Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Dogon Country, Mali
Journey to the Escarpment with Haruna Guindo
After Djenne, we decided to take one more chance on nostalgic avenue and surprise an old friend and previous guide in Dogon Country that had been one of the highlights of the trip through Mali that Tuuli and I made three years before. The core of Dogon Country consists of an imposing rock escarpment protruding unexpectedly from the Sahelian desert, extending nearly 150 km. On these cliffs and in the land surrounding them live the Dogon people, whose fascinating culture, based on an intricate animist mythology, competes for attention with the breathtaking villages they have built in seemingly inaccessible areas. The only way to effectively see Dogon Country is on foot, trekking from village to village, stopping only at night to sleep on campement rooftops because of the heat. In Bankass, we quickly found Haruna, who we had met years before through a Malian Peace Corps Volunteer. After reminiscing about old times, we made preparations for the journey, packed the Stingray and set off for the escarpment.
We had decided to aim for an area of Dogon Country that was inaccessible for us last time because we lacked a vehicle. I liked this idea, hoping that as well as seeing completely new villages, we would avoid as much contact with trekking tourists as possible. Our starting point would be Dourou, high up on the cliffs and only accessible from Bankass by a treacherously steep road switch backing its way up the mountain. We drove about 20 kilometers out of town toward the Burkina border before leaving the main road and following a myriad of confusing sandy village trails. Because of the rainy season, Haruna had to ask directions on multiple occasions to avoid washed out and impassable roads. The escarpment, small in the distance, slowly got bigger and bigger as we narrowed the distance over the next hour. To say that it was the single dominating feature in an otherwise picturesque landscape of low rolling hills covered in a thin layer of green grass would be an understatement.
Sand Dunes
As we approached the base of this rock monstrosity, I began to wonder how it was possible for anything, let alone a car like the Stingray, could make its way to the summit. The escarpment, basically one long cliff, had to be hundreds of feet high with no obvious depressions, trails or even access points. The fear that I had possibly pushed the Stingray too far was heightened when the bush trail ended, leaving a sizable patch of sand dunes between us and the uncertainty waiting at the base of the escarpment. The Stingray, while a proven master of the mud, had somehow never learned the fine art of gliding over dry sand. A few months before, to my embarrassment I had sunk the back tires of the Stingray into what seemed no more than soft dirt at a restaurant in the Gambia, requiring the help of a number of perplexed bystanders and a shovel to break free. These rolling dunes were more than simple sand and I had misgivings about the sanity of the basic premise of the simple task I was preparing to do.
After unloading the passengers, I dropped the Stingray into second charged ahead, keeping the RPMs high, using the limited momentum I already had and swinging the steering wheel back and forth at a constant pace, effectively turned the front wheels into sand-ploughs. The Stingray cruised over the first dune, swiftly rolled across the valley between the second, and valiantly struggled to the crest. The confidence I was slowly gaining in the chances of our ultimate success was, however, abruptly destroyed when I saw the final stretch towards what looked like a manageable road leading up from the base of the escarpment. The final dune seemed too steep, too windy due to a number of ill placed shrubs and rocks, and ultimately too far. This soon proved to be an accurate assessment.
Once a car is stuck in sand, there are only a few options and a wrong choice will leave you in a situation where only a truck will be able to tow you out. We could see no such trucks near the escarpment. From my vantage point, I could see three possible ways up. The first involved a short but steep incline littered with sharp and possibly tire puncturing rocks. The second two were much longer, but without the treacherous rocks and not nearly as steep. I decided that it could not hurt to try the longer routes first. I thought I was making progress on one of these routes as I charged up the dune, patiently rolling backwards after each unsuccessful attempt but also packing the sand which made each subsequent run a bit more likely. But after a reasonable amount of time, we had only covered an insignificant portion of the route.
Nate and Haruna ran ahead to the primary road as I backed the car up and started tossing the particularly sharp rocks aside. I hit the gas and the Stingray made it just over three-quarters of the way to the top before sinking into the sand. Excited by how close we were and ready to try out the rubber sand ladders I had bought eight months prior for just such an occasion, I thought we were in the clear. Once again, my enthusiasm was a bit premature. The sand ladders proved practically worthless and we had to fall back to the traditional method of digging, rock packing and strenuous pushing. Little by little we worked our way up the incline until. Nearly an hour later, we were on hard ground once again.
