The following are my observations from three weeks of travel. Many reflect the ideas Liz wrote in the travel section. I am sure I am wrong on some of these but here is what I feel (in no particular order):

1. Nearly everyone seemed fit and well fed. Few signs of malnutrition or obesity.
2. The people are very nice. Of course, the street vendors can be persistent.
3. No one wears glasses. There must be a lot of people looking at a bleary world.
4. Dental care is on a par with eye care.
5. Everything happens right on the dirt. There are few tables, little pavement. The street is dirt and the dirt goes to the door. And often inside the door.
6. Village look like a collection of buildings without signs or commerce of any kind.
7. While people are nice, they expect some sort of payment for any small favor they bestow.
8. Virtually all automobiles are for toubobs (whites.) Mali nationals use Chinese motorbikes and animals for transportation.
9. Gas (for motorbikes) is sold in refilled liquor bottles, all sitting on an outdoor shelf.
10. There are mosques everywhere but seem fairly empty. (Friday prayers at the Djenne mosque was the exception; it was absolutely packed. With men.) The people are 90% Muslim with most of the rest animists. Islam is practiced in a unique way. It seems many of the Muslims maintain some core of animist beliefs (keeping their bases covered?) There are no problems getting beer (95% is Castel, pretty good.) Only Muslims allowed in mosques. No pork. No public drunkenness.
11. There was very little police presence except as we left Timbuktu, where the government was belately sending army personnel to deal with Al Qaeda threats.
12. Despite being in Mali during the prime tourist season (November to January), we saw few tourists. Most of those we did see were French and very, very few from the US.
13. Our food was very good but minimal choices. Entries were capitaine (an excellent river fish from the perch family) cooked in a multitude of ways, brochettes of beef, sheep, and spaghetti. The side was French fries, couscous, or rice. Breakfast was a French petit dejeuner. Needless to say, this is not what Mali natives eat which is mostly millet with sauces.
14. Every woman seems to be carrying a baby tied to her back with a scarf. There were two feet poking out from the mother’s waist. Since women have eight children on average, there are small children tagging along taking care of siblings.
15. A child of ten has substantial daily chores such as carrying water and watching siblings.
16. Mali music is absolutely great. Much of it is a cross between jazz and blues.
17. Streets are named with a number and not a word.
18. Toyota and Mercedes comprise virtually all the cars on the road.
19. The Niger (and is tributary the Bani) are the backbone, the support, and the transportation for the country. There are virtually no bridges over the Niger, just ferries.
20. Tribes are distinct and the differences are important and maintained. There is a pecking order with the Fulani, Tuaregs, and another on top of the heap. However, the tribes generally get along with each other (but I think everyone keeps an eye on the Tuaregs.)
21. The French are gone since 1960 but French is the official language.  The most broadly used local language (Bamarian) is just developing a written form. However, only a third of the people speak French. (No one speaks English.) Most of the tourists are French. The Malians are so-so on the French, whom they see as condescending.
22. Not so much has changed in 150 years. Cell phones, motorbikes, and electricity in the cities is probably the short list. For much of the population, life has changed a little.

December 15

“Dogon Country” is the collective name for a grouping of hundreds of villages of the Dogon people around a large escarpment in central Mali. The Dogons came here in the 14^th or 15^th century, chasing away the original inhabitants – pygmy Tellem who lived in caves on the escarpment. They stayed mostly on the escarpment, fighting the Fulani who herded the plains beneath it, until the French pacified the situation in the early 20^th century. Now there are Dogon villages extending out into the surrounding flat land and everyone sort of gets along.

We will spend the next three nights on rooftops in Dogon villages. The trip there is a long one, and a bit exciting. As we leave the ferry away from Timbuktu, the one going back is loading with 21 Fulani cows. The Fulani nomads try to get them onto the ferry by hitting them with ropes. But the cows slip on the ramp and fall – some into the shallow water. The herd then turns as one, deciding to walk away from the boat; the Fulani try to convince them to turn back. This is mostly done, except for one that goes away in a dead run – two men catch him – one holding onto his tail and being pulled at top speed and the other trying to grab the horns. When we finally leave ten minutes later, cattle and men are still in a standoff.

The remainder of the trip is 200 km across the desert. The ground is a field of white grasses, African trees at flat angles and huge red buttes. The road is a sand path that meanders through it – splitting and coming together like paths in a forest. Salah drives in his Tuareg turban with Malian music. It’s one of the most beautiful trips I’ve ever made.

But as we drive, we notice that the other car – Cheick’s – is no longer behind us. Salah drives back to discover from a herdsman that they’ve taken the wrong path. No phone signal, no contact. It’s 4 PM and darkness looms in two hours; he does not know the way to our destination. What follows is a comedy of chase. We try to find the path Cheick has taken, which does not, in fact, lead to the village where we plan to spend the night. We race as fast as possible for the conditions, stopping to ask every nomad if they have seen the car. One tells us it is 15 minutes ahead. Another tells us that the only car ahead of us is white, not the black one that we’re trying to find. Ogo is beginning to get angry. We finally decide to drive up a huge sand dune to try to get a phone signal. If the Cheickmobile has gone in the direction we think, it should be near a village, Bamba, which has phone service. Our Salahmobile fishtails through sand to the top, as Ogo counts the bars on his phone. At the top there are enough: 6 PM we make contact. Cheick, Jim, Lee and Ginny are in Bamba. They wait for us there, and we drive together to Yendouma, our first Dogon village, at ~7:30.

