Jeff Shea’s 1990 Journal
Journey through East and West Africa
Spirit of Adventure

The spirit of adventure is this: You go forward never to return again—in spirit, this is a transformation—for by giving yourself to the adventure you become changed, transformed into a new entity, hopefully more powerful and enriched than before.

Section 1 Journal of Travels
May 24, 1990 to July 14, 1990 (see below)
Section 2 Country Notes
Section 3 Shea’s Adventures
Section 4 Shea’s Utopia
Section 5 Sayings, Poems and Thoughts
Section 6 Journal entries from Jan, Mar & Dec about Phyllis

January 1990
I would rather be bound by honor than law.

Section 1 Journal of Travels in East and West Africa
May 24, 1990 to July 14, 1990

Itinerary
May 24 Depart San Francisco
May 25 London via Iceland
May 26 Nairobi, Kenya
May 27 Arusha, Tanzania
May 28 Lake Manyara, Tanzania
May 29 Ngorongoro Crater, Tanzania
May 30 Seronera, Tanzania
May 31 Camping in Serengeti Park, Tanzania
June 1 Seronera, Tanzania
June 2 Lake Manyara, Tanzania
June 3 Arusha, Tanzania
June 4 On the train to Mombasa, Kenya
June 5 Mombasa, Kenya
June 6 Mombasa, Kenya
June 7 On the train to Nairobi, Kenya
June 8 Narobi, Kenya
June 9 Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
June 10 Buea, Cameroun
June 11 Hut on Mount Cameroun, Cameroun
June 12 Bafoussam, Cameroun
June 13 House of El Hadj between Foumbon and
Foumbot, Cameroun
June 14 Yaounde, Cameroun
June 15 Garoua, Cameroun
June 16 Mokolo, Cameroun
June 17 Rumsiki, Cameroun
June 18 Rumsiki, Cameroun
June 19 Ndjamena, Tchad
June 20 Bol, Tchad
June 21 Outside of Ndjamena on the ground, Tchad
June 22 Maiduguri, Nigeria
June 23 Jos, Nigeria
June 24 Enugu, Nigeria
June 25 Benin City, Nigeria
June 26 Lagos, Nigeria
June 27 Cotonou, Benin
June 28 Cotonou (via Abomey and return) , Benin
June 29 Cotonou, Benin
June 30 Valetta, Malta
July 1 Messina, Sicily, Italy
July 2 Avezzano (via Pompei and Naples), Italy
July 3 San Marino, San Marino
July 4 Innsbruck, Austria
July 5 Stuttgart, Germany
July 6 Neuschwanstein, Germany
July 7 Venice, Italy
July 8 Pisa, Italy
July 9 Toulouse, France
July 10 Chartes, France
July 11 Tilburg, Holland
July 12 London, England, UK
July 13 London, England, UK
July 14 London, England, UK

Thursday, Friday May 24, 1990
On plane to London
The trip begins
[A]
After a rough day at the office, still feeling weak from poisoning, somehow miraculously, I met Phyllis at home and we got packed, met Dad, taxied to airport, caught plane. We sat directly in front of Dad (and an English couple). We tried sleeping as best we could. (Oddly) the sun was rising as we flew east across the Atlantic.

Saturday May 25, 1990
London
[A] [L]

Sometime late morning, we landed in Iceland due to engine difficulties. I noted Reykjavik (I believe it was) on the way landing. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t allow us to leave the airport – but it was still interesting. I learned a little about the country and now really want to go back. Unfortunately, the stopover meant we arrived in London at 4 p.m. instead of noon. By the time we checked into the (ridiculously priced - $160) Tara (Dad paid all or part), it was dusk. We left and took a bus and underground to Piccadilly, noted the punks, had pizza, fish and chips, changed money. Took underground to Thames, walked along Thames in the dark to Big Ben – fantastic. Walked to Winchester Cathedral area. Tried to have a beer at a pub but they closed minutes before at 11 p.m. (Previous to this we visited Trafalgar Square). Returned to Tara. Dad and I had a beer. Phyllis and I made love.

Sunday May 26, 1990
Nairobi
[A] [L] [E]

Left Tara early, so cabbie drove us to Buckingham Palace, Lawrence of Arabia’s house, again by Winchester Cathedral (which is being cleaned). Good snacks at airport. I asked for Isle of Man pounds but they had none. We caught plane. Flew over Sudan, I could see Nile. Became dark. We left Nairobi airport, Phyllis and I taking our first step on African soil together and kissed. (Previously on plane we performed South of the Equator Reversal Ritual, as we flew over it.)

South of the Equator Reversal Ritual

Mcahwi ya maji,
Dawa ya simba,
Mito mibili mizuri,
Mto mbili mzuri.

(Magician of the water,
Medicine for the lion,
Two good rivers,
One good river.)

And Phyllis gave the password of Nerra Tativo for Kenya.)

Richard drove us to the New Stanley, but Dad wanted to stay at the Norfolk, and we all checked in. (Dad offered to pay.) We had drinks in Dad’s room and then retired. Phyllis and I loved passionately. Wonderful. And exciting to be in Africa for the first time together – there was a mystique in the room in the darkness.

Monday May 27, 1990
Arusha, Tanzania
[A] [L]
Had breakfast with Phyllis. (Still I’m feeling weak from poisoning at Japanese restaurant.) She and I walked around town. Zanzibar Curios closed. Back at the hotel we organize to go to Arusha. Richard agrees to go for 1700 Shillings to Namanga. We get a ride to Arusha for 500 Shillings Kenyan. Dad stays at the New Arusha Hotel and Phyllis and I at the Safari Hotel, which had a bed bout two feet wide and was noisy all night. Before we retired, we had drinks and dinner with Dad. The maitre’d of the restaurant was affected as if he were an English butler. It was funny but I also had to admire him for making the most of his station in this poverty-stricken country. Great loving with Phyllis on retiring.

May 28, 1990
Lake Manyara, Tanzania
[A] [L]
After a horrific night due to an extremely small bed and awful racket throughout the night, I awoke groggy and feeling sick. I still think the poisoning is still with me. I went down and made contact with Dad. I had a good stroke of luck: when I went to buy my ticket to Doula on Ethiopian Airlines, I discovered (through my own persistence) that for an extra $70, I can leave Saturday morning for Addis Ababa and spend roughly 24 hours in Ethiopia before moving on to Doula on Sunday!! This is an unexpected treat for me! I am thrilled to think of going there! Next, I went to develop the Kodachrome that I show as tests in Nairobi for the flash, but I discovered that they do not develop Kodachrome here, so I determined to take some more tests at lunch. In the meantime, I visited the Indian’s shop, from whom I bought some Maasai artifacts three years ago. I asked him if he had anything that was really special. He said that he had a Maasai “shill.” (I think he meant, “Shield.”) We went across the street to his storeroom and his assistant brought out a shield made of (Cape) buffalo hide. He claimed it was at least 100 years old. He wanted 110,000 Tanzanian Shillings for it, but we eventually settled on $350. I don’t know if the price was right or not, but the piece did seem to have been made for tribal purposes. I made arrangements to have it shipped. We had lunch at the New Arusha Hotel.” This is a rather odd place in that the waiters serve with all the verve of an authentic English butler. We left at about 2:15 p.m.
We drove to the crossroads where a Maasai old woman was grabbed, even hit, because she tried to sell her wares to us off her assigned turf. I should have interfered. Dad checked into the Lodge Hotel and Phyllis and I stayed down towards the main road in a local place for 4000 Shillings (with breakfast, about $16). Great loving with Phyllis.

May 29, 1990
Ngorongoro Crater, Tanzania
[A] [L]
They delivered hot water in a bucket, so Phyllis and I splashed each other and poured it over each other’s heads. Breakfast was quite a spread – papayas (papai), eggs (mayai), tea (chai), lemon juice (maji ya malimau), bananas (ndizi), rolls (sconsi). The huge dinner, the room and the ample breakfast for two cost 4000 Shillings ($15.50). We drove to Lake Manyara Lodge, got Dad, then continued on to Ngorongoro Crater.
The drive through the Karatu region was lovely. We drove through clouds on our way up the crater.; but while having tea at the wildlife lounge, the sky cleared and a panoramic view of the crater opened up at our feet. Using the 20x binoculars mounted at the hotel, we spotted seven black rhino!! We picked up the mandatory guide at the offices, then went down into the crater, having a group of Maasai pose for us on the way. In the crater, we saw the following: sundry elephants, four rhino, five lionesses, a number of buffalo, black-faced moneys, jackals, a variety of birds. The green of the crater and cloud formations made the scenes even more spectacular. We climbed out of the crater and had chai (tea). I had about seven cups to warm myself. Phyllis and I went to our room and made love.
We had dinner with Dad, then watched a film on the wildebeest (Alan Roots). According to the film, at the end of May they migrate to the west. After all, it seems we could have hit the right time, however you’d never know it by the number of tourists nor other outward signs. After the movie, very tired, we went to bed and Phyllis and I made love again. I am getting sore. P.S. Our room has a large window looking out towards the crater.

May 30, 1990
Serengeti National Park, Tanzania
Seronera Lodge
[A] [L]

Today has been a tough and frustrating day, however it has been rewarding. I kicked myself for not having brought a tent.
I was tired when I woke up and slept the first hour and a half on departing from Ngorongoro. Our first stop was Olduvai Gorge. That was frustrating because when the “guide” told Dad he heard a lion growl, Dad waved Phyllis and I back to the Landrover. What nonsense! I hate the way tourists are pampered. Now I feel more determined than ever to cross Kenya or Tanzania on foot! We continued on to Naabi Hill Gate; on the way we stopped off to see a wild dog den. On the way to Seronera we saw a cheetah briefly. As we approached Seronera we saw an increasing amount of wildebeest (and zebra). We must have seen well over 100,000 today.
When we got to Seronera, Dad checked in and we sought out a tent so Phyllis and I could camp. This search, combined with Dad’s interest to get a plane, let us to many new experiences. We met a pilot (American) and family that had a neat house after lodge’s use of natural stone. We met a lion researcher. Another researcher lent me a tent. Phyllis and I watched a movie on lions and part of a one on elephants after dinner.

May 31, 1990
Serengeti National Park, Tanzania
Camping

June 1, 1990
Serengeti National Park, Tanzania
Seronera Lodge

June 2, 1990
Lake Manyara, Tanzania

June 3, 1990
Arusha, Tanzania

June 4, 1990
En route to Mombasa, Kenya

June 5, 1990
Mombasa, Kenya

June 6, 1990
Mombasa, Kenya (via Malindi)

June 7, 1990
On train en route to Nairobi, Kenya

June 8, 1990
Nairobi, Kenya

June 9, 1990
Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

June 10, 1990
Douala, Cameroun

June 10, 1990
Cameroon airport on arrival, Doula, Cameroon
[A]
Well, one thing was right. I wore my shorts on the airplane and I am now sitting as I stepped off the plane, it’s 5 p.m. here, it was humid and about 80o F. It feels about 90% humidity. Before we landed I could see the river flowing to the sea, the area surrounding them flooded. Nothing but trees for hours before we arrived—and I’ve flown from Kinshasa to Lake Kivu—same thing—from Kinshasa to Gabon (Libreville)—it’s all nothing but jungle. No one can ever see all of the earth, nor even a little part of it. How many trees down there? Like grains of sand on a beach. We will never discover everything on earth.
I tried to make an evaluation of my first impressions as I headed down the ramp. Something bad has happened here. You can always see it in the eyes. Beaten like animals. I reflected that they were colonized by the Germans. Yet I thought ‘I love this place’ and I thought there is much new to see here.
I passed women wearing dresses with much-exaggerated shoulders—puffed out, reminiscent of the dresses they wear in Uganda. Perhaps they were from there.
Passed military men in khakis, red berets, guns in holsters worn at the hips.
One long corridor of cement, and another, windows looking out. Who designed this place? I felt it must be a European, and one who planned it for multitudes of people, who were nowhere to be seen. I think I rather like that. There are few people mulling around the baggage carousel.
As I am walking, I am analyzing my next move. One week in Cameroon, one week in Nigeria, one week in Benin and Togo and then I’m off to Europe. Should I climb Mt. Cameroon? If I do that, I shorten the time available to hike in the area around Maroua and Rumsiki. I should covet each day.
I like the fact that only 5 or 10 bags have come off the carousel. I need to get away from the bustle. Sitting still writing, I begin to sweat—perhaps the humidity is 99%.
I’ve now got to deal with speaking French. I can say, “It’s not cold here” incorrectly. Il ne pas foit ici.
Perhaps, I reflect, I would like West Africa more if I spoke French. English-speaking Ghana was one of my favorites. Yet in another sense, it makes it more foreign, adds an air of mystique.
Besides the people, I aim to photograph in the markets—do I need a permit?—may speak no more French than I.
Now I refer to almanac and discover that English and French are both official languages. Perhaps the mountain people speak Foulbe, Bamileke, Ewondo, Douala, Mungaka, Bassa or some other language not listed.
Now the bags start to come up.

June 11, 1990
2850 meters high on Mount Cameroon, Cameroon
[A]

6:26 p.m.

The fire is cracking and the taste of fish is in my mouth. I am cozy warm. The rest hut is at 2850 meters, about 10,000 feet. My bare feet are together and the wet socks are on a rock near the fire in the center of the hut. My Thermarest is on top of the straw—the straw smells good and is soft. It is pleasing to the eye and reminds me off the Holy Manger.
I am trying to cook tea and hot water for tomorrow’s hike—it’s supposed to take around 3 hours (from here) to get to the top.
The thing that intrigued me the most about today’s hike was seeing Bioko Island (of Equatorial Guinea) across the water. I suppose I am somewhat a victim of “The grass is greener” syndrome—should I not just be reveling in Cameroon? Well, I am that too. The highlight of my day was taking my camera and tripod down the hill and shooting photos using f32 of the side of this volcano, beautiful green, and the valleys below, the ocean, the rivers, the city, and Bioko—all cast in a cloudy haze. The colors were not brilliant for the sun was behind clouds, but the mere fact that I had time to look, the quiet, the view giving a sense of height, the crisp air—these filled me with happiness. Unharried and untroubled—only for a moment—just to have the time—that is the ultimate.

