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.
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