Festival Sur le Niger Part 1

February 2, 2011

The five days we spent in Segou duing the Festival Sur Le Niger were an unspeakable blur. It was a constant mess of hitchhiking, dancing, drinking, attempts at sneaking into concerts, hooker-dodging, early morning arrivals and at least one threat of arrest. Unlike most of the foreigners there for the festival, we were not diplomats, Peace Corps workers, on vacation, students, or volunteers. We came on a boat with a pirate mentality, and fully aimed to storm the beaches of Segou and live with no barriers or rules, as we had on the river for the past 12 days, or several months for that matter. We were high on our pride of making it to Segou on our own boat, by our own power. The festival was our wedding cake that we would smear all over each other’s faces and anyone else that got too close. Not many of the foreigners could keep up with us, but the thousands of Africans from Mali and all over West Africa were right in step. They truly made everything for us, and it would not have been possible without them.

We were staying about six or seven km. outside of the center of Segou, where all the festivities and concerts took place. The city has no buses, only moto-taxis (not unlike auto-rickshaws in India or Tuk-Tuks in Thailand), but they rarely came far enough out of town to be useful to us, especially at night. Taxis of course were out of the question, so we took joy in hitching back and forth at all hours of the day and night. Blai was aggressive, and would jump up and down, stepping into the road, yelling “Centre Ville!” almost demanding rides from people. Usually it worked, and we would chase down the car, or motorbike and we were on our way.

On the first night, I headed in before Blai and Jonathan and got a ride on a motorbike within a couple minutes. I wandered around, enjoying the throbbing life of the town on the first big day of the festival. I had been to Segou in early January with Lise, and it seemed almost boring to me. It was quiet, sprawling, and the numerous tourists were inevitably taking Centrum Silver, and were hanging onto guides. There was little energy in the streets other than the touts trying to sell trinkets and boat tours. This time, we tried a new technique to avoid the Tuaregs that wouldn’t stop following you with their jewelry and knives: running. No matter what you said or did, they would not stop following, however, we found that they would not run after you if you just took off in a random direction. It seems harsh, but when I looked back at them, they were always laughing right along with us. If they were going to ignore the social norms in response to, “no, thanks. Please, I don’t want any. Please, go away,” I was fully prepared to ignore the social norm of not running from somebody unless they are a danger to you.

I grabbed a few wine sachets (yes, bags of wine that taste like red-flavored paint thinner sold for $.40 each) from the Lebanese booze store, and started roaming the streets, waiting for Jonathan and Blai. I happened upon a sandwich stand filled with half a dozen Peace Corps volunteers. They were identifiable as Americans with their Nalgene bottles (yes, we are the only country with them), and as Peace Corps Volunteers as they were all girls in their twenties. I exchanged a few words with them, but didn’t say much. It was a weird feeling to be around American girls for the first time in months and they made me feel uneasy. In the past, I would normally have denied accusations that Americans are loud and obnoxious, but this was a bit of a wake up call.

Jonathan and Blai arrived, with a four-gallon jug motor oil jug in tow. Fortunately, though, the oil jug was filled with millet beer that they had procured from Jean Baptiste, a Christian friend that works at the hotel we were sleeping in front of. They explained that they had gotten a ride into town with some high-ranking military officer and that he said he could get us into the concerts for free. This night, however, was free anyway, but he assured that for the next four nights, which cost something like $30 each, we just needed to give him a ring and he would help us out.

Armed with millet beer and wine sachets, we stormed the gates of the concert. Jonathan tried to avoid being searched, thinking that his oil jug of booze would be a problem. They caught him though, and searched him anyway. During the search, the jug had turned over and, with a faulty cap, the beer started spilling into his shoulder bag. The security officer didn’t seem to notice and we were clear. Jonathan has a bad track record with tragic spills in his filthy homemade shoulder bag. This is usually due to the fact that everything we seem to buy is sold in a sachets, and is frequently liquid or paste, and the other fact that Jonathan never seems to close his knives that he also carries in the bag. Wine, peanut butter, and gin are the most frequently perpetrators of mess in his ill-fated bag. It was originally made from a rice sack and given as a gift to him in Papua New Guinea. It developed holes throughout the months, which also caused him to lose several prized items, including his favorite knife and my flute. He eventually replaced the bag part with material from a pink sheet of Blai’s that said “Buenas Noches”. This was later partially burned in a fire, and he patched it with some cloth from a Rambo t-shirt he found. The bag, which now said, “Buenas Noches Rambo” with a hot picture of Sly himself, was legendary, but still disgusting.

The concert featured Desert Blues artists from around the region. This genre of music was the type that Jonathan loathed more than any, but even he got into the spirit of it. There was a magic that came from watching the performers dance as their billowing robes flowed in the wind and intermingled with the excess cloth from their turbans. Surprisingly, there didn’t seem to be any foreigners in sight. We were surrounded by a bunch of well-dressed Africans, who would get up and dance occasionally to the calm and rhythmic sounds of the north. By the time the star of the night, Vieux Farka Toure, the son of Africa’s greatest guitarist, Ali Farka Toure, was on stage, we were all up and moving. He is one of my favorite Malian artists, and I had missed him when he was in Seattle (the $10 ticket price suddenly became $18 with fees), so I was thrilled when he played my favorite song of his.

Our view of the show. The stage was actually right there on the river. Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly

I can't seem to embed the video for Fafa, my favorite song of Toure's, but click here to give it a listen.

After the concert, we made our way to the beer garden next to the concert. The beer was surprisingly cheap and there was a mix of oddball characters that we would continue to see throughout the festival. There was a girl from Quebec who almost incited violence in our group when she bashed Jonathan’s home province of Manitoba. I told her my friend was from Manitoba, but apparently she didn’t notice that I was pointing to Jonathan and that “my friend” was actually sitting next to me. She responded curtly, “oh, great, rednecks and praries,” before moving on to talk with Blai. Being dreadlocked rebels with piercings, they found lots to talk about, as Jonathan stewed about what he had heard. He kept saying quietly, “I’m gonna kill her”, between sips of millet beer from the oil jug. When he finally confronted her, she completely denied saying such things, and he quickly forgot about killing her, and began to flirt instead. She quickly moved back to Blai (proud that she could speak Spanish with him) and Jonathan and I began plotting against them. I told Jonathan I would give him $20 if he could manage to tie two of their dreadlocks together without them noticing. Before he could try, an Frenchman in his 60’s in some weird furry getup and, if I remember correctly, a Viking hat, and most definitely a bull’s horn, which he was drinking an unknown substance from, burst onto the scene, blabbering in French and English, forcing his drinking horn upon us. Of course we took sips, and it may or may not have been millet beer mixed with actual beer. He sat down next to Blai and the Quebec girl, and Jonathan and I saw the golden opportunity. This old man had about 4 dreadlocks left on his balding head, and I offered $50 if he could tie their heads together. He gave it a valiant attempt, but he did not manage to get past the Quebec girls’ paranoid looks.

