The Mopti Chronicles

March 29, 2011

Mopti 8:00. As expected we were not woken by the sun, but by the creeping activity developing around our camp in Mali’s biggest river port town. I woke to a couple of boys peering through the mesh of my tent. I pretended to sleep until they moved on.

Mopti seems big, especially compared to the little villages we had been accustomed to and relaxed Segou that we had spent five weeks in. It is not that big in reality, but it is the only place in Mali outside of Bamako that has a bit of a gritty edge to it. Being a port town, it has its fair share of hustlers and ruffians that put you back on your guard. Being, Mali, however, it was nothing to be too alarmed by. The whole town crowds tightly against the port area, creating a dirty and crowded little slice of rough at the confluence of the Niger and Banni Rivers.

As we sluggishly made our way out of our tents and prepared coffee and breakfast, the children fearlessly hung around gawking. Eventually the word had gotten out that there were some fresh toubabs in town and the touts and hustlers started to trickle. They ranged from wannabe guides, asking us if we were heading to Dogon Country, a popular trekking area for tourists to see traditional African life (with our boat?), to immaculately dressed Tuaregs trying to sell us handicrafts. No, we were not needing any guides for Mopti and beyond, nor did we need silver jewelry or “traditional” looking letter openers. They didn’t seem to notice that we were pretty independent and self-sufficient, and they had nothing better to do, so they hung around and persisted to push their goods and services on us. I quickly forgot about the big city luxuries of street food and cold beer, and yearned for the calm river life where people treated you like guests rather than an ATM. We were careful not to mention that we were selling our boat, knowing this would only attract more of the same people we didn’t want to deal with. We knew we would have to be clever about how we would go about this sale.

My breakfast skills. Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

By ten, we were surrounded by women washing clothes in the river and men washing their trucks. It was high time to move out. We paddled to the only place in town that we knew: Bozo Bar. We slipped our boat into a tiny crack between boats in the buzzing port area. There was barely enough space for us, but we managed.

We spent most of our few days in Mopti watching over the port from the terrace of the Bozo bar, keeping more than one eye on our boat. The hustlers and trinket sellers would wander through, occasionally, performing an array of shticks all with the goal of, in some way or another, extracting money from us. It became comical eventually. One of the guys was fortunate to speak English (very poorly) and we would just respond to him in our equally poor French. He tried to appeal to Blai (who has dreadlocks) by saying that he too was a Rasta man, even though he didn’t have dreadlocks. He tossed out all the phrases he thought would be impressive to Blai: “One Love man”, “We are all brothers”, “Jha is great, and we are all one, and we are all Jha”…or something to this effect. We egged him on until he got annoying, then just ignored him. Like most of the people that had approached us, he hung around, just kind of watching us, as I watched the wheels slowly turning in his head, trying to think of his next move. These guys were not slick, but apparently previous tourists had not been so challenging. I eventually felt like some sort of vending machine. All these hustlers were looking at us, knowing that we had some sort of candy or chips that they wanted to get from us, but they didn’t have the coins or keys to the machine. So they watched us, talking, devising plans, eventually shaking us, rocking us back and forth, reaching their hand up through the slot, and eventually just angrily banged at the window, hoping something would fall into their hands. It never did. They simply repeatedly made fools of themselves.

By the end of our second full day at the bar, we had obviously gained the affection of the young, forward-thinking owner. Unlike the hustlers stalking us, he was socially agreeable, intelligent and had a sophisticated style. When we were at the bar alone, we asked him if we could pop our memory card into his stereo system to play some music. He was delighted and liked our music so much that he asked if he could leave it in the sound system all day. We felt a little cocky for sure, as we had established ourselves as the kings of this bar. Fura roamed around as she pleased, and we brought our own food to eat, while the occasional tourists would pay western prices for crappy spaghetti dishes. They looked at us like the trash we were, and we wore that label proudly as the beer bottles eventually filled our table.

