheduled to depart at around 2 in the afternoon. However, based on my eavesdropping of surrounding conversations, it became apparent that the was not leaving until much later, around midnight. C'est l'Afrique, I thought to myself, as I often do to console myself when faced with a huge inconvenience. I settled myself in for a long wait.
When word reached the town that the passengers of today's train were in for a 12 hour wait, capitalism took hold and vendors began setting up shop, selling sandwichs and tea. The whole "station" took on the atmosphere of a small market as wheel barrows of fresh fruit began arriving. I became quite an object of interest to my fellow passengers, being pulled from teapot to teapot, answering questions and to satisfy everyone's curiosity about me. While it's considered quite insulting to refuse a cup of tea, I eventually had to, after the massive amounts of sugar began wreaking havoc on my head. I think most people understood. As it became dark, and the vendors packed up and left, people began singing songs, telling stories, and praying.
The train finally arrived around 1 in the morning, an endless stream of cars flying past before the passenger car stopped in front of the crowd. When the train stopped, a stampede ensued, with people pushing and shoving to get on. The surgings of the mob eventually pushed me to the door, and I began to climb up. As I began moving into the train, several men began trying to get off, causing a bottleneck which prevented me from completely ascending the train. I began feeling the people below pulling on me, unstrapping my shoes, and I was eventually pulled off the train in the crazed mayhem. I fell about five feet, hitting the ground hard. Disgusted with what I viewed as a complete breakdown of humanity, I left to go sit in one of the open wagons, where the people who can't afford a ticket sit.
I climbed onboard the wagon, and greeted my fellow passengers. A group of three men took an interest in me, and gave me a spot on their blanket, and of course, the kerosene burners came out, and tea began brewing. From our rather interesting conversation, I learned that my new friends were in fact Polosario militants. Polosarios are a group of people who are fighting Morocco's claim to the Western Sahara. They have been largely pushed out of the Sahara by the Moroccan army, and operate now mostly along the Mauritanian border. While the Moroccan government classifies these people as terrorists, I found them to be warm, friendly, well educated, and extremely generous.
The conditions on board were harsh, with sand constantly blowing. I spent most of the time, turban tied and my raincoat on, laying with my back to the wind with my eyes closed. The night was extremely cold, a climate I had not prepared for.
We finally arrived in Choum, where I said goodbye to my friends and headed into town. I quickly found a bush taxi driver to take me to Atar. After hours of argument amongst the people in the town, the car finally left, crammed full of people. I again shared the front seat with someone, and sat for an extremely uncomfortable 3 hours, with various parts of my body going numb.
So, after nearly 30 hours, I finally arrived in Atar weary and exhausted.
Entry # 4 - July 19, 2006
Sauvage
"C'est Sauvage, n'est-ce pas?" Remy, the French expat living in Nouadhibou said to me, while holding my arm and pointing at the enormous, jagged outcroppings of black rock in the desert surrounding the city. Sauvage. The word rings in my head as I gaze out of the window of the crammed Land Cruiser headed for Atar, hot dust filling my lungs. I struggle to find other adjectives to describe the violently desolate landscape that is northern Mauritania. The heat alone is debilitating, 130 degrees in the sun. Sauvage. Savage.
As the Land Cruiser neared Atar, we began to climb to the top of an enormous flat topped mountain range. I gazed down in awe of the dry cavernous valley we had spent the last 4 hours slugging through. As we reached the top, sand became rock, and you could feel the heat rising. It was then I felt the full fury of this deadly land. The Rifi, the hot winds from the south, began blowing. I have never felt anything like them before. The only thing I can relate them to is the feeling you get when you open an oven, and the hot air pours out into your face, except the Rifi blows at 60 mph. I tightened my turban around my face and drove on.
The Rifi died down by the time we reached Atar. I settled myself at a campsite owned by a wonderful Dutch couple named Just and Cora. They helped out immensely in Atar and in Nouakchott. I spent the majority of time in Atar resting, eating 3 meals a day, and playing chess, a welcome change of pace after my charge through the Sahara.
