The Grand Voyage

As I sit to write this, we have shockingly entered our final week in Mali. But before we catch too much of the nostalgie, here is a photo-journal of the grand adventure we had last week with my mom and Anne!

First, a few comments up front. We traveled with a guide named "Grand Père," who (let's just say) was a total personality. Luckily for us, he knows literally everyone in Mali -- a fact which came in handy as he cussed out the police officers at several checkpoints along the way. Our level-headed driver was (ironically enough) named Van, and together they made quite the crack team.

We started our trip in Dogon Country, which runs along the cliff of a large plateau in northern Mali. Apparently the Dogon people fled to this area a long while ago to hide from Muslim invaders, and have more or less held onto their animistic religion into the 21st century.

The first full day we drove from Bandiagara, which is a rather large town up on the plateau, to the edge of the falaise (aka "escarpment" -- I'm no geologist, but they tell me this is an English word). On the drive, we passed through the "onion capital of West Africa" -- apparently, some patronizing colonial explorer passed through this region in the early 1900's and left behind the necessary ingredients for such an agricultural machine. Here's a shot of my mom pounding onion to be made into balls and left to dry.

Once we reached the falaise, we hiked down to a village called Nombouri (not to be confused with Hombouri, which may or may not have just been taken by Tuareg rebel fighters). Unfortunately the pictures don't do justice to the view -- you'll just have to come see it yourself.

Next, a picture of Tellem houses. Apparently, before the Dogon fled to Dogon Country, there was a pigmy civilization that lived in this region. Exactly what happened to them is still a mystery... kinda like Elvis, they just disappeared. (Aliens?) But, the entire cliffside is still littered with their houses, which the Dogon now use as mausoleums and tourist bait. To add to the mystery surrounding the Tellem peoples, it's not immediately clear how they reached these houses. Many people believe they had magic powers and could fly, although Grand Père informed us that the "official" theory suggests they used bridges from the large trees that used to grow at the foot of the plateau. I much prefer the flying pygmy version myself.

Tellem cliff dwellings.

Me doing some HMC publicity. Klawe would be proud...

Over the next three days, we hiked from village to village along the falaise. In one village we stopped at for lunch, we were the honored (paying) guests of a famous Dogon "Mask Dance." It was pretty incredible to watch.

More advertisement for Mudd.

At this point, it was getting late in the day and we decided to make up for our afternoon of dallying by riding in the car. However, Murphey's Law trapped us in the sand. Twice. As Van pointed out, "Sand is like the rebels. You don't negotiate."

Southerners driving in sand is apparently like Portlanders driving in snow.

But, on the bright side, it was Sarah's birthday and we did get to see several camels just chillin' in the sun.

Camels!

Our last day in Dogon Country was spent hiking up to these villages known as the "three Yugas." Despite the rigorous climb, I would say this was the highlight of the trip -- the scenery was absolutely gorgeous, and the villages themselves appeared to be trapped in some romantic version of the 14th century. Unfortunately, their remote seclusion up a rocky cliff also means the women must walk a long way to port water, and the one child we saw who did attend school has to walk several kilometers up hill. Both ways. (No joke.)

Me wearing Grand Père's hat. I felt rather like Indie.

Other highlights of Dogon Country: We got to try some millet beer, which old men sit around and drink all afternoon (it tastes like cider); saw some young men get shut down by the village elders for shoddy craftsmanship on their wife's granary; saw some sacrifice rocks; didn't get captured by Tuareg rebels; learned some Dogon phrases; saw a pond full of vegetarian crocodiles; got sandblasted as we slept; saw some incredible stars.

Millet beer.

Man making rope at a Dogon "meeting place."

Next, we headed into Djenne, which is home to the largest mud mosque in the world. We planned the trip so we would be there for market day -- the entire square in front of the mosque transforms into a patchwork of colored fabric and market stalls. Historically, Djenne was on the salt trade route from Timbuktu, and this market has been happening since a really frickin' long time ago.

It is often said that you can buy anything in a market like this. While not entirely true (they were out of stock on the iPhone 4S), a group of Fulani men wanted to buy Sarah for a flock of sheep. They were clearly out of their minds, because their first-offer price was waaay too low (there was some debate, but word on the street is Toubab wives cost at least a few camels more than a flock of sheep). None the less, it generated a few laughs.

The potential buyers.

We also went out to the UNESCO World Heritage site at Djenne Djenno ("old Djenne"). Surprisingly, we could just walk around and pick up old pottery ruins or pieces of skeletons -- kinda freaky. Unfortunately, there isn't enough money to implement the kinds of preservation measures that Djenne Djenno needs (like a wall). And since the US has totally defunded UNESCO over a General Assembly vote to recognize Palestinian statehood, there is no rush to buy a plane ticket and pick up your very own free piece of the archeological record.

Exposed scull. We feel this would make for an excellent
Bones "public service" episode about the need for a wall in Djenne Djenno.

From Djenne, we took a boat up the Niger river (the horror! the horror! oh wait, that's the Congo) to Mopti. Once again, we reveled in the gorgeous scenery, and met some nice Bozos (here in Mali, they are fishermen, not clowns).

The children were really eager to get their picture:
"Ça va photo? Ça va chemise?"

No, we didn't get this off of iStockPhoto. But it was a gorgeous sunset --
the big, red sun sinking softly into the enormous horizon.  

Us with our guide, Grand Père. He had just set down his 10th beer
before taking this photo.

In Mopti, we toured the harbor and bought some awesome Tuareg scarves. The hotel we stayed at was incredibly nice, and lucky for us, the Malian tourist industry is down in the dumps and so we had the place to ourselves. It does make one think, though, how a single government bureaucrat can decimate an entire economy by fudging the borders of a "do not travel" zone. On our way out of Mopti, we saw a bus full of American soldiers. Supposedly they are here to provide training to Malian forces, and possibly fight Al Quaeda on the side. Grand Père told us they usually aren't very nice while on duty, which was mildly upsetting but presumably they're just trying to do their job.

Tuareg scarves, actually borrowed in Djenne.

Man selling traditional medicine.

Finally, we ended up in Segou (the old capital of the Bambara Empire) for the first night of the music festival, "Festival sur le Niger." Travel fatigue was starting to set in, but we did meet a very jolly Tuareg man who sold us some camel skin boxes. Also, fun fact of the week: Tuaregs are __very__ ticklish. We have been inspired to write an ABC alliteration book called "Ticklish Tuaregs" to raise money for the project -- stay tuned for its possible release!

My mom and Anne with a ticklish Tuareg.

The last day, we did a morning boat trip to a village near Segou which is famous for its pottery. The village itself was fairly interesting (and we saw a very cute baby donkey), but I mostly enjoyed relaxing in the sun on the roof of our boat during the ride back.

That wraps up the 30,000 foot view of our grand voyage. We have many more pictures if you're interested. (No joke -- we netted ~3,200 photos over 10 days between four cameras. Everything is very well documented.) And now, as we enter what is literally the home stretch, we're buckling down to finish our Bamako bucket list and complete a long and sundry series of project-related tasks. So farewell for now, and see many of you soon!

The CIA and the Final Countdown!

We have officially entered the final countdown! My mom and neighbor arrive this Sunday for a whirlwind tour of the country, and then there are only 13 days left before we leave. For those of you who are curious, we're going to the Dogon Country, Djenne, Mopti, and Ségou for the start of their music festival. We will not be going to Timbuktu on this trip, no matter how much we're a fan of their bags. Unfortunately, leaving so soon also means that we'll return to the US in the middle of primary season... although we should feel right at home. Let's just say the US is not the only country where politicians lie to the public and routinely get away with blatant displays of corruption.

Speaking of blatant displays of corruption, we finally liberated our books from customs! No comment on the details, but from the looks of it a few G's must've changed hands... in all of our dealings with the Malian government, there is always a whole slough of misinformation and pointless trips to bureaucratic headquarters before snap! suddenly everything happens in the course of 24 hours. "Negotiation," it's called here.

Report from our social life: last weekend, we went with Stephanie and Pierce to hear Ballaké Sissoko play at the French Cultural Center, which was quite relaxing and involved an obligatory dinner of tasty chinese food. Then Saturday, we went to watch the Mali vs. Ghana game at Stephanie and Pierce's (semi-new) home, which later segued into a housewarming party. Unfortunately, Mali lost the game (@Brendan Folie: remember that I can't see you gloating! And double or nothing we beat you in elimination rounds). But we still had a lovely time and met some interesting people.

Speaking of interesting people, we chatted for a while with three guys from the "Humanitarian Assistance Bureau," who I initially mistook as US marines. They apparently do work "up north" on a range of humanitarian "development projects," and (half-jokingly) invited us to build our next library in Tessalit. After returning home, Sarah and I started to think... Al Qaeda of the Islamic Maghreb operates in northern Mali. Northern Mali is also home to Tuaregs and their nomadic camels. Camel, the cigarette brand, was introduced in the US exactly 34 years before... you guessed it. The CIA was created and signed into law by Harry S. Truman. This was too much of a coincidence.

I now submit to you the evidence that they were all CIA:

(a) Have you ever heard of the "Humanitarian Assistance Bureau"? Neither have I.
(b) How many people in the US government have undergone "extensive training" in Persian? Is this evidence that Iran is plotting a land grab in West Africa?
(c) Why don't they work for USAID? Does the government have aid projects they don't want us to know about?
(d) Any organization with a three-letter acronym is automatically suspect. HAB. NSA. CIA. FBI. WTF. You get the idea.
(e) Does anyone know what a "bureau" actually does? At least we can be sure that "corporations" are moral agents. They're people, after all. And yet I have never seen evidence that bureaux employ any moral agents. (See what I just did there? Also, bureaux is totally the preferred french pluralization of bureau.)
(f) This picture of JFK. Why is Bobby smiling? Does he know something?
(g) Everyone likes a good conspiracy!

Anyways, regardless of whether or not we were snooped on by the CIA, the party was a total blast. Now, we're buckling down to get everything established and handed off smoothly to Robert and Baïssou before we leave on February 29th. Once again, time certainly does fly.

I'll end this post with a few pictures, so as not to leave anyone hangin'. First, a photo of our full library bookshelves, then one of some 9th grade girls using our newly donated Classmate PCs (shout-out to Care Innovations at Intel!), and finally a rather adorable picture of our nieces and nephew.

The Siby Death March

We went for an out-of-town expedition to Siby last weekend with Sarah's parents. Siby is a quiet village about an hour or so outside of Bamako, and is probably best known for its several historical sites related to the Sundiata epic. We figured it would be a relaxing getaway from busy city life, and give us a taste of "real Mali" out in the villages.

Biton and Alex had done this exact expedition the week before, and left us with some good advice: a). don't take a sotroma out to Siby, and b). you should find a different guide. The guide they went with is loosely associated with our circle of friends, but apparently didn't know all that much about Siby. As for the sotroma.... well, they look like this:

We didn't exactly want to spend 2+ hours navigating several transfers on crowded bench seats just to get out to the village.

Taking this advice to heart, we had arranged for a ride to Siby, and planned on finding a local guide to take us around to the historical sites. And of course, everything proceeded according to plan: at 11:30pm the night before we left, our driver wasn't answering his phone and it looked like we were a). taking a sotroma out to Siby, and b). using the same guide as Biton and Alex. Luckily, Baïssou was able to find another friend to drive us, and by mid-morning Saturday we were on our way!

Once arriving in Siby, we checked into a Hotel/"Campement" owned by a M. Traoré, and after dropping our things a guide showed up to take us to the first site: the "Arch of Kamandjan." By this time, it was high-noon, and we were beginning to lament the fact that cold season is on its way out.

