Sean's Blog
Monday, August 29, 2005
Accra, Ghana
On the outskirts of Accra, children stand by the road and wave dead bush rats the size of dogs, flattened duikers with grotesquely charred heads, an occasional monkey and monstrous forest snails at passing cars. While in most other places this would be about as sociable as a hard smack to the back of the head, the children in Ghana are just trying to be friendly and make a few quick cedis. In Ghana, bush meat is almost as popular as Celine Deon. It was the original African delicacy, long before beef shwarmas, ice or even mayonnaise hit the scene. We had been invited to stay at the house of Amstel, a friend Tuuli had gotten to know during a previous stay in Ghana, and I felt that we could not pass up this chance to immediately say thank you with the gift of bush food.
Tuuli and Nate were not so certain, but in the end I convinced them that at the very least, we should buy a quartet of forest snails. The four slimy mollusks, still alive, were put into a black plastic bag by our friendly snail monger and we were quickly on our way. Unbenowkst to us, Accra traffic was setting a nasty trap up ahead and we were stuck for hours inching our way towards Nkrumah Circle. By the time we were through and had met up with Amstel, it was late and we left our bags in the car until morning.
The next day I found that two of the snails had not survived the journey. It was apparent that at some point baggage had shifted and smothered the two largest snails. Saddened but not yet dismayed, I took the surviving snails and put them in a large bucket. Tuuli, who had earlier boasted of her skill in cooking the tiny cousins of these massive forest snails, said that they should be left for a few days in order to flush their systems. Agreeing, I put a cover over the bucket and prepared to head into town with Nate. I figured Tuuli, who was staying behind, could keep an eye on the bucket. However the idea of baby sitting snails did not sit so well with her. She told me she would have nothing to do with it. After asking her a few more times, it became clear that the snails would not be her responsibility.
When I returned, the lid was mysteriously ajar and one of them was missing. Someone had bumped the lid aside and a snail was loose, somewhere in Amstels house. I looked around the bucket. Nothing but piles of clothes, bags and boxes unloaded from the Stingray. Tuuli was relaxing on the couch, completely unaware that somewhere in the house lurked a freakishly big mollusk. Where the forest snail was baffled me, having left the most suitable habitat in the house, but I knew for certain that we would not have a place to stay much longer if it decided to reappear at in inopportune time somewhere completely inappropriate. Amstels bed in the adjoining room kept coming to mind.
It was not until two days later that the snail turned up. In my medicine bag, dead as a door nail, next to my toothbrush. This was not a coincidence. I turned and held up my soiled toothbrush for Nate and Tuuli. Tuuli started laughing. The culprit could be no one else but her. I soon found out that Tuuli, attempting to teach me some sort of lesson on responsibility, had found the snail the day before, still alive at the time, and hid it in my medicine bag. Upon the snails death, it had expelled all kinds of noxious and potentially hazardous fluids, saturating my toiletries with the essence of rancid mollusk. Despite this awful realization and my inability to grasp the lesson, I was relieved that it did not turn up in one of the many places my imagination had assured me it would.
On the outskirts of Accra, children stand by the road and wave dead bush rats the size of dogs, flattened duikers with grotesquely charred heads, an occasional monkey and monstrous forest snails at passing cars. While in most other places this would be about as sociable as a hard smack to the back of the head, the children in Ghana are just trying to be friendly and make a few quick cedis. In Ghana, bush meat is almost as popular as Celine Deon. It was the original African delicacy, long before beef shwarmas, ice or even mayonnaise hit the scene. We had been invited to stay at the house of Amstel, a friend Tuuli had gotten to know during a previous stay in Ghana, and I felt that we could not pass up this chance to immediately say thank you with the gift of bush food.
Tuuli and Nate were not so certain, but in the end I convinced them that at the very least, we should buy a quartet of forest snails. The four slimy mollusks, still alive, were put into a black plastic bag by our friendly snail monger and we were quickly on our way. Unbenowkst to us, Accra traffic was setting a nasty trap up ahead and we were stuck for hours inching our way towards Nkrumah Circle. By the time we were through and had met up with Amstel, it was late and we left our bags in the car until morning.
