It begins as a low solitary note that gradually increases in volume as it is joined by others adding depth to the chorus that breaks the silence of the early morning; not unlike the sound of the concertmaster's bow as it invites the orchestra members to tune their instruments, one note becomes many; nor unlike the crowing of the first village rooster whose song is soon joined by a cacaphoney of others believing their flock should wake up at the break of dawn; it is the 5:15 am call to prayer from the minerets of this ancient city of whitewashed walls nestled at the foot of the Rif Mountains in Northern Morocco.
This morning I am restless and have trouble returning to sleep, my mind drifting from scene to scene of the week that has passed since my return to Tetouan. How can I ever forget the warm reception from the El Haddad's, the family that hosted me for six weeks, twelve years ago when I arrived on my first time to the African continent as part of a small group of teachers selected for a Fulbright Exchange? At that time, the family had young children in school, Aissame, Huda and Safae. They took my hand as we crossed streets, walked in the old city, and in the evening, I helped them with their homework. Today Safae is completing her university studies, Huda teaches English to middle school students and Aissame is married and lives in France, where finished his university degree. Farida still manages the household, this time in their new apartment that overlooks the city, always creating meals worthy of the finest restaurants, especially the traditional Friday afternoon couscous. I go off to school with Abelouahed as he makes his rounds teaching English to students of various ages and levels at a public school, private school and English Language Institute. I enjoy teaching his classes whenever possible.
A few days ago I walked into the real estate office of Badr Jbari, a handsome 30 year old businessman, whom I had last seen twelve years ago when he was a high school senior in Abdelouahed's English class. A smile and firm handshake quickly became a warm embrace as he recognized me, my brain racing to make my stored mental image of him catch up with reality. It was Badr who had volunteered to show me through the medina in order to practice his English, and who had invited me to spend a week with his family in Marrakech at his grandmother's home. Memories of that experience and medieval city are firmly engrained in my mind- snake charmers, bathing and a massage in the hammam, riding in horse drawn taxis through the old city and the unforgetable farewell rabbit dinner! Today, he and his friends will drive me to the nearby city of Chouan, a picturesque berber city famous for its distinctive architecture and talented artisans.
Could this be the next Badr? Yesterday, 15 year old Redr, son of a local doctor, and his friends Anas and Nafal, accompanied me to the old city so they could practice their English. We visited shops, took photos from rooftops, passed the entrance to the royal palace and watched part of a Barcelona football match in a cafe. These friendly, motivated and focused students are part of the new Morocco I am seeing at every turn. They no longer express desire to escape their country as is the case in many of the truly impoverished nations. They are proud of their country and want to be a part of its future. Highways are crowded, construction sites busy, new apartment complexes line wide avenues, people relax in landscaped parks and resort cities resembling those of France and Spain line nearby beaches. Twelve years have passed, and what a difference; new young king, a new era, a new outlook for Morocco.
Tall guard in Istanbul
Deciding which camera to pack for my trip. Bulk, quality, weight vs convenience.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Adama Diarra, medical student
Son of his father's third wife, Adama joined the community of children already belonging to this family of the village blacksmith. His oldest half-brother is about the same age as his mother! The non-biological mothers of this family are referred to as "maratres" and children having the same father are all considered brothers and sisters. Father is about 70 years old and his wives' ages range from about his age to that of Adama's mother who is about 45 years old. Exact records are not kept; thus, ages and birthdays are approximate. Adama has two sisters and one brother, all younger than he.
Blacksmiths are an essential part of rural village life. In fact, they are considered a cast, tend to live apart from the rest of the village and often intermarry with members of families of other blacksmiths.
In Kassa, this isolated Dogon village, the blacksmith makes and maintains the tools needed for planting and harvesting crops-millet and a kind of corn referred to as wheat, fabricating metal items for the village and making shotguns and pistols from scratch. The village shop, known as the forge, is not only "home" to the sons of the blacksmith, who must learn the family trade, but a normal hangout for other village boys. Beginning by pumping the sheepskin bellows when the coals needed to glow, Adama learned the art of smithing from his father, grandfather and uncle.
At the age of five, Adama's mother took him to visit her parents in another village, where her father was the blacksmith. One morning, Adama awoke to find that his mother was gone. He cried for days, not understanding why his mother had abandonned him without an explanation. He now understands that his mother was an only child; her parents were older and needed someone to keep them company and help them. Over the years, Adama became very attached to them; was treated as their child and worked with his grandfather at the forge. When he was 8 years old, they received a notice that he should attend school. Although he liked school and was most often the first of his class, he remembers that the teacher beat the students, and that he was hit on the hand, fingers and head. Grandpa thought that "un forgeron n'est pas fait pour etudier" - a blacksmith is not made for studying- and that it was sufficient to learn to read and write a letter. His grandmother told him that since he was always first in his class, that others would want to hurt him -"lui faire mal." The teacher commented to the class one day that "Adama est le plus petit de la classe, mais il est le plus grand" - that he is the smallest of the class, but at the same time, the biggest. When someone new moved to the school and competed with him for first place, he sometimes cried for being second, but his grandmother once again comforted him saying that it was not always necessary to be first.
One year when it was time to take the final exams, Adama did not have money for the fee for all of the exams. He passed two of the three required, but when he returned later with money to pay for taking the exam, it was too late. The teacher advanced him to the next level anyway based on his high scores on the first two exams.
When Adama completed the equivalent of elementary and middle school, his parents agreed to let him live with an uncle in Sevare, a city far from the village, so he could attend high school. He cried after his brother left him there, as he did not know the uncle and his family. He had never been to a city; all was new and different; they paid little attention to him as he was just an extra person in an already crowded family. One night they locked him out of the house just for spite, and he remembers it well because the next morning he was covered with mosquito bites! He continued to do well in his studies, especially liked biology, and his teacher encouraged him to apply for medical school. He already has this in mind since as a child he remembered the good work of a doctor who had treated people in his village.
Adama passed the competitive exam and was admitted to the first year of medical school along with about 2000 others. His housing was in a university facility; however, since all of the beds were already filled, he was required to sleep on a mattress that slipped under the lower part of bunk beds.
His nose nearly touched the mattress above him, he could not turn over and he had difficulty sleeping. For part of the year he ended up sharing a larger bed with another student. The government gave him the equivalent of 10 dollars for his expenses, so eating twice each day at the local village restaurant that served rice with a sauce for 20 cents, was a necessity.
End of the first year and Papa Jon enters the scene- Adama was returning from Bamako to Kassa to visit his family and took advantage of the long bus ride to review for his final exams. Although I was seated next to him, I saw that he was studing medical books and did not to disturb his deep concentration. Finally, I spent about an hour talking with him, learned of his dream and discovered that only 300 students would be allowed to continue their studies. We quickly exchanged email addresses before I reached my destination and I told him that I would pay for his medical books if he was accepted for the next year. Adama completed his exams and stayed at his uncle's house helping in the blacksmith shop while waiting for the results. He was afraid to call to see if he had passed and only learned of his success when a friend who was also at the medical school called him.
Year two and one small step closer to realizing his dream, daily life for Adama remains a struggle. Other students have financil support from their families, while he has none. He has to do everything for himself, works at his uncle's forge during vacations and distributes ice cream to local vendors in order to earn a little extra money. Second year students receive about 55 dollars to help with lodging expenses and 25 dollars per month for food; they have no funds available for buying books or supplies; they are often required to purchase copies of professors' lectures. The students had to go on strike in order to force he government to pay the promised allowances for food and lodging on time.
This year I visited the room where Adama has been living for the past 3 years, toured the campus and met some of his fellow medical students. He shares a 9X15 foot mud brick room with corregated metal roof with another student. While his roommate sleeps on a metal frame bed, Adama sleeps on a thin mattress on the dirt floor. During the rainy season, water sometimes leaks in around the walls and he has to move his bed to keep it from getting wet. He keeps his clothes, his stethoscope and white lab jacket worn when working in the hospital in a suitcase at the foot of his mattress. His books are stacked on a small table near the door where he can read during the day in this room that has no electricity. Other students live in similar rooms in the cluster of buildings where they also share common primitive toilet facilities. They eat most of their meals in the small cafe that prepares rice and three kinds of sauce daily.
Adama has completed his fourth year of medical school and is taking his final exams this week (October 2010). After returning from our excursion to his village, Adama spent every day reviewing for his exams; his favorite study location, an abandonned construction site in the brush (la brousse) near the university. If the professors had not gone on strike, he would have finished his exams before my arrival and we could have spent more time together. I also learned upon my arrival that the computer that students from Lakeridge High School helped send to him, was not working and that he was trying to have it repaired. If I had known, I would have brought another one for him. In spite of the challenges, Adama has already delivered babies, helped with surgery, treated patients with infectious diseases and has spent all of his free time volunteering at the hospital in order to gain as much practical experience as possible. He knows that the people of Mali need more specialized doctors and skilled surgeons, but he has not yet determined a speciality- perhaps pediatics, ob-gyn or surgery. By preparing and defending a thesis, Adama will receive a PhD in addition to his MD. He was elected vice-president of the student medical association and is among the top students of his class.
During our time together, Adama was exposed to a life he did not previously know: hotels, restaurants serving complete meals, air conditionned rooms, travel by 4X4, conversations with people working with NGOs, museums and concerts. By the time I said farewell to Adama at the Bamako Airport, I was convinced that both of our lives had been enriched and that our friendship would endure. We will certainly see each other again.
Blacksmiths are an essential part of rural village life. In fact, they are considered a cast, tend to live apart from the rest of the village and often intermarry with members of families of other blacksmiths.
In Kassa, this isolated Dogon village, the blacksmith makes and maintains the tools needed for planting and harvesting crops-millet and a kind of corn referred to as wheat, fabricating metal items for the village and making shotguns and pistols from scratch. The village shop, known as the forge, is not only "home" to the sons of the blacksmith, who must learn the family trade, but a normal hangout for other village boys. Beginning by pumping the sheepskin bellows when the coals needed to glow, Adama learned the art of smithing from his father, grandfather and uncle.
At the age of five, Adama's mother took him to visit her parents in another village, where her father was the blacksmith. One morning, Adama awoke to find that his mother was gone. He cried for days, not understanding why his mother had abandonned him without an explanation. He now understands that his mother was an only child; her parents were older and needed someone to keep them company and help them. Over the years, Adama became very attached to them; was treated as their child and worked with his grandfather at the forge. When he was 8 years old, they received a notice that he should attend school. Although he liked school and was most often the first of his class, he remembers that the teacher beat the students, and that he was hit on the hand, fingers and head. Grandpa thought that "un forgeron n'est pas fait pour etudier" - a blacksmith is not made for studying- and that it was sufficient to learn to read and write a letter. His grandmother told him that since he was always first in his class, that others would want to hurt him -"lui faire mal." The teacher commented to the class one day that "Adama est le plus petit de la classe, mais il est le plus grand" - that he is the smallest of the class, but at the same time, the biggest. When someone new moved to the school and competed with him for first place, he sometimes cried for being second, but his grandmother once again comforted him saying that it was not always necessary to be first.
One year when it was time to take the final exams, Adama did not have money for the fee for all of the exams. He passed two of the three required, but when he returned later with money to pay for taking the exam, it was too late. The teacher advanced him to the next level anyway based on his high scores on the first two exams.
When Adama completed the equivalent of elementary and middle school, his parents agreed to let him live with an uncle in Sevare, a city far from the village, so he could attend high school. He cried after his brother left him there, as he did not know the uncle and his family. He had never been to a city; all was new and different; they paid little attention to him as he was just an extra person in an already crowded family. One night they locked him out of the house just for spite, and he remembers it well because the next morning he was covered with mosquito bites! He continued to do well in his studies, especially liked biology, and his teacher encouraged him to apply for medical school. He already has this in mind since as a child he remembered the good work of a doctor who had treated people in his village.
Adama passed the competitive exam and was admitted to the first year of medical school along with about 2000 others. His housing was in a university facility; however, since all of the beds were already filled, he was required to sleep on a mattress that slipped under the lower part of bunk beds.
His nose nearly touched the mattress above him, he could not turn over and he had difficulty sleeping. For part of the year he ended up sharing a larger bed with another student. The government gave him the equivalent of 10 dollars for his expenses, so eating twice each day at the local village restaurant that served rice with a sauce for 20 cents, was a necessity.
End of the first year and Papa Jon enters the scene- Adama was returning from Bamako to Kassa to visit his family and took advantage of the long bus ride to review for his final exams. Although I was seated next to him, I saw that he was studing medical books and did not to disturb his deep concentration. Finally, I spent about an hour talking with him, learned of his dream and discovered that only 300 students would be allowed to continue their studies. We quickly exchanged email addresses before I reached my destination and I told him that I would pay for his medical books if he was accepted for the next year. Adama completed his exams and stayed at his uncle's house helping in the blacksmith shop while waiting for the results. He was afraid to call to see if he had passed and only learned of his success when a friend who was also at the medical school called him.
Year two and one small step closer to realizing his dream, daily life for Adama remains a struggle. Other students have financil support from their families, while he has none. He has to do everything for himself, works at his uncle's forge during vacations and distributes ice cream to local vendors in order to earn a little extra money. Second year students receive about 55 dollars to help with lodging expenses and 25 dollars per month for food; they have no funds available for buying books or supplies; they are often required to purchase copies of professors' lectures. The students had to go on strike in order to force he government to pay the promised allowances for food and lodging on time.
This year I visited the room where Adama has been living for the past 3 years, toured the campus and met some of his fellow medical students. He shares a 9X15 foot mud brick room with corregated metal roof with another student. While his roommate sleeps on a metal frame bed, Adama sleeps on a thin mattress on the dirt floor. During the rainy season, water sometimes leaks in around the walls and he has to move his bed to keep it from getting wet. He keeps his clothes, his stethoscope and white lab jacket worn when working in the hospital in a suitcase at the foot of his mattress. His books are stacked on a small table near the door where he can read during the day in this room that has no electricity. Other students live in similar rooms in the cluster of buildings where they also share common primitive toilet facilities. They eat most of their meals in the small cafe that prepares rice and three kinds of sauce daily.
Adama has completed his fourth year of medical school and is taking his final exams this week (October 2010). After returning from our excursion to his village, Adama spent every day reviewing for his exams; his favorite study location, an abandonned construction site in the brush (la brousse) near the university. If the professors had not gone on strike, he would have finished his exams before my arrival and we could have spent more time together. I also learned upon my arrival that the computer that students from Lakeridge High School helped send to him, was not working and that he was trying to have it repaired. If I had known, I would have brought another one for him. In spite of the challenges, Adama has already delivered babies, helped with surgery, treated patients with infectious diseases and has spent all of his free time volunteering at the hospital in order to gain as much practical experience as possible. He knows that the people of Mali need more specialized doctors and skilled surgeons, but he has not yet determined a speciality- perhaps pediatics, ob-gyn or surgery. By preparing and defending a thesis, Adama will receive a PhD in addition to his MD. He was elected vice-president of the student medical association and is among the top students of his class.
During our time together, Adama was exposed to a life he did not previously know: hotels, restaurants serving complete meals, air conditionned rooms, travel by 4X4, conversations with people working with NGOs, museums and concerts. By the time I said farewell to Adama at the Bamako Airport, I was convinced that both of our lives had been enriched and that our friendship would endure. We will certainly see each other again.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Le petit prince
Packing up and leaving a place you have stayed for several weeks is often difficult. Themes and characters from Le Petit Prince by St. Exupery come to mind- the pilot; the little prince, the rose, the fox. One spends quality time with others; cree des liens, creates friendships, and thus assumes some responsibilty for protecting and maintaining them.
I gave Adama a final hug- a strong embrace, and then looked back to see him standing at the entrance barrier and wave a final good-by. He has to review for his final exams and doesn't need any distractions. He will make a dedicated doctor with a promising future and I am satisfied that my visit has expanded his horizons. It would be so simple to tour, photograph a place, and then leave; however, spending time with people you encounter, eating together, meeting family members, sharing experiences- all of this complicates matters and makes a departure more difficult and even emotional. My connection with Adama Diarra requires a separate chapter, so I will reserve that until later, but there are mini-stories as well.
Mathias, the 38 year old father I met sitting in front of a tailor shop on the edge of a very poor neighborhood, not working because he has malaria, planning to return to his job at a milk processing plant the following day, finally taking some medecine from a pharmacy after using traditional remedies (cheaper) that don't work.
I walk across the dirt street to the entrance of the building where he, his wife who is 7 months pregnant and their 3 year old daughter live in a 2 room apartment. They cook in front of the door and use communal toilet facilities. Mathias and I walk through neighborhood streets, step over and around raw sewage, pass the locked faucet where they must pay for buckets of water used for drinking and cooking. Bathing water comes from an open well and often causes their skin to itch. Studying to become a teacher, Mathias discontinued his studies because he would have been sent to a distant rural village to have a job, with wages on which he could not survive. He accepted his current job in order to marry and begin a family. His salary of 120 dollars per month barely pay for his lodging and food and he walks 30 minutes each way to his job in order to save the 20 cent mini-bus fare. We entered the neighborhood school where I met some of the teachers and observed classes of 80-100 students. The students stood when I entered, some of them showing me the cardboard "slates" on which they were practicing letters of the alphabet.
This is the real Mali! I invited Mathias to meet me in the hotel courtyard for a few more hours of conversation before I left.
Bakary Camara, the waiter in a small Lebanese restaurant near the Hotel Tamana. After discovering he was from Guinea, I wanted to learn more. With his boss observing his every move, there was no possibilty for conversation in the restaurant, so I invited him to the hotel courtyard during his free time. He has a degree in accounting, left Guinea due to political unrest and accepted this job while looking for something more permanent. The restaurant owner is very controling so he has to be careful of his every move- long hours, one day off per week, and wages that only leave him about 10 dollars per month for food; this in a restaurant where the average meal costs 7-10 dollars! Great insight into the motives and practices of foreign owers in developing African countries. How are the people of Mali supposed to raise themselves out of poverty?
I walk home on a narrow raised pathway through small, raised plots of soil where lettuce is being grown, mostly for upscale hotels. The worker who is in constant motion catches my eye- the man irrigating each plot by throwing his watering can into an open well, pulling it to the surface and spreading the contents on the next 2-3 plots. A hummingbird, a bee, a butterfly? Probably in his 40's, missing his front teeth, this man has the physique of an athlete who spends every morning at the gym.
On to Morocco.
I gave Adama a final hug- a strong embrace, and then looked back to see him standing at the entrance barrier and wave a final good-by. He has to review for his final exams and doesn't need any distractions. He will make a dedicated doctor with a promising future and I am satisfied that my visit has expanded his horizons. It would be so simple to tour, photograph a place, and then leave; however, spending time with people you encounter, eating together, meeting family members, sharing experiences- all of this complicates matters and makes a departure more difficult and even emotional. My connection with Adama Diarra requires a separate chapter, so I will reserve that until later, but there are mini-stories as well.
Mathias, the 38 year old father I met sitting in front of a tailor shop on the edge of a very poor neighborhood, not working because he has malaria, planning to return to his job at a milk processing plant the following day, finally taking some medecine from a pharmacy after using traditional remedies (cheaper) that don't work.
I walk across the dirt street to the entrance of the building where he, his wife who is 7 months pregnant and their 3 year old daughter live in a 2 room apartment. They cook in front of the door and use communal toilet facilities. Mathias and I walk through neighborhood streets, step over and around raw sewage, pass the locked faucet where they must pay for buckets of water used for drinking and cooking. Bathing water comes from an open well and often causes their skin to itch. Studying to become a teacher, Mathias discontinued his studies because he would have been sent to a distant rural village to have a job, with wages on which he could not survive. He accepted his current job in order to marry and begin a family. His salary of 120 dollars per month barely pay for his lodging and food and he walks 30 minutes each way to his job in order to save the 20 cent mini-bus fare. We entered the neighborhood school where I met some of the teachers and observed classes of 80-100 students. The students stood when I entered, some of them showing me the cardboard "slates" on which they were practicing letters of the alphabet.
This is the real Mali! I invited Mathias to meet me in the hotel courtyard for a few more hours of conversation before I left.
Bakary Camara, the waiter in a small Lebanese restaurant near the Hotel Tamana. After discovering he was from Guinea, I wanted to learn more. With his boss observing his every move, there was no possibilty for conversation in the restaurant, so I invited him to the hotel courtyard during his free time. He has a degree in accounting, left Guinea due to political unrest and accepted this job while looking for something more permanent. The restaurant owner is very controling so he has to be careful of his every move- long hours, one day off per week, and wages that only leave him about 10 dollars per month for food; this in a restaurant where the average meal costs 7-10 dollars! Great insight into the motives and practices of foreign owers in developing African countries. How are the people of Mali supposed to raise themselves out of poverty?
I walk home on a narrow raised pathway through small, raised plots of soil where lettuce is being grown, mostly for upscale hotels. The worker who is in constant motion catches my eye- the man irrigating each plot by throwing his watering can into an open well, pulling it to the surface and spreading the contents on the next 2-3 plots. A hummingbird, a bee, a butterfly? Probably in his 40's, missing his front teeth, this man has the physique of an athlete who spends every morning at the gym.
On to Morocco.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Getting there
A main goal while in Mali was to meet the family, and visit the Dogon village of, Adama, the student I have known since my last visit three years ago. This meant a round trip of at least 1200 miles from Bamako using a 4x4 with driver, meeting a guide who knew the roads and villages and spending 8-10 days en route.
We began the trip by driving for 12 hours from Bamako to Mopti, arriving after dark. Pot holes in the highway, donkey carts, herds of cattle and flocks of sheep and goats crossing the road, villages holding markets, lunch stop for rice with gumbo sauce; a long tiring day through the brousse- brush and pasture land punctuated with some large trees, lots of millet and corn fields, ponds and water holes where cattle drink, children splash and swim, people bathe and women wash clothes. Since the rainy season has just ended, there is plenty of water everywhere and the grass is still green.
Overnight at the Pas de Probleme Hotel in Mopti, visit the port filled with wooden boats called pinasses that transport people and products along the Niger. The marketplace is always animated with people selling everything imaginable and the boat building and repair area filled with activity- blacksmiths fabricating metal parts and carpenters working with the long wooden planks, both being assisted with their sons. Buy cases of bottled water and some other supplies that will be needed in an area where stores and shops do not exist and leave for Bandiagara, the beginning of the Dogon region. We arrive at the end of the Bandiagara escarpment that rises out of this vast plains and desert area and descend a very steep winding paved road to the villages at the bottom of the cliff- one sign announces a 16 percent down grade. I wonder if anyone bothered to check the brakes! No more paved roads, and in fact, places where there are NO roads. This is the country of pathways, donkey cart trails and traces in the sand. The Dogon people raise millet and a kind of "wheat" that grows on stocks that look like corn. Children watch the cattle as they go to graze each day, mothers and daughters spend the day pounding millet and preparing meals, fathers seem to spend many hours conversing in the shade. Maybe this isn't totally fair, because I think everyone helps with the planting and harvesting of crops. Overnight under a mosquito net on the roof of a mud adobe brick building counting meteorites and watching the stars, morning investigating the ruins of a former civilization that lived on ledges of the cliff. Off to the next village fiording streams, avoiding eroded trenches, dodging animals- me seated in the back seat bracing myself by using both hand holds above the door. Time to climb to a village located on the top of the cliff, a 2 hour climb up a steep ravine, climbing over boulders and up stones arranged as a rudimentary stairway. Is it really about 95 degrees? We consume 2 liter bottles of water that immediately leaves our bodies as sweat. My second time to this village called Beignemato; located on the edge of the cliff, it has fantastic views of the plains and villages some 1200 feet below. It is definitely worth the climb.
Back down the trail and on to the next village. Three nights and 12 villages later we arrive at our destination, Kassa. The final day of driving was worthy of a TV commercial for Toyota Land Cruisers! First of all, the guide did not know the way, so we had to ask villagers and herdmen along the way- traveling through sand dunes with no visible road, trails between fields of millet, and fiording streams and standing water. At one point we arrived at a river where a herd of cattle was crossing with water nearly over their backs. The guide entered the water to find a more shallow area and finally located a crossing only one meter in depth- still a challenge for the 4x4. I held my breath as we pushed our way through the 100 foot width of the stream under the gaze of nomad herdsmen, astonished cows and even a camel! We arrived safely without the motor stalling and continued on our way. The roadway became bed rock and large stones, impossible for the vehicle to continue. We packed essential items in a backpack, took bottles of water, and walked the last 3 miles to the village in 90+ degree heat! Warm greeting, friendly appreciative family, wonderful connections, part of another chapter. We only stayed one night since the driver and guide camped at the foot of the mountain and we were unsure of the road conditions for the return. Ate the chicken that was offered to me as a gift, accepted mangos and bananas for the trip back and said an emotional farewell to the family. A memorable and exciting experience§
We began the trip by driving for 12 hours from Bamako to Mopti, arriving after dark. Pot holes in the highway, donkey carts, herds of cattle and flocks of sheep and goats crossing the road, villages holding markets, lunch stop for rice with gumbo sauce; a long tiring day through the brousse- brush and pasture land punctuated with some large trees, lots of millet and corn fields, ponds and water holes where cattle drink, children splash and swim, people bathe and women wash clothes. Since the rainy season has just ended, there is plenty of water everywhere and the grass is still green.
Overnight at the Pas de Probleme Hotel in Mopti, visit the port filled with wooden boats called pinasses that transport people and products along the Niger. The marketplace is always animated with people selling everything imaginable and the boat building and repair area filled with activity- blacksmiths fabricating metal parts and carpenters working with the long wooden planks, both being assisted with their sons. Buy cases of bottled water and some other supplies that will be needed in an area where stores and shops do not exist and leave for Bandiagara, the beginning of the Dogon region. We arrive at the end of the Bandiagara escarpment that rises out of this vast plains and desert area and descend a very steep winding paved road to the villages at the bottom of the cliff- one sign announces a 16 percent down grade. I wonder if anyone bothered to check the brakes! No more paved roads, and in fact, places where there are NO roads. This is the country of pathways, donkey cart trails and traces in the sand. The Dogon people raise millet and a kind of "wheat" that grows on stocks that look like corn. Children watch the cattle as they go to graze each day, mothers and daughters spend the day pounding millet and preparing meals, fathers seem to spend many hours conversing in the shade. Maybe this isn't totally fair, because I think everyone helps with the planting and harvesting of crops. Overnight under a mosquito net on the roof of a mud adobe brick building counting meteorites and watching the stars, morning investigating the ruins of a former civilization that lived on ledges of the cliff. Off to the next village fiording streams, avoiding eroded trenches, dodging animals- me seated in the back seat bracing myself by using both hand holds above the door. Time to climb to a village located on the top of the cliff, a 2 hour climb up a steep ravine, climbing over boulders and up stones arranged as a rudimentary stairway. Is it really about 95 degrees? We consume 2 liter bottles of water that immediately leaves our bodies as sweat. My second time to this village called Beignemato; located on the edge of the cliff, it has fantastic views of the plains and villages some 1200 feet below. It is definitely worth the climb.
Back down the trail and on to the next village. Three nights and 12 villages later we arrive at our destination, Kassa. The final day of driving was worthy of a TV commercial for Toyota Land Cruisers! First of all, the guide did not know the way, so we had to ask villagers and herdmen along the way- traveling through sand dunes with no visible road, trails between fields of millet, and fiording streams and standing water. At one point we arrived at a river where a herd of cattle was crossing with water nearly over their backs. The guide entered the water to find a more shallow area and finally located a crossing only one meter in depth- still a challenge for the 4x4. I held my breath as we pushed our way through the 100 foot width of the stream under the gaze of nomad herdsmen, astonished cows and even a camel! We arrived safely without the motor stalling and continued on our way. The roadway became bed rock and large stones, impossible for the vehicle to continue. We packed essential items in a backpack, took bottles of water, and walked the last 3 miles to the village in 90+ degree heat! Warm greeting, friendly appreciative family, wonderful connections, part of another chapter. We only stayed one night since the driver and guide camped at the foot of the mountain and we were unsure of the road conditions for the return. Ate the chicken that was offered to me as a gift, accepted mangos and bananas for the trip back and said an emotional farewell to the family. A memorable and exciting experience§
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