The Bag of Life (Nouakchott to Bamako)

Jan 5^th, 2011 - (Dec. 5th-6^th, 2010) We definitely hit a low point. A claustrophobic bus tour has a way of taking it out of you. A few sluggish days of feeling poopy followed. Ahhhh the vicissitudes of long term travel. Nobody is immune. Some may the claim to be but I will be the first to call bullshit. I should know. I'm full of it.

It really all began when we left Nouakchott on a bus trip that would span no less than 40 hours. Bamako or bust. We came close to busting. Nothing about what we learned relating to this journey prior to leaving inspired us. For one we could not even determine whether or not safety was an issue. Just like Mauritania, caution levels ranged somewhere between 'no problem' and 'you'd have to be out of your f***ing mind'. I suppose if you cannot determine whether safety is an issue then it is probably safe to assume that safety is an issue. At that point it boils down to effective rationalizing and reality dodging.

Of course, we had the option to fly but decided against this for two reasons. For one it felt like cheating and we could not justify spending an additional $300 to avoid the inconvenience of a shitty bus ride. And, more importantly, the safety record of local airlines is less than stellar. In fact Mauritanian Airlines has been blacklisted by the USA and European Union. So our choices were to either risk getting kidnapped or crashing into dirt at 500 mph. Potatoe. Potato.

We went with kidnapping. Were we really that worried about this? No. We'd spoken with some folks that had made the trip and others that told us that on a bus full of passengers no one was likely to have the balls to abscond with two foreigners.....probably. In the end we had no problem, at least with religious radicals or kidnappers.

Sand Diggers and a Lovely Fetish (Bamako, Mali)

Feb 7^th, 2011 - (December 2010) After arriving in Mali it became increasingly difficult to keep the blog current and for the next few months I was hopelessly behind. I did manage to catch up eventually but I think the quality suffered a bit due to the reporting delay. Get it while its fresh or the bread gets stale. Still, I suppose something is better than nothing and I did manage to take down enough to keep it alive in my memory for years to come. If you travel like I did write it down even if its just for you. You will not regret it. Trust me.

The rest of my time in Mali was not unlike the trip there. Degrees of shitty. There were some interesting experiences along the way but by and large the visit was less than ideal. We were supposed to check out the Festival in the Desert but we simply could not take any more. We were compelled to hit the eject button. Getting out proved to be as frustrating as getting in.

We arrived in Bamako after our a two day bus-a-thon with, generally speaking, piss poor attitudes. We spent the next couple of days leap-frogging from hotel to hotel in search of peace and tranquility. We finally landed at the Sleeping Camel, a wonderful respite on the edge of the chaos that is Bamako. We spent eight days there getting our bearings and planning our foray into Mali.

Bamako 911 (Bamako, Mali)

March 5^th, 2011 (December 2010) - If you were a police officer in Bamako what would you do on Friday and Saturday nights? Let me tell you. You would park your ass at an intersection and shake down any and all tourists/foreigners that pass by. You would also behave like an asshole. We decided to check out Le Diplomate, a bar own by Toumani Diabate (one of Mali's most famous musicians). Although we did not get a chance to witness his expert Kora skills I did get the opportunity to watch Leslie dance in the midst of some rather rambunctious gyrating Malian men. They tried to drag me up there but I only shake my caboose for cash.

On the way back to our hotel we had the pleasure of being stopped by traffic police (or was it a bunch of yahoos in costume?). The taxi driver pulled over at the behest of said yahoos and waited while a jolly beret wearing 5-0 asked me to produce our passports. We did not have them. To make matters worse I forgot to bring a copy, something I normally do. Mr. Beret was not pleased. I thought he would give us a hard time accompanied by a stern warning and send us on our way. I thought wrong.

I soon realized these dudes did not pull us over for shits and giggles. I exited the vehicle and explained that our passports were at our hotel and that I would be happy to wait there whilst Leslie went to retrieve them via taxi. No dice. Mr. Beret kept reiterating that traveling w/o our passports was 'no good'. My reply was, "Oooooookay, so how about you let my friend get them?' This option was apparently 'No good.' Uh-huh.

Segou, Say Me; Say It Together...Naturally (Segou, Mali)

March 12^th, 2011 (December 2010) – On to Segou, a riverside town 230 km east of Bamako on the Niger River. Another stifling bus ride. Another egregiously overpriced hotel. Thankfully, the town does indeed have a touch of the 'languid riverside charm' I'd read about. We strolled along the riverbank in the evening and made some initial inquires into a day trip down river. There are a variety of ethnic groups that people the area to include Fulani, Bambara and Bozo tribes to name just a few.