We sleep on mattresses on Dogon roofs for three nights. I’m initially skeptical. Getting to an outhouse will involve steep stairs down the sides of the building. Even rolling over quickly could launch us off the edge. Donkeys bray all night (are they having sex?) But it turns out to be worth it. The nights are the only cool weather we have on the trip. Stars of incredible depth and number are in a full circle around us. Sunrise (the roosters make sure we don’t miss it) begins as a slice of deep orange across a quarter of the horizon that gets larger and paler. Amazing.

During the next three days we visit villages in Dogon Country. These are laid out as groupings of families. Husband and wife sleep in separate buildings, and older children sleep together in large groups from several families. Belongings, as well as grain, are stored in granaries – again, separate ones for the men and women. These are characteristically capped with straw roofs shaped like witches hats. Each village has a togu na, a shelter 1.2 m tall with 8 posts, forbidden to women, where the men meet to discuss whatever men discuss that women are not allowed to hear (likely nothing important.) Traditionally each village has a menstruation house, a round building where women are obliged to sit out their impure days. Like all of Mali, children abound, the younger ones riding on their mother’s back, the older ones running along with us and being friendly.

The hardest part of Dogon Country is that most of the villages are up in the escarpment. We have to climb steep rocks, scale log ladders, balance across rock bridges. We are panting in our travel wear and slipping in our high-tech hiking boots as the Dogons, wearing wool hats and flip flops, run in front then hold our hands to help us over the rough parts.

Ogo enthusiastically explains the beliefs and rituals. There are lots of them. Among the more interesting:

• Circumcision is performed every three years at ~16. A cohort of boys from various villages (~60-100) go up into the mountain and wait their turn. They are not allowed to make any noise. Ogo remembers that he started to scream and they stuffed a rag into his mouth. They are tied down by their legs and hands on their back each night (to keep them from hurting the wound) until it heals. They stay in the mountain for a month, learning secret things during the day. Traditionally, at the end, there is a footrace among the initiates. The person coming in first gets a plot of land, the person coming in second gets a donkey and a load of millet. Third place gets his choice of any girl in the village he wants as his wife.
• Excision, or female circumcision, was traditionally practiced in Mali but is now illegal. It was felt to be the way that girls became women, in parallel with male circumcision, and is performed by older women. It is mostly not done today in Dogon country, and Ogo feels that the last of it will die out as the older women do.
• Fox Tables are used to predict the future. The fox was the first creature created. So if you want to know the future, you find a fox divinator and ask him a question. “I am sick, what should I do?” He sets up a design in the sand that has the elements of the possible answers. That night, a fox walks across it, picking the correct path for you. Ogo explains that this has all been verified by the BBC: they set up a camera one night in a local tree and watched all might to make sure that the divinator himself didn’t try to rig things – and they actually saw the fox at work!
• The Sigi. A complicated ceremony that is to atone for sins of the past. It is held every 60 years, at the time of appearance of Sirius B. Interestingly, Sirius B was only discovered by astronomers in 1970, leading Dogons to claim all sorts of justification for their insights. Much of this has been disproved.
• Animism. Although many Dogons are now Islam or Christian, they are also still all animists. They believe that the spirits of their ancestors are active in their lives, as well as the spirits of other living things.

Ogo himself is the most interesting aspect of this trip. He is 28, educated, smart. He has been involved in tourism for many years, and has travelled out of the country to help film a reality show for Dutch TV. Charismatic and charming, he knows many languages, and has guided people from many countries. People in every city we visit come up to say hello to him.

Even so, he is strongly animist. Raised by his grandfather, the Hogon of Tirelli, he believes he will be Hogon when he turns 50, which will include his living as a hermit – alone, no contact with wife or female children from that time on. He bemoans “losing the culture” when he describes some improvements in daily life. When we find a man using a hose to water an onion field, instead of flinging water from a bucket as women do, he calls him “lazy.” I would love to follow him for 20 years to see what happens!

On the last day we attend a traditional Dogon Mask Dance.  2 km up into the escarpment is a stage area. First the elders, dressed in blue robes, come forth and begin to drum. Then the masks come out across the rocks from different directions – men dressed in elaborate costumes and covered with masks symbolizing Kanaga, animals, priests, hunters. Some of the masks are 4 m high, and some of the men are on stilts. They sing and dance for ~half an hour. It is impressive, professionally done, and very enjoyable. I’ve seen lots of masked dances around the world – this was the best by far.

