Adventures at a School Newspaper Festival
Let me begin by telling you that just the getting to the ‘Festival International des Journaux Lyceens’ here was an adventure. As the nominal advisor of our school’s student newspaper, I found myself crammed into a dilapidated taxi with 5 students and a driver in quarters so claustrophobically close that the NYC Board of Ed would have had me up on charges of something or other in a heartbeat. On the way in, we saw a white TATA bus collide with a colorful car rapide and then were ourselves stopped by a policeman because our driver did not respect another car’s priority in a roundabout.
The driver’s papers were taken and I thought we might have to offer money in order to get them back, but my students warned me against ever trying to do this; if the policeman was not on the take, I could find myself in some hot water. Thankfully, while busy scrutinizing paperwork, the same officer completely missed the fact that we had an illegal number of passengers in the car – we were ’surcharge’, as they say, as cars in Senegal so frequently are.Students, perhaps 200 or so from schools in the Dakar area, gathered to examine different aspects of journalism in smaller workshops. They were accompanied by their teachers, mainly men, some in sport shirts, some in boubous, plus me, so it was a colorful mix.
A TAWDRY Affair?
A Tawdry Affair?
Oscar Wilde once said, “What is bigamy? One wife too many. What is monogamy? The same.”
One of the many things distinguishing me from my Muslim students is our very different views on polygamy. For me, a liberal feminist type educated in the west, the very notion of polygamy is chauvinistic, insulting and degrading to women. My students, socialized differently in a different cultural context, find the idea more pragmatic than offensive. While I have not necessarily revised my own view, I will say that following the Spitzer scandal from afar leads me to wonder whether the polygamous system is not in some way more honest and aboveboard than the usual system of tawdry affairs that prevails in my own, my native land as well as seemingly all Western societies. I am aware that I will be shocking some readers here, but do let us engage in the debate, if only for the sake of exercising the grey cells. I welcome reader comments, particularly as I am very much aware that I am trying to present the views of a culture very foreign to my own, so factual inaccuracies or even my own ethnocentrist assumptions may sneak in unawares.
Role Reversal: Who’s the Terrorist Now?
When I left New York, I had been through red and orange alerts, a time when the Department of Homeland Security was advising me to invest in drinking water, flashlights and canned goods because of the imminent terrorist threat. At the same time, the government had (and still has) the right to investigate every aspect of my personal affairs under the USA Patriot Act, my backpack was subject to search on the subway on my way to work and the authorities could monitor which books I had taken out of the library.
And The Finalists Go To The Judges
The finalists are now in the hands of our judges, Mike the editor from Vagabondish.com, Tim the editor for BraveNewTraveler.com and the previous two contest winners Olivia and Rowena.
This was another very impressive contest with an overwhelming number of submissions, many of which are going to kick off the next contest.
Discovering the Great Wall of China - in Pakistan
Moscow Remembered – A Tourist at Home
When I walk through Union Square on an occasional sunny Saturday in San Francisco, I resent that the people around me might mistake me for a tourist. I make myself abundantly clear – I wear no fanny pack, carry no Macy’s bags and plaster a trademark sneer on my face at all times, punctuating it with an occasional roll of my eyes.
Maybe I go overboard, but seeing every other sneering local in my adopted city reminds me of the confusing, maddening and humbling time when I was, indeed, a tourist in the city of my birth.
Where Thieves and Pimps Run Free
I had been in Amsterdam for a couple of months, and the city’s seedier side just wouldn’t stop trying to mug me. While I must have appeared to be, and no doubt was, something of a soft touch, my aggressors had nevertheless experienced varying degrees of success in their endeavours.
The first enterprising gentleman had come away from our encounter with by far the most success, and in hindsight I can hardly begrudge him the 20 euros he made off with. Despite thinking of myself as a reasonably shrewd customer with plenty of big city experience, I had managed to plant myself in a ridiculously idiotic situation and was, it can be argued, very much asking to be robbed.
The next time it happened I managed to keep hold of my cash and some of my recently diminished self-respect, as both parties to the event left the encounter in much the same circumstances to which they had approached it.
On that occasion I even managed to convince myself that I was something of a hero for having stood my ground and thwarted the criminal mastermind who had confronted me. This small sense of self-worth was quickly deflated however, upon hearing of a friend who, in similar circumstances just a few days later, had not been content to merely stand his ground, but had actively infringed into his would-be-mugger’s, by wielding a nearby brick and chasing him down the street. I resolved that I would emulate this course of action should I find myself in a similar situation again.
I didn’t have to wait long to see my brick-brandishing bluster exposed as the delusion it had always been.
There are an estimated million bicycles in Amsterdam, which with 750,000 inhabitants rather points to the city’s canals’ unofficial status as mass bike graveyards. Regardless, the bike is indeed king and the most common way of getting around. I, however, was temporarily reliant on the city’s transport system, having recently comprehensively wrecked my own bike, and large parts of myself, in an ill-considered drunken attempt to hop a curb.
Agreeing to meet some friends in the centre of town one evening, I hopped on a tram and settled down to daydream about the new pimped out bike I envisioned getting. So wrapped up was I in thoughts of velvet seats and gilded handlebars that I failed to notice that the tram was not in fact heading in the direction I had assumed it was. Eventually coming to my senses half an hour into what should have been a ten minute journey, I realised that we were delving ever deeper into a part of town I had never encountered before.
I got off at the next stop and took stock of my surroundings. They bared very little resemblance to the twinkling canals, gabled town houses and cobbled alleyways of the Amsterdam I was familiar with. Here things were decidedly bleaker. Boarded up shop windows and deserted, shard strewn pavements were bathed in the harsh light of industrial-style street lights, while a lone junkie stumbled past an upturned bin.
I couldn’t immediately see a tram stop that would take me back in the direction I had come. However, reasoning that trams, by their very nature, were dependant on tram tracks for mobility, I concluded that if I hoped to find a stop there were only two likely directions I should choose from. I headed left.
Before I had gone more than 200 yards, I heard a voice behind me bellow something. I decided against bellowing back and hunched my shoulders, quickening my pace.
I hadn’t quickened it enough obviously, as in the next instant, a young man had a firm grip on my forearm and was blocking my path. He spat out something aggressive sounding in Dutch.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Dutch.”
“Your money, now,” he replied, effortlessly changing languages. If there’s one thing to be said for the Dutch mugger, he, like the vast majority of his countrymen, speaks impeccable English.
“I haven’t got anything,” I lied, acutely aware of the hundred euros that had suddenly started burning a hole in my trousers.
“Now brother.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t have anything. I’m a student!”
“Now!”
“But I’m a student, I’m poor!”
All of a sudden, the grip on my arm relaxed. “Hey, I was kidding brother! Relax, it was just a joke!”
These words, coupled with the huge grin now spread across his face, took me aback. Not too much however, as, despite his apparent change of heart, I remained convinced that this gentleman had unquestionably not been kidding, nor had it been just a joke. To be on the safe side, I repeated my mantra again: “I’m a student…. I’m poor….”
Mr Hyde came surging back. “Hey shut the hell up! I said I was joking brother, relax! ”
“Oh. OK. Right. Ha ha! Good one. Anyway…. I’d better get going….”
“Stick around brother, what’s the hurry? I’m waiting for my girlfriend. Keep me company. Here - have some fries.”
He unzipped his jacket and from inside withdrew a plastic container. Opening it, he thrust its steaming, glistening contents towards me.
I hesitated, but, having not yet eaten and eager not to spurn my new friend’s generosity, it was only for a moment. “Have you got any mayo?”
“Sure.” He reached back into his jacket and pulled out some sachets which he proceeded to smother the food with.
“There we go. Now they are real Dutch fries. So you’re student then brother? What are you studying?”
As we shared his dinner, we chatted away. I told him I was studying history at the university in Amsterdam, and took the opportunity to subtly re-emphasise the fact that, as a student, I was naturally terribly poor. He asked about my courses and when I said they were mostly on American history this year he remarked upon just how much he disliked “that crazy Bush guy”. I told him I was from London and he said his cousin had moved there a few years ago, that the family had not heard from him since, and that I should keep my eyes open for him.
Despite the excellent dinner and company, part of me couldn’t quite shake off the suspicion that we were merely killing time until not his girlfriend, but his back-up, arrived. This fear proved unfounded however, as about ten minutes into our conversation the girlfriend did indeed turn up. We were introduced and she was encouraged to partake of the meal, which she politely declined. “More for us!” grinned my new chum.
The fries eventually came to an end and I took this as my cue to say my goodbyes, thanking him for the fries and asking where I might find the nearest tram back into town.
“That way,” came the reply, with a gesture back the way I had come. “Why were you going this way? Were you lost?”
I let out a nervous half-laugh and sheepishly admitted that I had been.
“Careful brother. This is not the place to get lost in. Bad people around here.” I studied him closely but could detect neither the hint of a smile on his face nor a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
I hurried along and soon found the right tram. Meeting up with my friends an hour later than planned, I was quizzed as to just what had taken me so long.
“I stopped for something to eat on the way.” Read more
Europe from my window
Photo: Flickr/Pichote
It came up slowly and smoking the pipe; was waiting ’til the passengers enter, take their places and it would continue the trip without steps which seems to be very irritating for this old but comfortable train.
A Most Unusual Dinner
Photo by author
As the sun settled itself below the snow covered German Alps, two sensations suddenly hit me. Hunger and dread. Hunger because after a full day of exploring the town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen I hadn’t eaten anything more than a pastry, and dread because my only fear in traveling alone is eating alone. I’m at ease traveling through a country where I barely speak the language, but I would almost rather go hungry than to sit in a restaurant by myself.
Notes from a Conseil de Classe
Our second semester recently came to an end, and so all the teachers met to discuss the ‘progress’ of our students. There was a lot of despairing laughter because our graduating class is, well, less than stellar, with 8 out of a class of 18 in danger of failing. I was never very good at math, but even I see these numbers as catastrophic. The picture I have chosen here, artwork done by the kids for this year’s Halloween bash, may well serve as a grim reminder to those kids who, come graduation time, will reap what they have sown. On a brighter note, the Conseil was most helpful to me vocabulary-wise, so let me share my newfound insights with you.