The next day I found that two of the snails had not survived the journey. It was apparent that at some point baggage had shifted and smothered the two largest snails. Saddened but not yet dismayed, I took the surviving snails and put them in a large bucket. Tuuli, who had earlier boasted of her skill in cooking the tiny cousins of these massive forest snails, said that they should be left for a few days in order to flush their systems. Agreeing, I put a cover over the bucket and prepared to head into town with Nate. I figured Tuuli, who was staying behind, could keep an eye on the bucket. However the idea of baby sitting snails did not sit so well with her. She told me she would have nothing to do with it. After asking her a few more times, it became clear that the snails would not be her responsibility.
When I returned, the lid was mysteriously ajar and one of them was missing. Someone had bumped the lid aside and a snail was loose, somewhere in Amstels house. I looked around the bucket. Nothing but piles of clothes, bags and boxes unloaded from the Stingray. Tuuli was relaxing on the couch, completely unaware that somewhere in the house lurked a freakishly big mollusk. Where the forest snail was baffled me, having left the most suitable habitat in the house, but I knew for certain that we would not have a place to stay much longer if it decided to reappear at in inopportune time somewhere completely inappropriate. Amstels bed in the adjoining room kept coming to mind.
It was not until two days later that the snail turned up. In my medicine bag, dead as a door nail, next to my toothbrush. This was not a coincidence. I turned and held up my soiled toothbrush for Nate and Tuuli. Tuuli started laughing. The culprit could be no one else but her. I soon found out that Tuuli, attempting to teach me some sort of lesson on responsibility, had found the snail the day before, still alive at the time, and hid it in my medicine bag. Upon the snails death, it had expelled all kinds of noxious and potentially hazardous fluids, saturating my toiletries with the essence of rancid mollusk. Despite this awful realization and my inability to grasp the lesson, I was relieved that it did not turn up in one of the many places my imagination had assured me it would.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Mole National Park, Ghana
Tuuli was given the thankless task of fighting the baboons. For the past hour, they had been trying to raid our tents, set on a grassy plain above a large watering hole where elephants, kob, waterbuck, warthogs and duikers could regularly be seen lazily wandering around. An alpha male crawled at one point under the fly tarp of my tent and bit a whole near the entrance. Earlier in the day, another charged and stole our fish off the table we were sitting at, despite Nates own demonstrations of masculinity. These wretched beasts could no longer be trusted. With a handful of rocks and a few large sticks, I fought off their haphazard advances before turning over the projectiles to Tuuli. I was hungry and in desperate need for some good local chop. Tuuli is strong, but the primates nearly did her in. A thrown chair and twisted foot later (they charged from a number of directions), the baboons were scared off by a stray elephant. The elephant fortunately decided our tents and car were unpalatable before making its way to the observation post, where it lunched on a young girl's bikini. Wardens with rifles watched helplessly and shouted to stay back. A handful of tourists took photos. I did a headstand. There was nothing we could do for a place like this. We left early the next day.
Tuuli was given the thankless task of fighting the baboons. For the past hour, they had been trying to raid our tents, set on a grassy plain above a large watering hole where elephants, kob, waterbuck, warthogs and duikers could regularly be seen lazily wandering around. An alpha male crawled at one point under the fly tarp of my tent and bit a whole near the entrance. Earlier in the day, another charged and stole our fish off the table we were sitting at, despite Nates own demonstrations of masculinity. These wretched beasts could no longer be trusted. With a handful of rocks and a few large sticks, I fought off their haphazard advances before turning over the projectiles to Tuuli. I was hungry and in desperate need for some good local chop. Tuuli is strong, but the primates nearly did her in. A thrown chair and twisted foot later (they charged from a number of directions), the baboons were scared off by a stray elephant. The elephant fortunately decided our tents and car were unpalatable before making its way to the observation post, where it lunched on a young girl's bikini. Wardens with rifles watched helplessly and shouted to stay back. A handful of tourists took photos. I did a headstand. There was nothing we could do for a place like this. We left early the next day.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
bush (somewhere near the frontier), Burkina Faso
Village of the Bitter Tomatoes
We had left urban Ouaga late and it was becoming increasingly apparent that there was no way we would reach the Ghanaian border before nightfall. As the sun dropped in the sky, we passed sprawling village on top of village, offering no choice spots to get the Stingray off the road and a place to pitch our tents. Desperately hoping for a few kilometers of bush in which to find an access road to a remote village or abandoned mining quarry, we were continuously offered nothing of the sort. We were forced to compromise. While camping in close proximity to a village can sometimes be rewarding and is often safer than camping in an isolated location, it often has its frustrating and awkward moments as two diverse cultures collide.