The beer garden closed and we were forced to try and figure out a way back to our place. Luckily there was a festival going on and there were enough cars on the road for us to hitchhike with. We managed to get a ride from a benevolent man with a car who took us all the way back to the hotel. We rolled our mat out on the dirt and slept, hoping the owner would tolerate us just one more night.

Squatting in Segou

February 1, 2011

We felt the need to push our way into the actual city of Segou, and off the grass of the luxurious Hotel Le Faro. So we headed that way, and thanked the travel gods for subduing the wind. On the way, however, Blai remembered that Alejandro, who had briefly been in our convoy from Nouakchott to Bamako, said he was staying in Segou. Blai gave him a call, and sure enough, he was still in town. He told Blai he was at some great hotel/camping place where he had been staying (in his van) for free for over a month. This seemed odd, or even impossible. He even added that the staff had taken care of him while he had malaria. This also seemed suspect, as he claimed he had gotten the malaria from lettuce that had not been washed properly. Either way, though, we wanted to pay him a visit, and his place was right on the river.

Our camp in front of Hotel Le Faro. Photo Credit: Blai Garriga

We were greeted by Alejandro waving at us, flanked by a German couple, who, for whatever reason, also seemed excited to see us. Alejandro had lopped off the four dreadlocks hanging off the back of his shaved head, and I have to say, it was a good move on his part. We immediately parked the boat and ordered a round of beers from Katia, the sweet woman who ran the show here. Both Alejandro and the Germans had been parking their Mercedes camper vans for about a month, and had basically just compensated the owner by buying beer very regularly. It seemed like a good deal. The owner was a Frenchman named Jaques, who seemed friendly at first, but a little awkward. The hotel was still under construction, and only had a few rooms in business. Rumour had it that the place is extra busy on the weekend, when people come to book rooms hourly…if you know what I mean.

Alejandro. Photo Credit: Blai Garriga

We sipped beers next to the gardens overlooking the river through the afternoon and kicked around all sorts of stories. It was really refreshing to get some conversation in English (and some in Spanish) with people other than Blai and Jonathan for a change. We were even joined by an older French woman on vacation, who was young at heart and lots of fun to hang out with. Eventually everyone decided to head into town (still about 6 km away) to use internet and get some food for dinner. We decided to have another chicken dinner to celebrate our arrival. The Germans, both vegetarians, were a little squeamish at the thought of us butchering a chicken, but that just encouraged us more. The French woman came for the feast and we all hung out with beers until late into the night. We figured the more we spent on beer, the more the staff would tolerate us crashing on our mat in front of the hotel.

The gardens in front of the hotel. These gardens line the banks of the Niger near Segou for miles.

In the morning we looked and felt like hobos. We didn’t really have much ability to pack up and go either. The wind was roaring worse than it had in days. One of the first things that happened when I woke up was an old man coming to yell at me in Bambara, and pointing toward the river. I had no idea what he was so upset about, but he insisted that I come down to the river with him. It turned out that our boat was not anchored well enough, and had been dragged up river by the wind and into the shore, thus blocking his designated spot to collect water for watering his garden. Of course this seemed trivial to me, as it seemed that he could simply move down a few meters to fill up his watering cans, but at the same time, our boat really did need to be re-anchored as it would surely keep moving. Worse yet, the waves had come crashing into our boat, filling it up halfway. What followed felt very dramatic to Jonathan and I, but probably made us look completely ridiculous to the savvy piroguers standing in our midst. First we emptied the boat of everything, making it sit higher in the water, and easier to maneuver . Luckily all of our water sensitive belongings had been removed the night before. Then we struggled to control the boat as it was tossed around by the wind and waves. We were trying to find the right angle to park it, so it rode the waves, rather than get pushed by them. Of course, all the pirogues near us already had this figured out, and they just rolled gently with the waves. I had not anticipated getting all the way into the water and I was still wearing my ankle length blue boubou/jeleba (the robe I had gotten in Morocco), but within minutes, I was forced to get all the way in to not lose control of the boat. Luckily for Jonathan he had more foresight than me and had the fortune of wearing only shorts as he dove into the water to move the anchor. It took about twenty minutes of struggling and re-anchoring to get it out of people’s way and in line with growing waves.

Yep, we were in no position to move out of our little spot at this hotel. Meanwhile, Blai had been talking up Jacques, the hotel owner, asking if he knew of any places to rent in town. Blai’s dog Fura had a litter of puppies on the way any day now, and he had decided he would stay in Segou until the puppies were ready to give away, rather than continue on the river with the whole litter. Jonathan and I were still unsure of our plans. We would surely stay for the festival (Festival Sur le Niger), but weren’t sure if we would try to continue alone, stay in Segou, or go to Burkina Faso for their famed film festival. When Blai was finished discussing with Jacques, he came back saying that the owner was not to keen on “our gypsy styla”, as Blai put it. It was true that our mat and accompanying belongings and cooking materials looked…less than classy. However, Jacques had had every opportunity to offer us a room or at least tell us his rates for camping. We were probably in the wrong there, but after so much time camping freely (and being welcomed by locals) anywhere in Mali, Mauritania and Morocco, we were not used to these kinds of rules. He did not tell us to leave though, so we just tidied things up, put most of our things back in the boat and made some more beer purchases to stay on his good side.

Our spot in front of Jacque's hotel.

In other news, Jonathan had been inspired by some of the sailing pirogues we had seen in the days since the beginning of the Harmattan winds. Although the pirogues we had seen were only capable of going downwind, which 100% of the time was up river, in the opposite direction we wanted to go, he felt confident that he could figure out a way to design a sailing rig that would enable us to tack against the wind and move down river without paddling. I didn’t really know how I felt about it, since I liked paddling and didn’t want to make things more complicated. I felt simplicity was what made the boat trip so much better than the donkey trip. However, our progress since the winds had begun was dismal, and I was open to being able to make k’s in situations that we otherwise couldn’t. Jonathan’s expertise is in sailing, so this was an exciting prospect for him. I told him that I would help work on it, but that I wouldn’t help fund it (his estimates were around $60-$80) until it actually worked. He immediately got to work drawing up plans and shopping for the best quality grain sacks to construct the sail with. The Germans even offered us a large blue tarp that would provide material for about half of one of the two sails. It would turn out to be an extremely long, and at times ludicrous process, but it sure was an experience.

