You'll have to forgive me - this one sort of fell by the wayside, so we're going to have to play catch-up here. I invite you all to time travel with me back to Malawi.
Livingstonia: A small town nestled high up in the hills that adorn the Northwestern shore of my good friend Lake Malawi.
Hard to find and even harder to access, Livingstonia is a sleepy and oft-overlooked place which has little to offer to tourists in terms of excitement. It does, however, have one major draw card: one of the best views in all of Africa.
To reach Livingstonia, you must follow a dirt track, which is at times no wider than a car, as it snakes for 15km up the side of a mountain, switchbacking 21 times in the process. There are very few vehicles making the trip up, especially during the rainy season, so for the most part it's hike or bust. Not a pleasant task when it's hot as Hell and you're carting everything you own on your back - trust me. The good news is that most backpackers - myself no exception - choose to stay at a hostel called Mushroom Farm, which is 5km closer to the bottom of the hill.
Why Mushroom Farm? Quite simply because the place is a famous landmark on the South/East Africa backpacking circuit. It is a self-sufficient, fully sustainable lodge (read: smattering of bamboo huts) that comes complete with solar-heated water, a composting toilet and a shower built into a tree. The owner is a rather eccentric Aussie named Mick, who seems to have taken a page out of Carlos Valderrama's hairstyling manual, and the chef is a Mr. Bundu, who cooks up a wide selection of organic vegetarian dishes in cauldrons that bubble over an open flame.
Right, this is beginning to sound like a brochure for the place, so let's cut the crap and get to the entertaining bit: my walk up.
Despite an honest effort, I wasn't able to reach the base of the hill until 5:30PM. The daylight dwindling, I was faced with a decision: do I call Mick and have him come down in his Land Rover to pick me up, a service for which he charges 35USD? Or do I walk up the hill alone in the dark? Forget Option #1; 35 dollars is a complete piss-taking. But the second choice is equally dicey: I don't know how safe the road is.
A very nice thing about Africa: as long as you are willing to pay, someone will guide you to anywhere you wish to go. I had only to stand at the entrance to the access road, and before long there were two teenage boys who were keen to come along. We agreed on a price of $6, and set off.
The pace was gruelling. You'll know, if you've ever watched an athletics competition, that Africans are light on their feet, quicker than the wind and have unlimited stamina. I'm no couch potato, but with 30lbs of weight on my back I simply could not keep pace with these guys, bounding as they were up the slope like gazelles. I did my best to stay with them, but they kept shouting at me to go faster, only relenting when I threatened not to pay them.
To make matters worse, they lead me on a series of shortcuts: near-vertical climbs through rock gardens and root ladders that have formed on the face of the mountain. Technically, these did save a lot of time, but clambering on my hands and knees was exhausting. By the fifth or sixth shortcut, I began to teeter with lightheadedness.
It was during one of my frequent "catching my breath while trying not to wretch" breaks that I remembered an interesting fact: Northern Malawi has an abundance of poisonous snakes. I asked one of the boys if he knew about that.
"Oh, yes!" he chirped enthusiastically. "There are definitely green mambas and puff adders here!"
He must have seen the terror disclosed in my face, because he hastened to add:
"But they are not dangerous!"
A very problematic thing about Africa: people often are not educated about what can hurt them. Green mambas are highly venomous, and one bite is potentially lethal to even a full-grown, healthy adult. Your only hope of survival in the case of being bitten is to administer the appropriate anti-venom as quickly as possible. My guess? The closest bottle of serum to Livingstonia is in Lilongwe, 11 hours away by bus. By that time, you'd be carrion.
Anyway, after nearly two hours we arrived at Mushroom Farm. I paid the kids and threw in a generous tip - they'd earned their keep. Mick, who'd seen me coming up the path, sweating profusely and near the point of losing consciousness, greeted me in the most Australian way:
"Oi, Mate! Noyce ta see yeh! Care foha bee-uh?"
Did I ever, Bruce.
Needless to say, once you do the walk up to Mushroom Farm, you can't be arsed to leave for a few days. But it's not exactly a taxing holiday; the prices are cheap, the food is delectable, the music is good, and the view - HOLY SHIT - the view is mind-blowing.
