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Mali
Monday 15-3-2010 in Bamako
We had late arrived in Andrews camp on the
river Niger of which we had the coordinates.
What that is, I will explain for the none
adventure travelers. Every point on our planet is fixed with
Coordinates. Even your goat den, should you
have one. This point is plotted
(typed) into the GPS on our dashboard and this satellite oriented
wonder machine, should guide me to your
goats house. "Drive right,
only 2,9 km to go, straight" etc. In Bamako it was for the "Le Catcus" camping ground N 12 32'18", W 8 2'
76".
Arriving around 6:00 pm on the northerly hills, we could overlook
the town, a quagmire of about 1.5 mio
people, which by the hour
become more as land folks drift into the town in search for a
better life. In the middle the river Niger,
his water masses gliding northeast
into the desert of Mali and Niger, before turning southeast,
discharging into the sea in easterly
Nigeria.
"How are we supposed to find the camp ground?"
Asked Harun. Triumphal held the
co-ordinates up, which I had got earlier
from a
travel book.
Plotting the GPS, we drove down into the river valley and masses of
people. "Re-calculating" sounded the female
voice, then came the
direction. "Drive on route 14.8 km to destination." We did so the
evening traffic and came further away from
town. Thousands of motor
scooters left and right overtaking, all Chinese imports, for 1/3 of
the Japanese price.
"Now everyone
can ride"
Just look at this lady she comes from shopping. Between her legs a
bucket, at the rear another one. Her handbag
hanging on the left
shoulder, the baby tightly at the back. Earrings and headscarf
enhance this racing beauty.
It is troublesome to drive in African
towns, especially near markets, as everyone
want to sell and offers his merchandise as
close as
possible to the road. One only crawls along blowing horn frequently
and prays, that no one will bump into your
vehicle.
No easy passing
in an African market
But we are on expedition, therefore was no
choice we got to drive on. "Recalculating"
voiced once a while the GPS. Then
came the command: "turn left". But there was only a village
path away towards the Niger.
Slowly we drove on and into it. "Maybe" Harun guessed "the camping
is behind the village." On a left turn the
path ended in front of a
bush hut, a naked small boy playing there. Seeing us, he run into
it, screaming. A few moment later the
curtain which was to be a
door was pushed aside, out came a tall guy a big stick in his hand.
How to explain the man that we are looking
on his property for
the camping ground? It was not easy. His eyes rolling, a foot
bigger than Harun, he hit with the club his
hand constantly, telling is in
unmistaken terms he was upset that we are in his courtyard and what
we did to his boy.
With all our "so sorry" we gave two hands full of gula batu,
bonbons, which the boy stuffed almost all in
one go into his mouth, at least
the screaming stopped.
Then came cool mineral water. The man was still hitting his hand
the eyes rolling. Then we gave bread. He hit
still. Finally with a sour
face Harun open the wallet and pulled out a banknote, about B$ 2.-
to hand it over to him. Now he grinned and
peace came in-between
us. We reversed, "So sorry" said we, looking at his club,
the "hit only once and you are dead instrument",
and drove out from the
fishing village.
Asking frequently people; "Camping La cactus where?" No one knew.
Meanwhile it was dark.
On the road again in-between the china import "stinkers" (many
smoke, like oil burning brick factory) we
drove on. The GPS remained
silent. "Maybe we have plotted the GPS wrongly" and I plotted once
more the machine.
"Drive 1.2 km then turn left". We did so, there came a junction
into our headlights and a track leading to
the river. But no signboard.
The track got bad with holes as big as a wheel barrow. "Is this the
road?" we doubted it, but our GPS showed we
were correct and
only about 500 m to go. "I better check it out first" said Harun,
demounted the GPS, took our defense Pepper
spray, torch light and
went ahead. The light was disappearing in the darkness fast. I had
all doors locked and stayed in JAMBO.
A half hour I was waiting with thoughts of worry. What was going
on? Why it takes so long?
Finally the shine of the torchlight came nearer. "That is him".