Arrival in Segou...kind of

January 29, 2011

The first sign came that we were actually getting close to Segou came when two men from a Bozo camp hopped in their boat when seeing us and paddled their asses off to catch up with us, only to try to sell us a fish at an exorbitant price. Previously, on the river, the Bozo fishermen wanted to give us fish as a gift, not to rip us off by selling it to us. These guys, living a day’s paddle from Segou, must be aware enough of tourists to know that we are just walking piggy banks, and stupid enough to pay $5 for a kilo of fish. We said we didn’t want the fish. They asked if we needed a guide. This seemed silly to us, since we had managed to paddle 170 km without a guide. We weren’t sure why we would need one now. It saddened us to see the attitudes toward us start to change, but we knew it had to happen.

Our spirits were up, though, and we had a good feeling about getting within a stone’s throw of our destination of Segou that day. The winds were calm, but then again, the current was dead. Rumor had it there was a dam 35 km after Segou, causing the river to feel more like a lake by now. We had gotten up early and made a significant distance in the first 2 hours. I had made my legendary soup, a recipe that you only wish I would impart upon you, which gave us lots of power.

But then the winds, once again, stopped us in our tracks…er, wake. We were forced to take a rest on an island being used as a cow pasture. Surrounded by cows and an abundance of their pies, we rested in the unrelenting winds and eventually cooked some lunch.

A pirogue with a sailing rig takes advantage of the winds to go up river.

At 3:00 we decided that we needed to move. The winds had only subsided slight, butwe were low on water, and could see a village half a kilometer away. Perhaps it was Segou Koro, or “Old Segou”, a village just 9 km away from Segou, that I had visited before the boat trip began. With the wind coming even stronger as we got into the middle of the river, and the whitecaps forming, we had a hell of a time getting to the village. But when we got there, and found that it was in fact Segou Koro, we were very relieved. Jonathan and Blai went into town to get a few things, while I waited by the boat. I was surprised that the kids were just as curious as the kids in the other villages, because they are used to seeing the occasional tourist. They were slightly bolder, but didn’t even ask for “cadeaux” as I thought they would. Eventually I saw two white men with fanny packs being led around the village by a guide. It was a weird sight, and I was glad they hadn’t seen me.

As I waited I met a fisherman in the boat next to ours. He said he was leaving to go fishing in Bamako (interesting because I saw almost no fishermen there). He said it would take him three days to paddle there. This seemed incredible, as it was pushing against the current and was over 200 km away. I think his concept of time (or French numbers) was a little skewed, but even if he did it in six days I would be incredibly impressed.

Segou Koro. Photo credit: Jonathan Heier

Photo Credit: Blai Garriga

They brought back the goods and Blai and I then set out to get a couple jugs of water. We filled at the pump, and when we tried to leave one of the women yelled at us. I assumed she wanted us to pay for the water as they usually have a community fund to collect money for repairs. I had almost no money, nor did Blai, so we pretended not to understand. We had never been asked for money at pumps before, and a woman behind her wagged her finger, indicating for us to ignore her. A young woman came up and said the French word for money. I gave the only ten francs I had (2 cents) although I think we owed 40 francs. They seemed ok with this so we left.

Sheep traveling by pirogue from an island pasture to the mainland. Photo Credit: Jonathan Heier

And the rest swam.

It was getting late, so we decided just to cross the river to find a place to camp. We landed on another island being used as a cow pasture. It was covered with hay and cow pies, so we had something soft to sleep on for the night.

Our cow pasture island for camping, with a couple of passing sailing pirogues. Photo Credit: Jonathan Heier

The next day we we got a relaxing start, uncertain of what our plan was. We figured we would arrive in Segou, but still had no idea where we would go or stay. Then we saw that there was a hotel just across the river from us. We decided to go there for a breakfast beer, make friends with the staff and see how tolerant they were of us.

Although Hotel Le Faro was on the nicer end of hotels with classy guests and a relaxed feel, the staff was very hospitable to us ruffians. After a beer, we asked the guy who seemed in charge if we could leave our boat there for the day while we went into Segou. He said it was fine.

We managed to hitch a ride the 9 km into Segou and when we got there the pace was a little weird and shocking. The people were friendly, but when we got into the center, we had our first encounter with the touts and wannabe guides. We were there at the peak of tourism, right at the beginning of their huge music and cultural festival. I thought I would be angry with the hustlers, though after so much time in the bush experience Mali in its purest form with the kindest people, these people just seemed to ridiculous to even be annoyed with.

We tried to keep it brief in town, so we just got the essentials. A meal of street food (eating without cooking was a great thing), some internet time, and a bottle of rum.

We moved back onto the main road leading out of town and tried hitching back out individually on motorbikes as we had in Koulikoro. Segou being much larger, with fast traffic, was not as easily hitchable. I managed to get two rides that got me halfway there, but Jonathan and Blai had no luck. They eventually arrived where I was walking, in the back of a moto taxi (basically a motorbike pulling a tiny bed that seats about eight people. I was disappointed in them, but they had actually bartered for a price that, to me, seemed nearly impossible. The driver didn’t even bother to pick up other people, and went directly to our hotel. He did it, smiling the whole way, and gave hearty handshakes when we arrived.

We spent the rest of the evening slowly sipping the hotel’s expensive beers, while taking shots of cheap rum on the sly. Jonathan and I wanted to cross the river to camp where we had the night before, but Blai didn’t see why we wouldn’t just sleep on the grass in front of the hotel. To Jonathan and I, this seemed crazy, but Blai insisted it would be no problem.

We had long intense discussions about politics, mostly revolving around Blai’s ideas about money and his theories about Rockefeller and Jews controlling the world. Money is all lies, he said, but we insisted that while money is controlled in weird, sometimes arbitrary ways, people have been using the idea of currency all over the world since the beginning of time, and we shouldn’t be so skeptical. It got heated at times, but it was fun.

