African-American

I try to blend in by wearing the latest African fashions. My assistant had to cut a wider neck hole so my bulbous melon would fit through. It was very humiliating.

I have been living in Africa for over half my life and I think I am now turning African-American. My bloodline is all American – a rich combination of North and Central which will ensure I grow up to be both practical and passionate. But now the air I breathe, the food I eat (almost constantly), the dirt I roll in, the music I hear, and much of my adoring public are all African. I must admit I have never fully understood the term “African-American,” which is nothing more than two distant spots on a map bound together by a hyphen. Even though it makes no mention of the color spectrum, it seems to denote skin pigmentation. I find this curious and I wonder if I share similar experiences with others who use this label.

For example, now I eat African-style with my hands whereas before, I recall sipping genteelly from a boring, sterilized bottle. Africans are famous hand-to-mouthers, literally. Some of the favorite dishes are yasa poulet and tiebdienne. The first is chicken, the second is fish. They both are mixed with rice and share a similar tomato-onion sauce. It is a wet, messy meal and Senegalese grab it with their right hands, squeeze it into a sticky ball and pop it in their mouths. I find this utterly squishy and entirely delightful. I’ll never go back to the bottle again.

I wonder also how many people can say they have experienced the unique African plague of mango worms. These are not actually worms but big, disgusting larvae from some kind of fly or other menacing bug. They grow from eggs that hatch right under your skin. This is a joy usually reserved for pets and my poor Gazelle gets them regularly. But I was lucky enough to experience first-hand one of the little suckers holed up in my own head in an apparent attempt to ride to fame on my coattails. He grew silently but painfully right in the back of my skull and we shared many adventures together until I awoke from a nap one day to find he had left me just as silently as he came. It turns out my assistant smothered the red welt with Vaseline so the poor larvae had to come up for air and then when he did, my assistant pulled him out with tweezers. Sometimes life can be difficult here for adventure travelers, but even more so for mango worms who think they can live a comfortable life stowed away in a celebrity’s noodle.

You can see that I have also abandoned the American and possibly Australian transportation method of riding up front like a baby kangaroo. Now I ride African-style in the back of the bus where all the cool kids sit. I kick back in my comfy wrap and let my assistant catch all the bugs in her teeth for a change.

I don’t know, maybe being African-American is more complicated than all that. Besides, there will probably be too much explaining to do if I check that box on my college application forms. All I know is I am grateful for having the opportunity to sample the best and worst life has to offer on both continents, no matter what my skin color. And I may never be a master of race relations, but at least I don’t have one of these in my parlor.

Until next time, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Paris

Paris, France – The primary purpose of this trip was to uncover evidence of the widely held American suspicion that the French dislike us and that they are snooty. Naturally, my first stop was the Arc de Triomphe, which was conveniently located just a few blocks from my tiny apartment. A curious monument in a country that has lost every war it has ever been in, not to mention the World Cup. I believe the monolith is really meant to symbolize the French triumph over letting it bother them. Despite being perpetually in second place, the air of superiority that they have managed to maintain is impressive and indeed monumental.

But I was pleasantly surprised to find that the French are delightful hosts to visiting dignitaries, even Americans. My assistants ordered every baguette and bottle of wine in their broken, accented French and every time the response was the same -- politeness served up in flawless English. And the French clearly agree with tourists of all nationalities on the long-held belief that my adorableness transcends cultures. From the banks of the Seine to the heights of Montmarte, people from all walks stopped to pay their respects and make faces as they passed me. The apex of attention came as I snaked my way through the line to ascend the Eiffel Tower surrounded by a Japanese tour group. As I repeatedly passed their ranks, I proved to be a much bigger draw than the tower itself. Crazy elderly women made undignified tongue gestures and otherwise cool adolescent boys were wooed by my cuteness. Like a pin-up girl in a war zone, I entertained the troops and posed for multiple pictures.

Some mistakenly believe the root of French pride stems from their vast achievements in painting, sculpture, theater, philosophy, architecture, fashion, dance, cuisine, and political thought. I guess these things have a certain importance, but their true contribution lies in the shopping district of Paris. At one point, I was so overcome with emotion by a sale bin of shoes that I climbed inside and enshrouded myself in the glory of French culture.

After debating de Tocqueville's philosophy and comparing theories on Sartre with some locals at a corner cafe, I began to come to the conclusion that the French have been getting a bad rap. While it is probably true that they will not be convicted of smothering Americans with love, they certainly appreciate beauty and class when they see it and they saw it everywhere I went. As if that weren't enough, they've built one of the most photographic capitals in the world. I'm including some of my favorite pictures below for my loyal fans.

