Monday, April 23, 2007
We went somewhere really nice for the weekend
I and the team went somewhere really super nice for the weekend, within drivable distance of Dakar, a clean, perfectly sandy beach with good swimming water, a lovely house right on the beach, great weather, no nuisance...and I'm not going to tell you where it was. But do enjoy the photos (views from the house).
Monday, April 16, 2007
Music link
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Another patchwork project
My latest collection. Orders can be made through me.
Thinking of giving up journalism for needlework.
Go on, aren't they just the prettiest?
Monday, April 09, 2007
Speedy photo update ending in a perfect Yorkshire Pudding
hi hi,
I've been rather slack. Moving home, elections, two trips to Mauritania, a visit from Dad- blogging got left behind.
Dad and I had a great week together, lots of going out till all hours then two relaxing days in a tree house. Yes, we slept in trees. And here is a view from mine,
followed by dad in his.
Some amusing conversations were had, generally, over Scrabble and other family activities, but my favourite was when the Belgian owner of the hotel puffed along and said, what would an Englishman know about wine?
After that, let me see, what happened next? After that I went back to Mauritania for Songlines magazine to interview the wonderful singer-politician Malouma, who you will be able to read all about in the next issue, plus soon on my website when I load her live private performance of singing the desert blues.
Remember how a while back I wrote that really smug entry about travelling and how staying in nice hotels and taking planes was a cop-out? Well, guess what? I was wrong. Taking planes, dare I say it, is much better than travelling in sept-places, and anyone who's ever done it, will agree. A sept-place, otherwise known as a bush taxi (and also otherwise known as death on four wheels) is a car that in theory takes 7 people, plus the driver. That's how we get around in these parts, unless you have money, or are trying to do jobs where you hope to make at least some small profit, if not break even.
I left Dakar at 5 in the morning on Monday, and 12 hours later I was in Nouakchott. But despite the length and heat, that journey was relatively easy, a friend came to pick me up from the Mauritanian border, and it was the first time in a while I'd done something like take a 7-place, so the novelty factor over-rode the fact that I was in intense physical pain wedged in the back between two very large men.
But two days of tough work in the desert (Nouakchott is a city, but it's really just a largish collection of dwellings that have been plonked in the desert. I also found out that this city that houses one third of the population, has no fresh water. Something went wrong when they were planning Nouakchottout). Yes, two days of working in this place, plus being hassled by the (Senegalese) guy who worked in the guesthouse (no water, scared to put feet on the 'carpet' for fear of contracting caroet bigs, are there such a thing?) to the point that he actually came banging at my door and I had to get my stern-looking Mauritanian friend to take him aside and tell him I was his (my friend's) fiance. Yes, two days of that and I was ready to get back to Dakar.
Oh, except Dakar is 12 hours away, and real life or not, that's 12 very hot, very uncomfortable hours across the Sahara.
Rosso Mauritania, and the beautiful Senegal River at 7am,
and that was the best bit of the day. From then on it got progressively worse, until I arrived in Dakar with a dehydration headache so bad that I had to be laid down in a dark room until I was well enough to put some food in my stomach. Painful, horrible, should have taken the plane.
But I did enjoy myself. Malouma was an absolute inspiration and radio-journalist's dream, and the cloth market was good too.
Mauritania's a fascinating place, I'd recommend it to anyone, if you have your own car.
Now since then I've written my article (Sunday morning 8am start), and celebrated Easter Monday lunch with my favourite English girls and Senegalese boys.
Cecilia and I have been talking about this roast beef and Yorkshire pudding lunch for a week now. On Saturday, after a post-traumatic 7-place stress episode in which I woke up in tears on Saturday morning and neither stopped crying nor got out of my pyjamas all day, I did manage to get down to the shop and buy my joint of beef, and ingredients for the Yorkshire Pud, or Yorkshire Biscuit (for its special crispy texture) as it's known in my family.