We began the hike, but it turns out the actual trail doesn't start until a ways outside of town. By the time we got there, our water was almost gone and the day was still getting hotter.

I should set the record straight: it wasn't all bad; the hike was gorgeous, and offered some really stunning views. But, I would recommend to anyone doing the same trek to start early in the morning.

Our guide, Boi, was very chatty and had some good stories along the trail. According to legend, the Arch was created when one of Sundiata's generals shot an arrow through the cliff to prove his strength. We also saw the cave where Sundiata supposedly got his fortune told, and the pile of stones people brought as offerings for this fortune teller.

Posing with some stacked rocks in the cave of the fortune teller.

By the time we got back to the hotel, we were starving but had a tasty lunch of rice and peanut sauce and then promptly napped until dusk. Fortunately and unfortunately, Sarah's mom fell slightly ill which saved us from having to take another trek up the mountain. Instead, we listened to Boubacar Traoré (the owner of the campement) play some traditional instruments over dinner, despite having shot off two of his fingers as a younger man!

Sunday morning, we just relaxed and chatted as we waited for our friend to come pick us up again. True to Malian time (see Sarah's recent post), we planned for noon but were picked up closer to 2pm. Despite our exhaustion and occasional illness, the adventure to Siby was an enjoyable success.

See more pictures below:

On Family Visits and Malian Time

Our relative absence from the internet this last week was mostly due to the fact we were too busy having fun with my parents! It was something of a surreal experience picking them up at the Bamako airport, our American and Malian lives often seem so far removed from each other that it is bizarre when something brings them together again. Having them here was wonderful. Not only did we at least quintuple our protein intake and food variety, but we got to introduce them to all of the places and people in Bamako that we love, as well as visit a couple new ones as well (see Neal's post on our adventures in Siby).

There is nothing like having visitors to remind us of all the things that seem normal to us that are quite bizarre when one is recently arrived from the US. From the donkey carts serving as garbage trucks to the children chanting “toubabou” in the street, to riding in sotramas, the parents took life in Bamako in stride and we had a great time. One of our better days involved the worst taxi driver of all time (he didn't believe in lanes, brakes, or avoiding blind turns), the lovely national museum and park, another taxi driver who did not know where he was going, and dinner at Comme Chez Soi.

Thankfully our sotrama driver did not look like this....one of the wierder  exhibits at the Musée Nationale

Chillin' in the Park

Deliciousness at Comme Chez Soi

Unfortunately their visit also coincided with an extreme bout of frustration with Malian time (the beloved concept in which 'I'll be there in 10 minutes' means 'I'll be there sometime in the next hour, maybe') and cross-cultural communication difficulties. As we continue to struggle with getting books out of customs and preparing for our (now alarmingly imminent) departure as well as more everyday concerns like arranging a ride to Siby, my complete inability to understand what is the true, what is sort of true, and when anything will happen remains extremely frustrating. I remember that as an SIT student I often thought that being annoyed with Malian time showed a lack of cultural sensitivity and the general toubab problem of always being in too much of a hurry. That may in fact be true, but I now understand that I only thought that because I did not have anything important to get done. These difficulties undermine my confidence in what will happen to the project after our departure and put a strain on our relationships (a hazard of working with friends in any culture). I try to keep reminding myself of the dooni dooni (little by little) principle, that we don't make big changes in a day, and I try to find ways to work around Malian time (such as telling people to show up half an hour before I actually want them to be there), but I am still often so infuriated I don't know what to do. This morning I am feeling much more positive than last night, however, and more ready to tackle the next steps in a constructive manner.

Anyway, the parental visit was lovely and we will miss them very much. We are also extremely jealous that as I write this they are most likely eating something delicious in Paris. The next three weeks before Neal's mom and neighbor come to visit (yay!) will be extremely busy because we basically want the entire project ready for our departure by the time they arrive. Time, Malian or otherwise, is flying and I have a feeling that the time between now and when we ourselves are eating something delicious in Paris will seem far too short.