Our plan was to visit Kalabougou, a Bambara village famous for its pottery followed by a trip directly across from Segou to a Bozo fishing village. Of course, the price for a half day pinasse trip started somewhere between 'Absurd' and 'You Must be High'. As it was evening and we'd had a long day we concluded that we would put on our bargaining caps on the maro. We were too pooped to pop and in no condition to negotiate.

We enjoyed a decent dinner and befriended a small local boy who's curiosity was piqued by our presence. After a few attempts at surmounting the language barrier he ask for some money. I never feel right about handing out cash so I offered to buy some food. This sometimes helps separate the truly needy from those just screwing around. I purchased some small fried snacks along the road and watched as the boy's face lit up. He really did appreciate it. It made me feel a bit ashamed for 'testing' him. Unfortunately, this is an unavoidable byproduct of travel in poorer areas of the world. It always makes me uneasy and instills within me a feeling of powerlessness. I suppose it is better to feel something than to close it off completely.

Peter Pan & The Mud Brick Mosque (Djenne, Mali)

March 14^th, 2011 (December 2010) – We believed, erroneously, the taxi driver we hired in Segou would take us all the way to Djenne. Why would he? Instead he dropped us at the ferry point. Had I realized there was an additional 4 km to go after the crossing this lady would hath protested too much. I was not amused. I was even less amused when a gentleman working on the boat extorted 500 CFA from us for passage on the 'free' ferry. Had it not been for the presence of an archeological student from Rice University and her crew I think I would have been unable to subvert the asshole within. However, she had to live and work in Djenne and I did not want to do anything to jeopardize the crew's good standing.

It was not the money (a mere $1), it was the 'pay us or get off the f***ing boat' attitude that nearly sent me into hissy. The ride is supposed to be free because there is no other way to get to Djenne. It is all about delivery. Had they attempted even a modicum of politeness I doubt my dander would have flown wide open. And they weren't just impolite, they were downright threatening. But alas, I relented. Gosh, I'm a real hard ass, eh?

'Djenne's Unesco World Heritage-listed old town, which sits on an island in the Bani River, is one of our favorite places in Mali, not to mention one of Africa's oldest towns.' That is how Djenne's description begins in the Lonely Planet. You'd think by now I would be an expert at discarding superficial expectations. Don't get me wrong, if you go to Mali the village of Djenne is well worth the trip just not for the reasons you might expect.

Juju For Me Me (Djenne, Mali)

March 16^th, 2011 (December 2010) – The next morning we met Sori near the Great Mosque and hopped on the motorbike he acquired on our behalf in furtherance of a guided tour of the surrounding area. From what I gather the region is an archeological and anthropological wet dream as it is one of the oldest urbanized centers in sub-Saharan Africa. The archeology student from Rice University (I believe her name was Gaby) we'd met the previous day was there excavating Djenne-Jeno, the original site of Djenne just to the south.

Just outside of town we came across an unusual scene, ancient burial pots protruding from the ground just feet from the road on which we were traveling. Gaby told us that many of the pots probably still have skeletal remains in them. Unfortunately, preservation efforts lag behind requirements so much of the area's historical wealth is still waiting to be studied. You'd think that someone would still make some minimal effort at preservation before creating a road right through a burial site. Then again, who the hell am I, really? I should think that if my primary struggle was simply living my life I probably would not give two shits about dead pottery people either. But then again....

Speed Boat to Grumpyville (Mopti, Mali)

March 18^th, 2011 (December 2010) – We were advised to get up early in order to catch the bus running from Djenne to Mopti. As we were also told we would most likely have to wait for the bus to fill up we slept in and arrived sometime around 7 am. This was just in time to watch people pack into a bush taxi headed for Mopti. It was also at this time we discovered that we could have purchased a ticket for said taxi at a nearby office the previous evening. Oops. We only had to wait another five hours for a small van to acquire enough passengers to proceed ('enough' meaning jam packed). At least we met some interesting Peace Corps volunteers that helped counter the ennui a bit.

Upon reaching the main road one of the van's tires decided it had enough and went flat. The only criterion for replacement is whether or not the tire is structurally intact. Not to worry as the driver flagged down a passing bus which loaded us up and carried on within minutes of our breakdown. The ride to Mopti was relatively smooth but sitting around in Djenne for close to seven hours waiting for the journey to begin did not do much for our morale. Each subsequent bus ride in Mali seemed to siphon a little more life out of the both of us.

