Saturday, February 2, 2008
Personally, I've always found it quite entertaining - especially when mixed with a couple drinks to take the edge off. ;-)
Mefloquine is an orally administered antimalarial drug used as a prophylaxis against and treatment for malaira. It also goes by the trade name Lariam® and chemical name mefloquine hydrochloride (formulated with HCl).
The drug is taken once a week starting at least one week prior to entry into malaria endemic areas and continued for 4 weeks after leaving. Owing to the risk of neuropsychiatric disturbance, particularly disruption of sleep, UK advice is for people who have not previously used Mefloquine to start 3 weeks prior to departure; adverse effects usually manifest within one or two weeks, and so there would remain sufficient time to switch to an alternative drug.
Mefloquine may have severe and permanent adverse side-effects. It is known to cause severe depression, anxiety, paranoia, nightmares, insomnia, seizures, peripheral motor-sensory neoropathy, vestibular (balance) damage and central nervous system problems. For a complete list of adverse physical and psychological effects — including suicidal ideation — see the most recent product information. Central nervous system events occur in up to 25% of people taking Lariam, such as dizziness, headache, insomnia, and vivid dreams. In 2002 the word "suicide" was added to the official product label, though proof of causation has not been established. Since 2003, the FDA in the USA has required that patients be screened before mefloquine is prescribed. The latest Consumer Medication Guide to Lariam has more complete information.
In the 1990s there were reports in the media that the drug may have played a role in the Somalia Affair, which involved the torture and murder of a Somali citizen whilst in the custody of Canadian peacekeeping troops. There has been similar controversy since three murder-suicides involving Special Forces soldiers at Fort Bragg, N.C., in the summer of 2002. To date more than 19 cases of vestibular damage following the use of mefloquine have been diagnosed by military physicians. The same damage has been diagnosed among business travelers and tourists.
So if you've read this far, here's the interesting post script. I'm fairly certain that I should have my last Lariam Monday, February 4th. That would be four weeks since returning. But I seem to have taken my last remaining pill last Monday. Hmmm.
Considering the number of mossy bites, especially in Bamako our last two nights, the incubation period of the protozoan parasites, and the fact the half-life of mefloquine can be up to four weeks...the next ten months or so could be an interesting waiting game.
Don't worry - it's not contagious. :-)
Okay, if you are reading this and grumbling that you did not get a postcard this year...
- Only saw three post boxes anywhere along the route.
- Only one post office.
- Bought a whole stack of cards near the end in Tombouctou...so had good intentions.
Alas, this great pile is sitting on my office desk at home. I think a paltry three actually got posted.
So if one arrives in February with a Canadian stamp, don't be too upset. :-)
Monday, January 28, 2008
Dinner Spot Number One was a bit of a disaster. Good music scene, but after six attempts on the menu, no food to be had. Kim & I had splurged 15,000CFA to empty our pockets on a bottle of Bordeaux - what else to do? (Somehow airport shops at midnight did not seem likely.) We ended up walking down the street to the Bla Bla Bar.
The name alone was worth the visit, and it's the hippest space we saw in Mali. I especially liked the colourful plastic bowls taped together to be used as lamps, hanging at odd heights and locations throughout the place. Fantastic roast chicken, too!
No luck searching out Buffet de la Gare afterwards...Barou had never been, two taxi drivers hadn't a clue. Oh well - days of Rail Band gone by.
Our second taxi dropped us at an, umm, interesting "club". Let's just say NO pics were to be taken. As for the other entertainment, it seemed to be open mic night...Mali Idol, here we come. We left after one beer.
The Pirate Club was apparently the place to be...odd covers upstairs (we arrived to a striking rendition of "Mack the Knife") and a lively disco in the room downstairs. We opted to sit outside, get devoured by mossies (put that Lariam to work, I say - psychotic nights not to be for nought) and watch the rich Bamakoans (?) coming and going.
Video for your entertainment!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Yes, the pool is as stunning as it looks. A nice moonlight light helps.
On those hot, dusty days after hours wandering the streets of Bamako, it was a most welcome sight, let me tell you.
No surprise, but I still find it intriguing how one's frame of reference can change so quickly.
I arrived in Bamako on December 21 close to midnight. It was a hazy evening, and after the craziness of the airport my taxi staggered through the streets in a somewhat drunken fashion, bobbing and weaving for no apparent reason. (Avoiding police/army checkpoints?) The Rabelais was shut up tight, however a key with my name on it was stuck on the board. The room seemed quite fine. The next day, the city seemed like many other third-world (esp. African) cities, if perhaps poorer: lots of noise, chaotic traffic mixing petrol fumes and animal carts, dirt and tarmacadam, commerce of some sort on every corner. But a "small" city, by capital standards. Not a lot of "conveniences"...restaurants, plush commerce and the like.