My American-made carriage was among the largest vehicles on the streets of Paris. There, even the ambulances are diminutive. I am not sure to what type of "urgence medicale" this little car is designed to respond but I suspect it is exclusively for midgets who fall into trash compactors – an uncommon, albeit regrettable occurrence.

This car really cracks me up.

Caught up in the allure of all things Parisian, I enjoyed a picnic of baguette and cheese at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. I’m a teetotaler myself but I allowed my assistants to taste a sip of wine, which turned out to be a habit they were reluctant to break.

Every girl should have a stroll down the Champs Elysées on her birthday at least once in her life.

Sometimes it rains unexpectedly in Paris.

Paris is still a city of romance. My natural magnetism brought out the handsome and swarthy older men, but even though I walk around without pants, I am a shy girl when it comes to love.

For reasons I was not able to discover, the French are very clear about where they want your weiner dog to walk.

Until next time, peace to all. Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

The Archipelago

Bijagos Archipelago, Guinea-Bissau – After being on Carache Island, I think I can reasonably appropriate the title “Baby Time Traveler,” for to visit this island is to step back about a thousand years. I saw nothing relating to any modern convenience – no phones, no lights, no motorcars, not a single luxury. Like Robinson Crusoe, it’s primitive as can be. In this world where one can always count on Coca-Cola to be the bridge between cultures and worlds, not even so much as a red “Enjoy!” sign was to be found (although my assistant did meet a girl named Fanta). Instead, what I found was a chalk board nailed to a tree (school), a mat of reeds in a dark mud hut (baby delivery room), and pigs roaming the paths (rush hour). We visited that particular island because my assistant, through his side job, plans to donate funds to build a much-needed health clinic.











At every turn we got the feeling we were in some African version of Colonial Williamsburg, where people don costumes and put on little shows as a living history lesson, except I’m pretty sure that for them it was just another day at the office. Women in grass skirts pounded seeds with an oversized mortar and pestle to make palm oil. Kids made crude devices out of palm fronds to climb tree trunks so they could throw down mangoes. Men re-roofed a house with thatch gathered and dried from the surrounding woods. And cows owned the pristine white sand beaches that tourists would have ruled had this island been anywhere other than Guinea-Bissau.

Bubaque Island was quite a bit more developed so I checked my entourage into a local hotel. When I say developed, I don't mean exactly that the room had air conditioning, constant electricity or a door on the bathroom, but my assistant was at least able to stave off death by dehydration with some cold beer. As you can see from the photo below, even the termites have more spacious accomodations than travelers.

These buga-bugas are everywhere in Guinea-Bissau.

The island is large and the town small, so I chartered a boat to the far end where I basked on beautiful, expansive Bruce Beach. It was so remote that some of the more daring members of the crew decided to bathe au natural. Normally, decency and rolls of fat would prevent me from bearing my bottom and giving the paparazzi a chance at their next Enquirer cover, but I wanted to get rid of my tan lines. My assistants may think public nudity is cute now, but let's see how they feel about it when I am in high school.

In Guinea-Bissau you make due with what you have.

It is true that the Bissau-Guineans don't have much, but they do have class. They never beg or try to cheat the visiting glitterati and they don't hustle relentlessly like the more tourist-savvy Senegalese and Gambians. Perhaps most importantly, they know how to honor internationally recognized cuteness. For never letting me be chauffered down a dirt path without a wave, a smile or an enthusiastic shout out to the white boy, they will always have my heart.

Kids put on an impromptu dance performance in honor of my august arrival on Bubaque.

Until next time, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

White Boy!

Bissau, Guinea-Bissau -- For those of you who have been to Guinea-Bissau, you understand the importance of flexibility. You, like I, probably have learned that there is reason for the greatest pessimism in the execution of your plans. You travelers to the land of cashews have no doubt experienced the folly of feeling reassured when someone tells you while waiting to cross the Cacheu River that the ferry will soon be fixed. And if you are from what we oddly call “The West” of our spherical planet, you felt the pangs of inconvenience and mild disgust as you were expected to sit and wait for undetermined amounts of time with no Starbucks in sight. But for the few of you who still have not yet been to Guinea-Bissau, I will let you in on the secret – once your eyes become accustomed under the dark blanket of pessimism, you will find a tiny flashlight under there which will help you see that things generally work out, just not the way you expected them to. Who knows, you might even have a richer experience.

When I realized the ferry would probably never be fixed, I made an executive decision to leave the car parked up the road at a Catholic mission and cross via dugout canoe. To the locals, I suspect my entourage looked like visiting dignitaries from another universe. Rolling suitcases, front-loading baby-carriers, diaper bags and backpacks all piled into the canoe designed to hold 25 people but with probably twice that many aboard. It was in the moment we boarded that shaky craft that the rainy season decided to start. Not a drop had moistened Guinea-Bissau in the previous eight months and we were so blessed to feel the first drops of the year.

