I have been trying to write this post for two days now, about my recent trip to Somalia and Somaliland (which was, from my perspective, great), and how I’m now reading Nadifa Mohamed’s Orchard of Lost Souls, which is set in Hargeisa in the late 1980s, and how the Horn of Africa is currently experiencing the worst drought in several years and a boat full of Somali refugees was recently fired upon by a helicopter in the Gulf of Aden and and and, but I can’t stitch it together into a coherent narrative. So I’m just going to post some pictures instead.
The view from the tea shack at Conoco Airstrip, where flights land for Garowe as they’ve been upgrading their airport for about nine months now. Garowe was hot and windy and bright, and I very much missed the swank sunglasses I bought last year and then lost in the workings of my seat the one time I was upgraded on Kenya Airways.
I think I have said before that one of my favourite things about Somalia and Somaliland is the paintings you find on shops and hotels and restaurants, usually advertising their wares, but in this case exhorting people to comply with security restrictions. (This was at the City Plaza Hotel in Burao, where we also met – briefly – eminent Somali poet Hadrawi.)
The road between Berbera and Burao starts out flat and dusty, and then suddenly you are coiling up into the Golis Mountains and the temperature drops and you get vistas like this.
The beach at Berbera is beautiful and I wanted to swim but the sea was rough and the sand turns to rock as soon as you’re up to your ankles and women swimming in Somaliland is a vexed issue anyway and as such I was fully covered and had nonetheless sparked consternation and mild alarm among the hotel staff when I walked down to the beach, so I had to content myself with an aggressive paddle.
We left early from Berbera to head back to Hargeisa in time for our flight, and were very surprised to find the road covered in heavy mist rising off the desert and clinging to the base of the mountains.
In early December, Clare and I went to Iceland with a small list of things that we wanted to achieve: 1. Dive Silfra; 2. Visit Jökulsárlón (something that’s been on my List for years); 3. Visit an ice cave (and lick it, though we didn’t know we would want to do the latter until we were actually inside); 4. See the northern lights. The entire trip was a crashing success, with items one through three achieved in good time, as well as achieving various other goals that we didn’t even know we would want to do until we did them (hammer a nail into a canvas at a Yoko Ono exhibition! Eat putrefied shark and then a massive pot of fondue to get rid of the taste! Touch a very fluffy Icelandic horse! See a lunar rainbow!) AND THEN as we were congratulating ourselves for an A+ trip, with the ever-unreliable northern lights as our only failure (and not through want of trying), our flight back to the UK was delayed by just enough time for the sky to clear and the northern lights to announce themselves about half an hour into the flight, whereupon EasyJet dimmed the cabin lights and everyone rushed over to the lefthand side of the plane with their noses pressed to the windows and a temporary but beatific sense of aurora-based camaraderie spread through the plane. ICELAND YOU ARE MAGNIFICENT.
On our last night we pushed the metaphorical boat out and booked into the Silica Hotel near the Blue Lagoon. Silica has its own private lagoon, which is open until midnight, which means that when we arrived, after an epic journey from the southeast of the country and fresh from licking glaciers, at 10pm, we were able to get changed and immerse ourselves immediately. One of my happiest memories of the trip is of floating on an inflatable ring in the milky water under a light rain, reading Sjón’s From the Mouth of the Whale by Kindlelight. (Good, but not as good as The Blue Fox, which is gorgeous.)
The happiest person to ever enter an ice cave
Putrefied shark, which I am mostly glad to never have to try again. Sorry, vikings.
At the end of December, I went to the end of the train line in rural Belgium for a new year’s eve wedding. It was minus five degrees but the air was clear as a bell and we were staying in an old monastery with an enormous fireplace that powered all the heating and hot water. On the morning of the wedding, which was also the final day of the year, I went outside for a wander in nothing but a dress, no coat, cup of coffee in my hands; everything was bright and frozen, as if the whole world was suspended.
We piled into a fleet of cars to drive into France for the wedding ceremony, in a tiny village where the bride’s uncle was the mayor. As soon as we crossed the border the mist rolled in and when we had photos taken in the village green the leaves underfoot were crisp with frost. I read Scott Lynch’s Locke Lamora by fires, on trains, in bed with the lights out.