After a fortnight, oh what a difference. Bamako was simply worldly, a veritable centre of nightlife and cosmopolitan treats. And the Rabelais? A stunning five-star treat, with a room to match. :-)
While pleased to return home, I know I'll be clinging to that sense of appreciation - and wonderment - as long as possible.
Then again, isn't that why we go?
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Described as "slightly seedy" by LP, it is a sprawling place to catch Malian blues and other traditional music. Many westerners showed up for late Saturday night music, but there was also a large local contingent as well - always a good sign.
Segou a few nights back...but eminently enjoyable. [The next night we attempted to find Buffet de la Gare, where the legendary Rail Band started (made up of actual railway workers). Alas, no taxi driver could find it. All was not lost, as we were still dropped at a house of ill repute for "music". Needless to say no pics of that very lcoal establishment! More of an "open mic" night, we didn't stay that long...]
On our way out of Holgun, sure enough who walks in but Toumani Diabaté. A master of the kora (21-string West African harp), Toumani Diabaté has brought the traditional music of his native Mali to the attention of an international audience with a series of well-received albums. Stooped over and walking with the help of a cane, you'd never guess he was only a couple years older than me. We had a quick chat, then he convinced us to join him back inside "for just one song". Alas, we had to leave to drop friends off at the airport, so I'm afraid to say the best I got was his tuning the kora... - sigh -
If you want to get a flavour of the music...click on the below video. (Never mind the visuals, you get a bit of the sound.)
Thursday, January 24, 2008
A bit cliched, really. But the hell with originality -- I love them anyway.
On our long drive back into Bamako, the sunset was wondrous. Somehow as we barrelled down the road, it seemed to be full of intrigue, the trees playing character parts along the way. I never tire of baobabs, and spent a few moments with the window open desperately (in vain) trying to capture a bit of their spirit, in some strange avante garde sort of way.
If you know Neil, you know it will likely involve two things:
2) Night life of some sort.
This beautiful courtyard of our hotel was full of action - and tourists. Owned and run by a French family, it seemed "the" destination (not that there are many). However the overly-loud music and dancing, geared purely for tourists, wasn't quite to my style.
Heather, Glen and I stayed for an hour or so. It was great fun watching the dancing, the row of children's heads looking over the wall at the action, and young girls who were too young to come in, so would dance around the door (where our table was) and sneak just over the threshold every once in a while.
This video was surreptitiously shot with my small Nikon sitting on the table. (Not quite the same caliber as the BBC crew there the same time.) You will either decide this sounds "fun" or hurts your ears. It may indeed be one of those "had to be there" moments. :-)
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
A shot of Neil, in a local publican, enjoying a drink. And we wonder why it's a tad blurred? :-)
On our first night in Sevare - prior to heading down the Niger - Glen and I were itching for a night on the town.
Alas, despite Barou's best intentions, the town was dead. Far too cold for the locals, and too late: everything was shut up. No music from any of the discotheques. No dancing.
With Barou disgruntled by not being able to offer excitement, he asked if we'd like to simply find a "local" bar for a drink. Would we, indeed.
The place with no name (adjacent to the army base) was glorious. Cheap beer and rum, spicy brochettes for 100CFA, a telly out in the courtyard with a couple dozen people watching that evening's soap, faded 70s rock tapes warbling inside, and a healthy amount of feminine commerce walking about - with quick sojourns through the door in the bar.
We loved it.
We stayed some time.
This pic is on our return through Sevare, where as you can see we were fondly remembered by a few of the locals... ;-)
This is the local "shopping mall" in Sevare.
A hive of activity, it's always fun to go to local markets where:
- It's all about commerce. If you're not buying, they're not interested.
- It's all about the locals. Pandering to visitors is non-existent.
My local market purchases were few, but they did raise a few eyebrows. I purchased some blocks of salt (always needed), and a small mirror I needed for my travel kit. My choice on the latter was between a pic of a Chinese tart or palm trees on the obverse - either way, very pink.
I think I'm the only one who will remember the desert and Mali when I see the palm trees. Oh well.
Stood on a balcony for some time watching all this action...
That may sound culturally condescending, but the sights, the sounds, the details...all offer a jarring juxtaposition to what one sees "back home" [sic].
Random images: Dusty streets on a walkabout, local tailor and fashion house, our van being stopped by cattle, petrol "station".
I love the petrol station: people rock up, and literally get a litre bottle, pour it in their scooter, and go. These are a ubiquitous site in much of the developing world.
Go to the river bed, dig up the mud, shape it into bricks, let it dry in the sun. It can't get much simpler than that.
This is just outside Douentza.
Food through fishing, agriculture through irrigation - and most importantly, commerce.
Even as waters are still receding in the "dry season", boats plied the waters from Mopti downriver to Korioume, Gao and beyond.