One of the waiters at the hotel offered us dinner (probably steak or something expensive like this), and to test their tolerance of us, Blai said we didn’t need dinner, since we would be cooking our own dinner later by the boat, and that the waiter was invited to come eat with us. He seemed interested in this, so we decided it would be ok to stay the night.

The waiter never came, but we did indeed cook up a mean pasta with a peanut sauce before crashing for the night.

In the morning, we felt weird, and wondered if the staff would finally tell us to rent a room or leave. It is not normal to just sleep in front of a hotel (we didn’t set up our tents, just crowded together on our mat) and expect to not pay for anything or even be tolerated. However, nobody said anything, and Blai even was bold enough to go and speak with the French owner who was milling about. Eventually one of the staff told us, not that we had to leave, but to move to the other side of the lawn, as they would be setting up tents for something to do with the festival coming up. Although it seemed clear that we actually could sleep here for at least a couple more nights without trouble, we decided it would be best to try and move closer to Segou.

Dirty Crew

Do you want to see how dirty our river crew was?

Jonathan Diarra

Joey Traore

Blai Coulibaly

January 28, 2011

A second day of heavy Harmattan winds forced us to take an extended lunch break. We happened to find shade on the side of the river near four sleeping fisherman. I assume they were taking a break from the wind, or at least just trying to stay out of the sun. It wasn’t until after we had started to cook that I realized that a rifle lay next to one of them. I was surprised to see that they had a gun (for what purpose, I am unclear), but probably not as surprised as they were to wake near a group of white guys just casually cooking up a pot of rice.

Self-portrait during the break. Tar stains can be seen on my shoulder and on Jonathan's face in the photo above. Even Fura had tar in her fur.

By our third day of Harmattan, we were getting pretty frustrated with our inability to move during the day. We had made a total of about 12 km in the past two days, and we needed a way to at least stay somewhat productive. So we decided to use some of our free time to collect firewood. Finding wood in the evening had proved difficult if we were anywhere near any settlements. So when the wind kicked up, we pulled up to an island on the river and went on a search for wood.

I walked through some fields until I arrived at a large clearing with a few trees scattered about. All of a sudden a herd of sheep emerged on the other side of the clearing to graze. I didn’t see a shephard, so perhaps this island was being used as a natural pasture. All of a sudden Fura emerged from behind me, and went straight for the sheep. I assumed she was just playing, but I ran after her, just in case. The sheep bolted back into the bush and Fura pursued. It wasn’t long before I realized she wasn’t playing, but hunting. She re-emerged from the bush, after separating a tiny lamb from the pack. She chased it into the middle of the clearing and took it down. I ran after, and pulled Fura off the helpless animal. The lamb quietly limped away, back to the herd. I was scared that we would have been in a messy situation if Fura had actually killed somebody’s sheep. I don’t know what we would have done. Left immediately? Looked for the owners to apologize and pay for the animal? Eaten it, so as not to waste it?

Blai and I hacked some dead branches off a couple of the trees for a while, and eventually the sheep owners came into the clearing with their herd. I was surprised to see them, and a little embarrassed that they might have seen Fura’s attack.

We loaded the bow of the boat with as much wood as we could fit, and by now the wind had died down, permitting us to move. After a couple of hours, we saw some men on the shore, summoning us for some reason. They were sand miners, with a large pinasse (a wooden boat like ours, but larger). They wanted to meet us and share their lunch. They said they had come from Segou, which they said was not very far, and would be going back there that night. They gave us the rest of their bowl of fishy rice and said they were on their way to go dig sand. They told us we were welcome to stay there as long as we liked, and even offered us their still burning coals and a packet of tea and sugar in case we wanted some. We ate the rice as we watched them dig sand in the middle of the river, but also decided that it would be better to move while the wind wasn’t strong.

This camp spot was thoroughly exciting simply for the presence of grass. Also, notice how well-organized our camp is.

Soon after, though, we saw a tiny settlement with a few cows. We decided to try our luck obtaining some more milk. The few people there didn’t speak French, so once again, Blai enjoyed pantomiming what we were looking for. They told us to wait, and 20 minutes later, we had another fresh liter of milk.

By the end of the day, we had only made 8 km, but we knew we were getting close to Segou, Mali’s third (previously second) largest city. Unfortunately, though, every fisherman told us distances that seemed wildly inaccurate. From 5 km. to 40 km. to “you’ll get there tonight”. We should have known better than to ask people with different concepts of time and distance than we have, but it was too tempting. We were growing weary from the wind, and slightly lonely after ten days in river solitude. We all had dreams of what Segou would be like, even though it wouldn’t offer us much in comforts that we had been doing without. We knew we would still be camping, as we were not about to pay for guesthouses, the food wouldn’t be any better than we were cooking (although there would be meat), and even though we would thoroughly enjoy cold beer, it would seem very expensive after spending so little while on the river. Most importantly, though, we would be arriving just in time for “Festival Sur le Niger”, Mali’s second most famous music festival (second to Festival au Desert, near Timbuktu). I was more excited about the opportunity to be in town for this weeklong festival, as there would be some of my favorite West African artists performing, such as Amadou and Marian, Femi Kuti (son of the famous Nigerian singer Fela Kuti) and Vieux Farka Toure. Unfortunately, though, the cost of the concert portion of the festival was steep, at about $140 for four days of concerts. Blai was not about to pay this, and neither was Jonathan, who had grown to hate most any Malian or West African music I had exposed him to. I would have paid for this rare opportunity, but they were convinced we would figure out a way to sneak in some how. Blai has been to many music festivals in Europe, but has never paid, and was not expecting to now.

Tea was an essential fixture as a pastime during our long periods of waiting for winds to die.

As we set up camp that night, two men in a pirogue paddled past us, yelling “Angata, angata”, or “let’s go, let’s go”, as the wind had completely stopped. It was the moment to make the distance. We knew we were wasting the opportunity to make some distance, but our paddling even in mild winds had left us too tired.

Wind and Coconuts

January 27, 2011

Like most nights, I did not sleep well. Sometimes I was too sore. Sometimes I was nervous. Sometimes lost in confusing or terrifying dreams, in and out of sleep trying to filter through what was real and what wasn’t. Even by morning it was usually still indecipherable. Things had been increasingly weird since I had started this trip some months ago. It would be hard to surprise me no matter what situation I found myself in upon waking.