My assistant and I snuck in to explore the former U.S. Ambassador's residence in Bissau, unused since the U.S. closed its embassy during the civil war.

While my assistants mumbled about mundane things like pneumonia and overcrowded boats that run aground, I was busy greeting new fans. Everywhere I went people called out to me in Portuguese Creole “Menino Branco!” which I thought meant “adorable leader” but found out later more closely translates to “white boy.” Two public buses and one hour later we finally pulled into the capital, Bissau. I had envisioned my arrival in that great world capital like a queen mounted upon her graceful white Landcruiser steed, but my carriage ended up being more like a humble sway-backed ass, lame and blind in one eye.

Where the "l"...?

My first night in Bissau was spent in a hotel without air conditioning, hot water, or a crib. Cockroaches tiptoed over the breakfast buffet and the exterior still has bullet holes from the civil war in 1998. Not only did the management lack the basic necessities of a hotel, they didn’t even have the letters to spell “hotel.” I suspect the “l” in their sign is nothing more than an up-turned, ill-employed “r.” Being in a place like that, it is easy to feel put out for the conveniences that are lacking. I’m glad my next stop was Casa Emanuel, an orphanage run by two fellow Costa Rican women to remind me of how much I have.

My assistant and I spent the morning with the kids of Casa Emanuel, touring their dorms and school where I consulted with colleagues of all ages. In Africa, extended families usually take care of orphaned children, so adoption outside the family is very rare. When those extended family networks break down or don’t exist, orphans can expect to spend the rest of their childhood in an orphanage. Everything there is as pleasant as it can be, but I couldn’t help but notice the sad contrast to my own organization where I require an assistant to baby ratio of three to one.

Much of Bissau’s buildings are bombed out shells that haven’t yet crumbled to the ground. Many streets are so pockmarked with craters, one wonders if the same bombs that did in the likes of the National Palace were responsible. At night, street lights illuminate only about two city blocks. Institutions are almost non-existent, but cashews and the sweetest mangoes in the world are abundant. After spending half my life in the capital city of the United States, it is hard to believe that this place is classified in the same category. But Bissau is a gleaming modern metropolis compared to the Bijagos Archipelago just off-shore. You will read about that in my next letter.

Until then, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

The Omi

Banjul, The Gambia -- Not just any Gambia, I went to The Gambia. This is the tiny country that resembles a geographical finger shoved down Senegal’s throat as if to induce vomiting. The analogy also works for their bilateral relationship because on the rare occasions when these countries work together, the outcome is usually a putrid mess. In the 1990s, the two tried to form “Senegambia” after an apparent realization that owning a river bank does not necessarily make you a country (much like wearing rabbit ears does not make you a Playboy Bunny as I found out). The experiment failed, though, because they could never agree on the correct way to crack open a hard boiled egg, or something of similar significance.

It is surprising that they could not unite around the common goal of selling cheap crap to tourists. My assistant bought a Rolex on the beach with Chinese engraving on the back and was astounded when it broke later that afternoon. The seller started his sales pitch the way most did, by calling out “Happy family!” He made pleasant talk about me and other important topics as he followed us down the beach relentlessly pummeling us with niceness until my assistant was forced to make a purchase just for a few moments of silence before the next hawker caught up with us.

One must put up with these typical annoyances found in tourist-saturated destinations to enjoy the beautiful hotels and beaches outside the capital, Banjul. My quarters were dazzlingly elegant with monkey-filled gardens and three serene swimming pools. However, as The Gambia caters primarily to elderly British ladies looking to get their groove back, the rooms – while well-appointed – contained furniture inappropriate for babies. In an effort to demonstrate this point to my assistants, I took the drastic measure of opening up my lip on the pointy corner of a low-legged wooden table.

Despite the small river of blood and deafening screams which ensued, they declined to select a more infant-friendly environment. I knew I would have to take matters into my own hands and as usual, I triumphed in the face of adversity. I found the courage I needed to let go of furniture and venture into the middle of the room. Therefore, I am pleased to announce that I now count myself among the world’s walkers, or at least among those that walk like Frankenstein’s monster.

Overall, The Gambia is not much more than a brief opportunity to speak English as you drive from one end of French-speaking Senegal to the other, but it will always be special to me as the place I painfully learned to walk. Check back soon to read about my very eventful trip to Guinea-Bissau.