We’re ready to come home, a long process involving three days of driving and 30 hours of flight travel. There are some strong impressions that remain, including:

Malian recycling – we could learn from them! Some examples:

• Nails are made by hammering strips from old oil drums
• Tires are used to make sandals
• Used motor oil from engines coat boats to waterproof them
• Jewelry is made from old tires, bracelets from old plastic, and some very clever little toys from old cans
• Mud for houses is made from mixing dirt, straw, and junk – paper, plastic bags, etc.
• Bricks are made from sand and melted plastic bags.
• Old black iron is shipped to Dubai and China to make new motorcycles
• Aluminum from batteries is used to line cooking pots

Malian greetings – they are the best, a delightful ritual that happens many, many times a day. Basically, two people meet, do a slap handshake, then rapidly:

Good morning                                                             Good morning

How are you?                                                                        Fine

How is your mother?                                                          Fine

How is your father?                                                            Fine

How are your kids?                                                            Fine

Then it goes back the other way from person two to person one. The greeting varies depending on the time of day and how long the people have not seen each other!

Tribal rivalries – tribes that are traditional enemies, such as the Dogon and the Bozo (fishermen) maintain a joking animosity. When Ogo meets someone who is Bozo, he gets a big smile on his face and calls him a “stupid Bozo.” The Bozo retaliates with some slur, also jovially. And so it goes. Maybe we could do that between Republicans and Democrats?

December 8, 2009

Tuesday morning leave for Timbuktu, ~300 km away, across mostly desert with rough to no roads. The plan was to start at 7 AM. This is changed to 8 AM the night before, and then we wait around to transfer some sleeping bags to another tour group until 9 AM. We make a sidetrip after an hour to a small village called Borko, located in a lush wide oasis in the middle of the desert. Fabulous scenery, palm trees, gardens and…crocodiles. The beasts are sacred to the village. There is a caretaker assigned to them – a job passed down from father to son. He feeds them chicken, and they do not attack the residents, or so they tell us. It is claimed that there are hundreds in the jungle around Borko. We see the feeding, get to pet (pat) them, and go on our way. After another hour we arrive at a place to buy sandwiches in the middle of the desert. We sit outside drinking coke while they make scrambled eggs on baguettes for us. It is 1:30. Ogo mentions casually that we have 200km to go, and the last ferry across the Niger to Timbuktu leaves at 6:00. He seems unperturbed, but the uptight Americans panic and we take our sandwiches to-go.

Now the excitement begins. The rest of the trip is across real desert. What roads there are have washboard surfaces, huge ruts, and are covered with drifted sand. The drivers keep the pace between 70 and 80 km/hr. It is bumpy and scary. Although there is little traffic, we occasionally have to slow for cows or goats crossing the road in herds. Even when we honk, these guys just follow the butt of the animal in front of them so we often have to wait. At one point an oncoming car causes Cheick to swerve and he skids in the sand (Jim and I immediately think of Alyson’s accident.) But, he turns into the skid and recovers well. Salah, in the car ahead, wearing his Tuareg turban, keeps grinning and saying in French “I am a man of the desert – trust me!” The drivers have a good time!

We get to the dock at ~5:40, just as the last ferry is loading. After lots of jockeying, there are 9 vehicles (including one truck heaped high with bags of rock salt), two burros and many people loaded. Just as we begin to leave, another truck shows up, and we’re able to take it on by moving the burros to the side. The engine fires up and the driver climbs onto a platform where he steers the ferry with a wheel attached to the rudder by a long bicycle chain. We slip out at 6:10.

The sun sets over the Niger as we motor an hour across. Through the cars, on the other side of the ferry, I can see a woman nurse her baby. Next to us, several people start a small fire on the deck and make tea, squatting and drinking. Africa!

Timbuktu, founded at the beginning of the 12^th century, is still a frontier town. The streets are wide and empty: beige sand, mud buildings, monochromatic. But the few people there are amazingly colorful. Tuaregs in long colored robes and turbans, Berbers dressed in black from head to toe, and children wearing either traditional or school clothes stand out. In the morning a man sits alone under an awning covered with skins, wearing a rose colored long shirt and pants, smoking. The pace is slower than the other cities we have seen.

Timbuktu grew as a trading center. Situated on the edge of the desert and 10 km from the Niger, it was accessible to caravans carrying salt from the north and boats bringing gold from the south. The trade grew by the 15^th century to include kola nuts, ostrich feathers and slaves from the south and copper, tin, cloth and horses from the north. It developed into a center of learning, with 150 Islamic schools for students from Africa and the Middle East in the 16^th century. At the end of the century it was taken over by Morocco, which ended much of the education, arresting religious and academic leaders, and Timbuktu began to decline.

The houses are mud, with doors and details that seem Moroccan. Many of the homes still have grated windows to keep women hidden, but this is no longer practiced. In the 17^th century,  a woman rebelled, saying that she could find nothing in the Koran forbidding women from walking outside. Other practices have also stopped, including putting chain  restraints on slaves and teenage girls for the night.

The most interesting thing to see is the collections of old manuscripts. In the 15^th century there was a huge library, but when Timbuktu was colonized by Morocco, the manuscripts went into private hands and were hidden to protect them. There is a large movement to make copies of these. We see some that date from the thirteenth century.

