Sean's Blog
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Djenne, Mali
As we headed into the interior of Mali, it seemed a bit daft to pass by the town of Djenne without paying it a visit. The town, a well-known and highly recommended World Heritage site, is located on a small island on the banks of the Niger River. While Djenne is best known for its imposing mud mosque, the largest in the world, which towers over the market, what I mainly remembered from the town following a brief visit nearly three years ago was the residential district. Narrow passageways linked flowing two story structures built entirely out of mud that seemed to be growing from the earth itself. Paths merged into walls while senseless alley ways suddenly opened into austere courtyards where children played in this bizarre mud labyrinth. Sharp angles had no home in this sinuous town that could just as easily have been shaped by divine floods as created by human hands. With only fond memories of Djenne, we crossed the river on a dilapidated ferry and rolled into town.
The persistent and unrelenting hustlers on the far side of the river, previously lacking throughout Mali, should have alerted us to the hassles to come. Before we even got into town, a group of youths were frantically chasing the car, frantically shouting about every possible sort of information we could have needed. In the span of seconds we were offered an endless variety of options that we had presumably come to the town to enjoy: hotels, drumming, historical guides, mud cloth making lessons, restaurants, art boutiques, donkey rides, meeting old men, holding babies, miniature bicycles made from coke cans, Rasta necklaces, you name it. All we had hoped to do was park the car in a tranquil area, stretch, relax and maybe later wander the backstreets a bit.
We pulled into Chez Baba, a backpackers lodge in the center of town. While the friendly owner was the only person in town who I encountered that understood the concept that relentless pestering does not often guarantee a sale, he did warn us that we should give in and pay a guide for services we neither needed nor desired. What we would really be purchasing was protection. The only other option was to be constantly harassed by this distasteful racket the young men of the town had created to extract money from tourists that had not yet paid their dues. Not willing to encourage this scam, we sat in the veranda of Chez Baba until most of the youths left and then made a break away from the market and mosque where the guides generally gathered. This ploy worked and we were soon wandering the side streets of Djenne. As an additional protection against future harassment, we found a friendly young boy who was more than happy to walk around town with us for the conversation. Satisfied that we had not given in and had done our part in not encouraging the racket of guides, we were able to see much of the Djenne I remembered. However, while the town was beautiful and the people friendly, the constant threat of annoyance generated by tourism that lurked beyond the safety of our hotel kept us, sadly, from fully enjoying the splendours we had come to see. We wasted no time leaving Djenne the next morning, eager to rejoin the more authentic Mali that all of us missed.
As we headed into the interior of Mali, it seemed a bit daft to pass by the town of Djenne without paying it a visit. The town, a well-known and highly recommended World Heritage site, is located on a small island on the banks of the Niger River. While Djenne is best known for its imposing mud mosque, the largest in the world, which towers over the market, what I mainly remembered from the town following a brief visit nearly three years ago was the residential district. Narrow passageways linked flowing two story structures built entirely out of mud that seemed to be growing from the earth itself. Paths merged into walls while senseless alley ways suddenly opened into austere courtyards where children played in this bizarre mud labyrinth. Sharp angles had no home in this sinuous town that could just as easily have been shaped by divine floods as created by human hands. With only fond memories of Djenne, we crossed the river on a dilapidated ferry and rolled into town.
The persistent and unrelenting hustlers on the far side of the river, previously lacking throughout Mali, should have alerted us to the hassles to come. Before we even got into town, a group of youths were frantically chasing the car, frantically shouting about every possible sort of information we could have needed. In the span of seconds we were offered an endless variety of options that we had presumably come to the town to enjoy: hotels, drumming, historical guides, mud cloth making lessons, restaurants, art boutiques, donkey rides, meeting old men, holding babies, miniature bicycles made from coke cans, Rasta necklaces, you name it. All we had hoped to do was park the car in a tranquil area, stretch, relax and maybe later wander the backstreets a bit.
We pulled into Chez Baba, a backpackers lodge in the center of town. While the friendly owner was the only person in town who I encountered that understood the concept that relentless pestering does not often guarantee a sale, he did warn us that we should give in and pay a guide for services we neither needed nor desired. What we would really be purchasing was protection. The only other option was to be constantly harassed by this distasteful racket the young men of the town had created to extract money from tourists that had not yet paid their dues. Not willing to encourage this scam, we sat in the veranda of Chez Baba until most of the youths left and then made a break away from the market and mosque where the guides generally gathered. This ploy worked and we were soon wandering the side streets of Djenne. As an additional protection against future harassment, we found a friendly young boy who was more than happy to walk around town with us for the conversation. Satisfied that we had not given in and had done our part in not encouraging the racket of guides, we were able to see much of the Djenne I remembered. However, while the town was beautiful and the people friendly, the constant threat of annoyance generated by tourism that lurked beyond the safety of our hotel kept us, sadly, from fully enjoying the splendours we had come to see. We wasted no time leaving Djenne the next morning, eager to rejoin the more authentic Mali that all of us missed.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
the bush (somewhere outside Segou), Mali
Bamako proved to be a peculiar mix of the exotic and familiar, magnifying all the aspects I have grown to love about African cities while retaining very few of the negatives. The city, despite its density, was surprisingly clean and remarkably safe. The 'Grand Marche' seemed to have decided arbitrary boundaries and the entire city center effectively turned into a critical mass of life exploding in brightly colored action. While the police could prove to be a bit of a challenge, as I learned after taking photographs in an area I soon discovered was 'sensitive', everyday Malians were astonishingly helpful yet rarely disconcerting. Despite their evident need, there was rarely a sense of desperation. Decades of misguided and self-serving foreign aid which had created a fatalistic sense of gratuitous entitlement in countries such as the Gambia, where I had worked for nearly four years, was not as apparent on the surface in central Bamako.
This was not the orderly and compliant Africa that was envisioned by the multitude of isolated and out-of-touch diplomats and accompanying non-governmental organizations never straying far from the miniaturized and clinically sanitized version abroad of their respective countries, nor that of the idealistic short-term volunteers rarely around long enough to see the cyclical failures of an aid structure unaware of its own history, or even that of the greedy and unscrupulous profiteers preying on the unrealistic aspirations and hopes created by the very organizations who year after year, program upon program, strive to meet arbitrary indicators and goals that confirm a healthy and prosperous society. The core of Bamako was left to the Malians and consequently, was much healthier because of this.
A day or two after our arrival, an afternoon waiting for visas to Burkina Faso was abruptly improved after we randomly stumbled into a military mess hall called the Aviator's Club. While many people would have probably turned around upon finding a large assortment of African men dressed exclusively in military uniform lounging around under grass covered bantabas, drinking large quantities of beer and eating dubious bowls of local chop in the middle of the afternoon, we wandered further inside and found a bar in the far corner of the compound. We wandered inside only to find a long narrow room so dark that it was impossible to even find a seat. As our eyes slowly adjusted, we found ourselves in a dingy room lined with dirty sofas and reeking of cigarette smoke. At a sofa near the back sat two men in uniform that, despite their obvious intoxication, must have been of high rank. We immediately sat down and, in order to fit in, felt that it was imperative that we order drinks as soon as possible. More military men stumbled into this squalid room as I wondered how welcome we would be in a few hours after the sun set.
As we listened to Malian hip hop and gangster rap, which was playing on a small television in the corner of the room, my desire to eat suddenly became colossal. It had been hours since any of us had eaten and leaving behind the bar, we stumbled back out into the court yard and ordered our own bowls of slop. Not particularly tasty to any extent, they served to fill our basic requirements. With our time nearly finished, we left the Aviator's Club behind us and returned to the highly boring bureaucratic world of sorting out visas and ensuring that all official paperwork is proper.
Bamako proved to be a peculiar mix of the exotic and familiar, magnifying all the aspects I have grown to love about African cities while retaining very few of the negatives. The city, despite its density, was surprisingly clean and remarkably safe. The 'Grand Marche' seemed to have decided arbitrary boundaries and the entire city center effectively turned into a critical mass of life exploding in brightly colored action. While the police could prove to be a bit of a challenge, as I learned after taking photographs in an area I soon discovered was 'sensitive', everyday Malians were astonishingly helpful yet rarely disconcerting. Despite their evident need, there was rarely a sense of desperation. Decades of misguided and self-serving foreign aid which had created a fatalistic sense of gratuitous entitlement in countries such as the Gambia, where I had worked for nearly four years, was not as apparent on the surface in central Bamako.
This was not the orderly and compliant Africa that was envisioned by the multitude of isolated and out-of-touch diplomats and accompanying non-governmental organizations never straying far from the miniaturized and clinically sanitized version abroad of their respective countries, nor that of the idealistic short-term volunteers rarely around long enough to see the cyclical failures of an aid structure unaware of its own history, or even that of the greedy and unscrupulous profiteers preying on the unrealistic aspirations and hopes created by the very organizations who year after year, program upon program, strive to meet arbitrary indicators and goals that confirm a healthy and prosperous society. The core of Bamako was left to the Malians and consequently, was much healthier because of this.
A day or two after our arrival, an afternoon waiting for visas to Burkina Faso was abruptly improved after we randomly stumbled into a military mess hall called the Aviator's Club. While many people would have probably turned around upon finding a large assortment of African men dressed exclusively in military uniform lounging around under grass covered bantabas, drinking large quantities of beer and eating dubious bowls of local chop in the middle of the afternoon, we wandered further inside and found a bar in the far corner of the compound. We wandered inside only to find a long narrow room so dark that it was impossible to even find a seat. As our eyes slowly adjusted, we found ourselves in a dingy room lined with dirty sofas and reeking of cigarette smoke. At a sofa near the back sat two men in uniform that, despite their obvious intoxication, must have been of high rank. We immediately sat down and, in order to fit in, felt that it was imperative that we order drinks as soon as possible. More military men stumbled into this squalid room as I wondered how welcome we would be in a few hours after the sun set.
