Le Pays Dogon

The sun beats down on the escarpment, imposing its will upon the sun-baked foreigners who hobble along its ancient paths in search of obscure mysteries. A path's mystery lies in its subtlety, in its ability to guard secrets from the untrained eye (the eyes of slave raiders, enemies or Western tourists, depending on the century). Taking a lesson or two from the goats, we hop from rock to rock, our bodies tender with unfamiliar sensations that arise from the physical strain of scaling cliffs; we sweat like oysters on a half shell, ready to be slurped up by the Dogon god Amma. We look like pirates, in head scarves and dreadlocks. Crumbs of ancient lore are sporadically tossed on the path by our guide Harouna, like pieces of fresh meat for a pack of hyenas; he knows that these crumbs will keep us at the peak of our concentration. Our imagination will take care of the rest.

With the grace of immaculate circumstance, out of the six languages spoken between us, only one of us could actually understand Harouna at any one time. Much of our intellectual understanding of Dogon was lost like a broken pearl necklace down the sides of the cliff, through our slobbery translations that echoed in the canyons like a fucked up game of telephone. However, the magic of this land, with its all of its drama was not lost. Its energy spoke clearly, as we howled universally understood animal noises up into the cracking rock faces, as we gazed dreamily at the birds flying kamikaze missions from the top of the escarpment down into the African plains as far as the eye could see, as we treaded softly through millet fields tucked away in water carved valleys, as we froze like the rocks under our feet in the shape of yoga poses, as we swam in waterfalls and pools under ancient Tellem ruins, and as we smiled at its people who greeted us and each other with enthusiastic sing song rhymes. Beer brewed out of locally grown millet, cliff-top villages and night markets that last until five in the morning... these people have more style than Paris ever dreamed of.

Knowing our propensity toward beer, Harouna invited his buddy Daniel to come along and carry a twenty liter container of millet beer to lighten our spirits and to give us strength. Daniel, albeit his knowledge of every millet beer wench in a forty kilometer radius of wherever we were, did not speak a lick of French, English, or Fula. Nevertheless, he happily communicated with us through spontaneous dances, yelling something that sounded like "Attaque!" and earnestly asking: "Madame, Ça va?" Despite my best efforts to respond affirmatively to Daniel, the physical strain and yet another African bacteria upsetting my stomach, I started to feel very ill on day three (apparently I smelled very bad again). I decided to get a ride on a motorcycle down the escarpment to the next village on our itinerary from a guy who smelled like motor oil and really wanted to give me a back massage. When we arrived in the village of destination, I hopped off the bike, hobbled two steps towards the campement, and puked my brains out to the sheer horror of the small children who had run up excitedly to greet me. A couple of hours later, I was smiling at the comic relief of running a 100 degree fever in such a paradise. The children were also laughing at me, as they pointed and made puking noises. An old grandmother offered me a benediction for my health and some tea. With a constant ebb and flow, I often experience bliss and revulsion at the same time. I can not escape either beauty or misery. I am beginning to lose the will to escape even the miserable experiences; at least they are letting me know that I am alive.
* posted by Tuuli at 1:18 PM