Lac Debo more than trebles in size, opening great channels where the big ships can ply their trade for a few precious months.
Lucky for us, our wee boat was a little roomier than these - which, if you're enterprising, you can catch a ride on all the way down river to Tim.
Traditionally carried on camels from salt pans in the Sahara, when driving south to Douentza we saw a donkey caravan of about 20 animals, all heavily laden with salt.
The first picture here is from Korioume, the port on the river near Tombouctou...much busy-ness loading up several pinasse ready for onward travel up and down the Niger.
Salt blocks here are along the port in Mopti.
Apart from waiting in Korioume for two or three hours, the drive was relatively quick - inasmuch as "non-stop".
I did not check average speed in the back of our 4x4, but the whole event was like an extended visit to Six Flags. It's one of those few times that I remember what those handles are for - and need them. We tossed and bashed and knocked up against each other endlessly, sun beating down through the windows all the while. Good thing we weren't worried about being too "familiar". My 4x4 had Heather in the front, and Glen, Kim and I in the back. Kim was our patient for this trip, feeling exhausted and more than a little poorly. I'm amazed she managed to sleep during the whole drive - but sleep she did. The three of us decided there's a little feline in her, somewhere. ;-) [Luckily after one good night's sleep she was right as rain.]
This stop was about half-way - while only about 200km, it really felt much longer. Most of the way we were off-road, and all of the bridges were washed out.
At one point our two drivers had a great screaming match, which woke everyone up out of their reverie. Who would have thought: road rage about cutting someone off, when there are no roads and very few other vehicles to be seen!
Heather took a picture when we stopped due to a tyre blow-out, feeling she could just as easily be back home in the Australian outback.
Well, except for the donkey train of about 20-30 animals, all heavily laden with large salt blocks.
Our lunch spot in Douenzta also served as a campground, and being able to strip down and have a quick shower was a delight after all that dust and sand.
In retrospect, I am quite glad I did not end up taking the flight out of Tombouctou...it would not have had the same sense of "journey".
Our long day started off with an immediate halt: one ferry broken, so a long queue, despite the early departure.
Like any port, even this small one was a hive of activity - just a few pics here.
There was something just "so" about seeing a ferry come with a load of camels in the desert..we all sort of looked at each other and grinned at the incongruity.
Once our ferry was in, we spent a good 30 minutes cramming as much as we could on. Every centimetre was used; our 4x4 was locked in, and Glen cautiously crawled out the window, thoughts of the proverbial overloaded African ferry sinking in his head. Smart move, no doubt.
No signs of tension in Tombouctou, really.
This rather bizarre monument, on the northwestern outskirts of town, is the spot where the ceremony marking the end of the "last" Tuareg rebellion, in March of 1996.
Over 3,000 weapons were burnt in a great bonfire.
Today the monument has a pile of the old guns embedded in cement at the base; marble tiles have fallen all over and it's positively in a state of disrepair. Sort of like the peace - considering the Canadian and Australian government warnings about "do not travel to Tim" whilst we were there.
Warnings notwithstanding, we found nothing but pleasant people and smiles in Tombouctou.
Generally I used the latter, but quickly changed over to the former, French spelling - which is of course common in Mali.
We especially like the "plastic bag tree" - a common sight in Mali, and much of urban Africa.
I know the sunset shot is boring, but I've included it for purely self-indulgent reasons. :-)
It was the last night in Tombouctou, and after a hike back along the outskirts of town I stood on the balcony of Hotel Colombe. As I watched the sun set over the Christian cemetery, the call to prayer echoed out across the sands.
Save for the want of a drink, it was a rather idyllic moment. ;-)
I'm one of those people who are a fan of the call - though best when performed live, a rarity these days.
I've not been a big one for New Year's celebrations for many years (inasmuch as celebration cor celebration's sake), but there are some glorious ones I remember. Most, it seems, are in Africa: Morocco (dancing on a rooftop to Thompson Twins in a djeleba), Tunisia (Jiffy Pop on a humongous gas stove, sparklers with hotel staff that could not be 're-lit', hash brownies on the shores of Lake Malawi lying next to a dog...)
This one added to the collection of the bizarre. I won't go on at length about the foursome who crashed our camp...but the German who went on about his big knife (insert evil Shining laugh here) or the Dutchman who was so cooked on some cornucopia of drugs that he could not make it back to his camp 50 meters away provided plenty of entertainment, and a touch of nervousness.
The beer was finished quickly, and after I emptied the bottle of rum (note: local version of the infamous Belizean 'Panty Ripper') the harsh gin (tonic long gone) was all we had. Troopers we were, we soldiered on.
Good call getting fireworks in Sevare; not so good call tossing some of them into our campfire. It did wake Glen up though - which was good as we were starting to miss his good humour (and feeling envious about his two-hour catnap).
All in all - a fun night.