Where'd I go?

It's been nearly a month since I posted anything on Tea Time Tales. First off, allow me to apologize to my faithful readers, many of whom have sent messages of concern.

I'm currently in Nairobi and can only explain my absence from publishing rather than excuse it. Having traveled through stunning lands and having seen truly breathtaking things, I understand how you would expect me to share. The truth is that although such have been part of the experience of GT:Africa, the flip side has been to immerse myself into the trials and tribulations of ordinary Africans. This journey has unveiled the depths of human depravity and its resultant destruction of individuals and societies. I have elected to bare witness to the extreme poverty of some in Ethiopia and the vast suffering of the survivors of the Rwandan genocide.

While my reactions to these events have left me at times enthused and inspired to work to craft solutions to these ills, I have also been worn down by their enormity. Such wear cannot, despite attempts, be refreshed by the various beers of Africa nor by regressing to a time when I was more oblivious, but rather by re-doubled efforts to evoke positive change in the lives of those I have met. I will need you and your friends and families to accomplish this.

In the coming weeks, I'll get a number of new posts up about GT:Africa and my adventures, but there will also be specific calls to action on campaigns that I'll be driving for the end of 2007 and the coming year. The two major projects include a new program for orphans in Lalibela, Ethiopia as well as what I hope will become global support for one Rwandan named Fraterne Bugabo who lost all of his support and most of his family in the horrors of 1994 when the world shied away from their responsibility to project the people of that nation.

I've been through the psychological and emotional wringer, folks, but I've come out the other end healthy and enthused. Africa is a wonderful place, and well worth fighting for. I hope you'll help me do that.

Cheers,

D.

Ethiopia & Uganda pics now up!

I've just spent hours in the internet cafe here in Kisoro, Uganda uploading photos. There's another 140 just from Lalibela in Ethiopia to come, but still, there's plenty of new stuff up now.

You can find the link to my Picasa galleries here, or as always, down a bit on the right hand side of this page under the "About Me" section.

As always, comments appreciated as are emails about how you're doing.

Rwanda tomorrow, Rwanda tomorrow...

The Adventures of Amadou Ba

Summary: Yuri, Kathy and Dom head off for a three-day, 39km hike up, around, over and through Dogon Country in southern Mali. Dom drinks over 8L of water in one day and pees just once and Kathy gets a well-deserved exploration of perhaps the most amazing part of Mali.

After 7 or so hours on a bus where Yuri carefully selected our seats to offer the best chance for air circulation, we arrived back in Sevaré at dusk. Our once again gratuitous host, Sara, was still 20 minutes from her house, so we scaled the wall and headed up to the roof to watch the sunset. As we chowed down on the “street food” which consisted of a type of fried dough ball and some fried yam chips with some spicy sprinkling, the moon quickly took over from the sun as the main source of illumination over Mali. When Sara arrived, we joined her inside and began to plan the trip to Dogon. Yuri was excited about the trip and it’s only now that I understand how my non-committal attitude early on could have left him a tad perturbed. My “go with the flow” had clashed a bit with his wanting to get stuff penciled in and I’d like to apologize to him for that one. Nevertheless, after some helpful advice from Sara who’d already visited the area, we made a decision about a timeline, a guide and set up our departure for early the next morning. We’d elected to take the more expensive guide of the two on offer as he was supposedly the go-to guy for all the PCVs and came highly recommended by Sara. We all had a good repack of our rucksacks along with some of the vanilla biscuits I’d purchased from some kid while hanging out the back of that pickup truck outside of Gao before showering and getting ready for a night on the roof and under the stars – there was no way I was going to endure a replay of Sevaré heat in a sheltered balcony with no airflow.

I awoke before Yuri and Kathy and pondered cracking open the copy of The Kite Runner that I’d been neglecting. I had good intentions when I picked the book up more than a week ago, but had given it little time opting rather to try to spank the other PCV teams in the spades tourney or watch Mali go by. This morning would be no different as the couple beside me soon slumbered no more and we were up and at ‘em by close to 6am. With Sara in tow, we met our guide at the main road – I was not at all ready. A hefty chap of around 6’2” and a good 230 lbs, I at first had no idea what language Hassimi was speaking in. Figuring a smile was the best option, I threw out a big one which was immediately reciprocated. After a quick road-side breakfast of an egg sandwich and a Malian coffee, we hopped into our ride. For being the “more expensive” guide, I expected some sort of 4WD vehicle and was surprised by the sight of “Grandma”. A once blue 1968 Peugeot 300, “Grandma” was Hassimi’s true love and he beamed with pride as he showed her off. Her doors would open only for him; the door lock knobs were long and there was a definite trick to getting the latch mechanism to release. Her floor boards felt thin beneath the red African dust and the upholstery was certainly from another age. Sitting shotgun, I found a bottle of water at my feet that I imagined was for drinking but, as I would later learn, was for “Grandma” and her tendency to get a little hot under the hood. The main road to Bandiagara, the major town (less than 7,000 people) near the start of our Dogon trek had been washed out and so we would be taking the more difficult and longer “back road”. We’d paid more for this unfortunate circumstance and now all our hopes and prayers were riding on Hassimi and “Grandma”.

As we bumped and crashed along some decently rough roads, I had no idea of the wonders that awaited us; Dogon had been just another few days on my itinerary and wholly Yuri’s responsibility. We stopped in Bandiagara for lunch and chatted with Hassimi about potential promotions for his business and how he could capitalize further on his popularity. Yuri and I were really into it, though I felt Kathy was growing bored of the marketing/promotion lecture. During lunch it also came out that I had yet to receive a Malian name. All the PCVs had them and they were a way of connecting with other Malians. Your Malian surname was shared by many others and there is a defined system of “joking cousins” that can essentially call each other names and laugh it off. The way the PCVs explained it, the system functions as a pressure release and allows for a fair amount of face-saving and playful rib poking. The honor had been given to Yuri, but having little inspiration, Hassimi undertook the task and bestowed upon me the name of Amadou Ba. The surname “Ba” can mean “mother” or “large”, and at 6’2” and 95kgs, I think I fit the bill.