From just about any spot on the property - the bar, the tent platforms and even from the seat of the composting loo - you can see the entire valley below, along with a huge piece of the lakeshore, as well as the mountains on the opposite side. The latter are 50km away. In Tanzania. Since the rainy season was just about to begin, farmers were lighting massive brush fires (to sterilize the soil and flush out the rats, which are captured and eaten), and the landscape glowed at night, with red and orange balls of flame dancing against the black backdrop. It felt like you were staring into space, only the universe was below you, and the stars a Hell of a lot closer.
So I stayed for a while. Probably would have stayed longer, if it wasn't for the fact that I ran out of money and had to make for the border. On my last day in Malawi, I walked down the hill and hitched a ride to Tanzania, feeling a bit sad that I was leaving a country I'd grown to love. Then, one kid made sure that even my last few moments would be unforgettable.
I heard the call as I walked across the bridge between the two nations:
"MAAAAAAAZZZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNGUUUU!!!"
It came from all directions at once, as if riding on the back of the wind. I froze. I looked around, but I couldn't spot the kid who belonged to the voice.
"MAAAZUUUUNGUUUUU!"
Got him. He was just a head and torso, swimming in the river about 100m downstream. I raised my arms in the air, questioningly.
"GIMMMMEEE MONNNNEEEEY!"
What did he want me to do, throw some bills in the river? I shook my head, laughed, and continued along.
Just then, a group of Africans passed by me, and they laughed too. A few moments later, they burst into song.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Mike Spits on Embassies
If one were to, say, be compiling information for a research paper entitled "The Scourge of Mankind: A Treatise on Those Who Retard the Human Condition", then that person would be wise to begin their investigation with a visit to an Embassy or Diplomatic Consulate.
Let me draw you a scenario: You enter the embassy office. Which embassy? It's irrelevant. Pick a country. In fact, pick two: one for the nation being represented, and another for the country that you happen to be in.
You proceed through the door. Ahead of you are a group of chairs, made of the cheapest materials possible and chosen with the specific intention that no one sitting in them could be comfortable. In the corner there is a water cooler, but there are no plastic cups.
You survey the room. The walls are painted in the official embassy colour: off-white. Hanging above the chairs is a framed portrait of the esteemed Head of State of the republic whose embassy this is. He sits frozen, with awkward posture, a hideous tie and a lecherous grin. The portrait is tilted. The rest of the walls are empty, save for a dilapidated pin-up poster that bears the insignia of the country's federal tourism bureau, and a cheesy photograph of a famous landmark in the country itself, shown as it was when the image was taken... 20 years ago.
There is a distinct foul odour that causes you to wince. At the time, you suppose it is stale air coming from the ventilation ducts, but it is only later that you discover its true source. This is the stench of incompetence. Of sloth. Of futility. It is the stench of all the negative aspects of the human species, pooled together as if into a giant thundercloud, which cloaks the room with its pestilence, darkening the soul of anybody who ventures underneath it.
Sorry.
I still haven't mentioned the source.
You look to the left. There he is, slumped into a swivel-chair, positioned behind a desk that has no paper on it; only a few discarded soda cans and a broken 2H pencil are visible. He is little more than a bi-valve dressed as a person, with pants hiked well above the waistline and a cheap white shirt that has the remnants of something ketchupy tattooed onto the lapel. Below the unkempt wisps of his disheveled hair are two sightless eyes, which are glassy like those of a dead fish. You wonder whether or not he is breathing.
You approach the desk and position yourself directly across from him. He doesn't respond to the stimuli, so you elect to say something.
"Hello. I'm here to apply for a visa."
There is a thirty second pause while your words try desperately to penetrate the thick walls of his skull. His mouth opens slightly, revealing a drooping tongue, yellowed from years of cigarette smoking, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he uncurls a fat pointer finger from a greasy hand and half-assedly directs it to a sign posted on the notice board behind you.
Instructions for visa applications.
"Thank you," you say. "And, how long do applications normally take?"
Again, a delay. With great effort, he raises his eyes towards you. The eyes seem to stop for a rest halfway, like a weightlifter performing the clean-and-jerk.
"We'll call you," he growls. His breath nearly renders you unconscious.
That's when you realize that embassy officials are not living creatures. They are robots - circuit boards - into which is programmed one simple text string: how not to give a definitive answer to any question.
A second hypothetical situation: an interview room, where a candidate has come to apply for a job at an embassy.