Timbuktu has had an almost mystical attraction for Westerners over the centuries. The first European to come was Gordon Laing in 1826. He stayed 6-7 months, wore western clothes and a gun, and spoke only English. He was killed as he tried to leave the city. In 1826, Rene Callie went to Morocco, learned Arab and studied the Koran. He portrayed himself as Abdullah the Egyptian when he came and was accepted. He was the first westerner to make it home from Timbuktu.

There are almost no westerners here as we visit – high unrest in the countryside north and east of the city, and in neighboring Mauritania, have scared everyone away.

December 7, 2009

After a quick look at the market this morning, we drove 2 hours to Mopti, back on the Niger, and the center of fishing activity.

The 10^th day of a 19-day trip; a malaise hits me and colors everything I see. The market in Djenne this morning was probably picturesque and interesting but all I saw was dirt, crowds, unkempt children running wild, and women trying to sell me more jewelry. A 2-hour drive to Mopti, back on the Niger drops us into a fishing city that is more crowded and dirtier than anything so far. The market on the river has long dense stretches with baskets of smoked fish baking in the heat. After that, there are huge piles of clothes. Ogo explains that these are second-hand clothes, from Europe and the US. Originally meant to be given to Africans free, the people from the boats that bring them sell them to others, who continue to sell up the chain until families can buy them. Even more distressing is to see mosquito netting, clearly marked “Ne pas vendre,” not to be sold, for sale. Such materiel comes to doctors to help fight malaria and other insect born diseases. These doctors sell it into the chain.

That night, at dinner, it is apparent that the mid-trip malaise is spread. Rosemary and I are sick, having skipped the afternoon events. She just stares at her dinner. Maynard and Ginny say they are fine, but both of them droop with their heads on their hands all evening. Only Jim and Lee seem okay, talking to each other from opposite ends of the table, not noticing the funk surrounding the rest of us.

December 5

See some of Jim’s pictures on his i-Gallery

We arrive in Djenne mid-day Friday.  Djenne was founded in the 13^th century, and rivaled Timbuctu as a center of commerce and riches. Gold, slaves and kola nuts from the south were traded there for Saharan salt from the north. Traders from north Africa contributed to Djenne’s conversion to Islam by it’s 26^th ruler, Koy Kounboro, late in the century. During the 14^th and 15^th centuries, Djenne continued as part of the Malian empire, then after as part of the Sonhgay empire. During this period trade flourished and Djenne became a center of Islamic scholarship. Late in the 16^th century, it was taken over by Morocco, and declined with the instability of this country, and with a shift in trading routes from trans-Saharan to the coast where the Europeans were living.

Djenne is home to the Djenne Mosque, the largest mud building in the world, and a beautiful site. We are able to watch the arrival of worshippers for the Friday 4 PM service. Thousands of men go into the mosque (as well as some number of women whom we are not able to see from our vantage point on the roof of a library across the street – they go into the ‘cheap seats’ in the back, behind a wall.) It is so full that hundreds are praying in the courtyard outside.

There’s a mix of African, Muslim and western dress – my favorite was a man carrying his prayer rug and wearing a shirt emblazoned ‘Gucci.’ Our Djenne guide, Mamadou, asks our permission to pray along with the muezzin call on our roof. We ask about the women – why so few, and he explains that women must be Haj, or else menopausal to be allowed into the mosque, so there just aren’t that many who qualify. Later, we are allowed to see a model of the mosque. We ask why the women are in the back. He explains that if a man were to be behind a woman as he prayed he could be distracted; the same would not happen to a woman behind a man. And so, the women are in the back. We have to bite our tongues to not argue with this, but we manage. Not ugly Americans, we!!

According to Mamadou, both Shia and Sunni are welcome here. He also tells us the Imam is a Maribou, who can solve people’s problems, for money. The Maribou will pray for you, if you can afford it.

In fact the mud on the walls of the library roof is even interesting. After each rainy season things must be “remudded,” and the mix used has lots in it besides just mud and water. There is straw, pieces of black plastic bags, old candy wrappers, cigarette pieces and eggs shells that I can see easily – probably lots more!

On Saturday we visit two villages outside of Djenne.

Senossa, 5000 people, is Peul, or Fulani, meaning cattlemen. We have seen many herds of goats and cattle as we drove. I can understand goats finding enough food in this very dry, sparse land, but I am astonished that cattle survive. The Fulani are still partially nomadic, but some have settled into villages.

Fulani women blacken their bottom lips (the lip and almost down to the chin) when they become affianced, then they blacken the top lip when they marry. The two black lips signal that “the door is closed” to any man! The wives of wealthy men wear heavy gold earrings and silver bracelets when they go to market to sell milk – best dressed have the richest husbands.

Sirimou is a smaller village which we access by a flat-boat ferry. These are Bozo, or fishermen. At the edge of the town are large pits of fire in which fish are smoked for storage and sale.