June 12, 1990
Bafoussam, Cameroun

Wednesday, June 13, 1990
Someplace between Foumban and Foumbot, Cameroon
[A]

El Hadj has me semi-formally as his guest this evening. I will write by candlelight. Crickets and frogs are heard faintly, the radio from El Hadj’s adjacent room, an occasional vehicle on the road—and, I suppose it is the caretaker, who occasionally shifts in his vigil to watch me write, as he lays on his bed and I on my mat on the floor.
I am most pleased with today. Every day is a strain—because everyday I must map out the logistics of how I can squeeze the most out of it, and how things fit into a large scheme of what I want to do in this pittance of time given the human life! I am pleased because of the, can I use the word, synchronicity of the occasion.
It was merely by sighting the obvious that I have ended up here. I was on my way to Foumban when I spied a most beautiful mountain—it was unnamed on my map—and coincidentally, we passed what I considered a most beautiful rural mosque. It was made, it seemed, of earth, and painted yellow, white, blue, green and red. There’s a unique way that paints stand out on earth structures, especially after some weathering and in the equatorial light. I was fascinated immediately by the mosque because besides being the class of structure which I am constantly trying to capture on film—it had the additional charm of rural homemade mosque. I vowed on the way back that I would photograph it. The more I thought about it in Foumban, the more intriguing this notion of climbing this unnamed Mountain became. The map I studied was as always a gambler’s choice—for no map can adequately import a sense of being there—and the more I studied it, the more possible routes to take there were; Jakiri to Bamenda, Bunzo to the north, straight to Yaounde or Bamenda or to climb the mountain and, maybe sleep in the village with the mosque.
El Hadj claims he has 28 children by four wives and I have every reason to believe him because I think I have seen everyone of them this evening. Being Muslim makes 4 wives the limit.
I am, as I stated content, for I am tried of staying in hotel after hotel. How much more adventurous to sleep in villages. I am content because I used my past experiences to instruct me that all I need to do is to drop myself where I want and ask around for lodging.
In this particular case, I photographed the mosque as the van sped off. The people in the bus seemed to think it was impossible to stay here, six kilometers from Foumbot, but I reasoned if I could not find a place that I could catch the next vehicle into town.
When I photographed the mosque the woman and children behind it didn’t seem to mind, and I asked whether it was possible to climb the mountain and I find a place to sleep. The woman pointed up the path to two men sitting on the bench and told me in French to speak with El Hadj.
He says that there are three mountains in Cameroon. Mt. Cameroon, Mt. Batpit and another I didn’t get the name of. Mt. Batpit is the one above the village, a boy on the bus told me there was “sable mouvant”—that is, quicksand, on the way. El Hadj tells me there’s a mountain lake in between the peaks. A volcanic lake—and he also related there are lions there.
I can hardly walk. Not only did my thighs cramp a bit on the walk up Mt. Cameroon, but the rapid descent I took wore out my legs. A man I met this morning told me he was sick for two weeks after climbing the mountain. He said he couldn’t move and didn’t want to do anything. The winds at the top were on the order of 100 kilometers/hour. In an instant the video camera got sopping wet and was unusable for the rest of the day.
El Hadj gave me a calendar with his picture on it. He’s a traditional medicine specialist. His calendar says he can cure mental illness, impotency, sterility, rheumatism, elephantiasis and tuberculosis to name a few. He travels to Yaoundé monthly and invited me to go with him day after tomorrow, but I’m afraid my timetable dictates that I’ll not be able to.
I am, in summary, content, because I have climbed Mt. Cameroon, come across what could be one of the most famous peaks in Cameroon, I’ve turned an interesting experience by creative thinking, and hopefully I’ll get just the right shot of the mosque tomorrow.
This mountain intrigues me. When I saw it a second time, I said to myself—I don’t care whether it is as high as or well known as the rest of Cameroon’s mountains—it is so picturesque. I had made the right choice with my limited time.

June 14, 1990
On my way to Yaoundé, Cameroon (the Capital)
[A]

6:28 p.m.

It has been a fine, fine day. It is still light out and I am riding shotgun in the 15-seater van to Yaoundé.
I awoke about 6 a.m. and El Hadj drove me to the trailhead for the volcanic lake. The walk was tremendously pleasing, the greens being vibrant, only matched by the greens in the Strickland gorge in New Guinea. The terraced fields make the countryside have an organized, pleasing arrangement.
The volcanic lake was unique in my experience—it was near impossible to go down to, for the walls were several hundred feet high all around, so vertical as to force quite a climb. The greens were intense, so intense, very beautiful. The combination of volcanic soil, the tropics and the abundance of rain provide unsurpassable lushness everywhere.
I liked over a hillock towards Mont Bat Pit and spied goats on its top. The goats abandoned the summit as I approached. Thatched hut village below.
I returned towards El Hadj’s place after a full morning of photography and video making. I walked past rows of maize, with the interspersed coffee trees and the ever-present banana. I had gone over six hours without food.
El Hadj is essentially a modern-day witch doctor. I had the good fortune to witness his divining method. He took me to his doctoring room. All over the walls were fetishes of one sort or another. He placed four feathers with clay bases flat against each other on the ground and put a carved bowl over it with leaves in the center of the top. He pounded on the ground. He lifted the gourd I noted the feather still laid flat and then he placed it on top one again. He asked the gourd if I was good. “Jeff c’est bon?” whereupon he lifted the gourd again and the four, feathers were straight up in the air! I was, I must admit, quite taken a back. A feeling came over me in an instant. I felt I had just witnessed magic!
I was truly impressed, and I was even a bit glad that the spirit had decided in my favor.
I told El Hadj I would transfer my video to VHS and send him a copy. He then agreed to let me make a video of his magic. He divined one of his little girl’s state of being. Two of the feathers were down. (All four down meant “No.”) A clarification revealed a “yes.” I will have to wait for a translation to fully understand. He then described his medications for the camera. One for tuberculosis, one for elephantiasis, etc. I clapped at the conclusion of his “show.”
He would not allow me to film an explanation of some his “secret” pieces. One was a flat silver flask, which he said was 130 years old. He claimed if you put water inside of it and drank it, that it would protect you from accidents. His example was that you would get into a accident and just brush yourself off. (He brushed off his jacket in display.) Another piece he showed me was a cluster of feathers with what looked like some cowry shells, aged-old blood from sacrifices, a chicken foot. It looked quite ancient. He said it was very powerful and that it was 300 years old. He claimed that if its powers were employed, a person could be shot with a bullet and that it wouldn’t harm them in any way. He demonstrated this “pow-pow” and motioned with his arms to show the bullets ricocheting off his body. He showed me another piece to be won about the neck. This protected against vampires. It seemed his magic was designed for protection and healing. He showed me a fetish about 20” high. It seemed quite old and certainly well-carved and adorned. He said it was very powerful and very costly, about 200,000 francs (about $750). I would have liked to take it home. Another small fetish rattled, and I noted it had a wood plug presumably where the route was inserted. I later asked him if his father had been a “doctor” also—he said his father was dead, but that he had practiced the same.
The thing that touched me was that he offered me a thousand francs so that I could get something to eat in town. I told him that it was I who should be offering him money. It was ironic that in order to offer me the money in private, he beckoned me around the corner of the house, saying, “Come, I want you to see something,” and I was afraid, for moments before he had used his shotgun to balance my binoculars and I had a wild fear that he was trying to bring me to the back of the house to shoot me! This was partially due to a premonition I’d had yesterday that I would come to this place ‘and never return again’ with an imaginative reason that I would be transformed or swept away into a tribe or another world.
In the process of showing me his fetishes, he handed me two balls of lead about 1” in diameter each. I wondered if this was part of his sterility or potency medicine.

Friday June 15, 1990
Aboard train to Ngaoundere
[A]

7:25 a.m.
I am most relieved to be on this train.
Fortunately the other three men in my booth are quiet. It would be most unpleasant to sit next to the typical Cameroon man who is given to loudness and, though perhaps in a good sprint and sport, rather argumentative, at least from what I’ve observed.
To me, these are not an attractive people, neither physically nor in attitude. However, on the whole they’re not unpleasant. Yesterday, Cameroon won its second game in the World Cup soccer tournament. The two victories are a source of pride, and they give the Cameroonians a topic on which to offer their opinion, usually in an authoritative tone. It seems they can’t discuss something quietly, but every offerance of opinion by one must be challenged by the other.
In Douala, I witnessed the most amusing examples of this while waiting for my bus for Bafoussam to depart. At any given moment one could turn in a given direction and find groups of men heatedly arguing with one another. They waved their hands and yelled at each other in French, back and forth—the others watching joined in, each offering their opinion.
When I went to eat, I lifted the lids of the pots to see what was the fare; the woman selling the food didn’t seem to mind, but this excited one group of young men to take great offence and they each began to jabber at me excitedly and mimic me lifting the lids, presumably to demonstrate how offensive it was. I believe they fully expected me to take up the challenge like and good Cameroonian, but as I did not understand a word they said, I couldn’t reply even if I cared to. This was an unexpected response—perhaps they didn’t know how to deal with this “tactic.” However, another group of young men assumed my defense and as I turned my back and ate, the two groups conducted a debate.
While we wanted for the bus to airport, I commented on this ritual to my fellow passengers. I gesticulated and grimaced, mimicking yet another argument that was taking place outside. This delighted them. I feigned disgust, rolled my eyes, assumed a haughty expression, threw my hands in the air, tossed my head back, swiveled my shoulders and twisted my body. They were greatly amused at my reenactment of the conduct of the individuals not fifteen yards from us.
One man commented that this was known as “Op ai” that is, “Up high,” in which one man would attempt to intimidate his opponent by raising his voice higher than other. I wondered whether this existed before the French ruled here, for I could not help but compare the gesticulations with the image of an angry Frenchman.
These people are accustomed to crowding, discomfort and delays. When I first approached the van I asked when it was leaving, the answer was “immediately.” Two hours later, after they had finally filled the 15-seat vehicle, the driver drove fifty yards into a gas station, shut off his engine and began to argue heatedly with everyone in the vicinity on the latest controversy. To wit, a young woman with two children had only paid one fare and her children were taking up space, preventing the driver from sandwiching the 14th passenger into the van. It made no difference that this woman had asked him over 4 hours earlier if she could ride for only one fare and that he had agreed. She sat patiently from 2 p.m. until the bus was ready to depart, it then being after 6 p.m., when the driver took it upon himself to turn face and demand more money from her. The outcome after an extremely heated interchange involving a myriad of participants, was that the woman paid an extra 1000 CFA ($.37) and a 14th passenger was sardined into that row, making 4 adults and 2 children overall.
After that was settled, the driver took a time out to court his money. This continued for an extended period. The driver wanted to corroborate each fare with the man who had collected it. Eventually, I went outside to where they stood and appealed to their business sense, reminding them that their paid passengers were waiting. We departed at ten before seven, arguments still in progress at the bus depot.
The crowded passengers in the seat behind me seemed to take it in stride. They hardly seemed to mind the conditions, which would be considered a violation of human rights in my hometown, not to mention a safety hazard. As we rolled down the road, a discussion ensued between two men, then the driver joined in, followed by a man in the far back, and soon, man and woman, one and all, were involved in an exited debate! It’s a national sport.

Saturday June 16, 1990
Midnight beginning of the 16th
Yaoundé, Cameroon, via Foumbot and Bafoussam
[A]

Before I go to sleep, I want to recap my day and previous. When I left El Hadj’s house at 3 p.m. June 14th, I caught a local truck to Foumbot, a van to Bafoussam, shortly after a van to Yaoundé, arriving about 10-10:30 p.m. last night. I didn’t get to sleep till about 2-2.30 a.m. after calling home and washing clothes. I awoke before 6 a.m. and went to the train station. From 7.00 a.m. to about 6 p.m., I rode across first tropical forest, then tropical savannah, arriving here at about 11.30 p.m. Am I ever ready for a good sleep!
If I can get a Chad visa, I want to go up to a place like Bol on Lake Chad and get a boat to take me to Baga in Nigeria. If I could do this, it would be incredible. From here, I’ll probably go to Rumsiki and hike.

June 17, 1990
Rumsiki, Cameroon
6:20 p.m.
[A]

With a view of Mont Zivi and Nigeria, and surrounded by nine boys and one girl, I am watching the sun go down. Birds sing. Deep in the distance a goat bleats. The peace is pervasive. It fills me with a good feeling that it seems has been years since I felt.
In fact, its so beautiful here, I would be most content to spend awhile here. I could quite easily spend two weeks here. I would spend my days walking leisurely across the countryside, perhaps alone, and stop and take photographs, recording the speed and f-stop. I would take moving pictures. I would stop and write. This is how I’ve been spending the last two hours.
The children are delightful, which surprises me. As they gather around, they speak quietly and allow long period of silence between their questions or comments.
Just now a stick insect crawled up my leg. It looked like pieces of straw stuck together and was about 3 inches long, light as a feather.
I cannot remember a place I’ve ever been that had all the qualities that this place does:
1) The temperature makes me comfortable at this hour in shorts and a T-shirt, sitting.
2) In this month there are no other tourists here.
3) The views are stunning and at this time of year it is green.
4) Hiking is excellent; from just outside of town, the scenes are beautiful and rustic, and in every direction one could hike for hours and enjoy the beauty; and it’s the sort of open scenery where you can see where you are going and where you have been, with plenty of unique, beautiful landmarks to guide you.
5) I have heard of no rules restricting one’s movements.
6) The road is seldom traveled—today there were only a few vehicles on the road—perhaps 10 all day.
7) There are no airplanes or fast cars.
8) There’s food in town and cold beer if you want it.
9) A private hut can be had for 3500 CFA ($13) with electricity, bed, fairly secluded, centrally located.
10) The people are generally friendly and helpful and they seem honest.
11) It’s in an interesting part of the world. Near Nigeria, Lake Chad, Niger and the Sahara. It is almost an unheard of place.
12) There is water, birds, insects, and goats.
13) A predominance of huts are old style with straw roofs.

The only thing I did notice that is too bad is that some of the people ask for money for a photo or for maybe nothing—but that is hardly a problem.

≈≠≈

Today I found out a wonderful piece of information. All the way from Mokolo, we kept passing and being passed by two military men in red berets. At the Cassarole Restaurant here in Rumsiki, they informed me how to travel on Lake Chad by motorized pirogue from Cameroon to Nigeria. Apparently they had worked up that way. They seemed to have first-hand knowledge. They said to go from Kousseri to Makari -27 km- to Blangla on Lake Chad, then catch a one day canoe to Baga in Nigeria. This I have got to try.
Tomorrow I am planning on going to Rufta, Kila and or Gova, which are supposed to be cliff-hanging villages. A book I once read described them as “unforgettable.”
Another thing that intrigues me is to walk the 5 Km to Michika which is purportedly in Nigeria. I would even enter Nigeria that way if there were an immigration post here and if the idea of Lake Chad hadn’t got hold of me. Looking down the winding valley ahead towards Nigeria looks to me like Shangri-La, like I would go through its folds and never return, I suppose never wont to return. This place is so beautiful, I think I could stay here forever, just disappear.
This is a case of the right amount of everything not too many cars, but enough to get to and fro. Not too much civilization, but there is electricity at night which I like because I like to write. I would be bored I think if every night I had to sleep after dinner. Hot enough in the day but not too hot. Cool enough in the evening to be refreshing but not too cool. People friendly enough but not burdensome. Not too expensive (though there are places that are cheaper). Good enough food to be enjoyable. Simple sleeping quarters.

As I write this, I am being inundated by insects. I don’t really mind them because none of them are biting me or stinging me. There are probably 20 species dropping on the table from the fluorescent lights. The flies are staying over to the left where there’s no light. I can’t stand flies or mosquitoes.
The morning I barely made it here. Last night I asked what time there was a car to Rumsiki. I was told 8 a.m., but I didn’t know if that was when they left or started taking passengers. So I awoke just before 8 a.m. and didn’t get to the station until perhaps 8.30 a.m. It was the wrong place for Rumsiki, so they told me to take a motorcycle taxi to the right place. As we drove up, a man said to go to the customs booth and we might catch the truck, which had just left. Apparently, there’s only one truck on Sunday. Fortunately we caught up with it. It was very crowded, but they accommodated me. The 48 kilometers to Rumsiki took 3 hours including a stop for a flat tire and a stop at the Rumsiki market. The point is that the 48 kilometers was a lot further than it sounds.
Today was market day in Rumsiki. Musicians appeared walking up the road to the market. I followed them and took pictures for perhaps two hours. People swung and dipped and twirled, then they stopped to drink some of the local brew that is prevalent in the market place, returning to their dancing with fervor.

Monday June 18, 1990
Rumsiki, Cameroon
[A] [E] [S]
I am just discovering that the thing I enjoy most about photography is sitting and watching and waiting for the light to reach its full potential over a beautiful scene. In this sense, photography is a practice of seeing with intensity rather than merely looking; it forces one to be patient and to look for form, beauty, light, movement—what a delight! It is tranquility and contentment in itself. It meets the two counter parts of happiness itself, that which I deduced to be vitalness and contentment, for it forces, one to concentrate on nature’s vitalness while enjoying the contentment of the beautiful scene.
In this view, my photography becomes experiential, that is, the primary purpose or objective is to go through the experience. Although hopefully the photographs come out well, it wouldn’t be a total loss if they didn’t, because the memories of tranquility and peace will be unforgettable and add the real value to the experience, if not the photographs as well.
I suspect this tranquility of the photographer may show up in the photograph. I find it interesting to ponder that with some photographs, it’s such a hassle to get then and if the photograph were lost, it would be only a frustrating memory, whereas with these I am taking, it is so enjoyable to take the photos, it is a worthwhile thing in itself.