But this time it was a simple matter of wind. I had failed to stake my tent down and the Harmattan, the seasonal winds that blow from the Sahara across West Africa, had decided to kick into high gear out of the blue. It struggled to send my tent rolling down the beach, but with me inside, it just pawed at it intensely, pushing my ceiling into my nose. I envisioned my poles snapping, tearing holes in the nylon mesh, leaving me to be feasted on by mosquitoes and whipped by blowing sand. I could only imagine what Blai was going through with his $20 Chinese tent that he had bought in Bamako.

By morning, in the light of day, things were a little less dramatic than they had seemed in my constant bursts of semi-consciousness. When I emerged from my tent, I saw Blai had given up on his tent, and was sleeping on our mat. Jonathan, so proud of his sturdy tent, had no idea it had even been windy.

This marked the beginning of a new era on the boat trip. Our first major challenge, or challenger, the Harmattan winds. I had known this would be a problem, but there was not much we could do about it. Not to say “I knew it all along”, but I had told Blai and Jonathan that the windy season was fast approaching and it was nothing to mess with. I had lived in Ghana for the same windy season two years ago and had seen their power. Of course, they don’t happen every day, but when they do blow, they mean it.

We weren’t sure what to do, so we just loaded the boat after breakfast, business as usual. As soon as we tried to paddle in defiance of the Harmattan, he called our bluff and upped the ante. The river grew whitecaps and our boat rocked. We paddled harder, hugging the shore. We barely moved. After days building up our paddling strength, we were made to feel like children as we pushed as hard as we could and simply inched forward. After 20 minutes, we spotted a village a few hundred meters in front of us. Ten minutes later, we washed up on the shore, extremely dejected, to some surprised looking women and confused children. We were too beat to even be very friendly and greet people. We simply grabbed our mat, books, and found a shade tree and tried to recover physically and emotionally.

That, of course, was too much to ask. The children came out of the woodworks and slowly approached. They kept their distance for a while, until an elderly man approached. We shook hands, greeted in Bambara, and then he tried to have a conversation with us in Bambara. Of course, our vocabulary in the local language was still fairly limited, and he knew no French. We explained, through sign language, that the wind was too strong for us and we were going to rest until it subsided. This seemed fine with him and he soon left leaving us to be stared at by a dozen young children at a now very short distance. I tried to be as uninteresting as possible, but reading a book is still too fascinating to them. Soon after, the chief came by with a young man who spoke bits of French. We brought some tea for the chief and tried to explain our situation through the young man. We didn’t understand him very well, but he seemed to understand us. We were welcomed and the chief hung out on our mat for a while, occasionally shooing away the bored kids, especially as some of them broke into wrestling matches over vantage points.

On a walk through the village we witnessed one of the most remote and poor little places I have ever seen. There didn’t appear to be a school (thought I still view that as unnecessary detail in this part of the world as there are more pressing issues), little livestock or farming (even though it was the dry season, the river provides all the water necessary for year round farming, and the few fields lay fallow) and only a small dirt trail as access to the outside world. Several children had lazy eyes, which can be caused by malnutrition. During the dry season it was also inaccessible by large river boats. Some places, although remote, and lacking infrastructure, schools, etc., still are able to get by comfortably, although simply. Something about this tiny village felt depressing, though. The people seemed more downtrodden than in other villages. I wanted to know their history and what reasons they had to seem more miserable than other places along the river, as I couldn’t know for sure. Unfortunately, I could barely understand the only person around with any knowledge of French.

The village's mosque, in the traditional mud and stick construction of the Sahel. Photo credit: Jonathan Heier

We were invited to a seat outside the towns little shop (which surprisingly stocked tea, sugar and biscuits, but unsurprisingly nothing more) as we munched on a few vanilla biscuits. We tried to offer some to the men standing around, but they refused. A young, nervous woman came by with a large calabash on her head. We watched as she lowered the calabash off her head to reveal about a gallon of fresh milk. An old woman bought a small bowl of it and put it in a plastic bag. We each bought a bowl. It was still warm. It had that unpasteurized taste that feels so naughty, yet so good to us Americans. After finished our bowls, we quickly bought a liter for about $.60. I just realized that is close to American prices, which shows how spoiled we really are. At the same time, though, this milk was more pure and honest than any I have ever had in my life and the people in the village that can afford it are lucky for this. From udder to my mouth in a matter of minutes.

The shop. Photo Credit: Blai Garriga

Photo Credit: Blai Garriga

We rushed back to our mat to make some coffee that we could grace with a splash of our rich milk. I felt guilty, but we were truly living like kings in this village. At least, though, we knew how lucky we were and we savored that milk and appreciated it as much as I feel the local children would.

The wind howled through our lunch of cabbage stew (which did not make me feel like a king) and we soon heard the sputtering of a cheap Chinese motor powering a large pinasse down the river. Blai was sick of waiting for the wind, so he flagged the boat onto the shore. They were having trouble with the wind as well, and a man dressed in a suit stood on the front, steering the bow with a long bamboo pole.

Blai asked how much to tie our boat to theirs and take us 10 km. We must have looked desperate as they asked for $70. We offered $2. Our offer was more fair than theirs (though I didn’t know this at the time), but they didn’t seem very interested anyway. I was happy with this, as I didn’t want to give into the wind after only a few hours.

By 4:00 the wind finally began to subside noticeably. We quickly hopped into our boat, without saying goodbye to the chief or anybody else we had met in the village (not even the milk lady!), and started paddling, hoping the wind would stay down.

It did, and after an hour, the water looked like glass, like it had at dusk every night before. Our camping spot was not too close to a village, but close enough that wood was hard to find. We all went into the bush with the last of our sunlight and we all came back with cuts everywhere from trying to bring back long, thin sticks covered in thorns. All the decent wood had been taken by people or eaten by termites. The thorny wood’s smoke smelled awful and made our dinner taste the same.

Unrelated incident somewhere on the Niger river:

Three boys in a boat, in an unfamiliar land, slightly bored, very sun burnt, feeling a little too tired, feeling a little too ambitious, feeling a little too free. They spot something familiar. A palm tree with coconuts. They know coconuts, they want coconuts. They look small and green, but they must be good for coconut water and a little meat. They climb onto the river’s island. They find the one coconut tree, a few sheep, a few cows. A village on the opposite bank of the river is too far away to notice the shenanigans. Men on a passing canoe pretend not to see the bizarre half-naked strangers.

The tools: bamboo pole, machete, rope, t-shirt, ignorance, stubbornness.