Both of these villages are dusty and dirty. The long pathways between mud fences are filled with goats, chickens, children and basins of dirty dishes alive with flies. The children here seem more dirty, more in-our-face than in town or in previous villages. Ogo and Mamadou bat them away constantly, as do the village chiefs who guide us in both cases. They are more openly begging here, and it’s hard to keep my ‘bic’ (ball point pen) to myself. However, still the big delight is to get their pictures taken and then see themselves on the display!

Our hotel, The Hotel Djenne Djennes, was built three years ago by a Swedish woman, Sophie. There are twelve units, all outfitted with local fabrics and wall paintings. The dinners are served in an open courtyard, and feature entirely fresh, local ingredients. She has begun a store in which she sells local fabrics and clothes to support artisans.

On Sunday we see Djenne and old Djenne (c. 250 BC) from the streets, setting off at 8 AM to walk through the town.

Probably the best part of the day was just seeing the townspeople begin their work. At the bridge we must cross to begin, the women are coming in with laundry and dishes and pots on their heads to clean them in the river. The fishermen are coming in with laden boats. A woman makes rice cakes in a large pan with 24 indentations, giving them to her daughter to sell as she finishes. Some children head for school with backpacks, but many seem to just hang around.

The architecture of large Djenne houses tells the story of who lives there. The face of the house has a tower on each side of the roof representing the father and mother, and there are shorter towers in between representing each child, slightly different in shape to distinguish the boys from the girls. Columns going down the front represent the number of wives. So at a glance, you can tell how many wives, how many boys, and how many girls each man had. This helped out the tax assessors, who weren’t allowed inside! The houses are slightly different if they were built during the time of Moroccan domination (flat entryways) or Tucular domination (rounded entryways.) The Moroccans, who had come to sort-of bring Islam but more to enslave people, were driven out in 1862 by El Hadj Omar, who came to bring a very strict version of Islam.

The impression of the five-hour walk is again of walking on uneven footing down narrow mud lanes with periodic glimpses into small mud rooms and courtyards. We pass one Koranic school. A boy is in the front copying a text onto a wooden paddle (common way to write – rub mud on the paddle, write with ink, then wash the mud off the paddle to ‘erase’.) I try to guess how old he is, and ask Mamadou to enquire. There is a long discussion, after which Mamadou explains that he thinks he is about 11, but doesn’t really know his age!

December 3

Segou is on the Niger, second longest river in Africa: 4200 km long, 1700 km of which is in Mali. We take a boat ride an hour upriver from Segou to Kalabougou, a village of 4444, known for its pottery. Although there is not much work that day, we get the basic idea – mix mud and water, form small bowls over a mold, larger ones by turning by hand, rub on color, fire. More interesting is the construction of a granary which is in progress. Although the men working on it are not happy to have us watch, it is fascinating. They take wild grass and fashion it into boules or thick ropes, then coil these to make the walls of the round structure. This is lined on the inside with plastic sheeting, and coated with mud on the outside. Then the mud walls are covered with a woven grass and the granary is topped with a thatched roof. Everything but the plastic sheeting is made from ‘scratch.’

As we return to the boat we pass two U.S. soldiers who are supposedly there to train Malians to fight Al Qaeda (what’s up with that?) and a courtyard where we see women reading. Ogo explains that it is a woman’s “cooperative” and they are learning Arabic. We go in.

There are eight women, all older, perhaps our age. They are focused, enthusiastic, very into what they are doing. They totally remind me of my friends. They have each copied out a text in Arabic, and the teacher is reading them a Bambara translation. Then they take turns translating it.

These women have formed a cooperative, or club, in which they compile their monies, and give small loans to individuals. It is amazing, in this country in which women don’t go to school, begin caring for babies as soon as they can walk, and then have a child a year, to see how liberating it is to grow to the age where they can do what they want and be who they want.

They finally acknowledge our presence, and ask that we send them copies of the photos. We will!

The ride home on the river is restful and we enjoy a Malian meal (Capitain fish, French fries, haricots verts and beer) along with Malian music. Unfortunately the news of Obama’s decision to send 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan has hit, and the evening is dominated by our attempts to outdo each other in our anger at this.

December 3, 2009

Tonight we camp! The Hotel Djoliba is seeming luxurious, ants and all.

It’s a long drive. We pass a large cotton factory with dormitories, built originally by the Chinese, but now run by Malians. Later there is a huge military base with two-year training for Malian soldiers (officers).  Ogo tells us that there are also Togo, Burkina Faso, French, U.S. and other soldiers there – we can’t figure that out.

Much of the fun of these trips is buying necessities. We cross a bridge over a large dam (the Barrage de Markala, constructed by the French 1933-49). Just past the bridge we stop to buy fish – it’s the occasion for lots of fun and picture taking – and the fish go in a black plastic bag on the roof of one of the vans, to ride along at ~95 F! A few miles later we need gas, so we stop in a small village and drive around until the drivers can find the right price. They settle on a station at ~ noon. It is a small tin shack (~8’x8’) painted red and white, with an awning of branches. In the front. There are three attendants (one in a suit and baseball hat) who watch carefully along with the driver to make sure we get the correct amount. The gas is pumped by hand into a calibrated 4L glass cylinder, then emptied into the car. This is repeated until the tank is full – it’s a long and laborious process.