Outside the bar at Mopti's port. Photo Credit: Jordan

Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

But it wasn’t all pleasure; there was also business to take care of. We were looking to sell our vessel and for good money too. One of the hustlers had found out about this, and brought a few fishermen to our table to offer us obscenely low prices. When we bought the boat we knew we would not be able to recuperate much of the money, however, we had recently learned that boats are going for much higher prices here in Mopti than in Koulikoro where we had started. We had bought the boat for around $600 (including repairs and some materials), and we were thinking that we could potentially even make money on the transaction. Seeing as I was leaving very soon, I would not be part of the transaction and had little say in the matter. The first offers were around $200, which we didn’t even consider accepting. Jonathan and Blai went to the boat builders to see where they were charging for a brand new 12-meter pirogue. It didn’t look good. I was shocked to hear that they were getting estimates of $500 for a brand new boat. I was suspicious that the boat builders were in cahoots with some fishermen that wanted to buy our boat for cheap, but Jonathan and Blai assured me that this couldn’t be the case.

Boat builder, not GOAT builder! Photo credit: Jonathan Diarra

That's better. Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

And a bed shop. Photo credit: Blai Coulibaly

On our second night, we decided not to stay on the Mopti side of the river, but paddle across and stay on the gravelly beach near the Bozo camps. We were much more at home here and it was far more peaceful. We could also have more trust in the people.

This is what it looks like when we sleep. Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

Nobody knows where Jonathan got that cut across his forehead.

Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

Kids at the camp. Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

In the morning we went to talk to some boat builders near our camp. We said we were interested in selling our boat and they should let us know if they know anyone who would like to buy ours. They quickly summoned an older man who lived nearby. He came to take a look at our boat. He seemed unimpressed, which I took as a simple bargaining tactic. He said the wood was old and poor quality and the nails were the cheap Chinese kind, not the hand made local ones. Of course, back in Koulikoro we were easily convinced that the boat had very good wood and nobody mentioned origin of nails. I claimed ignorance at that point, but didn’t want to buy into what he was telling us. Jonathan and Blai were pretty quick to give in and admit that maybe our boat really wasn’t worth that much. Regardless of what our boat was worth though, we all knew that some toubabs like us would never get a great deal on the boat. It was just impossible.

The next morning we had a meeting with the man. He had an old fisherman who was interested in our boat, so we went to his house to talk business. It was an extremely slow process involving a few rounds of tea, some peanut munching, casual chit-chat and the occasional mention of a price. Again, I was leaving, so it was basically out of my hands, but they were at the pint that they were willing to part with it for $500. After a few hours of negotiating, and the old fisherman taking walks to contemplate, he would only come up to $400.

The man that had introduced us to this fisherman had mentioned that if we were not happy with the price, boats sell for even more in Timbuktu, 400 km up river. Of course, nobody was in the mood to keep paddling, but the man said he knew someone who could tow the boat to Timbuktu, for a fee of course. I was skeptical, but again, it was out of my hands.

Although it may seem like I have been down on Mopti, I actually truly enjoyed all of its gritty charms. It was a busy place, and it was the most fast-paced place I had seen since Bamako. Dozens of blacksmiths worked in a huge shop near the bar, pounding out nails, knives and tools all day.

Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly

Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly

Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly

Rows of tailors in the market toiled away at their foot-pedaled sewing machines. Boats continuously arrived with massive cargos of dried fish from Lac Debo on the Niger’s inland delta. Traders would stand around making deals on the 100 kilo boxes of fish. Most of all, though, there was food everywhere. Sure, Mali is low on my list of favorite food countries (still beats Mauritania), but they had a decent mix of quick eats to be bought from dirty stalls or women with bowls on their heads. And you were never more than an arms reach away from a pre-pubescent girl selling a variety of sweet frozen drinks in bags. I spent a good portion of my free time wandering the market, haggling over cloths and other gifts for family. I had a great pair of pants made as well. Three pairs, actually, one of which made from cloth featuring Mali’s lovable president Amadou Toumani Toure (better known simply as “ATT”).

Dried fish. Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

At the market. Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

On March 31^st, my time had run out. I had delayed my return to Bamako as long as I could, and now needed to finally part with the crew. They spent the morning deciding what to do about the boat, while I sat by, hoping that they would get a decent price whatever happened. They finally decided that they would get the boat towed up to Timbuktu for about $140, being assured that they would at least make that much more on the sale of the boat compared to in Mopti. I had doubts.

The Guidron Queen, right, ready to get attached to the mighty pinasse for the trip to Timbuktu

Regardless, I was packed. My bag was bulging. Having spent most of the last few months either stationary or on a boat where I wasn’t carrying my pack on my back, it had somehow grown as I had accumulated various items and failed to get rid of books that I had finished. We paddled our boat to where the boys would be leaving from the next day. The men showed them the big pinasse that they would be riding in for the next five days. It looked like a fun, relaxing trip, and I was a little disappointed to be missing out. On the other hand, though, this was the right time to leave and I knew it. They still tried to pressure me to stay, but I was strong, and was ready to get on that flight in a couple days.