I am currently, and have been for the past 7 days, residing Nouakchott, the capitol of Mauritania. This city is large, but only by Mauritanian standards. I have conducting a lot of business here, getting visas and the like. There isn't much to do here in Nouakchott, so I have been quite anxious to leave. I should have all my affairs in order by Friday.
Nouakchott is unusual. It was built in 1960, soon after Mauritania gained its independence, out of a simple need to have a large city in the country. It was built for only 200,000 people, but now has nearly 800,000.* Similar the world as a whole, the wealth is concentrated on the northern part of town, while the south side eventually turns into sprawling shanties. Garbage is a problem here, with much of the open spaces on the south side filled with rotting refuse. It rained here several days ago, and many of the streets were flooded for days. As the humidity rose, so did the mosquito population, causing a small spike in malaria. Despite these problems, the economy here is growing rapidly, as in the past year, oil and natural gas have been discovered in large quantities, the copper mines have been reopened, and the country is reclaiming control of its rich fishing waters. Along with the democratic reforms being undertaken, hopes are high in Mauritania.
*from Lonely Planet West Africa
View Ian's photo album from Mauritania
Entry # 5 - July 29, 2006
Treachery, Faith, and the Road of Hope
While waiting hours in the hot sun for the bush taxi, sitting amongst the piles of garbage which characterize the south side of Nouakchott, I was happy. Finally, I was leaving Nouakchott, and beginning my journey to Mali. After the arrangements were finally made, the porters began loading the cargo onto the Land Cruiser which would carry me, along with 10 other people and two goats, the 18 hours to the town of Kiffa, along the Route d'Espoir (the Road of Hope) in south eastern Mauritania. Soon, the pile of cargo, mostly crates of vegetables with my backpack crushed underneath, was larger than the car itself. It really was quite a sight. Unfortunately for the goats, they were put into burlap sacks with their heads sticking out and tied to the sides of the roof rack. One of them was suspended right above my door, a fact that will become important later in this journey.
At around 10:00 pm, we set off. For a change, the seating arrangements, at least for me, were more comfortable than usual. I was in the middle seat, next to two very old, very veiled ladies who seemed to have an aversion to touching me in anyway, which gave me a little more elbow room. Driving throughout the night, you don't see much, but the fresh night air and the surreal tranquility of the villages you stop at make up for it. A little before 5 am, we stopped to allow the driver to sleep in a beautiful spot, surrounded on all sides by large rocks, still silhouetted by the moonlight. It was easy to imagine being surrounded by sleeping giants, trying to stay silent as not to wake them.
Later that morning, bleary from a sleepless night, we stopped at a filling station. I opened my door and swung my legs out for a stretch. I began feeling a warm liquid trickling onto my head It can't be raining, I thought to myself as I suddenly realized that the goat was pissing on my head ! Awww! Disgusting! Fortunately, goat urine has almost no odor. One learns all kinds of things in Mauritania.
Arriving in Kiffa was an interesting experience. Kiffa hardly gets any western visitors, making my arrival something akin to the final scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. After settling into my "hotel" (a story unto itself), I took a brief tour of the village, with the kids of the town pretending not to be following me and watching my every move. Kiffa is actually a major crossroads, and thus an important center of trade, making exploring the large market very interesting. A few people asked me if I was a part of something called "World Vision". If someone back home could tell what this is, I would appreciate it. I went to bed early in order to get an early start on the next leg of my journey to Mali, the villages of Ayoun el Atrous, where I said goodbye to Mauritania, and Nioro, where I was lovingly welcomed to Mali with open arms.
Entry #6 - August 28, 2006
Mali is Love
Upon arriving in Ayoun el Atrous is southern Mauritania, I was amazed at the stark contrast it had with neighboring Kiffa. Instead of dark and gritty, it is set in a dramatic landscape of enormous red rocks that jut out of the ground. After climbing out of the bush taxi, I quickly checked into a large auberge on the outskirts of the town. I was the only guest there, and by the looks I received when I walked in, I was the first guest they had had in a while. The place had a appealing calm to it. I had dinner by myself at the auberge, at a single, small table in the middle of the large, sand courtyard.