June 19, 1990
N’djamena, Tchad, via Kousseri, and Mora, Cameroon
[A]

2:20 p.m. En route to Kousseri, now in Mora, Cameroon
Yesterday afternoon after I’d returned from my hiking, arriving around 3 p.m., there was a rainstorm. It was startling to consider I could have been caught out in it. It came down quite literally in buckets. There was no truck returning to Mokolo, so I spent the evening talking and drinking Nigerian beers, then later the local beer, “Biki,” until about 11.30 p.m.
It is getting progressively hotter. I note on the map that N’djamena averages 100o F in June during the day.
Travel world be substantially faster if it were not for the checkpoints.

3:32 p.m. Same day
Dad said it would be nice if video could record the fragrances as well. Add the heat to that and you’d really fill out the picture.
It is blistering hot as we cruise northward. The 70 mile/hour of the car doesn’t cool the air appreciably. The road is very good here. We are speeding since Mora, the smell of petrol wafts up in my nostrils. I am riding shotgun, I keep asking for a front seat. This is a Peugeot 504 wagon.

I arrived in Chad just before the border closed (it closes at 6 p.m.) on June 19. Using my doctored (updated) visa, I made it through immigration. It seemed more primitive on this side of the river. I made my way to the Hirondelle Hotel, where I spent the night.

June 20, 1990
Bol, Tchad, from N’djamena, Tchad
[A] [E] [L] [S]

N’djamena 2:12 p.m.
The most notable I’ve seen so far in N’djamena is that a lot of buildings are covered with bullet holes. It looks like people let a machine gun loose on the walls for minutes. Apparently it’s from a war they had here, was it 1969?

…
On the 20th of June, I spent half the morning packing and pasting a box with about 15 rolls of film, my sleeping bag, the wallets I got in Maroua and all the other personal effects, I didn’t need to bring with me anymore. Part of my motivation for this was that I feared being ripped off in Nigeria, part was to lighten my load—it was just too much. The package was 8 Kg which meant I went from about 60 lbs to about 42 lbs. it cost over $.100 to send (30,600 CFA). My load lightened I spent the next half day making an airline reservation and calling Phyllis, calling Phyllis was difficult. In reached or I should say, having her call me was I went to the Novotel and called her and told her to call me back, when she called back the line got progressively worse and she could not hear me speak. Then it would go dead altogether, then come on far a moment. Finally we hung up. I waited, thinking she’d call back but she didn’t. She thought that I called her. Finally I decided to call her again, but the lady at the desk told me if I went to the port office. I could call for 1000 CFA a minute instead of the 3000 CFA a minute that the Hotel charged. I then took a taxi to the post office only to find it was closed at that hour. I walked most of the way back to the Novotel, then got a ride the last bit. Then I called Phyllis again and she called me back only this time the connection was clear. We exchanged line with each other. I reminded her that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. She asked, “Does that mean you want to marry me?” I said, “Yes!”
She said, “I don’t believe it!” surprised.
I said, “Well, you know, like me talked about when we first met no right away, but that’s my intention”.
It was quite a romantic conversation. Thereafter I had two large cups of espresso as a treat to myself. I gathered up and took off for the hotel double times. I got my bags then arranged with a taxi to take me to the station for Bol, and if there was no vehicle leaving, that he should bring me to the place where I could get a van to the border. As it turned out, there was a vehicle to Massakouri leaving, roughly halfway to Bol.
On the way to Massakouri, the road is just a track through scrub. I really get the feeling of primitiveness. We pass lone villages. We got a flat tire and they changed it. But then without a word to me, the truck sped off with my bags, leaving all of the passengers behind. I figured they were testing the tire.
After sometime, all the passengers started walking towards a nearly village. I stopped to take a video of them. Two horsemen came by and reared their horses high in the air in a display for me.
In the village, men prayed towards Mecca on a mat, there was a quiet bustle. Perhaps 30 huts spread out. We walked straight through to the other side of the village where there was another road and there the truck was parked. They showed me that the spare tire didn’t have enough air and indicated to me that they had to wait for a large truck, which I figured had a compressor and could fill the tire with air.
Two men started walking back toward the village and I came up to them only to ask them if they knew where I could get a drink of water. Before I could ask, they gestured for me t come with them. I asked them if there was drinking water. When they appeared to not understand, I motioned to drink. They said, “Leben.” Figuring this was the word for drink or water, I repeated the word several times, happy to have got my first foothold in the local dialect. On the way, a man squirted milk into a pail from a cow.
We walked to a compound where a mat was laid out and three of us removed our footwear and sat down. Then a second mat was brought out. It was getting dark.
One of my companions gave some money to a man. My two companions washed their feet and prayed. A bowl of milk was brought. They announced “Leben.” So, it was “Milk” that I had kept repeating.
They must have figured I wanted it badly! I drank it. It was warm and sweet. I wondered if it was warm because they had heated it or if it came like that directly from the cow.
In a short while food was brought. I was taught the names. Esh was brought in a big mound. It was hot and had a greenish color. It was a paste and seemed to have to been made of millet and perhaps corn, and in combination with another ingredients to make it green. This was served with “wayke.” This was in a separate bowl and was a smaller portion of a sauce made of vegetables. It looked nicely prepared. Again, leben was brought and this time I noticed them putting sugar in it, which gave it its sweet taste.
When I drank the milk, it filled me with a sensation. I knew it had come from a cow only a short time before. I imagined it more fortifying than milk I usually drink. I imagined that it had elements in it that I had been missing and that I had been vitally needing.
I laid back feeling fully satisfied and I pondered on how great was the simple delight of having milk straight from the cow. It spun in my head like a revelation. I thought how for all the modern luxuries I had, I had missed out on the simple pleasures of fresh milk. How many other comparable pleasures had I missed out on? My mind ran in opposite directions at once.
My back was flat on the mat on the ground. Lines floated through my brain like a magic carpet.
“Why have my eyes seen so much pain (I thought of all the horrors of adjustment to modern civilization),
Only to find in my roots, God again (I thought of the way these people were living was “My roots,” in the sense that my ancestors had surely lived off the land at some point. I felt that the simple pleasure I had enjoyed was like having been in touch again with God again, feeling that the simple pleasures were those made by God and not man-made.
“In my past God again
Is the future the past” (I derived this in two ways—one, will we find in the future that we are best off with some of the abandoned ways of the past—but also in part I was thinking of the notion I had once been introduced to—was it from a New Guinea tribe? I read about?—where it we believed time flows backward when we look forward.)
“Learn from the primitives
that our race ever last. (Just from a belief that we need to look at the lessons of our ancestors and have the ultimate respect for them, for they are ever our elders. In as much as the primitive peoples represent the different stages of evolution of our ancestors, we should look to them.)
From the roar of confusion to a starry Sahel night, I found God once again in the simplest delight.
If the simplest delight can render delight,
Does it not render archaic a neon night? (Just the thoughts that if the best pleasures are the basic ones, why do are toil so much to archive artificial pleasures?

At this point, we got up to leave, we returned to the car and waited. I pulled out my tarp and lit a candle and began writing. Shortly afterwards, I spotted illumination in the distance. I called out that I saw something coming. Soon the truck came by, but it rolled past us despite our signals to stop. It was now pitch dark. The driver jumped in our truck and sped off after the large truck. He returned with the tire filled. We boarded and continued down the track, overtaking the large truck before long. We reached Massaguit, stopping for a few minutes. The road seemed to improve a bit before Massaguit. Now we headed off to Massakouri. On the way, the fan belt driving the generator split lengthwise but didn’t break. They fixed this by twisting it, but I didn’t have faith it would last long. Soon thereafter, we were again grounded. This time the belt was completely broken. They were in the process of trying to fashion a fan belt out of rope and some twine I’d given them, when a large truck came by. I waved them down for my own sake while the driver’s helpers also waved him down. The driver of the large truck stopped and looked at our difficulty.
During time I we had been going along. I had been pondering on the remaining lines of the poem.
Can we know what we’re missing when we were born civilized? Can we choose the right person/ path with no sight in one eye?
(Until we have experienced other ways, how can we really know what is the best way? The analogy is that the eye we see with is the one which sees civilization as we know it and the other is blind because it has not yet been given the sight of another way to live.)
We should all make a pilgrimage to a starry Sahel night.
Where there is a cure for the eye with no sight.
Both eyes that see clearly,
choose the path that is right.
Where the simplest pleasures
bring heavenly delight.

The driver of the large truck tried a belt, but it was much too big. The rope that they had tried to fashion into a fan belt was too long. I considered their efforts thus far to be futile, and I asked the driver of the large truck if I could get on ride to Massakouri. He agreed. Before he left he found some heavy gauge wire and gave it to them. At first I thought it might work, but as we drove away, I began to think that fairly rigid wire constituted a pathetic solution for their problem. I felt chagrin thinking of them back there in the dark with flashlights trying to work out that problem.
Meanwhile I was too hot because of the heat coming off of the engine cabinet, which divided the right and left seats. Riding shotgun was a little Chinese fellow. I could scarcely believe it when he rattled off something in Chinese and the Chadienne man replied! The Chinese man didn’t speak French and English.
Not long after, we stopped because the acceleration cable broke. I helped him tie it back on by flashlight.
Before we got to Massakouri, I asked where he was going, He said, “Bol.” I asked if I could go. I rode all the way to Bol that night, arriving about 4.25 a.m. I fully expected to see the lake.
We slept on the sand next to the truck.

June 21, 1990
Baga Sola, Tchad
[A]
In the morning I rapidly became disillusioned. Whereas I was expecting to take an ‘orbol’, a motorized pirogue, across the lake from Baga Sola. Now I was told that I could drive across, but if I wanted to see the lake I would have to hire a camel to take me around 30 kilometer to Changale, where I could get a pirogue. The Chadienne had workers unload the sand from his truck. If I had known there was sand, I could have been stretching out on it all night instead of dealing with the heat and residual smell of petroleum in the cab.
It had even occurred to me to find out what was in the back. It just goes to show the importance of being thorough and carrying out one’s investigation fully. My lack of sleep probably played a role in the outcome of the next day. It’s surprising how in reflection we can see things, and surprising sometimes how long it takes to dawn on us. For example, only yesterday in Lagos while eating a meat pie did I finally figure out why I had been turned off to the idea of a “mince meat pie.” When I was younger—although I always enjoyed them thoroughly, at first I had associated them with a jelly or something unpalatable—every time I thought of it, I would get a bad image, but only yesterday did I bear down on it and figure out that it was a play on words in my mind. I associated the word “Mince” with “Mints” since the green Jelly, rather than chopped meat.
While they unloaded the truck, I noted that there were several Chinese about. One, seeing me trying to clean up, invited me into their camp to wash. Unfortunately, they invited me to eat. It was a nightmare. First, they pointed to what looked like pot stickers. I was delighted. When they told me to put Chococam chocolate breakfast spread on them, I was hesitant, but being a good guest I followed their instruction. I bit into a tasteless, greasy, doughy outside to reveal jelly pellets inside. It was grotesque. Even now my stomach turns thinking about it. They pushed a plate of watery rice in front of me. I figured ‘OK’. It’s sweet like a breakfast cereal. It was an armful saline taste.
Finally, they commandeered a pancake from a man who was making himself one. I figured that a plain piece of dough couldn’t be offensive! At least it was only tasteless and greasy. Fortunately my hosts rose and excused themselves for I had been desiring a way to dispose of the jelly pellet grease-sticker without them noticing.
I excited and went to approach my host outside and thanked him profusely. Despite the reality of the meal, I had to show appreciation for his thoughtfulness.
I determined despite the questionable pirogue passage, to proceed on the Bol. The driver brought me to the crossroads twelve kilometer from the town. There the police asked me for my passport, but I asked if we could continue our conversation about Baga Sola, in which they were confirming the part about having to take a camel, as such I began to waver and feel that maybe I should just go back to N’djamena and go to Blangla or Blangua or whatever it’s really called (I’ve had people insist on both spellings) in Cameroon.
I went to get my passport and I speed the truck I’d come in on stopped the road for some reason. He was returning to N’djamena. I called out to the police if it was the same truck and they said it was. I asked them if I could run down the road and they said OK. I began running towards the truck. Before I got to the vehicle, the truck for Baga Sola, came down the road. I ran back again waving. I offered my passport to the police, but they waved me on.
The ride was uncomfortable. After about an hour sitting in the back of the truck, we arrived in Baga Sola. A man said he could provide a camel for me to Changale for 5000 CFA. I was ecstatic, for by the time I had arrived in Baga Sola, I had decided to try to take a camel and make a real adventure out of it.
I was told to get my exit stamps. That proved my undoing. After an initial interview, the military uniformed man led me to the place where men sat under a thatch roof. The chief man was dressed in local Muslim attire and told me I had to go back to Bol to get my exit stamp. I could scarcely believe it. At first I thought he was playing a game, but the reality of it was that the immigration for foreigners was at Bol and that for national at Baga Sola. I became unglued and I cursed my Michelin map for showing a border port at both locations without an explanation. The one hour drive each way was not the worst of the problem—it was the uncertainly of when the transportation would move and I didn’t feel like facing the heat and uncomfortable ride only for the sale of backtracking. I felt tired. I had been looking forward to resting up and eating before departing, or if a camel wasn’t available to maybe spend the night relaxing and waiting for a vehicle the next day. On top of that, this man said that it wasn’t possible to go by camel, but that there was transport every day by car to Nigeria. I didn’t quarrel on that point. I cannot be sure that he would have actually forbid me had I shown him the feasibility of my route, but I would bet that he would forbid me. That lessened my motivation to go this way, because of what I really wanted was to see the lake by pirogue.
I soon found a car, but he drove around the town making stop after stop. Finally, just when I thought we were really going to leave, he stopped and a multitude of woman wearing one of two distinct colors of dress hopped on. I survived the trip into Bol. On arrival, our car had to change a flat, so I walked with my entire luggage to the police office in the burning sand wearing my sandals. I got them to sign my passport and write a separate letter, then they closed the office. I thanked my lucky stars for having gotten there before they closed.
The rest of the day was a nightmare. Sweating profusely, I was lead to what was called the station and hotel. This was a place with no sign of being a station and there were only a few impolite youngsters running the restaurant, which, from my investigation, had little or nothing to offer. My thirst was unquenchable. My bowel hurt. I borrowed a can opener and opened a can of the sliced pineapple given to me by the Chinese. It was hot, but I finished the entire can, putting the second can back in my pack, my every movement being followed by the watchful eyes of the children there.
I decided to hire a car to take me to the crossroads. I walked to where the car had dropped me and asked the ‘chauffer’ if he would take me to the 12 kilometers to the crossroads. He said if I would be 4000 CFA. I agreed. Moments later he pointed to a young man. He said that young man would be the driver and that he felt it was too little, 4000 CFA was, to pay for the ride. In disgust I left.
My head was swimming. The disappointment in the authorities and people doubled the intensity of the heat. I walked back towards the hotel. Increasingly, I hurt, not wanting to admit of my pain. Soon I could not deny to myself that I was weak. I saw some people drinking beer and I walked into the place. It seemed to me a haven of relative friendliness in an otherwise barren, harsh environment. I told them I was sick. They asked what was wrong and I said I didn’t know. I was given a place to lie down on a mat outside. My things were sent for from “the hotel.” I didn’t notice until later that the children had stolen the other can of pineapple and the can of fried fish.
When I felt the need to defeat, virtually nothing came out. A few drops of urine trickled out orange. A wave of fear came over me, for I thought I might have hepatitis. The thought of coming down with a case of that here was unbearable. I was frightened. In fact, I would not put death out of the realm of possibility with a bad case of hepatitis, intense heat, and little medical attention.
By and by, an energetic man came in the room next to where I lay in the shade on a mat. He was drinking beer and eating. It wasn’t long before I discovered he was leaving for Massakouri in a few minutes. I asked for a ride to the crossroad and he agreed.
He didn’t drive but had another, older man drive. By the time we got to the crossroad, the man had informed me that it took only 2 hours to get to Massakouri (because his Land Cruiser was fast) and he said I could probably be in N’djamena that night. He, evaluating my situation, persuaded me that was the best course of action. We sped past the crossroad south bound.
On the way I finished the beer I had ordered in Bol. Given my condition, it might sound like unwise tonic, but in fact, it eased my pain and perhaps restored some lost water.
In Massakouri, I thanked the man. He didn’t ask for money. I gave him a US $5 bill as a souvenir.
I felt badly and tried to contain my pain while waiting quietly on a mat in the shade drinking tea while I waited for the truck to N’djamena to leave.
The tale of misery wouldn’t be complete without relating the ride. I paid an extra 500 CFA to sit in front, but when I noted plenty of room to lie down in the back, I laid there. Before we left town, we stopped at a check post. It was now growing dark. A woman who may have been a policewoman or only a helper asked me inside. A man checked my documents. Upon re-boarding, a man tried to assume my seat in the cab where I had placed my camera bags for safekeeping. I tried to prevent him sitting there, and the policewoman interfered. I told her it wasn’t her affair. This shocked her and she pointed out to me that it was her affair, because she was police, which only goes to point out the vast difference in the scope of police influence between this place and home. I allowed if the man kept my bags carefully he could sit there until such time as I wanted to return to the cabin.
Not far down the road there was a group of people who hailed us with great commotion. We stopped for ten or fifteen minutes, for what reason I don’t know, and continued along. It was blissful to be in the back with the relatively cool night air flowing over me.
By and by, we stopped and the driver bought bale upon bale of wood from the roadside vendor. They ordered everyone and everything out of the back and proceeded to fill it to the brim with wood. They in fact filled it so high that by the time they started loading passengers and their goods back on top of the heap, it became apparent how excessive was their desire to cram as much on as possible. At first I tried to persuade them to hurry, pointing out in my sign language and limited French how I was in need to get to N’djamena because I was sick. They assured me that it would only be a short time (5 or 10 minutes). I commented to them that in their country, a driver was like—I searched for an appropriate word in my limited vocabulary—a king, or the sun. The passengers were like animals. That is the way I saw it. It was no matter that people had paid their way. The inconvenience suffered by the paying client was of no consequence. This attitude was seemingly more pronounced here in Chad. I even saw, on entering the border, a driver slap one woman’s behind cheerfully, like she was a sheep or a goat, but perhaps he knew her, and it wasn’t minded.
I was disgusted by the lack of consideration. Between this attitude and the police paranoia, I could not see the people helping themselves. They were holding one another down. It wasn’t only the act, but the attitude given off. No courtesies were shown to the passengers nor were any even thought necessary, or so it seemed. Maybe I just don’t really understand. Maybe they are sensitive on these points. I’m only reporting what I see.
I took my place in front and was glad to have reserved it earlier.
I awoke when we reached the stopping point for the night, somewhere close to N’djamena. Bless them, for they laid a mat out for me to sleep on. I feel asleep with the cool breeze blowing over on me.