On the way to the bus lot, we had one last encounter with one of Mopti’s finest. Some guy with dreadlocks confidently strolled up to us, picking out Blai in particular to blurt some Rastaman brotherly love BS. He seemed drunk, or just generally off, and before I knew it, he was picking a fight with Jonathan. Just before it got violent (and they almost got run over by a bus) a tall man stepped in and separated them. I was shocked with how quickly things had turned bad, in fact, it just didn’t make any sense. As we fled the scene, Jonathan admitted that he had actually started it by hitting the guy with the long cardboard tube that was holding our large river charts. Yep, it was my time to go, and take the river charts with me.

The goodbye was fun, but sure, a little sad. It was a lot easier this time, though, than the last one, and it made me realize I was making a good decision. The van slowly filled and before I knew it, I was on my way out of town, away from the boat, away from the river, away from my friends, but towards something else, which I knew would still be as unpredictable and interesting as what I had been doing for the last six months.

Is the Destination Ever Really Reached?

March 28, 2011

We woke across the river from Koakourou, and tried to get an early start. There was a debate about going to the village, and I insisted that we just go to grab some quick breakfast and snacks for the day’s journey so we wouldn’t have to stop for lunch. The fact that we were running low on water sealed the deal.

We tried to make it quick, but any stop has its hang-ups. I managed to make it back to the boat with huge bags of fried dough balls and little sugary morsels that were like mine rice pancakes. We were on our way. Little did we know that it would be, by far our biggest day of the trip yet.

We knew that we were roughly 50 km from Mopti and we were hoping that, with weather like the past couple days we could make it in two days. I had originally been hoping to reach Mopti by this day, but knew that an extra day or two would simply make my journey back to Bamako a little more pressed for time than I had planned for. We still had the idea in our heads to catch a tow from a boat if the weather turned too bad and we got discouraged again, but nobody really wanted to do this.

We didn’t feel like we were making exceptional progress, but we just plugged away at a decent pace all day. I spent most of the day, as I usually did, pushing at the bow with my trusty bamboo pole.

We looked at the map occasionally but without any obvious landmarks on the river and only the occasional Bozo camp, we had little reference of our progress. There is not much to say about our day, we simply worked hard and kept a good pace.

Late in the afternoon, we arrived at a village and decided to visit it to take a break, and to find out where exactly we were. This village didn’t seem to be on our map, yet it was fairly big. Jonathan stayed in the boat, while the rest of us went on the mission for possible treats and information.

Like I said, Jonathan stayed in the boat. Here he is, staying in the boat.

This town had a desperate feel to it. We didn’t receive many warm greetings, just a lot of befuddled stares. The kids mobbed us quietly, unaggressively and from a safe distance. During our walk through town we accumulated a crowd larger larger than any we had seen before. We found what seemed to serve as their central market, though there was just a couple people hawking some wilting mangoes and peppers. One woman was selling sesame candies, so, naturally, we bought her entire stock. The kids followed us as we continued through the towns narrow paths and checked out the mosque. They kicked up a huge cloud of dust and would freeze nervously if we made any sudden movements. This became fun for us as Jordan would lag behind the crowd and Blai would occasionally stop on a dime turn around and yell something back to him. This would shock the kids, and they would turn around, wanting to run, only to see that the gargantuan Aussie was standing in their way. Then we would all laugh, and the kids, hopefully, would realize there was no danger. A young guy who spoke French approached us on our little tour and started to talk to us. One of the most interesting things he said was that he had never seen the kids in this town so happy, or happy at all. The town was one of the more depressing places from the start, but I could only imagine what it would be like with scores of depressed children moping around in their tattered clothes would be like. Some villages seemed warm, inviting and positive places that had it all together. My observations, of course, were hasty, but this place, with how dry it was and how dejected so many of the people looked, seemed doomed.

