Getting Ready For Senegal

I'm getting ready for my trip to Senegal and Mali. It was a bit of a hassle getting the Mali visa-- which sat on the desk of someone at the DC Embassy for a few weeks-- but there's no need for a visa for Senegal. The Malians charge $131. The Malians also insist on a Yellow Fever vacination so after unsuccessfully pleading with a doctor to just give me the form that says I got one without actually shooting me up with whatever poisons the vacination is made from, I did get the shot. And I made reservations to rent a 4WD vehicle and a driver and made some reservations for hotels and a flight from Dakar to Bamako and I'm very busy running around buying food bars and hand wipes and silk sheets and an ergonomic backpack for my trek in the Dogon Country. But a friend sent me some music from Senegal today that I thought listening to that would be an even better way to get ready for my trip.

I'm a fan of Malian music, especially of Ali Farka Tour�, the bluesman who died a couple years ago. And I have an intro from a friend to meet Bassekou Kouyate whose music sounds great. But I don't know anything about the music of Senegal, other than the world-renowned music of Youssou N'Dour, of course. Djele Lankandia Cissoko plays Kora music from Casamance. It really appeals to me and I'm hoping I can find some live music like this in Dakar.

Wireless Service Coming To Delta

I've often mentioned that Delta is the worst of all the awful domestic carriers. I try to avoid flying that airline when there is an alternative going to the same destination. I even stopped using my American Express card and using my Master Card instead, the former hooked up to Delta and the latter to the less venal American. It seems like all the news we get from the airline industry these days is bad news. Earlier in the week I wrote about the heinous, anti-democratic rich-people-to-the-front-of-the-line-please Fly Clear program. And we've all been experiencing how the airlines are nickeling and diming us all to death with fees for everything. I'm certain pay toilets on board are next-- and I'll bet Delta leads the way.

Still, to be fair, Delta is actually leading the way on something awesome for a change-- albeit a new way of squeezing more money out of travelers. According to today's Washington Post wireless Internet starts this fall! Actually it'll only be on 133 MD88/90 planes this fall. The rest of the fleet won't be ready 'til next summer. "The service will be available to customers for a flat fee of $9.95 on flights of three hours or less and $12.95 on flights of more than three hours."


UPDATE: Meanwhile, JetBlue Is Charging For A Pillow

I just saw a Jet Blue executive, CEO Jeff Barger, making the unique, if twisted, case that his company's decision to start charging $7 for a pillow and a blanket was a great bargain. Apparently those pillows and blankets we've all been using on planes were filthy and germ-ridden and only laundered every few weeks. The $7 ones are fresh and clean and you get to take it with you... if you have room in your costly checked luggage.

The new issue of Time points out that Southwest is the "one major airline that is bucking the trend of increasing fees... [and] still doesn't charge for checked bags (up to two), nonalcoholic drinks, blankets or making a change to your flight." On the other end of the spectrum, USAirways "broke new ground last week by starting to charge for all beverages: $2 for a soft drink (or even a bottle of water); $1 for coffee or tea. Checked bags cost $15 and $25; flight changes are $150."

Where on Earth will YOU vote?

I could have voted in Fez

Right now, as I mentioned, I'm planning a trip to Djenne, Mopti, le pays Dogon and Timbuktu; that's all Mali. And a lot of it is relatively inaccessible without a camel-- or, thankfully, a 4WD. I planned my trip after the election. If I wasn't actively working for some many candidates, I didn't have to. Voting from abroad is way easier now than it used to be when McCain was young and you had to vote with cuneiform. Cheap joke; but when I was around 20 I was living in Afghanistan and I had to ride a horse down from the mountains to vote in the U.S. Embassy in Kabul. It's a lot easier today.

This morning I got a message from an Obama-related group called VoteFromAbroad via Facebook. They lay out the simple steps of how you can vote from anywhere in the world... even Mali or Afghanistan. They even have a YouTube:

HOW SAFE IS MEXICO CITY FOR U.S. TOURISTS?

