Saturday, February 24, 2007

The Dakar rally

As previously mentioned, on Feb. 16, Mauritania lumbered south for the enormous softball clusterfuck that is W.A.I.S.T. With three full teams (A Team: Pirates, B Team: Swashbucklers, C Team: Buccaneers - no one knew what a "Corsair" was), and a full cadre of spectators (the unofficial D Team: Seamen), PCRIM dwarfed all competition. So large was the whirlwind, nay, hurricane of unbridled team spirit and alcohol, that several team members from PC Senegal and PC Mali began rooting for their northern oppressors. Stockholm Syndrome is far more epidemic when the entire population is lacquered in booze.

Preston, Rob, and Gregor. 8:30 AM. Day 1.

Sam. Day 3.

Saman, Kate, and Preston. Day 3.

Team uniforms included T-shirts featuring one's individual team name, mohawks, and incredibly stupid/sexy facial hair. Sirwhal/chiya (neither of which is spelled using the Latin alphabet) were also a prominent feature. Frankly, most of us find the baggy pants/shorts so incredibly awesome that there may be an extremely misguided attempt to wear them in the States. Fair warning.

Pat. Day 1.

PCRIM plays in the social league, as opposed to the competitive league. It has taken a bit of heat for winning the trophy three years in a row, but remains adamant that a yearly changing roster and the opportunity to practice no more than twice before the tournament makes them more than qualified for social play. And while teams like Senegal (not to be confused with PC Senegal - these were locals) took the competition entirely too seriously, especially for the social league, we kept it light and airy, like a Dan Brown novel. If the fact that bottles of filthy, cheap Senegalese whiskey were passed between players during gameplay doesn't disqualify us from the competitive league, I don't know what does.

Preston. Day 1.

The Pirates. Day 3.

The social league consisted of 22 teams, three of which were PCRIM. PC Senegal, PC Mali, and PC Gambia each fielded teams, but other teams consisted of military and embassy personnel, international school students and teachers, local Senegalese teams, and our very favorite opponents, Christian missionaries. I have no idea whether the Buccaneers or the Swashbucklers actually won a single game, but it was of no importance. The money was riding on the Pirates.

Todd, Maggie, Kris, Mike, and Pat. Day 3.

I can't really build up any suspense, because the Pirates won all 8 of their games. A few were uncomfortably close, but most were easily manageable. And despite a combined BAC of 800.03%, we are proud to report that the Pirates and its fans regarded all play as friendly competition.

Haley, Kieth, Todd, and Saman. Day 3.

Zach. Day 1.

Pat. Day 3.

The moment of glory.

Victory.

More sweet victory.

Following the win was, of course, more celebration. I'm a much better celebrator than player. I blame it on genetics, probably to the chagrin of many family members currently reading this.

Me, Matt, and Kris.

Mike, Kristen, and Leah.

Caryn.

I really don't know.

Me and Neda.

Rob, Me, Jon, and Erin. Probably the hardest laugh I've had in 5 years.

So that was W.A.I.S.T. Pete "The Frenchman" is alive and well, and sadly I have no images of him in his impressive uniform. Photo credits are pretty evenly divided between me and Erin, and apparently someone else got a hold of my camera at some point. I personally have somewhere in the realm of 150 photos, and there are hundreds more floating around elsewhere. Should there be any interest, I will track down links.

As for Dakar itself, any relevant observations will require another trip. It was a short three days, during which we hardly left the fields and club, so I'll have to save the cultural experience for another time. It was pleasantly jarring, however, to be in a city that felt remotely developed.

Though the similarities between our version and the Official Version of the Dakar Rally extend only so far as the name of this post and the fact that our trip to the capital of Senegal involved vehicles, I savor the ubiquitous differences; namely, that our version didn't involve the deaths of any children. I think.

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Nigeria: like Disneyland, but with RPGs

I read the VQR article this morning, and thought the coincidence too strong to ignore. Figured I'd be the one to concatenate these stories.

1. The What.

2. The Why.

Part of me wants to visit, but the one Nigerian I know doesn't really understand why.

Saturday, February 03, 2007

Third world product reviews: Barf

Listen, I don't think there are unicorns in Mauritania, but being one never to pass information unless 100% positive, and having enough free time to pursue this endeavor, I think it's high time we decide conclusively whether or not they exist. To note, desert crocodiles were only discovered about 100 years ago, and living examples only within the last few decades. Maybe unicorns burrow.

So what I'm proposing here - and this is mainly directed at whoever's in charge of operations at the companies providing hi-res satellite images for defense departments around the world - is that we coordinate said satellites to capture one continuous photo of Mauritania at one, single moment. Pat, Chris, I may need your help on this.

Now, like the passing of inaccurate data, I'm also not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, but one sat won't suffice. For an accurate assessment on the existence of unicorns, I think we're going to need, at farthest, a 1:20 shot of all of Mauritania, including Southern Algeria, western parts of Mali, and most of Western Sahara. We cannot count on unicorns as stationary creatures; surely they would have been discovered by now if they were. A patchworked compilation of individual frames can't ensure that the imaginary (or are they?) beasts didn't migrate out of the range of the camera between shots (I know, we're going to have to put up a lot of satellites to cover the world in one take - baby steps). This is assuming, of course, that unicorns don't live off the coast as ocean-dwellers. The fact of the matter is, I just don't know.

While I'm thinking of it, the sats should have thermal imaging so that, in the the event that there are vast underground colonies of unicorns, they won't go unnoticed. I intend to put seismologists on this as well.

Finally, one can't overlook HUMINT. I have not failed to acknowledge the value of a small but persistently transient network of nomads and camel herders migrating throughout the Sahara. These men are hyperaware, desert-crawling machines, and are quite adapted to extended voyages into a harsh climate that a team of Johns Hopkins researchers could never endure. Trained in the latest and most effective unicorn-tracking techniques, our indispensable correspondents could mean the difference between accusations of "Photoshopping" and other falsifying chicanery, and the long-sought acceptance of the scientific community.

At this point, allow me to proffer a guess as to what you're thinking. "So we find unicorns. So what?"

Line up that venture capital money and shove it in your fat, doubting maw, cause this is what: unicorn polo.

Take everything wrong with the current state of polo (outdated, inaccessible, steroids). Now add a foot-long railroad spike to the front of these confused and precariously-steered animals. Suddenly we've got a sport capable of attracting millions, maybe billions. Combine the traditional wit and strategy of polo with the guaranteed impalements of, at the bare minimum, five rich people per game, and at least 96% of the world will tune in. Simple as that. I don't even know why I continue to waste time explaining. This is where you can send money:

c/o John Langdon
Corps de la Paix
BP 222
Nouakchott, Mauritania
West Africa

The point I'm meandering towards is this. Any way you look at is, unicorn polo is going to be a messy game. Between dirt and grass stains and any number of different bodily fluids, those animals are going to leave the field looking like Pollack on a meth bender. And Barf will remove those stains. I've tried four or five different detergents in this dusty, dirty country, and Barf has unquestionably made my whites their whitest. The box highly recommends that you wash your hands thoroughly after using, but I prefer to regard those bubbling sores on my hands as proof that the product is working. Faced with the completely unfounded but entirely plausible possibility that all unicorns are white, the immediacy of a non-bleach, high-powered detergent makes itself abundantly clear.

Additionally, Barf is made in Iran, which makes me optimistic that they'll have few qualms about sponsoring a sport like unicorn polo.