Dog Days

The news from Mali is likely to change. A few thousand years ago, the Dogon people chased the Tellem people from the cliffs of Bandiagara. The Tellems were short - pygmies - and they lived high in vertical cliffs. The only way they could have accessed these homes was either with vines or magic. This according to the Dogon. The Dogon were being pursued themselves by the Fulani. Hoping to escape aggressive Islam expansion, they ousted the Tellem from their vertical sanctuaries. The Tellem kept on running, pretty much to Uganda. The Tuaregs kept marauding the North-East, bent self-governance. Why wouldn't they?

A few thousand years later, the Tellem are still somewhere in Uganda. They are still viewed with suspicion - much like most human aberrations - but they are safe. To be underestimated, is their greatest strength - everyone knows short people rule the world. Think beyond the Chinese. The Dogon are struggling. After years of living a rather exciting and insular life in the cliffs, they realised that the Industrial West had slowly taken over the world. Their brief stint in tourism, showing these Westerners their extraordinary homeland - the Tellem may disagree - has been put paid to by the Tuareg. The Tuareg people, or 'rebels' as they are now known as, continued pressing for a chunk of the Sahara called their own. Tourists became nervous that the whole region would become unstable. They were right. Although no-one can offer confirmation, the terrorist group Al-Qaeda - the biggest cowards and most aimless of the lot - ask impressionable Tuaregs to kidnap tourists and hand them over so Al Qaeda can get some cash out of their governments.

This makes the Dogon hate the Tuaregs even more, even though it is a small minority of rogue soldiers, probably looking for employment after their boss called Gaddafi was deservedly shot in the head last year. While this is at least a legitimate threat, the Dogon are still wary of the Tellem. Why wouldn't they be? Magic and mischief always trumps fundamentalism.

We journeyed through this situation for a few nights. It was a mixed bag. Exhilarating for the most part, but never quite managing to shake that feeling of being a target. It's not a nice feeling. It encroaches on you through waking and sleeping hours, and sometimes manifests illogically in very strange times. On our final morning in Dogon Country, we awoke to three men huddled round a radio.

"The President has been kidnapped."

The one thing we dreaded and meticulously planned itineraries to avoid and spoke about into the small hours of the night, that ghastly concept of being kidnapped.

And so, of all the tourists, volunteers, aid workers, dodgy oil men, celebrities and, really, everyone else; the President was kidnapped. And, that's what the place throws you. Right in the bowels of the doldrums, you can have a little chuckle to yourself when it's truly made clear that nothing makes sense.

McArthur Pratt in The Ear of Africa

His grip is steady when he shakes your hand. When he mildly affirms: "My name is McArthur Pratt," you do not doubt it. Before a dusty waif can, McArthur puts out his own hand, beseechingly. The child hands over his last remaining penny, bemusedly. In a flurry of limbs, swifter than the child's eyes, two pennies clatter in the bottom of his enamel tin. The child peers in. When he dares look up, McArthur is not there.

His peripheral vision is potent and detailed. If you ever ride in a bus next to McArthur, you will have that perpetual 'watched' sensation. When it is too much to handle and you turn to face him you will find McArthus is asleep. When you are certain he is asleep, he will gently inform you which Shakespearean line gave life to the title of the novel you are pretending to read. When you turn to say: "How did you ever?" - McArthur seems to be snoozing.

Varney Hardy, Frederick Collins II and Theophilus Seeton are some of McArthur's friends. They all grew up in Monrovia and they know what happens when a child soldier grows into an adult.  McArthur is happy to confirm he is Liberian, he will show how you how the Senegalese bus company printed his ticket under the name 'Liberian Pratt'. McArthur and his friends know what it feels like to elect the first African female to be their leader. They hate litter, after she declared war on it. McArthur knows Africa is not an easy place place for those who dislike waste and those who hate to be herded onto public transport like a goat. He detests these things with equal fervour.