I had planned to spend another day in Ayoun, however, my plans, as so often happens in Africa, were accelerated by a chance turn of events. I took a walk into town, and had planned to take a hike amongst the outcroppings of rock on the other side of the village, when a car pulled up, and man asked me if I was going to Mali. I responded affirmatively and he explained to me that he was on his way to the border, and could take me all the way to Nioro for a mere 1000 Ouguiya (about $4), and we were leaving now. The price was right, and seeing that things in Africa rarely happen "now", I thought it best to take advantage of the situation.
Crossing the border was a piece of cake. The Mauritanian customs office consisted of a shack in the middle of nowhere, where I had my passport stamped by some gentlemen laying on a rug. After chatting with them over 3 or 4 cups of tea, I had cleared "customs", and they sent me on my way. There wasn't even a Malian border post, I had to voluntarily go the police station in Nioro to get my passport stamped, and it didn't seem to matter to them that my visa wasn't actually valid for another 5 days.
Arriving in Nioro was amazing. This was my first taste of Mali, and the contrast to Mauritania was overwhelming. Mauritania's stoic and quiet calm was replaced by lively music blaring from every shop, people smiling and saying hello. I had dinner with the guys who ran my little hotel, where I received a lesson on how to ball up the rice with my hand, and roll it into my mouth. It's not as easy as it sounds, and I made quite a mess to the amusement of my hosts. In the evening there was a live concert down the road (it was actually the son of Amadou, from Amadou et Mariam, for those who know Malian music), and the whole town rocked until well into the morning.
Not thinking that the little border town of Nioro was going to be as fun as it was, I had bought a bus ticket to Bamako shortly after I arrived. I would have liked to have stayed longer, but it was not in the cards. However, the long, 22 hour road to Bamako would soon turn into the most arduous, and one of the most fascinating parts of this journey.
I left Nioro in the late morning. I waited for quite some time for the transport to arrive, and when it finally did, I was utterly astounded. The vehicle, which was supposed to take me and 30 others from Nioro to Bamako was by far and away the most dilapidated vehicle I had ever seen. It was a white mini bus of sorts, with a large sliding door that fell of when it was opened, very thin tires, completely inappropriate for the terrain we were to face, and in general looked like it had just finished a tour of duty in the battle of Stalingrad. Nonetheless, we all piled into the beast, sat down on the splintered, wooden seats and watched in amusement while they spent the next 10 minutes reattaching the door. It also soon became apparent that the driver's side door required a special "technique" to open, a skill that only one person on the bus seemed to have, so whenever the driver needed to get out throughout the journey, this guy had to climb out through a window and open the door for the driver.
Between the town of Nioro in Northern Mali, to the lights of Bamako, the Malian capitol, lay 400 kilometers of the most beautiful Sahel, a semi-desert landscape that burdens the transition between the Sahara of Mauritania and Niger, and the Savannah of Burkina Faso and Nigeria. The road is rough, only about 80 km of the road is paved, and much of that is so poorly maintained that it is better to drive on the dirt track beside the potholed pavement. The soil is a thick clay, with an orange tint that contrasts dramatically with the green foliage.
When we set off, it soon became apparent that our progress would be slow. Painfully slow in fact. As the battered minibus negotiated the rough Malian roads, the other passengers and I were being jostled around like rocks in a tumbler. You could hear the squeaking and grinding of the rusted bolts straining to keep the chasse together. However, one of the main reasons the journey was taking so long is whenever we saw someone on the side of the road, be they with a vehicle or otherwise, we would stop, and inquire as to whether or not they needed aid. On the occasions that they did need help, we did everything in our power, no matter how inconvenient for us, to aid our fellow travelers. This included taking on many more passengers than reasonable comfort allowed, and even attaching 6 goats to the side of the minibus that were "desperately needed" in Bamako. Most of the time however, no aid was required, but that didn't deter us from staying on the side of the road with them, chatting idly and sharing tea, sometimes for as long as an hour.
