Sevare, Mali

In Sevare, I stayed in a hotel run by a fifty something British woman and her twenty something Dogon husband. I ended up staying here for about a week, mostly trying to recooperate from my hike in Dogon country (and feeling the decline of what I now know was the beginning symptoms of dysentery.) It was so incredibly hot. Hotter even than Dogon country. I thought I had chosen the coolest time of the year. I was wrong. The coolest time is in January and February, when all the tourists converge in masses equal to a transient nation. I was thankful to miss the crowd of "outsiders", but wishing for cooler temperatures.

Sevare is a launching point for many tours, but when the season is slow, it is all but impossible to find a taxi. So I spent most days just lounging in the courtyard at Maison des arts. The British owner was glad to have an English speaker and we spent many hours (me mostly listening) swapping stories of travels and what her life is like here in Mali. She had taken a similar path through West Africa. She too had a disconcerting experience in Ghana and also fell in love with Burkina Faso. But it was Mali that drew her in. Or maybe it was the young man who is now her husband! She shared many intimate details of what it was like to be a British woman living in Mali. To share your husband with another wife. The Dogon family traditions she must learn. The extreme heat and illnesses she has endured.

A crew of two or three men made repairs to the hotel. Because I spent most of the day sprawled in the courtyard, I had a front row seat to the singing of the eldest man on the crew. He had an amazing voice. Mali is known for it's music and this man definitely solidified the acclaim. I think he is a griot. He sang in the traditional style that is a melodious and round chanting sound in a minor key. Some notes would sound to most Western ears to be "off" key. (It is a sound that is common in many Islamic and eastern religions, one to which I have always been drawn.) The exterior corridor where he worked repairing the walls, echoed with the sound of his voice. I tried several time to record him. But the sound of the repairs drowns out his voice. I could have asked him directly, he was very nice. I liked the idea of it being natural, candid, not performed. I'll have to listen again, maybe I can "digitally remaster" the recording to remove the noise.

Mopti taxi

Today I took a taxi from my hotel to the garre sation to catch a taxi brusse (like a tro-tro) to the next town. I walked from my hotel to the junction where taxis stop. I saw a few taxis pass and then decided just to take the next one. It was the typical banana yellow color of taxis here. I'm not sure the exact make and model, but it looked like an old rusted out 1970s era Datsun hatchback.

The passenger and I who were joining the others had to wait for the driver to open the door. The handle was rigged with a string. After letting us in, the driver climbed in and "hotwired" the ignition from two wires hanging below the steering wheel. (I know i've grown accustomed to transport here, because this didn't even phase me. Actually in recent weeks past, I would have passed this taxi all together for being too rusty.)

We started on our way slowly laboring through the narrow streets of old town Mopti. As we turned one corner, I heard a scraping noise from the back left tire where I was sitting. I paid little attention, assuming it was grinding brakes like that of so many other taxis. Just as I noticed everyone in the car turning to look in my direction, I felt the car drop and rock to the left. The wheel had come off! Unbelievable! For once I was glad that the traffic was slow. We all bailed out of the taxi in search of another, leaving the driver to the gawks and stares of all passing by. All I could do was laugh, thinking to myself, no one at home will believe this.

Dogon Villages

The first day we left Bankass early. Adding to my modes of transport, we climbed aboard a horse drawn 2-wheel cart which would take us to the first village. We plodded slowly along the long flat road. I wondered at times if the horse was going to make it. Mostly, I was just happy to be out in the open air. It was hot! So hot, like hot I have never felt. In the valleys and lowlands you can see for miles. During this, the rainy season, there is green everywhere. Millet, the main crop, is tall, green and nearly ready for harvest. There are patches of green brush and long wispy grasses dotted across the sandy landscape. Baobab, mango and bissap trees are green and leafy. Occasionally we would see children and woman walking along the road with bails of twigs on their head and cattle grazing in the grasses. But mostly there was no one in site. Quite a contrast from most of the place I had just visited.

Each day we hiked to two villages. In the morning, after a breakfast of limp french bread and instant coffee, we'd start hiking around 7am. By 11 am we'd stop for lunch and rest until 4 pm, waiting for the heat of the day to pass. From 4 to 6 pm we'd hike to the village where we would sleep for the night.