INTERVIEWER: Welcome! Could you state your name?"
CANDIDATE: Well, technically I could, yes.
INT:Correct! And could you please tell me who was Jesus Christ?
CAN: Um, sir, you'll have to consult the bible for that.
INT: Excellent! Finally, are you an utterly useless boob with the cerebral capacity of a gastropod, who would probably be turned down for a job cleaning toilets at the local Red Lobster?
CAN: Why yes!
INT: You're hired!
You're probably all thinking: such MALICE! What brought this on? How does he have the time to sit down and write these scathing rants?
The answer to these questions can be found in a small office with off-white walls and plastic chairs, on the 4th floor, Barclay's Tower, Ohio Street, Dar-Es-Salaam, Tanzania. It is an embassy of a country I plan to visit soon, but since this rant is targeted at embassies in general, I'll refrain from using the name. So let's say for argument's sake that it is the Embassy of the Republic of Kerblackistan.
Okay. I've named the culprit, and laid the foundation for my crusade against them, so now I feel obliged to back it up.
I dislike this embassy, and all those people working in it, for the following reasons:
1. They will not grant travel visas to Kerblackistan unless you have 6 blank pages in your passport.
->The visa is 1 page. A few entry and exit stamps: 1-2 more. Why the other 3? I must say, this sets the bureaucratic idiocy bar at a new height.
2. They demand a bank statement as proof of sufficient funds to travel to Kerblackistan, then make issue if the amounts are not listed in US$.
->I am Canadian. We have our own currency.
3. They open 15 hours per week, and take both Tanzanian and Kerblackistani public holidays as vacation.
->I'm sure they deserve the break. It must be exhausting spending all day wrapping things in red tape.
4. They promise a 72-hour turnaround time on visa applications. Mine took 7 days, which is why I'm stuck in DSM, unable to travel.
->It's a good thing they don't deliver pizza (72 hours or it's free!). They'd be out of business.
5. There are no Kerblackistanis working at the Kerblackistani embassy.
->A final hypothetical situation: You are a Kerblackistani in Tanzania. You have a problem. Maybe some family members are trying to contact you in an emergency. Maybe you had your passport stolen and you need the embassy to help. So you call them up - and they only speak broken English and Swahili. How useless is that?
To summarise: embassies suck. Their procedures, regulations and office hours are astronomically inconvenient, and the people who work there are hand-picked in order to provide the lowest level of service possible.
There are some people in this world who don't deserve their own share of the world's oxygen supply. You see, Charles Darwin was wrong; if natural selection is the governing force behind the development of a species, then why are there still so many individuals excercising their God-given right to be stupid?
But don't take this too seriously. I'm just bored.
Yours sincerely,
Paul Theroux's understudy
Let me draw you a scenario: You enter the embassy office. Which embassy? It's irrelevant. Pick a country. In fact, pick two: one for the nation being represented, and another for the country that you happen to be in.
You proceed through the door. Ahead of you are a group of chairs, made of the cheapest materials possible and chosen with the specific intention that no one sitting in them could be comfortable. In the corner there is a water cooler, but there are no plastic cups.
You survey the room. The walls are painted in the official embassy colour: off-white. Hanging above the chairs is a framed portrait of the esteemed Head of State of the republic whose embassy this is. He sits frozen, with awkward posture, a hideous tie and a lecherous grin. The portrait is tilted. The rest of the walls are empty, save for a dilapidated pin-up poster that bears the insignia of the country's federal tourism bureau, and a cheesy photograph of a famous landmark in the country itself, shown as it was when the image was taken... 20 years ago.
There is a distinct foul odour that causes you to wince. At the time, you suppose it is stale air coming from the ventilation ducts, but it is only later that you discover its true source. This is the stench of incompetence. Of sloth. Of futility. It is the stench of all the negative aspects of the human species, pooled together as if into a giant thundercloud, which cloaks the room with its pestilence, darkening the soul of anybody who ventures underneath it.
Sorry.
I still haven't mentioned the source.
You look to the left. There he is, slumped into a swivel-chair, positioned behind a desk that has no paper on it; only a few discarded soda cans and a broken 2H pencil are visible. He is little more than a bi-valve dressed as a person, with pants hiked well above the waistline and a cheap white shirt that has the remnants of something ketchupy tattooed onto the lapel. Below the unkempt wisps of his disheveled hair are two sightless eyes, which are glassy like those of a dead fish. You wonder whether or not he is breathing.