Photo Credit: Jordan

Photo Credit: Jordan

Photo Credit: Jordan

Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly

Photo Credit: Jordan

Photo Credit: Jonathan

Photo Credit: Jonathan

The young man also informed us that we were in the town of Ngomi. We checked it on our map and realized we had covered a much greater distance than we could have imagined: 40 km! This was double what we had done on most of our good days. Jonathan didn’t believe it, so we asked how far Mopti was. Of course their answers varied (based on whether they told us in distance or time), but it seemed that we were indeed only 10 km from our destination. It was an exhilarating feeling to know that we were so close, but it provided us with a conundrum. Did we want to push through, past sunset and make it to Mopti, or enjoy one last night in solitude on a quiet riverbank? I couldn’t decide, but another night on the river sounded nice and I also wanted to arrive to town in the daylight to let everyone see us and bask in the glory of our accomplishment. Blai kept reminding us that arriving in Mopti would get us to beer sooner. I had learned a lot about Blai through playing “bulls**t” for hours and knew that he could be as tricky and manipulative as they come. For someone who never was that tempted by beer, I realized that he was simply using this as a means of motivation for us. He had done this the day before as well, only to push ourselves to a town that probably didn’t know what beer was. He never said why, but I realized that he really wanted to get to Mopti asap. The other boys were also undecided, but in the end we decided to push it. A night landing it would be.

Photo Credit: Jordan

Photo Credit: Jordan

The sun set, and almost immediately this got us into trouble as usual. We hit sand bar after sand bar and eventually had to backtrack a few hundred meters to find the deep part of the river. Then there appeared to be an island, or at least a split in the river. We could start to see the glow of town in the sky above, but it didn’t reveal which was right way to go. We had to wait until we could hear a large pinasse coming, and follow it in the right direction.

Even though we were getting close to the city, we could still feel the calm of village life on the banks around us. Fires were springing up on shore and we heard the quiet chatter of children and the occasional eruption of song. Fishermen glided pass us, throwing their nets into the shallow water. At one point the silhouette of something large appeared directly in front of us. It wasn’t until we almost hit it that I realized it was some large fishing contraption made from sticks and netting. I yelled to stop paddling and I managed to push us around it, just before crashing through it. It was one of the rare adrenaline rushes I got on the river.

We finally could see the actual town of Mopti, but it looked like the only way to it was through a narrow passage. It seemed like we should stay on the main river, but we tried steering right into a little canal. I had been worrying about arriving to Mopti which doesn’t have the best reputation. Anyone that has traveled (and most that haven’t) know that port towns, like border towns can be sketchy places. Being on a river in Mali doesn’t necessarily change this. Mopti is West Africa’s biggest river port as well as the jumping off point for some of Mali’s most important tourist attractions. It is the country’s fourth biggest town, but feels like the only big city other than Bamako due to how packed in it is around the port area. I knew that it would not be the relaxed and welcoming place that Segou was, and even though we were self-sufficient with our boat, we would probably have problems with hustlers and wannabe guides.

Sure enough, as soon as we entered into the little canal leading to Mopti’s port, we heard a guy yelling to us from the bank. He was asking us where we were going and if we needed any assistance. It was pitch dark! Did our light skin really beam that brightly? Had we been talking? It seemed like he must have smelt us! The difference between a genuinely kind person in Mali and an opportunist can be spotted a mile away (in the dark). We just ignored him and continued on our way. As we got closer to the port, we noticed a boat approaching us from behind. It was the same guy trying to talk to us. He made the classic move of trying to make us feel like we didn’t know what we were doing (which, honestly, we usually didn’t), and informed us that if we wanted to get to town, we had to go left, not right, around an approaching island of dirt and rocks. Sure, we didn’t know this, but we would have figured it out. He quickly moved on to offering us guide services and seeing if we needed a place to stay. This was a complete insult to us. Instead of arriving to Mopti, satisfied with the accomplishment of making it on our own power nearly 500 km along Africa’s third largest river, and impressing people both foreign and local, we were being offered the services of a guide. The LAST thing we felt like we needed was a guide. A guide, for what? He followed us all the way to shore and continued to push himself on us. We explained that we were self-sufficient, had been traveling for weeks on the river, all the way from Koulikoro, and that, no, we didn’t need any help. He didn’t budge, he just loitered around, trying to think of the next thing he could try to make money off of us. We stood around, wondering what we would do and where we would go, as we waited for him to leave. He didn’t. We had hoped to arrive silently, and unseen in the night so that we could all go to town together without worrying that some hustler knew about our boat and where it was. This plan was ruined. Blai, who is always our best diplomat, went and told him very directly, in no uncertain terms that we would not be needing any of his services and that we wanted him to leave.

