Clams, Sand, Wind

Photo Credit: Jordan

Photo Credit: Jordan

March 20, 2011

Having a crew of four helped us move faster on the river for obvious reasons. On the other hand it also made the likelihood of someone getting tired more likely. Everyone would get tired or discouraged at some point, and if they spoke up, quite often the mood would spread, and it seemed that we were more likely to take breaks.

Passing by a small village.

On our first morning after leaving Ke-Massina we felt lucky to be faced with a calm day. There had been too much wind for the boys before they arrived in Ke-Massina, but the last two days, which we spent in the town had been calm. We hoped it would hold out. Almost immediately after setting out for the day, though, the winds picked up. We tried our best to power through, hoping they would die down, but they only got stronger. We were forced to pull into shore after less than twenty minutes.

See that sail boat? That's why we couldn't move. Photo Credit: Jordan

We parked the boat in a little cove with clear blue water, a sandy beach and some trees for shade. We squeezed into the little bit of shade under the bare tree while Jonathan prepared the tea. The dust blew into our eyes and the wind continuously disrupted our card games, usually revealing Blai’s dishonesty in the game “bulls**t”. By noon we were growing restless, and Jordan offered up some new games with the soccer ball he had bought in Ke-Massina. A few games of “500”, taking some shots on goal, and other games that usually ended up in a brawl over the ball in the water kept us busy for a while. But then we realized we were standing on a shellfish gold mine. While playing in the water, we started to notice the occasional mussel buried in the sand. Once we started to look for them, they were easy to find. Just wiggle your feet around in the sand, shimmy around, and eventually, a little scrape on your toe, and you had a wallet-sized mussel, maybe three. After we all searched for about twenty minutes we had enough for a huge meal, but we were having too much fun finding them.

Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly

For the record, I never approved of Jonathan's Speedos that he bought in Italy before flying to Morocco. Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly

Shucking the mussels. Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly

After an hour we had a sack full of 233 mussels. Big mussels. We picked out about 50 and shucked them, putting the meat into a big pot. We made a stew out of them with some pasta and we were pleased with our resourcefulness. Our only source of protein, usually, was from peanut butter and the occasional eggs. We were surprised that nobody else in the area was utilizing this abundant food source. Could it be Islam? We assumed it was this, but now that I have researched this, Sunni interpretation of what is considered halal actually permits the consumption of shellfish. Maybe they just weren’t that good.

We found the mussel’s feet, the orange part that was sticking out of the shell, to be too tough and rubbery to eat, but we could suck quite a bit of meat off the base of it. We stuffed ourselves with the mussels and felt recharged. The wind had died down during our mussel hunt and we had actually wasted a few hours of calm river.

So in the late afternoon we hopped back in the boat and continued on our way with an enormous sack full of mussels. That night, we camped on a huge sandy beach. For Jordan and I, it seemed like a fine spot (Jordan likes a place where we can play soccer, I like a soft bed), but Blai worried that the next day there would be no shade for us if the wind was too strong.

We cooked mussels for dinner again, but Blai refused to eat them. They had made him feel nauseous. I wasn’t too hot about them either, but nibbled a bit for the protein, and so we didn’t needlessly harvest over 200 hundred shellfish. We still had at least half the bag left. The next day we all left identical soft green…deposits on the beach. That was the end of shellfish from the Niger for us.

Blai was right about the camping spot. Not only were we not able to move in the morning, the wind was so strong, it made cooking nearly impossible. I managed to make my famous soup for breakfast, though everything was covered in the sand that was blowing all around us. I was used to sandy food since October, but it is Blai’s biggest pet peeve. He had nothing nice to say that morning, and we knew we had to leave this sweltering sand pit.