Short answer: very, very safe. If you're looking for trouble-- in Mexico City or anywhere else-- you can surely find it. But all the hype about Mexico City being a dangerous place for American tourists seemed to me to be completely unfounded. I had a quasi-revelation while I was there about why. There's a subway stop at the airport. It costs 25 American cents to go anywhere in the city. I took it to my hotel and it was simple and clean and took 25 minutes. A taxi takes between an hour and an hour and forty-five minutes... depending on congestion caused by road building. And taxis cost... well, that's where the hype comes in. It's an oft repeated truism in Mexico City that if you take a "street cab" you could be kidnapped and held for ransom. It has happened-- only not to tourists. It has happened to rich and upper middle class Mexicans. There appears to be a ring of kidnappers in cahoots with some elements of the police who kidnap rich Mexicans and ransom them. The game doesn't work on tourists.

I took street taxis around Mexico City frequently. No problems whatsoever, although the fine folks at the hotel, especially the door staff, were adamant it was dangerous. A metered "street taxi" from my hotel to the great restaurants in the Polanco district costs around $3. The hotel cars that are always being pushed charge $20 for the same ride and the SITIO cabs the hotels claim are safe also try getting away-- no meters-- with $20. Those numbers explain the hyped up danger stories. The motive is very significant profit. The American ex-pats I spoke to in Mexico City laughed about it. They all take street cabs.

No matter where I travel, the employees at the upper end hotels always tell me "it's too far to walk." It never is. In Mexico City they also claimed it was too dangerous for me and my two robust friends to walk from Paseo de la Reforma to a market about a mile away. The walk brought us away from the architecturally stunning Reforma and into the "real" day-to-day Mexico City. Dangerous? Not even a little.

Last week I mentioned I was going to go to El Museo Dolores Olmedo in Xochimilco. It took almost an hour by subway and then a little train ride (25 cents on each). It costs $4.50 to get in, although they accepted my L.A. County Museum of Art membership card as a substitute and they accepted a teacher's ID from a friend. (All 3 museums I went to happily accepted the L.A. museum card for free entry.) Anyway, Dolores Olmedo, who died 6 years ago, was Diego Rivera's patron (and longtime lover-- and, rumor has it, also Frida Kahlo's lover, if more briefly). Her gorgeous, magical estate in the middle of the city-- although it certainly seems like you're far from any city-- has been turned into an art museum specializing in the works of Rivera and, to a lesser, but still significant, extent, Kahlo. I had been to Mexico City many times before but had never gone there before. I'm sure I'll be back... every time I visit Mexico City.

The Tamayo Museum in Chapultepec Park was a huge disappointment. I remember it as a spectacular building housing an even more spectacular collection of Tamayo art. The building is still super. The art... no. There were no Tamayos. Instead there were 4 absolutely wretched exhibitions that had to be justified with long explanations because they were so obviously mediocre. The first one we wandered into was 3 rooms of photos of toilet paper and urine by a radical Brazilian named Artur Barrio. A few years ago I decided to stop being a member of the Museum of Contemporary Art in L.A. because the work grasped at trying to be art and instead was just a bunch of ugly intellectual polemics. Barrio's work was far worse than anything I ever saw at MOCA.

Canadian photographer Jeff Wall had an exhibition that wasn't offensive at all-- nor was it remotely interesting. It just filled some space with big, well-lit photos. Swedish photographer Henrik Hakansson also had a huge exhibition. It could have been called "Snapshots from my dull trip to Chiapas."
Pablo Pijnappel I would have voted to pass on but my two companions are Dutch and they were fascinated by his Dutch last name. We gave his unremarkable video a minute before leaving, a minute more than it was worth. Almost any random YouTube clip would have been more interesting and artistic.

El Museo de Arte Moderno has a kick-ass sculpture garden

Fortunately I then remembered that across the street, still in Chapultepec, was one of the western hemisphere's greatest modern art museums, the Museo de Arte Moderno. There were plenty of Tamayos, of course, as well as a spectacular sampling of Mexico's greatest contemporary artists: Rivera and Kahlo of course, and Siqueiros, Gerzco, Orozco, Galan, Costa, Carrington, etc. Between the permanent collection and the unbelievable sculpture garden, it is easy to while away a day at this beautiful oasis. We also saw a career retrospective of Remedios Varo Uranga. At first I thought the work was by some hippie in the 60s who was smoking a lot of Acapulco gold. Then I realized she was born in 1908 and had a vision way ahead of the trends. Definitely worth checking out.