After lunch in Bandiagara, we continued on and reached Sanga, our launch point, in the early afternoon. After Hassimi chatted with some of the locals, we threw on our packs and began walking without any mention of where we were going. As we were parked in close proximity to a number of sleeping establishments, I thought perhaps we’d stay there. Instead, we walked up the rocks that formed Sanga’s base and over to the cliffs that overlooked a magnificent valley. Walking with a number of villagers who had made a trek to Sanga, we began our descent down a decently established path before the path narrowed into a small canyon. At the far end, the canyon opened to a cliffside escarpment of thatched roofs and stone walls. Ahead, the end of the canyon framed a picturesque waterfall and I hoped we’d get a chance to cool off with a power shower. Unfortunately, our path wrapped around through the village and away from the waterfall. We’d been hiking perhaps an hour before I finished my first 1.5L bottle of water. While the locals were happy to drink well water, as was our guide Hassimi, he advised us against it and instead to treat or buy our water. Though I had water purification tabs with me, I figured I’d save them for when it wasn’t possible to purchase water and instead paid the exorbitant sum of CFA1300 (Nearly $3) for a bottle at the first “hotel” we stopped at. It’s very much worth noting that everything in Dogon country is pretty basic - there’s no TV, no internet, no real distractions. For those seeking some time to reconnect with nature, it’s perfect, but it also means that in order to enjoy creature comforts like bottled water, you have to pay for them. While expensive, I thought about the woman who would have had to bring the case of water down the steep cliffs that we’d just descended and I felt a lot better about her making some money for her sizeable effort. After another two hours, we arrived at the village of Koundou – our first stop on this journey.

Right in the valley on the sides of these massive rock walls that very much reminded me of Southwestern Colorado, we stayed on the roof of the largest hotel in town. I was quick to order another bottle of water and polished a good bit of it before heading for a shower and some clean clothes. This would be another 12 hour+ day in the Malian books. I’d been in West Africa for two weeks and had yet had to purchase soap, but as none was provided at our place, I wandered across the road to a little window where despite having maybe 20 items in all, they had 3 different types of soap. Happy with the cheapest at CFA300, I walked back and hoped into the shower, though while cold, was absolutely fine. It was third room I’d tried as of the four communal bathrooms, only two had showers and only one of those was even piped with water. Of course, there was no indication of any of this – I can only presume Malians have plenty of time and just like to leave little challenges everywhere. My throat still very sore, dinner went down with considerable effort and the beer Yuri and I shared offered no relief. Tired, I taught Hassimi a phrase to which he took an enthusiastic liking when I told him that that night I’d sleep very well; “like a ton of bricks”. Hearing a Malian repeat that phrase and putting the wrong emphasis on the wrong syllables and giving it his own timing still makes me smile. As night fell and with no motivation to engage my one distraction in “The Kite Runner”, I crawled into my tent, onto my sleeping sack and fell asleep.

From the valley floor, the cliffs of Dogon Country are certainly impressive, but more so are the mid-cliff dwellings that are spotted along a number of the faces. The rich history of the region includes a people known as the Tellem who existed before the current inhabitants, the Dogon. Lonely Planet tells it like this: “The origins of the Tellem are unclear – Dogon tradition describes them as small and red skinned – and non are believed to remain today, although some Dogon say that the Tellem now live on the plains to the east. The vertical cliff is several hundred meters high, yet the Tellem managed to build dwellings and stores in the most inaccessible places. Most cannot be reached today, and the Dogon believe the Tellem could fly, or used magic powers to reach them. Another theory suggests that the wetter climate of the previous millennium allowed vines and creepers to cover the cliff, providing natural ladders for the early inhabitants.” I heard this story repeated by Hassimi who claims that he was also told that the Tellem were pygmies would had “black magic” powers including the gift of flight. Hassimi later scooted quickly around a frog, no doubt afraid of it.

Day two would see two ascents and one descent. While it's difficult to estimate, we likely covered somewhere in the neighborhood of 15-18km over a variety of landscapes from the flat valley to the rocky cliffs all the way to the top of one of the escarpments from where we got some fantastic views (this is where I took the shot with the CU sticker). In continuation from the previous night and somewhat his trademark, Hassimi laid out a number of riddles throughout the day. Kathy had laid out some good ones herself including something about a bell, a cliff and a guy dying. My best offering was the 4 liters from a 5 liter and 3 liter jugs that I learned from Die Hard with a Vengeance. Hassimi’s cracker was the following: A cowboy walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender points a gun at him and the cowboy says “thank you”. What happened? I’ll let that one stew with you a bit. If you believe Hassimi, it’s really obvious and easy.

Through another village, we saw how local people lived in Dogon and while much of it was hidden from us, it struck me how crucially important water is for these people and how much work they must exert in order to get it. The well for the villages half-way up the cliff is down in the valley a good 3km away. Women walk this multiple times a day in bare feet and carry back the liquid valuable on their heads. Granted, it’s easier than carrying it in your arms, but it’s a serious undertaking any way you slice it and absolutely nothing like turning on a tap. Also noteworthy (and shown in the galleries) is the meeting place for the village men. A 3m structure with a thick roof and very low ceiling, the design is intentional in that one with heated emotions must remain seated and therefore his physical ability to over-react is limited. Essentially, he must sit and try to talk things out rather than get up to rant, rave and perhaps attack he with whom he is having a disagreement. While basic, I liked the idea and wondered what it would be like in Western courtrooms – high paid attorneys in $3,000 suits sitting on the floor, unable to prance around and espouse concocted tales.

We took lunch near the top of the cliffs and by this point I had already polished off 2 bottles of water an ordered 2 more. I removed my pack and then my shirt and was able to wring out a fair amount of liquid from it. I wondered how much was actual sweat and how much water my body had taken from my what I was putting in my mouth and immediately pushing out onto my skin. I mentioned to Yuri that while I was no stranger to sweating, this topped every experience I’d ever had including Japan, Cambodia, and even India. After a plate of spaghetti and a short ziz on a plastic straw mat while covered with my turban, we were right back at it climbing the final 50m to the top of the cliffs. In one proof of worth, we had to scale an 8ft, single pole ladder. The potential fall was a frightening 30m though this was mitigated by a series of logs that had been propped over the gap. I gave the strength of the logs little thought and shot up the ladder with haste. As we left the darkness of the crevasse, the world opened to us. In all directions, Dogon Country laid before us – from the valleys to the cliffs, from this viewpoint we stood in amazement of this truly breathtaking place that seemed to have no business being in a place like Mali. After a number of photos, Hassimi rushed us off, over the solid rock top to the descent of the day. Through another village, we clambered down both rocks as well as decently-worn paths before finally making it to another flat area. Covered with plots of cultivation, it became very apparent that the people of Dogon are subsistence farmers and live a simple life built around community and family. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to live such a life. As a PCV, some had – for 2 years. I tried to imagine no email, no MLS games, no scotch, no electricity and I gave up. Such a life, for such a period of time, was outside of my mental grasp. I wonder how I would endure the simplicity of such a life and how I would control my longing for things that to the people of Dogon hold no significance whatsoever. For much of the one hour walk through the flats, none of us spoke instead opting to absorb.

