After an hour we stopped at our first village. The houses were, like the other villages we’d visited, made of mud bricks. But, this time, with stone walls around each house. After touring the village, we climbed up the cliff to the site of some amazing frescos, said to be painted over ancient Tellem cliff paintings, where the village holds a ceremony every 3 years to circumcise all the 12-14 year old boys.
Part of the ceremony involves a race, where first prize is a granary full of millet, second prize is the right to choose your first wife (instead of having it arranged as is customary) and third prize is a cow.
Then, it was a 90-minute drive on a rocky windy hilly dirt road to another village where we had a delicious lunch of fish, tomato sauce and couscous. I bought a bunch of pens in the DC airport, and started handing them out at this stop. When we drove back through this village after the Mask Ceremony, the children were all yelling “bic, bic!”. At first I thought they were yelling “big, big” and was hoping they would go back to Baloo! But, when we realized they were yelling “bic”, Camara starting calling me “madame bic”.
These villages have a river winding through them, and the Dogon grow green onion as a cash crop after the millet harvest. The aroma is fantastic; French onion dip. I started craving Ruffles.
Apparently, the thinking is that the Tellem either used to, 1) be amazing rock climbers and able to scale the cliff walls to get into their caves, or 2) be able to take advantage of vines that no longer exist. Unbelievable.
It was another hour to the next Dogon village, where we stopped to see the Mask Dance. Probably 50 men participated in the dance, wearing elaborate wooden masks and dancing to drums played by the elders. The mask people are a secret society. Oumar explained a lot of the history and symbolism of the masks and dance.
The way back was tougher on the car since a lot of it was uphill. Suddenly, in the middle of no where, we got a flat tire. Oumar and Camara changed the tire, and we were back in business. While they had been changing the tire, 4 boys walked out of vast emptiness to see what was going on. I gave them some chocolate I had been carrying around.
Once we got on the paved road, Camara stopped to get the tire repaired. While Oumar and I waited (and I tried not to think about the fact that I was getting eaten alive by malaria-ridden mosquitos), I explained game theory to him, and we practice some Prisoner Dilemma and Dove/Hawk equations. Pretty fun way to pass the time, actually. That, and watching the passers-by. The streets have goats, buses, motorcycles, pedestrians, cars, 4x4s, bicycles, horse carts and donkey carts. One of my favorite sights, which you don’t see as often on the streets, but you can see all over the landscape, is the single file line of women on their way to or from the river with the day’s washing on their heads.
It was dark when we got back on the road. We were clipping along, until…smash: Holy Shit, we hit a motorcycle. Fortunately no one was hurt, but Camara was frustrated that our car was scratched up.
I spent some of the drive downloading my photos onto my laptop, and realized a really cool set of pictures would be taking the buckets and teapots in all their various surroundings. These are used for washing, and they are really colorful. And they can be found in all kinds of nooks and crannies and interesting places. I really wish I had realized this on Friday–I could have such a great series of photos!
As we were driving Camara stopped to get us oranges from one of the vendors. What a treat! And, during the lunch stop he gave me a pair of earrings! And, to top it off, he got me a sesame/honey bar from a vendor in the afternoon. Wow! He also stopped to buy some sweet potatoes were, I am not kidding, 1-3 feet long.
He gave me all these gifts, and called me his African brother. It is a true reflection of how close you get to someone when you spend so much time together, night and day. I have no idea how Camara is today, or Oumar, or any of the people who were so warm and wonderful to my during my brief visit to Mali. It is one of the fantastic and frustrating things about travel: you go somewhere, and the people and places become part of your heart; then you leave, taking your memories and impressions and knowledge and love with you.