First attempt: bamboo pole. In other environments, perhaps with riper coconuts, this is fool proof. Bang the coconuts a few times, and drowned in refreshing coconut water in minutes. Green Malian coconuts provide stronger resistance.

Second attempt: Machete tied to bamboo. An awesome tool in many circumstances, maybe good for coconut procurement as well. Unfortunately there is not enough leverage to create a strong force to saw through the vines holding the coconuts.

Third attempt: Machete tied to bamboo, with excess rope hanging down. One person holds bamboo, another other person pulls the machete/bamboo combo with the rope, back and forth trying to saw through, third person watches out for falling coconuts or falling machetes. Either could be lethal.

Fourth attempt: t-shirt, brawn. The guy with dreadlocks ties ankles together with t-shirt, tries to climb. He makes it a few steps up, but then falls. The guy who had dreadlocks tries the same, makes it half as far, then falls. The guy who had dreadlocks for a week a long time ago knows better and continues to watch for falling coconuts and machetes.

Fifth attempt: rocks. No, throwing rocks at coconuts does not make them come out of trees.

Sixth attempt: Machete tied to bamboo, with excess rope hanging down, persistence. Cheers, as a bunch of ten coconuts fall, quickly turn to cries of sadness, as one coconut splits open, revealing its bare, dry insides. More coconuts are hacked into with the machete. The coconuts bear no fruit. The boys console themselves by having a green coconut-throwing contest.

Our friends, the Bozos.

January 25, 2010

We pulled our boat into a small village on an egg mission. They had been our main source of protein on the river, but we were out. The last village, which was relatively large, had none, but we figured we would try our luck everywhere until we found some.

Our boat, on top.

Blai and I made our way into the quiet town. Elderly men in long robes greeted us emphatically, smiling women waved at us from behind the walls of their mud brick compound, and kids in tatters ran toward us or away from us, depending on if they were frightened or curious. We eventually found the town’s only little shop. It was about as well stocked as any rural village’s shop that we had seen. Some boxes of tea, sugar, dusty bags of biscuits and little else. Curling posters with faded Islamic or soccer themes lined the walls. A young man sat in front of the shop filling plastic bags with a kilogram of sugar each. A few older men sat around chatting and drinking tea. We introduced ourselves and they quickly sprang into action, shaking hands, offering us tea, finding chairs for us, and summoning the best French speaker of the group. We bought a few bags of biscuits to munch on as we tried to explain that we were looking for eggs. Nobody seemed to know the French word for it, so Blai volunteered to act it out. He squawked and walked around like a chicken, then plopped a pantomime egg out his backside. They all laughed as they began to understand what we were looking for. They said they might be able to find some for us. They asked how many we wanted, and, knowing how limited the supply would be, we said as many as they could get. They sent the nearest young boy on the egg hunt.

Photo Credit: Blai Garriga

Photo Credit: Jonathan Heier

Within a few minutes the chief arrived. He was happy to see some fresh faces in the village, and we were happy to find someone who had a better command of French than any of the other guys around. Blai asked where the nearest water pump was, as he had brought an empty jug to fill. The chief quickly pulled a young girl, maybe 12 years old, out of the small crowd that had gathered to watch us, and said he would send her to get it. Blai said that he would like to get it, as he didn’t want to make the small girl carry the 20 liters of water. The chief said it wasn’t far and wouldn’t be a problem for her. Blai insisted that it wouldn’t be a problem for him either if it wasn’t far. The chief relented and sent the girl to show Blai where the pump was. Meanwhile, I made small talk with the chief and drank tea with the guys at the shop. Eventually a woman arrived with the eggs. She had ten, and I paid her for all of them, grateful that we would have a bit of protein for 3 or 4 more days. Thirty minutes later, Blai finally came back with the full jug of water. The pump had not been close at all, maybe a mile away. The chief had said it was close so we didn’t feel bad for him sending the young girl. But that is the social order of this culture, whether we like it or not.

We had thought we would reach the village of Tamani, but our village stop took a little longer than expected, and we were getting tired. There was a long argument about where we would stop to camp. I didn’t have a strong opinion, but Blai and Jonathan always do; and they are usually opposing each other. To me, I couldn’t see an ideal spot to stop. Nothing looked good. We finally were forced into a spot that, thus far, was the worst camp spot we had had. We had to park our boat 30 yards off shore as it was too shallow to bring it closer. There was population nearby, leaving us less privacy, and little hope for finding firewood for cooking.

As soon as we unloaded the boat, Jonathan hustled into the bush, trying to find some wood before the sun was completely gone. As Blai and I set up camp, some women emerged from the bush, carrying various things on their head, mostly bundles of wood that would be turned into charcoal. Two of them stopped by our camp and we exchanged greetings in Bambara. They stubbornly continued in their language that we knew little of. They shrieked as they spoke in a tone that left us wondering if they were displeased with us for some reason. Eventually our blank faces made them laugh, though and things became friendly. In this part of the world the men are always nice and friendly. There is little question that they are happy to make a new friend. The women seem a little more ambiguous or even suspicious, but in the end, they are always just as friendly and willing to laugh with you as the men. After the women went to their boat, the two we had spoken with came back with a small basket of fish, they dumped the fish into one of our pots, smiled and waved goodbye. We thanked them, gave them some tea and waved goodbye.

Soon after we saw Jonathan, accompanied with a man, emerge from the bush, carrying a healthy bundle of wood. When looking for wood, Jonathan had encountered this man, who was also collecting firewood. The man recognized that Jonathan would have very little opportunity to find any wood, as most of it had already been picked clean. The man helped Jonathan find some, then took him to his secret wood cache that he had hidden, and gave Jonathan some of his best pieces. We tried to invite him to join us for tea, but he said that he had to go fish. Indeed, right around sunset is the most valuable time for fishing. So we gave him some boxes of tea to go as he rushed off to his boat. Thanks to Malian hospitality and the people’s giving nature, this turned out to be a great camp spot. Perhaps solitude wasn’t such an important aspect of a camp spot.

Our daylight was valuable. While we were making respectable progress, we knew that we couldn’t waste that much time. This is why we would use our morning fire for breakfast to also cook a pot of plain rice for lunch. We were eating a lot to keep up with the incredible amount of energy we were spending to paddle on the river that seemed to have an increasingly disappointing current. Halfway through the day one of us would cut up some tomatoes, onions, garlic, put it in the rice with some oil, soy sauce and, for Jonathan and I, hot sauce. This proved to be a simple way to eat on the boat, so as soon as we were finished we would go for a swim to cool off and keep paddling.

