Chicago Bulls Rum

We arrived in Diafaribe, the largest town between Ke-Massina and Mopti at 8:00 PM after hitching a ride with a big pinasse. We paid the men on the boat the 8000 francs we had promised. They suddenly seemed disappointed by this amount of money and it was clear that they had wanted more. Our bartering was pretty shoddy, and with a thick language barrier we were not surprised that there had been a miscommunication. These were not the type of people to rip us off, but we still were not sure how much more they were expecting.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, a big man appeared in a large Mauritanian style robe. He strutted confidently toward us, puffing heavily on a cigarette. He had been summoned by one of the children for his French skills. He had a cocky air about him, and I had no trust for him. He did not greet us traditionally, but simply boomed, “Bonsoir!” I tried to greet him in Bambara (even if it is not his native tongue, it is a better lingua franca than French), but he ignored me and continued in French without even offering a handshake. It was the first time that I felt what it was like when somebody completely disregards protocol and rude it seems. From Morocco to here I had truly learned the importance of traditional greetings, and how far they will get you. Hell, even in France and Spain there were things to take into consideration when greeting strangers that would be foreign concepts in America. So basically this guy came to translate, but he was a shady individual and we did not want to deal with him. We discreetly paid the boatmen the 2000 more francs that we owed them, and hoped that the big man would not try to take a cut. Before leaving he demanded that we give him another cigarette, but we refused. He then tried to extract money from us by some offer as a guide or for a place to stay or some service that I can’t remember anymore. As he left, we felt a little uneasy about this new town.

Diafaribe, although more easily accessed by boat than by road, is probably one of the more likely places to have foreign visitors, albeit only once a year. It is one of the more important places on the river due to its significance to the Fulani people of the region. During the dry season they return home to their villages in the area after spending months on the edge of the desert with their herds of cattle. There is a huge homecoming and river crossing festival in January, the kind of which has probably graced the pages of National Geographic on more than one occasion. Although the people in town said that foreigners never come here, I knew that at least once a year they would get some intrepid travelers in town to see the spectacle.

It was incredibly dark where we were and we couldn’t tell exactly what was around us. We could however see some lights and a faint outline of a town. We left Fura to guard the boat as we went in to explore.

We immediately realized we had crossed into a new land. There was an eerie feeling that overcame me as we meandered through the town’s tiny dirt roads. Light-skinned old men in robes and turbans sat idly under dim light bulbs tucked inside of mud shacks and shops, giving us tired stares as we passed. Filthy children scurried around us, as they ran errands for their families. Fulani walked through the shadowy streets with bowls on their head, pushing their fresh milk. It seemed too quiet for how much activity was still going on. People were around, but they were discreet, and almost hidden. I felt like we had to whisper. The construction of the buildings, while still mud, was slightly different. The doorways and windows were more elaborate, showing the historical Moorish influence. The geography of the town, located where the river split in two, pushed everything together into a little wedge, so everything was far more compact than in most villages.

We found a tiny shop run by a grim looking Mauritanian man. All of a sudden we were using Arabic greetings for the first time in months. It would make sense if you looked at our movement on a map that didn’t show borders. We were now closer to the desert and the region where Arabic is spoken, even though it is technically not spoken in Mali. In the shop he sold American Legends, the standard cigarette in Mauritania, that we had not seen since being in Mali. Being closer to the border we assumed this was evidence of smuggling. Sure enough, they were cheaper than any other cigarettes in Mali. We bought a few Cokes, and looked for some food. All we could find were some fried dough balls and mangoes. We also bought a couple liters of the fresh milk that all the women were selling.

Blai asked a guy on the street if there was a place to buy beer in the town. I felt embarrassed to be asking this, as it was a seriously Muslim town, but they guy responded positively. He said there was no beer, but he could get us whiskey. He made a quick phone call, and we waited ten minutes for his friend to arrive.

It felt like a drug deal. He led us through the narrowest, maziest little paths strewn with garbage until we arrived at his little shack. The guy spoke English, and he explained that he used to work in Nigeria. His work there sounded suspicious, but the line between honest work and criminal activity in Africa can be very blurry, so I didn’t worry too much. His work here was obviously suspicious too, but it was good enough to keep him out of Nigeria.

He turned on some music, and brought out chairs for us before displaying the product. He pulled out a big bag of liquor sachets that he said were whiskey. In fact they were labeled as both rum and whiskey, I guess just to cover their bases. The most important part, though was the brand name. It was called “Strong Bull” and featured the Chicago Bulls logo. This sealed the deal and we bought the whole bag (which seemed like a lot but was really just one liter). He also tried offered us some of his homemade liquor. We each took a sip, and it was probably some of the strongest, foulest liquor I have ever let hit my lips. Before we left the guy’s house a woman came with a cup and bought a tall drink of his firewater for pennies, most likely to take back to her husband.

Chicago Bulls Rum (Cafe-Rhum Whiskey, is it coffe, rum or whiskey?) Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

We went back to the boat, as we now had everything we needed. With mangoes, milk and rum, Jordan was set on making us “mango daiquiris”. Don’t laugh.

We crossed the river and found a welcoming soft beach with nobody in sight. Although we had paid to be taken the last 35 km., we felt like the progress deserved some celebration. We mashed up the mango pulp with milk, added rum, turned up the tunes and had as fun a night as is possible in Diafaribe.

Camp spot by morning: Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

The next day we had a little bit of stocking up to do. We went back to town and found, in the daylight, a much less intimidating town. The people were friendly, curious and very interesting. We stocked up on fruits and vegetables, and had a big lunch of slow-roasted sheep. I even bought a new jar of mustard for the occasion. Malian cuisine is pretty basic and can get boring after a while, but the roasted meat was always a special treat, especially when we could get a hold of mustard.

The sheep meat roasts on a barbecue made from an old oil drum and a wire grill. Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra

A Bozo fishing camp across the river from Diafaribe. Photo Credit:Jonathan Diarra

A walk through the town revealed a gorgeous mosque. The only thing that compared was the mosque in Djenne, which is arguably West Africa’s most famous structure. This mosque was special because it represented the reality of this building style. In Djenne, their large mud mosque felt like a tourist attraction, but this one, while probably only half the size felt more authentic and didn’t attract the attention of anyone, as it is simply the norm for the region.

Photo Credit: Jordan

This mosque was built in 1997, yet it already looks ancient. Photo Credit: Jordan

There were a few aid projects in town that gratuitously displayed credit to the donors. A huge water tower, which seemed incredibly out of place, had the European Union flag emblazoned across it. Another one that seemed just as surprising and definitely more frivolous was a set of public toilets. I wondered why this town, of all that we had seen had been given the good fortune of international donor’s attention.

Notice the new concrete buildings for the aid projects on the outskirts of town.

Diafaribe intrigued me and if I wasn’t attached to the boat, I would have wanted to stay to understand it a little more and get under its skin. Just before leaving, I took a quick last stroll through town. I ran into a few guys who invited me into their home for some tea and peanuts.

One of them spoke French so we were able to have a good conversation. I mostly asked them about their nomadic lives. One of them stayed in town the whole year, while the other two told me that they spend a third or half of the year traveling with their herd of cattle. I felt like this explained the bare nature of their home. A few mats, a tea pot, tea cups and a little charcoal stove made of wire. You don’t need much more. In reality, their home is on the road. Their belongings are their cattle. Even in modern times, when people tend to be more sedentary, certain things stick around longer, like their simple lifestyle. They wished me luck on the river journey and I was back on my way with the boat.