June 22, 1990
Maiduguri, Nigeria
[A]

6:59 a.m. N’djamena, Tchad
I’m standing here, I’m quite miserable right now because I am scared shitless by the authorities, and all I want to do is to get out of here. The reason I am scared is only because my French is so poor and they arte, at least it appears to me, paranoid.

8.52 a.m.
I’ve been miserable and worried now I am at the Chari River pont (bridge). Hopefully in a few minutes I’ll be in Ngali. Hopefully I’ll get out of Chad, OK. Hopefully I can transit successfully to Nigeria.
I feel much better today. I am afraid to urinate because it hurt so much yesterday and it was orange so it made me think I had hepatitis. I feel much better—for one thing, I needed to sleep. The night before I catnapped when I could but we didn’t get to Bol until 4.20 a.m., and was up within a couple of hours.
My weakness has gone and I am feeling stronger. Yesterday after noon I felt so weak all of a sudden that I was becoming disoriented. I will tell you quite frankly I was very worried about my health. It occurred to me, when I saw my orange wine that I could have hepatitis, and that depending how bad a case it was and in combination with heat exhaustion, I should continue on to Baga Sola and across the lake. In fact the way I felt at just that moment, I feared even the possibility of death!

I am almost done with my first beer. I can’t describe how great is my sense of relief to be here. For the record, even though it may be Tedious, I want to record my day:

5:35 a.m.
Awake.

5:45 a.m.
First checkpoint one man looks it my passport. He hands it to another man. He in turn gives it to a chief was sleeping in a mat, who says it is not correct that I didn’t get a permit to circulate. He tells another man to escort me to the police in N’djamena. He gives my passport to the man and won’t let me have it.

6:30 a.m.
I am escorted to the police bureau. I realize that the paper from Bol is in my passport—a letter of passage from the inspector there to Baga Sola, evidence that I went there and I am regretting I didn’t cross out the exit stamp at Bol in my passport. I tell the escort I want to remove a “personal paper” from my passport. Indicates that he is aware of the paper. When we get to the bureau I explain to a man there that I went to Bol but then become sick and returned to N’djamena. He reads the letter and explains to my escort that it’s a letter of passage. The escort leaves. The man explains he is only the watchman. He seems nice. He leaves. Another person came on watch. For a moment he leaves and I seize the opportunity to remove the letter from the passport. Then he returns, and when he is not looking I put an X over the exit stamp and write “ANNULE” (cancelled) across it. I’m afraid if they see an exit stamp from Bol that they will insist I return there.
Another man comes. He says the inspector is due there at 7 a.m. As each new person comes I notice that the person about to leave doesn’t seem to tell too much to the next person, so when the watchman leaves, I tell the next guy I only went as for as Massakouri.
Since the inspection doesn’t come by 7 a.m., I tell Mamoud (the latest person) that I want tea. We go for tea, and I tell him my impression of the great amount of security there. He relates that sometimes two or three men will be sitting in a restaurant and strike up a conversation with you and if you say the wrong thing, they will handcuff you. At this point, he lifts his gown and shows me his handcuffs to demonstrate. Mamoud seems nice, but I realize he’s a police guy and my paranoia is growing.
When we return, the secretary comes and takes down my name. I dilute my story even further and tell him I stayed all three days in N’djamena at the Hirondelle. He asks me three times if I know the Hirondelle. I repeat that I do. Mamoud then escorts me across town by taxi, allegedly to the immigration office. I am shitting bricks. When we arrive the complex has barbed wire and says “Surete Nationale.” I am looking around for prison bars. I am escorted to a room with bare walls and a man takes down my information. Mamoud leaves.
Then the man says he’s going to take me to “Immigration.” We walked across a complex where a French man is waiting in front of a door that’s closed. My escort tells me to wait here. The French man says he’s waiting because he has no Visa. I say I have a visa, and when he explains this to my escort, my escort says I’m free to go!

9:00 a.m.
I am on my way to the border. Checkpoint at the bridge. One man looks at my passport.

9:45 a.m.
at Ngalu border post
First the police office. One man asks me questions. He hands my passport to a second man that records my information. On my way out another man thoroughly inspects each of my two handbags, ignoring the large bag outside. I exit and no one notices. I bypass the third post (customs) and I walk to the bridge.
A man inspects my passport. I show him my exit stamp.

10.30 a.m.
I walk across the bridge. At the other side another man with a rifle inspects my bags and gives me an O.K. I take a Polaroid of him to insure him that it is a camera. I am directed to another man who looks at my passport. He asks for a souvenir and I give him a US dollar.

11:00 a.m.
I am driven to the police office in Kousseri, Cameroon. Relieved that I’m out of Tchad. This police inspector is Joseph Tito-Brown and is welcoming. I tell him of how difficult I have found it. He reminds me that he warned me of this about Tchad. I lie to him I was sick and that’s why I was three days instead of one day, to eliminate any complicated stories. But he is so well-expressed in English and so understanding that it’s great to talk to him. He gives me a transit visa for 5000 CFA.

12:00 p.m.
I go have a beer. Something got in my eye back in Tchad. I buy my ticket to Fotokol. The car is ready to leave but I go to get a water to cleanse my eye. I put my sunglasses on the table. The water doesn’t work and I go to a car mirror and can see the dirt lodging my cornea. The car driver and others tell me to come. I forget my glasses. I lose my place in the front and they say if I don’t like it I can wait for the next car.

1:05 p.m.
Arrive in Fotokol. I am checked through immigration smoothly on my exit. I go to the bridge, change money, getting 8.5 Naira for my dollars and the equivalent of 9 for my CFA.

2:00 p.m.
I go across the bridge, have my passport checked, thinking my troubles are over. I enter Nigerian immigration. I’m asked where I am going.
“I’m going through to Benin.” A man tells me that I have a business visa and that means I have the wrong visa, I should have a transit visa, and that I must return to Washington, D.C. to get the appropriate visa! I didn’t know what to think because I couldn’t go back to Cameroon, so in a way I thought his request was ridiculous. I argued with him and with another man. I told them that I had a perfectly good visa, business or otherwise which allowed me to enter their country. The second man said basically that my visa allowed me to try to enter but they had the power to turn me away. I told him that he certainly had the authority and I respected his position, that I was at his mercy, however, I would like him to listen to my explanation. I had tried earlier to modify my story to the effect that I might go to Lagos to do business. I was now being accused of lying to the federal Government.
I explained edgewise to the second man.
“You have to understand. I come in here; I’m tired; I don’t know anybody, and this man (referring to the first man) starts asking me questions in an antagonist way”.
“I think you’re speaking too harshly.”
I made a comment “There are many Nigerians in my country. Before I left I would notice someone speaking a certain way—because Nigerians speak English in a particular way—and I would ask them where they were from. I hope that my government treats them well when they come to America.”
“So you are saying that we are not treating you well?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said that I hope my government treats you well.”
“Then you are saying something indirectly, what is it?”
“Well, so I am. I’m trying to make a point. The least you can do is to let me explain and be reasonable with what you hear.”
Then they gave me a blue entry card and had me fill it out. I wrote, “Traveling across the country and exiting to Benin, possibly checking out semiconductor activity in Lagos.”
A woman, one of three uniformed behind another desk, intervened and asked what was the problem. They huddled around her and momentarily they figured out what I was doing in such a way that it met the regulations. What I gathered from what they said was that I was going to Benin and then returning to Nigeria to do business using my multiple entry status.
“Is that what you’re going to do?” they peered at me. I replied affirmatively. Then they gave me passport to yet another man who told me to wait and left the room. When he finished, they gave the document back to the woman and then back to the original desk, where they put in an entry stamp.
Then I had to go to customs and then to the health checkpoint! By this time it was around 3 p.m., but I was free to travel for a week in Nigeria.

June 23, 1990
Jos, Nigeria

June 24, 1990
Enugu, Nigeria
[A]

3:30 a.m. Jos, Nigeria

I went to bed at 9:30 p.m. and woke up at 12:30 a.m. I couldn’t sleep so I have been organizing since then.
I am a bit depressed because the tracking on my video recorder is not working well. I have yet to figure out whether it is on playback or record that I have the problem.
I am a bit lonely for Phyllis. Being faithful is what I want for my own sake. Still, it makes it harder. I feel good about my decision to be good. Phyllis is very important to me and I want to know in my heart that I have done all I can to make things right.
I’m considering what to do. I covered so much ground today in Nigeria, I am not used to the travel being so fast in Africa. I was even comfortable in my Peugot 504 wagon, riding shotgun.
I probably will get up early tomorrow and go straight to Enugu. I am a little concerned about the danger of the south, but I will do my best to be careful. I want to get up and take pictures in the morning, then got to the bus station about 8 a.m. and hope I’m not too late.

7:30 a.m.
I have been studying the 2 hours videotape. Finally, I found a section that I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was all messed up last night on playback, and now the scene played through clean, so it seems the tape itself had to be clean. This gives me the confidence I needed to keep shooting. Even if only part of it makes it through, it is worth it. Travel for a week in Nigeria.

10:30 a.m. Motor Park
I am the first of 7 passengers to “Obolo 9th mile.” I hope we fill up before too many hours, because it would be nice to reach Enugu.

There must be about four different levels of the quality of photographs of people.
1) The highest must be photograph of people being themselves. Either unaware of the photographer or not minding, but just doing what ever they were doing when the photographer came along to reach this highest class, the people are captured at the peak of their activity, such as two people gesturing to one another; the photo tell the story. From my experience, these photographs are rare.
2) Fully cooperative poses. These could be either be facing the camera or doing their work. The subject should be engaging in some way—an expensive look, a colorful custom, an interesting combination of people And/ or people things. If the photo is well taken, such photo can be a five piece of art, if it records something common in an unusual way.
3) A photo at cross purpose, suppose you are taking a photo of a house with children and a new comer walks into the scene, throwing it off in some way. Anytime the photo is ill—concerned, or the lighting is wrong, or the cooperative subject doesn’t appear totally natural, the photo cannot be great.
4) An uncooperative subject. Even if the subject has agreed to the photo, if their unwillingness shows through the photo lacks any sense of warmth.
My biggest problem most of the time is that I don’t have control of the photo. For example, in the street no mater what kind of photo I try to take it seems there is always someone wanting to be in the picture. If I want a picture of a house, then I end up with a picture of a house with a person watching the camera.
Or, for example, typically, if I’m trying to get a shot of five Muslim men for example, sitting talking against a wall either:
i. I cant get close enough or at a direct angle to capture is the way I really want with out disturbing them, or
ii. One of them will glare at me, or
iii. They will cooperate but not assume their natural postures, or
iv. They will look at the camera instead of each other, or
v. Someone will join in that wasn’t intended originally by me to be in the photograph.

June 25, 1990
Benin City, Nigeria
[A] [E] [S]

10:55 p.m.

I am very much excited by the art here. In Benin City, I have surprisingly found what I was looking for, or one of the things I was looking for. The museum here was astounding—to learn a synopsis of the history of Benin City and the Obas and a briefing on the myriad of artwork here and in the regions surrounding was eye-opening and satisfying.
I must admit that my excitement has culminated in my purchase—for $70—a 75-pound statue of Oba Akenzua of, I believe it to be ebony, standing about 3’9” high. It’s beautifully carved and the statue seems to have a life of its own. The reason I ended up sleeping here tonight was because of the statue, for I discovered that I need a permit from the museum here to take it out of the country. I have to pay a customs duty. Then I have to ship it. I will find out what the details and cost are on that tomorrow.
Two times today I felt frightened or threatened here. Once was when I stepped out of the taxi arriving in Benin City. A woman who had also come from Enugu in the cab said to me, while I was standing there looking around, “You’d better hurry and find a taxi.…” I said, “What do you mean, is there a problem.” She gestured to me, “No, just come along.” Then she and another woman hailed a taxi and we all got in. The woman knew I wanted to go to the museum because I’d been speaking to the driver about it. In the cab, she said that the other woman, then she, had noticed some “ruffians.” She said she wasn’t sure, but that she just thought I should be careful.
The next thing was that when I had entered the museum, a man came up and said, “If you want them like this, I can get for you.” “What do you mean? Do you mean you can get replicas?” “Yes.” But the way he replied was almost as if to give agreement rather than give a correct reply. He gave me a card of a shop and I said I would go there right after I looked at the museum. I kind of expected him to stick around outside, but later when I was ready to go, I noticed him gone. I asked the museum staff if this shop was good. I was warned that because of the nature of the way I’d been approached that might be the intended victim of a scheme. I verbally played it out for them so that I could double-check if I understood them correctly. The scene I envisioned was that said man would wait for me in the shop, while unbeknownst to me he would have notified my impending arrival to some of his less cordial colleagues, who would be laying in wait to relieve me of my luggage. They laughed and nodded that I’d understood.
My general impression is that the Nigerians recognize a dubious element with in their society.