We argued for a while about which way to go. We eventually decided to go across and up river to a spot that looked like it had some trees. When we got there, the decision to stay was definitely not unanimous. The little bit of shade that the trees provided was in a little thicket and the ground had been mud, then trampled by all sorts of animals, and left to dry, creating a ground full of holes and spikes. Blai said he wouldn’t stay there. Jonathan said he wouldn’t move the boat again. Jordan and I were apathetic. I wouldn’t have even cared if we had stayed on the sandy beach. So we ended up staying. We laid out our mat and contorted our bodies to wedge ourselves comfortably into the nooks and crannies below. We spent a lot of the day talking, which was annoying to all, because we all felt like reading. But every time we would start doing our own thing, somebody would pop some random question, like, “hey, do you know which countries in the world have both English and French as official languages?” which somehow would lead to a conversation about how various members of our families tend to feel toward our girlfriends. This would happen every time anyone got more than a few paragraphs into their book. Then we would play cards. Then we would drink tea. Then we would complain about our dire state. We weren’t necessarily in bad moods, just feeling a little defeated. The heat and wind were taking tolls on our spirits.

The wind never died, and we ended up camping there. It was our first day of negative progress (-200 meters). Fura barked a lot that night. She had grown increasingly protective of us, and any time somebody would walk near our camp she would start barking. I woke early to Fura chasing away a local woman that was coming to chop some branches off the trees for firewood.

Photo Credit: Jordan

Photo Credit: Jordan

Our lovely two day resting spot. Photo Credit: Jordan

The wind continued to blow that day, and we wondered if we would ever move. Our progress since leaving Ke-Massina could not have totalled more than 15 km, and this was the fourth day. Although things on our mat never got too tense, I think we all quietly thought that the extended amounts of time the four of us were spending on an 8 foot by 4 foot square would eventually be dangerous and we would probably kill each other, or worse, over time. Finally, a couple hours before sunset the wind started to calm. Begrudgingly, we carried all our belongings back to the boat. Although we were getting sick of that uncomfortable spot and just wanted to leave, the act of getting up, loading the boat, and paddling into the night was not enticing.

We had a precious thirty minutes of visibility before the night crashed in on us, and we were left to paddle blindly. This probably would not have been a problem in the rainy season, when the river was higher, and had far fewer islands and sandbars. Within an hour we had hit a few sand banks, but, after getting out of the boat, managed to steer the boat clear of them. An hour later, though, we were basically lost. We had hit so many sandbars and could no longer find a path that continued forward. We split up, scouting down river for a path through the shallows, but we found nothing. We also realized there was no current. We must have hit some sort of dead end. We could either turn around and look for right passage by starlight, wait another two hours for the moon to show the way, or give up and camp. Obviously we camped.

We couldn’t see where we were really camping, but the ground was dry, albeit rocky. It was a real mosquito den and we didn’t even bother to cook dinner or make a fire. Just hit the hay immediately, hoping for better conditions and a way forward tomorrow.

Photo Credit: Jordan

The morning light first revealed why there had been so many mosquitoes. Our camping spot, for some reason was surrounded by pools of standing water of various sizes. I was surprised we hadn’t fallen in them. Next, we saw, quite obviously, that we had paddled into a little dead end the night before, as we had assumed. The surprising part was how minor the obsruction, and how obvious it would have been in the light of day. In the darkness it felt as if we had paddled off some remote channel and fully removed ourselves from the actual river. In reality, we could see the main part of the river over a small sand bank just 50 meters from us.

Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly

Jonathan and I bought some sweet new hats at the Ke-Massina market. Photo Credit: Jordan

As we cooked breakfast, a man with a bike appeared out of the bush. Fura barked, but we calmed her down. He waved to us enthusiastically. Blai went to speak with him, but very little was communicated, and he went on his way.

The random man and his bike. Photo Credit: Jordan

Reuniting for a bar day and market in Ke-Massina

March 18, 2011

It’s 11:00 AM and the four of us are a few beers deep as we reunite at Ke-Massina’s bar on the river. The boys had arrived hours before after paddling through most of the night to reach the town before I left. I tried to resist as they ordered more rounds of beer, saying that if I was going to rejoin the boat to Mopti, still nearly 200 km away, that we would have to leave immediately. In order to catch my flight, I had wanted to leave no later than the day before, but now was extending my deadline.

They had no intention of doing any paddling that day, though, as they had barely slept the night before and had paddled by the light of the moon for hours. It had taken them about five days to get here from Markala, a distance of only 90 km. That would not have been such a bad pace if they had not sailed 36 km the first day. They had been pounded by Harmattan winds day after day, and could only move at night. They had spent days getting scorched by the sun on shadeless beaches. I owed them a days rest, but I told them I would not have time to continue with them the next day. I fully knew, however that they would never permit this.

Somehow we never made it out of the bar all day. Not like there was anywhere to go anyway. We had a lot to catch up on after only five days apart. More rounds of beer. Eventually rounds of mint schnapps. This was more because we were amused that they had mint schnapps than we really wanted it. They questioned my plans. No, they didn’t question my plans. They interrogated me. I had to delve deep into long stories about relationships, breakups, previous travels, etc. to try to justify my departure. More rounds. The on-duty bar hooker kept trying to flirt with us, but her mustache and exposed pop-belly was doing nothing for anyone. More beers. Eventually all of our lives, emotions, baggage (figurative, but also literal) were strewn all over our table. Traveling, especially on an intense trip like this, puts relationships and friendships in a time machine blender. You will know the people you are with as intimately as some of your closest friends in a matter of days, and go through the same inevitable ups and downs. Jordan, who I had known for about 30 hours at this point, doesn’t mess around with pleasantries. He cuts right to the core of things. He was not afraid to get personal, by questions or by telling his own stories. More shots. I broke down and committed to go to Mopti, but assured them that I had to get back to Bamako soon after that to catch my flight. They told me to change my flight so I could continue to Timbuktu. I didn’t tell them that I had bought a flexible ticket, and could change it at no charge. I knew that would lead to an incessant pressure to blow off going back to Lise, and I didn’t need that. More beers. They were all guys coming off some serious women troubles, and they had no words of encouragement in that realm. It was all doom and gloom. More shots.

By evening, the bar turned on its generator, and some music, but nobody arrived. This bar only exists because of the nearby military post, and even they can’t manage to make it very lively on the weekends. We were disappointed by this, but in reality it was probably better. We all needed to bond this night, and we were in no shape to interact with the general public, let alone military dudes. Jonathan and I shared many tears on this trip, and this night was no exception. I had individual conversations with everyone and they all challenged me emotionally. I felt fortunate when we finally decided to pay our enormous tab (probably $10 each) and find out where to sleep. The boat was parked just down the hill from the bar, and we were far from capable to move it. So we set up on the tiny patch of grass next to the river and camped hard.

In the morning, we had to face the sun, market day, and the pressing matter of leaving. A steady stream of pirogues, loaded to the gills with market-goers drifted past us towards town. Across the river, crowds from nearby villages were amassing, waiting for the next boat to take them to the market.

Crowds gathering across the river to make it to market day. Photo Credit: Jordan

The occasional large pinasse, loaded down with sacks of food staples and passengers motored by. We were low on some supplies, so we knew we would need to utilize this market day. When we got into the boat, we found that our best paddle was missing. Blai had seen it this morning, and we could not figure out where it had gone. As usual, Jonathan assumed theft, and went on yelling about gypsies, as if he had never stolen from innocent people before. Usually that goes on for about a minute before Jonathan finds what he had misplaced, but this time was different. I didn’t want to believe it, but it seemed that somebody in a pirogue had simply snatched it out of our boat as they passed by. We couldn’t prove it, and even though I am usually forgiving and optimistic in this scenario, it really looked as if we had been robbed. This left us with one more market task of getting a new paddle.

