Djenne and Toka: A Love Story

We left Bamako pre-dawn last Sunday when everyone else at the Camel was still sleeping. We hailed a taxi to the bus station and joined hundreds of fellow travelers setting off to various cities along the Bamako-Gao road paralleling the Niger river northeast out of Bamako to the edge of the Sahara.

The bus, only slightly worse than the worst possible Chinatown bus, took us into the depths of the Malian interior, passing towns named Bla, San(d), and Sofara(way). Eight hours later we arrived in Sevare, which was fortunate because it is a major bus junction, and unfortunate because it was 1.5 hours past the dirt road we should have taken. We quickly jumped off the bus and onto another, which stopped at the correct dirt road to nowhere, where we woke up a taxi driver who took us to the river just in time for us to catch the last ferry of the evening. Twelve hours and 400 km later, we hopped in a cart pulled by a donkey for the final 3 km to our hotel in Djenne.  

Djenne Mosque -- Market Monday

Djenne is a small island at the junction of the Bani and Niger rivers, and its location established it a key trade site for salt, gold, and slaves from Timbuktu. Old town Djenne, listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, was first inhabited in 200 BC, making it one of the very oldest villages in Africa. Wandering through the maze of mud buildings, narrow walkways, and open trench sewers, you get the sense that only so much has changed since the town was "built up" in 1000 AD.  Each structure in Djenne is built from sun-dried bricks of mud and straw, which are then smoothed over with a coat of mud plaster.  While there are three types of architecture in town, they all center on mud construction as their main component.

The town's centerpiece is the Grand Mosque, built in 1906, which replaced the original one erected in the 11th century.  It's the largest adobe building in the world, and it is amazing.  Each minaret is topped with an ostrich egg and holds a speaker to broadcast the call to prayer. The annual rainy season does a number on the mosque, and each October, more than 4,000 people come to volunteer to re-plaster the entire mosque once the rains subside.

Bozo fishermen

Djenne is a popular destination for tourists, and as such is home to people living off tourism. Since travel warnings against Mali have so significantly damaged the local economy and balance of supply/demand, you can't walk three steps without a swarm of men offering to give you a tour of the city, take you on a boat trip up the river, or drive you to your next destination. "Ca vas" and "hello madames" are followed immediately by "where are you froms" and "I would like to show yous". So, unfortunately, you walk with your guard up and don't break stride. It becomes a game where the smoothest talkers inevitably win out, at the expense of visitors questioning everyone's motives and sincerity. 

Djenne Mosque - Sunrise Tuesday

It was in the midst of this where we met Toka.  At first, Toka seemed like every other hustler, asking in decent English where we are from. We told him and then he told us about the time he lived in America.

Toka grew up in Djenne, and like other kids spent his days chasing down tourists for presents and pens. Then, at the age of 6, polio paralyzed him, leaving him to roam the dirt streets of Djenne in a makeshift wheelchair.  One day as he was hanging around outside of the hotel, Toka met an older couple and followed them as they took pictures of the market and mosque. They chatted for about an hour and bid adieu.

A year later, without any further contact, an American doctor showed up at the hotel looking for Toka. Armed with no other information than his first name and his photo, this doctor was sent by the older couple to determine if Toka was eligible for a surgery to reverse his paralysis.

"Growing up, so many of my friends dreamed about the opportunities in America. I knew so many people who were disappointed with not being able to go to America that it wasn't anything that I ever let myself want."

Over the next 14 months, Toka lived with the couple in Gainsville, Wisconsin, commuting to Chicago for a series of surgeries and rehabilitation that would enable him to eventually walk again.

Standing with us more than 15 years later, Toka gives tours of Djenne and the surrounding villages. Instead of a wheelchair, he rides around town, like everyone else, on his moped. The woman is 89 years old and her husband is deceased. He calls now and again, but she is too old to hear him on the other end of the line. He writes emails and after about one month usually receives a reply.

After a few more minutes laughing about the cold Wisconsin winter and how Gainsville, Florida might have been a better climate to live in, we bid Toka goodnight.

We've been talking a lot about what it means to have lopsided access to resources as American tourists in a region so straddled with poverty - how do we engage in the local and global economy, in "charity", with individuals and communities? In talking with Toka, he offered us a chance to check our cynicism and be reminded of grace.  For those few moments we had the chance to connect with someone who understood our home, and in the process, helped us know a little more about his.

Sunset crossing from fields back to town

Women's co-op mud cloth

Bamako is the Bomb-ako

The first sentence in the Mali chapter of the guidebook really sums it up: if you go to only one country in West Africa, make sure it’s Mali. Well, okay then.