Jonathan and Blai went to scout out the dingy town, looking for, hopefully, food, beer and a place for our boat. When they returned, they said they had the perfect place. A bar, right on the river, just a few hundred meters away, and it was still open. We got in the boat, and paddled along the port. We slinked past gargantuan pinasses and long-haul passenger boats that towered over us like gods. The boats all looked new and sleek, with fresh, colorful paint jobs on their bows. It was like seeing what our tiny pirogue always aspired to be. As we passed, we realized that most of the boats had crews sleeping or living in them. Occasionally one of them would poke his head out, realizing he had heard the voice of toubabs. A couple of them yelled to us, in a heckling way, offering to buy our boat for a pittance. So we weren’t getting a hero’s welcome, but really, nothing could destroy our triumphant mood. We felt like kings. The only thing we needed was some cold beer to prove it when its sweetness hit our lips.

We arrived at the bar, which now looked dark and shuttered. We asked around to the people lurking about the dark and garbage strewn port area. Somebody said they knew the person who could open it up and they made a phone call. We waited patiently and after thirty minutes, a bewildered old man in a yellow shirt arrived to unlock the place. He wasn’t the owner, or even a bartender. I can’t be sure, but I think he was just some sort of caretaker who figured he could sell the beers and make a few francs on the side after hours.

It was called Bozo bar and it felt like it had been built for us. After all that time on the river, we really identified with the Bozo people and truly aspired to be like them. Even the Fulani people who saw us with our boat would call us Bozos. This was the greatest compliment we could have received. The Bozos had become our heroes, and it only seemed fitting to finish the journey at a place so aptly named.

I could not have dreamed of colder, more refreshing beer, or in a better location. We were sitting on the terrace, looking out over Mopti’s silent port, lined with dozens of large boats, with our little tiny pirogue tucked quietly in between them.

The man in the yellow shirt could tell we were hungrly and said that he had egg sandwiches. He wanted to charge us triple what they would cost on the street, so it was pretty clear that he was hoping to make a little extra money off of us. We politely refused. Blai went on a food mission and eventually came back with a giant purple bowl of rice with sauce and organ meats. We all dug in with our hands and licked it clean. We drank a few more beers and selfishly reveled in our accomplishment. We had covered 50 km in one day. I had spent the entire day on the bamboo, which I was proud of since it is the most physically demanding spot on the boat. However, though, what we were so proud of would be nothing to brag about if we actually were Bozos. A 50 km day, even for one man in a boat, would be standard, if not an easy day. We were still amateur toubabs, who still had trouble steering the boat in tight situations. We knew we could only show so much pride before we were seen as fools. When it got late, we woke the man in the yellow shirt, paid our bill and headed out to look for a place to camp.

The only place we knew in town with space for tents was where we had originally landed. There was a dirty beach with some dirt, sand and grass, as well as quite a bit of garbage. It would work for the time being, but we knew that the morning would not be so nice to us. It didn’t matter, we had arrived and no uncomfortable situation could take that from us.

Fat Man on the River

March 27, 2011

Soon after departing in the morning, we approached a large village. We debated going for a visit, as there was no wind, and we were not desperate for any supplies. A couple of us (mostly me) felt curious about the village, though, and hoped to stock up on mangoes. We had been passing by an increasing number of villages that had very impressive views from the river. They looked more built up, populated and compact than those we had seen in the Bambara populated southern parts of the river. I imagined that when European explorers, such as Mungo Park, had made a voyage on this river in search of Timbuktu, they had seen villages that looked almost identical. While the mud brick construction does not last long, and the look of the villages are probably always shifting and moving, the building techniques are old and there was nothing modern about their overall look. Although they were small, they looked imposing, and I imagine that their defensive, fort-like appearance had a more ominous reality at some point in time.

Photo Credit: Jordan

Jonathan and I made the walk to town across a flat expanse of scorching sand.

Photo Credit: Jordan

Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

Photo Credit: Jordan

There was a mosque at the entrance to town with a few old men sitting outside. One of them, who said he was a “marabou” (a type of spiritual leader or imam in Islamic West Africa) demanded that I take his photo. I obliged, then he said he wanted it. He didn’t speak any French, but one of the other guys knew a few words. I tried to explain that I was not able to give him the actual photo then, but I assured him that if I ever returned to the village, I would bring it with me. He wouldn’t let me go until he was sure that I would actually bring it back.

