It’s always been amazing to me that a slum in Central America looks exactly the same as a slum in Uganda which looks exactly the same as a slum in India. The omnipresence of corrugated tin is staggering. But the residents of the slum don’t notice that. They’re a part of it. You’ve got to step outside of it to fully understand it. Continue reading Barter & Trade In Developing Markets
In late September to early October 2014, I traveled to Liberia to document the ebola outbreak for a few nonprofits (through Silent Images for SIM and Samaritan’s Purse). I covered most of the ebola stuff in my previous post.
There wasn’t a lot of free time in this trip. I’m normally able to cram in a few free days on a trip, to wander around and see the country. And, after all, there’s not a whole lot of quality sightseeing to do in ebola-afflicted Liberia. The furthest I went solo from the SIM/Doctors Without Borders ELWA compound was taking Dr Fankhauser’s Mitsubishi Pajero out for a quick joyride to get b-roll shots of Monrovia, and that almost ended in jail due to a few eager Liberian cops who saw a big white dollar sign driving down the road. Continue reading Looking at Slums From The Hotel Ducor
I’ve never really felt at danger at any point in my travels, any more than you do on a drive to New Mexico or a commuter flight to Atlanta. In all likelihood your home neighborhood is a more dangerous place than anywhere save a war zone, and I mean that.
Liberia might just be a war zone. Continue reading Ebola Outbreak in Liberia
South Africa, particularly Cape Town, is perhaps the second most beautiful place I’ve been (New Zealand takes first). It’s as if you took the Alps and smashed them down into an expansive white beach, and took the weather of the Pacific Northwest and paired it with the vineyards and rolling hills of Napa Valley or Tuscany. Continue reading Cape Town, South Africa
Waiting for a flight out of Nairobi, a week after the airport had been almost destroyed by an arson fire, I was about to blow a gasket. The already inefficient African customs process was a nightmare, with passengers being herded under temporary tents on the tarmac and Kenyan security guards barking orders everywhere.
Near the end of the month, I wrapped up the last of my work and managed to grab a few free days. I woke early and headed down to Flavours and ordered a Castle Lite and sat at the bar. By now I was on a first name basis with the waitresses, and they chattered back and forth with me in singsong African English.
I wanted a motorcycle to ride, so I asked the waitress if she knew anyone who’d be up for renting me one for the day.