The first day was pretty slow and easy. The terrain was flat and sandy.
After getting off the horse cart, we walked into the first village to see a mud/rammed earth mosque that is typical for this region. We passed a group of elders sitting in the shade of a trellis. This would be my first opportunity to offer the tourist gift of kola nuts. The elder men and sometimes woman in these villages chew the reddish orange kola nut for its stimulant. As a gesture of respect and offering, visitors present one or two kola nuts to all elders they encounter. I carried a sack of nuts that was about the length of my arm from elbow to wrist. Though not particularly big, the space in my day pack was limited. It was already filled with my two cameras, mosquito net, sleep sheet and water. I left my large bag back at base camp.

As we walked into the first village, my guide tried to teach me a few simple Dogon greetings. I couldn't seem to remember anything. Was it the heat? It didn't seem to matter because my simple two word greeting was drowned out by the long greeting that unfolded like a syncopated call and response.

Seyoma?
-seyo
Gineh Seyom?
-seyo
Deh Seyom?
-seyo
Na Seyom?
-seyo
Ulumo Seyom?
-seyo
Awa
Popo

To me it sounded like a chorus of seyo seyo seyo seyo. . .bouncing back and forth between my guide and nearly everyone we passed. The greeting itself takes about 10-12 seconds, so if you are passing someone, both parties slow down or stop so that they are still within hearing distance when the greeting is complete. The greeting is asking "how are you? How's the family? How's your father? How's your mother? and so on. . .the person answers "seyo" which means "fine." This is said if your family is fine or even if your mother is sick. After the greeting is finished, then you discuss the real conditions. I couldn't help but think what life would be like if we at home engaged everyone we saw this way. Although the greeting is definitely a formula, people seem genuinely happy to see one another. You can see people's face light up when it is someone closer to their family. And often men would shake hands and/or hug. Children would stop and stare at me. If I smiled and waved, they would smile from ear to ear and wave "Ca ba!" Translated: ca va. They know to speak french when they see an outsider! Is she African? The old men would ask my guide. He would say "no, she's americaine noire."

My guide is from the village Ende. The second day we reached Ende as a magnificent storm was flashing in the distant sky. It was too hot to sleep inside, but the huge raindrops began to fall sporadically and there was no choice but to go inside. Because of the Harmattan winds, most campements are built with rooms that have no windows, only a door. My room was dark and hot and by the light of the lantern, I could barely make out the images painted on the wall. I sat with the door open and watched the storm. Every few minutes lightening would flash across the sky and give me a mometary glimpse of the room. Just outside the courtyard was a tree that was crammed full with bright white egrets. Everytime the lightening flashed, i could see the black silhouette of the baobab tree covered in little white creatures. It was a very strange sight, like blinking and staring at a strobe light. Am I dreaming? No I am awake. Eventually the rain came. It pelted and poured. But still I kept my door open. I couldn't imagine sleeping in this dark windowless sauna of a room. No, I'd rather deal with any creatures that might find their way into my room.

The next morning, we rose and made a short hike up into the cliffs to see the houses of the Tellem people who proceeded the Dogon.

Mali, Mali, magnificent Mali

What an amazing place this is. I arrived via bus from Burkina Faso one week ago. It was in Burkina Faso that I fell in love with Africa, but Mali. . . Mali is even better!

With a loose plan based on advice from my guide book, I headed to Koro, a town just across the Burkina-Mali border. I was planning to head to Dogon country. I knew I would need a guide and preferably an English speaking one. I had had a cryptic conversation with four French volunteers/tourists on my bus. I needed help translating some of the information in the paperwork at the border. (I must have been distracted by the sound of Eminem blaring from the little transister radio. For a second I was confused. Where am I? Oh that's right, at a little dusty border station in Mali.) At our next stop, they told me they had a guide waiting for them and that I could join them on their 8 day trek if they could negotiate it. By the time we arrived, we decided maybe it would be better if I found an English speaking guide. They said they'd ask their guide for a recommendation. When we unloaded from the bus (imagine a greyhound bus that looked like it had survived a fire and sat through several torrential rain storms, most of it's windows missing) the driver, who knew that I spoke English pointed me to his friend and English guide. The guide for the French group pointed to the same person.

We headed off to a nearby restaraunt and negotiated the arrangements for the trip. Dogon villages are impossible to navigate without a native guide. In addition, the villages are still very traditional, untouched by most modern influences including electricity and running water. Without a guide, no tourist could find their way through the unmarked terrain and through the complex social and caste system, likely offending the elders at every turn.