Ke-Massina on a Saturday has one of, if not the best markets that I have been fortunate to see in Africa. In a rural, and ethnically diverse location, people were arriving on several kinds of transport, from foot, to boat, to bus, to motorbike, or with their herd of cattle. The dress and adornments varied based on tribe. New foods that I had not seen before were on offer. Tuareg and Fulani men bought cell phones and sim cards, next to stalls that sold fetishes and charms. The women, as always, were feisty, but also friendly and playful with the novelty of white men haggling over cloth, mangoes and pink flip-flops.

Photo Credit: Jordan

We took turns staying with the boat, while others ran errands at the market. We charged our phones (something that seems silly now that I am writing it, but we all had our reasons) on car batteries, bought various fast foods sold in sachets (fried dough balls with little fish in them, pasta in a spicy tomato sauce, dumplings, and all sorts of sweet cold drinks), stocked up on dozens of mangos, tomatoes, potatoes and peanuts, got a new paddle, sold some extra bamboo poles, and bought some shoddy homemade knives that we referred to prison shivs. I also bought some cloth to make pants with and some shiny pink sandals to match my pants.

We moved slowly in the monumental heat, and we didn’t finish all of our errands until the late afternoon.

Photo Credit: Jordan

We packed our boat as people bustled around us, pointing, and giving gestures of approval for our mode of transport. Even though I was worried about making it to Mopti with enough time to get back to Bamako for my flight, I hopped in the boat. The boys’ stories about how strong the winds had been worried me. At the rate they were going, we wouldn’t reach Mopti until just a few days before my flight, and that was if we didn’t have any major hang-ups. My hope was that if we couldn’t make it there in time, that I would hitchhike with one of the motorized pinasses that seemed to pass us once or twice a day.

Because we had left so late in the day, and our previous day was monopolized by the bar, we decided to paddle into the night. The full moon had dwindled and was arriving later in the night, leaving us in the dark for the first few hours past sunset. For the first hour, we paddled along casually in silence. The river at night was eerie, but it also had a dreamy feel. We would occasionally pass a fishing pirogue, not realizing its presence until it was just a few meters away and we could hear the tiny splash of the net hitting the water and then see a vague silhouette of the men doing their work. We could hear the low chugging of a pinasse’s cheap Chinese motor for ten minutes before it skulked past us, probably having no idea that it was overtaking a boat full of “toubabs” on a reckless journey.

When it got a little too quiet, and we got a little too tired, we took a rest and let the river’s lethargic current hold us as we sang traveler tunes and asked each other geography trivia questions. It was peaceful, though not being able to see the path of the river was problematic. It was almost too late when we realized there was a huge piece of land in front of us. We were at its tip and had mere moments to decide of we would stay to the left or the right of it. We all had different opinions, including the river, which seemed to be saying left. So we went left, and after ten minutes of paddling, we could recognize that the small current was now no current. After a bit of arguing, we turned around, still wondering which side was actually correct. At night everything feels bigger and more ominous. It felt like the river had grown to a god-like size and the walls on either side, though still mere banks, seemed to stretch upward infinitely. We went back to the tip of the island, found a small beach and decided to call it a night. Without being able to see which way we needed to go, this was our best option.

As we set up our tents and built a fire, it really sunk in that I was back on the river. It freed me and it freed my mind. I don’t think I would have been able to live with myself if I had abandoned such a journey while there was still so much more potential for adventure.

Lost Moments. Moments Lost.

March 15, 2011

I woke up as the sun was just beginning to reveal the day. I was on a mission and there was no time to waste. I quickly packed my tent and climbed down from the terrace of my old house in Segou. I greeted the groups of old men lounging on the side of the road as if they hadn’t moved since I had left several days before.

When the first moto taxi came, I explained that I needed to get to the transport hub for Markala. One of the nearby young men helped translate as the driver had no idea what I was talking about. We loaded up my bulging pack on the roof, and I carried my tub with gifts for the river boys.

When we got to the station (well, side of the road where mini busses tend to congregate), the driver tried to triple the price, which was shocking as price gouging had been so rare for me in Mali. Everyone else had already paid and disappeared, and nobody was there to help me out. So we negotiated a more reasonable fare and I was hustled onto the next bus to Markala.

I didn’t know what the normal fare should be, but when we arrived an hour later, the driver asked me for double what I had expected. I was not going to let this slide either and I offered him nothing or what I was almost certain the normal fare was. He quickly gave in, and I was hustled onto the next bus to Ke-Massina. These were pretty mild attempts at extorting money, but it made me that much more glad to know I was about to get back on the river where everything was so simple and care free.

It would have taken an hour and a half to reach the town in a private vehicle, but this was an African mini bus, devoted to picking up anyone and all their wares or animals that had made it to the side of the road. The requisite breakdown occurred early on and there was at least one long wait to accumulate more passengers at a main junction. Five sweaty hours later we rolled into the humble town of Ke-Massina, the last town I knew how to get to by road. Once again, I was asked an exorbitant price for the trip we had made. I got a little too defensive a little too fast, and the driver quickly saw I was not so green to Mali, and gave me the real price.

Ke-Massina was a mid-sized town with the luxuries of occasional electricity, a military post, a thriving Saturday market, and two bars. I was not sure how long until the boys would arrive in town, but when I had left them, I knew they would make a good pace, since they departed with strong sailing winds. They had 90 km to go from where I had last seen them to Ke-Massina. It was day three, and I would not have been surprised if they had made it that day. I found the closest food stall near the center of the boat action, got some rice cooked in tomato sauce (not unlike a greasier version of Mexican rice) and told them that I was waiting for a few ruffian foreigners to be arriving any day now. I hoped that if I wasn’t around when they arrived, they would at least be alerted by the food servers that I was in the area. The boys had no idea that I was coming back. I wanted it to be a surprise, especially since I was bringing a healthy stash of wine sachets and peanut butter sachets.

The people that served me the rice were the most pleasant I met in town. Surprisingly, there were quite a few people that seemed to have hustler tendencies. A couple guys would approach me asking if I needed a place to stay, or someone to carry my bags. Although the vast majority of Malians are incredibly genuine and helpful, these guys were too obvious. One man continued to follow me, inexplicably, everywhere I went. I felt like he was just waiting to figure out a way that he could extract money from me. He had mentioned that he was the son of the chief, which made me wonder if he was trying to impress me, or if he had been sent to mind me, to see what the strange “toubab” was doing in town. I had no patience for this, and had to tell him to leave.

I spent several days in Ke-Massina waiting around for the boys. Being attached to my huge bag and heavy bucket of gifts, I was not very mobile. I was camping on a sprawling beach outside of town. Every day I would walk to town to buy a huge bag of rice from my favorite food vendors, then walk back to the beach. The weather had turned incredibly hot, and, without shade, all I could do was take constant swims in the river. I read. I ate. I napped. I tanned. And towards the end of the day I would sneak into the wine stash while children and teenagers, just finishing school, would creep closer to me and watch as I set up my tent. Sometimes they would come and talk to me. Although they probably wanted to know what the hell I was doing, just mysteriously camping in their town, I took the opportunity to see what they were learning in school. I would quiz them on Malian geography, and they would tell me stories from Mali’s history. The great warriors from different tribes, historical wars, and of course the famous story of Sundiata Keita. In the middle of the discussion, a young man, heavyset, in a robe, walked up, sat down and watched. His presence made me uneasy. He kept looking at me in a way that I can’t explain. It wasn’t curiosity, friendliness, or suspicion. Even if it would have been a negative look, I would have felt more comfortable since I would have been able to read him. His eyes were narrowed and he had a subtle grin. When the conversation lulled, he casually interjected, speaking to the kids in Bambara. His words gradually built dumbfounded expressions on the kids’ faces. Their eyes widened, some gave nervous giggles, all while giving suspicious glances back toward me as he spoke. It grew extremely uncomfortable. I asked the kids what he was saying, and none of them wanted to say anything. Finally, one of them started to tell me that he was some sort of mystic (I can’t remember the word they used for hit) and he had had dreams of my arrival a week ago. He had known that I was coming. They wouldn’t tell me any more than this, and the man just grinned. When he was finished, I shook his hand and he left. The kids followed.