The windy road up the escarpment changed back and forth from rock and dirt to cobblestone with patches of tarmac on the particularly treacherous sections. As we rose above the plains, the view slowly became sublime and Haruna assured us that we were through the worst of it. With a few hours left before nightfall, we drove into Dourou, where people from all the nearby villages were converging for the weekly market, held on a solid rock outcropping near the cliffs overlooking the plains far below. Our Dogon adventure had begun.
Millet Beer and Daniel
In Dogon, one has to respect local customs. Animist societies accustomed to living high in the hills, unable to consult on a regular basis with the latest TRL hipsters, often lack the ability to judge moderation. This is not only to be understood but also humbly accepted. Further more, a sensible traveller will find it in their best interest to embrace said mysterious entities in their entirety, despite the weak and unstable foundations one might rashly assume they are based upon. In Dogon, such entity was millet beer. And we were to soon find out that Daniel, something of a local celebrity, was practically a spiritual leader in the highly specialized field of millet beer. As an introduction, we were told that he was the Dogon equivalent of a black Saint Nick, a renowned man of portly proportions able to procure beer on an unquestionably short notice. Daniel fast became our beer porter. Whereas many capable Westerners on the trail brought along local men to carry their bags, Daniels sole task was to keep constantly filled a 20 liter container full of millet beer that he carried on his head.
Daniel relished this assignment. We encouraged him to drink as much as he wanted, as long as he kept the container filled. He amazingly consumed on an hourly basis more than the four of us combined, but true to his promise, he would disappear into the bush from time to time and return a few hours later with a fresh container. Daniel was for all extents and purposes a moveable keg. The millet beer, light in taste and sharp without being bitter, seemed only a bit stronger than day old lemonade but was pleasant none-the-less. This beverage also proved to be our most hygienic option, as much of the local water available along the trail seemed as if it had been taken directly from an absent-minded twelve year olds neglected aquarium. Other than the prohibitively expensive bottled water that is sold at various locations by entrepreneurs at dramatically inflated prices, the millet beer was often our only viable option.
Journey to the Escarpment with Haruna Guindo
After Djenne, we decided to take one more chance on nostalgic avenue and surprise an old friend and previous guide in Dogon Country that had been one of the highlights of the trip through Mali that Tuuli and I made three years before. The core of Dogon Country consists of an imposing rock escarpment protruding unexpectedly from the Sahelian desert, extending nearly 150 km. On these cliffs and in the land surrounding them live the Dogon people, whose fascinating culture, based on an intricate animist mythology, competes for attention with the breathtaking villages they have built in seemingly inaccessible areas. The only way to effectively see Dogon Country is on foot, trekking from village to village, stopping only at night to sleep on campement rooftops because of the heat. In Bankass, we quickly found Haruna, who we had met years before through a Malian Peace Corps Volunteer. After reminiscing about old times, we made preparations for the journey, packed the Stingray and set off for the escarpment.
We had decided to aim for an area of Dogon Country that was inaccessible for us last time because we lacked a vehicle. I liked this idea, hoping that as well as seeing completely new villages, we would avoid as much contact with trekking tourists as possible. Our starting point would be Dourou, high up on the cliffs and only accessible from Bankass by a treacherously steep road switch backing its way up the mountain. We drove about 20 kilometers out of town toward the Burkina border before leaving the main road and following a myriad of confusing sandy village trails. Because of the rainy season, Haruna had to ask directions on multiple occasions to avoid washed out and impassable roads. The escarpment, small in the distance, slowly got bigger and bigger as we narrowed the distance over the next hour. To say that it was the single dominating feature in an otherwise picturesque landscape of low rolling hills covered in a thin layer of green grass would be an understatement.
Sand Dunes
As we approached the base of this rock monstrosity, I began to wonder how it was possible for anything, let alone a car like the Stingray, could make its way to the summit. The escarpment, basically one long cliff, had to be hundreds of feet high with no obvious depressions, trails or even access points. The fear that I had possibly pushed the Stingray too far was heightened when the bush trail ended, leaving a sizable patch of sand dunes between us and the uncertainty waiting at the base of the escarpment. The Stingray, while a proven master of the mud, had somehow never learned the fine art of gliding over dry sand. A few months before, to my embarrassment I had sunk the back tires of the Stingray into what seemed no more than soft dirt at a restaurant in the Gambia, requiring the help of a number of perplexed bystanders and a shovel to break free. These rolling dunes were more than simple sand and I had misgivings about the sanity of the basic premise of the simple task I was preparing to do.