Finding a suitable camping spot can sometimes be a tricky and timely process. First and foremost, it is important to get the vehicle off the road and out of site before dark for two reasons: 1. Finding that a drunk and/or tired truck driver has ploughed into the back of your car in the middle of the night is never a thing one wants to wake up to; 2. Drawing superfluous and unwanted attention to yourself is not always enjoyable. Most often, this will mean inquisitive visits by local herders, farmers, travelers and the hordes of children that always accompany them. While this can be rewarding at times, it can quickly grow tiresome when there are many people and the language barrier is insurmountable.
In such situations, observing proper etiquette is vital. This often means, for example, that if you are preparing food or eating that you invite the visitors to join. This is only a problem when you are not prepared to cook for additional people. However, the minor inconvenience this causes is usually acceptable because most rural West Africans you encounter in such circumstances are likely to offer the same in return and many will go a great deal out of their way in order to be friendly and provide whatever help they think you need.
In this particular case, help meant bitter tomatoes. Not to be confused with cherry tomatoes, green tomatoes, or even the yellow unripe varieties you occasionally find sold on the side of the road, bitter tomatoes come from an entirely different family of vegetables altogether. While the closest locally found relative to the bitter tomato is the eggplant, it is neither large, nor purple nor mild in taste. The greenishly yellow bitter tomato vaguely resembles the bastard offspring that wild pomegranate and cauliflower would produce after a long night of cavorting under the cruel influence of Zum Zum watered down with nondairy condensed milk products. At its ripest, it looks shrunken and vaguely cadaverous, yet is as firm and dense as any mature tuber you are likely to encounter. It is also so bitter that if used improperly, a single vegetable could quite possibly turn an entire cauldron of chili at a Southern cookout unpalatable to a frenzied mob of famished hillbillies.
Upon arrival at the village of the bitter tomatoes, we were offered nearly a bucket full before we even had the chance to begin setting up our tents. As more and more villagers made their pilgrimage to our camp, which was fast becoming a mecca for caustic fruits, our pile of bitter tomatoes grew dangerously large. With no common language and the impossibility of turning away such hospitality, we fixed ourselves to the fact that we would soon be left with an impossible number of bitter tomatoes. As the night waned, the visitors slowly tapered off and I went to sleep.
Village of the Bitter Tomatoes
We had left urban Ouaga late and it was becoming increasingly apparent that there was no way we would reach the Ghanaian border before nightfall. As the sun dropped in the sky, we passed sprawling village on top of village, offering no choice spots to get the Stingray off the road and a place to pitch our tents. Desperately hoping for a few kilometers of bush in which to find an access road to a remote village or abandoned mining quarry, we were continuously offered nothing of the sort. We were forced to compromise. While camping in close proximity to a village can sometimes be rewarding and is often safer than camping in an isolated location, it often has its frustrating and awkward moments as two diverse cultures collide.
Finding a suitable camping spot can sometimes be a tricky and timely process. First and foremost, it is important to get the vehicle off the road and out of site before dark for two reasons: 1. Finding that a drunk and/or tired truck driver has ploughed into the back of your car in the middle of the night is never a thing one wants to wake up to; 2. Drawing superfluous and unwanted attention to yourself is not always enjoyable. Most often, this will mean inquisitive visits by local herders, farmers, travelers and the hordes of children that always accompany them. While this can be rewarding at times, it can quickly grow tiresome when there are many people and the language barrier is insurmountable.
In such situations, observing proper etiquette is vital. This often means, for example, that if you are preparing food or eating that you invite the visitors to join. This is only a problem when you are not prepared to cook for additional people. However, the minor inconvenience this causes is usually acceptable because most rural West Africans you encounter in such circumstances are likely to offer the same in return and many will go a great deal out of their way in order to be friendly and provide whatever help they think you need.
In this particular case, help meant bitter tomatoes. Not to be confused with cherry tomatoes, green tomatoes, or even the yellow unripe varieties you occasionally find sold on the side of the road, bitter tomatoes come from an entirely different family of vegetables altogether. While the closest locally found relative to the bitter tomato is the eggplant, it is neither large, nor purple nor mild in taste. The greenishly yellow bitter tomato vaguely resembles the bastard offspring that wild pomegranate and cauliflower would produce after a long night of cavorting under the cruel influence of Zum Zum watered down with nondairy condensed milk products. At its ripest, it looks shrunken and vaguely cadaverous, yet is as firm and dense as any mature tuber you are likely to encounter. It is also so bitter that if used improperly, a single vegetable could quite possibly turn an entire cauldron of chili at a Southern cookout unpalatable to a frenzied mob of famished hillbillies.
Upon arrival at the village of the bitter tomatoes, we were offered nearly a bucket full before we even had the chance to begin setting up our tents. As more and more villagers made their pilgrimage to our camp, which was fast becoming a mecca for caustic fruits, our pile of bitter tomatoes grew dangerously large. With no common language and the impossibility of turning away such hospitality, we fixed ourselves to the fact that we would soon be left with an impossible number of bitter tomatoes. As the night waned, the visitors slowly tapered off and I went to sleep.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Boromo, Burkina Faso
The Stingray had been spitting out noxious black fumes from the exhaust since we had left the sprawling urban metropolis of Bobo at noon. Refusing to keep a constant speed, the Stingray, our lifeline, was acting erratically, randomly speeding up and slowing down without sense or reason. Fuel was being consumed faster than fish balls at a Mandinka wedding ceremony. The sky, cluttering with dark and imposing clouds, must have figured this to be an opportune time to bless us with a torrent of water. Nate quickly said a prayer to Geebus, patron saint of busted cars and little square pegs. After successfully pulling off the two-minute tarp drill, we were back on the road with our overhead baggage protected from the elements. It seemed that at least in Burkina Faso, Geebus was on our side. However, Tuuli, insanely driving like Dale Earnhard Jr hopped up on bitter cola nuts and attaya, in the process of guiding the Stingray into the transit town of Boromo ensured that our tarp would be in tattered ruins upon arrival.
Famed for its elephants, we were sure Boromo also had to have a decent mechanic or two in town. We happily puttered into the first hotel we saw and, removing the plastic scraps that remained from our shredded tarp, unloaded our soaking wet bags from the roof rack and arranged for a mechanic to meet us in the morning. After surveying the hotel premises, which consisted of a spacious out-door patio surrounding a senseless cement platform, we hung our clothes out to dry and fell quickly into bed.
The next morning we were awoken early by the mechanics that we had ordered the night before. They fiddled with the engine a bit and finally decided that the spark plugs were the problem and needed changing. They removed the sparkplugs one by one, sanded the corrosive soot that had accumulated on the tips, and put them back into the engine. Upon restarting the car, the black smoke vanished quicker than a World Bank loan. Sure that the Stingray was only temporarily fixed and that this was a symptom of some even greater problem, I nodded in agreement with the mechanics, confident that my second grade level auto-mechanic suspicions would be validated in Ouagadougou, only a few hours away.
However, still in Boromo and with what we were told was a wonderful opportunity to see elephants by a twelve year old budding guide, we headed into the bush once again in the Stingray. Under the circumstances, this seemed a completely sensible decision. Obviously, how could one expect a vehicle to hold up on properly paved roads if it could not handle a 15 kilometer half submerged muddy trail through dense bush. Even the young guide understood this and repeatedly informed us that with his ten years experience guiding a donkey cart around this very same bush, he was clearly the best person to drive the Stingray. As right as he was, we still declined the offer and made it without incidence to the lodge that would undoubtedly be swarming with elephants. The central part of the lodge, consisting of a long covered terrace built locally out of wood with a bamboo bar in the corner overlooking a sizable river, was empty when we arrived, save for a small child intently fixing a dilapidated refrigerator. During the next hour, we sat and waited. The river flowed, the child continued to natter with the refrigerator and the bush continued to remain elephantless. This droning spell was finally broken when an elderly man from the lodge appeared to inform us that no elephants would likely be seen anywhere in the area at this time of year. We packed back into the Stingray, dropped our young guide off in Boromo and headed to Ouagadougou.