As we listened to Malian hip hop and gangster rap, which was playing on a small television in the corner of the room, my desire to eat suddenly became colossal. It had been hours since any of us had eaten and leaving behind the bar, we stumbled back out into the court yard and ordered our own bowls of slop. Not particularly tasty to any extent, they served to fill our basic requirements. With our time nearly finished, we left the Aviator's Club behind us and returned to the highly boring bureaucratic world of sorting out visas and ensuring that all official paperwork is proper.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Bamako, Mali
The approach from Kayes into Bamako is unusual in its abruptness. After hours on dusty roads, the dirt gives way to tar. Settlements appear more frequently until the southern road from Kita converges with the northern route. A large military checkpoint momentarily stymies the flow of traffic, before once again opening to scattered settlements and open road. Suddenly, beyond the road is no longer more hills but a wide flat valley with a large river cutting it into two. Between the river and the road is a sprawling city.
As we descended into the city along a steep and narrow road, traffic appeared out of nowhere. Multitudes of mopeds and motorcycles were at once hazardously mixing on chaotic roads with cars, buses and hordes of pedestrians. Local stalls selling fabrics, fruits and other presumably essential objects spilled out onto the streets, mobs of young boys held beat up mobile phone cards desperately for sale and in most intersections crossing meant getting your car into the path of traffic before anybody else in a frenzied yet almost methodically organic mess. Distinct patterns were evident even if reason seemed to be veiled. Navigating from a map was soon impossible as countless streets bent and turned without warning, most weren't even included on the map and not a single street had a clearly posted name. Dodging cars and motorcycles coming from all directions, we accidentally stumbled into the center of town and consequently found ourselves in front of the Catholic Mission where we had intended to stay. If we were looking for a truly African city, we had definitely arrived.
The approach from Kayes into Bamako is unusual in its abruptness. After hours on dusty roads, the dirt gives way to tar. Settlements appear more frequently until the southern road from Kita converges with the northern route. A large military checkpoint momentarily stymies the flow of traffic, before once again opening to scattered settlements and open road. Suddenly, beyond the road is no longer more hills but a wide flat valley with a large river cutting it into two. Between the river and the road is a sprawling city.
As we descended into the city along a steep and narrow road, traffic appeared out of nowhere. Multitudes of mopeds and motorcycles were at once hazardously mixing on chaotic roads with cars, buses and hordes of pedestrians. Local stalls selling fabrics, fruits and other presumably essential objects spilled out onto the streets, mobs of young boys held beat up mobile phone cards desperately for sale and in most intersections crossing meant getting your car into the path of traffic before anybody else in a frenzied yet almost methodically organic mess. Distinct patterns were evident even if reason seemed to be veiled. Navigating from a map was soon impossible as countless streets bent and turned without warning, most weren't even included on the map and not a single street had a clearly posted name. Dodging cars and motorcycles coming from all directions, we accidentally stumbled into the center of town and consequently found ourselves in front of the Catholic Mission where we had intended to stay. If we were looking for a truly African city, we had definitely arrived.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
the bush (somewhere near Sandare), Mali
We headed off early after hearing word that the northern route to the capital had become once again passable for vehicles. A number of veteran volunteers warned us that it would be a long drive on washboard roads. To further complicate matters, due to high levels of banditry, the road closed at dusk and was enforced by military checkpoints in most towns. While we didn't expect this to affect our travel, as we are trying to avoid nighttime driving which is extremely risky in almost all areas of Africa, none of us relished the idea that of finding ourselves stuck camping in the bush in an area that was prominent for the armed robbery of vehicles.
As we left Kayes, the potholed road almost immediately gave way to near unusable washboard, forcing us to take donkey and horse cart paths just off the main thoroughfare which was now being utilized solely by large trucks and buses better able to take the beating. On these side paths, we patiently navigated around muddy pools of unknown depths and darted back and forth between boulders and fallen trees. The villages were growing more and more scattered and large expanses of bush lay on both sides. We passed the washed out bridge which had been temporarily fixed with a makeshift dirt path. However, it was clear that a sizable rain would once again shut down the road.
After almost 10 hours of driving, we were still hours away from Bamako and the roof-rack had starting disengaging itself from the car. The rusty contact points had unhinged themselves and most of the upper supports had snapped, leaving only three places to bear the majority of the burden. After shifting weight around, dumping out excess water and reducing our driving speed to a near crawl, we pulled off the road near a cluster of hills with an hour's worth of sunlight left. We managed to get the car a distance from the road and out of site from all prying eyes.
After setting up camp (and killing a scorpion in the process), the evening progressed uneventfully until a large storm quickly swept in from the north east. Heavy winds sprang from the growing darkness, bringing with it stinging dust and the promise of rain. While we were securing our possessions and putting up tarps, the downpour began. Tuuli disappeared into her tent, resting under a tarp next to the car while Nate and I quickly retreated to our own near the edge of the site. However, before we could congradulate ourselves, a high pitched yell eminated fom Tuuli's tent. It increased in magnitute until it was obvious that Nate and I would have to once again brave the darkness for reasons yet unknown.
With Tuuli still in the possession of our only flashlight, we brashly ran into the brewing storm in our underwear. A quick strike of lighting nearby showed that the tarp support posts had fallen on Tuuli's tent and that we would need to improvise a quick solution. As Nate untangled Tuuli, I unbolted the spare tires from the roof of the car and, with the tarp secured to the roof rack, made an A-frame that would withstand the heavy winds and keep Tuuli dry. Back in our own tent, wet and dirty, we fell asleep to the sound of animals howling.
We headed off early after hearing word that the northern route to the capital had become once again passable for vehicles. A number of veteran volunteers warned us that it would be a long drive on washboard roads. To further complicate matters, due to high levels of banditry, the road closed at dusk and was enforced by military checkpoints in most towns. While we didn't expect this to affect our travel, as we are trying to avoid nighttime driving which is extremely risky in almost all areas of Africa, none of us relished the idea that of finding ourselves stuck camping in the bush in an area that was prominent for the armed robbery of vehicles.
As we left Kayes, the potholed road almost immediately gave way to near unusable washboard, forcing us to take donkey and horse cart paths just off the main thoroughfare which was now being utilized solely by large trucks and buses better able to take the beating. On these side paths, we patiently navigated around muddy pools of unknown depths and darted back and forth between boulders and fallen trees. The villages were growing more and more scattered and large expanses of bush lay on both sides. We passed the washed out bridge which had been temporarily fixed with a makeshift dirt path. However, it was clear that a sizable rain would once again shut down the road.
After almost 10 hours of driving, we were still hours away from Bamako and the roof-rack had starting disengaging itself from the car. The rusty contact points had unhinged themselves and most of the upper supports had snapped, leaving only three places to bear the majority of the burden. After shifting weight around, dumping out excess water and reducing our driving speed to a near crawl, we pulled off the road near a cluster of hills with an hour's worth of sunlight left. We managed to get the car a distance from the road and out of site from all prying eyes.
After setting up camp (and killing a scorpion in the process), the evening progressed uneventfully until a large storm quickly swept in from the north east. Heavy winds sprang from the growing darkness, bringing with it stinging dust and the promise of rain. While we were securing our possessions and putting up tarps, the downpour began. Tuuli disappeared into her tent, resting under a tarp next to the car while Nate and I quickly retreated to our own near the edge of the site. However, before we could congradulate ourselves, a high pitched yell eminated fom Tuuli's tent. It increased in magnitute until it was obvious that Nate and I would have to once again brave the darkness for reasons yet unknown.
With Tuuli still in the possession of our only flashlight, we brashly ran into the brewing storm in our underwear. A quick strike of lighting nearby showed that the tarp support posts had fallen on Tuuli's tent and that we would need to improvise a quick solution. As Nate untangled Tuuli, I unbolted the spare tires from the roof of the car and, with the tarp secured to the roof rack, made an A-frame that would withstand the heavy winds and keep Tuuli dry. Back in our own tent, wet and dirty, we fell asleep to the sound of animals howling.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Kayes, Mali
After arriving at the border with no visas, which we were told was completely acceptable by the Malian consulate in the Gambia who wasn't authorized to issue visas, we managed to get through customs with a minor 'gift' costing less than eighteen dollars each. We pulled into Kayes, a large and dusty frontier town of 200,000 people, barely an hour later and drove into the city center in an attempt to locate the regional Peace Corps transit house. Mopeds and motorcycles heavily outnumbered cars on the sandy streets, and people and animals mingled everywhere in a dangerously disordered mess.
Everything off the main thoroughfare was difficult to navigate due to the deteriorated road conditions, with streets often acting more as a mud barrier than anything else. After repeated attempts to find someone who knew where the house was, we finally found someone who knew someone who knew where we could find the local Peace Corps community. Once we found this man, who turned out to be very knowledgeable as well as helpful, it wasn't long until we were at an obscure house in a back alley in the middle of Kayes with a Peace Corps logo on the front gate.
We were welcomed into the house by a couple of very hospitable volunteers who quickly broke some bad news to us. A bridge on the northern road on which we expected to drive to Bamako had been washed out the day before and no cars were getting through. Our other option was to take the long southerly route on a bush trail that the Peace Corps driver told us that we 'would never make' in our car because of the ravines, rivers and deep mud we would have to transverse. With neither of these options sounding very friendly, we decided the following day to scout the first 15 kilometers of the southern road along the way to the Chutes de Falou, a waterfall we were told was worth checking out.
