Mali
Mali hit us full in the face. We had climbed out of tropical West Africa
into a bone-dry 45C heat of stupefying power. We may have driven around
the country twice for all I know. I really have no idea what we were
doing most of the time. It was just a short visit and we shall have
to go back to Bamako at the very least.
I know we entered Mali just south of the Dogon country, a must visit
for overlanders, hikers and French cultural tourists alike. And tourism
is what we found, mass and organised and seemingly encouraging a level
of begging we have not encountered anywhere else in Africa, especially
amongst the children (I only mention this because away from the tourist
sites Malians are the best company; generous and hospitable). But when
you get up onto the very unique escarpment, you can see why everyone
comes. Fantastical villages hanging off the edge of cliffs with great
stretches of wild desert in between. We started our visit from the large
town of Bandiagara where we met a teacher who was playing in a football
game the next day in Sanga, where we would start our hiking.
After arranging for a guide for our three-day hike, we camped up in
the car park (again) of a local auberge and then settled in to watch
the match between Team Teachers and FC Sanga. Our friend and his fellow
teachers made short work of the local side and were jubilant with their
2-0 win. The Sanga Chief and his wife were not best pleased and berated
the players in front of the crowd. Although there are a few small mosques
in area, the Dogon are generally very pleased to have resisted Islam
for hundreds of years whilst other tribes around them lived sober and
orderly lives. And even though they lost the football match it wasn't
going to stop them drinking on the evening of the football/market day
and our auberge transformed itself into the favoured booze palace with
everyone from bored youth to the Mayor paying a visit, and greeting
us as they came past our car/tent towards the bar. The women, on the
other hand, didn't come inside, preferring to linger in a group of 20
or so along a wall opposite. Standing in a long line like city Russians
trying to get a suntan, they gossiped excitedly for four hours.
We woke early the next morning and began our march across the plateau
to the edge of the cliffs. Our guide Golfils, an ex-dancer and athlete,
had once danced the famous Dogon mask dance at the Hanover Expo and
spoke several languages. He took through the picturesque Hobiton-like
village of Tiogou, with its tall thin houses and thatching, and down
onto the sand storm plain. Then we climbed up onto the Yougha peninsula,
which is really just a giant column of rock rising straight out of the
desert, and toured the villages hanging from the rock. Better still
were the ancient troglodyte cave houses built by the Tellem people centuries
ago but now used by the Dogon for grain silos. As we walked from village
to village, Golfils greeted other people with Dogon pleasantries. He
asked how they were and they replied that they were good and so he asked
them how their wife was, and then their children, and then their goats,
their house, their crops and when he was done they would reciprocate.
You would think this would be time consuming but this is now a fine
and exact art for the Dogon because although they are all busy people
they still feel it is absolutely necessary. Sometimes Golfils wouldn't
stop to make the greeting but he and the other would pass each other
very slowly until the greeting was complete.
After the Dogon country we drove west to Mopti on the Niger River. An
ancient barter town between the desert in the north and the jungles
to the south, Mopti was filled with traders. On the river was a huge
flotilla of barges bringing fresh produce and spices from the south,
as well as great slabs of rock salt from the mines in the desert (the
Toureg slice out massive tablets from the rock and carry it like the
Ten Commandments by camel, south to Timbuktu where it is shipped up
river). All and everyone were for sale in this great bustling place
but we were soon off again, making our way to the capital, Bamako.
We stopped at the mud-brick city of Djenne on the way. An ancient centre
of Islamic learning and still crowded with Koranic schools, Djenne couldn't
be more of a contrast to Mopti. It sounds corny to say that any place
is atmospheric but in Djenne you can hear the history and feel the sun
coming down along the narrow streets. The city mosque is the largest
mud-brick building in the world and crowds the large main square. We
spent a mesmeric afternoon being guided around the mosque and down the
many narrow streets and alleyways.
The capital Bamako is an edgy place but with much life and music. Every
other man is a musician and the windowless green Ford Transit vans passing
for city buses bellow drumming and singing as they shoot by. It is totally
impromptu and there is nothing sadder than when the drummer has to get
off at his stop and leave the singing passengers without accompaniment.
We managed to hear some classical Kora music (a type of lute) and even
visited Le Carrefours des Jeunes for a teenage night out, starting with
some great Malian pop but descending into the usual US HipHop and Euro
pop. Bamako is renowned for its music venues but has to be caught just
right as the venues and the acts themselves change with frightening
frequency. I had planned to see and hear a lot more music but a combination
of gutlessness and lack of information meant we didn't see a lot. A
shameful display. Next time.
Photos
Dogon Village
Tellem towers
Houses up the cliff
Our guide Golfils
The mosque at Djenne