After much internet browsing for recipes and roasting times, Cecilia produced the most perfect YP ever
crispy (but not burnt) on the bottom, just the right chewyness, and it went wonderfully with gravy and cabage and great roast potatoes, followed by steam chocolate pudding and Birds Custard (my contribution), much enjoyed by all.
All the English girls agreed that for a few minutes, it was like being back home.
All the Senegalese boys agreed that we are the best cooks ever, and then went back to their ernest discussions about music.
I've been rather slack. Moving home, elections, two trips to Mauritania, a visit from Dad- blogging got left behind.
Dad and I had a great week together, lots of going out till all hours then two relaxing days in a tree house. Yes, we slept in trees. And here is a view from mine,
followed by dad in his.
Some amusing conversations were had, generally, over Scrabble and other family activities, but my favourite was when the Belgian owner of the hotel puffed along and said, what would an Englishman know about wine?
After that, let me see, what happened next? After that I went back to Mauritania for Songlines magazine to interview the wonderful singer-politician Malouma, who you will be able to read all about in the next issue, plus soon on my website when I load her live private performance of singing the desert blues.
Remember how a while back I wrote that really smug entry about travelling and how staying in nice hotels and taking planes was a cop-out? Well, guess what? I was wrong. Taking planes, dare I say it, is much better than travelling in sept-places, and anyone who's ever done it, will agree. A sept-place, otherwise known as a bush taxi (and also otherwise known as death on four wheels) is a car that in theory takes 7 people, plus the driver. That's how we get around in these parts, unless you have money, or are trying to do jobs where you hope to make at least some small profit, if not break even.
I left Dakar at 5 in the morning on Monday, and 12 hours later I was in Nouakchott. But despite the length and heat, that journey was relatively easy, a friend came to pick me up from the Mauritanian border, and it was the first time in a while I'd done something like take a 7-place, so the novelty factor over-rode the fact that I was in intense physical pain wedged in the back between two very large men.
But two days of tough work in the desert (Nouakchott is a city, but it's really just a largish collection of dwellings that have been plonked in the desert. I also found out that this city that houses one third of the population, has no fresh water. Something went wrong when they were planning Nouakchottout). Yes, two days of working in this place, plus being hassled by the (Senegalese) guy who worked in the guesthouse (no water, scared to put feet on the 'carpet' for fear of contracting caroet bigs, are there such a thing?) to the point that he actually came banging at my door and I had to get my stern-looking Mauritanian friend to take him aside and tell him I was his (my friend's) fiance. Yes, two days of that and I was ready to get back to Dakar.
Oh, except Dakar is 12 hours away, and real life or not, that's 12 very hot, very uncomfortable hours across the Sahara.
Rosso Mauritania, and the beautiful Senegal River at 7am,
and that was the best bit of the day. From then on it got progressively worse, until I arrived in Dakar with a dehydration headache so bad that I had to be laid down in a dark room until I was well enough to put some food in my stomach. Painful, horrible, should have taken the plane.
But I did enjoy myself. Malouma was an absolute inspiration and radio-journalist's dream, and the cloth market was good too.
Mauritania's a fascinating place, I'd recommend it to anyone, if you have your own car.
Now since then I've written my article (Sunday morning 8am start), and celebrated Easter Monday lunch with my favourite English girls and Senegalese boys.
Cecilia and I have been talking about this roast beef and Yorkshire pudding lunch for a week now. On Saturday, after a post-traumatic 7-place stress episode in which I woke up in tears on Saturday morning and neither stopped crying nor got out of my pyjamas all day, I did manage to get down to the shop and buy my joint of beef, and ingredients for the Yorkshire Pud, or Yorkshire Biscuit (for its special crispy texture) as it's known in my family.
After much internet browsing for recipes and roasting times, Cecilia produced the most perfect YP ever
crispy (but not burnt) on the bottom, just the right chewyness, and it went wonderfully with gravy and cabage and great roast potatoes, followed by steam chocolate pudding and Birds Custard (my contribution), much enjoyed by all.
All the English girls agreed that for a few minutes, it was like being back home.
All the Senegalese boys agreed that we are the best cooks ever, and then went back to their ernest discussions about music.
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