The dirt road to the chutes started out fine without leaving us with any indication that troubles might lay ahead. As the road started to wind its way into the hills, we approached a distinctively Malian village. The mud houses were built as if they grew from the ground. Smooth sun burnt earth flowed upwards from the ground and became wall. The majority of the houses did not have roofs either, but rather the walls leveled out and became mud roofs. We passed the ruins of an ancient fort and continued through the village. The steep windy road was paved in cobblestone in a few areas, which was especially treacherous as it had fallen into disrepair and large rocks were strewn across the road. As I tried to navigate the roads, I quickly learned an important fact about the clearance of the Stingray: it doesn't have any. The skid plate installed prior to the trip suddenly became very important, keeping our oil pan from being ruptured on various occasions.
As we left the village, there was a loud noise like a shotgun being fired directly behind us. I pulled over and, as expected, the back tire of the Stingray had exploded. We were only two kilometers from the chutes. We stopped in the intense midday sun and started unloading the vehicle. We jacked the car up and after putting on one of the spares, started to lower it back to the ground. As the jack dropped, the car kept sinking, up until the point that it became apparent that we had just replaced a blown tire with a flat spare. As the car went back up, I desperately hoped that the second and last spare would have enough air in it to drive. Otherwise, it would be a long walk back to Kayes.
This time, when we lowered the car back to the ground, I could see that while the tire wasn't completely filled, there was probably enough air to get us to the chutes and back. We piled back into the Stingray and moved on. As we approached the chutes, all the positive attributes I was so willing to bestow on the road disappeared and driving became a slow perilous affair. At a number of spots, Nate and Tuuli had to get out and walk, while guiding me over especially awful areas. However, the car held out and after the road started to change back and forth from sharp compacted rocks to significantly steep sheet rock, we parked and walked the rest of the way to the chutes. The Chutes de Falou were much more impressive than any of us had imagined. Constituting thousands of small waterfalls and rapids, they covered a huge section of the river that looked to be almost a kilometer wide. However, getting to the chutes proved to be a problem. We had to wade through several rapids before we arrived at the first of the scenic areas. Once there, however, we were left to swim in natural spas, slide down rapids into large pools and hang off the sides of low lying waterfalls. After a few hours of splashing around, we packed up with the sun starting to drop and headed back to Kayes without incident. Tomorrow we will be spending the day getting the car back into shape for the drive and deciding whether to risk the washed out bridge in the north or the potentially impassable roads to the south.
After arriving at the border with no visas, which we were told was completely acceptable by the Malian consulate in the Gambia who wasn't authorized to issue visas, we managed to get through customs with a minor 'gift' costing less than eighteen dollars each. We pulled into Kayes, a large and dusty frontier town of 200,000 people, barely an hour later and drove into the city center in an attempt to locate the regional Peace Corps transit house. Mopeds and motorcycles heavily outnumbered cars on the sandy streets, and people and animals mingled everywhere in a dangerously disordered mess.
Everything off the main thoroughfare was difficult to navigate due to the deteriorated road conditions, with streets often acting more as a mud barrier than anything else. After repeated attempts to find someone who knew where the house was, we finally found someone who knew someone who knew where we could find the local Peace Corps community. Once we found this man, who turned out to be very knowledgeable as well as helpful, it wasn't long until we were at an obscure house in a back alley in the middle of Kayes with a Peace Corps logo on the front gate.
We were welcomed into the house by a couple of very hospitable volunteers who quickly broke some bad news to us. A bridge on the northern road on which we expected to drive to Bamako had been washed out the day before and no cars were getting through. Our other option was to take the long southerly route on a bush trail that the Peace Corps driver told us that we 'would never make' in our car because of the ravines, rivers and deep mud we would have to transverse. With neither of these options sounding very friendly, we decided the following day to scout the first 15 kilometers of the southern road along the way to the Chutes de Falou, a waterfall we were told was worth checking out.
The dirt road to the chutes started out fine without leaving us with any indication that troubles might lay ahead. As the road started to wind its way into the hills, we approached a distinctively Malian village. The mud houses were built as if they grew from the ground. Smooth sun burnt earth flowed upwards from the ground and became wall. The majority of the houses did not have roofs either, but rather the walls leveled out and became mud roofs. We passed the ruins of an ancient fort and continued through the village. The steep windy road was paved in cobblestone in a few areas, which was especially treacherous as it had fallen into disrepair and large rocks were strewn across the road. As I tried to navigate the roads, I quickly learned an important fact about the clearance of the Stingray: it doesn't have any. The skid plate installed prior to the trip suddenly became very important, keeping our oil pan from being ruptured on various occasions.
As we left the village, there was a loud noise like a shotgun being fired directly behind us. I pulled over and, as expected, the back tire of the Stingray had exploded. We were only two kilometers from the chutes. We stopped in the intense midday sun and started unloading the vehicle. We jacked the car up and after putting on one of the spares, started to lower it back to the ground. As the jack dropped, the car kept sinking, up until the point that it became apparent that we had just replaced a blown tire with a flat spare. As the car went back up, I desperately hoped that the second and last spare would have enough air in it to drive. Otherwise, it would be a long walk back to Kayes.
This time, when we lowered the car back to the ground, I could see that while the tire wasn't completely filled, there was probably enough air to get us to the chutes and back. We piled back into the Stingray and moved on. As we approached the chutes, all the positive attributes I was so willing to bestow on the road disappeared and driving became a slow perilous affair. At a number of spots, Nate and Tuuli had to get out and walk, while guiding me over especially awful areas. However, the car held out and after the road started to change back and forth from sharp compacted rocks to significantly steep sheet rock, we parked and walked the rest of the way to the chutes. The Chutes de Falou were much more impressive than any of us had imagined. Constituting thousands of small waterfalls and rapids, they covered a huge section of the river that looked to be almost a kilometer wide. However, getting to the chutes proved to be a problem. We had to wade through several rapids before we arrived at the first of the scenic areas. Once there, however, we were left to swim in natural spas, slide down rapids into large pools and hang off the sides of low lying waterfalls. After a few hours of splashing around, we packed up with the sun starting to drop and headed back to Kayes without incident. Tomorrow we will be spending the day getting the car back into shape for the drive and deciding whether to risk the washed out bridge in the north or the potentially impassable roads to the south.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Tambacounda, Senegal
All evidence of the preceding evening's fierce rain, which pounded the corrugate roof of the tired campemant we were staying in at the edge of town, was slowly disappearing. Road side lakes were once again transforming into passable mud puddles. Tuuli and I headed into the market area to pick up a few remaining supplies for the long road east into Mali. While we heard the road to the capital Bamako was currently drivable, we still weren't close enough to truly ascertain what we would be up against.
The Tambacounda market was remarkably laid back, as opposed to just about anything Gambian. Senegalese in this region seem to regard foreigners with only a little curiosity and any help offered by them rarely seems to be followed by any harassment. In the Gambia, white skin in most areas serves like a signal fire for harassment from touts, sellers, thieves, disrespectful children, prostitutes, beggers, drug dealers and bumsters. Young men with access to at least some resources that are conspicuously evident in their baggy WuTang Clan cargos, Tommy Hillfiger shirts and matching 50 Cent bandanas, will persistently follow Westerners around all evening at clubs pleading for a single Coke or Fanta. While the majority of Gambians are respectful and behave in a culturally appropriate manner, those that have completely discarded all respect and behave like ill-mannered children are often the only ones that you remember. Senegalese, on the other hand, while very friendly and helpful, seem to have an innate dignity that ensures that regardless of the color of your skin, you will be treated as an equal. Consequently, it was unnervingly pleasant as Tuuli and I wandered through the market purchasing fabric for the car, fishing line, a one meter chain, locks and the unexpected find of a vintage red "I Love Surfing" t-shirt. The previous day we had spent the morning interviewing a community group at the city's primary hospital and upon conclusion of this work, I felt that it was time to do something about my increasingly uncomfortable hair style. Upon discovery of a barber, I told him that I wanted him to buzz the sides and back, leaving only a bit on top. The barber proceeded to take his inferior shaver and jump in full speed, randomly taking off small and barely noticeable chunks of hair from everywhere. After about twenty minutes of wondering whether he really was a barber, I asked him if he had ever cut a white person's hair before. He replied that he hadn't and that it was more difficult than he had expected. I suggested that he find some scissors and use those first. When it became readily apparent that I wasn't going to get the haircut I wanted, I told him to give me an 'African' haircut and hoped for the best. I ended up with a patchily shaved head; but all things considered, I was happy because the mop on my head would no longer be a nuisance.
All evidence of the preceding evening's fierce rain, which pounded the corrugate roof of the tired campemant we were staying in at the edge of town, was slowly disappearing. Road side lakes were once again transforming into passable mud puddles. Tuuli and I headed into the market area to pick up a few remaining supplies for the long road east into Mali. While we heard the road to the capital Bamako was currently drivable, we still weren't close enough to truly ascertain what we would be up against.