We arrived in Mali in high style. It would have taken us 30 hours by sept-place or infinity hours by boat, so we treated ourselves to a quick 75 minute flight from Dakar. We fell in love with Mali immediately.  Bamako, which means “crocodile river”, is Mali’s capital and largest city.   As a visitor, Bamako was a great city for us to recharge and stock up on visas and provisions for onward travel.

Upon arrival one immediately notices the red dust in the air, the huge trees lining the streets, the relaxed feel, and the many mopeds… the millions of mopeds…perhaps all of the mopeds in West Africa.  Bamako, though poor, is a city that looks to have invested its limited resources (those not drained by foreign gold mining) fairly well: most of the streets are paved, the tap water is potable enough for the locals and expats to drink, and we haven’t experienced a power outage since we’ve been here (though we’re here just after the rainy season).

"November is a good month for art in Bamako"

A photo series of reflections in oil puddles.

Every two years, Bamako hosts what has become Africa’s premier photography exhibition: Rencontres de Bamako. Spread throughout various museums, monuments, and cultural institutions across the city, this year’s exhibition features photo collections depicting the environmental, economic, and political actions towards creating or preventing a sustainable world. 

Our first impression was that the 1960’s black & white sock-hop photos at the National Museum of Mali were snoozeville.  Then we bumped into the curator of African art for New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, who said it was an excellent exhibit and suggested we check out the other installations across the city. We're not going to lie, if someone highly credentialed says that something is art, we’re inclined to jump on their bandwagon.  After checking out the collection on oil in the Nigerian Delta, we agreed that the exhibit was one of the best we'd ever seen.

Shhhhh, the camel is sleeping

Mural at S.C.

One of the hardest parts of arriving in Bamako was explaining to the taxi driver that we were staying at The Sleeping Camel Hotel.  Having never learned the word for “camel” in French, we eeked out something that sounded like Le Dromidare Qui Dormie, and we then arrived at quite possibly the best backpacker’s hotel south of the Niger River (we’ve been to one).   We’ve stayed in great low-key places this whole trip – from the Maison Rose to great little auberges at the beach.  The Sleeping Camel, run by a 12-year resident of West Africa and a band of brilliant local guides, was our first foray into accommodations with overland travelers, and it was a great place to stock up on travel tips, get some laundry done and meet some red-faced world nomads.   

Usually backpack places strike fear and loathing in our hearts – they can be havens for downwardly mobile hipsters on vacation, where the right REI gear and passport stamp one-up-manship reign supreme.   In the few days that we stayed though, we met a nice mix of folks:  60-something Australian twins who have wandered the globe, a family with an infant in tow, a South African man who finished the Cape Town to Cairo path, and a handful of randoms who were stuck at camp fixing their mopeds before heading back on the road.   Part of what made this place so great for us was the relationship between the owner and the staff.   In stark contrast to others we’ve seen, the owner Matt was laid-back, appeared to trust and appreciate the staff, and the expertise of the local guides was genuinely respected.   Plus, the Camel makes a bacon-hash brown-fried egg-tomato-cucumber sandwich that is awesome.  Total thumbs up. 

Magic Happenings

Dried parrots, skinned lizards, gourds, furs, salt, and more.

A few weeks ago, we saw a small graphic of two concentric circles, noting that “the magic happens” outside of your comfort zone.  For this trip, we knew that we were going to rely on the generosity of spirit in the strangers that we'd encounter, and that for most of this time we’d be in situations that we’d never been in before.  We both committed to pushing ourselves and each other to try to dig below the surface, and as we’ve felt already, this often happens outside of our comfort zone.   

That said, we’ve been rewarded greatly with unexpected magic as soon as we jumped in.    

Wandering through the large, crowded public market, we found the fetish stands, where all manner of dried, preserved, and otherwise dead animals are sold for animist ceremonies.  Traditional religions here play alongside with the overwhelming influence of Muslim and Christian converts, and Malians seem to blend the faiths without much concern or fanfare. 

We met up with our old friend from Dakar (read: met him once) who was just assigned a post at the Senegalese Embassy in Bamako.  Being the jovial sort, we popped in to his office at the Embassy, and then were whisked away to his house for beers and to an amazing dinner dished into a communal bowl in his neighbor's driveway.   Then it was off to hear local music with a diva griot and three back up dancers to boot.  It was a great night of good food, good company, and the amazing music for which Mali is known.