The paths were narrow and we began to see the first multi-storied mud buildings, another sign of the changing culture as we moved north. As we arrived to a small shop offering a few fruits and vegetables, we saw Fura come sprinting up to us, bringing a heavy shock to the dog wary town folk standing around. I was a little annoyed to have her tagging along with us, but there wasn’t much I could do. We started to pick through the tomatoes and onions and discussing prices. All of a sudden I heard a commotion behind me, and I turned just in time to see Blai running in and grabbing Fura. He threw her to the ground and slapped, all the while screaming at her in Catalan. He seemed oblivious to the crowd that had formed around us as he reprimanded her for running away from him. I was as shocked as everyone else around, as I had seen Blai be nothing but completely tender with her for the last three months. He grabbed her collar and dragged her away down the path out of town. In the end, it was hilarious just to imagine what the people in the village were thinking. First there were two “toubabs” who emerged from nowhere to buy produce, then a third arrived, dressed in rags and a turban, only to abuse his dog, scream in some weird language, then drag the dog away, without acknowledging anyone.

Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

With a small crowd of children and young women following us around, we took a quick stroll through the village, bought some new mangoes and then headed back toward the boat. We scurried across the hot sand, while the barefoot children, stayed behind, either unable to brave the flaming ground, or not allowed to leave the village.

Stay back kids! It's too HOT for ya!

Back at the boat, we cooled off by rolling around in the shallow water. A fisherman with his two sons approached us and offered us some food. We joined him for a few bites of fishy rice, but then said we had already eaten so couldn’t eat too much more. Then we hopped back in the boat and continued on our way.

We all had plenty of energy and pressed forward throughout most of the day, despite a few light headwinds. The river was winding back and forth, so naturally the wind was occasionally at our backs. Jonathan got excited, insisting that we set up the sails. We overruled him, though, insisting the winds and the river had been going in inconsistent directions all day.

In the late afternoon, at a point where the river was splitting, we saw a boat full of men approaching. One of the men seemed especially excited to see us. In fact, we were excited, no, intrigued to see him. This was because he was, well, portly. No, he seemed downright fat to us, and it was the first time we had seen an overweight person outside of a city. Of course Blai joked that he looked American. He was waving at us flamboyantly and insisting that we pull over. We decided it would be a good time for a break. Their boat was stopping right here, as they were arriving in their village. The fat man had a relatively heavy brother and a couple of potbellied young boys. We went around and shook hands with the whole boat as they unloaded. The fat man was absolutely crazy. At some point he and Jonathan were performing karate moves on each other. The next moment he was doing front hand springs. I am not joking. This guy had more energy than anyone we had seen, and our presence seemed to make him that much more excited. Then he walked into the water to wash himself off, and he didn’t even take off his clothes, including his shoes. Just jumped right in, no worries. In the midst of all these antics, a young Fulani man was crossing the river toward us in a Bozo’s boat, while carrying his bike. He was also curious about us, but far more reserved about it. This was the most extreme, but also accurate representation of the difference between the Bozos and the Fulanis. Both are nomadic, inhabit a lot of the same areas, and treated us very well. The Bozos, however, have more liveliness to them, while the Fulani are quite serious. The Fulani barely laugh, while the Bozos can’t stop. Before we left, we took a group photo with everyone. Can you find the fat man? And the Fulani man? I find this picture hilarious for this contrast.

It just occurred to me that this photo is probably too small to get the full effect of how silly this man is.

This incident put a little more power in our paddles, plus we had found out that we were only an hour away from Koakourou, the largest town between here and Mopti. We moved fast, hoping that the town would offer some street food, and perhaps a beer or two. Blai, who always insists he doesn’t like to drink that much, actually seemed the most enthusiastic about getting there for the potential of beer.

We arrived just in time for sunset. It felt like a big victory. Since leaving Diafaribe, we had been quite successful in our forward progress, and we had covered about 25 km that day. As we pulled our boat into the bank where the rest of the boats were parked, I stepped off the bow, as usual, to guide our boat easily. Even though we were only about four feet from the shore, the cloudy water did not reveal that it was still about six feet deep. I plunged in and dropped all the way in, completely shocking me. I was not in the best of spirits at the moment, and this didn’t help, especially as I bruised my leg as I fell out. I decided to wait at the boat as the others went to investigate town.

Their report from town left me feeling good that I had stayed behind. There was no beer, only a little food and it didn’t sound that interesting anyway. We pulled our boat across the river and camped on the beach.