McArthur found there was no work in Liberia. He took a bus from Monrovia to Dakar - 1 174km, 3 days, in search of something better.. After Dakar did not work out for McArthur, he booked another bus ticket, right down the artery of the ear of Africa, Dakar to Accra - 2 139km, 6 days. Every time the bus braked, he would be flung into the stairwell. Swathes of dust billowed for 100hours, through the dishevelled exterior, right into McArthur's nose. He held screaming babies for their weary mothers and avoided conversation as he was assumed a local who could at least speak French. He couldn't. And, in all five countries the bus braked to a rattling halt, McArthur was flung into the dusty stairwell because that is the seat he was allocated on his ticket.

He knows resignation is the essential attribute to endure this place. He is more keenly aware, though, that resignation is also suicide. The day he stops striking his contrarian chord, will be his last. The power to grumble about the trivial - dust, litter, customer's rights, civility, noise pollution - is the power to know he has dignity.

McArthur knows Africa rests uneasily. There are big problems skulking through the land. There are, he realises, too many to be counted. When he does think about everything, a forceful and lifeless substance oozes from end to end. Arica has not spared McArthur her sorrows and wretchedness. But, right now, if he had two minutes with his president, UN, the AU, any Western turret of goodwill and assistance, or some other flighty deity, he would ask for a better bus seat.

Wrapping Up Mauritania/Senegal

Here's a little video of our river campaign: Make sure you crank the volume. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYQCzaDwvCs&context=C4ef979dADvjVQa1PpcFP6sI22Z5lVO4jMBMwKCrG24U-XDwjJyh8=

We're into Mali now. Senegal and Mauritania are dust in the wind. Have a look at this for even more dust in the wind: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_KnLCTsAq0&context=C4508b88ADvjVQa1PpcFP6sI22Z5lVO70mG8GNQEwgDACZa7Rxda0= 

Some Numbers

Borders crossed: 3

Days on the road: 56

4am rousings by Imams: 56:

Mileage: 6 519km

Monies raised to date: R13 150

Modes of transport used: 6 (camel, horse-carriage, donkey-cart, pirogue, sept-place taxi, bus)

Combined percentage of bodies sun-burned: 196%

Childrens’ hands shaken: 346

Number of different bacteria on average child’s hand: 13

No. carrots eaten: 2

No. carrots seen after food poisoning: 3 (?)

No. tins of sardines consumed: 33

No. Islamic Holy Cities visited: 2

Lashes received in town square: 0

The Way

Looking Forward

First impressions of Mali

Here is McAlpine eating a boiled egg at 4am in a garage. Those are dust flakes. In the second image you will notice how he discarded the shells on the ground. 19 hours later we had crossed our third frontier. 

Emissaries of Night (Part II)

                                      ALONG THE SENEGAL RIVER (PART II)

Four days of failed negotiations were only mitigated by their Catholic Mission operating its own bar, on site. Prospects of a boating trip were diminishing fast. Second only to the lagers consumed with the son of the priest.

And then, one of the pilgrims – the more OCD one – remembered some sage words from a dear friend and staunch benefactor of the mission. “Africa is most efficient at the least opportune times,” the wise man once said, free of charge. Indeed, their final, twilight attempt at negotiating proved the most effective. The pilgrim who doesn’t suffer from agro phobia – the one who is skilled in deal-making – pulled off a miraculous majority vote from the pirogue shareholders:

Eight hours later, in the morning dimness, they were in a boat, with two paddlers and some tea leaves, thrown in as a last minute bargaining chip. It was just as well, for the supplies brought personally by the pilgrims wouldn’t have covered all outcomes:

Supply List

Baguettes – 4

Flagon of wine – 1

Apricot jam – some

Chlorine tablets – lots

The elements were only too happy to greet the four men in a boat. A headwind, unremitting heat, and a big, powerful river flowing in the opposite direction were some of the grander challenges. But, other, mysterious quandaries soon gathered around the wooden pirogue. Different greetings for different countries on each riverbank flummoxed them – particularly the traveller who often forgets things in places. Large insects, small amphibians and regular-sized children often found their way into the pilgrims’ tent, clothing and boat. And, of course, their old nemesis, that bloody huge star around which the earth, and Senegal, travels.

