To Timbouctou and back… almost

After lots of planning and changing of dates, my brother and parents left Bamako early the morning of January 8th heading up country. We made a quick pit stop in Segou to drop off some fantastic goodies they brought over – enough to fill an entire suitcase between them – before continuing Northeast towards Mopti. There, we met up with my good friend Hassimi who would be our guide over the next few days through Dogon Country.

If you’re a frequent subscriber, you might recall Hassimi from my travels when my friend Dom visited me last August. Most Peace Corps volunteers use him as their guide – he speaks English and is used to our peculiar mix of needs: clients who expect the usual guide package but add in our language and cultural knowledge from living in Mali and we require someone on their toes… plus we know how much things cost.

Early January was chosen for the cooler weather as to not shock my family too much – late February to early June and October/November were out of the question due to the oppressive heat (something I’m enduring as I write this now halfway into April). The “rainy season” from June to September was ruled out as being too difficult to get around and also still too hot. Thus the “cold season” from December to mid-February seemed intuitively appropriate for my cold whether family to visit. However, in retrospect, the rainy season is probably the best time to come. Sure, it can get hot but cools off whenever it rains and it rains frequently. The countryside is green versus the barren deadness of the dry season where by January it already hasn’t rained in three months and won’t for another five. Add in the dry harmattan winds blowing in from the north over the Sahara bringing a gray haze that obscures the sun a good 20 degrees before it can reach the horizon and, yes, it is hotter but I now firmly believe July to September the best time to visit. And I digress…

Dogon Country was as fantastic as always – I’ve now made three trips and plan at least two more before I’m done here – this time we started in the middle/south section of the escarpment that stretches southwest to northeast and hiked northeast for a few days. We weaved our way up and down the fallaise wall hopping from tiny village to village. I think I have said it before in another post, but the similarities between ancient Dogon villages (then inhabited by the Tellem peoples) and the Anasasi Native American tribes of the southwestern United States always amaze me – their villages perched in the cliffs high above the plains below.

Hassimi started by taking us to the first Dogon village to convert to Islam with the oldest mosque in the region (if you look back in my photo album, it is the white one near the beginning of the photos). From there, we meandered between villages along our route – visiting bogolon cooperatives (mud dyed cloth), basket weavers, blacksmiths and woodworkers all practicing the age-old techniques of their trades. While it was technically the ‘cold season’ we still did our best to avoid being exposed to the sun between 11am and 3pm as the African sun never quite looses its intensity. Even when the sun wasn’t at its height, we would dart between the shades of the Baobab trees sparsely placed along the way.

Quick note: I don’t know if you remember but the ‘baobab’ tree is the same one from Antoine de Saint Exupery’s The Little Prince – before coming to Africa that was my only exposure to this bizarre creature. I have never seen any plant quite like it. It has a thick trunk, especially when contrasted to its short scrawny branches – equally out of place as a T-Rex and his tiny arms. The legend goes that god ripped it out of the ground and smashed it back in upside down with its roots twisting towards the sky. While at times it seems like the ugliest tree imaginable, it simultaneously arouses a sense of beauty strange, as it is mystifying.

Appropriately, the last village we visited was the most animist of the trek with the lone mosque relegated to the obscure edge of the village. Conversely, each family had their fetish prominently placed in their concession along with numerous village fetishes placed throughout the village each with a specific purpose and its own set of superstitions.

At one family, Hassimi asked if we had any medicine we could spare to a reliably unlucky family – especially for an ageing old woman. Not being a roaming medicine cabinet yet still propagating the stereotype that every white person is a doctor, we produced about seven packets of Lemon-Lime Emergen-C. Given we were in fact not doctors (contrary to popular opinion) nor did we know exactly what was ailing her – we figured some extra vitamins could at least supplement the meager amount she received from nothing but millet and sauce three meals a day.

Before starting our way south back to Bamako, I took my family to Mopti where I purposely got us lost to wander the narrow streets of the city. I feel that one of the things tourists miss is just letting yourself be enveloped by the charm of the place and becoming lost to your senses. Some people might not agree with me – and at times, I can hardly argue – but while sheer poverty can be, and often is, overwhelming there is something to be said for the rawness of their existence at all. Of course one could do without the trash strewn everywhere along the ground and stepping over the reeking sludge/sess-poll gutters but if you can get past that you might just surprise yourself. The light was perfect and I got some amazing shots of the grande mosque just as the sun made its plunge westward.

For the voyage back to Segou, I insisted on leaving the private rented car we took on the way to Mopti for public transport. I felt it important to show my family not just what I go through whenever I travel but what all Malians endure whenever they move from place to place. The bus was certainly on the nicer end of the scale of Malian transport but still provided sufficient doses of chaos to satisfy my urge to share this part of my life. In order to make the trip not too punishing for my family, we took the first bus at 7am to avoid being on the road during the heat of the day. While at the time they resisted, I think they now appreciate the experience – having glimpsed, just glimpsed – a little bit of my life and a perfectly regular day-to-day experience for hundreds of Malians.

In Segou, we shared lunch out of a communal bowl with my homologue and his family – by this time my family had a few chances to practice even though their performance was less than perfect, especially the hopelessness of my dad’s – demonstrated by the huge pile of rice between his feet and the bowl. My mum presented my homologue with a pair of glasses an optician from Aspen had so generously donated which he was extremely grateful to receive.

We visited my service, the counterpart organization where I am placed, OMATHO (the regional office of the Ministry of Tourism) and met everyone I work with. Otherwise, we took it easy the couple of days in Segou – sort of a respite from the breakneck pace the trip had been so far. We even rented a boat and had a nice relaxing ‘cruise’ on the Niger. Overall, it was nice to be back to my home away from home. It feels strange even writing that but it’s true: Segou is my home and has been for almost two years now – amazing how much time has gone by and how fast it went. I am really glad my family came and was able to share in my experiences over here. Now when I talk about the Niger, Madani or the Djoliba they will know exactly what I’m talking about – even be able to picture it themselves.