Peace to all,
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Employee Evaluations (part II)

What can I say about Employee Number Two? Adorably, he thinks he is in charge. Mama and I get a kick out of letting him think so then later we chortle about it amongst ourselves. Truly, he means well, but he’s more like the lovable loser than the leading man. When they make my epistolary into a movie, central casting is more likely to call Woody Allen for a reading before Brad Pitt.

I’m still working on a suitable moniker for Number Two. He continues to request “Papa” ad nauseum. Sometimes I’ll give him a “Pa” or a “Ba” but if he wants a second syllable, he’ll have to earn it. The biggest problem he has to correct is absenteeism. He disappears for large swaths of the day to tend to tasks that have, at best, a tenuous relation to baby work. But he does earn points for returning in the evenings to play with me, read me books and sing me to sleep every night. Anyone who has ever heard him sing knows this is the next big problem to correct.

Basic truths seem to elude him. For example, one morning in a misguided attempt to be helpful, he thought squash would be a more appropriate breakfast for me than cereal. And he can’t accept the fact that there are other modes of locomotion than simply crawling and walking. I have invented a new form (patent pending), for which he is entirely unappreciative. In it, I remain seated while pulling myself across a tile floor, much like a dog with hemorrhoids. In truth, I am still working out some of the kinks. He insists I should be walking by now and while I have taken a few tentative steps on my own, I’m not ready for a morning jog yet.

I shouldn’t be too harsh with him, though. He does serve a useful function besides opening jars and chasing lizards out of the house. He and the U.S. Ambassador finalized an accord with the President of Guinea-Bissau regarding, I assume, the terms of my imminent trip to that republic. In this picture, after a particularly prickly negotiating session they agreed on an 8:30 bedtime for me. For my numerous jaunts, he arranges visas, purchases tickets, carries bags, serves as translator, and measures red carpets to ensure appropriate length. This is the gritty, unglamorous side of baby adventure travel but he manages to carry it off with a quiet dignity.

I also appreciate his expansion of my empire. To meet baby work quotas, he acquired an employee of his own. And not just any employee – he went to the top of Guinea-Bissau society and hired a well-known model/news anchor/actress. Here she poses beneath one of her billboards. Even I don’t have a billboard yet.

He's a work in progress, but worth keeping around because even though he fashions himself as the tough disciplinarian and provider, I can easily melt him with a simple sideways glance or one of my laughing fits. His easy manipulation will likely come in handy later as my demands grow.

Until next time, peace to all.

Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Employee Evaluations (part I)

My assistants have just completed ten months of service and I'm preparing their annual evaluations. I have decided, after some deliberation, to re-up their contracts for another year, although there will be no raises. As a token incentive to keep up morale, I am giving modest year-end bonuses – the gift of sleep. They are being granted longer durations of shut-eye punctuated by fewer bursts of pointless, frantic screaming.

I have begun recently to refer to Assistant Number One as "Mama." This seems somehow more personal and I think she appreciates the gesture. It takes so little to make these people happy. She goes by other names as well, for example my maid calls her "Madame" and Assistant Number Two calls her "Madame Wife." This always makes him laugh (and no one else). Number One is doing a particularly notable job attending to my whims. She earns high marks for coddling me when I cry in the middle of the night in spite of Number Two's protests.

For entertainment value, there is no question Number One is worth her weight in strained peas. She has me roaring with laughter from her crazy arm-flailing dances and elephant songs. She is the Lenny Bruce of hiding behind doors and then suddenly jumping back into the room, which I consider pure comic genius. The other one can be amusing in his own way but he's more of an acquired taste, somewhat droll, but often just weird.

Number One, or Mama, is usually present to prepare my meals and feed me (yes, yes, a full time job, very funny), pick my outfits, take me for walks, and be my hair stylist. So far, I have few complaints about her performance, but recent chat around the watercooler is that she intends to moonlight as a teacher at the local elementary school. Normally, such disloyalty would be met with harsh, and admittedly capricious, consequences. But the truth is, she is so wonderful at working with babies and other superiors that I have decided to share her with the world as part of my mission of spreading peace to all.

Another thing I like about Number One is her desire to constantly improve herself (although in my opinion, there’s not much to be done). As part of my organization’s new professional development program, I allow her to take classes related to her baby work. She studies French so she can better explain my importance to the locals. I also send her for training at the gym because hauling a dignitary of my impressive girth requires top-notch physical condition. Most recently, she has equipped her teeth with braces to make her look more like a teenager. I respect her attempts to emulate adolescents, for they are the pinnacle of evolution. Teenagers know everything and they are never wrong. I aspire to join their ranks one day and thus complete my long journey toward perfection.

Number One has been with my organization for longer than I can remember and in many ways, she is the soul of the whole operation. Number Two is quite a different story and will require a whole separate letter. Until then, peace to all. Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler