15 April 2007
It feels more like Africa than ever now, though I'm not quite sure what it meant before and I don't know where it's headed. It is a heavy sensation that grabs you and forces you to ride it out, even as you sleep. It feels strong perhaps because it is so fragile, rich in spite of its poverty.
Getting from Mopti to Bandiagara was a blistering headache. The trek to the majestic Dogon Country is notorious for this. To see the people of Dogon, with their animist rituals, fetishes, elaborate art forms, and cliff-dwellings, one's endurance must take a few swift hits in the knee caps. Like many travelers along this route, we nearly gave up and turned around at a few points, notably when our bags slung atop the bush taxi were being charged almost as much as the ticket to ride. We crammed into the taxi with four Malians and a French couple and headed down the trail. My ass and legs quickly fell aslepp because I was cornered into squatting on a large bolt, but I learned to cope. It felt good to feel the breeze blowing in, so I concentrated on that. Halfway through the taxi ride, a corrupt cop pulled our driver over and took every form of ID he had for no good reason and sputtered away on his motorbike. The driver let out a private sigh and continued.
Since leaving Wes behind in Bamako, where he will sell Puta to a business shark named Momo, David and I are backpackers once again, at the mercy of all sorts dodgy public transport. To get to Mopti from Bamako was a blasting hot 11-hour bus ride that remained fascinating at every turn. At each town, the bus would stop and would be instantly swarmed with girls and women vying for the attention of the passengers, trying to sell their fried bread, phone cards, and fruit.
After 3 days of travel, we hail to you now from Pays Dogon, late at night, drifting off to sleep on the roof of a mud house, among the strong branches of a massive tree. An escarpment is silhouetted against the night sky, home to clinging mud huts. This land was once inhabited by tiny pygmies, then a tribe called Tellem, and now the Dogon. Much of the Dogon population still clings to traditional animist beliefs, though Islam certainly has left its mark. In Bandiagara, we bought a large sack of kola nuts, imported from Cote d'Ivoire, to present as gifts to the elders of each village we pass through.
The people here believe all animals to be sacred. The donkey's bray can either signal a welcome or severe mistrust. The spirit of the crocodile ushers the soul into the afterlife upon death. The Dogon perform elaborate dance rituals in homage to these creatures. Though we have just arrived and things are rather still, we have seen the masks and and stilts upon which they dance. They lay against the walls of the small, hobbit-like stuctures, awaiting the ceremony, and will some day be used to initiate a young girl into womanhood, or to send a passing soul into the hands of Amma, the almighty female god that watches over this land.
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