The Stingray had been spitting out noxious black fumes from the exhaust since we had left the sprawling urban metropolis of Bobo at noon. Refusing to keep a constant speed, the Stingray, our lifeline, was acting erratically, randomly speeding up and slowing down without sense or reason. Fuel was being consumed faster than fish balls at a Mandinka wedding ceremony. The sky, cluttering with dark and imposing clouds, must have figured this to be an opportune time to bless us with a torrent of water. Nate quickly said a prayer to Geebus, patron saint of busted cars and little square pegs. After successfully pulling off the two-minute tarp drill, we were back on the road with our overhead baggage protected from the elements. It seemed that at least in Burkina Faso, Geebus was on our side. However, Tuuli, insanely driving like Dale Earnhard Jr hopped up on bitter cola nuts and attaya, in the process of guiding the Stingray into the transit town of Boromo ensured that our tarp would be in tattered ruins upon arrival.
Famed for its elephants, we were sure Boromo also had to have a decent mechanic or two in town. We happily puttered into the first hotel we saw and, removing the plastic scraps that remained from our shredded tarp, unloaded our soaking wet bags from the roof rack and arranged for a mechanic to meet us in the morning. After surveying the hotel premises, which consisted of a spacious out-door patio surrounding a senseless cement platform, we hung our clothes out to dry and fell quickly into bed.
The next morning we were awoken early by the mechanics that we had ordered the night before. They fiddled with the engine a bit and finally decided that the spark plugs were the problem and needed changing. They removed the sparkplugs one by one, sanded the corrosive soot that had accumulated on the tips, and put them back into the engine. Upon restarting the car, the black smoke vanished quicker than a World Bank loan. Sure that the Stingray was only temporarily fixed and that this was a symptom of some even greater problem, I nodded in agreement with the mechanics, confident that my second grade level auto-mechanic suspicions would be validated in Ouagadougou, only a few hours away.
However, still in Boromo and with what we were told was a wonderful opportunity to see elephants by a twelve year old budding guide, we headed into the bush once again in the Stingray. Under the circumstances, this seemed a completely sensible decision. Obviously, how could one expect a vehicle to hold up on properly paved roads if it could not handle a 15 kilometer half submerged muddy trail through dense bush. Even the young guide understood this and repeatedly informed us that with his ten years experience guiding a donkey cart around this very same bush, he was clearly the best person to drive the Stingray. As right as he was, we still declined the offer and made it without incidence to the lodge that would undoubtedly be swarming with elephants. The central part of the lodge, consisting of a long covered terrace built locally out of wood with a bamboo bar in the corner overlooking a sizable river, was empty when we arrived, save for a small child intently fixing a dilapidated refrigerator. During the next hour, we sat and waited. The river flowed, the child continued to natter with the refrigerator and the bush continued to remain elephantless. This droning spell was finally broken when an elderly man from the lodge appeared to inform us that no elephants would likely be seen anywhere in the area at this time of year. We packed back into the Stingray, dropped our young guide off in Boromo and headed to Ouagadougou.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso
Tonight we slept in the parking lot of a hotel. Bobo, contrary to the belief widely held in the West, is a very large town. So large in fact that the Lonely Planet researcher paid to report on Bobo must have been blinded by the enormity of this town and in his incredulity was not able to remember a single landmark in a three square mile radius upon which to make basic map reading possible. While this helped us enjoy Bobo by offering scenic route after scenic route, by the time we found our intended destination, we were mighty hungry. Fortunately, we found pigeon. While we were looking for something more substantial, it satisfied a very basic need. That need was hunger. Since the recommended hotel was booked to the teeth, along with seemingly every other possible place we could possibly lay our head, we did not waste any time unloading the car. We walked straight back into town in search of eating, Burkina Faso style. This basic task proved indispensable in our evening plans. Map in hand, we were soon to wander the town in a manner so senseless that one would have thought the haze of a ten year ether habit had just lifted when we realized that that the crumpled map Nate had been so judiciously guarding in his pocket was in fact as worthless as a bag of three day old sour milk. To accomplish this now increasingly difficult task, we procured the help of one beggar child and a crazy man. At first, I thought that the crazy man was mute, but I was wrong. Later, I wished he was; not because he caused any problems, but just cause he talked a lot of nonsense. Not the nonsense that one can understand, just the mumbly jumbly stuff that can really put one off. Once we realized Bobo really did not have a lot to offer on a Sunday night, we headed back to the hotel. Being the rainy season, it started raining before we arrived. With nothing left to do but pitch our tents, we slept in the parking lot of the hotel.