So when we disembarked in Mopti neither of us was in the mood for the fusillade of touts (Taxi? Pinasse? Dogon? Hotel?) that began their assault the moment our feet touched the ground. I felt a little like tearing out a gob of hair and screaming, "AHHHHARRRGHBLAAAAAHFLEEEEEEOOOOOOH!!!". Leslie, an exceedingly mild-mannered female, appeared as if she might start swinging. We managed to negotiate the onslaught and make our way to a hotel with the help of a local guide….that gave us his card…..and offered to guide us to Dogon (Days later when I ran into this gentleman again he demanded that I return his card in light of the fact that we would not require his services). After getting a room I was standing in lobby-type area talking with another Malian gentleman…..that gave me his card…..and offered to guide me to Dogon.

Dogon Country - Part I (Mali, West Africa)

March 20^th, 2011 (December 2010)– As we returned to our Mopti hotel one evening after dinner a bat defecated on Leslie from the tree above. I chuckled and reflected upon the metaphor-like nature of the incident. Could it be our recently purchased juju at work? Had we meddled with forces we could never hope to understand? Should we have splurged on the deluxe juju package (as opposed to the $6 clueless whitey discount)? Was it too late? What next? An exorcism? Was the bat shit a sign of other shit to come?

I met a French Canadian gentleman from Montreal that appeared to be enjoying his Mali experience immensely. He is a computer tech guy working in Bamako and was taking a break to explore the country. Granted, he had a private vehicle with driver, a pinasse all to himself for his Niger trip, and a set itinerary to facilitate his progress. I am sure being fluent in French did not hurt. Still, I was a bit surprised about how enthusiastic he was. It just goes to show how you cannot take anyone's word for it. You have to see for yourself.

He had an interesting tale to share. Shortly after his arrival in Bamako an unknown gentleman phoned his parents in Canada to inform them that he had been kidnapped. Ransom was demanded. Gulp. It wasn't true but the damage had been done. Imagine if you were his parents. He theorized that someone from work may have gotten hold of their phone number and passed it along to undesirable elements. I guess if he is not jaded why the hell should we be?

Dogon Country - Part II (Mali, West Africa)

March 22^nd, 2011 (December 2010)– We arrived in Yaba-Talu for the evening which happened to be on Christmas Eve. By this time we had gained some elevation and were skirting the edge of the escarpment overlooking the vast plain extending into Burkina Faso. I went for a stroll from the village to the edge of the cliff to have a look. I was hoping there might be a place to camp nearby but it turned out to be less than ideal. On the way I mistakenly walked through a burial site. I only found this out later when Leslie walked into the area and was informed of the significance by some young girls who pantomimed the 'cut throat' motion to indicate the site's significance. I guess that's what I get for exploring solo. Dummy.

The next morning the small village was awash with activity. It was Christmas day and some of the local men wanted to get started early…with rum. Actually, I'm pretty sure their Christmas began the night before. Gotta love the Christians. We pressed on. By midday we arrived at Nombori, Gabriel's village. The walk took us through a small canyon and was, by far, the most topographically interesting area we had passed (I got a little lazy with the camera). I had hoped we would see more of the same. After arriving at Nombori we began our lunchtime ritual of sitting and staring. By this time both Leslie and I were not such happy campers. As boredom set in our morale dampened. We hated to admit it but the trip was going the way we'd hope it would not. Insipid would be a good adjective. And on top of that we were not really feeling that great, a condition probably related to the heat and the dust.

Escape From Bamako (Mali, West Africa)

March 24^th, 2011 (December 2010)– So there we were. Back in Mopti with 11 days left before we were supposed to be in Timbuktu for the Festival in the Desert. We were so mentally exhausted from gallivanting around Mali that we came to the difficult conclusion that we simply could not take any more.

Although we genuinely wanted to experience the festival (that was the whole point of coming to Mali) we realized that if we had to occupy ourselves for 11 days we would be so indescribably miserable for festival time that it would be pointless anyway. And the price of food and lodging would start to add up. Any way we sliced it the enterprise felt like a lost cause. Time to pull the ripcord. We raised the white flag. My exact words were 'F*** it!'

So determined were we to leave Mali in our rear view mirror that we each sacrificed the $50 deposit we left with the tour operator (Hamma) we met in Djenne to secure a spot for the festival. Seeing as he had so much time to find replacements we thought he might agree to refund our deposit. Yes, and acrobatic elephants might do somersaults out of my ass.