Bus to Bobo

Why would I assume my bus ticket would have a time on it? Silly me.

"I think it leaves at six," said Bill. 

I thought the ticket seller had said seven, and that I should be there by 6:30. But I honestly didn't remember. 

I compromised and arrived at the Bittar station in the dark at 5:30 a.m. to catch my 7:00 TCV bus to Burkina Faso. Now I'd get to find out whether I'd weaned myself off coffee enough to not get a massive headache without morning caffeine—I hadn't as it turned out, and will be reduced to morning Coke when coffee isn't available). 

A dozen people slept sprawled out in front of a TV in an open-air waiting area at the Bittar gare. There was no room for me, so I perched on a box nearby and watched the gare slowly come to life. Vendors unlocked their kiosks and passengers visited the Nescafe man.

That Elusive Visa

I'd crawled in late and exhausted, but I was still up early. The suspense had to end. Was I getting my Ghana visa?

"We're going to ACI deux-mille to go grocery shopping," said Bill. "We'll give you a lift. It's a good time to be out anyway. The shit-truck is coming at 10:30."

Duly noted. Also of note: Africans generally don't swear like Americans. But some of the staff had started referring to the septic truck as the shit-truck. It's just so apt.

More photos of Djenne

Here's a link to a gallery of photos of the day before yesterday, of my trip from Sevare to Djenne.

And here are lots of photos of the big mud mosque of Djenne, the Monday market in front of it, and the trip back to Bamako.

Djenne to Bamako

Homemade peanut butter and real coffee for breakfast? Have I mentioned I adore Hotel Djenne Djenno? Besides the last time I mentioned it, I mean?

Later, I would regret not buying a jar of it in the gift shop, just as I regret tossing out my jar of Jif and my trail mix when my pack was too heavy at the last minute in Jersey City. But for the moment, I was too busy enjoying Sophie's peanut butter to think about how useful that would have been for me on long bus journeys.

Around nine, I went over to the Monday market. I didn't want the hassle of people trying to lure me into their shops, so I randomly chose a small alley that wound through Djenne's maze of mud houses, and ended up following women en route to the market.

The market was absolute chaos! Huge crowds of people everywhere, their wares spread out around them. If I'd wanted something from the dollar store, dried fish, or an Obama T-shirt, this was the place.

Dinner Music

Here's a sample of the music that local musicians played while I at my dinner at Hotel Djenne Djenno.

Djenne in the Afternoon

After checking into my outstanding hotel room at Hotel Djenne Djenno, I showered and then took a two-hour nap.

Which admittedly isn't the most efficient use of my short time in Djenne. I only had this afternoon and then tomorrow morning before I had to hurry back to Bamako to pick up my passport at the Ghanaian Embassy. (Would I get my visa?) 

But this was the most efficient use of my time in this excellent hotel. If there hadn't been a UNESCO World Heritage big mud mosque across the bridge and in the center of town, I would only have left my room for dinner in the hotel courtyard.

Which was also outstanding. Cold cucumber soup followed by perfectly cooked pasta and Swedish meatballs, accompanied by local musicians. To listen to, I mean, not for dessert. That was a custard and fruit thing.

But in between sleeping and dinner,  I did actually leave the room, because I really did want to see the big mud mosque.

Djenne Ferry Video

Here's some video of the Djenne ferry crossing.

Off to Djenne

I had breakfast at 6:30 a.m., and the hotel guy sweetly ran out to find me some yogurt when he realized that Mankan Te was out, though I have no idea where one buys yogurt that early.

And at 7, I was standing across the main road, in front of Motel Sevare, waiting for the bus. Dramane had helped me buy my ticket last night, and it had 0700 written on it.

By 7:30, I was worried. By 7:45, I was going to throw myself onto the next vehicle that stopped. A large family seemed to have the same idea, unfortunately, so I hung back and let them be rejected by every full bus that came along.

My "Somatra" 0700 bus turned out to be an eight o'clock bus on "Bittar," which arrived on-time at 8:15 at my end of town. Whatever. I have developed an amazing ability to not be surprised. It's kind of unfortunate, as it stops me from noticing novelties I used to enjoy.

The bus conductor waved me on and installed me into an empty seat. Kids gathered round the bus to sing a goodbye song. This always happens in Mali. Sometimes it's adorable. Other times, it's off-key and a racket.

More Dogon Photos

Here is a link to the full gallery of photos I took in Dogon Country.

Helping Dad

Cute kid helps Dad at work in Dogon Country.

A Day in Dogon, Part Two

As Dramane had promised, there were other things to see in Ende. I'd read that this was one of the more touristy villages, but it really wasn't an issue since there was no hard-sell, this was the off-season, and I was the only tourist in sight.

Ende is a crafts-oriented village, at least as far as what us tourists see. There are carvings, weavings, and bogolan for sale. And me, I didn't have much cash in my pocket. Which is a shame. I'd have bought one of everything. Certainly, there's a commercial element to Dogon villagers offering indigo, bogolan, and carvings, but it's a two-way street, a commercial transaction at a reasonable price, buying locally. Fair trade. I'd buy every bogolan I saw if I didn't have to worry about getting it home.

An English-speaking village guide led me through town, showing me the mud mosque, the carvings, the men using the homemade looms (with their feet!), the women dying the indigo, the drying bogolan textiles. We looked at the cliff dwellings way up high on the cliffs, but did not climb this time. I bought some indigo and just as we left the indigo-dye hut, a troop of purposeful-looking young boys went by, single-file.

"They are going for the circumcision," the guide said, just above a whisper. I believe this is a multi-day male-bonding affair.