Le Soleil, as it goes by in the arid regions, confined them to the margins of the day. Early mornings, late nights and some midnight disturbances from the gamut of birdlife along the river were commonplace. To be called upon by birds of the feathery kind was a far more savoury experience for the rambling duo. The sun, too, stimulated much debate, for there were many hours beneath it to occupy with debating. Various topics were discussed:

How did it get so round?

Why did it get so vicious?

What would be the most appropriate thing to shout at it, the moment before it consumed one during The Big Crunch?

They drifted past other oddities; girls who slammed their brothers’ heads with iron pots and rioting donkeys, flinging their passengers skyward while onlookers laughed uncontrollably.  They passed such varied and prolific waterfowl that a Jacana stew would have been eaten with relish rather than regret and in the final stages they were treated to that most distinguished of welcoming committees that all wild travellers hanker after – the vervet monkey troop.

More surprising, however, was their realisation that this parched strip of the southern Sahara, satiated by this essential flow of turquoise water, didn’t really ‘need’ anything. On the contrary, the river dwellers were far keener on giving to these two ashen shapes emerging from the haze in their upstream battle. Mats were rolled out, pots were donated, lunches were prepared, daughters were offered; all in exchange for some conversation in rudimentary French and, of course, mirth.  There was laughter from both banks and on all sides. And, it wasn’t long before the penny dropped. The only ‘thing’ the two pilgrims could really disseminate was some light relief. To this end, their past presence was sufficient.

150kms later, or seventeen villages, their destination was in their sights. Cloaked in a sandy fog, a feeling of inevitability gripped the windswept emissaries.  After six days opposing the current, they had finally sighted the canon turrets of Bakel. The foreboding caw of a crow caught their eye above them, and a goat, nibbling pages from a holy book on the shore brought their gaze back to earth. And they knew, as nature ordained, that they would need to leave this place in the same fashion as they appeared – with no light. The place was radiant, long before they wallowed in her azure depths. Illumination was only required to seek out the large cricket that nestled in their tent. And, more importantly, for playing ad hoc Morse code with fishermen.

They headed for their third frontier – Mali – in the sleepy hour before dawn. As they shuffled away from the water course that had been their home for a fortnight, it seemed to be moving even more assuredly now. Swirls of apathy rippled freely in all directions. Around the drained carcasses of wooden donkeys and past the regal kingfishers and through the roots of the old-fashioned baobab trees and under the litter-laden villages and into the bellies of people who remain unfeigned.

Both knew all traces of their expedition would soon dissipate. The westward flow would sweep them impartially in the Atlantic Ocean. As they carried on eastward, through clenched eyes, they found they were in the middle of something. The searing halo of drowsy dust secured them in its midst. In this way, they never seemed to reach that line which the earth and sky appeared to meet.

Emissaries of Night

Along the Senegal River

(Part One)

They knew negotiation. And, they had no reason to believe they were not gifted when it came to doing it. They had journeyed south, through the sandy quarters, negotiating the Old Aderer wasteland via Wadan, the ancient impenetrable fortress. They had successfully negotiated an inhospitable 'red zone,' inhabbited by hordes of bandits who were very gifted at terrorism. They continued this downward trend until one of the duo realised that his foot was sandy no longer. They both looked to the left, and then to the right. A similar chord was set off inside them. For, they knew this watery passage was their second frontier.

This was a special frontier inasmuch as they both knew, negotiations permitting, they could be borne all the way along this natural border and spat out over and into their third frontier. So, they looked to the left at the palm-fringed haze and wondered what the interior held. More importantly, they reflected on those things that they held for the interior. They thought how best it would be to disseminate these things amongst the expectant masses and then a large ship dipped onto the horizon. It was about that time that they both knew they were looking at the ocean. Unperturbed, they shifted their gaze to the right and that interior pondering commenced once more.

