195 - Speed Boat to Grumpyville (Mopti, Mali)
WE’D BEEN ADVISED TO RISE EARLY TO CATCH A BUS FROM DJENNE TO MOPTI, though we’d also been told we’d likely have to wait for the bus to fill up. So, we slept in and arrived around 7:00 a.m… just in time to watch people pack into a bush taxi headed for Mopti. Poop. Also, we could’ve purchased a ticket for said taxi at a nearby office. Double poop. That oversight cost us six hours, the time it took for a small van to acquire enough passengers to proceed (“enough” meaning jam-packed). At least we met some interesting Peace Corps volunteers who helped counter the ennui.
Upon reaching the main road, one of the van's tires disintegrated, the sole criterion for replacement. The driver flagged down a passing bus, which carried on within minutes of breakdown. Super. The ride to Mopti was relatively smooth but sitting around in Djenne for close to seven hours didn’t bolster morale. Each subsequent bus ride pulverized a little more of our soul.
When we disembarked in Mopti, neither of us was in the mood for the fusillade of touts that began their assault the moment our feet touched the ground. (Taxi? Pinnace? Dogon? Hotel?) I felt like tearing out a gob of hair and screaming. Leslie, a mild-mannered female, appeared as if she might start swinging. We managed to negotiate the onslaught and make our way to a hotel with the help of a local guide… that gave us his card… and offered to guide us to Dogon. (Days later, when I ran into this gentleman again, he demanded I return his card.) After getting a room, I loitered in the lobby area talking with another Malian gentleman… that gave me his card… and offered to guide me to Dogon.
They’re relentless for good reason. Desperation does that. Too much supply. Too little demand, most of which comes from affluent tourists who’ve pre-booked their tour, leaving little for those offering services ad hoc. It was difficult to watch. What can you do? I honestly don't know. Avoid Mali altogether? Throw money at people like a Pez dispenser? There’s no real answer, which makes the situation so troubling. Pangs of compunction followed by bouts of frustration. That pretty much summed up our daily experience. Fun.
Time to research. We wanted another Niger boat trip in the Mopti area, and we wanted to head to Dogon at some point… probably. The more we read, the less enthusiastic we became. In fact, enthusiasm was becoming a scarce commodity. We also had ATM issues that augmented anxiety levels. (Neither of my cards functioned, so I had to borrow vast sums from my Sugar Mama.)
We arranged for an afternoon pinnace excursion to nearby villages with a man we'd met the previous evening, assuming we were dealing with the pilot himself. Nope. Instead, he had a man for the job, a man who spoke nary a word of English and was as excited about the journey as I am about mashed potatoes. Super.
Off we went. The boat had an engine, and the engine was running, but our pace was glacial. Inside the frenetic bay area, this made sense. It was chaos. But our velocity remained steady for the duration. I could’ve swum faster. We found this perplexing, as we thought we were headed to a village downriver. This was technically correct. It just wasn’t very far downriver, and more like across the river from Mopti. Was this normal, a cost-saving measure, or yet another consequence of price negotiation? We paid for a two-and-a-half-hour trip. We were getting a two-and-a-half-hour trip come hell or high water. Sure, it was barely a mile, but who’s counting, right?
The village was hostile territory. We felt like intruders, which we were. Oh, look. More white assholes. Cool. Our chauffeur wasn’t from there. He knew no one, so he was as unwelcome as us. A young woman approached and “requested” I take her photograph. I knew what was coming. She persisted. I relented. Here's my dramatization:
"Mister. Photo! Photo!” (She strikes pose with smile. I hesitate.)
“Photo! Take photo! Mister! (Strike pose. Crack smile.)
“Mister, photo!”
(I depress shutter.)
(She extends an open palm.)
“Money!"
(I giggle.)
Uh-huh. I did a dramatic recreation of her behavior and then erased the pictures from my camera. Onlookers found that quite amusing. You can’t get much more jaded than that. Sheesh. After a short walk through the village, we pulled the ripcord. I can’t say I blame them. Imagine how you’d feel if someone brought strangers to your home to have a look around and provided no compensation whatsoever. Awkward. I half expected someone to scream, “Get 'em” right before getting my ass kicked. These folks were getting the raw end of the tourist deal. They’d had enough.
We climbed back aboard and tore out of there like a snail on Splenda, skipping the next village for obvious reasons. We laughed it off and enjoyed a river sunset, so it wasn’t a total loss. Still, this shit was wearing on us… fuck.
Courtesy of oliviersalgado.
“Think getting to D’Jenne is a challenge? Try leaving. The only form of public transportation in the area is by bush taxi. If you’re not familiar with the term, it’s usually an old minivan or station wagon that’s been converted to carry as many people or animals as possible, and runs on a flexible schedule. They only depart when full, so your wait could range from minutes to days, depending on your luck.
We were told to arrive shortly after sunrise to secure our spots, which we did. Within minutes we learned that our seats were assigned to the second taxi, as the first one was already full. Since the first filled up quickly, I assumed that ours would too, but that was not the case; I secretly blamed the juju.
We spent six long hours sitting next to a donkey cart, waiting for fellow passengers to trickle in. We were joined by three Peace Corp volunteers headed to Sevare, just outside of Mopti; two were stationed in Mali and one in Cameroon. It helped to pass the time, and all were extremely personable and easygoing; reminiscent of friends from home. It’s a shame we hadn’t crossed paths earlier.
We squeezed in, crossed the ferry, and made it 30 kilometers to the main road before getting a flat. We waited at the intersection and eventually boarded a passing bus headed to the same location. We’re still unsure if this was arranged by our driver or if they just had pity on us; either way we were relieved.
The bus ride wasn’t good by any stretch of the imagination, but compared to previous rides, it was a walk in the park. Conversations void of pantomiming and an occasional breeze works wonders.”
Leslie Peralta, “Mopti On The Mind” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels