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At the Nougaprix

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Our typical routine while staying here in Djibouti involves a French-style breakfast of bread and coffee, a late morning juice, a snack from the Nougaprix (and often a protein bar from home) during the afternoon shut-down and a nice evening meal.

Today we headed to Nougaprix for our daily liters of water and I searched for a snack healthier than cookies or chips.

I almost got yogurt but it was the equivalent of $5 for four and I wasn’t sure I wanted four. An ice cream cake was only a dollar or two more.

I checked out the bakery and found a chicken sandwich and a chicken pizza. I figured what the heck… I’d try it. Less then $2.

  
She even warmed it for me. It was like chicken parmigiana meats shredded barbecue. 

Sunday in Djibouti

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

Our endeavors in Djibouti have yielded success and also exposed us to some small changes in the city. The prevalence of metal detectors everywhere, a swipe with a wand to get into the grocery store or even the coffee shop.

Right now it’s Sunday afternoon and I am updating my social media and eating my Fauchon candies from the plane. 

So we returned from the Nougaprix last night and headed to Le Santal, a restaurant here that features Chinese and Indian cuisine and has a pizzeria. 

  
We discovered it during our last stay. I had lamb vindaloo and two varieties of naan. I paid for dinner since I stopped at the ATM and accidentally withdrew twice what I meant to. M and I took the long way to the restaurant and the long way home to increase our steps and people watch. Because we’re white and stand out, every woman on the street changing money asks us if we have dollars to exchange.

We had our traditional difficult night last night— when the jet lag catches up with us and we end up chit-chatting for a couple hours in the middle of the night. I finally passed out at 5 a.m. local time (9 p.m. at home) and didn’t wake until 9 a.m. I woke a tad distraught because I wanted to wake at 7 a.m. 

  
  
Breakfast goes until 10 a.m., but there was no coffee. Might be because we overslept, might be that the espresso machine is broken. Hard to tell. I did notice a sticker on the window — K’naan, Dusty Foot Philosopher. K’naan hails from Somalia. I have three of his recordings. 

  
After breakfast, we did some errands to flush out our travel plans (Lac Abbé? Whale sharks?) It’s Sunday morning, so the streets are crazy and alive with everyone starting their work week.

  
We went to Bunna House for coffee. Crowded this morning and staffed by women making coffee and men in black Bunna House polo shirts doing the cleaning and serving. Logo knocks off Starbucks, serves Ethiopian coffee.

Then I started my quest for an African-style dress. We went to the bus station/market and found one dress with scarf/shawl. M didn’t like the price so we walked. We hope to go back and haggle later. We found other dresses and I bought one for myself and something for my daughter.

  
After dress shopping complete, we went for juice. The juice bar was our favorite part of the city. It has changed. No more outdoor patio with begging children and street cats. Plus the menu has either been reduced or they are out of fruit. I used to get ginger or cantaloupe. Today the options were lemon, orange, pineapple or mango. I enjoyed the mango but it wasn’t the same.

  

We returned to the hotel to find that the housekeeper had laid our freshly laundered towels on our bed with the ceiling fan on high to dry them.

Morning upon return to Djibouti

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The truly temperate weather as we arrived in Djibouti surprised us. Last time, in April 2014, the weather averaged 90 degrees F and 90% humidity. Today, it’s 82 degrees with 66 percent humidity “making it feel like” 88. Well, comparatively it is wonderful. Paris was cold, and Djibouti is not sweltering hot.
The international military presence at the airport seemed heightened compared to our last visit and taxis now congregate in a parking lot farther away from the actual terminal. Djibouti’s airport is very small, and there are no gates. Speaking of parking lots, the planes pull up from the runway and more or less just park in front of the airport.
We found a taxi without incident and I found it funny how instantly I relaxed as the heat built in the green-and-white cab, only the front window open and the air conditioning running as much as it could. The airport has various roadblocks that need to be circumvented to leave, weaving between them in an S-fashion. 

  
The area near the airport has a lot of what might best be described as European-style summer villas. As you come into town, the feel of the developing world increases. Men digging trenches and constructing buildings with nothing but their own hands and manual tools. Women in colorful robes and head coverings. The blend of European-influenced shops and homes mixed in with the rag-tag stalls and living quarters of the less affluent residents. And flies. Lots of flies. 

  
My traveling companion M had attempted to book a room at our regular hotel, but had been unable to reach them. So, we told the taxi to take us downtown to Hotel Ali Sabieh. When we were here previously, they had started construction on a new building across the street. I don’t think it’s done quite yet, but it is a big building and looks great.

 
The porter recognized us when our cab parked. The desk clerk is the same man it was last time, and I think he’s still wearing the same purple-and-white shirt. Our room features the same Third World rustic comfort as we’ve come to expect: a sink that pours water from the pedestal every time you use it; a toilet where the water needs to be shut off at the valve so it doesn’t overflow; a shower that’s more like standing under a hose; and my personal favorite: the curtained “window” that doesn’t have a window at all, but merely a wall. 
  
The businesses near us seem exactly what they were almost two years ago, including the man on center square who tried to get us to hire him as a tour guide every time we walked by. He managed to catch us today and present his spiel and phone number. 
We headed to the Nougaprix grocery store for water. And we slept and slept and slept. We set the alarm for a 45 minute nap and I believe reset it three times before we very reluctantly rose from our beds.
(Follow me on Instagram for more photos: angelackerman)

AF 0668 into Djibouti

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I left France so exhausted I went to sleep as soon as the plane took off. My rest for the first couple days of this trip has consisted of nothing but one hour naps. I think I dozed for about 3 hours, on and off, on the plane.

  
I skipped dinner, having filled up on cheese, chocolate and apple tart in the airport lounge (which I washed down with a small serving of port). M and I were both concerned that the airline food did not agree with our digestive systems.

On the flight from DC to Paris, we had the  seats in the front of premium economy. Despite the extra leg room and lack of proximity of other people, I found the arrangement difficult. 

We sat in the last row of premium economy this time and felt I had an endless array of ways to wedge my body around the seat and window.

  
I also got out my music. I hoped it would help since music is often an important part of my wind down ritual at home. All or some of these things may have contributed to my success at a longer nap.

I woke up and went back to “cattle class” to use the toilet, get a drink and stretch my legs. That was when I noticed so many families and babies hanging everywhere. I often joke that the back of the plane resembles a refugee camp. This one, between the fullness, the children, and the clothing strewn about, might have qualified for some sort of UN-sponsored humanitarian aid.

The plane also featured a lot of French and American military personnel. The main difference between the American and the French people seems to be the fit of their clothes. The French wear tighter clothes.

I woke over the Nile Valley. I glanced out the window and saw the brightest lights and thought to myself, “that looks like Orion.” I didn’t have my glasses and reached for them, sure enough confirming the gorgeous night sky and the crispness of the winter constellations.

  
I witnessed the pale blue, orange and pink stratification of sunrise in a similar fashion.

Coming off the plane, the biggest shock was the mid-80 degree F temperature, the breeze and the 60-something percent humidity. The weather is perfect.

Because the plane was so full, the baggage claim was a riotous mess of people pushing and shoving.

All and all, a nice flight.

Tarts and bonnets

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

The afternoon passed quickly. Any piece of Parisian real estate needs to capitalize on space, so you experience many spiral staircases. I’ve already had at least one friend picture me falling down them. And breaking something. Or many things.

We headed up to Barbès and out the metro to Couronnes. I am looking for a more effective way to prepare my hijab. There’s a lot of Muslim shops in that neighborhood, but before we even got too far I noticed a bakery that suited my fancy.

Stairs
The pastries
Chocolate viennese bread
macaroons
Trying on bonnets
Sunset

This bakery had a raspberry tart that looked appealing. As I perused the case, the contents just got better. I decided on a chocolate bread and impulse bought a raspberry and also a pistachio scone. They were 50 cents each. And they were scrumptious. I spent 3.50 Euros for a Diet Coke, the bread and the macaroons. It was all truly delectable.

Then we stopped in a women’s Muslim dress shop. I wanted some sort of secure underscarf so if my scarf moved I would still be covered. In Africa, I want to find some kind of niqab/dress. M encouraged me to converse with the shop owner in French.

She had some lovely scarfs and even walked me through her dress selection. But when I mentioned I wanted a head covering that didn’t move, she showed me the bonnet.I fell in love with the pink one because it matches the color scheme of clothes I packed for the Horn of Africa. Two Euros fifty. And right now the dollar is darn near equal to the Euro.

We went to Leader Prix on the way home to get envelopes for M and I snapped a photo of the pink sky.

Good surprise, bad surprise

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IMG_7516

This hardly getting any sleep and doing a lot of walking and traveling takes a toll. I was so exhausted on the RER into Paris.

Luckily M knows we’re not as young as we used to be so he booked us a hotel room at Mercure-Gare de Nord. We always stay in this neighborhood, but usually in little m0m-and-pop establishments deeper in the side streets. This hotel is across the street from Gare de Nord.

That was a great surprise. I flopped onto the bed and took a nap.

But… speaking of small establishments… the coffee shop where M and I have taken coffee for the five years we have been traveling together has changed hands and it’s now a STARBUCKS. Sigh. So sad.

But… more news… We are here during the January sales! France only has sales twice a year. And I managed to show up during the sales. Went shopping already.

And since I am interested in youth disenfranchisement, immigrant politics in France and French rap, I bought Diam’s two books.

Arrival in CDG

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

I have a love-hate relationship with flying. I love packing my suitcase. I love airplanes. I love the airport lounges. I love the physics of take-off. I love the first four hours in the air. Then, my ears clog. My butt hurts. I realize I can’t sleep. I have slime on my face. The plane always seems cold and the dinner gross.

That’s me at 12:30 a.m. my local time, after 6+ hours on the plane and only a one-hour nap after rising at 4 a.m. to start my traveling. And the other photo is my first plate of croissants in the CDG arrivals lounge. I grabbed the last pain au chocolat.

My travel companionIMG_7487, M, and I spent yesterday in his apartment in D.C., catching up while he packed. We had lunch at the nearby Cava. My pita had braised lamb.

We headed to Dulles Airport by bus-metro-bus and flew out on a Boeing 777-330 in premium economy.

Despite a rather disappointing dinner, only getting to watch one-third of the Little Prince movie and an episode where I nearly took out a flight attendant with projectile applesauce, I suppose it was a nice flight.

I normally have issues with my ears when flying and this time was no exception. My left ear is clogged severely and both ears gave me pain and discomfort during landing and even while on the ground. Let’s hope it clears up quickly.

It’s 9:15 a.m. Paris time, 3:15 a.m. Pennsylvania time. We hope our hotel will let us into our room early. M booked a room for the day so we can nap. Our flight to Djibouti leaves at 12:30 a.m. tonight and we have no plans for Paris other than to relax and run errands.

Little Girl Feet

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The travels have commenced. I’m successfully boarded on Amtrak’s 6:55 a.m. train, the Northeast Regional, my regular hook-up between Philadelphia and Washington, D.C.

  
My day started early, with a random phone call for the second night in a row from Pakistan. Don’t ask me who it was, I didn’t answer. Normally I don’t take my phone into my bedroom but I thought it easier to use it for an alarm rather than change the real clock. Even though I had the ringer silenced, the vibrating phone woke me at 1 a.m.

And because I am traveling today I had trouble getting back to sleep. Part of it may have been the cats hogging the bed.

At 4:11, I got up. Husband got in the shower. I went down for a glass of juice. I hear movement upstairs and sure enough, my eleven-year-old comes down the stairs.

To tell you the truth, I was happy to see her. I hate the idea of leaving those I love without a final round of hugs and kisses.

We left the house at 4:30 so we could stop at Wawa for coffee. Child was thrilled to get a hot chocolate. I was disappointed they hadn’t started making egg sandwiches yet.

We arrived at Gayle’s house. Gayle drove me to Philly, as I laughed at her stories of errant students and she laughed at my tale of my daughter helping me pack and her reaction to my many styles of underwear.

And now, after 20 minutes at the gate next to the business class dude who couldn’t stop talking for 30 seconds (“My father fought in WWII and was recalled for Korea.” “Did you know Jersey Mikes has hundreds of locations?”), I am on the train with a 20-something girl silently listening to her headphones.

Departure tomorrow

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 Everyone has a travel routine. Mine typically involves packing, unpacking and repacking my suitcase every day for a week. 

My week has been hectic: my retail life still discombobulated from Christmas, family life still scattered due to a health emergency over the weekend, home repairs, refinancing the house and catching up with college friends home for the holidays (and building some new relationships, too).

So I just finished packing now. Packing the first time, not the unpacking and repacking part. My train leaves in about 16 hours.

The only thing I have left is to pack my laptop, my phone and my Fitbit charger.

Some people think it’s crazy that I’m going to Mogadishu. 

Some people think it sounds like a great adventure.

Many are concerned for my safety.

  

Leaving this week… for Paris, Djibouti and Somalia

Angel Ackerman 1 Comment

Americans don’t usually travel to Djibouti or Somalia. The last time we went, the airline check-in agent said people don’t usually board planes for the Horn of Africa unless they have a crew cut and camo pants.

I am almost ready for my upcoming trip to East Africa.

Today there was a suicide bombing in a restaurant near the presidential palace in Mogadishu.

I leave for Mogadishu soon.

Exciting times.

People don’t understand my fascination with East Africa. And I must admit I am somewhat trepidatious to visit Mogadishu, but it’s something I want. I believe it’s a special place and significant in the political landscape. I believe that to understand the impact of French colonization on the Horn of Africa, it’s important to understand the non-colonized regions of the Horn.

Djibouti is a traditional crossroads, ethically comprised of Issa Somali and Afar in addition to many other people, from Arab to European descent. So I’m curious to see how Somalia compares to Djibouti.

Maybe it’s crazy, but I am very excited to visit Djibouti for the second time and Somalia for the first.