You approach the desk and position yourself directly across from him. He doesn't respond to the stimuli, so you elect to say something.
"Hello. I'm here to apply for a visa."
There is a thirty second pause while your words try desperately to penetrate the thick walls of his skull. His mouth opens slightly, revealing a drooping tongue, yellowed from years of cigarette smoking, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he uncurls a fat pointer finger from a greasy hand and half-assedly directs it to a sign posted on the notice board behind you.
Instructions for visa applications.
"Thank you," you say. "And, how long do applications normally take?"
Again, a delay. With great effort, he raises his eyes towards you. The eyes seem to stop for a rest halfway, like a weightlifter performing the clean-and-jerk.
"We'll call you," he growls. His breath nearly renders you unconscious.
That's when you realize that embassy officials are not living creatures. They are robots - circuit boards - into which is programmed one simple text string: how not to give a definitive answer to any question.
A second hypothetical situation: an interview room, where a candidate has come to apply for a job at an embassy.
INTERVIEWER: Welcome! Could you state your name?"
CANDIDATE: Well, technically I could, yes.
INT:Correct! And could you please tell me who was Jesus Christ?
CAN: Um, sir, you'll have to consult the bible for that.
INT: Excellent! Finally, are you an utterly useless boob with the cerebral capacity of a gastropod, who would probably be turned down for a job cleaning toilets at the local Red Lobster?
CAN: Why yes!
INT: You're hired!
You're probably all thinking: such MALICE! What brought this on? How does he have the time to sit down and write these scathing rants?
The answer to these questions can be found in a small office with off-white walls and plastic chairs, on the 4th floor, Barclay's Tower, Ohio Street, Dar-Es-Salaam, Tanzania. It is an embassy of a country I plan to visit soon, but since this rant is targeted at embassies in general, I'll refrain from using the name. So let's say for argument's sake that it is the Embassy of the Republic of Kerblackistan.
Okay. I've named the culprit, and laid the foundation for my crusade against them, so now I feel obliged to back it up.
I dislike this embassy, and all those people working in it, for the following reasons:
1. They will not grant travel visas to Kerblackistan unless you have 6 blank pages in your passport.
->The visa is 1 page. A few entry and exit stamps: 1-2 more. Why the other 3? I must say, this sets the bureaucratic idiocy bar at a new height.
2. They demand a bank statement as proof of sufficient funds to travel to Kerblackistan, then make issue if the amounts are not listed in US$.
->I am Canadian. We have our own currency.
3. They open 15 hours per week, and take both Tanzanian and Kerblackistani public holidays as vacation.
->I'm sure they deserve the break. It must be exhausting spending all day wrapping things in red tape.
4. They promise a 72-hour turnaround time on visa applications. Mine took 7 days, which is why I'm stuck in DSM, unable to travel.
->It's a good thing they don't deliver pizza (72 hours or it's free!). They'd be out of business.
5. There are no Kerblackistanis working at the Kerblackistani embassy.
->A final hypothetical situation: You are a Kerblackistani in Tanzania. You have a problem. Maybe some family members are trying to contact you in an emergency. Maybe you had your passport stolen and you need the embassy to help. So you call them up - and they only speak broken English and Swahili. How useless is that?
To summarise: embassies suck. Their procedures, regulations and office hours are astronomically inconvenient, and the people who work there are hand-picked in order to provide the lowest level of service possible.
There are some people in this world who don't deserve their own share of the world's oxygen supply. You see, Charles Darwin was wrong; if natural selection is the governing force behind the development of a species, then why are there still so many individuals excercising their God-given right to be stupid?
But don't take this too seriously. I'm just bored.
Yours sincerely,
Paul Theroux's understudy
Friday, November 16, 2007
Stone Town
There are some places on Earth whose names, when mentioned, project images of their own mystical pasts...
...ZANZIBAR...
...Anything come to mind? The Periplus of the Ethyranean Sea? The trading settlement of Menouthias? The Shirazi sailors from Persia calling port at Unguja Ukuu?
Freddie Mercury's birthplace?
