196 - Dogon Country - (Mali, West Africa)
A BAT SHIT ON LESLIE AS WE RETURNED TO OUR HOTEL FROM DINNER. This felt like a metaphor, a warning, or both. Could it be our recently purchased juju at work? Had we meddled with forces we could never hope to understand? Should we have splurged on the deluxe juju package, as opposed to the $6 dumbass whitey discount? Was it too late? What next? An exorcism? Was bat shit a sign of other shit to come?
Sign in the bathroom at an upscale restaurant. Translation: Please piss in the bowl.
I met a French Canadian gentleman from Montreal having the time of his life in Mali. He was a computer tech guy working in Bamako, taking a break to explore the country. Granted, he had a private vehicle with driver, a pinnace all to himself for his Niger trip, and a set itinerary to advance his progress. Being fluent in French didn’t hurt. Still, I was surprised by how enthusiastic he was. It just goes to show how you can’t take anyone's word for it. You have to see for yourself.
He had a story to tell. After he arrived in Bamako, an unknown man phoned his parents in Canada to inform them he’d been kidnapped. A ransom demand followed… gulp. It wasn't true, but the damage had been done. He theorized someone from work got hold of their phone number and passed it along to undesirable elements. I guess if he wasn’t jaded, why the hell should we be?
Just like Mauritania, Mali has issues with AQIM (Al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb). The Festival in the Desert (the impetus behind our visit to Mali) was moved from Esskane (50 km north of Timbuktu) to Timbuktu’s outskirts for security. (Sadly, the last festival was held in 2012.) Here again, my investigation into the situation ran the gamut between “You'd have to be out of your fucking gourd” to “Ain’t no thang but a chicken wang.” Super. It didn’t seem to deter others, so we went for it… or did we?
By the time we finalized our Dogon excursion, we'd spoken with no less than 5,142,333 different people about a guided trip into the heart of “D” land. Everyone told us the same thing. Literally. The homogenous nature of the information was a tad unsettling. Our only real requirement was that our guide be from the Dogon area, the idea being a visit to his home village would enhance our experience. When it was all said and done, we chose Gabriel, a guide from a village along our proposed route (Nombori). His price? 20,000 CFA ($40 US) per person, per day. The price for an excursion ranged between 15,000 to 25,000 CFA. Our original plan was to hike most of the way through Dogon in eight days, but we were hesitant to commit. We weren’t sure we were up for it. It had nothing to do with physical fitness. We were more concerned with the potential for boredom… yawn.
By then, neither of us was particularly enthused. Everything we’d read and heard pointed toward a tourist trap. We considered bagging the whole thing, but what would we do in the meantime? The festival was still two weeks away. Being fresh out of ideas, we figured, what the hell? Gabriel was fine with us paying him for four days in advance and then deciding to push on later.
On the morning of departure, Gabriel and his driver picked us up in the standard-issue West African Mercedes. After a two-hour drive, we arrived in Kani-Kombole. On paper, Dogon culture is fascinating. Their cosmology, religious ceremonies, ritual masks, art, and architecture are the stuff of exotic travel fantasies. Unfortunately, most of it appears to be hidden or even discarded. Although most folks are animists, there are significant minorities of Muslims and Christians. Time of year may have been a factor, but if you want to see a reenactment of a traditional dance, you must pay for the privilege. And shit ain't cheap. There were all types of artwork for sale, but everything seemed to be created for tourist consumption. Maybe someone with intimate knowledge and local connections could crack the code.
We thought this was the whole point of hiring a local guide, but Gabriel had little to offer as far as bridging the cultural gap. He was extremely nice and attentive but didn’t facilitate any kind of cultural enhancement. No other way to put it. We were sorely disappointed.
From Kani-Kombole, we walked for an hour and a half before stopping in Teli for lunch. Our lunch break lasted over two hours. During that time, we watched local women grind millet, witnessed young boys assist one donkey hump another with a hearty shove or two (donkey foreplay and the ensuing sex is mesmerizing), and took a short tour through a traditional (though not functional) Dogon village. Once upon a time, when the Dogon people needed protection from animals and intruders, their villages were erected as close to the sandstone cliffs of the Bandiagara Escarpment as possible. When the danger subsided, people moved farther down the valley. Even though the elevated villages are only maintained for tourists, they’re still worth exploring.
After lunch, we pressed on for another hour before halting in Ennde for the evening. Not exactly a strenuous undertaking, but arduous enough for most of Gabriel's clients. We ordered chicken for dinner. A victim was chosen and summarily executed. (That's what I call fresh!) During the dry season, you have the option to sleep on a rooftop, which we both found rather pleasant. No bright lights to obscure the night sky.