The other day I mentioned I had gone to the culinary apex of Mexico City, Izote. The following night my friends wanted to eat on the roof of their hotel, the Best Western Majestic, which has a great view of the Zocolo and the National Palace but extremely mediocre food. We made up for it the following night when I got the fantastic concierge at the Embassy Suites to recommend something as good as Izote. He did: Pompano. It's not far from Izote in Polanco and, like it, it offers a modern-- and healthful-- delicious take on Mexican cooking. It's a seafood restaurant and the sampler of 3 cerviches was, simply put, the best cerviche I had ever tasted. Everything each of us ate was spectacular and I can't recommend this place too highly. It's at #42 Moliere in the old Jewish section of town (and not far from a fully functioning synagogue at Eugenio Sue).


UPDATE: BUT THINGS ARE DETERIORATING

The good news is that prices are going down on hotels and tourist-related things. The bad news is that Mexico is rated about as likely as Pakistan to disintegrate! The U.S. Joint Forces Command warns that Mexico's "government, its politicians, police and judicial infrastructure are all under sustained assault and press by criminal gangs and drug cartels. How that internal conflict turns out over the next several years will have a major impact on the stability of the Mexican state. Any descent by Mexico into chaos would demand an American response based on the serious implications for homeland security alone."

TRIP PLANNING: MALI, PESHAWAR AND MEXICO CITY

Djenne-- Growin' a beard so I can get in here

For several years I would wake up in the back on my VW van, crawl into the front seat and start driving wherever I wanted to go and stay for as long as I wanted to. I was just telling some friends of mine how much I loved discovering Peshawar, after too many months in Afghanistan, by just driving through the Khyber Pass til I found something that looked inviting. I loved the stately horse drawn cabs. All the horses had bright red plumes. And I never saw so many weapons for sales in one place in my life. It would be an NRA member's wet dream. (Well, not this week; I understand the Taliban has it surrounded and it may fall. It would be like the U.S. losing St. Louis or Denver.) Anyway, I'm in the middle of planning a trip to Senegal and Mali. Literally in the middle; I started planning 5 months ago and I'm leaving 5 months from now. Long gone are the days I just hop into the front seat and drive through a pass to see what I find on the other side. As part of my long drawn out preparations for Mali I've grown a beard and I'm taking Muslim lessons so I can get into the great mosque in Djenne, which was closed to non-Muslims in 1996 after a French fashion photographer from Vogue took inappropriate pictures-- soft core porn in the locals' eyes-- in the holiest house of worship in the country. Sometimes you just have to plan.

But not this week. I just got to Mexico City and it was as last minute as I can imagine travel these days. Toon, my best friend from my days in Amsterdam, e-mailed me on Wednesday and said he and his wife, Mieke, would be celebrating his birthday in Mexico City. I said I'd meet them and an hour later had found a good fare on Alaska Air and a decent deal at the Embassy Suites, which Trip Advisor rated as the #1 hotel in town. And here I am.

First off, it is hardly the best hotel in town. It basically is just a gussied up... Embassy Suites. The Four Seasons, which offers rooms at the same rate if you insist ($150/night), is way better. But the Embassy Suites is good enough and I'm perfectly happy here, despite the fact that the wireless connection is slow and costs $11/day and I hate being ripped off. I asked the concierge to make a reservation for me at Izote, one of the best restaurants in town, if you're looking for modern innovative Mexico cuisine, rather than lard and stuff that'll stuff your arteries up. This place was unpretentious and simple in ambiance and... well, I want to eat there every meal, every day. Chef /owner Patricia Quintana is a genius-- and a genius, it turns out who trained under my favorite chef in the word, Paul Bocuse. The hotel told me it was unsafe to take a normal taxi from Reforma to Polanco but that they would send me in the hotel car. That wound up costing $20. I laughed at myself for getting hustled and walked halfway back and then took a mini bus the rest of the way-- it started raining-- for 25 cents.

Oh, and speaking of raining, the one preparation I did make was to check the weather. Since it's been in the high 90s and low 100s in the L.A. area lately and Mexico City is further south, I had no intention of bringing a jacket. So I checked the Google and noticed it is quite cold-- as well as rainy. Sometimes you just gotta plan, even if just a little. Right?

When I was on the plane I asked the Mexican stewardess how to get to Reforma and she said everyone takes a taxi but that the subway was just as fast, a fifteenth the price and convenient and clean and safe and all that. I took her advice and it was just as she said. And it left me off a few blocks from the hotel. As I started walking towards it I discovered something I never had noticed before: Mexico City is the gayest city in the world. In fact, there were no straight people. I had left the Insurgentes metro stop and was walking down Amberes. It was just a colorful jumble of gays and lesbians. Then I figured I must be in the middle of an event. And although, it turns out that this is Gay Pride Weekend, that was in another part of town and this just turned out to be a neighborhood that's pretty festive all the time. I mean I knew Acapulco and Puerta Vallarta are gay havens but I always remember Mexico City as kind of staid and a bit uptight. Things sure have changed! Tomorrow: the Dolores Olmedo Museum in Xochimilco.

