Mali Mali 12 – Au revoir Mali
Saturday 17 January 2009
Final day
11.32a.m.
Bamako
The delightful Hotel Relais Djoliba
Well, things turn out funny, huh. The past two days(ish) in Bamako have been very odd indeed. What we saw at the beginning of the trip to be a pleasant group of travellers, each getting on well with each other, has somehow grown to become a fractious, splintered group of cliques and egos. I don’t know how or why. Maybe jealousy or regret – I’ve managed to keep cordial with everyone, but there are obvious tensions there – can’t explain it.
It was an odd kind of relief to be back in Bamako. Relief bred from familiarity I suppose – we returned to pitch tents and relax before the festival-goers returned – we’d expected them to beat us back actually, but they made if, filthy and exhausted, with tales of a wonderful time singing, dancing and not much sleeping (or good food to speak of) and photos to make us turn green with envy. Janet and I were thrilled to see them return and Tony commented on how it was good to see a smile on my face again – obviously the past week has revealed my solitary side.
But apart from Janet and myself, no one else seemed particularly interested in reacquainting themselves with the revellers – we found ourselves almost split in two as we made our way out for a final meal, organised by GP himself. The meal was lovely, albeit rather tardy in arrival – Ruth seemed to wait a few weeks for her tagine – and I took the chance to browse the photos of the festival while digesting. Some of us decided to head off for a drink and one last dose of Bamako nightlife, returning to Parc du Prix with GP (and Ibrahim who graciously drove us) to hear a fantastic band accompanied by some extraordinary dancers. Our favourite (not) ‘comedian’ was there – turns out her was actually a griot, a paid minstrel I guess, who made his living as a negotiator and serenader – in between songs, he took the microphone and sang the praises of various rich and wealthy families who had decided to spend the evening in the bar – always greeted with tumultuous laughter from the families involved, but apathetic dismissal from everyone else. Various members of the family would rise and approach him to offer him money – an apparent grab for cash in our eyes really, but an integral part of Malian social interaction.
Back to bed – last night in the tent as I had pre-booked a room for the final night – where Ruth gad graciously lent me her full-size sleeping mat for one last night (we had swapped for the festival as mine was easier to carry) – not sure she found it such a brilliant idea. Note for Lou – upgrade the sleeping mat.
Yesterday (the next day) was my last chance to explore Bamako, and first stop was the Musee Nationale, which we had found closed when we tried to go on Christmas Day. Robert, Rupert, Petra and I made the journey, although Rupert seemed more enamoured with the espresso that followed the visit. It was, to me, an interesting exhibition – to be honest, far better presented and laid out that I had anticipated – including archaeological items from all over Mali, as well as a section dedicated to masks and totems, and another for textiles and fabrics. We also checked out a contemporary African art exhibition before walking back to the Maisons de Artisans and fetish stalls. For some reason I wasn’t particularly interested in the dried monkey heads, petrified chameleons or other bizarre objects, obviously still commonly used for magical rituals or Malian feng shui.
We enjoyed pizza for lunch – fairly bland, but slightly more delicious than a frozen McCains, and fresh at least – before I struck out alone for Hippodrome. On the north side of town, Hippodrome (no prizes for guessing why it is so named) is the neighbourhood most of the expats who call Mali, or Bamako, their home, and fairly affluent compared to some of the other suburban centres. The aim was to find a store called ‘Mia Mali’, strongly recommended as a place worth a visit by both Bradt and Lying Planet (as L&T so warmly call it) if crafts and ornaments are what you’re after. Not a thing to grab my interest though – especially disappointing after an hour and a half exploratory trek around Hippodrome (and further out to the Bandara Plateau) to try and find it. Eventually I came across what turned out to be the Senegalese Embassy – obviously the ambassador was having a slow day as her seemed almost eager to help me locate this shop.
Having found it and not bought anything – the closest thing to my liking was a bracelet for 25 000 CFA – no thanks! – I taxied back to the Maisons du Artisans to spend my CFA, useless back home. I was sure Louise would appreciate me returning with something for the house other than bogadan patterns, so I negotiated some statuettes and a small elephant for Lou’s collection – originally the hawker was asking me 65 000 CFA for all three (that’s about £100 – forget it!) but the look of disappointment on his face when he agreed to 20 000 CFA suggested that maybe it was a good price – I believe the are all ebony and of pretty good quality anyway.
The 10 000 CFA I spent on a bracelet that I love, however, I think is money well spent. We will see if Lou thinks that same… a lovely silver and pewter band that is far more subtle than the hideous nickel-plated monster I found in Sevare.
I’d been bumming around Bamako for a good six or seven hours by the time I returned to the hotel and checked into my room. To be honest, I would probably have rather a tent – easier to get in and out of – but to sprawl out on a bed and enjoy a scalding shower was definitely refreshing! We (most of us) decided to eat at the hotel tonight, and somehow the fractious divide widened – I chose to spend a bit more time with the ‘rebels’, having not seen them for a week or so, but the rest of the group that stayed with the truck seemed to make little effort to engage. Oh well.
Food was late and good-byes began. People left at various times during the day – Janet and Andrea had left the night before at stupid-o-clock in the morning – and eventually the group of people departing for Casablanca at 3.00a.m. set off. I had really enjoyed Kate and Ruth’s company in particular, so was disappointed to not spend a little more time with them. No doubt we will catch up in the future.
The final day has been set aside by moi to reflect, relax, repack and engage in some severe character assassination with those who remain. Tony and Lisa, bless them, have a few more days to get us out of their system before trekking south to continue their journeys with Madge. Some have not enjoyed their leadership, with valid reasoning, but I must confess to having a soft spot for both of them – a tough gig to have to try and satisfy all the passengers, re-route the trip and do so with patience and a laugh.
Overall, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the trip. My eyes have been opened to the West African skies and the allure of this part of the world has, if anything, increased over the past three weeks. The journey has led me to some intriguing people, some of whom I’ve travelled with, and others passed by, but most of all I’ve felt that maybe I have some perspective now on how people live and how they deal with life – means of life is a relative thing and, as I discussed with GP last night when quizzing him on his lifestyle, the main concern of Malians seems to be happy and to help the people around them be happy. Ideas of poverty, hunger, poor hygiene or disease are not, at least in my rose-tinted view of the past few weeks, weighing heavily on the Malian psyche. They are present, concerning and real, but dealt with as best Malians can.
I couldn’t possibly regret not going to the festival. I’ve made my bed and will lie in it. Once the choice was made, the rest of the trip played itself out – in hindsight perhaps the wrong choice but c’est la vie. Next time.
Mali Mali – Interlude – The Forgotten Fox…
Having trekked back up the escarpment to Sanga from Ireli in Dogon territory, GP took us (well, we stopped at) a series of cleared pits (looked like grave really, or vegetable plots) that held special significance for Dogon people. Legend held that many hundreds of years ago, man and fox were best of friends. The spiritual leader of a village enjoyed a particularly strong bond with a fox, who imparted to him secrets of the land and wisdom. The years passed and food grew scarce – so scarce that the pregnant wife of the spiritual leader demanded he find some meat to feed her with. When the man returned, having not found anything to hunt, the wife insisted he kill his friend, the fox. The man protested, but the wife redoubled her efforts to convince him and forced the man to choose between her or the fox. So that night the man went to see the fox to kill him, and the fox, expecting him, said to do what he must – the wisdom of the fox would remain, but man would no longer see him. The man killed the fox and fed his wife.
Ever since, the people of Dogon – and others – come to these plots where the spiritual leader will inscribe their problems using sticks and patterns in the sand. Then, just before dusk, he will scatter peanuts over the plots as a gift to the fox. In the morning, the pattern left by the footprints of the fox will solver the problems of the villagers, translated by the spiritual leader. Neat huh.
Mali Mali 11 – Under the skin of Sikasso
15 January 2009
10.22a.m.
Serengue (?)
We’ve arrived at another slightly surreal place after a couple of days traversing the road less travelled (by tourists at least). We left ‘Mali-land’ at Teriya Bugu and made tracks for what we hoped would be a worthwhile detour – the town of Sikasso. By all reports (from the guidebooks anyway) Sikasso gave some interesting perspective on the more frequented parts of the country. In the south, it is in a greener more vibrant slice of Mali, home to many plantations (cotton, tree regeneration) and perhaps most interestingly, almost devoid of tourists.
The hotel that was recommended for camping turned out to be a dud – we had actually been lucky to stumble across it – so we set out to find a nearby waterfall and set up camp there for the night. Sikasso had turned out to be a bit more than just an industrial (term used loosely) town, but a sprawling collection of dusty roads, shacks and shopfronts.
The waterfall was, well, wet. At three metres it was hardly awe-inspiring, but a nice enough spot to camp the night. By now the cooking rota had gone full circle, so it was my groups’ turn to put on a feast – we’d stopped on route at a town intriguingly called Bla to attempt to shop, and found ourselves in the right place at the right time – so we decided that lots of greens were on the menu. Having Naphi cook for us since we’d been on the boat was indeed a treat but EVERYTHING was deep(ish) fried (we’d been greeted by two deep bowls of prawn crackers for breakfast that morning…) so I genuinely believe everyone when they were singing our praises for potato salad, beetroot salad and a simple lamb stir-fry. Good food.
We had a chance to explore Sikasso the next day – an eye-opening experience. Eventually we located the markets in the centre of town and the remaining cook teams were off – I took a stroll around the markets and shacks and was not harassed once – barely was I even acknowledged, let alone interrogated for cadeaux or bici. Free to wander leisurely, it was very interesting to get an idea of how life ticked over in Mali. People here go about life without concern for impressions – although how Malian women keep their clothes so clean in such a dustbowl is beyond me.
I took the opportunity to pop into a cyber café and check that the world was still functioning in my absence – a seemed OK. Tony and Lisa had discovered a hotel we would stay at for the night (a relief for some, though I must admit a fondness for bush camps) and we enjoyed an afternoon exploring a nearby grotto of caves (name to be remembered…) that held some significance for the local Muslim population. Some of the caves were tiny, and one in particular involved burrowing down into a tiny chamber barely big enough to squat in – it was to this chamber the faithful would come to tell their problems to the guardian of the caves. after offering a sacrifice – usually a chicken – the problem would be solved. not sure how. Reminded me of the problem solving capabilities of the fox at Sanga near Dogon country. I may have forgotten to mention that – must make a note of it. Later.
We climbed to the top of the rocky outcrop that encased the grottoes, and (ungracefully) descended to return to the truck – rewarded only with a glimpse of a monkeys’ tail as it scampered across the rock face – and the bumpy drive back to Sikasso.
I struggled with the mosquito net as the lack of ventilation in the room brought things to a stuffy head. I was becoming more and more congested of an evening – no doubt the dust – and being unable to roll over in bed without fear of that dastardly malaria-infected mosquito perched on the net, waiting to pounce should I brush against it (I was improvising as there was nowhere to hang the net) combined with Michael’s talent as a snorer par excellence made for a rather tumultuous night. But I lived to tell the tale.
We were off fairly early the next day – one more stop on our way back to Bamako – and whilst T&L negotiated some water for the tank, the rest of us made tracks for a patisserie cum coffee shop that Rupert had found the previous day. I didn’t indulge – although they had an espresso machine. I would save myself for the return home.
A long drive today punctuated by wee stops and lunch (mmm, love those greens!) before finally arriving at our destination – a reservoir not too far from Bamako, where we hoped to find somewhere to camp. After a lengthy discussion with the Gendarme entrusted with the security of the barrage over the dam (suffering delusions of grandeur), we were eventually escorted across the barrage to an intriguing little hotel – which we could, of course, have found ourselves, but no doubt chief constable was hoping to make a buck out of us – and did – where we would stay, on the banks of the lake. It is worth noting that when referring to hotels in Mali, rarely does that indicate a single building with rooms contained within – instead, a Malian hotel is usually a collection of huts, sometimes well kept, often not, with a bar or reception or both in one of them. The hotel on the lake was in fact one of these – exactly as we had hoped, there was copious room to camp and a lovely open air bar to kick back and chew the fat in. Some chewed considerably more than others. A few games of shithead (just call me loser) and time for beddie byes.
A late start today. Only a few hours to Bamako this afternoon, so the morning to relax, take a walk and write in my journal. Tony received a message from Kate last night – they were in Segou and were going to head for Bamako today, so with luck we will all reunite for a meal tonight that GP (haven’t seen him for awhile!) has organised.
