Rainy Season

There are three distinct seasons in Mali: hot, cold and rainy. Hot season is an agonizing torture. It is the time when the entire countryside shuts down, reduced to hiding from the sun and napping for most of the daylight hours. Cold season is a misnomer. It has nothing to do with our normal understanding of the word “cold” but is merely a reference to our new understanding of the word “hot”, redefined during the previous hot season. Cold season might be renamed “sleep season”, as it is the only time it is truly comfortable to do this at night. The rainy season is a mixture of the two, hot days and relatively pleasant nights except, here’s the catch, everything is damp and covered in red mud.

Rain in Mali is an intimidating experience in itself. It is rarely the gentle New England rains that come in and patter all day, silently renewing the landscape with life giving moisture. There is none of this rainy day spent relaxing with a book curled up on the couch which you have in your mind’s eye. African rains are as chaotic as everything else here. Anyone who has ever been in a thunderstorm on a mountaintop knows the feeling. Typically coming out of nowhere, a blast of wind announces that you have mere seconds to find shelter before all hell will break loose. The first crack of thunder, originating from somewhere approximately ten feet from your ears, indicates that your scramble for cover has been much too slow. The sky opens up, the water hits the ground far too fast to be absorbed and it all starts heading downhill toward the river (directly through our neighborhood) taking everything imaginable from trash to dead animals to small children right along with it.


Currently, we are at the tail end of the rainy season. This is a monsoonal flow which typically lasts for three to four months (we are definitely on the long end of that estimate in Bamako this year). It does not necessarily bring rain every day, just most of them. It is hard to explain the disgustingness of a rainstorm here to anyone who grew up in Europe or America. The roads are already kept muddy year round by the human and animal waste flowing freely down them (you never fully appreciate pavement until faced with this situation) but add to that the rains of rainy season and it’s especially repulsive.

Picture a land without trash collection. Where anything one throws out literally ends up in the streets just outside one’s home. Picture a land where all toilets flush into those same streets. O.k., don’t picture toilets per se but picture all pee produced by a household leaving that house through a shallow trench dug to channel liquids under the concession wall and out into the street. While this may take away the urine of any given household, it simply joins it to the larger pee stream from other houses. Everybody lives downstream from somebody. “My pee flows by your house and your pee flows by my house, the more we get together the happier we’ll be…” Sure, here in Bamako there are some sewers on the main roads but not everywhere. It is an open sewer system (literally, you can easily fall in if you are not paying attention) and serves more as a rodents highway than to alleviate any sewage issues. Smells great, too.


Our neighborhood is in a low-lying area of town just next to the Niger river. This means that it floods out with even the slightest rains. Daily we are forced to jump from one little muddy island to the next in an effort to get out of our house (see: first picture) without having to wade through the sewer water running through the streets. We wish it could be said that we were always successful but that would be lying. Some days the rain comes so hard that we are utterly cut off. The only way out is to roll up the pant legs (we never wear shorts here, that is far too risqué) and wade out across the temporary lakes of vile sludge.

One morning Mark was wading along knee deep through a main street of Bamako, drinking yogurt from a plastic bag and thinking, “Well, this can’t get much more surreal,” only to be passed by not one but two dogpaddling rats (cue the carnival music). Another time he and a cabbie marveled at the temporary fast flowing river they were plowing through so deep the water seeped in the doors of the taxi when a moto rode by (feet up on the handlebars to avoid dragging in the water) and sent a cascade of filth in through the window all over them. No reaction. The window was silently rolled up and they stared straight ahead for the rest of the ride, neither wanting to mention the horror they had just experienced.

(A woman wading across what had been a road and soccer field mere hours, minutes actually, earlier - in fact, all these photos were taken within hours of each other. The first one is our front door.)

ATT Supercup in Mopti

Mopti would have been quite uneventful (not to mean boring, just relaxing) if we had not decided to go to the A.T.T. Supercup final. This is an annual soccer tournament during which the different regional champions play in a championship tournament. It is named in honor of the president, Amadou Toumani Toure, a.k.a. A.T.T. It was fantastic.

In order to get anyone to the stadium instead of just watching at home, the event was free. This fit nicely into budget of Peace Corps volunteers and Malians alike. The stadium was packed. Barely any toubabs present, only “real travelers” like us and locals. Our new home, Bamako, was taking on Segou. It was a clearly pro-Segou crowd and we were sitting in the heart of the Segou fans. Mike and Sarah were recruited to root for Bamako since they were staying with us. Susan and Rabayah took a neutral stance.

Right behind us guys were making tea on the charcoal stove they had brought (a common sight in American stadiums, right?). We were making friends. Bamako was winning 1-0 at the half.















Then the clouds started rolling in. The sky went through one of the most beautiful progressions of colors ever witnessed. Going from clear to cloudy to pink, red and finally black.

