over land

I’m on my way back to Bamako from Gao, this time covering the 1,200 km overland. For this road trip, the cast has been somewhat revised. I am accompanied by the Director and her smaller, but otherwise remarkably identical sister, both strikingly beautiful Burkinabes, our reliable driver, “Good Moses,” who responds to all my comments with a reassuring “tout à fait normal,” and a sort of jack-of-all-trades known as “Volunteer.” This time, unlike our desert sorties, we were packed into a shiny silver Land Cruiser, having left the battered rented jeeps behind in rebel territory.

The morning of our departure was spent shopping for Algerian bargains – insulated serving dishes like wide-lipped thermoses the size of a baby’s bassinette, whole cream powdered milk, mustard-colored nylon curtains, “birds’ beak” shaped pasta, bitter “Ramadan” tea, jugs of oil, sweet mouse-sized dates, and extra gasoline. After shaking hands with the left hand to signify a voyage, we crossed the Niger by ferry (next to a fully functional bridge that’s awaiting inauguration) and continued southeast on a narrow, but well-paved road, Mali’s equivalent of the Pan Americana. Soon silhouettes of mesas arose in the distance and continued to dominate the landscape for the next 5 hours. Over this time, I came to recognize great variety in their shapes – the first reminded me of an elongated Devil’s Tower, than came a series of misshapen loaves of bread amidst a few well-risen cakes and finally, the sway of an old donkey’s back.

More impressive, though, was the electrifying green. In the desert, it was as though true green had dropped out of color spectrum. Sure, there were dust-coated bushes with withered leaves and some grey-green Eucalyptus, but the most pure notion of green was absent. In Gao, the warring tribes of blue and yellow refused to blend, but here, farther south, they had furiously reunited.

Between towns there were pointy-topped grass huts and herds of jaunty goats and elegantly horned cows. Further south, termite hills rose higher than houses, providing prized food for the family chickens. Apparently the Algerian goods we carried were not enough, so we stopped regularly to partake of the local specialties at roadside stands, usually just after police barriers, drippily painted oil drums that someone lazily moved aside when we rolled to a stop. Among our first acquisitions were bags of the small, hard-shelled eggs from these termite-fed chickens, a rotten one of which exploded all over me, but which were otherwise highly appreciated especially in comparison to regular chicken eggs. Then we (the Burkinabe duo) bought milk and yogurt sold in reused water bottles, round, green shea fruits (whose pits are used for shea butter), a dusty stack of $.50 music cassettes, a waist-high clay pot, numerous bead necklaces, 3 bodybag-sized sacks of charcoal lashed to the roof, and for dinner, a bag of meat from the goat-grill, which was strategically purchased just before arriving in the dog- (and donkey-) eating region. In addition to the distaste of (and, I was told, a Muslim law prohibiting) eating dog, there is the danger that other dogs will smell the blood of their brother on your skin and will gather their pack to attack you. Apparently not true for the Bobo of this region, but not something we were interested in testing for ourselves.

In the evening, as the light faded, saw girls carrying round gourds on their heads, boys bobbing in pools of water and hippos lolling in the deep.

This was my second hippo sighting. I saw the first, on my way to see Gao’s main tourist attraction, the Rose Dune (a legendary gathering place for the world’s sorcerers), off the edge of our pirogue. My excitement was quickly staunched when I learned that, in addition to murdering numerous cows in the previous month, it had killed a small boy the day before. Riding back to Gao in the dark, I listened to the lapping Niger for signs of the killer hippo. There was one false alarm – a partially decomposed cow skull – and then a sand storm swept in, forcing us to squeeze our eyes and mouths closed, and effectively putting an end to my lookout. Our guide, Mohammed, held my wrist tightly as we leaned into the biting sand, making our way toward Gao.

The Gao I left is nothing like the Gao I first met. Where she was once apuff with dust and hazy-skied, she is now quite waterlogged. Her roads have become lakes and her mud huts and reed tents, small islands. These puddles draw children in to splash and swim and cows and shoats to drink deeply. They also spray the intrepid motocyclist and besmear official vehicles. They have quickly become soups of human and animal waste, plastic bags, bits of wire, plastic bottles, and makeshift children’s toys.

In Songhai, the local language, the word for beer is “rotten water.” Although the beer here is not excellent, I like to think it’s better than that.

Other noteworthy Songhai phrases are:
Fish = meat of the river
Foot = hand of the leg