After unloading the passengers, I dropped the Stingray into second charged ahead, keeping the RPMs high, using the limited momentum I already had and swinging the steering wheel back and forth at a constant pace, effectively turned the front wheels into sand-ploughs. The Stingray cruised over the first dune, swiftly rolled across the valley between the second, and valiantly struggled to the crest. The confidence I was slowly gaining in the chances of our ultimate success was, however, abruptly destroyed when I saw the final stretch towards what looked like a manageable road leading up from the base of the escarpment. The final dune seemed too steep, too windy due to a number of ill placed shrubs and rocks, and ultimately too far. This soon proved to be an accurate assessment.
Once a car is stuck in sand, there are only a few options and a wrong choice will leave you in a situation where only a truck will be able to tow you out. We could see no such trucks near the escarpment. From my vantage point, I could see three possible ways up. The first involved a short but steep incline littered with sharp and possibly tire puncturing rocks. The second two were much longer, but without the treacherous rocks and not nearly as steep. I decided that it could not hurt to try the longer routes first. I thought I was making progress on one of these routes as I charged up the dune, patiently rolling backwards after each unsuccessful attempt but also packing the sand which made each subsequent run a bit more likely. But after a reasonable amount of time, we had only covered an insignificant portion of the route.
Nate and Haruna ran ahead to the primary road as I backed the car up and started tossing the particularly sharp rocks aside. I hit the gas and the Stingray made it just over three-quarters of the way to the top before sinking into the sand. Excited by how close we were and ready to try out the rubber sand ladders I had bought eight months prior for just such an occasion, I thought we were in the clear. Once again, my enthusiasm was a bit premature. The sand ladders proved practically worthless and we had to fall back to the traditional method of digging, rock packing and strenuous pushing. Little by little we worked our way up the incline until. Nearly an hour later, we were on hard ground once again.
The windy road up the escarpment changed back and forth from rock and dirt to cobblestone with patches of tarmac on the particularly treacherous sections. As we rose above the plains, the view slowly became sublime and Haruna assured us that we were through the worst of it. With a few hours left before nightfall, we drove into Dourou, where people from all the nearby villages were converging for the weekly market, held on a solid rock outcropping near the cliffs overlooking the plains far below. Our Dogon adventure had begun.
Millet Beer and Daniel
In Dogon, one has to respect local customs. Animist societies accustomed to living high in the hills, unable to consult on a regular basis with the latest TRL hipsters, often lack the ability to judge moderation. This is not only to be understood but also humbly accepted. Further more, a sensible traveller will find it in their best interest to embrace said mysterious entities in their entirety, despite the weak and unstable foundations one might rashly assume they are based upon. In Dogon, such entity was millet beer. And we were to soon find out that Daniel, something of a local celebrity, was practically a spiritual leader in the highly specialized field of millet beer. As an introduction, we were told that he was the Dogon equivalent of a black Saint Nick, a renowned man of portly proportions able to procure beer on an unquestionably short notice. Daniel fast became our beer porter. Whereas many capable Westerners on the trail brought along local men to carry their bags, Daniels sole task was to keep constantly filled a 20 liter container full of millet beer that he carried on his head.
Daniel relished this assignment. We encouraged him to drink as much as he wanted, as long as he kept the container filled. He amazingly consumed on an hourly basis more than the four of us combined, but true to his promise, he would disappear into the bush from time to time and return a few hours later with a fresh container. Daniel was for all extents and purposes a moveable keg. The millet beer, light in taste and sharp without being bitter, seemed only a bit stronger than day old lemonade but was pleasant none-the-less. This beverage also proved to be our most hygienic option, as much of the local water available along the trail seemed as if it had been taken directly from an absent-minded twelve year olds neglected aquarium. Other than the prohibitively expensive bottled water that is sold at various locations by entrepreneurs at dramatically inflated prices, the millet beer was often our only viable option.
<< Home