Our second ascent of the day began at just after 4:30pm and Hassimi’s angst had calmed a bit. Apparently, we’d made decent time through the flats and we would likely make it to our camp before nightfall. While not tired, I’d nearly killed the 2 bottles of water I’d purchased at lunch and was rationing the last ¾ L, not knowing where our camp would be. Much like the morning’s climb, but seemingly easier, we chugged on up the side of the hill from which grew the mighty cliffs of Dogon. Through villages with curious children we passed offering smiles and greetings in the very limited Dogon that Hassimi had taught us. Yuri was the most keen to engage the locals and practiced his Dogon every chance he got with children, old women and even a local dog. About half way up the cliff, we took a break and watched as a massive and gray cloud loomed in the distance over the valley. I quickly pointed out to Hassimi that we’d been done in by not one, but two big storms on the Niger. As the storm approached, I threw out a guess of it hitting us in about 15 minutes. No more than 3 minutes later, the rain started. At first, small, infrequent drops simply caused us to up our pace, but as the rain got a bit harder, we sought shelter under a large boulder that simply wasn’t large enough for the five of us (we’d picked up another guide along the way, apparently Hassimi’s doing). Hassimi encouraged us to push on saying that there was a larger shelter ahead. Walking on steep cliffs is a tricky endeavor, but when you add water to the mix, it can get quite serious and we were all very aware of the implications of a fall in a part of the country where there are no real roads and a rescue is hours away. And so, as the rain soaked our bodies and our bags, we took our time and topped the cliff. I wondered where this shelter was that Hassimi had said was close. We had been walking for 10 minutes and I’d seen nothing resembling appropriate shelter. After another five minutes, I smelled what he was up to as I could see a village in the distance. Through a field of millet and just before dusk, we arrived at our stopping point for the night. A very simple lodge with just covered areas, a pit toilet and bucket showers, we would make it home for the night. After we laid out a few things to attempt to dry, I ordered another bottle of water and quickly made short work of it. Kathy was first to shower with the hot water that the owner of the place had kindly prepared for her. Yuri and I followed, getting a similar courtesy. Bucket showers are an experience that everyone should have at least once in their life. Granted, they don’t compare to meeting Desmond Tutu or rafting the Nile, but to use a bucket, a cup and a bar of soap to clean yourself is an eye-opening experience. You have to get the wetting-yourself quantity correct and quickly lather up before getting too cold. Appropriately soapy, you have to ration the remaining water in the bucket to ensure you get all the suds off. If there’s anything you don’t want to do with a shower it’s to leave still covered in Irish Spring. Furthermore, a bucket of water is no more than 4 gallons - that’s the average per minute flow of a shower in the U.S. – and many people take daily 20 minute showers. Such realizations make to sit back and question the experience and knowledge of politicians who claim that Africans use resources irresponsibly. I had consciously drunk five and a half 1.5L bottles of water that day – and had peed one time; and it was a half-pee at that. Conclusion: Dogon makes ya sweat.

Our final morning began like the previous with toast, margarine, Nescafé and packing. A short day of hiking with much less vertical involvement than the previous days, we were able to take our time and enjoy the scenery. Over hiking paths, car tracks and even an actual road, we made our way back to Sanga enjoying each others company as well as a few of the local fruits called Zabans along the way. As proof that he’s spent too much time away from Western candy, Yuri tried to convince me they taste somewhat like Sweet-Tarts. In actual fact, the ascorbic acid content in them made the ulcers in the back of my throat hugely unhappy and I limited my intake. As a funny aside, they are somewhat hard to open and Malians have both a song and dance that surrounds the event. Maybe someone’s captured it and put it on YouTube.

After a day that was longer than I expected, we arrived sweaty and dirty back to “Grandma” who graciously took us as far as Bandiagara before she had a problem with her left front brake line that forced us to take a timeout. Luckily, Kathy and Yuri had wanted to buy some of the tasty jam that Hassimi had provided for us on the trip and Bandiagara was the spot. One of the two had also thankfully brought some cards and we sat playing hearts wondering when we might get out of there. In an odd twist of fate, a few minutes before entering the restaurant to play cards, a Toyota Land Cruiser rolled right in front of us carrying the three Spanish girls I’d met and spent the day with in Senegal. They were quick to stop and we quickly exchanged niceties before they mentioned that they were on their way back to Senegal for the wedding they’d mentioned nearly 2 weeks prior. The world can seem like a big place, but when such events occur it’s impossible not to be surprised at the chances.

With “Grandma” feeling better, she took us, once again, over the bumpy roads and through the mud puddles back to Sevaré where Sara was kind enough to put us up for a third night. The next morning it was back on the bus – this time to Segou, Yuri and Kathy’s site, for a few days of doing very little. After the Niger trip and now Dogon Country, I was more than ready.

Oh, and Hassimi's riddle: did you figure it out? Yeah, we didn't either. The oh-so-obvious answer (according to him) is that the cowboy had hiccups and that it's commonly known that you cure those by being frightened. Gotta love Hassimi.

Gao: A Return to the Underdeveloped

Summary: We arrive in Gao, not 10km from our final campsite and experience PCV life in Eastern Mali.

After surviving the river hurricane, we were all wholly ready to be back on solid ground and sleeping in relative shelter. We left our final campsite as soon as day broke and after visiting another dune for 20 minutes, we continued on to our off-loading point. Very close to Niger in Eastern Mali, Gao was no more than 10km from our final campsite. Had we had any modicum of additional luck on the boat, we very likely would have made it the night before and been hunkered down inside a house rather than tents and straw mats. Tired and sand-blasted, we pulled into Gao and began to offload our bags and put them on a cart. In Mali, it’s easy to get someone else to do your heavy lifting for you. For about 60 cents each, our bags were wheeled in front of us the mile or so to the house where we’d be staying for the night. PCVs have become accustomed to a further variant of pawning off labor which is known as “cheeing”. Although occasionally occurring within the group, the practice almost always involves local children and entails the kid running off to get you a packet of cigarettes, some sugar, or to tell someone something in the next village. For the effort, they are sometimes, but not always rewarded financially with the equivalent of a penny or two. Many of the locals take pride in the fact that the whites select them for the task and gain a boost of self-value.

