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.
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