As you can imagine, I was getting immensely frustrated by our lack of progress. The road was long and hard enough as it was without all of these distractions digressions. The trip that was quoted to me as taking 12 hours was on hour 16, and we were still very far away. To the Malians on the bus, however, this seemed business as usual.
After we stopped again, one of my fellow passengers let out a sigh, and said La vie d'un Muselman, the life of a Muslim. It was then I began to understand the motivations for the Samaritans ways of my fellow passengers. I remembered that one of the five pillars of Islam is to help your fellow man, and realized that I was experiencing first hand just what that meant. I couldn't help but draw comparisons to my own culture, and ask myself if it were up to me, would I stop? It was a difficult question to answer, but I had to admit to myself that if all this was happening in the United States, I probably would not stop, and for that matter, I doubt most other Americans would either.
Perhaps the most interesting stop we made was when we found a a large coach bus broken down on the side of the road. All the passengers had gone, and the bus had been jacked up in the rear, and the entire rear axle, a massive piece which must have weighed over 1000 pounds, had been removed. There were 5 guys who, by the number of blackened fire pits, had been working on this bus for several days, miles from any town. By this time I was utterly exhausted, on hour 19 of the journey, and covered from head to toe in thick orange dirt. I sat down in the grass, and watched from a distance as our driver spoke with the men. Our driver agreed to take the men with us to Bamako, which was no surprise. What was a surprise was when it became apparent that the driver had also agreed to load the massive axle onto the roof of our battered mini bus. Through the eyes of an exhausted apathy and perverse curiosity, I watched as they constructed what can only be described as an engineering marvel. Using a length of thick rope, the net used to keep our cargo on the roof, and a sturdy branch on a Baobab tree, they built a sort of pulley system, with which they hoisted this massive bus axle onto the roof of the bus, with everything else on the roof (including my backpack) crushed beneath. It was remarkable.
The minibus was now well overweight, and practically scraping the dirt road as we crept along like a tank in the mud. Through some serious mediation I eventually was able to numb my mind to my beyond uncomfortable and dismal situation, and at nearly 6 in the morning the next day, we arrived in Bamako. We covered about 400 kilometers over the course of 21 hours, averaging 19 Km an hour, which is equal to a little under 12 MPH.
When I arrived at L'Hotel les Cedres on the north side of town, I was so filthy that I actually had to prove to the hotel manager that I had a clean set of clothes before he would let me check in. I took a shower, fell asleep around 10 am, and didn't wake up until the next morning.
Not a day goes by when I do not look back on this leg of my journey with utter admiration for my fellow travelers in that battered old bus, who taught me so much about what true compassion is, and for making me answer the question of whether or not I would have stopped.
Entry #8
Sunday in Bamako
I woke up in my hotel room in Bamako, the first real hotel I had stayed in for nearly a month, quite refreshed. I took a warm shower, submitted my filthy clothes to the hotel laundry service, (which aside from a few sink jobs, had yet to be really washed since my arrival in Africa.) and at noon, went to the Lebanese hotel bar and had a Falafel sandwich and a cold, sweaty beer. I spent the rest of the day slowly exploring the city of Bamako.
The northern end of Bamako, north of the railroad tracks, is a pleasant place. It is shaded with tall, thick trees, with the sidewalks ornamented with stands selling the most delicious fruit. Mangos from Guinea, bananas from the Cote d'Ivoire, apples and pears to boot. Needless to say, my vitamin deficient self went a little crazy. As I crossed the railroad tracks and headed into the heart of the city, I began to see where Bamako gets it's reputation for being quite bustling and gritty. Walking down Blvd du Peuple into the Grand Marche, I soon found myself standing completely grid locked in a massive crowd of people, shoulder to shoulder, back to chest, surging down the street, with mopeds trying to weave in and out amongst the throng. Cars in Bamako, as in Mali as a whole, are few and far between. This is a land of motorcycles, and flocks buzz down every street constantly, making avoiding getting hit by them something of a sport. Feeling that I was either going to trampled or pick pocketed, I forced my way out in to an alley way, and then made my way out of the market to a less intense area of downtown.
After feeling a little tuckered out, I went to my hotel for a little siesta. I got my clothes back, which seemed to smell worse than they did when I gave them to be washed. I spent another day relaxing in Bamako, before hopping a bus to Segou, a big, sleepy river city, which would be my gateway to the mighty Niger river, and to another world.
Entry #9
The Current of Life - Part 1
It was raining hard when I arrived in Segou, a big town on the banks of the Niger River and the former French administrative center for the massive Niger river irrigation scheme. Its wide, dirt roads began flooding with water. I got off the bus from Bamako, and trudged ankle deep through the muddy water to the hostel on the other side of town, opposite a new radio station. I checked in, cleaned off, and waited out the rest of the storm.
After the rain stopped several hours later, I emerged and noticed that there had formed a huge pool of water in front of the hostel, at least 70 feet in diameter. A delightful scene developed as children came from all over the town to play in the reservoir. I walked down to the river bank, admiring the beautiful colonial architecture that still stands in Segou. Upon arriving at the heart of the town, I noted all the staple characteristics of a Malian town: the market, packed with fish from the river, millet and rice, the artisans selling their jewelry, cloth and pottery. I navigated down the muddy paths, and caught my first view of the river. It was beautiful, wide and majestic, an emerald green with a slow but powerful current. The legendary Niger. The river which Mungo Park first sailed up to the unknown captivated my imagination. I spent many hours that day sitting along the banks, gazing out, watching the pirogues sail back and forth while laborers toiled at drudging up sand from the bottom of the river. I began feeling restless. With the mighty Niger calling me, I decided to set about on an expedition up the river.
I woke up early the next morning and went back to the river. I walked several miles along the banks, talking to people; fisherman, pirogue builders, navigators. I struck a good conversation with a fisherman (with his son acting as translator), and I expressed to him my desire to sail up the river by pirogue, and he immediately offered his services. He told me he could take up the river to a village named Massina, from where I could secure overland transport to Djenne. It would take 3 days, spending two nights on the river. I enthusiastically accepted his offer. I would obviously finance the endeavor, and he would get our food and provisions, and we would leave the next morning. I could hardly contain my excitement at the prospect at such an adventure, and I hardly could sleep that night.
Early the next morning, before dawn, I woke up, packed my things and met Amandou and his son at the river. We loaded the small pirogue (see photo on the right) with our gear, and just as the morning light began beaming over the horizon, we pushed off the banks, the sound of the sand scraping against the wooden hull breaking the silent stillness of the dawn. We began slowly paddling up the river, with the town of Segou passing on our right side. As the sun rose, you could the town and surrounding villages come to life, people bathing in the river, women washing clothes, and the sand dredgers starting their days work.
By the afternoon, we had reached the dam at Markala. It was necessary to circumvent this dam by taking the Markala irrigation canal around the village and then pass through the lock which regulated the canal. This turned into a huge endeavor, for within the canal we encountered kilometer after kilometer of thick water plants that brought our progress to a near standstill. We pushed and pulled our little pirogue through inch by inch. It was dark by the time we reached the lock and the main village at Markala, so we called it a day, beached the pirogue and set up camp just outside the village near the lock. Once it became news that a "toubab" (white man) had rolled into town, the villagers began flocking over to us, and I spent most of the evening getting to know the people of Markala. I was even honored to get an audience will the village chief, thanking him for letting us stay in the village, and giving him a gift of Kola nuts. My crew and I went to bed late, and weary. We decided to leave at dawn, as the canal had slowed us and we needed to make up some ground the next day.
To be continued..