On the third day the boys still weren’t there. I was worried. It had been incredibly windy and I knew this was hurting them. Some mornings I had been bombarded by wind-blown sand so strong I had to leave the beach. My tent had nearly collapsed. I did some accounting of days and my schedule. I was flying out of Mali on the third, and I wanted to be in Bamako a few days early to tie up loose ends to the trip and buy gifts. I knew it would take at least ten days to reach Mopti, where I would leave to go back to Bamako, but it could easily take two weeks. This meant that even if they arrived this day, I would be cutting it close. I sent a text to Jonathan to see where they were. I didn’t hear back, so in the afternoon, I decided to throw in the towel and head back to Segou. Perhaps I would not be re-joining the boat trip after all. I went to the food stall with my bucket of gifts for the the boat, and told them that my friends would be arriving soon and to give it to them. I tried to give them a tip for their help, but they refused. In addition to the wine and food, I put a couple of books in the bucket as well as some warmer clothes for Jordan, who had almost nothing warm for the nights, and no tent or sleeping bag. I sent Jonathan a text saying that when he arrives in Ke-Massina there would be some things waiting for him by the port. I found a bus heading back to Markala and hopped on. For a second time it looked like I was saying goodbye to the boat trip.

Then, halfway to Markala, I got a call from Jonathan. I told him that I had been waiting in Ke-Massina to rejoin the boat trip, but it looked like it would be too late. He insisted that I go back and wait for them. They were 20 km away and he said they would try to make it by that night. I said it would be too late. I was already on the bus and if I got on the boat now, I could miss my flight if we made slow progress on the river. He said I should wait anyway. The crew just wanted to have one last beer with me (there is a bar in Ke-Massina right?). It sounded reasonable, so I announced to the bus driver that I wanted off.

Thirty minutes later another bus came in the other direction and I hopped on, back to Ke-Massina. Such a beautiful town on such a pristine spot of the river, with such a mixed bag of characters. It felt mixed to go back, but I just hoped that they would actually make it that night.

I got the occasional text from them. It was windy, and they were moving slow, but they were paddling into the night. I set up my tent, wondering if they could really make it. I woke up early, a little disappointed, and wondering if I should just move on. Then I got a call from Blai. They had just arrived and they were looking for me. There was little surprise that when he and Fura found me on the beach, that they had already found the bar and had started drinking. It was 9 AM. Blai and I arrived with a massive sack of rice to find Jordan and Jonathan already on their third round of beers.

The party began again.

Leaving the River

March 13, 2011

It was finally my moment of departure. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Jonathan, Jordan and Blai would be going down river, and after this point, the boat would be away from any main roads.

Jonathan, Blai and I cried as we hugged each other goodbye. It had been a long adventure, and I felt like a schmuck for tapping out in the middle of it. The three of us had been through a lot together, especially Jonathan and I, and it was one of the hardest goodbyes of my life.

I helped them pack the boat and set up the sails. In addition to the improved river conditions, they had tail winds and would be setting out with the power of sails, giving their arms a needed rest.

I waved as their sails inflated, and they started slipping away. I turned back toward my tent that I still needed to pack up. I saw that Jonathan had left his journal. I chased after the boat as fast as I could. They probably thought I was making a dramatic change of heart. I eventually caught them, and brought Jonathan his journal and gave one last round of hugs before letting them escape for good.