Benin Museum
“The City of Benin was the religious and political center of the Benin Kingdom as it was here that the OBA maintained his palace. The OBA, his court and the Ogbe included the residences of palace chiefs. The town itself was called “Orenokhua”: here the town chiefs and their retainers [?] lived. Bronze workers guild: IGUNEROMWON.

“The early style in Benin art is typified by more naturalistic heads in thin native brass”.
“The pillars supporting the roof of the palace were described by an early traveler as follows:
“From top to bottom, they’re covered with cast cappers on which are engraved scenes of their exploits and battles”.
“In 1897, the palace took up about a 16th of the area of Benin City, one entered the Palace through a gate flanked by high towers. On each tower was mounted a great bronze python said to be about 40 feet in length.”

The coral bead regalia which the Oba wore on special occasions seems to have the subject of an annual ceremony of its own. In the past a human sacrifice was made over the garment. As part of religious beliefs of the occupants of Benin, human sacrifice was no more barbaric than Abraham’s intended sacrifice of his son Isaac.

According to Chief Eghareuba, brass-casting began in Benin City 1280 A.D. when Oba Oguola commissioned Iguegha to found a guild of skilled craftsmen… only the bronze workers were forbidden to work for anyone else.
The great warrior King’s of Benin conquered and ruled a huge empire. During the 15th and 16th centuries it was at its high of power and splendor.
It reached from Porto Novo in the west to beyond the Niger Riva in the east.
The Obas of Benin were divine Kings—Rules who were rein ear nation of pact Kings and whore Physical well being of the Kingdom itself. The person of the King was considered sacred and he was credited with supernatural Powers.
The truck richness of Obas Court and Benin’s long art tradition remained hidden from the outside world until 1897 when the British sent representatives to Benin City to discuss treaty violations. Bini chiefs attacked the expedition with out the Oba’s knowledge, and 6 of the 8 Englishmen were killed. The British then sent an army defeated the Oba’s soldiers and captured Benin city. The king was sent into excel, and the contents of his palace were sent to England to be sold.

The bronze are is unique and continued until 1897 when most of the masterpiece were taken to Europe leaving here only a small fraction of the glory of Benin.

Strange dreams night of June 25, 1990

1. I dreamed that I came upon this place I had heard of before—the sense I had heard about a monument and now stumbled upon it. It was like a little town or a place where there was a cluster of house marking the place. But what really surprised me was, that as I continued down around the mountainside, I turned a corner walking, and—extended way out from a green hillside—was an enormous flat-shaped caricature of a head.

I’ve tried to represent something of what it looked like, but it is very difficult to describe. The arches on top of the head, now that I think about it, remind me of a picture I saw yesterday in the book I bought in the museum on Nigerian art. There’s a photo of a mask with some saw teeth. In fact, the head I am visualizing in my dream resembles something, but I can’t grasp what it is. I’m wondering if it is akin to one of the non-descript alien forms in the lives of Nazca in Peru. There is a photo perhaps in my archives where the head and the body are one, and the legs come straight out of the body. It seems in my memory that there’s also a display in the Benin Museum that talked of a creature or carving that had legs coming out of—Yes! I remember—it was, I must say I am not relieved to realize—the Messenger of Death who had the legs and arms come out of it’s head directly. But this figure in my dream only reminds me of it—I don’t believe it had that quality.

The figure was perhaps 200’ high and only 15’ wide, pancake-shaped—a flat face, looking perhaps like it was made out of concrete. The edges of the figure were green (see bottom sketch previous page) and the main part was white. I was dumbstruck; it looked so amazing. I wonder now if the dream sequence was parabolic to my sense of being touched by the artwork in the Benin Museum today.

2. Most likely tied into the dream sequence, I found myself with a woman, who had large full breasts and unearthly nipples about 1¼ inches high. She was pretty, as if European stock, with short-cut brown hair. I remember thinking how nice it was going to be to suck on those nipples. It was as if Phyllis had arranged this women for me as either a counterpart to herself or as replacement to herself; it seemed as if she had done so because she felt it was my wish. Then I was suddenly with Phyllis and I suddenly felt such a difference that even though the other woman was fine that now I was free to love and to make love and I felt such a gushing of love towards Phyllis. The difference was like night and day, the sense of being overwhelming in love and feeling like she was the one I really wanted to f___ and like she was the one I felt comfortable to make love with, perhaps like it was almost as if impossible to make love with anyone but her and a total feeling of arriving “home.” I remember feeling jubilation.
Some of this makes sense to how I am feeling now.

3. The third part I remember was that I had won 20 - 500 dollar bills ($10,000) and also won two other $500 bills, making my winnings a total of $11,000. A pretty woman with blonde hair seemed terribly interested in me. It was as if there were a general interest of the people around when someone there won the contest that was going on. I wasn’t sure if she was interested in me or the money I had won, but I would not tell her how much I had won, only that I had won 500’s that came in a range of serial numbers (for e.g, ________1 to _______15). I remember walking out down the road (at night) feeling self satisfied and thinking I had won $11,000 and thinking of how it would further augment my fortune. Feeling lucky.
I don’t understand how this fits together, but I can draw certain parables. The space of the dream gave a feeling of: amazement, comfort, warmth, the feeling of being desired by the opposite sex, joy, and luck. A land of wonder.

One strong idea comes to mind. I had purchased the statue of the Oba (Akenzua) and the statue gave me strong feelings of security and being watched over, protected, a sense of being close to an entity that was imparting strong powerful vibrations and by proximity being the recipient of a dose of positive force. Before I went to bed, I felt that statue faced towards the bed would impart something to me in my sleep. Before I slept, though, I had turned it in line with the foot of the bed in order to take a picture of it.
Also, the whole experience of seeing the art in the museum—I believe I have been deeply moved by what I saw and that the strength of the dreams was a direct result of the experience.
I feel on such occasions that animist spirits, if they exist, recognize my respect for them and my goodness, and that they are my benefactors and protectors.

June 26, 1990
Lagos, Nigeria

June 27, 1990
Cotonou, Benin
[A]

9:25 a.m. Lagos, Nigeria, Enroute to Cotonou
Breathing exhaust. Jolted. Vendors line the roads and stand between the lines of cars pushing and stopping on the coastal highway between Lagos and Cotonou. The driver reaches under my side of the dashboard whenever he seems it necessary to manually advance the windshield wipers to clear to the accumulation of gray-born drizzle. From the seats ear of me comes to chatter of French. Now they are silent as the traffic congestion lifts and we start to roll at fair speed. After a pause the conversation animates again.
“Don’t speed
if you drive like hell,
you will go to hell. The Rotary Club,” reads the sign on the road!

A truck pulled over has tossed clumps of dirt and grass on the road which is the custom here, (in the same way) as we use flares. Misspellings on the billboards: “Proffessional.” For these people, this is the only world they know. “They are poor, and they only know it,” I think to myself.
Petrol is cheap. We pull into an ELF station. 600 Kobo a liter.
“Don’t overspend.”
“Don’t commit suicide, it is a sin,” cries another sign, probably from the same organization.

10:20 p.m. Cotonou

I like this place. I was planning on going to Abomey, but it’s late, so I checked into a room for 3000 CFA. It’s just my sort of place. Conveniently located (across the street from where I was dropped), has a restaurant and another downstairs, the restaurant at has outside tables and a bar and stays open late, playing rapid, modern African music. The people are very friendly. There is a breeze blowing—not hot, not cool, just right, at my back. I’m waiting for my food.
The music and the breeze lend it a seaside atmosphere. I guess I could be in the Caribbean. Cotonou is adjacent to the ocean, Gulf of Guinea.
For all the things I don’t like about French Africa, Togo and Benin seem to have a little flair.
A placemat is brought out. A salad with cucumbers, tomatoes, onion, butter lettuce, and a tasty, tangy vinaigrette! Salt, pepper, and mustard are served on a little stainless steel tray. It’s clean. I’m not used to this service! (I get up to ask for bread.) Undoubtedly the French had a culinary effect in this part of the world.
My plan is to go to Abomey tomorrow. I want to get a taste of the place, see the ruins shown on the map, see what art museums and art shops I can, and see if I can find any traces or information on voodoo, this being said home of same.
For a country that may well hold the record for coups in recent years, the atmosphere is surprising by friendly and not paranoid.

June 28, 1990
Cotonou, Benin via Abomey and return
[F]

…waiting for the car to fill 9.25 a.m.
My problem is that every time I think I have a good deal here, it turns out I am getting ripped off. For example I just bought 4 shirts and a pair of pants, though used, they’re in good condition.

Still, I wanted some kick around clothes because the clothes in Europe probably are $20 to $30 each and harder to shop for.

Item Price Price What I’m
Asked I paid told is the going price
Shirt pullover 1500 1200 500
Shirt heavy cotton 1200 1100 500
Dress Shirt “Pierre Cardin” 1500 1000 500
Short sleeve shirt 1200 1000 500
Black pants 1800 1500 500
7200 5800 2500

Approx $26 $22 $10

June 29, 1990
Cotonou, Benin

June 30, 1990
Valetta, Malta
[A]

1:00 a.m. Cotonou, Benin
I’m listening to Kasse Mady “Kouland jau kela” and my mind is being carried away. Tomorrow my plan is to arrive in Malta. I’m planning on going here and there in Europe. I’m thinking if Phyllis. I’m thinking of Gam. Tonight I talked with Sterling. My new-found friends, Florence and David, from Capetown, even treated me to a beer tonight. There’s no paying for the love of friendship.

July 1, 1990
Messina, Sicily, Italy

Monday, July 2, 1990
Naples, Italy
[A]

9:25 p.m.
This is like a whole other world, Naples is. My head is swimming. Beer after beer, espresso and cappuccino all day, driving and driving. Only three or four hours sleep last night. Let’s see. I got to bed about 2:15 a.m., and I got up at 5:26 a.m., so that’s not really even three hours sleep.
I wish my video tape hadn’t run out. I want to record all I see.
Driving into Naples from Pompeii and became Neapolitan, if that’s what people from Naples are called. I left Pompeii at 8-ish or maybe 830-ish and I drove like a demon to fulfill my wish to see Naples by daylight. What I’m getting at is that they drove much crazier than I. They made me look like a conservative. I was doing 120-130 in the city autostrade. The sun was globular red, half-hid behind the mountain. I tore up the streets, driving like I was playing bumper cars. I fit right in. My right front wheel hit a divider. I better slow down. I dumped a bundle-full of film packaging on the street. It will not be noticed. It fit right in too. I am embarrassed about that. It is amazing how moral values are cultural. Outside the culture, they are often meaningless.
I vowed to have dinner in Naples before going on to Avezzano. I’m sitting at the Ciro restaurant. Again, I wish my video had tape. There are mauve (brown/lavender) tablecloths, a smart, full, computer-printed menu, marble floors, lace chandeliers over the tables living the window. It is smart.
When I was looking for the center of town, I saw the fortification. I was impressed there were Africans all over the square outside. I asked one man of the same appearance where they were from. They are Somalians who live here and gather on holidays like today, though I can’t tell you what holiday it is.
I took a pair of photographs with a trio of towers and a moon above in the growing darkness.
The waiter told me just now that Henry Kissinger is just downstairs right now eating. I said that I wanted to go see. He reminded me what I had told him when I entered. My sandals, shorts and polo shirt are marginal in here.
Mt. Vesuvius makes an outline behind the fortification, maybe 25 kilometers away. I drove as far as I could up its slopes today, one of the reasons I was late for Pompeii old city. It closed at 7 p.m. and I arrived at 7:41 p.m.
(I hope my cameras are OK in the car.)
Starting Saturday morning in Cotonou, I have been on the move. I keep asking myself the rhetorical question: Why I kill myself to see it all. I’m at one and the same time thrilled to see it all and feeling guilty for driving myself so hard. I imagine criticism of what my schoolmate Gary Cappa would say—that I’m only interested in saying I’ve been there. While on one hand it would be fruitless to insist my desires are not superficial, on the other, I feel a criticizer is yet of a lower, order—on this point that is.
It is a striving to comprehend what would it be like to be acquainted with all lands?! What would it be like to be able to judge the relatively of man’s social and physical world from first-hand knowledge.
There will always be more to see than I have seen, I remind myself.
Today I woke in Sicily before 6 a.m., drove up the coast road, taking in some stunning coastal towns. Town after town in the mountains along the autostrade, after I had left the coastal road, there was a long bridge with a spectacular view of a castle and town right after it. There were many picturesque villages along the way. After some time, I made my way to Salerno. The banks had closed. After driving around in circles, I finally found the train station and they changed the money, though it was complicated. I drove to Pompeii. I took a great deal of time photographing Mt. Vesuvius from the highway, then trying to drive to it, but the road I was on didn’t reach all the way. Actually I had been searching for the old city, not realizing it was in the center of town. When I got there I was forty minutes too late. They finally let me walk part way to the edge and I caught glimpses of what it must have been like. I drove into Naples as described. After dinner, I left Naples about 11:30 p.m. and drove to Avezzano. I arrived exhausted about 1:45 a.m., but by the time I found a room and got settled, it was 2.30 a.m.

July 3, 1990
San Marino, San Marino

July 4, 1990
Innsbruck, Austria

July 5, 1990
Stuttgart, Germany
[A]

11:15 p.m.

Genius is founded on mistakes.

I am totally burnt out, but paced myself today, and considering the fact I’m frazzled to a pulp, I managed to have a very nice day. I drove through some beautiful German countryside this evening. It was perfect driving terrain, smooth, winding gentle- sloping, well-built two lane highway through green pasture, towns, some with castles, from Bregenz to Stuttgart via Ravensburg and Sigmaringen.
In the morning I woke at 9.30 a.m. in a daze, after four hours rest. I drove through western Austria and into Vaduz, Lichtenstein.
Last night was torment. In fact, yesterday was particularly nasty—it was also magic—but I made too many errors of judgment and paid for it by arriving in Innsbruck at 5.30 a.m.
Yesterday—I will always remember. It was the day I first visited Venice. The mere thought of it brings tears to my eyes—the sort of mystical tears one cannot explain. I cannot explain any of the feelings that came over me. Venice is the most magical place I have ever been. The time I spent from 7 p.m. to 10:30 p.m. walking the streets lining canals, it was as if I were in a time warp. When I walked out of the city, it was like leaving a fairy tale. The harsh world outside painted a terrible contrast with the Romance that permeates every particle of that place.
It is the most Romantic place I’ve ever been. The yearning I felt there was inexplicable. It was at one and the same time an agony and a pleasure.
No doubt my utter fatigue heightened my senses of emotion, but I cannot tell how deeply I was moved.
I started driving at 10:45 p.m. and reached Bolzano at 2. I drove around Bolzano until 3 p.m., and in all that time I saw only one small hotel and they would not open the door for me. The fact is that for a relatively large city, it was appalling how inhospitable it was to a visitor. In disgust, and with out a lot of choice, I continued on to Innsbruck. It was a cold and dreary night—I fought off depression—the kind that comes from fatigue.

July 7, 1990
Venice, Italy
[A] [L] [S]

2:42 a.m
A maze of dreams brought me to a photo developer where I was examining some photographs I had taken. A guy was before me looking at his pictures and there were some girls about. I felt sort of annoyed by them. When I took my pictures out, they one by one gasped and look at them as I went through them. They were these incredible images of people-like creatures, some of them looked like portraits and others had optical effects, for example, the face of one was blown-up in the middle, distorting is even more. The photos were like something no one had ever seen. Did these creatures really exist or was it my photography that created them, the images? Some creatures had green faces, I believe, some orange.
To my left a girl stood right up against the counter. I noticed as my head was at about the level of her crotch, that I could plainly see her pubic hair. In fact, her dress was made of plastic, and I could see her leg, where the hair began, in the cleft of the upper leg. It was in the image of what Phyllis looks like in that part of her body. I was very close to her. She was looking and gasping at my photographs along with the others. Although I can’t remember if I saw her face, my “image-remembrance” was that she was very beautiful and sexy.
I remember thinking in light of my faithfulness to Phyllis, that I should just let go and go for it and push against her and my image-remembrance was that I leaned into her pussy. Then I woke up and felt wetness.
It’s perfectly quiet here. I felt a non-entity spiritual presence. What I mean is that it was more a feeling of history than a person. I felt as if the feeling here induced me to have my first wet dream, almost as if I had been initiated into a special “normality.” There was love present.