The second half began just after the wind. Another sandstorm! They played on. We made the call to stay through the rain as Susan’s house is literally next to the stadium and we knew we could change into dry clothes soon. The rain came. It got more intense, embers flew everywhere from the tea set. We couldn’t believe they were still playing since it was raining so hard that we could not see the far side of the stadium. Then, right as someone mentioned that it was getting downright biblical, maybe in response to that comment, the lights went out. All hell broke loose. We headed for the gates, only to find them locked shut. Perfect. Mark, Sam, Sarah, Mike and Susan (Rabayah had headed out just before the worst weather) huddled in the tunnel with about eighty men crouching to avoid the rain by hiding behind one another but, at the same time, dancing to the ubiquitous African drummer in an attempt to keep warm. Lightning flashed every few seconds, eerily illuminating the scene at semi-regular intervals, as if with a glance to the side would see Andy Dufresne attempting an escape from Shawshank prison. What would have been a disaster in most places in the world turned into a party the likes to which we’d never been. We stayed for a long, long time in the tunnel, cold but whooping it up with the crowd until it became apparent that the lights would not come back on, the game would not resume, the rain would not get any warmer. People started to flee, jumping the fence, heading back into the stadium, anywhere but the tunnel.

Sam, Mark and Susan bailed, searching the empty, darkened seats for Mike and Sarah who had left not long before. They could not be found and we hoped that they remembered how to get back to Susan’s. We waded across ankle deep streams of rainwater (read: fast flowing raw sewage) to the house and found them. Each of us took turns washing the filth of the road off ourselves in the shower, completely clothed.

Then the lights did come back on after all. The rain had stopped. Mark and Mike went back to the stadium to catch the end of the game. Bamako was just wrapping up the win, although Segou had its chances to tie it in the closing seconds. They headed back to the Segou fan section just in time to witness the fusillade of rocks, batteries, flaming charcoal, etc. launched toward the Bamako players who were taunting the losing fans with the ATT Cup. Now that’s what we picture when someone says “So, there I was, and a championship soccer game in Africa...” Perfect.



(sweet pre-game graffiti outside the Stade de Barema Bocum)

Elephant hunt

We had some enough time to squeeze in a bit of a safari. We stopped in Douentza and hired a Land Cruiser for a day, heading to Boni and then southward for a chance to spot some of the last of the wild desert elephants on the planet. It had rained the night before and ended up being a bit sloppy on a number of levels, to say the least.

Apparently, the only thing that could match up to our driver’s surliness was his ability to get his vehicle stuck through his own ineptitude. We drove around for two and a half hours without seeing any elephants, only large piles poo that made it clear that there were elephants around (or we were in Jurassic Park).










Then we got a flat. No problem. This was unsurprising as a road simply did not exist, we were bushwacking. Unfortunately, while we might have expected a flat outfitter clearly did not, or we should say he was not sufficiently worried enough to have checked his gear before departure. Changing your tire in the heat of the Sahel is never pleasing but when the spare that is put on is just as flat as the original one must simply shake one’s head. There was nothing else to do, not for the four hours this issue took to be resolved (by our guide walking to a village and getting a bicycle pump).

As we packed up and drove out we happened to come across a lone bull elephant. It was actually quite breathtaking. It was huge, bigger than expected, a really cool experience. As far as our driver was concerned, it was a done deal, we disagreed. We headed back and, during a heated argument about a revised price which we felt we were entitled to, we ended up going to see his boss. The Malian who owned the car honestly did not see the problem: you saw an elephant and you didn’t sleep outside, what’s the problem? It took Mark a bit of time to try and calmly explain that we did want to pay, it was simply that we did not feel it was just to pay the full amount when 30% of the time was spent marooned and not accomplishing our goals due to the ill-preparedness of the outfitters we were to pay. This is where the Western sensibilities and those of the African fail to see eye to eye. While we could see his point that we were paying to go see elephants, he could not understand that we were paying a guide separately for the elephants and his car was for driving (i.e. moving on inflated tires) towards that goal. « Je ne veux pas payer pour sortir en brousse et de lire mon livre dans votre mobili cassée ! » “I don’t want to pay to go out in the countryside and read my book in your broken car!” Mark said. This discussion with the grand patron turned out to be the most exciting part of the day.

(tracking the bull)

Gao

After Dogon, we were back in Mopti for just long enough to convince Susan that she needed to cross Gao off “the list,” so it was the five of us that headed out for a night trip “up north”. This is the furthest east town you would really ever want to go to in Mali. That is, until you get there and then you realize that you probably passed the most eastern town you would ever want to go hundreds of miles back to the west (maybe it was Mopti or Segou, could be Bamako or was it Dakar or Philadelphia, hard to be sure) and just didn’t know it at the time.

There is little to draw one to Gao except for the bragging rights of saying you have gone all the way out there. Sites and activities are slightly limited per square mile. We actually had to pass through Timbuktu Region on our way there and back, stopping on the return leg during a horrific sandstorm followed immediately by a rainstorm during which it arguably rained harder inside the bus than outside (but only on one side of the bus, the side that Mark and Sam happened to be sitting on).


There is a sweet view from the Rose Dune which involves a great pirogue ride out to it, during which Mike did a nice little photo essay of the dead animals we passed on the riverside.







There is another World Heritage Site at Askia’s Tomb and there is the unlabeled marker of the prime meridian which, of course, can actually be enjoyed much closer to civilization (but when it is out in the Sahara that’s pretty cool).





