Mali Mali 7 – Dogon doughnuts

4 January 2009
3.02p.m.
Back in Sevare

(Not sure why I keep writing the date and location of this entry – it has nothing whatsoever to do with the details herein…)

Things were far from rosy on New Year’s Day.  We had a rather relaxed start to the day, but the sleep in meant that I was awoken by the rather intense heat of the sun cooking the canvas.  I don’t remember drinking all that much, but combined with the heat and lack of sleep, it was the closest thing to a hangover I’ve had in quite some time…

Gradually, people appeared out of the woodwork and by 2.30p.m. we were ready to head to Dogon country proper.  Our destination was the town of Doubou, located up on the Bandiagara escarpment.  Although only 35 kms (or so) from Bandiagara, the trip was rather extended as, so eloquently put by Lisa, “the road is shit.” The slow going gave us the first chance to sit a top Madge and enjoy the view and trip – a great way to enjoy our entrance to what surely is the most spectacular landscapes we’ve yet encountered.  Eight of us piled onto the top and, although bum-numbingly uncomfortable, we managed to yoga ourselves into bearable positions.  We enjoyed the cool air and wonderful aroma of onions and shallots as we wove along the track toward the escarpment. Along the river, fields of green-topped onions contrasted the dry and dusty landscape, and we waved and greeted villagers as we passed them – some warm and welcoming, some indifferent, others bewildered and, if appearances are any indication, some were not impressed by our presence.

Although Janet lost her cap along the way (duly recovered) and Madge blew a tyre, we crawled into Doubou where GP gave us ‘ten minutes Japanese time’ to check out the market – it seemed more like the market was checking us out as we were swamped by hawkers and curious locals wanting money, cadeaux or just a chat.

GP was in pro mode – no time to dawdle – and we marched off to head down the escarpment.  The setting sun cooled things significantly but also pressed upon us the urgency to keep moving.  We came across a ravine the meandered down to the foot of the escarpment, and to see the incredible vista unfold before your eyes as we descended was truly breathtaking – you could imagine an ancient ocean kissing the escarpment just as the sandy soil of the plain does now.

Light was fading fast as we crawled down into the shadow of the cliffs and torches were unveiled as we reached the bottom.  The grandeur of the countryside certainly wasn’t diminished in the dark – the stars blinkered into sight more quickly now and the massive shadow of the escarpment a constant reminder of how immovable the land around us was.

We stumbled into Nombori, sweaty, dusty and fully prepared for two more days of sweat and dust.  As we dined on some delectable chicken and rice, the yard next door grew restless with music and commotion, and we were lucky enough to catch some singing and dancing by the Nombori women, swathed in their traditional indigo-dyed robes and clapping a simple syncopated pulse, under which the drums danced in convoluted and complex layers of knowledge – musical understanding still foreign to my ears.

Our beds were arranged for the evening – rooftop mattresses that looked up to a ceiling of shadow and stars.  Although it was suggested the snorers and non-snorers were separated, the consequences of a big night before and the walk into the Dogon country negated any chance of light sleeping.  I was out three or four shooting stars later.

The first braying donkey at around 5.00a.m. scared the crap out of me. The escarpment, a great scar in the flat sandy plain all around, bellowed out silence and the donkeys’ echo sent an otherworldly shiver up my waking spine.  The hours just before sunrise were chilly and for the first time I could comfortably snuggle right into my sleeping bag and have a few more minutes of blissful donkey-braying and rooster-crowing.

Breakfast in Dogon country was a treat – delicious sugared dough-balls that I filled with a rick, dark treacle-like honey.  It seemed like a bottomless bowl had been placed in front of us.  The ubiquitous cup of tea also appeared – ultra boiled to six kajillion degrees celsius – and we were soon ready to set off.

Today we were to trek fifteen kilometres, with a break for lunch halfway(ish) at a town called Tireli.  I must admit that so far this has been perhaps the highlight of the trip.  The escarpment took on the character of more than just a great rift of rock – it was a constant, ominous presence, shadowing our walk with both approval and reluctance, a comforting companion and wary observer at the same time.  I was thrilled by the elation of this trek.  A distant corner of the world I had never really anticipated finding myself in – yet here I was, skirting this massive beast with sandy soil swimming around me.

There were scores of children on hand to accompany us on the trip, and the usual collection of mixed reactions to our presence from the adults. If anything, the children in Dogon country seemed to become more and more aggressive as the trek progressed.  The heat, although not oppressive, was considerable, but a gently breeze cooled our heels for most of the day.

Lunchtime found us in Tireli, where we dozed, drank, ate and souvenired our way the hottest part of the day.  GP and his crew certainly knew how to feed a gaggle of twenty – the food in Dogon country was, on the whole, absolutely delicious.  Chicken, although mainly bone, was omnipresent (and probably very expensive) but the accompanying sauces were divine – usually involving sweet potato, onion and peanut.

The afternoon leg of the trek was proceeded by one of the most colourful and energetic exhibitions I’ve seen.  The Dogon mask dance, described in guidebooks and ethnographic dissertations with far more eloquence and accuracy than I possibly could, is an aintricate but explosive performance that features the infamous masks, each portraying a different character in the life of the village.  The stilt walkers perform at the onset of the rain, the tall masked performers when a new spiritual leader of the village is elected, every sixty years.  The narrative was not difficult to follow – each character, or series of them, performed elaborate moves that seemed to maybe scratched the surface of something very profound and ancient – reminiscent of a corroboree I suppose – and although this particular dance was staged for our benefit, I could sense that the essence and vitality of the Dogon dance did not lessen for the tourist euro – certainly we were in awe of the spectacle, and appreciative and respectful (hopefully) to the elders afterwards.

There were hints of more tangible, everyday village life in the dance as well – young performers were encouraged, heckled and made to repeat their moves by the chief and other elders as they learnt their place in the dance – each role is hereditary, passed from father to son.  We were lucky I think – Lisa has seen the dance twice before and never before so many performers – over 50!

During lunch we had considered acting on the whim of Michael the Swede, who had informed us, according to his GPS, that there was a geocache only four-hundred and eighty metres from our lunching spot.  For the uninformed, a geocache is a small container, anywhere from the size of a microfiche to a shoe-box, intentionally buried or planted around the world in difficult to find places – assumedly to encourage remote travel and to add purpose to people’s expeditions.  We never did end up going to look for it, somewhat disappointedly, but the afternoon threatened to turn to evening prematurely in the escarpments’ shadow, so we set off for Irali, barely halting to take a peek at GP’s sacred, vegetarian crocodiles that inhabit the water-holes near the villages.  Vegetarian? Well, apparently they don’t attack the livestock that go to drink there.  Hmmmm.

By GP’s description – his guiding during the whole trek has been exceptional – Irali is one of the biggest of the villages in Dogon country, but, from what we could tell, it was one of the quietest.  We were relieved to arrive and cool down – some enjoyed a shower – and enjoyed another relaxing evening.  It certainly can’t be said that this trip has been overly strenuous.  Trekking hasn’t been anywhere near as demanding as Morocco, and although that dust and dirt is all-invasive, we have had enough time to get clean and relax.  Another lovely evening under the stars and another doughnut bonanza in the morning – as Grandpere says, you have to eat maximum – twenty-five-thousand percent (we obliged…) and we set off again, this time for Bonani – home of many Mr Good Prices (The common French phrase of the souvenir hawkers was ‘Bon prix’).  This leg of the trek was very short, and the day infused with a lively zephyr to cool us as we wandered – Kate set a lively pace, trying to keep up with one of our jerry-can-carriers, and we reached Banani in no time at all, again to greet the town with a plethora of siestas and souvenir hunts – I was this close to ponying up for a very interesting Dogon mask, but could very clearly hear Louise’s voice in my ear questioning the aesthetic benefit of my hypothetical purchase.

Last leg of the journey – back up the escarpment to meet Madge and Tony and head for Bandiagara.  Actually, although all uphill, it was not a long climb – it was today, however, that a few tempers nearly boiled over at the tenacity and aggressive nature of the kdis – persistent to a fault, it was difficult tog et angry at them when they had so little, but to compare with the children we had met before, they simply would not take no for an answer.  Teaching skills came in very handy as eventually they got the messages.  

We must have smelled rancid as we crawled back into Madge.  It was nice to be driven again, but I must admit that another day at least in Dogon country would have been wonderful.  Life seems far simpler when camping under the stars and although its’ probably insensitive of me to say something like that when visiting these villages of poverty, there is something obscenely and typically ‘westernly’ romantic about imagining life as a villager.  Naive.  I couldn’t begin to fathom the difficulties that these villagers face, particularly when things get REALLY hot.

Enjoyed a snooze back to Bandiagara where we simply enjoyed a relaxing evening to recover from our ‘trek’. (More of a stroll really…) and prepare for our boat trip to Tombouctou in a day or so time.  

The tasks seem to be happening in slow motion these days.  Maybe everyone is getting a little over it – settle down, we’re not even halfway through the trip yet! – but motivation seems occasionally lacking.  At least everyone has not grumbled.  A few cases of sharing a few too many suggestions with each other though – I’ve caught an eye-roll or two (hopefully not directed my way!) – and probably given my fair share.

We popped into a jewellery museum/store in Sevare today, run and owned by ANOTHER friend of GP’s (he must be getting a tidy commission from these friends…) who was larger than life – a ‘happy crazy man’.  His collection of Malian an African beads and clothing was intriguing, especially the first and second century barter beads that were found in the area.

So I splurged and bought Lou a necklace (hopefully she likes it…) and myself a Touareg bracelet – about time I invested in something nice for myself.  Only around 80 000 CFA left now, so will see how long that lasts…

A rather large supply of soft drink and beer was purchased today to accompany us to Tombouctou and the festival – a rather unnecessarily long and drawn out process methinks, but perhaps the reason is that a hefty deposit is paid for the bottles, so it was 10 000 CFA each for the drinks.  Will see how much of that comes back.

The rest of today (back to real time!) has involved an extended relax enjoying the dulcet tones of Habib Koite et al whilst catching up with my journal – the next few days up the river and at the festival will leave no excuse to not be up to date!