When I awoke, I remembered another dream. I was with Phyllis. There was a woman there whose boyfriend was a mountain climber. I believe she was conducting hiking tours—I believe he was going up Tegelberg—(the mountain I supposedly cannot climb to get the best photo of Neuschwanstein). She was staying behind. She asked if I could accompany her somewhere for a few minutes.
When we were apart from Phyllis, she started to rub herself and carress her body, almost like she was having an orgasm. I was astonished at her openness—a bit admiring. She asked if I would put “it” (my penis) down there (against her vagina). I thought a moment and I told her I couldn’t because of the fact I was with Phyllis (though if I would have been single I would have).
I remember a brief segment of another dream in which (I believe Phyllis was with me). We went to Mandy’s house. The only glimpse I caught of Mandy was when she walked down the hall to take a telephone call. She had dyed her hair black and she seemed as I listened to the sound of her voice as she spoke on the phone, to be more chipper than she was before when I knew her, and I had the impression that she had adjusted fine to my breaking off from her.
I also dreamt that because of something like “I didn’t come when I said I would” sort of thing, she (Phyllis) broke off with me. It filled me with a “continual longing” and I felt abandoned after looking forward so much to being with her.

July 8, 1990
Pisa, Italy

July 9, 1990
Toulouse, France
[A] [F] [S]

Success in love is determined by one’s happiness.

Where once artists were servants of courts, in retrospect they’re respected as ones sublime.

Love is the Doctrine of accurate perception.

11:50 p.m.
Even though I’ve had very little sleep as of late, I feel wired right now, because I slept on the plane from Nice to Toulouse. In fact, I remember nothing of the flight except that the stewardess shook my arm to rouse me when we were about to land.
This evening I tried to find Motorola. In the process, I asked a motorist (his girlfriend accompanying him in the car) if they knew where Motorola was. They said, yes, it’s to the right, and I had the impression they were going towards it, so I followed them—I sort of thought they were helping me. After (they turned towards the left) perhaps 5 Km, I pulled up and motioned—was it still straight ahead?—and they indicated it was. After awhile longer, I pulled up again and I asked if it was to the left, and they said, “Yes, to the left.”
In such a way it seemed they didn’t care which way I went. Then they pointed off to the right, and I realized they agree just trying to get rid of me. I pulled up and said, “Thanks a lot,” and they dashed off to the left, seemingly worried I might react badly to their little joke.
I asked another man and he was quite helpful. He said that many French were like that. I told him that for 15 years I have defended the French whenever someone asserted they were nasty to foreigners. I’m patently unaccustomed to people being purposely cruel. I’ve seen people be dishonest for personal gain, or mislead me for self-interest. I have seen people be rude because they didn’t understand, or get angry for some reason. It is fortunate that I have found it few and far between for a person to be purposefully mea

Aeroport, Nice, France (flying to Toulouse)
It occurs to me that in my increasingly comprehensive money collection of the world, I haven’t one note that honors one of great religious or spiritual figures of history. The face which appear on the notes usually are either past or present political figures or in some cases, great men or women of science (Sigmund Freud, Austria) or other prominence (Marco Polo, Italy). Bills are decorated with animals, buildings, and artwork, even local scenes (cattle, women in costumes, musicians, in Africa). Yet of all the entities which profoundly rule people’s lives, I’ve never seen a visage, although no doubt one exists somewhere: Muhammad, Buddha, Jesus, Shiva, alone spiritually lead over half the world, and countless other prophets are adored. I’ve never seen one on a bill. Of course, the inevitable development (as science fiction writers such as Isaac Asimov have suggested) is an international currency. I wonder what they will put on it. It’s important to be objective and fair.

Toulouse
I’m having lunch after my meeting and before I pick up my clothes, get my bags, visit St. Sim____ and get to the airport.
I can’t stomach the salads here in Toulouse. Twice that I have tried, they were served with heaps of greasy meats on top. Normally being one who enjoys meat, the salads have made my stomach turn. The one at this restaurant was served with heart all over it, and bacon and fried bacon (fat) bits as well as sort of salami or cured ham. It had about twice as much meat as greens.
All of a sudden, I’m sort of dreading have to travel in Europe away from Phyllis in the future. I don’t want to have to come here for a week at a time.

July 10, 1990
Chartes, France (via Toulouse and Paris)
[A] [S]

What a scanty thing is my freedom one gram of it worth a Kingdom.

10:10 p.m. Paris
Even half hour ago I was feeling depressed, and now I feel hope. In a few moments, it will be delight. Why?—because I chose the right restaurant. It was only a few minutes walk from where I was parked near the Eiffel Tower. I asked for another seat and was given a perfect table near the fresh air of the door and surrounded by windows. I carefully inquired what I could order to avoid any mistakes, and I ordered perfectly: a slice of duck pate (with little sliced pickles), a salad of tomatoes and lettuce, making sure they didn’t add meat (natúre), and I specially requested a vinaigrette (which is divine). The salad had butter lettuce, tomatoes and lettuce (the prickly kind—but not bitter). The bread is cut into 2” long sections—a baguette and they supplied an ample serving of butter. To accompany my meal, for the first time this trip, I ordered a ½ bottle of Chateau Lyonnat (Lussac—Saint Emilion) 1986 (a Galgon (Gironde) France 375 ml).
My main dish is lamb chops, which hasn’t yet arrived and a bottle of Perrier (as much as I am not fond of it, it’s much better than Buddort, which I’ve been drinking. Buddort is tasteless, and nothing can compare with Italian mineral water. Every Italian mineral water was fantastic). The wine is perfect. The gentleman dining next to me is having fits of rapture over his meal. He declared his wine “Fantastique.” “Ca c’est fantastique,” after letting out an “Ah” of satisfaction.
As the desserts come by, I am impressed. The menu is 158 Fr, not including the salad, wine, or Perrier. The man next to me (accompanied by younger woman) and I agreed this food is fantastic. I said it was one of the best meals I ever had.
The Lamb chops (served with a small side cup of mustard) adorned with parsley (basil) and diced fried potatoes.
The man is now parlaying with the two women (accompanied by two gentlemen) behind me, who have just gotten their dessert. Mousse, éclair, “oh-la-la”—they carry on.
It amazes me how all my philosophies, black and white, are perfunctorily dismissed in the face of a good meal! Thank God!

Another great restaurant in the vicinity of this one:
La Jarige
(corner) Angle Avenue de Suffreu
Rue Desaix

Restaurant Voltaire at Quai Voltaire
Angle rue de Beaune (dan le maison que Voltaire est mort)

July 11, 1990
Tilburg, Holland
[A]

9 p.m. Dinner - Antwerp, Belgium
I can start to tell you all the things wrong with this restaurant which it’s counterparts in Paris and Avezanno—previously mentioned—do right:
1) salad is cut too small here—it makes hard to grasp with a fork,
2) salad not chilled,
3) bread served one piece at a time, a nuisance,
4) bread not fresh and not that good,
5) butter served in foil instead of a slab,
6) Perrier served with ice because it’s not chilled,
7) salad was O.K., but the other ingredients out-weighted the lettuce. They should compliment it, not overwhelm it,
8) too few waiters—waiter is not attentive,
9) they put a little speaker box on the floor that occasionally goes off—ruins the experience,
10) music—they are playing popular music though nice and at an acceptable volume—it flavors the mood,
11) the restaurant is rectangular, long lengthwise, which means there is a corridor which the waiters run up and down all the time. Rather have the area for waiters off to the side so that their intrusion is minimal,
12) table wobbles—owners should sit at each table and see if it wobbles,
13) seat is hard to get into—they should all be accessible—otherwise it makes guests feel like the owner is concerned with cramming people in rather then their client’s comfort,
14) dessert stale.

Oh well!!!

≈≠≈
Tilburg

Being away only makes me appreciate home all the more.

July 12, 1990
London, UK

July 13, 1990
London, UK

July 14, 1990
London, UK
[A] [L]

Seeing Gabrielle and listening to her reminisce about how I was when we were traveling was rather amazing. It made me remember what I felt like then, but I never saw myself from the outside looking in. She said she was fascinated by me, that she never managed to be so free and that she wanted/needed to be around me. She said she had never met anyone like me. I was so free. For example, when we went on our one week hike outside of Katmandu, she said I brought every last little thing I owned with me because I said I wanted to be prepared in case I decided to go off and not come back (rather than leave some things in Katmandu). She said she remembered when she fell in love with me. It was a night in Katmandu and we were supposed to go out to dinner, her, Joseph the fellow she had started out traveling with as a boyfriend who later became just a friend, and I. She said they were to meet me at my (the Star) hotel at a given hour, and that when they showed up I was sitting in my room by candlelight, playing chords on my guitar. She said it seemed to her that it didn’t matter to me what hour they showed up, that if it was 8 or 12, it would have all been the same to me, I was so into what I was doing.
Thinking back to those times, what she was saying was true. I was so into adventure of both the outward and inward kind that I was a truly independent thinker in that I tried to peer into the universe with new eyes, accepting nothing I had previously thought I knew, and trying to observe without any preconditioned notions. In fact, this made me a little weird, I supposed. At the same time, there was a great power in that, for loneliness and having to be my only support in a strange land, without friends, family nor familiar stimuli to remind me “who I was,” had driven me to find sides of myself I had never known existed. My outlook was totally expanding. Growing out of those observations, I came to conclusions about the perceptions of mankind vis-a-vis his place in the world and what the reality was. For example, I have no doubt that other life forms which man claim are his inferior, are at least his equal. I believe in time we will find that animals and the insects, communicate in highly sophisticated ways. Man’s egocentrism seemed to me the veil of misunderstanding which keeps him from seeing the most clear facts that can be seen with an open mind.
I commented to her that I was now a “mere shadow of my former self,” that now I am a lightweight. She described the day we left Katmandu, a sunny day in which we got stoned and rode on top of the bus to Chitwan National Park. She exclaimed how she had new felt like that before, so free, and how that year she expressed very many times like that. I commented that is just goes to show that it is impossible to have these kind of experiences in a 3, 6 or 9-week vacation, and that there were no comparisons between those times when I traveled and this kind of traveling I had been doing on the last 3 trips (87, 88 and 90).

≈≠≈

End of 1990 Journal of Travels
May 24, 1990 to July 14, 1990
≈≠≈

Section 2 Country Notes
Benin
Cameroon
Nigeria
Tchad

Benin 1990 Prices and Information
Abomey Art
I am in the museum. It’s weird, the art is a room of shrines, twelve in all. Each is made of a throne chair. The one I am standing in front of has four skulls mounted as legs. Each has an umbrella over it. Each umbrella is black with some sewn in designs in color, a fish, a gun, a bird. What is really strange is that each has a mural of black cloth behind it with similar designs sewn in. Almost the only subject shown is execution. For example, I’ll list the scenes of one:
1) a man doing a headstand on a cow or horse,
2) a man holding a rifle in another’s mouth,
3) a man carrying a basket with two heads in it,
4) a large lion as a central figure,
5) a sword,
6) a man sounding a bell/gong,
7) a man waving a sword with a head in his hand and a decapitated body beneath it,
8) an execution, a head with eye open straight up in a bucket and a decapitated body,
9) a large figure of a chief or warrior,
10) a man with a musket and a rope around a man’s hands to which is attached a goat (stolen?),
11) a man carrying something in a basket with a bird riding on top. Could they be spears?,
12) a head with what could be a long hook in it,
13) a man with an object appears to be piercing another man’s bowels—has his arms oustretched, prostrate,
14) a horse with a head hanging from it by a rope,
15) a decapitated body,
16) a man with a musket,
17) a head in a bowl,
18) what appears to be a large cow figure standing with a musket in its hand, a sword and pants.
The first monarch listed is Dakodonou vers 1620-vers 1645 and the last Agoliagbo 1894-1900.

Cameroon 1990 Prices and Information
Climb Mt. Cameroon official 7000 CFA a day/person. Go to Buea, to upper farms to begin hike.
Rough times to:
1st rest house: 1 hour 35 minutes
1st hut to 2nd hut 2 ½ hours
2nd hut to 3rd hut: 1 hour 37 minutes
3rd hut to summit 30 minutes
Winds 100 Km in June.
Roughly half the time to descend to the 1st rest house.
Note: Hike could be done in a day if one left at 5 a.m. or 6 a.m. and had a light load. Trail is well-marked although in the forest at the beginning one night ask for the proper trail to get to the first rest house. Visibility poor in June. Feasability of one day hike increases with good weather. From town you can see 2nd ridge, right behind this is the 3rd rest house. I don’t know if it’s possible to see the top in fair weather.

Nigeria 1990 Notes
Food is pretty horrible. Typical dish of rice with rocks and leather-tough goat or cow meat, 4-7 Naira. Hard to find anything other hot to eat besides cow/ goat meat with rice and/or pounded yams and beans.
From the border Gamburu through to Jos, I’ve never seen such an abundance of cripples of one form or another. There are clubfoots, polo, leprosy, hunchbacks, etc. It’s remarkable and tragic. They hang out at the gas stations.
In Jos, I saw a whole group of them, perhaps 100-strong, lined on the street on Sunday.
The worst case I’ve ever seen of leprosy I saw in Jos. I gave the man 5N and peanuts. His hands were eaten away, and I was told by neighboring people that his legs/ feet were similarly destroyed. But the part I’ve never seen before was that his eyes were being eaten away from the inside by the disease. Grotesque orbs of retarded bulbous material filled the spaces seeing eyes once did. His tongue had black specks all over it and his teeth were rotten.
I told him I gave him 5 Naira so he would distinguish the bill. He wore a Moslem cap. He said “Thank you” in English, but I think he understood little English, for when I asked him if he wanted peanuts he puts his stumps together in a gesture that made me think he didn’t understand. A passerby translated and the wretch indicated he wanted the nuts.
To put the 5 Naira into his sack, he picked it up from the bowl with his mouth and separated the bag with his stumps and dropped it into the bag.
I asked him if I could take his picture, but he puts his stumps of hands together again in a gesture that indicated to me he didn’t understand.
A neighboring boy asked if I wanted a photo of him—when I said I did he suggested I ask, but later another man indicated it was out of the question, and the boy, as if obeying, agreed with him.
Photographs. People get very annoyed of you don’t ask permission before shooting a photo. They seem to be hung up on permission. The children I have seen in Jos were a vast exception. They flocked jubilantly to the camera expecting nothing in return. It was delightful to see them so happy. The women and girls in Jos are pretty. I note this because elsewhere where I have been the woman have been homely, and only in Jos is their complexion fair and their features pretty.

Benin City
Felt some danger, great little museum in the center of ring road.

Enugu
Though I scarsely spent any time there, except in the Hotel. Enugu didn’t seem to offer a great deal. I understand it’s a coal mining town. It seemed spread out and did not have an interesting center of town, such as in Jos.

Ibo
It seems the few Ibo I have seen have a way of talking to each other that seems like they’re yelling at each other. I’m fact I saw one angry man and he was really yelling.

Lagos
Crowded congested, I was surprised that some streets seem unlit. People making smooching sounds to get your attention, but I don’t think they mean to be offensive, it’s just the custom.

Onitsha
The market is said to be the largest in West Africa, but that doesn’t necessarily make it that interesting. The Niger River flows by it.