Arriving, I could see his legs, muddy up to
the knees.
"What happen?" This useless machine
told me go on, only 300 m to destination".
and directed me right into the river Niger.
I sunk into a mud hole. It seems, our GPS disregarded the river.
Returning to town, we came back to old fashion guidance, that is,
asking people. And since we had the phone
number, we called up
to find out that we are, as said, on the wrong side of the Niger
river. A boy with us directing, we found the
place a half hour later.
It was the only dark spot in the vicinity. Andrews man was waiting
on the road for us, fearing we would not
find it.
Andrews
camping
and the morning after
Slowly we drove into the yard, we were the
only visitors. The torch light of the black
helper led us to a bar, where candle lights
were
burning, a few settees around. Then came Andrew, A Canadian of
about 70 years.
"You do not have electric light?" "No, we like nature here"
"But nature in Bamako can be very hot;" I
commended. Ignoring my
words he said: "Let me show you the shower room" It was the old
type bucket shower and next to the bar a
sitting toilet so low
near the floor, that a tall man will find it hard not to miss. "I'm
an inventor" he said and explained that he
modifies tools to work better.
"But recently no one wants my skill." That impression we got too.
" My wife had burned her hands, that is why she could not come
out". We never knew was she a former African
beauty coming into
age, or otherwise. Andrews wife remained a mystery to us.
Tuesday 16-3-2010
After paying our dues about B$ 25.- we were on route to Mopti, a
town north east only 650 km away. The drive
was strenuous, but we
needed to reach the town, therefore we pushed on. Once awhile
an accident blocked the traffic. Sometimes
one wonders how it could
happen.
But if one
sees how overloaded the vehicles are, then
no wonder.
.
This transporter was perhaps relocating his
tire shop.
They enjoy a breezy ride on the edge of the
roof rack
Off course there are the ever-present
lorries where there is always still a niche
to load more, higher and higher.
On top sit's finally the travelers as the kings of the journey
enjoying an undisturbed view over the land.
As this guy atop
This small bus had a wooden home on
the roof rack.
Gentlemen of Brunei Land transport, the Africans would commend that
you are sometime too harsh with your
restrictions. They would
demonstrate that the efficiency of a transport company is
dramatically improved, if they are allowed
to load what goes on the truck.
Nothing will come down while breaking. Why? Breaks usually work
very bad, if at all. Off course an instant
breaking point would be the
limited height on an overpass in Gadong or on the Tutong road. Just
reload after, what was rumbling down and
continue the journey.
Should people up there loose their head, well it had to be that
way, caused by "Juju", the black magic.
Not far from Segou, a 250 km after Bamako, where the
desert bites into the land, water and grass
becomes scares. Cattles are driven
over a wide range of the country and assemble every two days or so,
on a well to drink. We stopped to look at
the operation.
Three donkeys pull a plastic container full with precious fluid up
from a 10 m deep well. Driven by the whip of
the boy, they run front
and back again. The whole day.
The well and
waiting cattle a few whips accelerate the
pulling
here comes 20 liter water up...
... for the thirsty animals
Traveling over the land, we come again and
again to sacks of charcoal, a means of
income for the locals here. Trucks load them
to
town. Here is the problem. Charcoal needs wood. Wood comes from
trees. Therefore the locals hack big
branches away, or fell them
all together. When on the left picture there are shade spending
trees, on the right they had to make a shed
shelter to bear the sun,
as trees had been chopped down and sold as charcoal. That increases
together with overgrazing the
desertification.
on the load for
the town
roadside market somewhere
While in Bamako we could fill fine TOTAL
diesel, further out there was little traffic
and not even electricity.
TOTAL is
everywhere. Here in Bamako.. filing by a hand pump, as there is no
electricity
Near the Niger
border
Over and over the people assemble around JAMBO to look at the
pictures and are curious. The English
speaking officers ask often:
"Where is Brunei. Where you go?" When telling that we are a Muslim
Nation ruled by our Sultan, the one or other
remember to have
heard about. In fact our Majesties name helped to get through
customs at the Mali border.