The Tambacounda market was remarkably laid back, as opposed to just about anything Gambian. Senegalese in this region seem to regard foreigners with only a little curiosity and any help offered by them rarely seems to be followed by any harassment. In the Gambia, white skin in most areas serves like a signal fire for harassment from touts, sellers, thieves, disrespectful children, prostitutes, beggers, drug dealers and bumsters. Young men with access to at least some resources that are conspicuously evident in their baggy WuTang Clan cargos, Tommy Hillfiger shirts and matching 50 Cent bandanas, will persistently follow Westerners around all evening at clubs pleading for a single Coke or Fanta. While the majority of Gambians are respectful and behave in a culturally appropriate manner, those that have completely discarded all respect and behave like ill-mannered children are often the only ones that you remember. Senegalese, on the other hand, while very friendly and helpful, seem to have an innate dignity that ensures that regardless of the color of your skin, you will be treated as an equal. Consequently, it was unnervingly pleasant as Tuuli and I wandered through the market purchasing fabric for the car, fishing line, a one meter chain, locks and the unexpected find of a vintage red "I Love Surfing" t-shirt. The previous day we had spent the morning interviewing a community group at the city's primary hospital and upon conclusion of this work, I felt that it was time to do something about my increasingly uncomfortable hair style. Upon discovery of a barber, I told him that I wanted him to buzz the sides and back, leaving only a bit on top. The barber proceeded to take his inferior shaver and jump in full speed, randomly taking off small and barely noticeable chunks of hair from everywhere. After about twenty minutes of wondering whether he really was a barber, I asked him if he had ever cut a white person's hair before. He replied that he hadn't and that it was more difficult than he had expected. I suggested that he find some scissors and use those first. When it became readily apparent that I wasn't going to get the haircut I wanted, I told him to give me an 'African' haircut and hoped for the best. I ended up with a patchily shaved head; but all things considered, I was happy because the mop on my head would no longer be a nuisance.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Tambacounda, Senegal
After a very productive stay in Sedhiou where El Hadji Malik, the acting director of the regional hospital, gave us a significant amount of information on the Senegalese government's national HIV/AIDs sensitization projects, we headed east to Tambacounda. It wasn't long until we were back on sealed roads and we flew though towns gleaming as the sun glanced off the more wealthy villagers' corrugate roofs. Old men on bicycles leisurely pedaled with faded brown beanies protecting their heads from the sun and their austere Muslim kaftans blowing in the wind. As we drove through colorful and chaotic weekly markets sprawling across the main road, music once again resounded in the Stingray from our newly repaired radio.
Traveling through rural francophone Senegal has also given me the opportunity to speak Puular regularly again, which I haven't had much of an opportunity to use since leaving my Peace Corps village two years ago. While Nate and Tuuli were able to navigate our way through the majority of checkpoints and customs stops with their French, it felt useful to be able to throw some local dialect around when otherwise I felt like the mute driver.
When we reached the hot and sprawling city of Tambacounda with time to spare, we stopped by the regional Peace Corps transit house and planned a number of meetings with locally based counterparts for the following day.
After a very productive stay in Sedhiou where El Hadji Malik, the acting director of the regional hospital, gave us a significant amount of information on the Senegalese government's national HIV/AIDs sensitization projects, we headed east to Tambacounda. It wasn't long until we were back on sealed roads and we flew though towns gleaming as the sun glanced off the more wealthy villagers' corrugate roofs. Old men on bicycles leisurely pedaled with faded brown beanies protecting their heads from the sun and their austere Muslim kaftans blowing in the wind. As we drove through colorful and chaotic weekly markets sprawling across the main road, music once again resounded in the Stingray from our newly repaired radio.
Traveling through rural francophone Senegal has also given me the opportunity to speak Puular regularly again, which I haven't had much of an opportunity to use since leaving my Peace Corps village two years ago. While Nate and Tuuli were able to navigate our way through the majority of checkpoints and customs stops with their French, it felt useful to be able to throw some local dialect around when otherwise I felt like the mute driver.
When we reached the hot and sprawling city of Tambacounda with time to spare, we stopped by the regional Peace Corps transit house and planned a number of meetings with locally based counterparts for the following day.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Sedhiou, Senegal
After a wrong turn in Bignona, we found ourselves stranded by a tired, sluggishly moving river that our already deficient guide books forgot to mention. With nothing else to do, we had to wait for the twice daily ferry to depart. The Stingray, our markedly conspicuous vehicle for the long voyage ahead, had minutes before decided that the electrical system would not be one of its strong points. The radio had stopped working, leaving only a pungent burnt rubber smell in its place as if in explanation. The drive up to this point was through some of the most scenic areas in the Cassamance region of Senegal, with towering African mahoganies, baobabs and silk cotton trees filling out the gallery forest overhead and scores of monkeys and baboons regularly scurrying across the roads. With the rainy season concluding its first month, emerald green patches of grass were steadily consuming the normally monotonous brownish grey expanses between the groves of forested land. Men and women were eagerly planting corn, millet and peanuts in expansive fields near their small grass roofed villages.
When we finally boarded the ferry, it was obvious that on the first day of our journey we were already making miserable time. We had only covered about 100 miles and to make matters worse, there was only an hour of sunlight left and we were still in the heart of Cassamance on a dirt road inexplicably absent on all of our maps. This region of Senegal had been the scene of fierce fighting during the past twenty years, as ethnic Jolas struggled to form a break away republic. A peace agreement signed with the Senegalese government less than eight months ago had been recently broken with a series of deadly attacks on a number of military outposts in the area.
On the opposite bank of the river we began exploring the small fishing town for some sort of place to sleep for the night. Camping in the bush was not an option as large portions of Cassamance were heavily mined throughout the 1990s. After asking around, we found a Senegalese man who told us that we were still nearly 60 kilometers from the nearest town with any rest houses. With muddy roads behind us and nightfall rapidly approaching, we knew that we had little time to spare. Remarkably, the road which so far had given us little hope quickly opened up into a very drivable dirt thoroughfare and we reached Sedhiou, our unanticipated rest stop, by evening.
Earlier in the day, we had left the Gambia in high spirits. After a misguided and ultimately futile attempt to obtain African Union passports from the Ambassador of Guinea Bissau, we headed out with Serge, a Canadian paramedic who had recently been awarded an official Gambian police identity card vesting him with all 'the powers, immunities and privileges of a police officer', who we hired to escort us out of the Gambia. In the months prior to our departure, we were forced to keep the Stingray off all main roads in the Gambia and studiously avoid police and military checkpoints who were rigorously enforcing a new law banning right hand drive vehicles. This necessary escort served us well and we cleared customs without delay. Now in Sedhiou with luck back on our side, we found ourselves by accident in one of the most important regional centers for HIV/AIDS in the country.
After a wrong turn in Bignona, we found ourselves stranded by a tired, sluggishly moving river that our already deficient guide books forgot to mention. With nothing else to do, we had to wait for the twice daily ferry to depart. The Stingray, our markedly conspicuous vehicle for the long voyage ahead, had minutes before decided that the electrical system would not be one of its strong points. The radio had stopped working, leaving only a pungent burnt rubber smell in its place as if in explanation. The drive up to this point was through some of the most scenic areas in the Cassamance region of Senegal, with towering African mahoganies, baobabs and silk cotton trees filling out the gallery forest overhead and scores of monkeys and baboons regularly scurrying across the roads. With the rainy season concluding its first month, emerald green patches of grass were steadily consuming the normally monotonous brownish grey expanses between the groves of forested land. Men and women were eagerly planting corn, millet and peanuts in expansive fields near their small grass roofed villages.
When we finally boarded the ferry, it was obvious that on the first day of our journey we were already making miserable time. We had only covered about 100 miles and to make matters worse, there was only an hour of sunlight left and we were still in the heart of Cassamance on a dirt road inexplicably absent on all of our maps. This region of Senegal had been the scene of fierce fighting during the past twenty years, as ethnic Jolas struggled to form a break away republic. A peace agreement signed with the Senegalese government less than eight months ago had been recently broken with a series of deadly attacks on a number of military outposts in the area.
On the opposite bank of the river we began exploring the small fishing town for some sort of place to sleep for the night. Camping in the bush was not an option as large portions of Cassamance were heavily mined throughout the 1990s. After asking around, we found a Senegalese man who told us that we were still nearly 60 kilometers from the nearest town with any rest houses. With muddy roads behind us and nightfall rapidly approaching, we knew that we had little time to spare. Remarkably, the road which so far had given us little hope quickly opened up into a very drivable dirt thoroughfare and we reached Sedhiou, our unanticipated rest stop, by evening.
Earlier in the day, we had left the Gambia in high spirits. After a misguided and ultimately futile attempt to obtain African Union passports from the Ambassador of Guinea Bissau, we headed out with Serge, a Canadian paramedic who had recently been awarded an official Gambian police identity card vesting him with all 'the powers, immunities and privileges of a police officer', who we hired to escort us out of the Gambia. In the months prior to our departure, we were forced to keep the Stingray off all main roads in the Gambia and studiously avoid police and military checkpoints who were rigorously enforcing a new law banning right hand drive vehicles. This necessary escort served us well and we cleared customs without delay. Now in Sedhiou with luck back on our side, we found ourselves by accident in one of the most important regional centers for HIV/AIDS in the country.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
With only hours to go, as I sit comfortably at my computer for the last time and browse maps that will soon change from mere paper to immediate reality, I am beginning to realize the enormity of the task ahead of us. Saying that uncertainty lies ahead would be a gross understatement. With the morning sun rising only hours away, it is impossible to blur the fact that despite all of our planning and research, we really don't know what we are up against. And we won't know until we get there. But this gives me hope after the past few years I've spent in the Gambia, as the excitement of not knowing what was in store each and every morning started to slowly fade into routine. The time for routine is finished and all that remains is a muddy potholed road that stretches further than I can possibly imagine.
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