Which brings us to a hilarious topic of conversation during our travels - the notion of tourist vs. traveler. We often had a good laugh when we would come across other toubabs (white people) because more often than not they would simply ignore us, trying not to make eye contact or in any way acknowledge that there might be another toubab present. This amused the hell out of us. If you really want to go to Africa and think you are the first and only white person to ever have been to the region go ahead, just know that you are an idiot. We spent a good bit of our time ridiculing each other in the manner of the “real travelers” who sneer at mere “tourists” and are put off their lunch even knowing they have to share the planet with such posers. These are the folks who define their personal worth by how long they’ve been out (whatever they think is longer than you have been), how many places they’ve been that no one else has (zero) and how much more they can endure than anybody else (usually just the insufferable pissing contests that are each others’ conversations). It would have been so great to see one of these “real travelers” as we descended the Rose Dune outside of Gao and tell them, “Golly, that’s a whopper of a view up there! What a great picnic spot.” Of course we did not see any of these hardcores since “real travelers” wouldn’t be caught dead on the Rose Dune, that’s for tourists...


(pictured: tourists on the Rose Dune)

Dogon

After checking out Mopti (which has a mud mosque to rival Djenne’s if you don’t have the time or the inclination towards uncomfortable transport to go to Djenne itself), we headed to the true “Crown Jewel of West Africa”, as far as we could tell, Dogon Country.

The Dogon people live among the cliffs that stretch for 200km more or less from Douentza to Bankass. They retreated there with the coming of Islam in an attempt to avoid conversion. They moved into hard to reach crannies in the cliff face, replacing the earlier Tellum people who had lived in such ridiculously inaccessible spots among the cliffs that the Dogons believe to this day that the Tellum could fly. Without the vines that likely made those higher cliff dwellings possible in more lush times, it is easy to see where they would get that idea. Most of the Dogon now live atop or bellow the actual cliff. We spent a few days hiking in the area and never got tired of the amazing landscape.


Our days went like this: eat, walk, eat, nap, walk, eat, sleep. On our very first day we were pinned down by a fantastic sandstorm. Luckily, we were already up in a deserted cliff dwelling and took shelter there. Not surprisingly, four kids from New England had never hidden from a sandstorm in an abandoned cliff dwelling before. You don’t get much more foreign than that. Before and after the storm were fantastic views and during the storm had an eerie quality all its own.



The striking vistas and freakish Dogon architecture could have kept us enthralled for weeks, not just days.







There were some spots that were a little dicey for anyone afraid of heights.






During rains we had to hide until it was dry enough to scramble up the slick rocks of the cliff. Often, the rains were so heavy we had to ford streams that would not have been there at any other time of the year. In one of the most surreal moments of the trip, the four of us forded a small river only to be approached by a crocodile as we put our footwear back on. It swam right up to the edge of the water where we had just exited. Had we known beforehand that there were crocs we’d probably still be standing on the other side waiting for dry season! A few moments later another crocodile swam towards us, this one albino. Very cool.

(Click on the photo and try to spot the white croc)

Djenne

The Lonely Planet guide to West Africa opens up its description of this town with, “One of the premier sites in West Africa…is worth as much time as you can give it.” This says a lot about West Africa. While definitely a cool town with the world’s largest mud building, the giant mosque at the center of town, we feel we may have to disagree with LP on this one. Since it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site, nobody can construct a building in town out of anything but mud, making it definitely interesting and visually striking: but an extended stay hardly seemed necessary.

The highlight for us was visiting with our friend Stacy. How she lives among the constant harassment of the omnipresent touts is at once a mystery and a testament to her fortitude.
Here's Sam being approached by one of Djenne's smallest and cutest touts. We’d had enough of them after a few hours. Wandering the streets during the days and hanging at her house at night was great. Stacy had just returned from the States and so, while Sarah and Mike might not have been as awestruck, Sam and Mark were completely captivated by her stories of good beer and cheese!


We then headed to Mopti. Using Susan’s house as a home base, we explored the eastern (known as “north”, although I am sure Mike Cahill, the sole remaining member of Peace Corps Malitania, bristles at the mention of a location being “north” when it is really just east) part of the country. Here’s Sam and Susan, looking giddy as schoolgirls at a slumber party to be reunited. In point of fact, looking way too much like giddy school girls at a slumber party, way too much. More from Mopti later…

Mike & Sarah Visit (East of Bamako)

In certain circles, Mali is known as “the Crown Jewel of West Africa” for the amazingly cool stuff that can’t be found anywhere else. We took this designation with a grain of salt both because we had never been out east, where the amazing stuff is supposed to be, and because we had not seen anything for which it was worth coming all the way to Mali on a vacation yet. Considering each “Paris of West Africa” that we had visited along the coast of Africa was progressively worse than the one before (there were a number of claimants to this title, from Dakar to Conakry to Freetown), we harbored some doubts as to the veracity of this latest claim. Since the family was in from America and since we had already visited the touristically underwhelming west, we headed out east to see if those who travel in the dubious “Crown Jewel of West Africa” crowd have ever actually travelled to Mali.

Team photo:
Let's break this up into managable pieces...