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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.