While a low ranking officer asked us to open up the car for his
eagle's eyes (just for money), I explained
to the custom boss on the
Map where my beloved country lies; suddenly he said; "Sultan
Hassanal Bolkiah, is your king, right?
He is generous I read, and your
country is very rich." Very true I thought. Then the boss commanded
something to the custom officer who intended
to search, he
saluted
and left the scene.
Thank you , Your Majesty, you saved us from a crocked custom
inspection!
Regretfully, we were never allowed to photo. The further we came
north the more buildings we see influenced
by Sudanese style.
Build with mud and timber re-enforced towers. On the house and the
mosque. Unfortunately all mosques were
locked; they are open
on Fridays only.
Like a castle
"Allahu Akbar" sounds from the speaker in
prayer times
Arriving in Mopti town later evening, we
searched and found by luck 'Mac' refuge",
where we could park for Euro 15.- our JAMBO,
breakfast included.
Behind these
walls rested JAMBO and we for a
night.
Security. Note the Iron entrance door
It was very hot and very full! And guess who
we meet here again like back in Tanzania?
The hunters for souls! To convert the locals
to
Christianity. To translate the Bible into local language. English
women in the mid 40ties, their hands
telling, they never worked a
shovel, now frantically hammering on laptops reporting back to some
self appointed missionary, who goes out and
beg the church
congregation for donation. Mostly in the US. And as dumb as the
Americans in general are, they give. Here
shows the money up, not
to help improving the life of locals, no, to spread "holy words".
"Today I baptized another family of Dogons"
might be the report. The
locals become victims of a religion they know nothing and is
strange to custom and culture; to learn of a
Jewish prophet whom the
Jews themselves demanded to be nailed to a cross to die.
These Fanatics, some English, are here on a silent crusade with far
reaching consequences. They are nothing than
a bunch of
fanatics operating under the coat of religion. Should you
ever doubt their work, they insist it is
evil which speaks out of you.
However, we say nothing against those ,who move into a village to
work with the population, making a well,
bringing seeds for veggies
and trees, building a school and so forth, as we met in Mauretania.
They do well.
Wednesday 17-3-2010
We left the establishment early on the way
to the DOGONS. Some have heard about this
tribe, others not. A visit is a must. The
Bandiagaro escarpment, a mountain ridge, is a treasure trove for an
adventure. Here live the DOGON people, known
for their complex
culture, their carved doors, masque stilt dances, and dwellings
build right into he vertical cliffs of the
escarpment. Their tradition tells
that they arrived around 1500 AD. It was not until 1920ties when
French soldiers and a bunch of follow up
Missionaries (as today) tried
to Christianize the Dogons, fortunately with little impact.
Sanga village was the first to visit.
Sanga village
On house walls strange figures and symbols. A boy playing a one
string self-made guitar- for money.
(Missionary ladies come to
teach cleanness and perhaps take your perfumed soap and wash the
boy!)
Climbing up, we reached an overhang cliff,
full with drawings, where according to our
guide boys are circumcised and guided into
the
mythology of the Dogons.
This calabash musical instrument is played
according to their calendar approximately
ever three years. No black woman is allowed
to
come near.
In-between the
instruments are kept here behind the stone
wall.
strange drawing;
Fish? flying animal? next to a...
...mosque in Sudanese style
The school of
Sanga
and the house of the magician
The Sirius mystery of the Dogons.
Once every 50 years the Dogons celebrate the Sigui festival.
Referring to the brightest star on our fixed
stars firmament, the Sirus A,
whose circulation is determined by another star Sirius B, not
visible without a telescope, of which the
Dogon knew about and describe
as small and extremely heavy. In the Dogon mythology, Po returns
every 50 years at the same time when they
also celebrate the
Sigui festival. Since the end of the19th century we know Po
actually exist. A white dwarf, of which a
thumb nail size material would
weight about 40 kg. He circles Sirius once in 50 years. But they
have more unusual knowledge of galaxies and
planet systems.
