Back on the river, in the middle of nowhere, we felt like our luck with the wind would have to turn around soon. The only progress we were making was with our sun tans. Sure enough, after paddling just two km, the wind started again at full force, and we had to pull into a little cove. We just could not catch a break.
After all of our bad luck with weather, we were actually feeling fortunate just to have found a good place to relax until the wind cleared. Just a hundred meters from the river, we found a huge tree with a flat clearing. The ground was soft and we only had to clear a mess of cow pies before we had a comfortable spot for the day. Inane conversations and games of cards took up the better part of the day.
Fura barked, alerting us to some people nearby. It was just the candy man. We felt like we were in a remote area, and we were, but it was not too remote for an enterprising man with a bike. He was riding between settlements (I don’t know if I could even call them villages at this point, as the inhabitants nearby were nomadic, of the fishing or cattle driving type) selling homemade candies to children. We bought a few pieces of caramelized sugar on sticks with a recycled paper wrapper. The paper didn’t really come off easily, so we chewed the whole candy and spit the paper out. They were delicious, and I hoped he would ride past us again.
When Fura barked a second time, I was disappointed that it was not because of the candy man. Instead it was a couple of Fulani boys. I jumped up to ease them, as I saw their shock by Fura’s barking and a few toubabs hanging out for some reason. The older one, who wore a traditional leather and straw shade hat, spoke very good French and we communicated easily. The younger one, who wore a long black cloak and carried a shoddy, but enviable, stick, did not speak a word of French and seemed extremely uneasy around Fura.
Our new Fulani friends.
The older boy told me he was walking to the nearest village to charge his cell phone. He asked if we had a way to charge them, but actually, a couple of us were hoping that we could also charge up where he was going. He hung out for a few minutes, asking us about some of the curious items that we had laid out on our mat. We got into a long conversation about his herding life. He told us that he spent about four or five months of the year in more arid Mauritania with his herd of cattle. The herd could not survive in the wet season in Mali as they catch diseases too easily. He told us that some of his cows actually had sicknesses, and asked if we had any way to help. Only Jordan could have offered anything, as he is a vet, but he knew that without any sort of supplies and medications he would be useless.
After more conversation through mutual curiosity, Jonathan, Blai and I accompanied him to the “village” to check out what they had in their shop. It was only a ten minute walk away, although it wasn’t so much a village as a large family compound.
Photo Credit: Jordan
The family was Bozo, the tribe of fishermen. The Fulani man, who served us temporarily as a sort of guide, spoke to them in Bozo, as they didn’t speak French or Fulani. The Bozo family, as Bozos usually are, were very warm and inviting. They were excited about my camera and everyone, even some of the women wanted their picture taken.
Photo Credit: Jonathan Diarra
After taking the pictures of the kids and who I thought was the man of the house, the head hancho (otherwise known as chief) showed up. The Fulani guy told me that he was insisting that I take his picture. The chief looked like he had gotten out of bed simply for the opportunity to get his picture taken. He was sweaty and looked malarial. Immediately after snapping his photo he shook our hands and returned to bed.
Chief
Me and Chief. Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly
Photo Credit: Jordan
The Fulani guy went to a car battery attached to a solar panel (yes, solar power seems more common and far cheaper in Africa than in America…why can’t we catch up with them?) and plugged in his phone.
The solar panel.
He had told me there was a shop here, and I asked him about it. In these parts, a shop usually has little more than cigarettes, sugar and tea, but sometimes there are also some crackers, and if you are really lucky, some warm Cokes. He called to one of the women, and she led us to one of the bedrooms. She pulled a steel box out from under a bed and opened it. This was the shop, and sure enough, it carried the essentials: cigarettes, tea and sugar. I felt bad, but we had no need for any of these items as we were more than stocked on all of them. We thanked her, said goodbye to the family and headed back.
Apart from this interesting encounter, our spirits were at an all-time low. Jonathan had pulled out the West Africa Lonely Planet guidebook, something we hadn’t had a need for in month. These books are usually dangerous when getting depressed in your dead end job back home, but this was no better. The three of them started fantasizing about anything and everything that was not in the Sahel.
“Look, Benin has the cheapest beer in West Africa.”
“Ghana’s beaches sound amazing! I bet there’s a lot of cute girls volunteering or taking drum lessons there!”
“I hear the food in Togo is great. Sounds spicy.”
“Cameroon has the highest mountain in West Africa! Mountains!”
Then things got dangerous.
“Why don’t we just go to the coast, then continue all the way to South Africa? I have two motorbikes there,” Jonathan said.
A million other harebrain ideas crossed the table. None of them had anything remotely close to rivers, Mali, or arid climates. I had no room in the conversation as I was leaving the river in Mopti. I was dead to them. I was sad to see them looking so defeated about the river trip. Although I was leaving, and we had been so unsuccessful lately, I still maintained that the river trip was one of the best random travel ideas ever. We had just picked a bad season to do it in, and it wasn’t worth giving up.
Then the talk turned to hitching a ride with a motorized pinasse. I didn’t want to involve myself in the decision-making. Part of me wanted to be a purist, and paddle the entire way. I loved paddling when it was possible, and didn’t mind paddling and poling the entire day. On the other hand, I had a plane to catch and our progress was depressing. I had to face facts and realize that we had little choice if I wanted to make it on time.
An hour later, we heard the low chug of a passing pinasse. Blai, our go-to communicator and negotiator ran down to the beach and waved down the passing boat. The family crew looked dumbfounded at our presence. They didn’t look like opportunists, so we tried to convince them to take us and that we would pay. They discussed amongst themselves about what they should charge us. They spoke no French, so we worked in our limited Bambara vocabulary. Luckily we had enough knowledge of numbers that we were able to communicate prices. We only wanted to get to Diafaribe, which was some 35 km from where we were. It cost us each about $4. It is a little depressing, now, to think about how hard that was to fork over $4 to go the distance it took us to paddle in two days of good weather. But we did it.
As we lashed our little pirogue onto their monster pinasse, we felt a little like chumps. As we started to move, however, we all realized that this was not as much like giving up and taking the easy way out, as it was a practical move that gave us a whole new river experience. Even more interesting, the sun was down and we were navigating not by sun or even moon light, but by the driver’s deep knowledge of the river.
In the cities of Segou and Mopti tourists pay good money to be shuttled around on river boat tours. We just happened to hitch a ride with a family shipping operation. They weren’t fishermen, but merchants. They were transporting goods between villages. At this point on their route, their boat was empty and they were heading home to their village near Diafaribe. Like most Malians, they were very hospitable to us and shared their family’s meal of fishy rice and rice porridge with all of us. I was careful to take enough to show my appreciation, but not too much to leave any of the family hungry.
Photo Credit: Blai Coulibaly
Photo Credit: Jordan
Blai took initiative and got them to let him to let him drive up front. All he had to do was steer, but the young boy next to him new what to do in case he got into any trouble. There was a cable over the driver’s chair that he would ring to communicate with the engine driver. One time for faster, twice for slower, and three times to stop.
Photo Credit: Jordan
Blai tried to get me to drive, but I knew I would some how mess it up, hit a sand bank and strand us, while damaging the bottom of the boat. Instead I sat on the palm-covered floor of the boat. I enjoyed the company of the family and how cozy the kids looked as they curled up in their blankets and dozed off to the engine’s rumble.
It only lasted about two hours, but the ride itself was worth far beyond what we paid.
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