Nigeria Transport
Front seat Gamburu—Maiduguri ~N20
Front seat Maiduguri—Jos N50.
Front seat Jos—Onitsha N70.
Front seat Onitsha—Benin City ~N20
Front seat Benin City—Ife N25.
Front seat Ife—Lagos N20

In all cases, I believe I obtained shotgun position in a 504 Peugeot Wagon or equivalent. They keep a water bottle in the front seat. Sometimes they have exhaust leaks, which make it unpleasant or toxic. Other pesty problem is that some (seemed in North) play their cassettes out of horrible speakers at high volume, which makes the front seat unpleasant. I got the front seat by saying I wanted to photograph and or by paying half fare of the person who already had the seat, or by being there first.

Tchad Notes 1990
Everyone bargained on everything except that there were some people who wanted to offer to pay or who gave me rides for free.
Also, I was fed a free meal in Tchad in a village. One of the men from the truck I believe paid the villager. Milk with esh—a paste of some sort, greenish—could be maize and something else, and wayke, which seemed like a greenish-red vegetable paste. Though it was dark and I looked into the dish with a flashlight.
To buy a roll of tape… the fellow started off by asking 1500 CFA. I finally insulted him into 800 CFA. He didn’t seem to mind the insults. I told his friend that he was stupid!
Given free meal—it was utterly horrible and free tins of fish and pineapple (the boiling hot pineapple tin probably is what made me in ill) by the Chinese camp in Bol.
They had greasy pastry stuffed with jelly pellets over which they encouraged me to pour heaps of Chococam “Chocolate Breakfast Spread.” I was trying to figure out how to dispose of it with out them seeing it. Equally horrible was that they served this along with a watery bowl of rice soups that was sort of saline. The combination was disturbing.
Then they lavished me with a pancake that was essentially a tasteless dough fried in grease. I honestly couldn’t see how they considered this stuff edible day after day—especially considering what great cooks the Chinese are. It expressed me what culinary buffoons men can be when they’re on their own. (It reminds me of Boysie’s tale of the cook volunteer lumberjack cook who deliberately poured a cup of salt into the stew so he could get someone to complain—and when one stood up and said, “This stew is salty…” and looking around at the other lumberjacks who didn’t want to cook—given the condition the cook had made that no one complained, added, “….but it’s good!”) Anyway, I profusely thanked my host. His gesture of invitation was most warm and it more than made up for the atrocious food.
The (lack of) availability of good things to eat was disturbing. I had excellent a “Captaine” fillet of fish in N’djamena at the Hirondelle. But the next day when I saw how they refrigerate the pre-fried fish overnight, I later wondered if that is what made me sick. These sort of countries don’t seem to have the same experience with refrigeration that we do, that food smells and contaminants travel. They just lay out the fish in the cooler with what ever else needs to be refrigerated. Liver for example.
But in a place like Bol, it seems there was no rules, no availability. The “Hotel” or Bus stop had only Bread and Sauce. No tea, no coffee, no etc., and no water.
No matter how ill I was telling people I felt, it seemed to be irrelevant to them until I virtually collapsed in a bar. I went to the house of the driver (that took me) from Baga Sola to Bol and I asked if I could hire a car from Bol 12 Km to the crossroads. He said I could but it would be costly 4000 CFA. I agreed. Then he told me that the other boy would drive and he felt 4000 CFA wasn’t enough. Now—4000 CFA is equivalent to about 125 Naira. For 50 Naira in Nigeria. I can go over 500 Km in a share taxi. The price of petrol notwithstanding, that’s tight. They seemed just to not give a damn. In fact, it seemed a Tchadienne trait in some of the people.

Section 3 Shea’s Adventures

SHEA’S ADVENTURES

1. The Time The Rhinoceros Chased Me Chitwan Park, Nepal, 1984

I was in a machan (tower) in Chitwan National park in Nepal in 1984 with Gabrielle, and Ed (from Holland), whom we had just met. Chitwan Park has (or had at the time) a large reserve of the Indian One-horned Rhinoceros. At one time near extinction, the government of Nepal had set up Chitwan—there were about 1200 rhinos there—and India had a reserve in Assam—I think there were about 2000 at the time.
I couldn’t get a good view or photo of the rhino from the machan, so I decided to approach it on foot. When I had reached the ground from the machan, Gabrielle and Ed called out to me that the rhino had a baby with it and pleaded with me not to go up to it. I concluded that they were making up the story because they had been against the idea initially anyway—I figured they thought they would scare me away if they said it had a baby.
I approached barefoot in elephant grass about eight feet high. When I got close enough to see the rhino, I saw that indeed it had a baby with it! If I had known I never would have gone up to it, for a mother with a baby is generally the most fearsome of any species!
When I snapped a photo of it, the sound of the mirror in my 35mm camera startled the rhino. Rhino’s are nearly behind, I think that there sense of smell is also not very good, but their hearing is extremely sharp. The rhino reared its head. I questioned whether I should stay as quiet as I could or whether I should run for it. I decided to run for it! The rhino came after me! Fortunately, it had to stop every so often to detect where I was heading, for they run much faster than humans. It would stop, rear its head and then take off. Actually, I don’t know whether it was running for me or if it was just running away. I was making for the edge of the forest. Eventually it ran off to the forest in another direction.
I’m thinking about it now, I wonder if Ed’s pictures ever come out of it chasing me.
As a corollary to this story, it so happened that maybe a week before, a guide and a man and a woman were walking along the trail in this pork and the guide and—I believe it was the man—were gored by a rhino!
So it’s no joking matter!
There’s another part to this story. The next day we took a guide back into the park. We came across another mother and baby. We decided to follow it. At one point on the trail, the rhino decided to turn around. The guide suggested we climb some trees. The trunks of the trees we climbed were only about a foot in diameter. The leaves in the tree were dry and I was so scared that the tree was rattling. The rhino was directly underneath me. But since they’re so blind, it couldn’t see me. But it could hear the leaves rattling. I took some photos of it. I have the slides, but they’re blurry because I used a slow shutter speed and the camera was shaking!
They have different species of rhinos. There’s the Javanese Rhinoceros. It’s so rare now that I read of one researcher who spent 10 years tracking them in the forests of Java and only once caught a passing glimpse of one. Perhaps it was five years ago (1985) that someone was walking in the forests of Java with a Canon camera and came across one and got some tremendous pictures. Canon used these as advertisements for their cameras.
Then there’s the Indian One-Horned Rhinoceros, that say there’s maybe 3000-5000 now. At one time I understand there were far fewer, but thanks to the reserves at Chitwan and Assam, there’re growing in numbers.
Then there’s the African Black Rhinoceros. They were said to be plentiful a hundred years ago, but they have been heavily poached because the Chinese value their horn as an aphrodisiac. Also in Yemen, they hollow out the horn to use as a wedding chalice!
Now in Tanzania I understand there are only about 50 left. I wonder how many there are left in the world. Maybe 500? If that! I heard that at one time early travelers walking from Mombasa to Nairobi, for example, in Tsavo National Park, would run into them behind every bush.
The only other species I ean think of is the “White Rhinoceros” or “Weit Rhinocerous.” It’s not actually white. It comes from the South African word “Weit,” which means wide. I don’t think these are as near extinction as the others but I’m not sure. Unlike the Black Rhino, which is very aggressive, the white Rhino is quite docile. My father and I saw one in Meru Park in Kenya (it was brought there from South Africa as part of, I think it was, a transplanting program. You could practically go up and touch it.
One more Rhino story. I was in Zaire at a mission called Mission Procure, which was a procurement depot for the missions in the Congo talking to a mission lay brother in his office. He was in charge of the mission. I happened to look up on his wall and saw a rhino tusk. I said, “Is that a rhino tusk?” He said “Yes!” I asked, “What’s that worth on the black market, about $100,000?” He replied, “More than that, maybe $125,000.” I asked him how it got in his office. He said (this was in Kisangani) that there had been a German Chancellor (or consular) there and when the revolution came, he up’d and left everything in his home. The mission sent out a truck to clean out the house. When the truck arrived back at the mission, Jerry (that was lay brother’s name) was watching them unload. When he saw the tusk, he decided it was so ugly that nobody else would want it, so he put it in his office. He said he had told a game warden at ?Kivu National Park (not too far away from there) that if he found a poached rhino carcass (missing the horn) that he would donate the tusk and the carcass could be stuffed whole with the tusk and donated to a museum.

2. Money Changer of Oujda Oujda, Morocco 1988

This story revolves around the fact that Algeria can be incredibly expensive if you don’t change your money on the black market. I was going from Morocco into Algeria and I met a man at the border town who asked me if I wanted to change my money. At first I didn’t want to, but this guy was so smooth that he convinced me to change $300, then he put me on a taxi to the border.
No sooner had the taxi gone 50 meters than a different man started yelling outloud in the street and pointing at me, he said “You changed your money with that man. You will go to jail.” I jumped out of the taxi and went up to this guy. I was trying to figure out what was going on, but I couldn’t communicate with him because he just kept yelling at me. He said that the guy I had changed money with had been to jail, and he said he worked at the border and he was going to call ahead to the border and that when I got there, I would go to jail. I finally figured it was no use talking to this guy so I decided to find the guy who I’d changed the money with, and find out what was going on. But as I walked through the market looking for Boutayeb, this man kept following me and yelling at me. He was yelling “F___ you, you will go to jail.”
Finally I got tired of this guy following me so I stopped a man with a friendly face and explained in my broken French how this guy wouldn’t leave me alone. This man approached the guy that was following me and started questioning him. Just then another man come up and identified himself as secret police. He demanded the guy’s ID and when the guy wouldn’t show him, he started dragging him off to the police station. When the guy resisted, he brought him to the ground and started hitting him. Finally, we all ended up at the police station. I was worried because I was afraid this guy would tell the police I had changed money.
I told the police the guy didn’t hurt me or steal from me, only that I didn’t want him to follow me anymore. Eventually I signed a report and the police kept the guy and I left.
I decided to go back to the hotel where I had called Phyllis. On the way, I asked a man in the street how many Algerian dinar there were to the dollar He said about 27 for one dollar. But Boutayeb had only given me 9 to a dollar. So I’d gotten ripped off pretty badly. Now I wanted to find him more than ever!
This guy Boutayeb had given me an address of jewelry shop that he said he owned, so I asked directions and walked there. The shop was closed, but I talked with some guys in a shop a few doors down and explained to him what had happened. They laughed and told me how this fellow had ripped me off. They suggested that I wait until tomorrow when the shop opened up, but I said I was going to go to Algeria that night. They said that there were a million people in the city and that maybe if I stayed there for two weeks, I might find him but that I’d never find him in one night. The other reason I didn’t want to wait until morning was because the shop that Boutayeb said he owned had someone else’s name on it and I had no guarantee he’d be there in the morning.
So I started walking. I thought back to when Gary, Tom, Jeff and I had our clothes stolen at Twainhart Lake in California while we were swimming and how we didn’t know anyone in this town, but we questioned everyone we saw and eventually got all our stuff back. So I thought maybe I’d have in stroke of good luck.
By this time it was dark. I had just walked through the gates of the old city—the old cities have these arched gates as entrance—into an area that was dark. I wasn’t 100 feet inside the gate when out of the shadows I heard my name called and turned around and saw Boutayeb!!
He approached me. I decided I’d played it cool, so I walked with him and talked with him as if I didn’t know that he had short-changed me. I told him about the guy who had yelled at me and he acted surprised and said he had no idea who it was. I told him how the guy had told me that he had gone to jail. Boutayeb said that it wasn’t so. He asked me if I wanted coffee so I said sure. We went to an outdoor café. I positioned myself between him and the street to cut off any escape route. As we talked, I said, “You know, I would just feel a lot more comfortable if we could just change back the money.” He said, “O.K! I’d be happy to, but the man I changed with has gone to Algeria and won’t be back for three weeks. I noticed that he had a bulge in his jacket pocket that looked like the size of the wad of Moroccan money I had changed with him. (What I had done was to exchange my dollars into Moroccan money and then I’d exchanged the Moroccan money with him for dinar.) I pointed to his left jacket pocket and said, “What’s that in your pocket?” He knew I had pointed to his left pocket, but he pretended I’d pointed to his right pocket. He pulled some papers out of his right pocket and said, “Just some papers.” But I said, “No—the other pocket.” See, he was still trying to affect an air of openness and honesty. So he pulled a big wad of money out of his left pocket for an instant and said, “Oh ,just some papers…and a little money.” Then I called his bluff and told him point blank that I knew he had cheated me. He denied it, so then I turned to some men at the next table and asked them what the exchange rate was—they said about 30 to 1. This guy didn’t want me advertising the fact he had changed money with me, so he agreed to give me back my money. But he said he wanted to go down the street. I said to him, “Right now, put it on the table.” So when I counted it, it was most exactly two-thirds of the Moroccan money I had given to him. So then I thought I had given him $300 worth of Moroccan money and he had given me $100 worth of dinar, and he’d just given me $200 worth of Moroccan money. I just figured it out I’d keep the Moroccan money and the dinar and we’d be even. Then I thought that I’d explain to him why I was going to keep all the money, and I gave him 40 Moroccan dirhams for the lunch he’d paid for and I pushed another 100 Moroccan dirhams across the table. I said, “I’m going to give you this 100 and you should be a happy man, because when you go to sleep tonight you will be 100 dirhams richer than you were this morning.”
So I had $200 worth of Moroccan dirhams and $100 worth of Algerian dinar, and I had paid him for lunch and the extra hundred. But he said he wanted to prove to me that he had given me the appropriate amount of dinar by showing me a Time magazine with the latest rates. So I told him I was going to take a taxi to the hotel and I would wait for him for, I think it was, half an hour, but that while I was waiting I was going to tell everyone at the Hotel that he had changed money with me and the rate he’d given me.
So when I saw a taxi coming I leaped up and ran into the taxi and shut the door and as I drove off he came running after the taxi saying “Jeff! Jeff!” still pretending he was my friend.
And that night I went into Algeria and I traveled through out Algeria and the $100 in dinar came in really handy. I really needed it”!

3. Carlos The Fur Smuggler Columbia 1979
When Gary Cappa and I went to Columbia we stayed at a hotel in Cali where we met a guy from Peru who claimed that he was a fur smuggler. He used to invite us to join him for lunch saying he would pay for the taxi. One time when I asked for a refill on my coffee after lunch, Carlos became incensed at my “rudeness.” He said, “I’m never going to invite you anywhere again!” Carlos was a nice enough guy, but he was a little strange. He would knock on our door early in the morning.
One of us would let him in and he’d come in and sit down on the edge of one of our beds. He was a little hard to figure out. I can still, 11 years later, picture his face.
Gary and I traveled down through Ecuador and Peru. Several months later we were in a town called Tarija in Bolivia, which is out in the middle of nowhere, where we met a guy from Northern Ireland, Pete, with fire-engine red hair.
We were talking about where we’d been, and Pete said he’d been to Cali in Columbia.
“We’ve been to Cali too! Where did you stay?” he told us he’d been at the same place. “We stayed there too.” Then he told us about how he had met this guy named Carlos.
“You know Carlos?”

4. Hiking Out of New Guinea’s Highlands 1983
Going to New Guinea, and Melanesia in general (which is made up of New Guinea, Vanuatu, the Solomon Islands, Fiji and New Caledonia), and that area in general, is like stepping into another world. If you consider that most places in the world, like Africa, for example, had ties with Europe or China for hundreds if not thousands of years—at least there were trade routes with goods being passed on or stories told—and that white people were first seen in the Highlands between 35 and 60 years ago (1930-1955), it begins to dawn on one just how different an experience is in New Guinea.
I liked from one village to the other. I went to the end of the Highlands Highway—that is, in Lake Kopiago—and walked from there. The whole trek was 39 days, about 29 of that was on foot and the last 10 days were by raft. I had a raft made. They made it out of logs tied together with vines from the jungle. The guy (who made the raft) just went in the forest near the river and about an hour later he pulled up on a raft in the water.
In one village I went, Hutiwapa, the men were all gone. The woman and children left there didn’t even speak Pidgin English. They sent for a young man that spoke English.
I was very impressed by my experiences in New Guinea. For one thing, I was overwhelmed by their hospitality. I thought that in that respect they were more civilized than western people. Also I liked the way that they all lived together. For example, sometimes many families would sleep in one very large hut—but generally I felt that they lived in tight-knit groups, and that appealed to me—as if there were the security of an extended family.
I also did a hike to Lake Kutubu before the big trek. I spent about half a year all in all there. It left a vivid impression on my mind—everything was different, it was exciting.