Dropping a few sheckles into the boatman's hand, they crossed the turquoise water. They were also told to quickly shut down their peering cameras as the Mauritanians may well construe this as espionage and the Casablanca to Joburg dream would slowly rot on the mildew of a Nouakchott prison. Fortunately, nobody saw them - they distribute the material for the right price - and they beached on the banks of Africa's oldest democracy. They had no idea, then, that this would be their last stint on a boat for quite some time.

Port St. Louis

Ile St.Louis straddles the estuary of the forceful Senegal River. The late capital of Francophone Africa is also a fine example of French architecture at it most ransacked. "It seems like it shouldn't be lived in. But, it is," one of the pilgrims wisely observed. The other one hadn't heard him, or he was ignoring him. Another close observation was made by the sun on the pilgrims' two wan physiques. It was obvious they would need to return to their former patterns of stealth; slinking in the shadows and stumbling through the night.

Apart from spending a turbulent afternoon with a self-professed spiritual leader and appealing to a policeman to neutralise this same sod after things turned sour; they did not have much fortune in negotiating a boat. The only suitable vessel for their voyage upstream was not quite suitable enough. Even these two knew the old maritime adage: 'A fine vessel rides only on her fine name.' And, this vessel was not endowed with a very positive name. One must zoom in on the boat to fully appreciate her name.

Podor

They had heard of a place upstream that produced musicians. Baaba Mal, for example, is the second best musician in Senegal, and he hails from sleep Podor. Youssou N'dour is the best, but, as a large woman in a taxi observed: "He should probably stick to singing."

They decided, then, to patronise Mr. Mal's guesthouse. This turned out be a fine example of a guesthouse which had become a riotous saloon. In their moset yellow tent, they survived a night fraught with tense negotiations. None involved a boat. All were initiated by lawless pagans. One of the pilgrims - the one with the heightened olfactory senses - was busy burying ash with a garden ho when he was called out to. The sultry pitch of the calling, on the sweaty evening breeze, convinced the other pilgrim - the smuttier one - that this was no ordinary bird of the night. And, after negotiating this first threat they both received a vision later that night. It was a polite but disorderly patron of the guesthouse. Only after he had thrice declared his love for the travellers, did the brave duo manage to beat him back into the shadows.

As they now felt they were battling on all fronts, they made the most logical decision;  the one is a man of science - the other,of human science, so it was a swift process. Let it be said, at this juncture, that for these two men, being persuaded as they are, did not take the decision lightly. With all their personal effects, hats in hand, they gave a gentle tap on a big blue gate bearing a rusty nameplate: "Maison Catholique de Podor".

Never before have so jaundiced a pair, owed so much to the generous spirit of one other - the Cameroonian resident priest who claimed to have never left the compound in his life. Of course, a few things had to be ironed out. One of the travellers, fond of saying "inshallah," tried it out unwittingly on the Cameroonian. How gracefully he was reminded this was the house of a different, but still mighty, god. 

What more could the travellers ask for, in these circumstances, than that rare quality of level-headedness. Well, they could ask for one more thing - a boat. Their second round of naval discussions ended unpleasantly. Consensus was only reahced after the pilgrims had retreated back inside the compound and politely shouted through the bolted gate for the growing crowd of unruly fishermen to "please leave."

Matam

Downtrodden. Low. They set out to the East on the road. The weather had taken all its orders from the Harmattan that day. A catastrophic haze engulfed them for the twelve hours it took to cover the 230km to Matam. The only respite arriving in the form of a Sarah Brightman rendition from a fellow commuter: http://youtu.be/GIQ0ReCH2cI

 This small fishing village they were aiming for would be their last-chance saloon to fulfil their quest to drift along the frontier and spread their things about. They had been told pirogues were moored at this town. They had been told many things, though. It was dark when their bus rattled into town. As they waited for the goat to be untangled from their baggage on the roof, they were approached by a tout.

"Looking for auberge, hotel, camping?"

"Take us to the Catholic Mission, " they replied.