Asked from where they know this, they claim a being named Nommo,
came once down from the sky, in dust and
thunder. He taught
them this knowledge..
These unusual astronomic knowledge made many scientists curious and
they begun to study the mythology of the
Dogon.
(We are not alone; for the curious of you, check out the web
site of J. Skipper Anomalies,
and
perhaps, revise your present
opinion)
For a final photo we raised the flag in
Dogon land before proceeding into the
mountains, on a journey regretted several times
on route.
A historical
moment. Our flag in Dogon land
It was noon time when we left the village, thinking to drive along
the mountains on dirt road and perhaps see
some old Dogon dwellings
along the route. Driving on small tracks over rocks, steep ravines
down and up again we finally reached
an vantage point to see,
where the Dogons had build their homes in the past. And that was
spectacular.
Like toy houses, the Dogon dwellings stood
against the high cliff wall. Inside the
rocks they had build rooms too. High up. How
did
they access? There must be a way through the rocks.
These are actual
houses, now long deserted; a whole village
nesting below the cliff wall.
Seeing this we were astonished! Did they go
there to preserve their mythologies?
Passing a village we found this house. Next
by a group of women pounding rice.
There were so many tracks, our GPS was of no
use. Once place we did not know anymore
where to go, so we just followed the
ridge, knowing the mountain leads northeast and our main road was
north of us. No bridges, we had to cross
ravines, did not know
how long it would take or more worst, would we ever make it out on
this track, or do we had to return back.
Passing a small village they wondered how we
came there. Then there was a happy moment; a
marked track for 500m.
But we made it out, otherwise you, dear
reader would not know the happenings. It was
around 5:30 we saw this mountain,
near
Dogon country.
Has anyone seen
the movie "close encounter of the third
kind?"
Driving on, we found a place to sleep about 150 km before Gao.
Hiding away
behind these bee hive huts
with the million stars shower
One is not choosy anymore, just dead tiered. It was hot until
morning around 4:00 am, when a cooler breeze
came through the window.
Thursday 18-3-2010
We were early up and on the road to Gao. Ibn Batuta, the
greatest Muslim traveler in the 14th
century, who also visited Gao writes:
"Gao is a big beautiful town with nice houses. Here too, wander the
women shameless, either with a cloth wrapped
around the waistline or completely naked."
He complains: " the Negros hunt other people and eat their
prisoners." And he wonders;" the locals pull
kernels' from the ground,
looking like beans, roast them and make oil out of them.
(groundnuts). Here Sudanese, Egyptians and
Moroccans together, teach the
blacks who wear big earrings, some good manners."
From all that we did see nothing. The only event was the police guy
on the roadblock 10 km before Gao who seized
our passports and
we had to follow him to the Police headquarters in Gao.
"We chop a stamp in your passport. "Cost you 5000.- each."
Harun with a sour face smelling already a
standard rip off. "Officer we
do not have money, very sorry" and he turned his pockets inside out
to show they were empty.
OK, we can make it with 6000.-. Now we knew they wanted some cash
and the officer who brought us, get's a cut of
the booty.
We took a 5000.-note out placed it on the table. (B$ 12.-). They
did not say a word. Our passports back, we
left the room which had
no windows, started the engine and were out of town towards the Niger
border, 220 km away.
Niger fishing boats, slim and slender
Beautiful to
look at; the stork passing in flight
Following the river, now on our right side, we came in time to the
border, some cold water a few minor bank
notes accelerated the
procedure, and by 8: 30 pm we checked into a hotel in Niamey the
capital of Niger. Dead tired again.
Friday 19-3-2010
We stay in the hotel to rest a day and update our website. I end
this with a question: Honestly dear reader,
who has the fancier
hairstyle: The goat or me. Cut down back in Morocco by a wild
haircutter who tested her skills on me.
If I ever go back, I shave her hair with a sickle.
If you, honorable reader
like to follow our journey, then click
Niger, where our journey continues
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