In late January I went to Sierra Leone for one of the more stressful work weeks of my life. I barely read, but when I did it was Kenji Yoshino’s Covering, which had been recommended to me in Boston late last year. I walked on the beach and drank Star beer with friends and colleagues and lost my lovely replacement Mille Collines cardigan thing, exactly a year from when I lost the first one, also in Freetown. I passed by Paris on my way home, and had a single morning of sight-seeing, which I spent lurking like a goddamn gothic in Montparnasse Cemetery.
In late February I had a work-related delay which meant I had an unexpected piece of dead time and so I looked for places that I could go that a) were one (inexpensive) flight from the UK, b) didn’t require a visa to be arranged in advance, and c) I hadn’t been to before. Thus: six days in Cape Verde, serendipitously arriving for Carnival. I bounced between the islands of Sal, São Vicente and Santo Antão, went for four dives and saw my first shark, hiked down from a volcanic crater through heavy mist, ate plenty of delicious food, watched various Carnival shenanigans, listened to live music, read the entirety of Mira Grant’s Newsflesh books, and got mugged once, but that was a small price to pay.
First night in Santa Maria
Watching the Carnival parade, Mindelo
‘Mandinga’, Mindelo Carnival
Hiking from Cova Crater with Edison
Boats at Ponta do Sol
Looking west from Ponta do Sol
Clouds on the volcano
Mystery white-clad woman on the pier, Santa Maria
(First in an extremely occasional series.)
What to do when you’re feeling out of sorts: get out of doors, yomp through fields, look at green things, distract your tedious internal monologue with beautiful views and how much your legs hurt.
One of the things on my Bucket List*, or Life List, or whatever, is to walk Offa’s Dyke, a 177 mile path that more or less follows the England / Wales border, roughly following the site of some ancient Anglo-Saxon earthworks erected by Offa of Mercia to keep out marauding Celts. Conveniently enough the path goes right past my parents’ house in Monmouth, and so yesterday morning, optimistic and foolishly unprepared, I lit out for Pandy, 16 miles away across the hills. IT WAS GREAT.
Things that happened on my walk:
- I was so poorly prepared that I didn’t even bring water (sure there’ll be a shop on the way, I thought. Reader, there was not a shop on the way), which resulted in me drinking from streams and at one particularly low point, a trough in a field. However it’s now 24 hours later and I don’t appear to have cholera.
- Shortly before halfway, I was feeling particularly delighted by my progress and the swing in my step, whereupon almost instantly I tripped over my own feet and fell right onto my knees in the road, tearing my leggings and skinning and bruising my knees (and also coming within inches of knocking myself out). In some ways this was less than ideal, but it did allow me to stagger the rest of the way being very impressed at my own hardcoreness. (I also did not have the stomach to look at my own wounds, and so WhatsApped a blurry photo of my bleeding knees to Nine (in Malaysia) and Clare (in Mongolia), who had to take me firmly in hand when we were on holiday in Georgia in 2011 and I sliced open my knee on falling over on a bridge made of knives: despite my mildly hysterical insistence that I could slap some savlon and a band-aid on it and it’d be fine, they both insisted that it was not fine and summoned a policeman who summoned an ambulance who summoned a policewoman on a segway (? – I may have confused the order of events there) and I was taken to hospital to VERY BRAVELY have my knee stitched up with no anaesthetic. Anyway Nine and Clare’s very scientific internet diagnosis was that it was probably fine and so I staggered stalwartly on.
- I was menaced by sheep! Normally on walks I am wary of cows, just because they are very large and could probably do you a bit of damage just by leaning on you, even if they didn’t mean it – however this was the first time I had encountered sheep that didn’t flee in fear but instead RAN TOWARDS YOU shouting aggressively. I stood my ground and they stood theirs and I was permitted to pass through their field unmolested, no doubt because they sensed my relatively recent return to vegetarianism but I have no doubt that were I still a carnivore they would have butted me to death.
- I passed a whole load of austerely picturesque country churches, including one in Llanvihangel-Ystern-Llewern that was clearly well-attended for Sunday services, organ music emanating from within, cars parked along the road outside and people roaming the churchyard, leaving flowers on graves. From my heathen citydweller perspective it’s easy to forget that quite a lot of people in this country still take their religion seriously, in a quiet and quotidian way.