 

Amidst the fertile Niger River basin, welcoming people, and interesting culture, lies another city than what first meets the eye. At 1.8 million people, Bamako is estimated to be the fastest growing city in Africa, and the 6th fastest in the world. In the next 20 years, the population is expected to double. This uncontrolled growth has already and will further cause significant difficulties: overcapacity in educational institutions, poor sanitation, limited water supplies, traffic, and the aforementioned pollution. Already, one in five Malian children die before the age of five. (Read that sentence again slowly.) 

Without the infrastructure to meet the demands of the growing population, we can only imagine that Bamako’s existing urban sprawl will transform into dilapidated buildings and large slums needing even greater aid for basic human services.   

We're rooting for you, Bamako.

Baaaaaad Day to Be A Sheep

Since arriving in West Africa, we've been seeing goats.  Everywhere. 

There are goats on the beach.  Goats in the median strips.  Goats on boats, in taxis, and mounted on bus roofs.  Goats grazing. Goats bleeting.  Goats tending kids; kids tending goats.  Goats outside Youssou N'Dour's night club. We have seen a LOT of goats.

For the first few weeks here we thought that the omnipresence of goats was standard fare for urban farmers, a fact partially confirmed by the presence of a lot of "mutton" on the menu.
Boy, were we ever wrong.

Not unlike Christmas tree lots in the US.

"Tabaski" is the annual Islamic celebration of sacrifice.  Known by many around the world as Eid, the day commemorates Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son to Allah.  Just when Abraham is about to offer up his son, God says "you passed!" and spares Abraham's precious son.  In celebration, a sheep is sacrificed instead.  And before the sheep is sacrificed, it has to live somewhere....

In West Africa, Muslim families complete three intertwined activities for the day of celebration of Tabaski:

(per wikipedia)

1. Offer ablutions and sunrise prayer
2. Become presentable in the eyes of God
3. Sacrifice a mutton

   

   Goats on a ferry

(per our observation)

1. Wake up late.
2. Get dressed up in a beautifully ornate two piece gown-set with matching eyeliner and heels and dress your children in the exact same thing.
3. Find a good sheep, buy it between 2 days - 2 weeks before the festivities (strategies vary), tie the sheep up outside your house, sacrifice the sheep with the help of the local Imam, discard unwanted remains on the local beach.

The 8th Sept Place Seat

Uninvited to a Tabaski family event and a little queasy after our 16 hr boat ride the night before (not to mention our sunset walk along the beach), we did what any non-practioner would do: went out for Chinese food. 

On the way home from dinner, we were completely delighted to see the local ice cream shop jammed with two hundred teenagers (so over their forced family fun time) in their finest Tabaski wear -- sequins, waxed fabric, eye make-up to match every color dress, and lots and lots of fabric.  It was like McDonald's after a Friday night high school football game.

Julienne's Birthday Beach Vacation

For Julienne's big 32nd birthday, we spent a week at the beach in The Gambia and the Casamance Region of Southern Senegal.   We were a little unsure about visiting Casamance, as it has travel warnings for its past separatist movement, but all the foreign journalists we met gave it the a-okay.  Granted, they are all hankering for assignments to Libya, but nonetheless, they seemed like reliable sources.  The trip to Casamance turned out to be incredibly peaceful, beautiful and totally chill.  Beer on the beach at sunset every night, fresh bread and jam every morning, and a few dinners with seafood caught from a fellow lodger. To keep the vacation vibe, we opted for a luxurious passenger boat with a two-bed cabin, air-conditioning, hot showers (our first in 5 weeks) and pairs of dolphins cruising alongside the boat's wake. The only downside was that we realized that Sara does indeed get motion sickness, three hours into the 16 hour trip through the Atlantic.  All in all, totally a bonne anniversare!  
 

Finally, some beach time! Two happy travelers!

Campement accommodation in Boucotte, Casamance Region

Julienne looks good at the beach.

View from the Mountain above Djembering

Our personal ambassador on a walk through Dj.

When we were lost, these women shook our hands and sent us on.

A fromager tree, not a 'fromage' tree - sadface.

Better than a sept place?  Headed 'home' to Dakar.

3km walk along the beach to Cap Skiring

View from our campement balcony in Cap Skirring

Checking all those birthday wishes on Facebook!

Celebrating the new year in new digs

Evening ritual, almost complete

Our own Corona commercial

Wave wrestlin' done for the day

Sunset view from the boat

Good job, Sun, good job.  Photo credit: missionaries.

Boarding Julienne's favorite mode of transit. 

