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.

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.

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.

There is definitely a sense of just getting the trip over and done with now – from everyone really. Tony and Lisa are doing a great job of keeping spirits and expectations raised, but there doesn’t seem to really be too much to look forward to except a swim in Bamako and hot shower at home.  OK, so there’s a pool here in Teriya Bugu but we’ve all decided that Teriya Bugu isn’t really in Mali after all.

Lisa had decreed that once we were on the truck and out of Tombouctou we were officially NOT allowed to be cranky about not getting to the festival – now a swear word – and everyone had to perk up.  So, brave faces on, we set forth.  Our first destination was at the end of two-hundred kilometres of corrugated piste – according to Tony, a joy to drive but not really a joy to passenge – and a town called Douentza.  Apparently, everyone had the same idea as I did and thought this would be a great opportunity to stretch out and catch up on some sleep.  Seeing as we were eight members short, there should have been plenty of room – however, as we were passing through Sevare later tomorrow, the back seat was taken up with all the bottles (empties we had drunk) and empties Tony had swapped in Tombouctou when we realised we weren’t going to the f******l.  Didn’t really seem to keep anyone from sleep.

Even when awake, the two days seemed to disappear in a haze of half-wakeful-ness, punctuated by stops for lunch, wee breaks, and one delightful night bust camping.  Without Ruth, Kate and the funsters around, the conversation had become centred around a few people, and it seemed my tolerance for their expertise in all areas was running a tad low.  You’d think teaching would teach you patience at least!

Our next destination – one previously unheard of by Dragoman, let alone the guidebooks, was Teriya Bugu – not even on the map in Madge! – and just as the sun was setting, we entered this little slice of surreality about twenty kilometres off the main road between San and Bla (two other fantastically titled towns).  None of us were sure what to expect – the only information Lisa had gleaned about the place was that it operated as a kind of commune-based self-supporting tourist refuge – whatever that is.  we re-christened it Mali-land.

Plastic – or papier-mâché – casts of African animals lined the small lanes of what immediately seemed like an Australian family caravan park, themed in African style – only no caravans.  A basketball court, animal enclosures, banana groves, river flowing by – we looked around and at each other as if in a kind of twilight zone.  Had we left Mali?  Did we need a visa? Where was the nine-hole mini golf course? They even had a slippery dip into the swimming pool.

We pitched camp and the wonderful Naphi was into the cooking straight away – she’s a legend, although she does seem to have a preference for fried food.  As we had a day planned here tomorrow to check out the area and chill a bit, we all seemed to disperse to our tents rather quickly – well, I did at least, managing to finish the book that I had started earlier that day and lie back to ponder what on earth this place was.

A wonderful breakfast or prawn crackers that next day – fried, of course – and the day to ourselves to explore, swim, basically do as we saw fit.  After an extended sit around at brekky, I went for a stroll, armed with camera, and slowly came to grips with this bizarre place.  Apparently initiated by a Catholic missionary in the 60s, it had grown to function basically as a leisure refuge – we’re not entirely sure who for, but I don’t think it is entirely up Dragoman’s alley. There ain’t much to do here except go for a swim (haven’t yet), read a book, go for a walk or sleep…

Admittedly it is a lovely place to stroll – you have to double take to work out which continent you are on, such is the proliferation of eucalypts.  The smell as we droves here was quite powerful and comforting – reminded me of home.

The animal enclosures were a little pitiful – tortoises, deer, a python and some monkeys didn’t really seem to be having the best time, but I must admit I didn’t really get the impression they were particularly fussed either way.  Birds were abundant here – some beautifully plumed pigeons and doves shared with what Janet claims are blue rollers, and a gang of peacocks wandering around and causing quite a racket around dusk.

I wandered out the front gate – the running joke became ‘Did you need another visa?’, so unlike Mali was Teriya Bugu – to find a small fishing village nestled just outside – and the friendliest Malians we’d yet encountered.  Everyone waved or said hi, wanted a chat, beckoned me over, and none asked for a brass razoo.  All smiles and no worries.