It wasn’t even midday yet and even without having to lug our belongings the walk was a warm one. With sweat dripping from our brows and sliding down the smalls of our backs we entered through the gates of one of the largest houses in the neighborhood. Non-descript apart from its size, the brown mansion was home to a PCV named James. Amongst others, Josh had been hugely excited about the prospect of taking a shower and watching 300 on the laptop that he knew was up at the house in Gao. Sadly, we learned that house was without both electricity and running water. Despite having spent a week with PCVs on the Niger, I was mildly surprised about how nonchalant James and most of the PCVs were about not having what most Westerners consider essential elements of a domicile. With a quick phone call, James found us an alternative location in the local bar/hotel. After some time unpacking, organizing laundry and sitting around fanning ourselves, we made a move to what sounded like an oasis in the undeveloped, hot desert of Gao.

Walking through the streets of Gao after a river hurricane is a memorable experience, even by Malian standards. Dirt roads had become muddy bogs; a foul mix of rubbish, plastic, soap, kitchen run-off and sewage. Entire intersections had become small lakes and we were forced to take a number of detours in our trek to a shower and a cold beer. Foolishly, many of the PCVs had brought nothing but flip-flops and were now realizing that the developed world’s usage of shoes certainly has its place. The walk was supposed to take 15 minutes, but with the detours, took just over 25. Sweaty, once again, we arrived to electricity and cold water sachets – we could want for nothing more in the whole world. After calling dibs on showers, we ordered some food and made an attempt with the VCD player; sadly they really won’t play DVDs and I was once again reminded of how inferior they are. With one beer in, it was my turn to shower. The combo toilet-shower was built of mud and straw with a big metal door and one had to be extra careful now to stick a foot into the poo pit while soaping up. With the sun shining strongly from above, I relished the non-Niger cleaning which took at least a few ounces of sand off my body, out of my hair and from in between my teeth and came out feeling truly refreshed.

The food was simple that night; goat brochettes with red onion, fried potatoes and some haricot verts. It was hardly enough to cover us for a night of drinking and after 3 beers, I was feeling both woozy and mildly ill. Not wanting to be a Sally, I pushed on a darkness fell and a deck of cards appeared. I’m not a particularly good Texas-Hold-‘Em player, but at a CFA2000 (about $4) buy-in, who could resist? After two stellar hands, my luck was gone and I was the first out after about an hour of play. By then, Aaron had arrived. You may remember Aaron from a previous entry as the hairy shouldered chap who introduced me to “elaborated” whisky and left me a pool of vomit as a morning wake-up. I’d long forgiven him for the transgression, though and we got to talking about our experiences on the river. I had thought that a river hurricane would have ranked rather high on the tales meter, but Aaron easily topped the story with his tale of what happened when he argued with a Malian taxi driver about a fare that Aaron didn’t believe was fixed. Aaron’s staunch refusal to pay the driver what was rightfully his had earned Aaron nearly 2 whole days in a Bamako jail cell. With no water or food, Aaron sat in a cell with a number of other Malians who eyed him suspiciously and whispered in Bambura, “I wonder what the toubob did”. Retelling the story with a big smile, he told me he had responded in Bambura “You know, I speak Bambura.” The Malians recoiled in fear – if these people are afraid of lizards, a Bambura-speaking toubob must bring the fear of God.

The night finished with a number of us wanting to call it a night at around 9pm. I had wanted to leave even before the Tuareg music had began, but not wanting to be rude, I’d stayed and drank a glass of wine. As a little souvenir of toughing out the night in the front of the boat while being blasted with wind and rain, I had picked up a sore throat that had now developed into a full-fledged ulcerated mess. The alcohol almost certainly didn’t help and the nausea I was feeling was likely a product of illness, exhaustion and poor nutrition over the past number of days. Quite simply, my body was telling me to cut it out and I was ready to listen. The walk back was an even bigger challenge than the journey to the bar as in Gao there are no streetlights. Imagine walking down your street at night, but remove all the cars, all the streetlights and houselights and add a number of foul puddles as well as a couple of massive lakes and you’re still not really going to be rocking it Gao-style. I’ve made my way through some treacherous locations in my life, but the walk home from Shaka’s bar in Gao rates right up there with one of the more unpleasant ventures.

In order to reach our next destination, Yuri wanted to leave Gao early which meant a 4:30am wake up to catch a bus to take us to Sevaré. With a sore throat of rare form, I pleaded with him and eventually threw in the towel saying that if he wanted to go, to do so and I’d meet him somewhere. Ill and exhausted, there was no way a short night’s sleep was going to be a good thing. Without even the motivation to brush my teeth or remove my contacts, I made my way to the roof with my sleeping sack and laid down on one of the foam mattresses that Yuri had brought up; there’d be no need for mosquito tents tonight as they don’t live in the desert. Despite a burning pain in my throat, I was out in mere minutes and slept like a baby until sunrise at around 5:30am. I found Yuri sleeping next to me and the acid-like burn still tearing at my esophagus, but I was well rested and ready for the long bus journey back to prepare for our next adventure: Dogon Country.

DRC looking unlikely

I've just gotten off the phone with Alex Mujyambere, a local guide who leads weekly trips to see the mountain gorillas of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). As I mentioned prior to leaving, I would be taking no unnecessary risks on this trip; only calculated ones. DRC has just earned itself a place in the first category.

The area I'd like to visit surronds the border town of Goma. Unfortunately, according to Alex, the government is no longer in control of the area and his outfit hasn't led trips there for the past 3 weeks. He mentioned that this may change, but for now, he's not going. If he's out, I'm way out. I really want to support the community in the DRC, specifically the gorillas, but with this degradation of security, I just won't be able to. The real shame is that now is when these very rare creatures need our support the most.

So, for now, I'll be looking at tracking from here in Uganda or in Rwanda. Keep your fingers crossed though and maybe I'll be able to get to the DRC afterall.

Where're the Pre-Country Synopses?

Okay, I started well with the first four and intended to finish up the rest while on the road, but now I've been to Ethiopia and am about half-way finished with Uganda and still no pre-country synopses! I'd like to apologize and also encourage you to have a quick Wiki-read and look at the CIA World Factbook for the lowdown on these incredible places.

As I'm now in Kabale in the far Southwest of Uganda and I'm on an IBM Personal Computer 300GL (think about 10 years+ old), it's unlikely you'll see the pre-country synopses for a while. I encourage you to check out each country, but I'll try to get those finished when I can. That said, I've still got stories to write from Mali, Burkina Faso, Ghana, Ethiopia and now Uganda. They include not one, but two mid-air medical emergencies in which I helped out, a thieving maid episode, and rafting some of the most brutal rapids on planet Earth. Hope that whets your appetite!