I packed my tent and my pack, and was surprised at how heavy it felt. I hiked back towards the locks. I had no idea how far I really was from Markala, and the road to Segou, but I knew it would be far. I ran into the lock operator and told him I was heading back to town. He said it was far, and insisted that I wait with him, and he would find me a ride. He welcomed me into his home, and I visited little Furo, the last of Fura’s puppies to be given away. This little village was tiny and seemed only accessible by motorbike.

After mingling with the lock operator’s family and playing some flute for his giggly daughters, a young man on a motorbike came by. The lock operator talked to him and arranged my ride back to town. It would have taken an hour by foot, so I was grateful to the guy. I tried to give him some gas money, but he refused.

I arrived to Markala on market day. This is something I really needed. Not to see the market even, or to buy anything, just to see the incredible scene of everyone filing into town for it. There was a column of pedestrians, donkey and ox carts, cattle herds, battered vans, making their way toward the town. The town was obviously a major center of trade and colorfully dressed people from all over were coming for the weekly market. I was walking out of town, getting ready to hitch a ride in the opposite direction, when I simply sat down and watched them for a while. I savored it. This is what traveling alone is all about. If you are turned on by something, nobody is there to say we don’t have time to linger. For too long I had been following the plan, making sacrifices to do what other people, or what the group wanted to do. Of course, this was usually a positive thing, as what we were doing was usually fun, but I had almost forgotten what it was like to be in charge of yourself and do exactly what you feel like doing at that moment. There were always duties to the group, and now I only had to take care of myself.

It didn’t take long to get a ride. A middle-aged man who had been visiting family in a small village was heading back to Segou and gave me a lift. I was in Segou by the early afternoon.

The first stop was the internet, where I had to figure out what kind of moves I would actually make. I was feeling a little lost, at a crossroads with infinite directions. This independence was already getting difficult. I spent a long time talking with Lise online. She was in Chicago doing research for her master’s thesis, but would be back in France by the first of April. We had originally planned for me to come there for the summer, after she had finished her thesis. Then we started to talk about the prospect of me getting the Fulbright grant, which would mean that I would have to be back in the states by June. We discussed the idea of me coming there sooner, since I might not get to spend any time there if I got the Fulbright.

Because of this new independence, it was almost the first time that I felt I was truly capable of spending an extended period of time with her, instead of the few weeks at a time that we usually get.

I gave a call to my mom, who is always helpful in putting things into perspective. I don’t givetoo many calls when I am traveling, so this was important, and as always Mama came through with some wisdom. During the afternoon, the plan was developed, and I had an idea of what I would do.

By the time I was finished on the internet, night had arrived, and I had nowhere to stay. So I hitched a ride back to the old digs in Sebougou, to see if I was still welcome. Abdoulaye, Chief’s son who lives in the house next to ours, was half-sleeping on his porch. I asked if I could sleep on the terrace of our big house. He barely moved, but gave me his approval. I asked if he had any water, and sat up and passed me a jug. As I poured some into my bottle, I saw large chunks of algae flow out of the jug. I thanked him and headed up to the terrace to catch some rest.

The next day, I went back to town, and ran some errands for the next part of my trip. Luckily I was there for market day, so I stocked up on a whole mess of groundnut paste (peanut butter) sachets, an even bigger mess of wine sachets, and a new “I Love Africa” container. I went back to the internet, spent the afternoon buying plane tickets and headed back to the old house to sleep before embarking.

My days in Africa were numbered, but I wasn’t going to waste them. The next day I high-tailed it to Ke-Massina, a small town on the Niger, about 90 km past Markala, where I had left the crew. If I had just three weeks left, I would rather spend it on the river with my boys than anything else.

African Locks

March 12, 2011

Morning came in Markala and I packed my bag, making sure not to forget important items like my machete or radio. I couldn’t decide if I would leave right then, or accompany the crew to the locks. The river is dammed in Markala, and the only way to get to the other side is to go through the locks. We didn’t know much about it, but we were told that we had to go back and paddle into a narrow canal, which would take us to the locks.