I can’t shake the feeling that the fun has left this trip.  We’re making it up as we go now – apart from Sikasso and Bamako, we’ve no real idea of where we’re going or how it will go getting there.  Being the youngest person left also has me a little on the peripheries.  Don’t really fit this trip anymore – it’s no secret that I can be a little solitary at the best of times, but its getting more difficult to engage in some conversations.  Although I get on well with all the others, it’s difficult to connect with them in a meaningful way.  Still, I shouldn’t complain.  No dickheads on board, and Tony and Lisa are great value.  Note to self: pack Louise next time I do a trip like this.  If there is a next time.

I hope the guys at the f******l are OK.  Surely news would have reached us if anything had gone wrong.  I was talking with Lisa about how although we don’t wish any harm to come to them, we, who elected to stay behind, do want to feel vindicated in our decision not to go.  Just so we can stand assured we did the right thing.  Once that is secure in my mind, all will be well.

And then the guts of the trip poured out in bucket-loads.  Talk about a change of pace, fortune, whatever you want to call it.

Having arrived in Tombouctou – or at least the port on the river closest to it – we waited patiently for the truck as we’d arrived considerably earlier than expected.

Madge and Tony arrived and we did the shuffle or gear from boat to truck – we were pretty excited not just to be getting off the boat, but also to finally be in Tombouctou, gateway to the Sahara and only a day away from the festival.

So you can imagine the indescribable disappointment that descended upon us when Lisa gave us the news – due to some threats against travellers from western countries, Madge would not be going to Essakane, as per advice from the British Foreign Office.  Shit.  The whole reason for this trip now looked like it wasn’t going to happen.

I’m still devastated about it really.  I know I should just get over it and try to enjoy the rest of the trip…

So we arrived in Tombouctou, a splinter group formed and before long there were eight takers who had conspired to get to the festival by themselves.  The swaying emotions of the trip over had returned.  Now I was torn between jumping onboard for the adventure or listening to my head.  Its funny how things look in hindsight as opposed to when you are confronted by them.  I suppose the main reason I didn’t go was Louise – if something did happen, I couldn’t bear to think  how she would feel – especially if I could have elected to put myself out of harm’s way.  Having taken the time to scan my feelings over the last twenty four hours, however, I must admit that feat of threat, attack or otherwise isn’t really involved – its the trivial things that have swung me to the side of, well, what feels like a sort of cowardice – how will we get water? Food? Get back? The insurance certainly wouldn’t cover travel against the advice of the BFO.  *Sigh* – so I’ve justified it a thousand times in my mind – I suppose the main reason for still feeling so empty is that the fun has just disappeared from this trip – Ruth, Kate, Andrea and even Fay, mental as she is, have all thrown caution to the wind and gone to Essakane.  Being left behind is exactly as Lisa described it – like Cinderella left at home when everyone else has gone to the ball.

So I could keep dwelling on it or just try to move on and enjoy the rest of the trip.  Do I have a choice? Would I jump on board if they returned now? Just don’t feel like being left out…

Trying to make the most of Tombouctou.  Interesting place – for some reason I thought it would be smaller. Maybe it was just the glum vibe hanging in the air, but a few of the looks we got as we drove in yesterday afternoon seemed less than friendly.  Last night was a blur of organisation and fraying nerves – Kate and Ruth were frantic trying to organise their own trip (which I must admit, seemed superbly done) whilst Tony and Lisa were frantically trying to organise an alternative route for us to take.  GP flitted between being around and not being around – obviously he had more important things to worry about – like his own groups who were, of course, still going.

I can’t help but think if Louise were here, then we’d be there by now.  We would have been the first to find a way, the first to stubbornly persevere and make sure we got what we paid for.  Maybe.  Easy to say, harder to do.

So, in the spirit of making the most of the situation, we set off on a tour of Tombouctou this morning with yet another of GP’s men, Mohammed.  At first he seemed a rather dull and lifeless chap, and that this might be a pretty dull and lifeless tour, but his English was good and he turned out to be an intriguing character – studying English at school, he completed his Baccalaureate and had enough money to study for a year in Bamako before it ran out.  His knowledge of the town (well, a large one I suppose – more than one-hundred-thousand living here) was excellent. It was rather amusing to see the houses dedicated to various western explorers who had made it to Tombouctou but never returned – and the bloke who did make it back, well, they didn’t believe him.

The streets were swollen with 4x4s and festival-goers.  I had to swallow my pride a couple of times and acknowledge that I was doing what was right for me.  No doubt – if we’d (I’d) come under my own steam, we’d be going.

Maybe this is the stimulus I need for some independent travel – not necessarily by myself, but just Lou and I and a car or bus – like we did in the Baltics.  Solving problems. Getting around.  Maybe. Maybe West Africa is a little different.

Half an hour on the internet, even with the afternoon to kill, was more than enough.  Tried to e-mail Lou, but something went aglay, and hearing about the Australians getting hammered in the second test wasn’t such great news either.  Looks like Lou had a pretty good time for New Year – I miss her even more now, and part of me just wants to get home.

The last few days have involved rather early starts – we set off from Sevare for the port of Mopti (no time to find Baba the kora player again – maybe I’ll run into him at Essakane) where we loaded the pinasse – a large motorised canoe – for the three day journey to Tombouctou.  We were all a little excited about this change of pace, and after we finally found Fay’s luggage buried near Trevor, we set off down the Niger river.  If we hadn’t yet switched in tune with the relaxed pace of Mali time, now it was forced upon us.  The pinasse travelled no faster than it could, and once the novelty of bird-watching and sitting atop the canopy wore off, we were all firmly entrenched in novels, journals, quizzes and card games.

However, some of the passengers seem a little out of tune with the realities of living on a boat for three days.  Whilst not a squeeze, it is not completely spacious on board, and when some of the weightier members of the group shift their intentions from starboard to port, well, the ballast is disrupted.  Funnily enough, people all seem to want to shift at the same time anyway and the rest of us have to sort out the right balance!

GP claims this is his boat – I suppose we have no reason to doubt him, but some of his claims have seemed dubious of late.  He’s taken to calling me ‘mon petite-fils’ as I’ve fallen to calling him Grand-mere instead of Grand-pere.  It’s the little things.   Lunch and dinner on the way – and at the festival – are being cooked by Naphi, a gem in the kitchen who manages to whip up sumptuous meals for twenty on a charcoal brazier near the stern of the ship.  Spaghetti, cous cous, rice and some very tasty fish and beef have been served with a lovely selection of sauces and a chilli sauce that gets the sinuses clear.  It’s all very tasty indeed, and admittedly a relief from the day to day grind of setting up camp and kitchen for twenty.  Alas, my stomach has not been agreeing with my taste buds of late and our night camps haven’t been the best fun.

But they have been beautiful.  The sun was setting as we reached our first campsite on some dunes overlooking Lake Debo, the largest in West Africa (not actually true, but don’t tell GP!).  Arriving at the lake was an eerie experience – the clouds had settled in – from where we don’t know – and blotted out the sun.  As the wind picked up and swirled the sand and dust into the air, the lake and sky seemed an inseparable grey, a haunting scene of fishing boats, shrouded in dust and searching for a shadow.

Atop the dunes the view was even more majestic.  We were greeted by swarms of buzzing children from the nearby villages – one Fulani and one nomadic Bozo village – who were warm and interested in sharing – they tried to teach us Arabic and Ruth tried to teach a blind boy noughts & crosses.  (A real Ben Stiller moment before she realised he actually needed his stick…). GP lit the fire and we sat around listening to the music from the boat, interspersed with a lame chord or two on the guitar, before crawling into our tents ready for another early start.

It is a fantastically relaxing way to travel – if you can deal with being crammed into a small boat with twenty others for hours at a time.  Although the scenery doesn’t alter a great deal – this is a pretty damn big river – and you do get a little sick of passing the jam six thousand times over breakfast, everyone seems content, if not yet fully understanding that six people climbing down the same side of the boat will capsize it.

The second day was much like the first, only interrupted by a stop in Niafunke, town where Ali Farka Toure was born, bred, mayored and died, and some lively games of cards and names in a hat to relieve the cabin fever.  I think we’re all looking forward to getting to Tombouctou tomorrow, and then the day after we head for our true destination – Essakane and the Festival in the Desert.

(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!

The atmosphere – and countryside – changed considerably the next day – New Years’ Eve.  We set off north from Sevare to Bandiagara and Dogon Country, home to a remote ethnic group, the Dogon.