We walked past a pedal-operated Singer, sitting among a group outdoors where it looked like it got a lot of use, and approached a low shelter in the center of town. It was open-air, built from thick, forked logs and branches, adorned with carvings of humans, and had a foot-tall, reed roof.

A Day in Dogon, Part One

My pal Theo, who was on a Dragoman trip with me in Central America in 1996 (!), offered me this riddle:

Q: How many people are in a Dogon family?

A: Four. Mom, Dad, two kids, and a French anthropologist.

Har har har. Okay, that might not make sense until we go see what a Dogon is exactly.

Anyway, I woke up to a little bit of internet and morning light, right before the power went out in our part of town again. The authorities had decided to let us have electricity while we slept? Strange. But I'd already done the bit of e-paperwork I needed to do for the office, and anyway, I was going out in a car, so I didn't need power.

Waffling into Sevare

"No, no. Not Mankan Te Restaurant. Hotel. Mankan Te Hotel."

My taxi driver stared at me blankly, as if I hadn't said this three times already. Of course, he hadn't heard me. He'd heard "Mankan Te" and tuned out the rest. That's what people do, extrapolate what they can from a few words they understand and ignore the rest. It's certainly what I do when trying to grasp what a foreign language speaker is telling me.

He turned the taxi off outside Mankan Te Restaurant, which was, I noticed, right where the bus had stopped in the center of town before I'd taken it to the actual Sevare Gare Routiere and had to take a taxi back. He asked some men who were sitting there outside the souvenir shop. They spoke and motioned across the street.

Big in Mali

Che didn't much enjoy his short time in Africa when he visited, but that doesn't stop him from being huge in Mali.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened to Che if he'd lived to be as old as Fidel. It might be a good alternate future story. Better if there were robots and monsters involved, or if the two of them had to team up with Bill Clinton and Will Smith to fight an alien invasion.

And She Goes Anyway

I woke up early under the ceiling fan in my dark, concrete room at hotel L'Auberge in Segou, Mali. It wasn't an amazing hotel by any means, but I had A/C, a ceiling fan, a working bathroom and shower, and wi-fi.

Ugh. That bus journey yesterday. Two for two, Mali, I thought. I can't bear to go on to see Dogon Country. I'll spend the day in Segou, then go to Djenne, then just go back to Bamako to be at the Embassy of Ghana on Tuesday to pick up my passport. Last night, a freelance guide named Hama had been bugging me.

"I'll take you around town on my motorbike. We'll see crafts and the colonial part of town. I am a good guide. Here is my card."

I'd taken his card and now I looked at it. Huh, a URL. I looked it up. He seemed totally legit. Now I felt bad for him, this professional guide reduced to chatting up dirty backpackers outside hotels. It was off-season, though, because Mali in March is insanely hot. Maybe things weren't so bad in other parts of the year. I dressed and walked past souvenir-seller's row to the hotel restaurant across the street.

"Good morning, Mare-y. You'll look at my shop today?"

"Maybe."

The room was fine. The location was interesting, though. Eating required running the gauntlet. To their credit, the souvenirs were lovely. They were expensive, though, and bulky.

A Dizzy Ride

A quick spin around Segou on the back of Hama's motorbike.

Lazy Doesn't Pay

I was up before the sweeper today at Sleeping Camel. Ugh, too early. Misery.

I gobbled up the pain au chocolat I'd picked up the day before at Amandine. Just before seven, I sweet-talked Patrice out of some Nescafe and hot water from a Thermos. (Breakfast starts at seven.) The only coffee-related thing worse than Nescafe is a mid-afternoon splitting lack-of-caffeine headache.

I slipped out the gate and walked to the main road to hail a mini-bus to the Sogoniko bus area. The Bradt, Lonely Planet, and Rough Guide all agreed—there were lots of eight o'clock buses to Sevare and Mopti, the gateway to Dogon Country. So I figure that by getting there before 7:30, I'd have no problem finding one with a seat. I could also see the buses so I could avoid the sealed bus with no air-conditioning in hundred-degree heat problem that I'd encountered from Senegal to Bamako.

But when I got to the main road on the other side of the German Embassy, I was perplexed. All the traffic was going one-way. The wrong way. Over the bridge, past the statue of the green hippo kicking a soccer ball, and into Bamako, not away towards the bus station.

Regrets

Fine. How was your day?

In Residence

Whisk. Whisk. Whisk.

Every morning at Sleeping Camel, I woke early to the same sound of the patio being swept by a young Malian woman with a teensy bundle of sticks.

"Why don't they use brooms?" I'd asked Bill.

"I bought them proper brooms. They won't use them!" He shrugged. I chalk this up to being used to whiskbroom-like bundles of sticks, like people who insist that flinging laundry at rocks is better than using a washing machine. (To which I say that I prefer my clothes to last longer, thank you very much, and I'd add that my back likes tall brooms as well. I know, Marie the Cultural Imperialist and her brooms and washing machines. Bah.)

Bamako Bridge Video

If I actually got my Ghana visa, I'd be leaving Bamako soon. So it was time to take care of an errand. I needed to try one last time to get rid of my Gambian money.

I walked across the bridge over the Niger. It connects the suburb that Sleeping Camel is in—Badalabougou Est—to the diesel-choked downtown. On the money-changing front, I was semi-successful. At least, I got rid of it. I took a huge hit, but it was enough that the money changers took it off my hands. And as a bonus, I got to ride back in a bus with a windshield adorned with an A4 printout of Gaddafi's face.

I won't be walking across the bridge again. There's almost no curb between the oncoming moped lane and the sidewalk. It was a little scary, and the air quality at rush hour was gross.

But I was interested to see that during rush hour, the bridge is one-way, and there is a moped lane that is separate from the car lanes. Here, see for yourself.