We arrived in Tamani, another small village that had the obvious indications of a colonial town gone wrong. It looked, from afar, like it would be big, maybe prosperous, because of a couple of large buildings and pieces of equipment. As we got closer, though, it revealed itself to be a decrepit backwater that probably once had held some hope for the people. For decades, this town had crawled back into the bush and reverted to its old ways. The largest building and corresponding rusty machinery was a rice-processing factory. There was also sand mining equipment that lay unused. For whatever reason this town never took off as a rice producing hub for the region. As far as I know, nobody even grows rice until Mopti, some 400 km north on the river. Today it seemed that the main activities were mud brick production and sand mining, though only with shovels, buckets and wooden boats, rather than the large rusted out digging equipment that lay fallow on the shore. As we walked through the town’s narrow maze of paths between family compounds, it became obvious that the only non-religious buildings not made from mud brick had long been shuttered and turned to ruins. The town held a creepiness for this reason, as it made me wonder what it had really been like here 60 years ago. Was it connected by a better road that had since become nearly impassable? Did people have a sense of opportunity for the presence of a factory, and perhaps jobs? What happened when it all collapsed? Were the people relieved to get back to life as it had always been, or did they resent the lost opportunity?

The local mud brick makers were very friendly, offering us tea as soon as we arrived.

Tamani had a strong Muslim feel to it. All the men wore long robes, there were four Mosques, and we heard some people greeting each other with Salaam Alaykum, rather than in Bambara. In fact, it was unique in the way that all of the mosques were made from concrete, as opposed to mud and sticks, as in the other villages. The people were extremely warm (handshake binges ensued around every corner), and the homes were packed close together, with tiny paths to walk through. These are quintessential features of what I call a good town. A rule that I live by is that the narrower the roads, the more interesting the town. Varanasi good, Phoenix bad. The medinas of Morocco good, the boulevards of Fort Lauderdale bad. We managed to track down a woman selling some rapidly deteriorating tomatoes and cabbage in her home. We bought a most of what she had on offer.

Back on the river, it wasn’t long before we saw a young boy paddling his boat ambitiously, angling in our direction. His boat was only a little smaller than ours and it was packed with firewood and some rolled up straw huts. We started to race him, and only when all three of us put all our effort into the paddling were we able to achieve a faster pace than him. He took a sharper angle at us and waved. He wanted to pull up to us, so we slowed down. The boys couldn’t have been more than 12. As soon as he reached us, he unceremoniously handed us a large catfish. At first I mistook his silence as unfriendliness, but I think he was just very nervous. He matched our pace for a while, then motioned for us to follow us. He said something in a mix of Bambara and French, of which we only understood “grande capitaine”, the name of a large river fish. We followed him to a nearby beach that held a small Bozo encampment. The Bozo people are the race of fishermen that live along the Niger. Many of them seem to be nomadic, traveling around the river, following the best fishing spots. The invitation to his small camp gave us a great opportunity to learn more about their lifestyle. Most of the people we had encountered on the river were Bozo, and we had regularly seen both small and large camps set up on the sand banks.

After giving us a catfish, the young boy led us to his family's camp nearby.

The boy introduced us to his family, and they proudly showed us their “grande capitaine”. There were large rocks on the sand with a rope tied to it, leading into the water. The boy gently tugged the rope, and huge splashing came up from the water. The large fish was still alive on the other end of the rope. They had four of these ropes with capitaine on the end. Huge and powerful, they must have weighed 30 pounds each. They showed us the baitfish they used and the dozens of large hooks and thick lines. This completely intimidated us from even trying to do any more fishing. We had small hooks, thin line and little patience. The women were packing up there home as they prepared to leave to find a good evening fishing spot. Little boys chased around the chickens to put them into fishing traps that doubled as chicken coops (we had found an old fishing trap and had done the same with our chicken). The straw huts were rolled up and everything was piled onto the family’s two fishing boats. We realized that we were watching them pack up with as much curiosity as kids always did when we were packing. We finally understood how the act of packing can be so interesting. We wanted to know what they had, what they were doing, and how they were doing it. We realized that even though we weren’t really living off the land, we were living a very similar life as the Bozo. We were sleeping on the river in a different place every night. We had homes to set up. We had the same kind of containers to put things in, a large mat to sit on, jerry cans converted into things for a variety of uses, firewood, animals on board, and we were dressed in dirty or tattered clothes. It was a beautiful and simple lifestyle, and they truly seem to enjoy it. The Bozo are some of the happiest and kindest people I have ever met in my life and I truly envy them.

Fish traps.

River Progress and a Chicken Dinner

Fura the river dog. Photo Credit: Jonathan Heier.

January 22, 2010

After so much bush camping and expedition-like travel in the past few months, we quickly had a rhythm and some sort of order to our day. Even though we were now paddling a boat on a river, camp chores were accomplished easily without conscious delegation of tasks, and although we were always busy, it was never overwhelming. The most contentious moments occurred at the end of the day when we were trying to figure out if we were too tired to continue, and where to camp. Of course nobody knew which spot would have the most to offer (soft sand, fire wood, no mosquitoes, privacy, etc.) as the view from river level didn’t have provide the most information. Everyone always had different opinions, though.

The general look of our camp. I prepare the fire, Blai prepares the Spanish omelette for breakfast.

On the morning of the 23rd, we had the boat packed early, and were prepared to leave, when we saw a fisherman appear paddling toward our beach. We had not seen any villages nearby, but there are always fishermen close by. He was a young guy who seemed excited to see some foreigners on the river. He didn’t speak any French, so we exchanged greetings in Bambara. He asked where we had come from and where we were going. He seemed impressed by our ambition. He wanted to have a look at our boat and what we were carrying, and we did the same to his. He had a bamboo mat for sleeping, a piece of wood that served as a table with a tea set on it, a charcoal stove, fishing lines, nets, traps, bait fish, and a few cat fish. Like us, he was completely self-sufficient on his boat, however we had far more belongings than he had. He quickly grabbed the largest of his catch, a catfish, and presented it to us. We were amazed and thanked him for his generosity. He didn’t want the thanks, and pointed to the sky, indicating that it was his duty to Allah to be hospitable to us. We gave him some tea to show our gratitude. Another fisherman pulled up soon after, and after he had his look into our boat, we all departed. They motioned that they wanted to travel along with us, so we zigzagged down the river while they matched our pace and snake-like path. There was an island in the river and they directed us onto the correct side of it (the other side may have been too shallow, or had a slower current, something only fisherman who live on the river could know for sure).