The next morning, we arose, ate breakfast, and set off. At 10:30 a.m., we arrived at our lunch destination. Gabriel was amenable to moving on, as we were still fresh and had zero desire to indulge in a three-hour lunch break. We strolled into the village where we were supposed to sleep around noon. The goal was to eat lunch and continue. I wouldn’t call the normal Dogon walking schedule a death march. Again, our break lasted over two hours—twenty minutes eating, the rest sitting on our asses staring blankly into oblivion. The rationale for long hiatuses concerns the midday sun. Sure, it was hot, but it wasn’t Death Valley. We both preferred moving slowly to not moving at all. And so I bitch on…
Before leaving, we visited a local hunter with a myriad of monkey skulls adorning the outside of his home. In that village, he was the bomb-diggity. Here, Gabriel took a moment to describe the composition of the village (Bagrou, I believe), encompassing three sections (neighborhoods)—one Muslim, one Christian, and one animist. Apparently, the Dogon found the recipe for religious harmony.
Going to Dogon? Don’t leave home without kola nuts. They’re prized by the locals and constitute a respectful token of gratitude for being allowed in the village. Also, they’re required for pictures.
We landed in Yaba-Talu on Christmas Eve. We’d gained elevation and were skirting the edge of the escarpment overlooking the vast plain extending into Burkina Faso. I went for a stroll to the cliff’s edge to have a look. I’d hoped there might be a place to camp nearby, but it turned out to be less than ideal. On the way, I walked through a burial site. I only found this out later when Leslie walked into the area and was enlightened by young girls pantomiming the “cutthroat” motion to indicate the site's significance. That's what I get for exploring solo. Dummy.
The next morning, the small village was awash with activity. It was Christmas day and some local men wanted to get started early… with rum. I'm pretty sure their Christmas began the night before. (Gotta love the Christians.) We pressed on. By midday, we reached Nombori, Gabriel's village. The walk took us through a small canyon and was, by far, the most topographically interesting area we’d passed. I hoped to see more of the same.
In Nombori, we began our lunchtime ritual of sitting and staring. The tediousness was wearing on us. Morale cratered. We hated to admit it, but the trip was going exactly how we'd hoped it would not. “Insipid” would be a good adjective. On top of that, we weren’t feeling well, likely related to the heat and the dust.
Things brightened when Gabriel invited us to visit the local church to witness the Christmas festivities. I investigated alone. Leslie wasn’t feeling up to it. The “church” consisted of a large wooden hut filled with benches. It was packed. Everyone was dressed up. At first, I stood in the doorway and listened to the congregation sing religious hymns in their local language, but Gabriel finally coaxed me into the back, where I squeezed myself onto a bench and enjoyed the proceedings. Magnificent.
It would’ve been impossible for me to stick out any more than I did. I felt privileged to sit back and watch these folks worship with all the alacrity of devout believers. In between songs, the preacher would give a sermon everyone was glued to. The highlight was the children, who at one point piled into the open space near the door and bellowed a religious hymn. This wasn’t the Dogon I’d envisioned, but it was delightfully authentic. I parted with a smile on my face. Of course, I forgot to bring my camera.
And then came lunch… and more sitting. We’d hoped to visit Gabriel's home, but an offer never materialized. I felt asking if we could join him would be impertinent. I don't think he spent much time with the folks, so I understood his wish for privacy. In his absence, Leslie and I had a “Come to Jesus” moment about our trek. We’d had enough.
I’m certain a trip could be worthwhile with more planning and research. First, I’d try to bring along someone versed in Dogon culture with ties to the community. A cultural anthropologist would be ideal, although finding one might be a teensy bit problematic. I didn’t blame Gabriel. It would be easy to chalk this up to a poor guide, but my instincts told me he’s the norm. The fact is, daily life in these villages isn’t terribly interesting outside festival/ceremony times unless you’re in a group and pay to see a ceremonial reenactment. And some ceremonies (i.e. the most interesting) are off-limits to foreigners. Tourists have been visiting the region for many years, so you might as well get over yourself. We were regarded with a sort of mild apathy. Children were the exception. I understand the indifference, but it doesn’t make for an engaging experience.