Tonight we slept in the parking lot of a hotel. Bobo, contrary to the belief widely held in the West, is a very large town. So large in fact that the Lonely Planet researcher paid to report on Bobo must have been blinded by the enormity of this town and in his incredulity was not able to remember a single landmark in a three square mile radius upon which to make basic map reading possible. While this helped us enjoy Bobo by offering scenic route after scenic route, by the time we found our intended destination, we were mighty hungry. Fortunately, we found pigeon. While we were looking for something more substantial, it satisfied a very basic need. That need was hunger. Since the recommended hotel was booked to the teeth, along with seemingly every other possible place we could possibly lay our head, we did not waste any time unloading the car. We walked straight back into town in search of eating, Burkina Faso style. This basic task proved indispensable in our evening plans. Map in hand, we were soon to wander the town in a manner so senseless that one would have thought the haze of a ten year ether habit had just lifted when we realized that that the crumpled map Nate had been so judiciously guarding in his pocket was in fact as worthless as a bag of three day old sour milk. To accomplish this now increasingly difficult task, we procured the help of one beggar child and a crazy man. At first, I thought that the crazy man was mute, but I was wrong. Later, I wished he was; not because he caused any problems, but just cause he talked a lot of nonsense. Not the nonsense that one can understand, just the mumbly jumbly stuff that can really put one off. Once we realized Bobo really did not have a lot to offer on a Sunday night, we headed back to the hotel. Being the rainy season, it started raining before we arrived. With nothing left to do but pitch our tents, we slept in the parking lot of the hotel.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Sevare, Mali
We arrived back in Sevare with a number of exciting leads on possible HIV/AIDS related stories. While Nate was following a lead into AMPRODE SAHEL's project targeting young women at the countless car parks spread though out the region and Tuuli was looking into CESAC's pilot project in Mopti supporting HIV positive Malians, I felt it was time for us as a group to better understand the HIV/AIDS testing process in Africa by getting tested at a local clinic. (A detailed description can be found at the HIV/AIDS section of our website.) During the course of the testing, a volunteer at the clinic mentioned that they were suffering from a chronic shortage of spare blood in their reserves. After seeing the sacrifices and hard work the doctors and nurses were making at the clinic, I felt that donating blood in a region with incredibly limited access to even the most basic resources was the least I could do. Although I was not given any Be nice to me, I gave blood today stickers or sugar covered cookies (except by Nate), the basic procedure was the same. The only major difference I observed was that there was a used bed pan splattered with dried faeces unashamedly left under the bed next to the one I was lying on. Regrettably, the fan did not work and the seemingly endless parade of flies seemed to feel most at home on my face. Thankfully, I was in the room for no longer than twenty minutes. Leaving the clinic, I felt happy that I had possibly played a small part in making available a vital resource so evidently lacking in many of the areas we have so far travelled.
We arrived back in Sevare with a number of exciting leads on possible HIV/AIDS related stories. While Nate was following a lead into AMPRODE SAHEL's project targeting young women at the countless car parks spread though out the region and Tuuli was looking into CESAC's pilot project in Mopti supporting HIV positive Malians, I felt it was time for us as a group to better understand the HIV/AIDS testing process in Africa by getting tested at a local clinic. (A detailed description can be found at the HIV/AIDS section of our website.) During the course of the testing, a volunteer at the clinic mentioned that they were suffering from a chronic shortage of spare blood in their reserves. After seeing the sacrifices and hard work the doctors and nurses were making at the clinic, I felt that donating blood in a region with incredibly limited access to even the most basic resources was the least I could do. Although I was not given any Be nice to me, I gave blood today stickers or sugar covered cookies (except by Nate), the basic procedure was the same. The only major difference I observed was that there was a used bed pan splattered with dried faeces unashamedly left under the bed next to the one I was lying on. Regrettably, the fan did not work and the seemingly endless parade of flies seemed to feel most at home on my face. Thankfully, I was in the room for no longer than twenty minutes. Leaving the clinic, I felt happy that I had possibly played a small part in making available a vital resource so evidently lacking in many of the areas we have so far travelled.
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.
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