Now though, it's time for a steam bath and a sauna...while the internet capabilities of this little border town are minimal, my hotel does have the aforementioned facilities and after a 9 hour bus ride from Kampala, I think I've earned it.

West Africa - Completed

It's 7:34am and I'm in a hugely expensive but very modern internet cafe in Kotoka International Airport in Accra, Ghana. in 26 minutes, I will head to the check-in desk of Ethiopian Airlines to check in for my 10:00am flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. We'll stop in Lome, Togo to pick up some more people and then it's off to East Africa!

It's been an adventurous time thus far. Some of the stories I've managed to share, some are still floating around in my head rather than on this blog. I will do my best to get more up soon. In the meantime, I've uploaded a number of photos from Mali, Burkina Faso and Ghana to Picasa. The link is down on the right side of the page, there. Have a gander and comment, if you wish.

Thanks for the emails and the comments on the blog. Also, feel free to forward the address of this blog to anyone you think might be interested. I'm in a very informal race with Yuri to see how many people we can get to subscribe...he's currently winning by 5 (Update: thanks to push from Luton fam - woohoo!).

Right, another load of photos which need captions now.

All the best,

Dom

Gao-ho!

Summary: 7 days, 6 nights on the Niger River from Mopti to Gao proved to be an experience that me and 13 PCVs earned. From swimming in one of Mali’s largest public toilets to surviving two sizable storms, our excursion to Timbuktu and beyond was paid for in full – in more ways than one.

At the start of this journey up the Niger, I was aware of three checkpoints. The first was our starting point of Mopti. We’d just left the second, Timbuktu, and the final lay right at the end of the journey. Four or five days from now, we’d disembark our vessel in the eastern city of Gao where we’d link up with one of the local PCVs and crash at his place. Between Timbuktu and Gao, all I knew is that there was a whole lot of river and plenty of time for spades and to crack the cover on the copy of “The Kite Runner” that I’d taken from the Peace Corps office in Sevaré. Someone had brought a large, fold-out map of Mali, but I hardly saw anyone show much interest in where we were. Much like the previous days, cards were shuffled and dealt, people nodded off, and lunch was served. Some decided to take their one-soda-a-day ration during lunch, others split one so as to get two halves a day while some stockpiled in preparation for some giant sugar rush. Watching the process, I was reminded of my father’s lectures about preference and its relationship to pricing; from an early age, and although not enrolled at CU yet, I was still given the occasional economics lesson.

Our fourth evening was nearly delightful. Josh and I donned headlamps, refreshed our vodka & cokes (I was heralded for bringing Absolut on the trip as the alcohol in Mali can easily be confused with gasoline), and headed out in search of marshmallow sticks. Emily had been smart enough to bring some of the fluffy treats and Josh and I had tasked ourselves with making sure we had the tools to prepare them appropriately. Across yet another sand flat, we walked in excess of 1km before finding a spiky bush that looked like it had branches that might suffice. Trees in the Niger delta are decently scarce close to shore as they are a primary source of fuel for cooking in villages. The one tree we did find was more of a stumpy trunk the limbs of which had been crudely hacked off some time before our arrival. Our arrival had brought out some curious locals who, lucky for us, spoke Bambura. While Josh conversed with them, I worked at trimming the spikes off one of the two workable roasting sticks we’d found. There was no mistaking it, we were very much in Africa.

After returning back to camp and eating, most of the group circled around the fire Kareem had built and began to roast marshmallows. Having just come from a land of creature comforts, I was much more interested in the stars above and in the unusually open conversation I’d found myself having with Kali. A striking girl, I’d noticed Kali very early in our journey – I’m a sucker for a brunette. We’d not really spoken much during the trip and were certainly making up for it now. We delved deep into issues of spirituality, purpose and personal history. Well over an hour passed as we sat, playing in the sand and exploring each other’s minds. I’d see more of Kali later including a bit of her fiery side as well one of her toes that had managed to pick up a nasty fungal infection. Always the medic, I assisted in the removal of the very dead nail and advised about the lengthy treatment course that she’d face in the future. I’d wager that there’s a great deal more to her than meets the eye – and there’s plenty on that front.

With clear skies above, concerns about heat won over concerns about rain and I once again shacked up with Yuri. While the temperature was much more comfortable that night, something inside me was very much not right and I was rousted from sleep, panicked. Thankfully, I’d gotten the side near the door and quickly exited before grabbing some TP and shuffling as far away from the camp as I thought I could make it. While it’s not nice to laugh at other people’s misfortunes, it’s completely acceptable to laugh at your own in retrospect and I must have been such the sight that night. I don’t think anyone saw me moving at pace, buttocks firmly clenched, taking the occasional pause to collect myself, but if they had I would have forgiven a hearty chuckle. Having made it as far as I could and with buttocks firmly clenched, I used my foot to awkwardly dig a hole in the sand before unleashing the funk of 40,000 years. Yuri, until he reads this, knows not how close he came to being subjected to a fate far worse than a fart.

The next night saw even more fecal matter, but none of it mine. In contrast to what had become the norm, we arrived at camp about an hour before sundown. At the base of a 35m sand dune, we would spend the night in the middle of what looked like a poo farm. Of course, such places don’t exist (at least I haven’t seen them on “Dirty Jobs” and therefore presume), but the stuff was everywhere. Maybe it had come from goats, maybe cows, maybe sheep, but it certainly wasn’t human. I wondered why there would be such a concentration in this area and if Kareem was perhaps paying us back for complaining in Timbuktu. Past the poo was the much more pleasant dune which most of us hurried to climb. Sitting atop the silica, I noticed something move in the fading daylight. Pitch black and shiny, a dung beetle had climbed up the dune and was now moving with purpose across the sand. Others soon began to notice them and with dinner still to be had, we raced down the dune to eat. Some of the PCVs including Ryan Shaw mentioned wanting to camp on the dunes but were told by our guide Kareem that that's where the spirits live and so you can't stay there. Malians are also leery of frogs and lizards, too, so I wasn't so surprised about the spirits. At the base of this dune, I saw more of the beetles hard at work rolling the poo around. The concentration suddenly made sense, but the revelation didn’t change the fact that we were camped in the middle of a treacherous mine field – or maybe poo field. Most of the PCVs didn’t seem to mind and we spent that night playing a game much like heads-up-7up called “mafia”. Though we made a fire that night, it was certainly only for light as the heat of the day persisted long after nightfall. As discomfort tends to breed ingenuity, I made a combination shelter of my mosquito net draped over the open door of my tent and directed the opening towards the very light breeze coming from downriver. Sweating, I laid down and again, hoped for sleep.