I also believe most tourists are content with the exact program that so bored us to tears (i.e. a snail's pace between long breaks). This was the case for the two Chinese women Gabriel had just escorted. I would surmise if you’re in relatively good shape, you could walk Dogon in four days (instead of eight) at a comfortable pace. I mentioned this to Gabriel. Although he thought we were “very fast,” he balked at such an absurd suggestion. Uh-huh. Also, the trip can be done in a vehicle, which may be cheaper (less time). I love hiking but prefer to do so when it’s necessary to enhance your experience. I’m not so sure this is the case in Dogon. So, after deliberation, we decided to return to the village we'd passed through the day before (Yawa) where we could theoretically have our driver pick us up and bring us back to Mopti.
Gabriel suggested we watch a group engaging in a bout of singing and dancing (more Christmas celebration) who we’d been hearing for hours. It was my turn to feel ill, so Leslie went without me. On the way back, Leslie broke the news to Gabriel. He didn’t take it well. When they returned, he pulled up a chair next to us and sank into a funk. We felt terrible but could see no alternative. We softened the blow by informing him and our hosts we were ill and needed to get to Mopti. They interpreted this as weakness—an inability to adapt to the terrain. In their view, we pushed ourselves too hard.
In some pictures, you’ll notice dwellings built into the cliff face, many impossibly high. These don’t belong to the Dogon but are instead attributed to the Tellem, denizens of the escarpment prior to Dogon settlement. The Tellem were reputed to be pigmies (this has been questioned) that assimilated into Dogon culture or disappeared from the region. No one seems to know. The Dogon believe the Tellem had magical powers, most notably the power of flight. This helps explain their precarious dwellings.
And so it was one more night before heading back to Mopti… sigh.
“We were in Mopti for one reason and one reason only: Dogon. Our interest in the region began while in Dhakla, on the edge of Western Sahara, headed for Mauritania. We crossed paths with a fellow traveler planning to spend several weeks trekking throughout the region. He spoke of villages tucked deep within a network of canyons, unscathed by western civilization, where the people held tight to their religion and traditions. Naturally, we were intrigued.
The Dogon people are best known for their mythology, mask dances, and unique architecture, all of which fascinated us. We met with at least seven guides while in Mali, and approached by a dozen others. It seems that everyone, and I do mean everyone, doubles as a guide. It was a lot to taken in. Most do a three-day circuit, but as usual, we wanted to craft our own plan; something guides and tour operators just don’t seem to understand.
We spent several days staring at the same maps, repeating the same conversations, until we were blue in the face. Dogon was starting to lose its luster, when along came Gabriel: a young guide from the village of Nombori. He was personable, flexible, and came at a reasonable rate. We discussed doing an 8-day trek, covering roughly 160km. He seemed genuinely excited, so we settled on 4-days up front, with the option for more, and off we went.
Gabriel was in for a surprise. As it turns out, most people walk a few kilometers, take a three or four hour lunch break, walk a few more, and then call it a day around 3pm. Not us. We weren’t paying to twiddle our thumbs. We do enough of that as it is. We wanted to experience all that the region had to offer, even if it meant walking from sunrise to sunset in order to do it.
Sadly, by day two, we realized that our adventure wasn’t so adventurous anymore. The ‘Dogon’ we read about is a thing of the past. Time has a way of changing everything, regardless of location. Sure, you can still see masked dances, but their put on solely for tourists, and in my opinion the beauty is lost when it’s strictly for financial gain. Some still practice their animist faith, but for the most part, missionaries have made their mark on much of the territory and any ancient traditions go on behind closed doors.
It wasn’t a total wash, though. We spent starry nights sleeping on rooftops, helped local children gather firewood, and listened to Gabriel share his thoughts on children: the more the merrier, because they’re cheap. This, coming from someone who just said he practically raised himself from age ten – I bit my tongue.
We landed in his village on Christmas day. Rich had the pleasure of attending a small church service and later that evening, I watched as the entire congregation gathered for a celebration of music and dancing. It was by far the most interesting and meaningful experience we had while in Dogon… if not Mali, for that matter.
We weren’t exactly giddy at the prospect of spending four more days, as previously discussed. I played the Grinch and broke the news to Gabriel. The three of us sat there, side by side in silence, as he sulked. I went with the “we’re not feeling well” approach, because saying, “This is a tourist trap” or “We wanted history and interaction, but instead you would rather listen to my ipod and F-off with your buddies, while we melt… and pay you to do it”, just sounds rude. Besides, it wasn’t a complete fabrication. We had been feeling slightly under the weather for days, presumably due to our diet.
In the end, he chalked it up to be exhaustion. We laughed it off and tried to explain that if we were moving at our own pace, we would have been able to complete the entire stretch in five days with minimal effort. He said we were crazy, which is true, but not for that statement. We agreed to disagree.”
Leslie Peralta, “Dogon (aka Do-Gone-Wrong)” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels