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.