Day 6 saw some swimming, complete with a game of keep away (a difficult concept for Malians to grasp), and we were excited about the possibility of making it to Gao a day early. While life on the boat had been fun, but the appeal of bathing in the Niger and sleeping with dung beetles has a limit. We learned late in the afternoon that Kareem had never been this far on the river; perhaps the crew had been, but I still don’t know. We were being guided by a man who’d never been to this section of the Niger River. Consequently, and with some frequency, we found ourselves bottomed out and the barefoot lads took to the water a number of times to dislodge us. At one point, we all had to jump in and help push lest we spent the night in the middle of the river. The cost of these delays would extend beyond not making it to Gao.

As dusk gave way to nightfall, the crew admitted defeat and motored into a giant sand flat which would be our final camp of the trip. If anyone was disappointed about not making it to Gao, no one publicly voiced their opinion opting rather to quickly offload their gear. An even greater expanse than our first campsite, this sand flat made me feel infinitely small. To the Northeast, we could see a white glow emanating over a dune; Sarah, who was stationed in Gao, quickly surmised that it was her town though we couldn’t tell how close we were. In the opposite direction, the darkness had swallowed everything we’d motored past less than an hour before. Above us, clouds obscured the thousands of stars that had been a source of wonderment for the last 5 days. Soon, the occasional bolt of lightning would light up a distant part of the sky above Gao. As time went on, the occasional bolt had been joined by others and before long, we were surrounded by a full fledged lightshow. Following Yuri’s clever captures on the first night, I busted out my camera and snapped a number of photos and shot some video of this silent lightning. While similar to the conditions on our first night, this night felt more intense with more lightning and increased cloud cover. Instead of retreating, I prepared further by staking down my tent, throwing on my rain fly and staking that as well. As prepared as I felt I could be, I laid in my tent and listened for 20 minutes while Christy and Louie put plastic over their Tropic II mosquito net and Kali and Yuri chatted on their mats having opted to sleep alfresco. We hadn’t even had time to fall asleep before it started.

After one big puff, it came like a freight train. With what I can only estimate at well over 100mph winds, this storm was instantly upon us. Going from near total calm to utter chaos in less than a minute, I did my best to stay calm; I’d prepared my tent and I was going to ride this one out. Like a screaming banshee, the edge of the rain fly near my head was whipping back and forth against the tent and was soon joined by the entire front section which changed the sound from banshee to flag hanging on for dear life. After 2 seconds, the sound had changed once again – my rain fly had been ripped from my around my tent and was being blown back down the Niger; I imagine it reached Senegal after a few minutes. Still, I held my ground. With no rain fly to deflect the sustained winds, my tent was getting the full force of the storm which was now producing some rain as well as a spraying everything like a sandblaster. Hitting the top of my tent, the wind lifted the bottom of my tent just enough to create a small pocket underneath me. Showing no sign of fading, the wind pushed underneath me and began to pick up my tent – with me in it. To combat this surprising turn of events, I flailed my arms and legs out towards the corners of my tent hoping to use my nearly 100kg to keep from launching from the surface of Mali. Meanwhile, all of Christy and Louie’s hard work had been erased and they were attempting to form an evacuation plan without losing more of their gear. It wasn’t long before I gave in and came up with a plan of my own. I’d kept the loose gear inside my tent to a minimum that night, just in case and didn’t have much to pack, but there was still the issue of how to single-handedly take down a tent during 100+mph winds. I knew that as soon as I opened the door, the small pocket that’d been created underneath me would seem miniscule in comparison to the entirety of the inside of my tent and that holding on to some part of the tent would be vitally important. Unzipping just a small section of the top of the door, I reached through and grabbed one of the poles holding the tent up before unzipping the rest of the door. Instantly, my tent became a sail and I was scooted nearly a foot before I was able to reach around the tent and disengage the pole from its strap and get the tent down. Shirtless, I had no time to focus on the flying sand that was pelting me from behind and instead called out to Yuri and Kali who had rolled their mats over them as they sat in the fetal position. “I don’t think this is a maintainable situation!” I hollered. While I was sure they’d heard me, they weren’t moving and so I advised them, again, to pack it in and head for the boat. Yuri got up and came back into the storm towards me to help me fold up my poles while I balled up my tent and stuffed it under the lid of my rucksack. Hefting my pack onto my back, I went to check on Christy and Louie who were frozen over their gear, unable to move lest their stuff blow away. Getting them sorted enough to move towards the boat, we all headed in the direction of the boat. To our surprise, it wasn’t where we’d left it, but nearly 100 feet downstream and about 8 feet from shore. The wind had unanchored the boat and left it adrift before the barefoot lads had jumped in and re-anchored it. Tossing my back onto the bow, I saw Yuri drop his pillow and take off running into the Niger, dropping his mat in the process. Chasing after the mat, I caught it and went around the other side of the boat to offload it before jumping into the side of the boat near the kitchen. There sat Louie, visibly perturbed, but with a seat next to him. Taking the seat, he looked at me and said calmly, “you know, we should have been in Gao by now”. I gave a small chuckle and looked toward the bow where Yuri was attempting to hold one of the mats up over the opening at the front of the boat. Not seeing much progress, I made the decision to hop back into the storm and go help. By this point, I was already completely soaked and jumping into the river was the only quick way to get to the front of the boat. Before I went, Kareem, who had been sitting opposite Louie, grabbed my arm and in his very limited English said “take care yourself” and smiled. Like a navy seal, I rolled under the thatch side and into the river. The wind knocked my maglight right out the holder on my head; thank goodness those things are waterproof as, in the 4 feet of water, I could see it and reached down to pick it up and put it back on my head. After another acrobatic move to get into the boat again, I met Yuri and asked him if he needed some help. He explained his plan and I grabbed some twine from my bag and had someone from the middle of the boat hand me my knife. At least half of the group were engineers and the irony of the two business students perched at the front of the boat rigging up a protective barrier was not lost on me. Shocked were most and by morning, miserable were nearly all. Crammed in a wet boat like sardines, Yuri and I had the seats of dishonor at the front where wind and rain pelted us all night. Yuri was quick to don as much clothing as he could find before grabbing his blanket. He had, like me, run into the river to get into the boat and the blanket had gotten a thorough soaking. “Wool keeps you warm even when it’s wet”, he said unconvinced of the statement’s truth.