We made a stop at a Dogon village called Songho – the local centre for the performance of circumcision rites.  We were guided around the village by GP, but shadowed ominously by a pride of prowling children whose manner seemed to become more and more aggressive as the trip goes on.  They seemed less inclined to stop and try to have a chat and are becoming far more persistent in their demands.

The top of Songho, nestled under a mesa-like outcrop, featured some old paintings that had been found when the Dogon moved into the area.  Although touched-up by the Dogon men every few years, the paintings offer an interesting glimpse into life in this amazing area.

For one, the area had very few trees.  Shade is easy enough to find, but you have to make a point of finding it.  The scree and pebble tracks give way to sandy trails – often it’s like walking on the beach – and the sun does seem just that little bit hotter.

We arrived at Songho to rapturous acclaim from the hordes and enjoyed the magnificent views over the village.  Just before departing, a team of aid workers arrived in traditional dress, armed with megaphones and uniformed t-shirts to promote health awareness in the area.  An interesting combination of role-playing , dancing and infomercial aimed both at informing the adults and entertaining the kids.

Bandiagara wasn’t far off – not that it was somewhere to get to in a hurry.  GP spent a lot of time here when he was growing up, and assured us that the Rastafarian who ran the Auberge was his best friend (sounds familiar…).  Dry, dusty and hot, the streets were either empty or static when we arrived, and it was obvious whey this wasn’t much more than a gateway to the Dogon country.

The showers were spacious yet temperamental – and certainly the standards associated with them far below what we found in Morocco.  Lugging our tents and equipment up three flights of stairs wasn’t the best fun either, but otherwise it proved a good place to relax and see in the New Year.

Strains of Bob Marley and The Police ringing out through the old and heavily distorting speakers, we enjoyed an afternoon relaxing and trying to cool down.  It was one week ago that we had started the trip, and so much had flown by us – it felt like months had gone by.

Mali is growing on me every day – not that I was ever unimpressed by it.  Certainly, my opinions are still developing but considering it is such a poor country, most of the people here go about their days with a smile and enthusiastic determination.  True, once out of Bamako, it seems most people are content to just get by – not that many other options present themselves – and often it seems the men are too lazy or recalcitrant to even do that!

The evening in Bandiagara wore on and Robert and team threw together a wonderful meal – including some chicken resourcefully sourced by Kate to complement the rest of the food. GP had arranged a live band for us – who knows what time they would arrive – and even though we were in such a remote place, the drinks were flowing freely.  We even had a crack at making some punch (interesting…).

Just when we had all but given up hope of seeing them again, Cathy and Rosie appeared, glowingly glamorous as usual, and to the great delight of Ruth, Fay and myself.  We quizzed them on their latest exploits and they enthused about their fortunes ahead as Togo loomed nearer, and the even presented us with a NYE gift pack, complete with special Dragoman quiz (answers supplied), card game book and travel Scrabble™ – very generous indeed!  We danced, drank some more, took them on a tour of Madge (Tony even let us up top…) and brought in 2009 with new friends.  Good times.

The band finally arrived, and not long after we set off for another party (TWO parties in Bandiagara??!?!?) with the girls – we being Ruth and I – where the three of them were showered with brochettes and chips in some mildly successful attempts by the local lads to entreat them to dance.  Ruth and I didn’t stay long and we wandered back to our auberge, accompanied by Moses, a Cameroonian restaurant owner who regaled us with tales of his misfortune and Malian women, before we fell into our tents at 4.30a.m.

Rosie and Kathy popped by for a few, so Ruth, Fay and I joined them in some character assassination and mindless speculation about our fellow travellers. Half of the interest in evening reflection and relaxation lies in piecing together the stories of those with whom you are travelling.  

Kathy and Rosie are, by now, barely one week into our trip, our reluctant heroes.  Although the Drago crew is a great craic, the sight of them and the Land Rover lifts the spirits and brings the idea of an evening chewing the fat to a glorious suggestion.  The courage – and lets face it, stupidity – of driving from Spain to Togo has both charm and insanity written all over it.  I can’t wait to hear their stories from the road when all our worlds embrace our own reality again.