In town, Blai met this woman that he found so enchanting, he needed to take a picture with her.

This sounded like a good final adventure, plus I wanted to see what the other side of the river looked like beyond the damn.

Back the way we came, we paddled until me met with the narrow canal, with a rusty dredger sitting idly at the mouth. We had thought the river’s current was dead before, but in this canal, we could feel just how still it was. I was in the front poling, but was mostly ineffective, as the bottom was pure mud that would grab the bamboo right out of my hands.

It was a unique situation moving down this canal, as the banks had never been so close to us. We were faced with a constant barrage of friendly people on the banks waving and greeting us. Jordan, bypassed learning much French, and quickly caught on to the Bambara greetings that we were constantly shouting out to everyone we passed.

After an hour or so, we decided to stop and run into town (the canal arched around the back edge of town, effectively making it an island with the Niger to the north, and the canal to the south) to get some lunch and some last minute produce. Jordan stayed behind with the boat. He was lucky, as the weather in the last few days had become torturingly hot. I have a high tolerance, for heat, but it had gotten ridiculous. Jumping in the river was essential about every fifteen minutes. This is where Jordan was not so lucky. Because the canal was so stagnant, it smelled like sewage, had a layer of algae on top, and the occasional floater was not surprising. He was still adjusting to the weather, though, and did his duty of plunging in every few minutes while we were gone.

The canal seemed to stretch on forever. I had assumed that this would be a little 2 km detour. But we seemed to go farther and farther away from the river before, after several hours, and probably 7 km, we could see what looked like the end of the canal. By this time, we were paddling through a thick matt of seaweed that had accumulated in the final hundred meters of the canal.

Parked in front of the locks.

Lock doors

We approached the giant doors of the lock, and parked our boat. It had been months since these doors had opened, but it looked like it could have been years. A few loitering kids watched us, but other than this, it was pretty deserted. One of our friends from Koulikoro, who drives barges along the Niger, had given us the number for the keeper of the locks. He knew that nobody would be around in the dry season when the barges can’t navigate the river.

The gate keeper wanted $10 to operate the locks, but because we had been able to name drop our friend in Koulikoro and bartered a little, he agreed to do it for $4. Apparently the barges pay something like $50, so I felt we were getting a decent deal.

The other side, looking unbelievably promising.

During the phone conversation with our boat friend in Koulikoro, Blai mentioned that he wanted to give him his last puppy. He had been very kind to us in Koulikoro and had taken a liking to Fura. It seemed like the perfect plan. Blai would leave the last puppy, who he had named Furo (the masculine form of Fura) with the gate keeper, and he would be picked up in August, when the barges start running again.

The gates opened opened halfway, and we we paddled our way into the large chamber. It would be one of the weirdest experiences in all of my travels thus far. The fact that we were in a fairly remote place on the Niger River, and had come to pass through locks that had probably been built during the colonial era, in our little pirogue felt incredibly bizarre and surreal.

The doors closed. We started to descend as the water was drained from the chamber. We descended about seven meters, sinking lower and lower, as the echoes filled the space and we found ourselves in an eerie darkness. Everything seemed so powerful, yet at the same time, rusty and barely operable, that we were silently fearing the walls giving away or one of the doors bursting open at the wrong moment, sending us hurtling down a waterfall, or facing a wall of water from behind.

Note the high water mark.

This didn’t happen though, and the sun blasted through at us, as the door started to creak its way open. The opened it just enough for us to get through, and all the spectators waved at us as we passed through to the other side of the river. We were met by a fresh, clean river with a renewed current and long, sandy banks ripe for camping.

Could I really be leaving this adventure now? With this new crew, a refreshed river, just waiting to carry us hundreds km further? With landscapes and cultures that changed almost imperceptibly as we inched our way north. I wouldn’t be leaving at this moment, as the sun was already setting, but by the next morning, I would surely be on my way to solitude. It was the last stop.