That night was spent wet, cold and wholly uncomfortable as we rode out what was later dubbed Hurricane Batoma while huddled on our tiny boat. We later learned in Gao that a similar storm had, a week previous, killed a U.S. soldier and paralyzed two others. As a final payment for the privilege of motoring up the Niger, we all paid the price of the river hurricane which, as of publication, has yet to be given an appropriate name. We were sure we would arrive in Gao the next day, but it wasn’t until we arrived that we saw just how close we’d been to durable shelter.

Turning 26 in Timbuktu

Summary: Timbuktu is not nearly as impressive today as it was long ago, but we still managed to find some worthwhile aspects including Tuareg wares, ancient manuscripts and ouijila.

After a violent windstorm, an ongoing bout of stomach troubles and a rapid initiation into Mali, I’d completely forgotten that it was the 6^th of August. Ready for another day on the river, one which would likely end with our arrival in the historical city of Timbuktu, I was reminded when Yuri piped up. Everyone immediately jumped in to sing me happy birthday as our usual simple breakfast of bread, jam and tea or coffee was ferried up from the kitchen. Being my special day, I treated myself and had a second cup of coffee before continuing with the spades tournament. The day previous had seen less than stellar play on our part, but Sarah and I were beginning to learn each other’s style of play and today would be our day, I hoped. We spent most of the morning battling it out with Josh and Gretchen, two formidable and cutthroat players with a knack for disrupting your plays and usurping the trumps you were sure you’d take.

We reached the landing about 15km outside of Timbuktu just after midday. With a heightened sense of excitement, we picked up our gear which the barefoot lads had offloaded onto shore for us and made our way up a small embankment to a waiting Toyota Land Cruiser. I wasn’t at all confident that it would be possible to fit 14 of us, plus a driver and Kareem into this thing, but the PCVs didn’t give it a second thought and after handing their bags up to the guy on the roof, began to pile in. With 2 guys on the roof and no less than 15 people in this Land Cruiser, we set off on a paved road heading to a city everyone’s heard of but very few people could tell you much about. After passing the gendarme, we made our way through sandy streets, past goats, children and a number of small corner shops known in Mali as boutikis before arriving at our destination. Kareem had arranged for us to stay at a house in town for some nominal fee. After some discussion about dinner and laundry, both of which were arranged, some of us headed westward towards the dunes that surround this hallowed city. Sunset in Timbuktu, we imagined, must be something to witness. After the obligatory photos, we sat on top of a dune and watched the sun fall beneath the horizon; had it been in any other place, it would have been just a mediocre sunset. With dark approaching, we headed towards a light in the distance which Yuri identified as the Flamme de la Paix. A monument to the end of the Tuareg rebellion, there is actually no flame here, but the edifice does indeed cast a yellowish glow on the surrounding ground. It was upon setting off from here that I realized that Timbuktu’s streets all look the same and although arranged in a grid, are numbered in a way that makes nearly no sense. Luckily, someone in our group had taken note of the street numbers near the house in which we were staying and after a 10 minute trek, we were back and ready for some dinner.

Of the options available to us, and with Sarah’s recommendation, we’d elected to have ouijila, a local type of spongy bread and sauce. Sadly, our hosts had gouged us on the price and we had to seek a second round of nourishment. An air of disappointment lay over the entire situation and complaints were whispered, to the dissatisfaction of our guide Kareem who had a reputation to uphold with our hosts. There are different dynamics in Africa that many Westerners find difficult to understand and work with. As we paid for the trip, we feel entitled to some customer service and getting ripped off (albeit by just over $1) is not at all appreciated. We don’t have many qualms about being openly upset and even complaining, but this, in this situation, was frowned upon. Furthermore, the tone of the evening was quickly becoming spoiled and on the eve of my birth, I had hoped for something different. There was, however, a saving grace. Though, poorly timed as I’d already had my one piece of ouijila and was full, Yuri appeared from inside with another piece with a candle planted in the middle of it and began, yet again, to sing happy birthday to me. There, in the very basic accommodation with inadequate food and tired, frustrated PCVs, Yuri managed to restore the mood and, in a simple way, made a lasting memory of my birthday. What a guy. We finished the night with a few beers that we’d had brought in from a local hotel and a few rounds of a game called “would you rather” in which you get to give players a simple choice of one or the other and they must select what they’d rather. Some of the harsher questions included “would you rather kill your mother or your father?” while the seemingly straight-laced Tamara seemed hugely conflicted when I asked her if she’d rather shave her head or pierce her tongue. Yuri, once again, rocked the night when he broke out the Crunchie Bits that I’d brought him from England and generously shared them around. Having grown tired, I set up my cotton sleeping sack on a thin reed mat, tucked a folded shirt under my head and gave thanks that, as there are no mosquitoes in the desert, tonight would be a tent-free sleep. In one of the more remote places on Earth, on a thin mat with a shirt as a pillow, I slept the night through and awoke naturally just before sunrise.

We summitted the dune just as the sun was rising and played with the ultra-fine sand. We were soon joined by a Tuareg who, after greeting us in what I presume was Songhai, sat patiently with us as we took our photos before inviting us to his home. A dome made of sticks and covered with tapestries, 6 of us piled in and greeted an old woman who was working away in the corner of the dome. With a knife, she was putting finishing touches on a colorful leather bag, possibly made of camel skin. The Tuareg made tea and began to show us how he makes pipes. Using a small bench and one of his toes to hold the pipe in place, he carved designs into the small piece. After tea, we were invited into the building behind the dome where he and a few other merchants had a variety of necklaces, bracelets, knives and even a Tuareg sword or two. We all bargained hard and left with some fab souvenirs on our way to find some of the centuries-old texts to which Timbuktu is home. Once a thriving and scholarly city, Timbuktu has one of the richest concentrations of ancient texts in the world - some over a millennia in age. After a long walk through the city, we arrived at the Centre de Recherches Historiques Ahmed Baba and were shown to the one room display where locked cabinets held unknown treasures while two glass-topped cases in the middle of the room showed some of the more impressive finds including one book with painted and gold inlay from over 800 years ago. With the explanation from the aging curator all in French, I tuned out and most of the significance of this site was likely lost on me; nevertheless, it was impressive to see books more than 4 times older than my country. After the museum, we nabbed some amazingly refreshing frozen juice sachets (dobliney in Mali) and some frozen yoghurt sachets (nono) in the 3 story central market building. Therein lies another wonderful benefit of traveling with PCVs in Mali – street juice and yoghurt are almost certainly a no-go when traveling due to worries about all kinds of nasties including Hepititis A, but when you can confirm that it hasn’t made someone else deathly ill it makes it much easier to partake. In the heat of Mali (I want to call it sweltering, but it’s not quite at that level), a frozen sachet of nono tastes like the golden nectar of Zeus – and most travelers miss it fearing that the price tag is higher than the $0.10 you pay up front. Refreshed and feeling that we’d done as good a job of understanding Timbuktu as we would be able to, we arrived at the house to rest and prepare for more time on our pirogue. They would bring tales of spirits living in dunes, hoards of dung beetles and what can only be described as a river hurricane.