Tales from New Year's

New Year's Eve, or the "trent et un", is the fête du poulet in Mali. Our friends have been talking about how excited they were to eat lots (and lots) of chicken, which oddly enough is an expensive type of meat here. As the day approached, Robert's cousin sold us some chicken. And by "some chicken", I mean precisely eight fully feathered birds. At this point, we had eight confirmed RSVPs to the new year's festivities -- the reasoning being each person should get their own chicken. Of course, transport of livestock can only be done via motorcycle (I think there's a law or something). This picture is of Job and some recently conscripted child from the neighborhood, transporting the chickens from Robert's courtyard to meet their doom.

As the only members of the grin (tea circle) with our own pad (and despite having very conservative Muslim neighbors downstairs), we were enlisted to host this new year's bash. We've also been hosting Biton (who lived with Baïssou the semester before Sarah was here; his real name is Brian) and his girlfriend Alex as they've come to visit. Collectively, we were instructed to make a "traditional American dish" to add to the evening's gastronomical excess. And of course, it doesn't get more American than good ole quesadillas. Here we are trying to prepare them on a gas burner that wouldn't turn below a scorch (hence why I'm holding the pan up so high), and eating the delicious if somewhat non-traditional result. The closest we could come to tortillas were "pan arabe" (translation: arab bread, aka pita).

As I mentioned in an earlier post, people here have been lighting off fireworks (aka gunpowder explosives that sound like gunshots) since the beginning of December. However, on the day of the fête, Baïssou came over with a firework cleverly named "Candle with Report" and excitedly told us how you "just hold it like so and it shoots shit into the air!" (see picture below). Sarah, being the only responsible adult in a room full of teenagers eager to play with fire and explosives, read more carefully to find "DO NOT HOLD UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH" printed all over the thing. Needless to say, you can guess what we did :P

The actual strike of midnight we spent up on the roof, in part to fire our magnificent Candle (with Report!) but also to watch the fireworks coming from every rooftop in Bamako and wish each other happy new years. It was a very pretty sight which unfortunately could not be captured on camera. We did, however, get a nice group shot of everyone.

By this time, it was nearing a quarter to one in the morning and we still hadn't eaten (we were too busy having an absolut ball!). Here, the party supposedly begins at the strike of midnight. There was, of course, plenty of dancing. In an unfortunate turn of events, a four second video clip of said dancing has survived the mass censorship of any post-party slide deck. It is embedded below for four seconds of amusement (and hopefully not four seconds of my horror played across 17.1M views).

When the food was finally pulled out and put on the table, it was close to 2am. There was indeed a gratuitous amount of chicken, however a few people had brought +1's and we actually ended up eating almost all of it. The cooking was done by Fatim, who sometimes has tea with us. Apparently Baïssou had (incorrectly) assumed until the last minute that Sarah would do all of the cooking, having two X chromosomes and all. Luckily we clarified that before it was too late, as Fatim did a wonderful job with the food. Despite being cold from sitting out so long, the chicken and plantains and french fries were quite flavorful and loaded with protein and MSG. #win.

Dancing continued until the early morning, occasionally punctuated by the very sincere, heart-to-heart discussions that often occur during such revelry. It appears everyone had a fantastic time, and Baïssou even danced which apparently has not happened in several years (in fact, he is featured in the video above!). The next morning, we cooked some more quesadillas. This led to the astute observation that New Year's in Bamako tastes like college.

And, because any day in Mali is not complete without seeing something bizarre, regard the stalker photo I took of our Nigerian neighbors from our balcony.

Yes, that is a flaming goat. It's called Chevre Brulé, a french delicacy from the Loire River Valley that is often eaten for breakfast. Actually, we have no friggin' clue what was going on. I went out onto our porch, and saw this poor goat strung up by its neck from a pole. A few minutes later, Sarah calls me out again because the goat is on fire. As Sarah's host dad used to say, never trust anglophone west africans; they will burn your goat.