For being such a tiny island, Zanzibar does have a history rich in tumult. The full details of this are beyond the scope of this blog, so let's just say that the place found itself changing hands many times between various imperial powers who found it a convenient rest stop en route to the Orient.
Nowadays, the foreigners Zanzibar sees arrive on passenger ferries from Dar-Es-Salaam instead of frigates from Muscat, and come with cameras and snorkeling gear in place of spices and glassware. Nonetheless, it is still a spectacular place to visit.
I myself rolled in a week ago with my friends Hugo and Roisin, who've now been with me for 3 weeks, and we decided to hole up for a few days in Stone Town.
Stone Town is Zanzibar's beating heart; once an Arab trading port, it is the sight of a bustling, labyrinth-like village where towering minarets pierce the crystalline skies, and whiffs of cardamom and cloves tickle your nose with their exotic essences. The streets, sometimes no wider than an armspan, are chock-a-bloc with people from many walks of life: Indian, Portuguese, Persian and of course African.
We struck gold on our first night there. Just after dark, the waterfront park, by day a shady refuge from the blazing sun, turns into a sprawling outdoor fish market. Prawns, octopus, lobster, sharks, marlin, scallops and just about every other type of pelagic goody can be found, fresh from the ocean, cooked up on a coal grill by a local guy and served with chili sauce and some chapati bread. It's not cheap, but then again, if I told you that $10 for a massive portion of seafood isn't cheap, you'd probably think my mother dropped me as a child.
The next day - another beauty - I grabbed my camera and headed out with every intention of getting lost in the maze and the mystery. Stone Town is a photographer's wet dream, with its myriad colours, spectre-like shadows, old Islamic buildings, narrow passageways, traditional spice markets, lush coconut fronds, hole-in-the-wall shops, whitewashed stoned fences, decaying streets and flowery enclaves, not the mention its plethora of children, tuk-tuks, sailboats, dispensaries, stray cats, women in kangas, mosques, minibuses, mango trees, donkey carts, baobabs, fake Maasai warriors, butterflies, wood-carvers, tea-sellers and the occasional rat. I took 150 shots in the span of half an hour.
Unfortunately, I got a little ambitious. Whilst leaning against a wall adjacent to a busy street and snapping a portrait of a few ladies in their traditional headdresses, I was approached by a man in a suit. He was accompanied by a guard whom, I carefully noted, was carrying a large firearm. I was invited to into an office and told to sit and wait, while some angry phone calls were made in Swahili. Several minutes passed before a second stuffed suit ('the boss') appeared and informed me that I had just committed a crime by photographing the Civic Courthouse. I thanked him for informing me that it was a court house, because it sure wasn't evident from the ruddy street, and assured him that I was only using the court house wall as a brace while framing the photo of the ladies. He demanded that I relinquish my camera, but I managed to appease him by deleting the offending image. I left the place, still under armed escort, feeling guilty for not having done anything wrong.
Stone Town marks only my second visit to a place where Islam in the dominant faith. Muslims intrigue me - everything from their traditional dress to their outright, all-encompassing devotion to Allah. I find them very peaceful, wandering the streets in their skullcaps and sandals, stopping to wash their feet before entering the mosques, then congregating after a prayer session to drink tea and gab on their mobile phones. It's a pretty far cry from the guys you see on CNN, shooting guns into the air and crying for the bloody death of all non-believers.
Sadly, despite its bargain-basement seafood and old-world charm, Stone Town can be difficult to swallow for its cohort of resident street touts. Wherever you go, be it the waterfront, a sidewalk cafe or an out-of-the-way backstreet, there will be some guy tagging along, calling you "Friend" and reciting fourteen million different reasons as to why to should hand over some cash. You know, when I first arrived in Africa I was tolerant of these pests - I'll even go as far as saying that I found the attention endearing. But now I've had enough. Beyond being solicitous, I'm now outright hostile with them, hitting them with any of a selection of prepared rants within moments of their initial approach. Some do desist, but others seem to relish the challenge, becoming more deliberate in their attempts to expunge a donation. One day soon, I'm going to give one of them some free dental work.
But not yet. After two days in Stone Town, which I enjoyed very much, we escaped to the beach.
...ZANZIBAR...
...Anything come to mind? The Periplus of the Ethyranean Sea? The trading settlement of Menouthias? The Shirazi sailors from Persia calling port at Unguja Ukuu?