Speaking of reality, I’ve not been missing Louise nearly as much lately.  Maybe the Larium is settling itself into my chemical beaker of a body and the emotions are flattening out a little.  I still don’t think this trip would appeal to her, but it occurred to me today that some parts of it she would love – the kids for one thing, and cooking for twenty people, well, that would just be too much for her to keep away from!

We left Djenne the next morning at roughly the same time as the Land Rover, and met them again at the ferry – with any luck, they’ll find us tonight in Bandiagara for New Year’s Ever.  The trip today wasn’t quite so far – Djenne to Sevare, then the afternoon in Mopti to wander.  For reasons unbeknownst to me, I struck out on my own at Mopti, perhaps expecting someone to follow, perhaps needing my own space – either way, an afternoon to myself wandering around the harbour was certainly as experience – Mopti is mental.  Manic. Madness. GP termed it the Venice of Mali – well, comparisons are most certainly odious, but in this case, I can only assume the link lies with both being on the water.  Venice is beautiful. Mopti is not.

But thriving, pulsing, bursting with character and energy it most certainly is.  The waterfront was overrun with people jostling to and from enormous pinasse boats, designed to ferry people as far as Tombouctou, and bringing in the seemingly endless supply of fish – capitaine the catch of choice.

A few colourful characters made themselves known to me as I wandered – Maribou (a popular name in Mali by the sounds of things…) who carried himself with a Rastafarian air of stoned relaxation and did his best to offer me not only a boat ride to a nearby village, but the best ganga this side of Ghana.  (All the top weed comes from Ghana, apparently.) I’m sure he forgot that I don’t smoke – I needed to remind him a dozen times.

Most of the marketeers seemed indifferent to me wandering amongst the stalls.  A fondness for smoked fish was obvious at every turn, but also arrays of spices, fruit and countless hawkers of football jerseys.  Maribou, determined lad, seemed convinced that I would be tempted to purchase one from him.  No such luck buddy. Already got one.

At the end of my horseshoe-like journey – incidentally where Maribou was lurking – was Bar Bobo, a breezy establishment that sat remarkably empty – the only patrons were a handful of (probably American) tourists.  In hindsight it was surprising that a town with such energy and hustle didn’t attract more tourists – it is the port of departure for Tombouctou after all.

Ran into Ken and Jayne at Bar Bobo, but also Baba (a very alliterative bar, this one) who was the first guide I’d met with an authentic accreditation around his neck.  We had a chat and it came to light (even with us firmly shrouded in a veil of mixed language – for once I had more French than he had English) that I was a pianist and Baba played the kora -well, both of our interests piqued, Baba offered to set off on his bike and return with his kora.  I was on a schedule but he insisted and true to his word, he appeared minutes before we had to depart, armed with kora and set about giving an impromptu demonstration, to the impressed delight of locals and tourists alike.  I told him I would try to find him again when we returned to Mopti in a few days.

The cook team were dropped off in Sevare before we made our way back to the hotel.  Things were fairly quiet on our return.  The sun descended as we unpacked the gear, pitched tents (again on the roof – fantastic!) and enjoyed a chance to relax before dinner.  Downtime has been at a premium so far, but today the temptation was overridden by a chance to play some football with the local kids on a dusty pitch next to the hotel.  Again, language veiled my attempts to communicate properly, but we had a riot! All the younger kids wanted to be on my team, but thankfully the smallest of the boys turned out to be a superstar in the goals.  Whether my goal was offside or not (or whether they simply let me score) the 2 – 1 final score seemed to please everyone.  One of the boys’ fathers happened by on his bicycle bringing a few fags of wood home and the conversation that ensued was predictable enough – money for a new ball? How could I say no? Luckily I had the foresight (or something) to speak to GP before handing over/buying anything.  Will leave a few CFA with the owner of the hotel upon return.

As it grew darker and we were treated to a feast of couscous and salad and an evening pumping out the tunes of Vieux Farka Toure and Habib Koite whilst indulging in a few games of backgammon and cards.  A lovely evening.

No-one seems to rush in Mali – well, except the bus drivers.  Madge is pretty much King of the Road here, and only the psychotic bus and lorry drivers are game to pass. The road is littered with countless (well, actually, highly countable, but you know) burnt out wrecks and chassis, the reckless remnants of potholed highways and high speeds.