OUR ANNUAL NEW NEW ORLEANS CATCH-UP BY MICHAEL SNYDER

Hard to Leave the Big Easy

I�m continuing to depressurize. Trying to reintegrate right and left brains. Weaning myself off of Pimm�s cups and Ramos fizzes and Sazeracs. Occasionally shaking from gumbo withdrawal.

Of course, I already miss New Orleans, and it�s only been a couple of days since I left. I actually began to pine for the city as I pulled away from the French Quarter and headed for Louis Armstrong Airport. (And if that name ain�t a promise of good times as you arrive in town and an invitation to melancholy as you leave, I don�t know what is.)

Carnival is in full swing, dressed in the traditional green, gold and purple of Mardi Gras, and heading for its ecstatic culmination next Tuesday. (The green stands for faith, the gold for power, and the purple for justice � so decreed by the membership of the New Orleans social club the Krewe of Rex over a century ago.)

Showing up for the first few days of what amounts to a week and a half of increasing dementia allows one to avoid the massive crush of yahoos and loonies looking to get completely plastered and heedlessly bare body parts by the end of the celebration. At the start, the numbers are smaller and the behavior more civilized. Nonetheless, the spirit of revelry was in the air this past weekend. Yes, there were some remnants of what a couple of locals warily/bitterly called �that weather incident.� The French Market is being renovated and, the promise of renewal aside, its husk is a sad sight. The Lower Ninth Ward is still largely a mess.

But the people are still warm and welcoming. Construction is happening throughout the town. The Quarter and Magazine Street in the Garden District are pretty much back to speed. New businesses are opening � and a few storm-devastated old businesses are reopening. The restaurants � from the familiar and classic to the recently spawned � were, as expected, producing the delectable regional cuisine that has inspired watering mouths and rave reviews - nay, poetry! - for decades.

Certainly, the music-- particularly at the clubs on Frenchmen Street in the Marigny-- was superb and rollicking and wistful and even hopeful, just like the residents who stayed or returned, and endured.

Last Friday night, pianist Ellis Marsalis-- patriarch of the renowned musical clan-- had his small ensemble cooking on the standards as usual at Snug Harbor. At d.b.a. (the New Orleans branch of the New York City/East Village brew pub), the weekend schedule was top-notch and delightfully indigenous with torchy blues-rock chanteuse Ingrid Lucia doing the early evening show on Friday, followed by some rousing frenzy from the folk-rockin� Zydepunks; jazz crooner John Boutte and band opening the Saturday bill, with a wild R&B/Tex-Mex-fueled late show from the roots-rockin� Iguanas; and retro le jazz hot singer/cutie-pie Linnzi Zaorski playing a happy-hour set on Sunday, with the Washboard Chaz Blues Trio wrapping up the night.

There is no greater ambassador for genuine New Orleans jazz in this day and age than the terrific, tradition-wise singer-trumpeter Kermit Ruffins, who, with his band the Barbecue Swingers, done tore up the Blue Nile on Saturday night. Very few artists can turn a club into a carnival at will. Kermit is one of them. And Monday night�s jam session at Ray�s Boom Boom Room, led by drummer/DJ Bob French, was a wonderful, improv-heavy ramble through Tim Pan Alley and the Great American Songbook.

It would be a mistake to forget the fabulous band that played Saturday night�s annual costume ball hosted by a New Orleans artist of note. The group�s horns-and-all cover of the Beatles� �Got to Get You Into My Life,� done-- no lie-- Parliament/Funkadelic-style, almost shook the filled-to-the-rafters warehouse apart. Nor should I neglect to mention the amazing Sunday night all-45 rpm vintage-soul-and-rockabilly DJ set at the Saint bar in the Garden District. And the melodies that waft from legendary venues, hot spots and dives as you walk past or are produced by street performers that are far too accomplished to be relegated to passing the hat.

This is on top of the parades (raining beads and doubloons on fervent crowds of onlookers) by the krewes that roll through the area on the early weekend. And the yearly Krewe of Barkus dog parade through the Quarter, with the 2008 theme �Indiana Bones & the Raiders of the Lost Bark�-- complete with canine fashion plates and their owners in Indy fedoras, pushing along lovingly-forged Arks of the Covenant on wheels.

My last evening in town featured an orgy of exquisitely delicious food shared with three friends Uptown at Jacques-Imo�s restaurant-- cornbread muffins, stuffed shrimp, fried green tomatoes, onion rings, succulent glazed duck, blackened redfish, collard greens, and strawberry shortcake, washed down with Abita�s Mardi Gras Bock. We topped it off with nightcaps at La Crepe Nanou, where we talked music and the beauty of Southern Louisiana with Vicki and Debbi Peterson of the Bangles who were in town for a couple of shows.

Like Vicki and Debbi, I harbor an inordinate amount of love for the city of New Orleans. Call it what you will: Nola, the Big Easy, the Crescent City, the City That Care Forgot. Its socio-economic problems and precarious, post-Katrina condition notwithstanding, it�s like no other place in America-- a cultural cauldron rich with history, art, music, culinary delights, and the joy of living. I encourage everyone to visit and drop a little cash there. The Jazz & Heritage Festival is coming up in the spring-- and, judging from schedule, it looks like it�s gonna be one to remember. So go. Or visit some other time. Help the regeneration of this national treasure. You will be repaid a thousand times over with peak experiences that will linger in your memory long after you return to your everyday biz.

A VISIT TO THE TOMB OF SARMAD-- A GAY, NAKED (AND BEHEADED) SUFI POET AND MYSTIC

When I arrived in India for the first time, in 1969, I immediately gave up my dependence on drugs. I've been-- excuse the expression-- "clean" ever since. The trip to India, through India and back to Europe from India took a little over 2 years. I saw a lot and I missed a lot. I've been back to India 3 times since, most recently just over a week ago. My trip was actually to Thailand and Myanmar and I was just stopping in New Delhi for about 10 days before and after. I had no business, no appointments, no agenda, no pressure. So I went out of my way to really spend some quality time at the best sites in Delhi, sites I had seen in the past but never really immersed myself in.

I spent a whole day at Lal Qila (the Red Fort), for example, a place I probably gave an hour to previously. And I'd go spend another day there without a second thought. I also spent some time at Old Delhi's other stunning-- equally stunning-- tourist attraction: Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque. The Moghul Emporer Shah Jahan started it in 1650 and the red sandstone and marble house of worship-- not far from his palace-- look six years to complete. It's truly awe-inspiring and I guess that was the point. We sure don't build 'em like that any more!

I had heard about a Sufi poet and saint, Hazrat Sarmad being buried in a tomb at the Jama Masjid. He was actually a Jewish Armenian from Persia who converted to Islam-- perhaps to Christianity for a spell before that-- and became a peerless Sufi mystic of great renown in his day (1590-1661). Somewhere along the way he fell head over heels in love (ishq) with a young Hindu boy, Abhai Chand-- so head over heels, in fact, that he renounced all worldly possessions-- including his clothes-- and became a naked fakir. This (nudity) wasn't that weird in India but the Moghuls weren't into it and Sarmad was pals with Dara Shikoh, the heir to Shah Jahan's throne. That didn't work out and when Aurangzeb staged a coup and took over the joint it was hard times for Dara Shikoh's friends. He had Sarmad beheaded for blasphemy (although historians have always sensed some politics in the mix).

I decided to go visit and pay my respects. I didn't have my camera so the picture above is of me in front of an entirely different tomb, Humayun's, which is in New Delhi, not even Old Delhi, although it's just as old. I stopped there on my way to another tomb the Hazrat Nizamuddin Darga, which is very much a lively scene in an living medieval community and in front of which-- and the reason I went-- qawwali singers do their thing in the evenings. I love that music and the video below in front of the darga should give you an idea of what it's like. Anyway, back to Samad; I never did get to take any photos and it was very difficult to find, since everyone claims to know where everything is, even if they don't. And even when I found it... well, how do you know he's really in there anyway? And if he is, is his head?




UPDATE: NY TIMES DOES DELHI IN 36 HOURS

Don't try it... but there are some useful tips... about art galleries and sitar shopping. They agree with me that Swagath, though not in the center of town, is worth the trip for a delicious south Indian (especially otherwise unavailable Mangalorean) seafood meal.