Freddie Mercury's birthplace?
For being such a tiny island, Zanzibar does have a history rich in tumult. The full details of this are beyond the scope of this blog, so let's just say that the place found itself changing hands many times between various imperial powers who found it a convenient rest stop en route to the Orient.
Nowadays, the foreigners Zanzibar sees arrive on passenger ferries from Dar-Es-Salaam instead of frigates from Muscat, and come with cameras and snorkeling gear in place of spices and glassware. Nonetheless, it is still a spectacular place to visit.
I myself rolled in a week ago with my friends Hugo and Roisin, who've now been with me for 3 weeks, and we decided to hole up for a few days in Stone Town.
Stone Town is Zanzibar's beating heart; once an Arab trading port, it is the sight of a bustling, labyrinth-like village where towering minarets pierce the crystalline skies, and whiffs of cardamom and cloves tickle your nose with their exotic essences. The streets, sometimes no wider than an armspan, are chock-a-bloc with people from many walks of life: Indian, Portuguese, Persian and of course African.
We struck gold on our first night there. Just after dark, the waterfront park, by day a shady refuge from the blazing sun, turns into a sprawling outdoor fish market. Prawns, octopus, lobster, sharks, marlin, scallops and just about every other type of pelagic goody can be found, fresh from the ocean, cooked up on a coal grill by a local guy and served with chili sauce and some chapati bread. It's not cheap, but then again, if I told you that $10 for a massive portion of seafood isn't cheap, you'd probably think my mother dropped me as a child.
The next day - another beauty - I grabbed my camera and headed out with every intention of getting lost in the maze and the mystery. Stone Town is a photographer's wet dream, with its myriad colours, spectre-like shadows, old Islamic buildings, narrow passageways, traditional spice markets, lush coconut fronds, hole-in-the-wall shops, whitewashed stoned fences, decaying streets and flowery enclaves, not the mention its plethora of children, tuk-tuks, sailboats, dispensaries, stray cats, women in kangas, mosques, minibuses, mango trees, donkey carts, baobabs, fake Maasai warriors, butterflies, wood-carvers, tea-sellers and the occasional rat. I took 150 shots in the span of half an hour.
Unfortunately, I got a little ambitious. Whilst leaning against a wall adjacent to a busy street and snapping a portrait of a few ladies in their traditional headdresses, I was approached by a man in a suit. He was accompanied by a guard whom, I carefully noted, was carrying a large firearm. I was invited to into an office and told to sit and wait, while some angry phone calls were made in Swahili. Several minutes passed before a second stuffed suit ('the boss') appeared and informed me that I had just committed a crime by photographing the Civic Courthouse. I thanked him for informing me that it was a court house, because it sure wasn't evident from the ruddy street, and assured him that I was only using the court house wall as a brace while framing the photo of the ladies. He demanded that I relinquish my camera, but I managed to appease him by deleting the offending image. I left the place, still under armed escort, feeling guilty for not having done anything wrong.
Stone Town marks only my second visit to a place where Islam in the dominant faith. Muslims intrigue me - everything from their traditional dress to their outright, all-encompassing devotion to Allah. I find them very peaceful, wandering the streets in their skullcaps and sandals, stopping to wash their feet before entering the mosques, then congregating after a prayer session to drink tea and gab on their mobile phones. It's a pretty far cry from the guys you see on CNN, shooting guns into the air and crying for the bloody death of all non-believers.
Sadly, despite its bargain-basement seafood and old-world charm, Stone Town can be difficult to swallow for its cohort of resident street touts. Wherever you go, be it the waterfront, a sidewalk cafe or an out-of-the-way backstreet, there will be some guy tagging along, calling you "Friend" and reciting fourteen million different reasons as to why to should hand over some cash. You know, when I first arrived in Africa I was tolerant of these pests - I'll even go as far as saying that I found the attention endearing. But now I've had enough. Beyond being solicitous, I'm now outright hostile with them, hitting them with any of a selection of prepared rants within moments of their initial approach. Some do desist, but others seem to relish the challenge, becoming more deliberate in their attempts to expunge a donation. One day soon, I'm going to give one of them some free dental work.
But not yet. After two days in Stone Town, which I enjoyed very much, we escaped to the beach.
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