The Rhode Island of Africa

Although Dakar is located on a peninsula, the beaches aren't great for swimming, so Julienne and I headed to The Gambia's Atlantic Coast for a long awaited soak in the ocean.  

Some fast facts about The Gambia: it’s the smallest country in Africa, cuts through the center of Senegal along the Gambia River, is home to the Diola (Jola) people, and the current president has a title about as long as the country’s width (His Excellency Sheikh Professor Al Haji Dr Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh).  Notably, The Gambia is a former British colony, which means that over the course of three English-speaking days, we forgot all of our French.  

Compared to the honking, goat-filled streets of Dakar, the deserted beach towns outside of the Gambia’s capital city, Banjul, felt luxurious – even our hostel with no electricity or hot water deserved 5-stars when fresh bread and mango jam were presented each morning.  For three days we swam, fed a crocodile named Junior who swam across a lagoon when called by name, and Julienne even found a place for chicken fajitas (not fajitas poulet).    


In addition to being known for its tropical bird watching and fresh pressed fruit juices, The Gambian beaches are also known for “bumsters.”  To the chagrin of the Gambian Bureau of Tourism, bumsters are mostly harmless beach boys who hustle travelers.  In a short two-block walk from our hostel to the shore, we came across no fewer than seven men who offered a hello, a taxi ride, their charming company on our walk, or suggestions for restaurants or even a pedicure.  In a county where more than a third of the people live on less than $1.25 a day, this hustle means survival, and while we don’t enjoy it, we realize the need to generate a buck (or Dalasi).   

A baobab tree, with monkeybread fruit to make bissap drink

But here’s the twist:  bumsters in The Gambia are often male sex-workers, hired by European women as escorts (and more) for the duration of their vacation.  The growth of the bumster industry is fueled by the vacation dollars of female travelers, and so the bumsters spend the majority of the day working out on the beach, flexing for on-lookers and subsequently vying for female attention.  For those of us who aren’t buying (we have husbands, you know), the barrage of advances on the beach for a bumster looking for a job is overwhelming.  No, I don’t want a taxi, nor your hand on my arm, and please stop following my girlfriend.

On the whole, most young Gambian men we’ve seen have been regular guys – friendly, playing soccer, talking with their friends.  They, like any 20-something, are just trying to figure out how to become an adult.   Perhaps the situation for bumsters is no different.  

Junior, the domestic croc

So then what is different here that makes us so uncomfortable?  The notion of “sex tourism” conjures images of middle-aged white men visiting Thailand or India, exploiting young women in the triple bind of race, gender and age.  That depiction neatly juxtaposes privilege against exploitation. In The Gambia, the dynamic is less about gender, and rather about pure economics.  While we are caught off-guard as women, usually on the receiving end of sex trade exploitation, the dynamic should probably not come as such a surprise. The reality is that poverty here – as every other place in the world – compels people to sell what they’ve got, regardless of gender.  Nonetheless, it feels like a betrayal that the purchasing power of other mostly white women has created a market to exploit men of color and further target women like us who chose not to participate.  Perhaps my real frustration with bumsters in The Gambia isn’t about who is selling, but rather who is buying. 

In current events, the President (er Excellency, er Dr., er etc.) instituted a Zero Tolerance for bumsters policy eight hours after we left The Gambia.  

[Author's note: There’s a least a dissertation or two in this dynamic, but I had to stop short lest we lose our blog fan base.]

Sept-Place Seven Deadly Sins

Feeling quite proud of completing our French classes, we decided to take on the next major challenge of our West African trek: ground transit to The Gambia.

The van coming on was needed to lower the bridge

Last week, we packed our bags, said au revoir to Maison Rose, and began the six hour trip to the beach.  The journey, which began when our taxi driver rang our doorbell at 4:50am (an hour and 10 mins earlier than scheduled!), had us going nearly 300km south of Dakar: through the dry countryside scrub, next to a baobab forest, across our first border, over a river by ferry, and ending in the Atlantic coast resort town of Bakau in The Gambia. And all of this (except for the ferry), was by sept-place.

Gentlemen, start your engines.  If you can.

The "sept-place" is a 1970s Peugeot station wagon. The name refers to the 7 places (excluding the driver) in the car: the front passenger, three in the middle bench seat, and three in the rear bench seat (in America, we would call this the trunk).

The sept-place is difficult to avoid if you're traveling in West Africa on a budget. They go almost anywhere, charge a fixed price, take off after 7 tickets are sold, and are universally despised. Seats are assigned on a first come, first served basis. The beauty of arriving early is that you might be given #1 (shotgun), but this only means you'll wait an indefinite amount of time before leaving, as departure completely depends on when/if six other people show up. If you're handed ticket #7, you'll be on the road in no time, but you'll sit in what our French teacher called "le inferno" (it has the same meaning in English).

