Arrival to Senegal

The Senegalese customs agent looks at me skeptically while I hand him my papers and try my best ‘don’t arrest me for doing nothing’ smile. I’m getting pretty good at that one.

“Where are you staying in Senegal.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m staying with my brother, I don’t know the address.”

One of the most frustrating things about entering or leaving most countries, with the exception of the EU, is that they insist that you put the address of where you’re staying on the customs card. Nine times out of ten I don’t know the address of where I’m staying, so this is an exercise in pleasant fiction for both of us. I put down the name of a prominent hotel, they pretend to read it and care, stamp my card, passport, and we all go on our merry way. This bothered me when I first started out, but now I just take it as pretty standard procedure.

“I’m staying at the Hilton.”

“Dakar does not have a Hilton.”

“Right. Hang on.”

I dig in my bag, looking for the number Jordan gave me to call. I really don’t want to end up in African jail just because I don’t know where we’re staying. My tablet has Jordan’s email open, and I notice a small postscript that I hadn’t read before.

“P.S. Tell the border guards you’re staying at Plage d’Ngor.” I breathe a deep sigh of relief.

“I’m staying at Plage d’Ngor.”

“Very good sir.” The customs agent has startlingly white teeth, and stamps my passport with a grin. “Have a pleasant stay.”

I knew before customs that Senegal was going to be a madhouse. I’ve always been slightly dubious of Africa, for the obvious reasons of plague, war, famine, and general insanity. This was only reinforced for me by the behavior of the rest of the passengers of my airplane as we landed.

Before the plane had even begun to slow down from the descent and landing, people had jumped out of their seats and were pulling things from the overhead bins. This doesn’t sound crazy until you realize that the airplane was literally just in the air seconds ago, and the pilot is hitting the brakes trying to make sure that you don’t tear off the other side of the runway, and maybe the cargo shouldn’t be making that harder by moving around. Also the fact that since we’re all locked in the cabin until the plane stops anyway, all this jumping up and moving around is utterly pointless.

After passing through customs, I managed to retrieve my bag without incident, and waving off all the offers of “assistance” I make my way through the crowd into the cool night air.

My last minute flight into Dakar got us in around 1 am, and I was distinctly not expecting the airport to be filled with people at that hour, but it was packed. Outside was even worse. A low fence separated the outgoing passengers from literally hundreds of cab drivers, family members, and friendly ‘baggage handlers’. I search the crowd of ebony for a white face and finally pick out Jordan’s trademark cowboy hat and Viking beard.

I had planned to be in Israel after Turkey, but if there’s one thing this trip has taught me it is that things don’t always go according to plan, and sometimes the plan changes, whether you want it to or not.

I had tossed around the idea of going to Senegal as part of my trip, and seeing Jordan off on his cross Atlantic trip, (If you don’t know about this, you should check out www.oarnorthwest.com) but had initially dismissed the idea because of the variability of his schedule. There was no guarantee that I’d be there for the actual departure, and I felt that I might be in the way of he and his team getting ready for the row. We’d kept in touch over email, and sometime while I’d been traveling in Turkey, I realized that me not going to Senegal for those reasons was stupid, and that I wanted to see my brother and wish him well on his adventure.

So I decided to go. Two weeks later, on New Years Day, 2013, I found myself in Senegal, an honorary member of OAR Northwest’s support crew.

Jordan and I embraced. The four months since I’d seen him last were the longest we’d spent apart in the four years since I moved up to Washington to go to school. It felt like forever.

“Welcome to Senegal DW. What do you think so far?”

“It’s pretty wild bro. I almost didn’t get in.”

“Yeah, well you haven’t seen anything yet, let’s get out of here.” Grabbing my bags, we headed down the darkened streets of Dakar.   

-Doug

The Underground Cavern

I may have mentioned that Istanbul is old.

It’s also been conquered five or six times by various armies, empires, and warlords. The city been sacked, burned, leveled, rebuilt and then sacked again. Depopulated, populated, and repopulated.

Istanbul is old, venerable, and has secrets.

Centuries ago, a Byzantine emperor ordered that a great water reservoir be built underneath the section of the city that would later be called the Sultanhamet. Today the Sultanhamat is essentially the “old town” of Istanbul. The Aya Sofia, Blue Mosque, and Grand Bazaar are all there, along with the Sultan’s palace.

The water reservoir was built to hold millions of liters of water for daily use and to keep the city supplied with water during a siege. It was constructed with small wells that led from homes directly to the common reservoir. The system worked, and it worked well. People could just throw a bucket down a hole in their house and get fresh, clean water any time of the day.

But then something happened. The city was overrun, a plague, historians aren’t sure. Most of the inhabitants of what would become the Sultahamet died or moved. Other people moved in and thought the holes served another purpose. I have no idea what. But they dumped trash, waste, and sometimes, dead bodies. The great reservoir of Constantinople became Istanbul’s forgotten trash pit.

It was re-discovered in the 20^th century. Someone with way more curiosity than sense strapped themselves into a harness and crawled down one of the holes, wondering what was down there.

I wonder what he thought when he first descended into the cavern I’m currently standing in. Was he afraid? Was he excited? Was he as fascinated by this otherworldly place as I am?

The cavern is like a strange underworld. A walkway allows visitors to walk around the whole structure, in between large columns taken from all over the empire. Archeologists speculate about why there are different types of columns in the reservoir, but I think it was probably some contractor who got lazy and took all the extra columns he had at the warehouse and then pocketed the money meant for the new ones.

But that doesn’t explain the heads.

In a far rear corner, carved into two of the base stones for a pair of columns are Medusa heads. One is upside down, and the other on it’s side. In the yellow, hazy light of the electric bulbs, they seem to stare at you with evil, rage filled eyes, as if they were the guardians of this place who are now impotent to stop the throngs of visitors.

-Doug

John's Tomb

A few days after my run in Hierapolis I find myself in a town called Selcuk, which is North and West of Pammukale, near the Mediterranean Sea.

Selcuk is the modern town that grew up after the ancient city of Ephesus was abandoned. Ephesus used to be a major seaport, established by Alexander the Great around 300 BC. It was quite prosperous for a long time, and was a trade hub for the Greek, Roman, and Byzantine empires, but the climate changed, and the ocean receded away from the city, making it no longer relevant to regional trade.  The city declined and was eventually abandoned.

In the late first century, it is said that the Apostle John, along with Mary, the mother of Christ, made their way to Ephesus and lived there until their deaths. John is supposed to have written Revelations on the hill that overlooks what is now modern Selcuk.

I wander this hill and ponder the Revelation of John. I read it once, a long time ago. It’s a fevered dream of fear and self-righteousness. I cannot imagine writing such things in such a peaceful place.

The Byzantines built a Cathedral here, one of the largest ever built. But fire and earthquakes ravaged it, and now the only thing remaining on this hill are piles of stones. What would have been the fifth largest domed building in the world today, built on the hill where the end of the world was written, and housing the bones of an apostle of Jesus Christ, was destroyed not once, but twice by an act of God.

I wonder what these people did to offend their God so.

The cathedral lies in rubble, with John’s tomb in the middle. It is a chained off section of marble slabs exposed to the elements. It was opened, years ago, but all that was found was dust. While the sun goes down, I park myself on a ruined wall and stare at the tomb, trying to make sense of it.

The ruined church, the dying light, the roped off marble slab; like the Aya Sofia, it gives me a strange feeling of unease. This man was important. Not to me, but to millions, perhaps billions of people worldwide and over the course of time. I’ve been to St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. I’ve seen the glorious tomb that apostle got. It seems a strange juxtaposition to see John’s lonely, empty grave.

I stay until the light drains away.

-Doug

Running Hierapolis

It’s been too long since I’ve run. With that in mind, the morning after my arrival at Pammukale, I lace up my under used running shoes, throw a few Turkish lyre in my pocket, and set off down the highway towards Hierapolis.

Hierapolis is an ancient Roman town set up on a hill above the modern town of Pammukale. Hierapolis’s largest selling point is a series of geothermal springs that flow out of the ground at the top of the hill. These waters, or more specifically, the minerals they contain, have created a strange calcite formation that has earned the name “cotton castle” from the locals.

Having explored the cotton castle yesterday, I set my sights on the actual roman town.

I took the long way round, running up a set of slow rolling hills to the north entrance of the archeological park. Lungs burning, sweat dripping into the cold air, and footsore, I ran up to what I thought was the entrance gate. A guard came out to meet me.

“Did you run from town?” Pammukale is only about three miles away, but he seems impressed.

“Yeah!” sweat is getting into my eyes. “Do you have any water?”

He ducks inside the guard shack and grabs me a disposable cup. I down it, still jogging in place.

“Where are you from?” his English is all right. I wish my Arabic was better. Just like I’ve wished my Hindi, Japanese, Thai, Khmer and Chinese was better. I really need to actually become fluent in a language, and not just know bits and pieces.

“USA.” I say. “Can I get into the park?”

“Here is not entrance.” He points down the road another six hundred meters. “There.”

“Okay! Thanks for the water, you have a nice day!” I take off.

The ticket counter lets me pass and I continue my run through the ancient city, stopping every once in a while to job in place and read the signs. Halfway through I decide this is the best way to see any ancient city. Other tourists, up as early as I am, give me strange looks. I smile back and wave.

I’ve been running for about 45 minutes when I see the ancient stadium. “Hmm… run stadium stairs at a two thousand year old arena?” I mutter to myself. “OF COURSE!”

Hierapolis is awesome.