5. Kilometer 57
Enroute to Kisangani in Zaire from a town called Beni—Kisangani is where you can catch the river boat on the Zaire River (formerly the Congo) to Kinshasa—we took a truck. We rode in the back of the truck. There was a crew on the truck. The ride took a couple of days and we become friendly with them. We kept asking them when we were going to arrive in Kisangani, and they always told us we would spent the night at Kilometer 57. We kept asking why we would stop 57 kilometers from Kisangani—why not drive the final distance; it wasn’t that much further. They were always insistent but we couldn’t understand why.
As we drove down the road there were little kilometer signs. “Km 103,” “Km 97.” Finally, in the evening, we drove up to Kilometer 57. There were huge signs all over the place. “KILOMETER 57.”
It turned out to be a large brothel! We checked into the hotel. There were women all over the place. The guys on the truck offered me a woman even thought I was standing there with Gabrielle, my girlfriend! I declined graciously.

≈≠≈

Section 4 Shea’s Utopia

SHEA’S UTOPIA

On government, it’s hard to fathom what today’s monetary systems really mean. The simple fact is that governments collect and disperse tax dollars. A particular dollar going to defense appropriations eventually may end up going to an aircraft manufacturer that has been contracted to produce airplanes. That dollar ultimately may be paid out in wages to an assembly line worker, who is essentially a member of the private sector.
In any scenario, the money dispersed by the government ends up in the hands of someone who in turn uses it to buy goods in the private sector and in part to pay taxes. It can be likened to the evaporation of water, which condenses in clouds to form rain, the rain washes onto the land or ocean, and through a series of waterways ultimately reaches the ocean again. In this analogy, the ocean is the people, the government, the evaporation and rain system, and the appropriation can be considered the water paths by which the water finally reaches the sea.
The point is that Government have the power to direct effort—in all cases, the money ends back into the hands of the public.
This may seem evident. However I believe governments and publics have a lack of understanding of just how powerfully good the system could work, and also believe there is a myth that defense spending stimulates the economy—it simply does not have to be so.
I would argue that governments redirect their expeditors to the following areas:
1) Solar power installations and research. The aims would be to develop solar-powered automobiles and other forms of the transport, also to be used for heating—and to eliminate, over time, coal-burning, dams, generators and pollutions caused by burning petroleum products.
2) To medicine. we need more medicine not less. Medicine is one of the greatest achievements of modern ages. We need more research on AIDS, cancer, herpes, health and mental health. We need medical services to be available to everyone.
3) To social research. Governments, if they are to exist, have an obligation to strive to understand what makes people happy. We need to have more research to uncover the facts and myths about our sense of well-being and human happiness. For example, suppose we survey people, do test groups, and try to quantify and achieve an understanding of what combination of social mores, environment, and diets, education levels, awareness of other cultures, etc., make people happy. Then, put money into disseminating the findings on an ongoing basis and doing what government can to institute programs that will further the well-being of their constituents.
Every government expenditure does two things—it provides income to someone and then it directs effort. The first thing is always a benefit to someone. The second, depending on what the effort is that it directs, could not only not benefit anyone, it in fact often does great harm.
If governments bias their spending over time to the programs I have suggested, it would push human effort in the direction of study, research and the manufacturer of useful items to everyone’s (and the environment’s) well-being and to the proliferation of knowledge in the areas of things which are useful and promote well-being. This is a vast positive potential.
On motivation, I argue that beyond our most obvious needs of food, water, air, shelter and companionship, what makes us happy and healthy is not always having more, bigger, better, faster, but may be having less, smaller and ways of being that enrich. Things that could enrich our life are often thwarted by forces operating under the guise of “progress.” For example, when the drive to “succeed” or perhaps more accurately the pressure to succeed drives a person to abandon the most essential value of the maintaining a warm home life with love and security for the whole family, then perhaps the “success” sought is a false goal—for it is in itself destructive.
Even more basically expressed, beyond the most basic needs stated (food, etc.), the thing that drives an individual can be summed up in the phrase “STATUS STRUCTURE.” This may not seem obvious at first because it is so deep-rooted.
1. The first motivation is to provide.
2. Beyond providing, motivation is driven by the status structure of the society. While this is carried to an extreme in more modem societies, its effect can be readily seen in the most primitive societies.
A good illustration of this can be seen in the (until recently stone age (until recently) people of New Guinea’s Highlands. Many of the people, men especially, want desperately to own a nice watch. Neither do they know how to tell time, nor do the watches they wear work; the motivation is admiration, and it is each individual’s sense of what that watch means as to his relative importance that motivates him to wear an essentially useless item. Part of this is sense of artistry—they may view the watch as enhancing their beauty, but I argue that the sense of beauty is part of the status structure. Even those that purposely wear something that society at large deems isn’t beautiful in essence fall into another faction in the overall scheme of status structure. Human pride is inescapable. It is also nature’s way of bringing and holding people together.
Whether or not this theory is factually true is immaterial, for as a model it’s very useful. In the context of my suggestion that governments pour money into social research, the idea of “status structure” is a theme to be studied and used. In fact, government do this, advertisers do this, and each in individual hears upon the status structure Governments’ attempts to sway opinion operate on people’s sense of status structure. If communism was made unpopular, even illegal, in the USA post World War II, the average person wouldn’t want to be considered a communist, even disregarding the legality of it, because they wouldn’t want to be seen in that light by their peers. The list of illustrations is endless. At one time, game hunters prided themselves on killing “The Big Five” (rhino, elephant, leopard, buffalo and lion), but as animal populations dwindled, opinion reduced the motivation for this type of sport. Fashions are an excellent example of how frivolous our motivations may be. Wide ties, thin ties—depending on the era, this determines what we buy.
I argue there are some motivations that are more logical than others. The average person wants the planet to be clean: pure air, pure water, clean soil. So if a product or industry is harming this end, it is logical that the activity should be curtailed and then stopped.

≈≠≈

Section 5 Sayings, Thoughts and Poems

Rather would I be bound by honor than by law. – February 26, 1990

A Woman Is…. July 26, 1990

A woman is two images
One fleeting
One permanent
The fleeting one is her youth
It is hew thing, transcendent, beautiful
The permanent one is her soul
It’s reciprocating, curious
As beautifully as I look at you,
You appear.
As lasting as my love is.
Is your love.
I reach through the cloud
Of your youth,
And grab your soul.

Give cultural units in the world the right to independence.
Example new should be countries.
4. Mustang (Nepal),
5. Ruwenzururu (Uganda),
6. Sikkim (India),
7. Timor (Indonesia),
8. Nagaland (India),
9. Punjab (India),
10. Lithuania (USSR),
11. Estonia (USSR),
12. Latvia (USSR),
13. Armenia (USSR),
14. West Papua (Indonesia/Irian Jaya),
15. Kashmir (India).

Island to be come States:
a) Greenland
b) Tasmania
c) Borneo
d) Sumatra
e) Komodo
f) Ceram (aka Seram)
g) Celebes (aka Sulawesi)
h) Mollucas (aka Maluku)
i) Java
j) Canaries

Life: Only A Brief Moment of Limited Seeing
May 5, 1990

I laid upon my bed asleep face up. I opened my eyes for a split moment, taking in what my brief gaze
would allow,
a wall, a ceiling, a molding, a lamp,
then closed my eyes again.
In my slumber I thought:
“Is this not what life is like?
Only a brief moment of
limited seeing,
Never realizing that there
is a Universe, beyond those
walls, of a texture more striking.

Pilgrimage to a Starry Sahel Night

Why have my eyes seen so much pain
only to find, in my roots, God again?
In my past—God again,
Is the future the past?
Learn from the primitives,
That our race ever last.

From the roar of confusion,
To a starry Sahel night.
I found God once again,
In the simplest delight

If the simplest delight,
Can render delight,
Does it not render archaic
A neon night?

Can we know what we’re missing
When we’re born civilized,
Can we choose the right path,
With no sight in one eye?

We should all make a pilgrimage
To a starry Sahel night
Where there is a cure
For the eye with no sight,

When both eyes see clearly
Choose the path that is right
Where the simplest pleasures
Bring heavenly delight.

Jeff Shea 6/20/90 –Thought of while dining on esh, leben (milk), wayke in an unknown village in Tchad.

Run in All Directions At Once

You are on my vast plain
three hundred and sixty degrees
You are running in one direction
Stop
Lay down.
Face the sky.
Rise.
Leap.
Run in all directions at once.

Shea’s Mythology

Living right is the foundation of a world of magic; living right is striving to be good and honorable, and respecting the realities of life. The color of one’s imagination and the brushstroke of one’s heart then become the tools by which we add the splash of color that is magic to the form of beauty that is the life lived right. Without living life right, the best that can be hoped for is survival, and the worst, foolishness.

South of the Equator Reversal Ritual

Mcahwi ya maji,
Dawa ya simba,
Mito mibili mizuri,
Mto mbili mzuri.

(Magician of the water,
Medicine for the lion,
Two good rivers,
One good river.)

Spirit of Adventure

The spirit of adventure is this: You go forward never to return again—in spirit, this is a transformation—for by giving yourself to the adventure you become changed, transformed into a new entity, hopefully more powerful and enriched than before.

A Well Spring of Love

There’s a well spring of love somewhere,
In a dimension I know not of
From which those fortunate ones,
Are showered on

A gentle rain unstoppable
A relief unbreakable
Love everlasting
Bringing forth new possibilities
Only dreamed of in the
sweetest dreams.

Thoughts found in Jeff Shea 1990 journals:

We should all use our personal happiness as our criteria for building a new world.

Love is the Doctrine of accurate perception.

Master of myself, King of within.

What a scanty thing is my freedom one gram of it worth a Kingdom.

Genius is founded on mistakes.

≈≠≈

Section 6 Journal entries from Jan, Mar & Dec about Phyllis

January 18, 1990
[L]

I don’t understand Phyllis behavior. For example, yesterday when left a message saying I’d be late, she accused me of not wanting to spend time with her, she accused me of putting a business matter before her. Then she said that she couldn’t spend time with me tomorrow because she was going Samba dancing, and she couldn’t see me Friday because she was going dancing with her friends. Then later she said I was invited. Then when I said I didn’t want to go, she got very upset. Then she said she’d changed her mind about Saturday, which is the night she was supposes to treat me to a night of pleasure and seduction.
I feel she’s so unfair, and I can’t see how she is blind to that. She made plans two nights with other friends and then she gets mad at me for making plans one night on an important matter. Then breaks an engagement she previously made with me. I mean, if I’m willing to let her make two nights of her own, why should I be obligated to go, and why should I not be treated in [the same way] and why does she think it’s justified for her to break a date with me?

The whole thing is so patiently unfair. She’s terribly inconsiderate, for example, to turn the thing around, I’ve been waiting to find out when she could make it to have dinner with my grandmother. If I was to behave in [the same way] to her, I would just make a date with my grand mother for dinner, then tell Phyllis I couldn’t see her because I was having dinner with my grand mother, then later to invite her, and then to accuse her of trying to punish me because she didn’t want to come.

Every time something like this comes up, she says she doesn’t know why we’re together, she wants to break up. God, how many times have I been ?? w/ the same thing? I seem to endlessly deal with woman telling me they want to leave, but they never do. Phyllis – a half-year of this, Kelly, a half-year of that, Mandy two years of that. Obviously, she’s got a problem. Either I pick the wrong woman or I’m terribly unreasonable.

March 19, 1990
[L] [S]
3:23 p.m.
Since I last wrote, of a matter of course, things have developed. Business has gotten better. PF and I are getting along much better. I bought my Grandmother’s house and I finished four more copies of the journals. I may have 708 Vermont rented. I am planning on going to Africa May 24 – July 1.
With regards to PF, I am trying to practice “not criticizing her.” My Grandmother was telling me how she never criticized people because, she says, “They can’t handle it.” It got me thinking – she’s right. They can’t. I can’t. It got me thinking. After all, people know. You don’t have to say anything. I know that in my case, when I am not criticized, it makes me try to work harder at being good. I end up analyzing my own behavior rather than having someone do it for me. Arguments are usually pretty silly and unproductive. If people already can receive how their actions affect others, why is it necessary to confuse things with an argument?
As far as my direction, I am lost hopelessly. For one thing, it seems that all material goals are a dead end. No matter what you accumulate, the habit of accumulating becomes a driver and the person the victim. What you accumulate doesn’t matter as much as what you do. This is where my life breaks down. I am becoming good at accumulating but it is how I spend my time that is disappointing me. Even more to the point than what you do is how you do what you do.

December 20, 1990
I can’t fault Phyllis for what she’s going through. The last thing on the world that I want to see is for her and I to split up, or for her to move out. However, I also know in my heart that I can’t control all events. Love, like life, takes it own course. What I can do is try to respect what her reactions are to my ideas: to respect her, to be patient, to be considerate, to be honest, to give her my time when she needs it, to try to see her side of things. I have been making mistakes against my own interests—I’ve been ignoring these basics because I feel ignored by her or that she is in considerate. I’ve got to put a distance between my behavior and hers. Otherwise, what results is the ping-pong effect, disallowing each individual the opportunity to act [from] their heart.
If I were to say to Phyllis “I never to make love to another woman again,” I would be misleading her. I haven’t acted on it. If I were to not mention it, I would be misleading her. It’s another thing to say, “I’m going to.” I realize that this is out of the ordinary, yet when you think about it, people a) cheat and b) change relationships all the time. Then I ask: “What’s important, the substance or the form?” If the acceptable form is: “Oh, sure honey I only want you forever” and then, to turn around and be saying that to someone else next year, then it seems a manifestation of a [sick] society or, if the acceptable form is to say that while your banging someone else! That’s sick too or, is the acceptable form to say that to her, but to turn around and tell your friends how you’re dying for some “strange.” Then cowardice is acceptable, and that’s sick. Or if you just think it, just supposing you actually do remain faithful for a lifetime, then I still ask, [although] that is honorable, is it desirable? And how many people fall outside the categories? How many never stray in mind and body for a lifetime? How many couples are there that both “achieve” this bliss?

Dec 22, 1990
[L]
Maybe Phyllis had a similar thought, but I will say dramatically that a change was present when I got home. We went out (on my suggestion), got an Xmas tree & a bite to eat. Our lovemaking was incredible. It felt so Good. I [kissed] her [vagina] for a long time before. When I finally put it in, she felt so small & I so big.
I’m not so much concerned with being famous as I am with doing something that makes me worthy of being famous. So, for example, I want to take the best photographs. I want to concentrate on producing the best art. The virgin influence of non commerciality may allow the soul to penetrate the painting of what ever canvas endeavor I set my mind to. I’ll strive to be best, even if I am not recognized as such.

7:40 p.m. I’m taking a break here to go home but, when I get there, I’m going to have a different attitude. I’m going to act in away I can be proud of. I’m going to respect her decisions. If she wants to leave, I’ll respect that. If she wants to talk, I’ll be there; I’ll be a friend.

I really couldn’t believe it. I’d never felt so big before!! Basically, I would say that I was a real gentleman to her.
She responds very well to:
1. When I’m a gentleman that’s being:
• Courteous.
• Patient.
• Spending time with her.
• Giving her my best.

2. When I pay attention to rituals:
• Putting up a Xmas tree.
• Being friendly with her friends and family.
• Showing excitement at her calls.
• Wanting to do things together.

3. When I’m easy going about her doing her “own thing.”
• When she spends time with another.
• When she takes care of her own business.
• When she meets her family obligations.
• Making her phone calls.
• Forgetting her promises.