- I passed a castle! White Castle in fact, which boasts connection to two of my favourite historical-figures-as-represented-by-literature, i.e. John of Gaunt (thanks to Anya Seton’s Katherine, I imprinted on him at a young age) and Owain Glyndŵr (who features centrally, albeit deadly, in Maggie Stiefvater‘s Raven Cycle). Less heroically, Rudolf Hess apparently used to go and hang out there painting and sketching while awaiting trial.
- Two miles before the end of the route, I suffered a brief sense of humour failure when Offa insisted I get offa** the nice path I was on and instead haul my weary and bleeding and parched body up a massive hill. HOWEVER! At the top of the hill there was the village of Llangattock Lingoed, and in that village there was a very decent pub, and in that very decent pub there was a pint of soda water and lime, which I promptly inhaled, AND ALSO a friend of my aunt’s whom I had probably not seen for about fifteen years, conjured up as if by magic. The universe is very tricksy sometimes. Both the drink and a shouty conversation about Brexit and Trump were sufficiently reviving to make the remaining two miles to Pandy a relative breeze.
*I’ll have you know I had a Bucket List before they were cool (or indeed called Bucket Lists), let alone before they were uncool again.
**Sorry not sorry.
Oh yeah that’s right I have a blog! Hi. It’s already more than halfway through January (aiiiiieeee hoooowwww whhhhyyyyyy) and we’re hurtling towards annihilation what with the Trumpocalypse officially beginning on Friday, but what the hell, here is the complete list of books I read in 2016.
- Hillbilly Elegy, JD Vance, which was an interesting perspective, despite its fairly comprehensive takedown by various American friends of mine, as well as in media outlets – most recently this, in New Republic, which a friend sent me the other day;
- Between the World and Me, Ta-Nehisi Coates, which is beautiful and angry and searing and erudite and basically everyone should read it right now, seriously step away from the internet and sit down and read this book and think about it for several days;
- The View from Flyover Country, Sarah Kendzior, which is ALSO brilliant and introduced me to many, many new perspectives and ideas, which is quite rare for a book (not because I am totes brilliant and original or anything like that – though, obv, I am – but because the reproduction of ideas in the internet age has become so pervasive that it’s not often you stumble across something that really changes the way you look at things), and which contains this jewel of a quote: “When the most you can ask from your society is that it will spare you, you have no society of which to speak” – which I basically want to scribble on fliers and stuff through people’s letterboxes or daub on walls or skywrite for everyone to see;
- Chavs, Owen Jones, because I was like: wait a second, self, how come you’re focusing so much on the US disaster and so little on your own? I read The Establishment a while back, which was great, but this is possible better: angrier, smarter, more incisive, and alarmingly prescient for something that was written in 2011.
Here are the articles I’ve liked (or, in some cases, “liked”) enough to post on FB:
- Please Stop Saying Poor People Did This, Julianne Escobedo Shepherd on Jezebel;
- My Fair Trump, Alexandra Petri for The Washington Post (a much-needed comic voice amidst the trashfire);
- A letter to America from Leslie Knope. Knope 2020!
- Post-Truth Nation, on the Huffington Post;
- The magnificent Sarah Kendzior again (if you read one thing, read this);
- Steve Bannon tells the Hollywood Reporter (via CNN) that “it will be as exciting as the 1930s”, which is totally 100% not sinister at all right?? RIGHT?!?!?
And here are some reading lists or syllabi that I’m working my way through:
- From the New York Times, Six Books to Help Understand Trump’s Win.
- From the Guardian, Inspiration in Dark Times.
- From Savage Minds, Teaching the Disaster, which linked to…
- …Trump Syllabus 2.0, and…
- … The Black Lives Matter Syllabus.
And so. I read and read and read because I don’t know, yet, what else to do; I read because, as absurd as it sounds, the simple act of gathering and synthesising and analysing knowledge is a featherlight counterweight to the post-truth, post-reality political climate in which we’ve found ourselves enmired. I vacillate between thinking that I’m taking this all too seriously, and that I’m not taking it seriously enough – because that’s what it feels like when you’re in a position of privilege, to see these political changes and to think 1930s Germany and then, again, immediately: no, of course it’s not that, not again. It’s a sign of my privilege to believe us better.
I thought I would be writing something different today; I thought I would be in DC to see the first election of a female president. Instead, I was bitterly, crushingly wrong about a popular vote for the third time in the past year and a half, and here we are. Here we are.
I was at a friend’s election party last night, but I left around 11pm when it was becoming clear what the outcome would be. As I waited for two ubers that didn’t show up, I ended up talking to my friend’s concierge, a Zanzibari Muslim, who was clearly only just holding it together, talking about how glad he was that he’d just renewed his passport. Ended up walking the half-hour back to my airbnb, and passed one woman openly sobbing on the street; on my way to the election party I’d shared a lift with another woman having a panic attack. I am trying to keep in mind that, had Hillary won, a large portion of the country would be feeling as terrified as many Americans (and citizens of other countries) are feeling now, but it doesn’t help much.
- Here is HRC’s gracious concession speech.
- Here is a full breakdown of the exit polls by gender, age, race, education, income etc. Makes it pretty clear that despite all the talk of Trump being the candidate of the disenfranchised white working class, it was wealthy white voters who won this: Trump wasn’t an anti-establishment vote; he was a protect-my-privilege vote. (Which is a possible explanation for why the polls got it wrong: I suspect that wealthy white voters are more likely to lie about their support for Trump, because they have some awareness that it’s something they should be ashamed of.) (Also interesting to note the difference in income breakdown among Brexiters, which really was swung by the white working class.)
- Here is a list of organisations that support women, immgrants and the environment, and that oppose bigotry, which will need a whole load of support over the next four years.
- And finally, here is Tennyson’s “Ulysses”, the final lines of which kept running through my head on my walk home last night. Because words matter, poetry matters, curiosity and exploration and beauty matter, and they always will.
…Come, my friends,
‘T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
The book: A Brief History of Seven Killings, Marlon James
The place: squished into a fake leather chair at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
I write this from the comfort of my Glasgow bed, but the wonky photo above was taken somewhere in the mists of Sunday morning, stuck in transit at CDG after my flight was five hours late leaving Freetown and so I missed my Glasgow connection and had to be rerouted via Birmingham, arriving home nine hours later than scheduled. Oof. I don’t know why but my departures from Freetown seem to be particularly fraught with mishaps; to recap:
- When I missed my flight due to poor Sea Coach timing (entirely my own fault) and made the terrible choice to forego the $500 payment for a charter boat to the airport, insisting instead on going by road, which turned out to be a three-hour drive rather than the 90-minute drive I’d believed it to be, via six ebola checkpoints, allowing me to arrive at the airport just in time to see my plane take off and turn around for a disconsolate three-hour drive back to Freetown;
- When I had my passport stolen and needed to rebook a flight in order to get an emergency travel document from the UK High Commission and then on the very morning of the day on which I was intending to get an afternoon flight I was going through the process of getting a replacement passport only to be informed by the clerk in charge that a mysterious flag had appeared on my file, which he was not sufficiently security cleared to access, resulting in him having to call London to get someone who was sufficiently security cleared to open it and read it to him, cue much silent panic on my part that finally my extensive travel to dubious places had caught up with me and I was going to be denied a replacement passport and would have to live in Freetown forever (it was fine; said flag turned out to be, basically this woman sure loses her passport a lot, what an idiot);
- When Brussels Airlines cancelled my flight and didn’t inform me, meaning that I only found out when trying to check in for my flight the day before; Brussels Airlines were then completely uncontactable to multiple friends trying multiple numbers on multiple continents on my behalf, and the only way I could reach them was via bloody Twitter (Twitter! The outrage!) whereupon they told me without apology that yes my flight had been cancelled, no they didn’t know when they would next be running a flight out of Freetown, byeeee! (This was in the aftermath of the terror attacks on Brussels Airport, so I have some sympathy – but also, like, two weeks after, whereas Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi burned down and remained functional, so said sympathy is limited.)
Anyway it was all, as ever, fine in the end, and I made it home (to find myself locked out of my own flat, but let’s draw a veil) and am now enjoying late-autumnal Glasgow, which is always (sometimes) a joy. I don’t know how I’ve got so lucky this year but pretty much every time I’ve been at home the weather has been glorious, and now is no exception.
(Not much to say re. the book other than it is brilliant and dense and fascinating and bloody and richly deserving of the Man Booker.)