-Doug

Istanbul

Istanbul, formerly Constantinople, sits at the crossroads between Europe and Asia and has been traded between at least four empires over the past two thousand years. It has served as the capitol of three. Istanbul is venerable, and ancient, and it knows it. Mosques erupt from the seas of buildings on the banks of the Bosporus. Huge, graceful, and beautiful in a strange and exotic way, their domes and minarets serve as reminders of the dominance of Islam in what is nominally a secular nation.

As I make my way between the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque, the haunting call of the noon prayer fills every nook and cranny of me. The sound is at once intoxicating, comforting, and utterly alien to everything I know.

I have to wait a few minutes to get into the Blue Mosque. No non-muslims are welcome during prayer time, which is fair. I console myself by buying shaksalef(?) a hot, porridge-like drink that has been heavily spiced with cinnamon. It is blustery, cold, and the shaksaelf is both delicious and mouth burning.

I’d spent the morning in the Aya Sofia, which was a mildly disturbing experience. If you don’t know anything about the Aya Sofia, it was one of the largest churches in the east until the Byzantine Empire, the last true ancestor of Ceasar’s Rome, was conquered by the Muslim Caliphates. It is one of the largest domed structures in the world, and is so glorious that the Blue Mosque was built in direct response to its grandeur. When captured by the Caliphate the Aya Sofia was converted into a mosque. Its Byzantine mosaics were plastered over and or destroyed, the walls were repainted, and massive discs containing verses from the Qur’an were put up. Minarets were added, and prayer rugs were put down over the marble floors.

It stayed that way until after the First World War. Kamal Attaturk, brutal dictator or visionary, depending on who you ask, took over the ashes of the Ottoman Empire and built modern, secular Turkey. He turned the Aya Sofia into a museum, and allowed archeologists to remove some of the Islamic imagery on the walls, revealing the Byzantine mosaics beneath. The prayer rugs were removed, revealing the marble floors.

Fun fact: the archeologists also found some graffiti on the marble columns that could be traced back to a Viking trade expedition to Constantinople sometime between 1000 and 1200 AD.

The Aya Sofia gives me chills. It’s cold, but that’s not what puts a chill down my spine. It’s the feel of the place. The Aya Sofia feels like a corpse.

It’s hollow, and strange echoes float around the ever-present crowd of tourists. The lighting is muted, putting many things in dark shadow. The windows are small and despite the open space, I feel closed in. The walls peel, revealing the bones of the first religion beneath. The pulpit, used in both religions, is empty and bare, like a grinning skull. The plates with the names of Allah hang in strange juxtaposition with the Byzantine Cross architecture of the structure. Everything about it feels discordant and wrong, somehow. Like a dead madman wearing the skin of his equally mad enemy, both frozen in their last agonies.

I stay as long as I can, but eventually leave because it creeps me out too much.

After noon prayer ends, I fall in line behind the other tourists at the Blue Mosque. Since it was built both directly opposite and in direct reflection of the Aya Sofia, I prepare myself for another surreal experience, but am pleasantly surprised.

The Blue Mosque is busy with believers. I slip my shoes off at the entrance and instantly feel more at ease. Barefoot is better.

The lighting is better here. Mosques have ground floor windows, large ones, that allow light from the outside to spill in and illuminate supplicants. The domes are decorated with strange, symmetrical mosaics. They are beautiful, and oftentimes resemble flowers and other plant life, though if you asked an Islamic scholar he would insist they are just shapes, in order to be sure they avoid the Islamic proscription against depicting anything made by God. Idolatry in this religion is loathed even more than in Christianity.

More than being well lit and beautiful, the mosque feels clean. After the dead stench of the Aya Sofia, it’s like a breath of fresh air in my nostrils. I wander in the strange middle area reserved for tourists, watching the men pray in the front portion and the women in the rear. There is a small room located near the exit where an imam sits surrounded by texts. He is old, bespectacled, and has a magnificent salt and pepper beard. A sign on the door says in four languages “Interested in Islam? Step inside.” I resist the urge to walk in and start a lively discussion.

As beautiful as the Blue Mosque is, I might just be convinced.

I stay a long time, leaning up against a pillar, staring at the roof or the people praying around me. I’ve never been a particularly religious person, but at the same time I’ve always been fascinated by people who are and the things they build and do in the ninety-nine names of God. I’ve been to major holy sites on five continents. I’ve prayed in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, climbed one of the five sacred Daoist Mountains, stood beneath the dome of the Blue Mosque, made offerings at Shinto shrines, meditated where Buddha gave his first sermon, watched Hindus offer their dead to Shiva, and whispered an orison at the Wailing Wall. I’ve seen two thousand year old Confucian scrolls and a sword worn by Muhammed’s generals. I’ve been to the hilltop where Revelations was written and walked the path of Christ’s crucifixion. I’ve rowed war canoes with Native Americans and sang songs asking our ancestors for strength and courage. I’ve seen more tombs, graves, churches, mosques, temples, monuments, relics and trophies than I can count.

All these objects, all these places, all these stories. I’ve been a lot of places and come to one conclusion regarding religion: There is no good or evil, but people make it so. 

-Doug