The station is in the middle of a large flat dirt/dust ground. Dirt roads surround it – motorcycles, bicycles and children walking home for lunch, backpacks on their backs, pass by, watching us as we watch them.

We have a leisurely African lunch – stop the car at ~ 1, sit on a blanket on the river until they serve (the fish, bread, rice, etc.) at ~ 3:45.

Then we drive another hour and stop at a market to buy chicken and bread for dinner.

Here we see a Garibou – a child who has left his family to follow a Moslem teacher from town to town for 5-10 years. Such children beg for food and share with their teacher. Eventually they become teachers of the Koran themselves. This practice has become commercial/political, and has been banned in Burkina Faso. In Mali, the authorities are keeping a close watch on it.

The market is a hoot. There are many children there with their parents and within several minutes they have all clustered around our group demanding pictures. I watch about 30 descend on Jim, As he readies to take a picture of them they crowd toward him – he tries to wave them back just a bit – and then when he shows them the image they literally scream with laughter.

Here I see my first little girl with a headscarf. She is an uninhibited as the other children. Also – a young boy with an Obama shirt (we have seen several of these in every village) but he is also carrying a satchel with the name “Saddam Hussein” on it!

A huge truck is waiting to take one group home when the market closes. The first passenger, a woman with a baby wrapped onto her back and a large basket, easily puts one foot on a tire then throws herself over the high side – as tall as she is. They come in droves after that: eventually there are 30-40 and the truck is packed – women, children and huge bundles. One woman climbs aboard holding a large live bird by its wing. Just as it seems there is no more room, a woman with two children and a wrapped baby comes. She passes up her two kids, then her bundle, then she tries to climb. She can’t make it so she unwraps the baby and passes him up, then goes to the other side where I assume she manages to get herself in. As the sun sets, the truck leaves.

A couple of km and we are at the camp site – a large dirt area surrounded by scrub vegetation. Ogo and the drivers spread the mat for us, then set about making dinner, which we get a couple of hours later – grilled chicken, spaghetti, couscous and tomato/ vegetable sauce they have made. Very good.

It is absolutely lovely here. Cool, magnificent  stars, sounds of birds constant (even through the night.)

Liz is writing the blogs on the road!

December 1, 2009

Heat rides sunlight through the van window as I try to catch any cool air that can sneak around Maynard, sitting in front of me. It’s December first. I should be home, putting up a tree and buying Christmas gifts. Instead, I’m riding in a van over dusty roads that challenge my teeth with its ruts, and swatting malaria-laden mosquitoes.

Now, I’m adventuresome. I like to travel, and I don’t mind poor conditions and unusual food. But I’m married to a travel photographer who can stretch my agreeability to its limit. His passion is to seek out the remote, those people untouched by modern conveniences such as up-to-date clothing and up-to-date plumbing. On our travels, we camp, we get dirty, we are constantly challenged by conditions. And we are amazed by the ability of people we meet to communicate, to be gregarious, to talk to us in language we cannot decipher but can totally understand. It is reinforcing to periodically leave the predictable suburbs and meet the world.

The group was supposed to be the Mali Seven, but we lost Dale to a broken hip just before departure. Maynard and Ginny Switzer, Jim and Liz Patton, Rosemary Cook and Lee Baxter arrived in Bamako, Mali at the end of November. The airport at 9:30 on a Saturday night is small, dimly lit, a steamy madhouse. After the bags appear there is a rush to an x-ray machine, where only the strongest and most clever can get to the front of the line to shove his overweight, huge bag into the maw. Here in Mali, they x-ray incoming bags to monitor illegal imports.

It was a relief to be met outside by Ogo (Ogomano Saye), our Dogon guide, along with Salah and Sheck, the drivers. Ogo’s English is good, and what he occasionally lacks in vocabulary he makes up for in enthusiasm. Salah and Sheck understand French, but not English, and when the three of them want to talk, they use Bambara, the local language. So the long drives, in two vans, are peppered with all three languages.

The next morning we drive to some villages ~ 40 km from Bamako, and get a view of the country. Mali is in the Sahel, south of the Sahara, the transition from desert to jungle. It is a vast, flat landscape of red soil, scrub vegetation and small trees. The few small, rocky hills in the background are obscured by the dust. Always present, city and country, it casts a red haze over everything.

The conversations with Ogo illuminate what we see. We are ~125 km from Guinea, which is part of a drug supply chain from South America to Europe. Last month, a plane was forced to land in Mali, apparently carrying 2000 kilos of cocaine. Rather than having it seized, the government blew it up. Although Mali is one of the poorest countries in the world, there is money coming from some major donors – Hugo Chavez, Mohammar Khaddafi, USAID, Pakistan. Is there oil?

The villages are near Kangaba, a rock formation that is the spiritual home of the Bambara and Malinke people. It was here, in 1235, that the Mali Empire was created and an arch was formed by the arrow of the king. There is a fetish altar and a place of divination beneath the arch. Sacrifices of cattle still occur so the fetish altar can be replenished with blood.

Djolafondo is a Malinke village of 460 people with mud houses topped with thatched roofs. The children are captivated by the photographers and know that when their picture is taken they can see it immediately in the back of the camera.

Malians believe in being “rich in people” if not in goods, so they have many children, so as to be cared for when they get old. There are an average of 7 ½ children per family in Mali, and the median age is 16. The villages teem with children. Virtually every girl over the age of 10-12 has a baby on her back – recruited into childcare at a young age to help the families. Most of the children will get three years of education in a village school, and then some percentage will get another six in larger town where they will board during the week. Ogo was vague as to the percentage that get that next six years, but it was clear that it was mostly the boys. He emphasized that for children born today, it will be about 80%. Education after this relies on achievement on an exam, with a path to a lycee for a profession (lower school teacher, secretary, etc.) or to university.

We go then to Niekiema, a smaller village where an old hunter lives. Hunting was a distinguished calling historically in Mali but now there are not many animals left. There is a large picture on the wall of his hut of him with a live leopard. He dresses in his hunting clothes for us (fur hat with teeth, leather jacket and pants) and poses with his rifle.

We continue to visit villages outside of Bamako the next day. Kangaba, pop ~5000, is the oldest city of Mande, and where the 44 charters were finalized after 1235. There was one strong king who was a holdout, but a spy discovered his secret weakness – the back toe of a chicken. He was dispatched with an arrow into which this toe had been implanted, and the country was unified.  The Niger river, which flows through the country and around which most of the towns are located, is locally called the Djuliba, meaning “big blood,” to commemorate this.

During the long drive, Ogo tells us about a reality show that he helped to set up. Seven people were chosen from a town in Holland, then dropped in a Dogon village for a month. The following year, seven Dogons were sent to Holland. The Dogons did better than the Dutch, but noone did very well. But most interesting was Ogo’s own story. Malians are trained from a young age to not look in the face of an older person, in order to show respect. He looks at the ground instead during a conversation. When he was dealing with the Dutch, they thought he was ignoring them, that he wasn’t focused.

In Kela, a village of ~2000, are two swords that were used in the 1235 battle. These are protected by three elders, hidden away, requiring the agreement of all three to bring them out to be seen. Such antiquities are often demanded by the Malian government or by museums, to be among the treasures of the country, but since most such articles are immediately sold outside, the villages try to hide them, to hold onto them. We are allowed to see the swords, but not to photograph them.

Shea butter is a large part of cooking and personal care in Mali. The nuts of the tree are peeled, shells eaten, then pounded to a pulp. The pure yellow part is separated, used for cooking and for a skin rub. The dregs, which are still oily, are rubbed onto the walls of mud huts to help make them waterproof.

In that village we watch a dance which is exactly the West African Dance taught in Rochester by Colleen Hendrick. Drums and dancing – we are all invited to participate, one by one, and although we try hard, and are all uninhibited and willing, we totally fail to match up to the girls with whom we dance!

Segou, Mali, Africa

December 2, 2009

We arrived in Segou yesterday – an old city with much more charm than Bamako. The hotel is set around a courtyard and each room has air conditioning and a bathroom with the ‘typical’ shower into the middle of the room. Wonderful. Yet, as I put toothpaste on my brush I notice something moving on the bristles. Tiny ants. They have apparently found my kit hanging from the towel rack and are exploring its contents.

Breakfast is in the room off of the courtyard. There is a real colonial look to this hotel, owned by a German. Whitewashed walls, a curved bar well-stocked with liquors, and a refrigerated case filled with bottles of beer and coke surround us as we try to figure out how to say “scrambled eggs” in French to our waiter who only really understands Bambara. The coffee is empty and we desperately wave our cups. He scoops slowly, watching a soccer match on TV as he does it, then disappears, coming back to fill the pot with water after several minutes. It is our anxiety, not his, that we haven’t yet had our fill of caffeine.

It will not be a Mali 7 now that Dale slipped on ice built up on the step of his ladder. Dale is coming along, according to Maynard, who talks with him regularly. The pain is down but he cannot put full weight on the hip for 4 – 6 weeks. Bummer, Dale!

I am starting to plan what photo equipment to bring to Mali.

The first item is easy, my camera bag. I plan to bring two bodies (5D and 5D-II), three lenses (24-105 f/4 + 70-200 f/4 + 35mm f/1.4 + 1.4x extender), one or two flashes (580EX-II), and lot of memory cards (more to come on this.)

In my suitcase, I will also bring Invisible Dust cleaning materials, batteries, extra lens caps, and NO tripod.

I am most unsettled on the download stuff. Karen and Dale have been advised against bringing a laptop. Nonetheless, I am inclined to do so. With the laptop, I will download to a LaCie rugged and to the laptop itself. However, I will also bring my Epson P5000. And I may bring enough cards so I do not need to reuse. My 5D-II raw images are 26MB so I can get 600 images on a 16GB card. If I plan for 3500 pictures, I would need 96 GB. 16GB Sandisk Extreme III  cards are $90 from Amazon; I would need to buy three more of them. I need to think about this. As I write all this down, I wonder if I am being too conservative.

We will have five days without electricity including three in a row. I am bringing a third battery for my 5D-II. Between my two cameras, I should be able to shoot over 2000 pictures without a charge. And if I do not download for the juice free nights, then no issues with anything else.

I am still thinking about i should bring to protect my camera equipment from the dust and dirt.

PS- all my photo equipment is summarized at http://www.jamespatton.com/Equipment.html

Traveling in Africa

Jim asked me to jot down a few thoughts regarding travel in Sub Sahara, I don’t feel particularly qualified to do this, but in 1978 my wife and I did travel overland from London to Johannesburg. It seems a long time ago. I managed to find my journal and will take a look at it when I get a chance, for now I will just dredge up my memories (which at my age are somewhat suspect). I had hoped to see what is new out there in the way of “miracle fabrics” while on a recent trip to the Oregon coast, but as luck would have it, I spent most of my time watching the waves roll in.

With virtually every trip I go on, I am reminded that “less is more”, if in doubt I try to leave it at home.

Sahara

When I was in the Sahara I was amazed at how rocky it was, I thought it would be all sand, but it seemed mostly rocks. I am sure it depends where you are. The dust and wash board roads were worse than I had expected. Padding and dust protection for camera equipment are a necessity. I will take the rain covers for my  ThinkTank camera bags, they should provide at least some protection from the dust.

We spent about 2 weeks traveling in the Sahara and during that time most members of our group seemed to develop sores (from cuts) that would not heal on their own. It was only when we arrived at a major town and were able to obtain antibiotics that these cleared up.

For me, the Sahara was probably the best part of our entire Africa trip.

Camping

A small headlamp (with Energizer Ultimate Lithium batteries) is always useful, nice to be able to use your hands for something other than holding the light.

When camping in the desert, remember to shake your shoes out before you put them on in the morning, you never know what might have crawled in during the night.

On our Africa trip it was my job to collect wood and make fires most days and I tried to be very aware of where I was stepping in an effort to avoid snakes. I never did see one and was thankful for that. A monopod works well to rattle the bushes and signal your approach. (or just walk behind someone else: )

I was going to take a very thin synthetic sleeping bag, with a silk liner on this trip. However, I used this bag again recently and was again reminded that down bags are so much more pleasant to sleep in, even when it is warm. For me, down bags are not clammy like the synthetics are. With all bags I tend to use them more like a blanket, with my feet stuffed in the end. In any case I will take the silk liner, it is very compact and I will use it alone if the night is warm. The key to staying warm with a light sleeping bag is to make sure your neck and shoulders are covered, this can be accomplished with a light fleece/long underwear top/towel and if needed a wool hat for your head. When we were camping in the desert, it got to be surprising cool at night but only when we were sleeping on cots without using tents, and subject to the evening breezes.

Clothing

Shoes are obviously an important consideration, and the Keens that Karen recommend look like a good solution. I will probably take a pair of approach shoes, they are studier than running shoes and work better on rocky terrain, the down side is that they are warmer and heavier then runners. I feel I need the extra support and stiffer soles, they will only be low cut. Boot hikers are too warm I think.

I like to have a pair of “slip on” shoes whenever I get the chance and for this I tend to use water shoes, they are light, comfy, compact and dry quickly (I add an insole for additional comfort). These are just for lounging around end, not extended walking. I will also use them for some showers.

If it looks like I have lots of room I may take an extra pair of “day to day” shoes mostly because I worry about not being able to buy a decent replacement if something happened to my walking shoes. But I bet I don’t have the room.

Recently I come across a woven elastic belt which offers infinite fine adjustability, just the thing for after a big meal or a week of not eating due to stomach upset.

I like to wear a hat when I am out in the sun, preferably one that offers excellent sun protection, won’t blow away and doesn’t look too dorky. I have a large Columbia hat with a white exterior, large brim, and black underside which I often wear fishing, the only problem is that I look like I should be stooped over in a rice paddy. Any hat that I use must have a flexible brim or one that I can turn around because these days I often shoot with a flash on camera and if the brim is stiff it doesn’t allow room for the flash. At home I use a ball cap and turn it around but that is a poor solution for the desert, since it doesn’t protect the ears and neck.

For jackets I will take a light fleece and a thin/light wind proof jacket, slightly long, with pockets and a hood which folds into collar.

Heat

I like the fact that my camera bag has a couple of pockets for small bottles of water. Please encourage me to drink more, I never drink enough. I will probably take some “Crystal Light” drink crystals to add a little flavor from time to time.

If I was really clever I would take a small sil tarp, some cord and two sand pegs to erect some shade when the opportunity arose.  On our Africa trip we would all scramble at breaks to see who could find the best shade under the truck we were travelling in. A little shade was a precious thing.

On our last canoe trip down the Green River, it was very warm and we used a thin gel scarf which we dipped in the water and wrapped around the neck. . It would stay cool for several hours and seemed to offer some relief. I would have to do some research as to where to buy them, since we picked them up in Moab.

–Dale Hannaford