We had been veering towards the left bank, when all of a sudden the fisherman switched directions, and started motioning frantically for us to do the same. We didn’t understand why, and Jonathan wanted to keep us straight. They were yelling something to us in Bambara and pointing at the left bank. We were confused if they were pointing out something or telling us to go back toward the left. Finally, Blai noticed a black lump in the water and realized they were pointing out a hippo. We quickly changed course and paddled as fast as we could. We were behind the fisherman as we passed the huge animal. Blai kept looking over his shoulder, sure that it was moving towards us. I couldn’t tell, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. The fisherman didn’t even laugh at our fear, as they knew how serious getting in a hippos personal bubble is. After we were a safe distance from the hippo, the fishermen paddled off to shore where there was a small Bozo (the name of the ethnic group of fishermen that live along the rivers in Mali) camp, and waved goodbye. I had a strong feeling that they had wanted to paddle with us because they knew of the hippo in the area and wanted to show us the way around it. If it wasn’t for their guidance we easily could have paddled too close to it that our mistake would have been realized too late. Our boat and bodies would have ended up in pieces floating down the river, surely reaching the Atlantic Ocean eventually, but not in the way we had hoped.

Fish givers, protecting us from hippos.

It was our fourth day on the river, and while we weren’t too sure of our progress, we had been going hard each day. With a gift fish and increasingly tired muscles, we decided to stop a little early. We found a spot with shade, sand and lots of firewood. We didn’t see any people, but we could not have been too far from a village or at least a nomad camp, as there were plenty of sheep and cattle grazing in the foliage around us. We roasted the fish over the fire and it was a nice little piece of protein for us. We had tried fishing from the boat while paddling, but we came up with nothing. The fisherman here use far more advanced techniques than a single line with a baited hook.

The next day we knew we would have to get water. We had passed some very small villages in the past couple days, but we were almost certain that none of them were on our map. We didn’t really know where we were or how far we had gone. I felt annoyed because Jonathan had originally predicted that we could make 50 km in a day. It wasn’t until it seemed that we were only making 10 km in a day that I asked him how he had come to believe such progress was possible. I assumed he had asked some people who knew what was possible in a pirogue, but he had simply felt the current in Koulikoro, estimated the speed and guessed that we could go twice as fast as the current. At this point the current we had felt in Koulikoro was far faster than anything we had seen since then.

In the afternoon we pulled into a small village to look for some food. We mostly wanted eggs, and any fresh produce we could find. Blai and I walked through the tiny mud brick village and people looked shocked at our presence. This was a town that survived through the river, not through a road, and I wondered when the last time a foreigner had wandered the paths here. We eventually found the dusty market, empty except for a few wandering sheep and frightened children. Two small shops were open on opposite ends of the open space, and we visited both. There were no eggs, and we didn’t bother ask about produce. This was the dry season and it wasn’t market day. We asked the name of the village, but didn’t recognize it from our map. I then asked about Kanenkou or Kamini, the two villages we thought would be closest to us. The man indicated that we had already passed them. I asked where Niamina was, and he said in just 7 km. This didn’t make any sense as we did not think we had come so far, and that we didn’t even notice passing Kanenkou or Kamini. This encouraged us, though, and we decided not to spend more time here, but put all of our energy into paddling to Niamina. In an hour it was clearly visible that we were nearing a village larger than any we had passed before. The first sign was a cell phone tower poking out of the trees, and later, a cluster of mud buildings and mud stairs emerging from the bush, overlooking the river.

We pulled up to an expanse of wet sand that led to the town of Niamina. We were thrilled that we had made it here. This was the halfway point to Segou, meaning that we had come about 90 km in four days, an average of 22.5 km per day. While it was not ideal, it was far better than we had expected.

Jonathan and Blai went into town, while I stayed with the boat. I was itching to see the town, but knew that we had to take turns, and I had gone into the last village. But sitting by the boat, watching the town from a distance was interesting as well. A man dug in the sand in front of the boat. It wasn’t until I saw him chase away birds that I realized he was digging for worms. A girl, maybe 13 years old, walked up to the boat, stared for a minute, then gained the confidence to practice her French, as she quickly said, “good evening, how are you? What is your name? Thank you, goodbye.” Ironically, that was about what I would sound like if I was going to practice my Bambara with her. Soon after, a more daring, younger girl came and practiced the same routine.

Niamina, the largest town on the 180 km stretch of river between Koulikoro and Segou. Photo Credit: Jonathan Heier

Niamina's empty market. Photo Credit: Jonathan Heier

Jonathan and Blai eventually returned, beaming. They carried a full sack of food and a great experience of a hospitable town. It was the most well-connected town between Koulikoro and Segou, so they had the luxury of occasional electricity, which meant cold Coca-Cola. I have said it before, but Coca-Cola, drank in America is a boring and hideous drink, but in this circumstance, it was pure ecstasy. They also brought onions, tomatoes, and a live chicken. We would have a feast that night. We then gathered our empty water jugs, and walked toward the pump. We past a school as it was being let out, and made our way through a crowd of giggling girls. We filled our water at the pump, loaded the boat, and paddled across the river to set up camp.

That night I murdered my first chicken. I helped with the plucking, but Jonathan did most of the gutting and preparation that I had never done before. He also made a grill out of green branches. I gathered wood and prepared the fire, while he worked on the chicken and Blai spent a long time tediously preparing his famous aioli. The chicken was slowly cooked over a wood fire after being marinated with salt, pepper and a little of the Ethiopian spices I still had. The potatoes were thrown directly in the coals.

Pants were rarely necessary on the river.

The slaughter

Although the $4 chicken didn’t have as much meat as the genetically modified birds I am used to in America, it made a fantastic meal. At the first bite, I cursed every other chicken I had eaten that had not been cooked in this fashion. It was easily the best grilled chicken I have ever had. It wasn’t even a contest. Why don’t we always cook our chickens over wood fires with a greenwood grill? And with a little aioli, potatoes and lots of honey wine it was the best meal I had had in months.

There was a true element of Huck Finn developing in our journey; I just hoped we wouldn’t deteriorate into Lord of the Flies.