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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!

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