I had read that it's very easy to pick a guide who isn't qualified. There was a list of questions I was supposed to ask to make sure my guide was capable. But after the bus ride I wasn't too sharp witted, so I had to rely on intuition. We agreed upon 4 days and 3 nights, hiking for about 5 hours a day. The deal included 3 meals, accomodation, photo taxes, and of course the guide. We wrapped up our negotiations just before sunset and joined a taxi brusse {something like a tro-tro} to the next town, Bankass, where we'd stay the night and start out for the villages the next morning.

I was mezmerized by the sunset as we drove ever so slowly along the road, where potholes had long ago become craters so large, that there is no driving around them. You slowly descend into them and out again on the other side. Our trip of 50km or so took nearly 2 hours. Inside the taxi brusse we set a new record for how many people could fit on a seat. The young woman next to me was very fidgety, with her baby on her lap, she managed to find enough room to fling herself around {at the sacrifice of my knees and ribs} and start a music war with a teenage boy in the back. She insisted the driver play her cassette of traditional dogon dance music. But the speakers were shrill and nerve racking and eventually the driver turned off the music. This gave Mr. Youngblood in the back, the opportunity to blast from his full stereo boombox everything from 50 Cent to DMX. Of course I found this as absurd as hearing Eminem at the border and I couldn't suppress my laughter. I turned and asked my guide if they understand the words, he said "No. But they like it anyway."

At about 7 pm, we stopped at a small town along the road to let the muslim men in the taxi get out for their evening prayer. We all got out to stretch. Mr. Youngblood got out too, still blasting 50 Cent. I thought this is so surreal. I am in Mali, I just witnessed a dramatic sunset with long dark shadows and intense colors. I am standing on the side of some unknown road in the dark, there is no electricity. I hear the faint chants of the muslim men saying their evening prayer. I can barely see their light color robes rising and falling as they bow on their mats. And louder than all of this is the sound of DMX echoing through the night air. How very strange. I laughed to myself.

We arrived in Bankass where I spent the first of many nights sleeping on the roof of an adobe campement. Me, a bamboo mat, a mosquito net and all the stars. The first night I wasn't quite prepared for this. I asked my guide if I was sleeping up there alone. He said Dogon don't sleep on the roof, only tourists. When I asked why, he described what would be the first of many explanations about sorcerers and other Dogon beliefs. But I need not worry. Sorcerers won't bother tourists. I looked at him sideways to see if he was serious. He was. Hmmmmmmm, I thought. I've got a lot of questions for him.

More on Burkina. . .

Well I stand corrected on Ouagadougou, though it is most definitely a dusty town, it is not so small. One of the gift shop owners at my hotel who spoke English showed me around on his moped. The capital city is making moves to transform itself into a modern metropolis. We rode out to the edge of town where a "new city" is being developed and constructed. I asked Salam, my guide, who will live here? He said Burkinabes, officials and politicians, rich people.

While in Ouaga, I met a woman from Serbia, Kaja. She in turn introduced me to several other people who were in town for a UN Development conference. I met a Sudanese man and talked with him about the conflicts in Darfour. I met a Nicaraguan man, a woman living in Morroco, a man living in Tanzania and Kaja's boyfriend living in Tanzania. All very interesting conversations. I feel I know a little more about a lot of places.

I didn't do much else in Ouaga before I moved onto Ouahigouya, a small town before the border to Mali.

Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso

Ouagadougou! The capital city of Burkina Faso. I like this little dusty town. I arrived Sunday September 12th, after what should have been a 3 to 4 hour bus ride from Tamale, in northern Ghana. Crossing the border and random police baracades turned the bus ride into an 8 hour event.

There are two classes of transportation. Mopeds and bikes or shiny new Mercedes and SUVS. The streets are flat and dusty. Taxis are few and far between. All the taxis are 1980s Mercedes or Renaults painted the same 1970s kitchen appliance green. I've only taken two taxi rides and happened to have the same driver. The official language is French but most people speak the local language, a little bit of French and some speak a little English. So you can image what communicating is like. I have the French vocabulary of a two year old. Somehow, between a little English, a little French some hand gestures, sound effects and sometimes drawing, I've been able to communicate. Usually both of us end up laughing at the obsurdity of it all. But it hasn't stopped anyone from talking to me. (And typing on a French keyboard is no easy task. Today I found an English keyboard.)

The buildings here in the capital are a mix of islamic architecture and art deco detailing. The weather is dry hot and it often rains in the evening. The first storm I saw, started with whipping winds. The temperature instantly drops 10 to 15 degrees. Red dust fills the air like an old western movie (without the tumbleweed) and people disappear from the streets immediately.

The mosquitos are fierce and clever. They are no larger than a fruit fly and attack silently and quickly. You don't feel it when they bite, only after you start to swell. They work in partnership with the continous swarm of flies. While you are busy swatting all the flies away, the mosquitos are doing their damage. I have three types of skin repellant, mosquito net, spray and repellant to burn inside your room. They laugh at them all.

Although this is supposed to be the poorest country in the West African region, things are quite expensive (especially compared to Ghana.) I paid the equivalent of $5.00 for two eggs, bread and a cup of coffee. I haven't ventured out to try local foods yet. I got sick the first day I arrived and have just been taking it easy. There's not much to do here anyway. I'm a little behind schedule, so I will probably move on to Mali by the weekend. I'm just taking it slow and easy here in Ouagadougou.

Last day in Ghana

Ghana and i had a boxing match. The judges are still deciding who won. For now i'm calling it a draw. Maybe time will declare a winner. I experienced daily acts of extreme kindness by some, matched by others with a hatred so fierce i thought i'd be sold back into slavery. When i've traveled to other places in the world, i've always felt felt like an observer, for the most part invisible. When i came to africa, my desire, without knowing it beforehand, was to become immersed. On a daily basis i go back and forth between wanting to be invisible, to observe, and needing to be immersed, accepted. I certainly have not been invisible and at times it feels like i'm drowning in immersion. Sensory overload. Too much input to decipher. Culture shock.

For now I must move on to the next country. Here are some random observations on Ghana:

time passes slowly

i love the way women greet another woman they know well. . .a high pitched, Aaaayeeee!

men hold hands (or two fingers) with men. women hold hands with women. only once have i seen a man and woman hold hands.

there are no strollers or car seats. babies and toddlers are tied to their mother's backs with a wide piece of cloth. it was very rare that i saw one of these children cry.

foods i've tried:
gari foto, banku, red red, boiled yam, fried yam, pounded yam and more kinds of fish than i can remember

street goods are sold in plastic bags. to eat, tear a hole and squeeze. water and ice cream are also sold in plastic bags.

women rarely drive. i saw no women driving taxis, tro-tros or buses.

goat meat is a delicacy. bush meat, a wild rodent, is a common menu item.

to Ghanaians, Nigeria is a bad word. all things Nigerian are corrupt. except for "Nollywood", the exploding industry of low budget soap operatic movies from Nigeria that are flooding the West African market. i've seen a few. very funny.

everyone wears chaleywatahs (flip-flops) even chiefs.

typical business name:
"Almighty God Tyre Shop"
"El Shadaii Communication Center"
"Seek Ye Supermarket"

common question:
"Are you Christian or Muslim?"

AIDS awareness billboards and advertisements are everywhere.

a common taxi decal reads: "Drive protected. If it's not on, it's not in." there is an illustration of a bus driving into a condom.

music:
high life
hip life
Celine Dion
lot's of Beyonce and R Kelly

taxi language:
arm up in the air bent at the elbow
hend pressing down to the ground
twist the wrist with the hand pointing up
hand pointing back over the shoulder
honking, fast and short
flashing lights

mosquitos are small and sneaky

i will miss the beaches.

Taxis, tro-tros and buses

I estimate that over the duration of my stay in Ghana I rode in about 100 vehicles: taxis, tro-tros and buses.

I could write a book on what I witnessed. It would be something like HBO's "Taxicab Confessions" mixed with Spike Lee's "Get on the Bus."

Ghanaians drive on the right side of the road. The passenger in a "dropping" taxi (one that you ride in alone and takes you door to door) rides next to the driver. Passengers in a shared taxi pack as many as a compact car can fit. Sometimes two in the front passenger seat and four in the back.

Picture this . . .
After you have negotiated the rate through the window and confirmed that the hand signals the driver has made matches your destination, you join two other passengers already in the back seat. It's 2pm. The sun is bright and hot. The back windows don't roll down. Everyone is sweating. Your arm is sticking to the person's next to you. There is no point in repositioning yourself because there is no sense of personal space and eventually the person's limb will find it's way back to yours. The radio is blasting a shrill, trebble only, news broadcast with lot's of static and popping. You are sitting in bumper to bumper traffic. The ancient taxi in front of you is pumping out suffocating clouds of black smoke. There are four teenagers on each side of the car "hawking" their bags of water and rolls of toilet paper. A lively "debate" about the upcoming elections being discussed in the news broadcast ensues inside the car. A passenger gets a call on his mobile phone and proceeds to yell above all the other noise. All of this in a language you don't understand, punctuated now and then by a phrase in English. That's a typical shared taxi ride in Ghana. I've gotten out of a few taxis before reaching my destination, preferring to walk in the sweltering afternoon sun.

A dropping taxi has it's own characteristics. After walking away from a taxi or two for trying to take me for a fool, I agree on a price and sit in the front next to the driver. (Most are offended if you chose to sit in the back.) The driver is usually very talkative and has a standard set of questions. When they find out I live in America, the praises for President Bush flow. More than one driver has asked me to take him back with me so that he can shake Bush's hand. (In southern and coastal Ghana, most people are christian or traditional/animist. Northerners are mostly muslim or traditional/animist. All the christians that I've encountered have been very vocal about their dislike of muslims. This is why it seems that so many support President Bush.) Even more perplexing than these conversations is the music that is blasting from the radio. I had to record a few because no one would believe that a driver was "grooving" to a country western song, another to an early Backstreet Boys track. (Celine Dion is very popular with the ladies. A woman sitting across from me on the bus was studying sheet music for a Celine Dion song.)

Tro-tros strangely enough are very quiet. With the exception of a short outburst of conversation, say over the fact that the driver just passed my requested stop, they are silent. No radio, no loud debates. Silence. Just before my first tro-tro ride departed from the lorry station, I noticed the man sitting next to me ferverntly mouthing what i guessed to be a prayer. Tro-tros have a horrible track record of fatal accidents. Perhaps this is why everyone is silent. Quietly hoping to reach their destinations safely.

Buses . . . buses combine it all. Fear, loathing and laughter. I've heard very personal confessions. Watched as passengers protested the silence and insisted the driver play music. Listened as the whole bus erupts in laughter over a comment, I couldn't understand. Witnessed a verbal fight over a seat that became physical. A man attempted to snatch a women by her collar and pull her from "his" seat. Wrong thing to do when there are several other women around. A long and heated "discussion" followed about how men and women should act. How a woman who's educated would obey a man. I was priviledged enough to hear this one in English because the fight was between northerners and southerners who speak different languages. This particular bus ride was particularly animated and volatile. Others have been completed in near silence.

I think public transport may have been my most immersive experience into Ghanaian culture.

Kumasi, Central Ghana

Kumasi is the capital of the Ashanti (Asante) Region from where the kings of the Gold Coast hail. It was an important locale during the slave era as the Ashanti's were very active in slave trade. The terrain is hilly, the landscape very green. Sunsets are dramatic. The architecture is what remains from the colonial era. The buildings are uncharacteristic for this region. Most are shedding the last coats of red, orange and yellow paint. The rusting roofs are corrogated tin. From a hilltop you will see a vast density of earthtoned buildings surrounded by lush green.

Kumasi is known for it's Kejetia Market, one of the largest markets in Africa. It was like no other experience i've ever had. It gave new meaning to human traffic. Likewise, the streets of Kumasi are hopelessly deadlocked in bumper to bumper taxi traffic. Very few traffic lights, unbelievable traffic.

I visited the chief's palace and ran into a group of guys from California who'd I'd met a few days before in Cape Coast. We all took a tour together and learned about the intricacies of chieftancy and matrilineal inheritance. I asked about the glass cocoa pod in one of the display cases. This prompted the guide to show me the cocoa tree on the premises from which he gave me two cocoa pods.

I tried another Ghanaian chocolate bar. This one was being sold by a vendor out on the sidewalk. It was a very hot day, so much so that the vendor left their display of chocolates to sit in the nearby shade. But! The chocolate was not melting. It was a little soft, but still solid. This brand is called Golden Tree. The bar is called Portem Nut. It's a milk chocolate bar with nuts. No surprise, it was as bad as the Kingsbite bar and upon investigation of the label, I noticed that were made by the same manufacturer.

I stayed in Kumasi for about 5 days. I went to nearby villages to see how they weave kente cloth. Very intricate and amazing to watch. I could only afford to buy a small piece. The fabric is very expensive. I also visited the village where they carve the wooden stools that are significant to the chieftancy and queen mothers. Anyone can buy them and oh what an experience i had bargaining for one!

Kumasi, Kumasi, Kumasi. Equally beautiful and exhausting.