One of the more tame lots we encountered.

Inside the belly of the sept-place lot of dented and rusted wagons, something happens to each traveler. Your spirit immediately leaves your body, gives you the finger on the way out, and flies the hell away from that urine-soaked godless place, leaving you to fend for yourself by all means necessary. When in doubt, elbows out. 

Once we had our bearings enough to shout our destination over the din, three men pulled the luggage off our backs and dragged us to our fated vehicle for tickets. After a rapid exchange of an undetermined, yet nominal, amount of money, my hand clutched ticket #7, Sara's #6. 

We piled in and were on our way.  To reach The Gambia, we first needed to go through Purgatory.

The Seven Seats of the Sept-Place

 

Gluttony: Seat 1- The Front Passenger Seat

Since the first Ford rolled off the assembly line, siblings have waged family civil wars over the coveted front seat, and the sept-place experience is no different. Unless the passenger is Shaq, there's no reason for this seat to have so much legroom that the rider can fit his suitcase and the three bags of charcoal the he made the driver stop for at the side of the road.

Greed: Seat 2- The Left Middle Seat

At first glance this passenger looks friendly. He gives the general "we're all in this together" nod of understanding to the people in the back row. But an hour into the ride, this passenger leans his head back on the knees of the person behind him and uses them as a headrest. Not only does he take up more than his fair share of car space, but when the driver stops for his prayer break, this guy opens his door to stretch his legs, but doesn't let anyone else out. This guy and his skinny jeans were seriously in need of a wedgie.

They all seemed to sweet before the doors closed.

Lust: Seat 3- The Center Middle Seat

You desperately want to be in the front seat. You can see it, you can even stick your head in between the driver and first passenger. You want to be in the front seat so bad, you can smell it. In fact, we can all smell it, because the inside of the car hasn't been washed in 30 years.  In Dante's "Inferno", those unforgiven of the sin of lust are blown about in restless hurricane-like winds, symbolic of their own lack of self-control. With hot air blowing against your face from all four sept-place windows in this middle seat, there is no mistaking that you are in hell's hurricane.

Sloth: Seat 4- The Right Middle Seat

This seat is the gatekeeper to the only way in, and, more importantly, out of the back row. Once wedged in the back of the sept-place, you quickly realize this person is your worst enemy, and that there is no way humanly possible for this person to move any f'ing slower. It takes this passenger the entire time the driver is curbside for praying to crack the window, let alone get out and lift up the seat allowing the back passengers the chance to straighten their pretzel-like legs. It wouldn't be so bad if we weren't on hour four (and prayer stop two).

Pride: Seat 5- The Left Back Seat

Dante was onto something with this seat: "love of self, perverted to hatred and contempt for one's neighbor." Slighted that he missed the middle row by just one person, this passenger is the first into the back row. With long legs and bony elbows, our fellow trunk-mate takes his extra space with pride. "It's pretty crowded back here, isn't it?" No kidding, Stretch, I wish you and your overflowing boubou 6 hours of pins and needles in your heels.

Envy: Seat 6- The Middle Back Seat

Anyone who has ever sat in the middle seat of anything knows how envious you are of every other seat in the car.  Multiply that feeling by 1,000 and you have the envy of the person (Sara) in this spot over the axle. With knees up to her chin, HOW COULD ANYTHING BE WORSE THAN THE MIDDLE SEAT IN THE TRUNK OF A SEPT-PLACE?!?!

Still have rust in my back pockets

Wrath: Seat 7- The Right Back Seat

This is by far the worst seat in the entire wagon, and perhaps in the entire planet. I am the last person in the back row and am forced to squeeze ma derriere into whatever space is left. Since the entire width of a sept-place is no bigger than two average-sized butts, my only option was to perch one cheek gingerly on the rusty wheelhouse. Now sitting about six inches higher than normal, my neck is at a 90 degree angle as my head crunched against the ceiling. Inordinate and uncontrolled seething is apt for Seat 7. 

Rewarded with seats 1 & 2 for the next.

For our fortunate souls, purgatory was just a short five hours until we arrived at the Gambian border and unfurled our legs/neck/torso from their origami design.

We breezed through immigration and customs, got our Gambian visa stamp, and walked 50m to the next sept-place stand.

[Author's note: this blog text was written prior to the 16 hour, overnight boat ride through the Atlantic.]