We were in Segou after about four hours to find a rather dusty campsite and an opportunity to take a boat ride down to a potter nearby.  Alas, not all of us could take that option, hamstrung both by financial problems, and the need to shop for dinner!

31 December 2008
2.57p.m.
New Years’ Eve
Bandiagara

*Sigh* – am already several days behind in my journalistic quest.  See how we go today…

The purpose imbued in us, cooking team no.2 gave a very different perspective on Malian markets.  Ably assisted by a team of GP’s go-fers, we joined forces with cooking team no.1 to scour the (meagre) offerings that remained at 4.00p.m. – Ken managed a side of pretty rough beef/mutton/something, and the rest of us bartered for eggs, pasta, vegies and various other gourmet ingredients.  We had been entrusted with 45 000 CFA for each team, and for a while it was looking like we might feed the crew for the rest of the trip – however, a last minute splurge on perhaps the only chopping board in Segou for a very shady 12.000 CFA (no doubt most of that was exorbitantly calculated commission for the lad who found it for us) meant we returned to camp with only 10 000 CFA change.  Was the good? Bad? Still don’t know.

The CFA is fixed to the Euro, so fluctuations are largely ineffective here.  My mental gymnastics ain’t what they used to be, so we round the exchange rate off to about €1.50 = 1000 CFA.  May as well be £1.50 at the moment.

Maribou, one of GP’s offsiders (there seem to be thousands of them in every town) helped us wonderfully in the market.  Although some of the children are firmly indoctrinated in the finer arts of persuasion (bon-bons, cadeaux and bici are local favourites) we have remained firm and I have found that underneath the superficial grab for cash that seems endemic in most poorer countries, Malian people have so far been very welcoming and happy to struggle through conversations with me in pigeon-English-French-Bambara-Italian, just to make a connection and share a smile.  Maribou was no exception – he patiently answered my questions, showed us the best (probably only) places to shop and without him, things could have been very tricky! One old woman refused to offer us a discount for multiple cucumbers.  We waved her away and went to find a better deal, only to return later, tails between legs, to indulge her price.  She gave no indication of either surprise nor satisfaction at our return.  Anyway, she KNEW she had the best cucumbers!

After waiting a considerable time for GP to pick us up (drinking at the bar no doubt) we were back to set up camp.  I gave Louise a quick buzz to send my love, hear about her lonely Christmas Day and organise a Western Union transfer to counter my loss of VISA card.  By all reports it would be a painless process, so we agreed to give it a go.

Sleep wasn’t quite as sound tonight.  Robert and I found ourselves in the vicinity of Janelle who has quickly developed a reputation as a snorer of profound talent.  Mental note.

Daybreak in Segou was greeted with coffee and hard-boiled egg sambos – not to be sniffed at – and the longer journey to Djenne.

The drive itself was pretty uneventful, save for the Malian army driving past at a road security point. (”Not nice guys” according to GP.) and obliterated roadkill that has been scattered by coach drivers afraid of the brakes.  The roads in Mali (not that there are many of them) are narrow but generally tarmac-ed in a decent manner.  Accompanying warning signs on the approach to towns and villages are speed bumps that do a great job of either slowing you down or damaging your suspension.  More likely both – we’re talking McDonald’s drive-through here.  Not much fun at 50.

The ferry to Djenne was an experience – two small barges trafficked the traffic back and across to the town – basically on an island in the middle of the inland Niger delta, a vast floodplain that is essentially submerged in the wet season.  We were later to learn that the men take the livestock north to the desert or mountains (didn’t realise there were any in Mali!) before the wet season – otherwise it is simply too hot and everything in the fields gets washed away!

Djenne was manic. Mad. Packed full of both local tribes and villagers for the Monday market, as well as us whities – hordes, some would say, reminiscent of Krakow or Lucca rather than the middle of West Africa.  After unpacking, we joined the fun and it was time for cook team no.2 to shine – admittedly, buying and cooking for 20 or so in Malian markets is challenging, but so far all and sundry have come through with flying colours.  Our pasta was no exception – the downer being that we had nowhere to store any meat, so we made do with a vegetarian extravaganza.  Kudos to Ruth, Kate and Janelle for putting up with me and having such a blast doing the cooking!

Robert had very generously erected our tent in my absence, and after dinner we made our way down to Chez Baba, a rather tourist-oriented bar complete with demonstrative Malian drumming and authentic atmosphere.  I didn’t enjoy this evening as much as our djembe encounter in Bamako – maybe it was the touristic atmosphere, or maybe the impending solution to my financial problems.  Either way, I only stayed for a coke before trying to find Lisa to finalise the Western Union transfer.  Eventually found her in the bar (her birthday mind you!) and called the lifesaving wonderful amazing Louise who had already organised the transfer.  I’m a lucky boy.

Far more intriguing – again, maybe due to the financial remedy I had just enjoyed – was the kora and drum trio that was playing over the fence from the hotel (we were staying on the roof incidentally) and entertaining the crowd at the youth hostel.  The stars glistening through the flyscreen only added to the magic of our first night in Djenne.

The small glimpse of the sunrise I caught the next morning was no less impressive – rich, vivid colours on the horizon giving way to bright, almost painfully bright mornings with weighty shadows dragging you further and further into the earth as the day goes on.  Come midday, the sun bathes everything in light from all sides – an alien, non-worldly light in which nothing is hidden and everything seems to glow – intensely transparent.  Shit for photos to be honest.  Too much light.

Although the heat hangs around for much of the afternoon, the returning shadows that were mysteriously absent during high noon arrive again, this time releasing all from the earthly binds and a feeling of lightness feathers everything.  The air seems free to move and even the colours seem to have a more playful hue.  Everyone stirs from their midday rest to seek out commotion and welcome the cool, crisp evening. Most welcome indeed.

Today began with a walking tour of Djenne by either Phillip or Omar, two more of GP’s battalion.  Rumour is we were lucky to be in Phillip’s group, who was as helpful and patient (well, most of the time) as any guide we have had so far.  He led us through the bustling markets, thronged with locals and tourists alike (never seem so many before according to Lisa) as well as the amazing mud mosque, largest mud structure in the world, and a definite highlight in a town drenched in atmosphere and character. Phillip took us on the obligatory bogadon and fabric demonstration, where Ruth and I succumbed to temptation and came away with a relative bargain of four lovely clay-print bogadon for €40.  Not bad.

It was during this tour that we were first really exposed to just how intrigued Malians are with us.  The kids around town were enamoured, no doubt, praying for pens and sweets, but when they realised we had nothing to give but company and a good time, they thrived at looking at photos and spending time with us.

We somehow managed to lose Robert and Natasha at the textiles shop, but eventually returned to the hotel for lunch and to escape the heat of the day.  Phillip helped me out with my Western Union engagement – it felt good to be cashed up – and after meeting a few more locals – including Hamid, apparently the Imam’s grandson – we jumped in a horse-drawn cart or three to head for the nearby Fulani village of Senusa.

I must admit I was completely unprepared for this little journey, and am still in several minds about it.  Although intriguing to catch a glimpse of everyday life for a large proportion of Malians, and no doubt a breadwinner for the village, I found it disconcerting to be traipsing around in a steady stream of snap happy tourists essentially marching through homes and daily lives.  I got the impression that the villagers were in two minds also – most were welcoming to a fault, but others were very sceptical at our presence – and entirely justified at being so.

The highlight of this little bum-numbing journey, however, was the constant swarming hive of children that coated our steps like they were laying out the yellow brick road beneath our feet.  Again, the vast majority seemed only to present a token of disappointment when they discovered cadeaux were not forthcoming (there must be some people who still bring pens and sweets) again, the comfort of a chat, a few photos and connecting with these strange pale skinned visitors was reward in itself.  For me too – we all got to practice our French and they got a buzz when I let them take photos of me.

The sun was sinking lower as we boarded the cart to return to Djenne.  The steady stream of scooter/horse/bicycle mounted villagers returning home after market day gradually dwindled and the amount of dust embedding itself permanently in my camera exponentially increased as we neared the hotel.  Lo and behold, our buddies Rosie and Kathy had made it to Djenne in one piece and were keen to catch up for a brew later.