A Launch from Mopti

Summary: The boat trip begins. This post covers what life was like on the boat as well as what the much more unique nights yielded. Dom performs the first of a few surgeries on the trip and manages to nearly fumigate Yuri – serves him right for not making sure we had enough water for the trip.

The night had been far from a restful one. A number of decisions including doubling up with Yuri in his superiorly ventilated mosquito tent as well as sleeping in a covered area rather than the roof had kept bouts of sleep to a 45 minute maximum. Tossing and turning, I was reminded that you should not let your body touch the side of the mosquito tent as those bastards are plenty capable of biting right through the mesh. With every bite, I wondered if the mossy was kind enough to take my blood and pay me back with malaria. Still, things could have been worse and unfortunately were for Sara. At least four times during the night, we’d all been awoken to her heaving out everything within her; the throes of her agony coming across so clearly that all of us suffered with her.

Morning arrived and the masses began to mobilize. Some began their final packing preparations while other brushed the morning breath into oblivion. Josh, the lone soul to risk being rained on by sleeping on the roof, came down with a grin as Yuri and I dragged ourselves out into the dawn. After 20 minutes, Sara’s compound was alive with commotion and after another 20, the first group left in search of some breakfast. Eating with PCVs in Mali is a wonderful experience as they are not only well adapted to the local foods, customs and prices, but can also order everything in the local language. As I chowed down on an egg sandwich and shooed flies away from my Malian coffee (½ sweetened condensed milk, ½ water, one teaspoon of Nescafé), I marveled at how comfortable the PCVs were. While Emily, Josh, Kyle and Laura, all apparently proficient Bambura speakers, were ordering food, Gretchen was hard at negotiating transport to Mopti where we would meet the boat that would be our home for the next 7 days. Loudly, she fought for every CFA and didn’t seem at all enthused with the result; for the few mile journey, each person would have to pay CFA350 (around $0.75). Having been in Africa not even a week, I would have, in the same position, happily avoided a 10 minute argument for the premium of another CFA50, but apparently PCVs have more time to negotiate than willingness to pay anything more than the best fare imaginable. With the crew at least partially fed, our transport arrived. Nothing more than a pickup with a steel cage over the back, we loaded our packs on top and 14 of us crammed into the back including the long-legged Ryan Shaw sitting on the floor of the bed. The ride was no more than 15 minutes, but when you’re crammed into a small space with that many people you have to appreciate the relative joys of Western travel; a tro-tro in Mali makes a Greyhound bus look like Air Force One.

When we arrived at the dock, our guide was there waiting for us. A friend of Yuri’s named Kareem, he attempted to speak to me in both Bambura and French and settled for a handshake and gave me a big toothy smile. As some of the group who hadn’t eaten sat down at another roadside bench in front of a small stove, others went in search of a market to buy some mats to go under our tents. In typical Yuri style, this, along with other details of the trip had not been planned and last minute adjustments and arrangements had to be made. Of greater concern to me was the quantity of drinking water on board. Kareem had told Yuri that there were 8 cases on board. Having done a number of trips to the desert in past, I knew that if you were going to short yourself on anything, water should be last on the list. With 7 days on the river and with 14 people (not including the crew), I calculated that we were a minimum of 6 cases low. Apparently, nothing had been specified on paper for this trip and Yuri’s faith in Kareem about providing sufficient quantities of everything had been misguided. I explained my opinion to Yuri and he translated some of it to Kareem who got another case on board and said that if we needed it, he’d buy more along the way. Trusting that, Yuri turned to do some business with the fabric seller who’d been hanging around us. With a 5-foot long pole with fabrics in 8 different colors, Yuri explained that this guy was selling turbans and you could select how long you wanted and he’d cut it for you. The minimum length is 3 meters with some Tuaregs rocking a full 12 meters of fabric. We both selected a color and were happy to make do with 3 meters; a well-spent CFA1500 (just over $3) each. Later, in the back of a dump truck and on a trek through Dogon Country, that turban would make me a happy chap.

With the mats purchased, the gang fed and at least some water on board, we climbed aboard our vessel. A typical local boat called a pirogue, it measured about 35 feet from bow to stern and 8 feet across at the widest berth. In the center of a series of benches which formed a rectangle in the middle of the boat sat a 5 foot table which would later become the scene of a lively spades tournament and a number of tasty meals. In front and behind of this rectangle were a few benches that would provide seating for the rest of the passengers and crew as well as the impromptu kitchen. At the stern, a very simple plywood box with a swing door housed our toilet which, in an discomforting sense, dropped right into the Niger River; the one we would be swimming in later.

On 4 August 2007 at 9am, an hour and a half after our scheduled departure, our journey began. Some tucked into their books including a prized copy of the latest Harry Potter installment that Christy’s family had sent her from the States while others took in the sights and still others pulled out a deck of cards. With hours on the boat during the day, and with much of the banks of the Niger looking similar, there was plenty of time to do whatever you could on a boat. I often caught myself daydreaming about people back home, about past adventures or about creature comforts like mosquito-free nights. Truthfully, the days were much the same and writing this a few weeks after events took place, they blend together into a homogeneous mix of card playing, fish buying, village visiting, wound tending and good-natured friendship. For this trip, the nights offered the greatest tales. The first night would be our initiation; our cover charge to this adventure.

After a full day on board, we were all thrilled to reach our first camp spot just before dark. On a giant sand flat with two villages way off in the distance, our only neighbors were the thousands of stars above. Josh and I walked onto the flats wondering how far we could go before running into anything or anyone. It was out there, a few hundred yards from the shore that I first noticed the lightning; far in the distance, it came without lightning’s usual companion – a fact I found odd. Having erected my tent, I found Yuri and we headed off for a chat. In 20 minutes, we caught up on nearly everything we’d been up to over the last year. It was really good to reconnect with the guy; for all his quirks, you could hardly ask for a more loyal or genuine friend. Wanting to talk more, but having to attend to the grumbles in my stomach, I sent Yuri packing and went about the unpleasant business that is often the price of African travel. I was thankful for my many trips to the canyons of SW Colorado in that not having a toilet wasn’t so unfamiliar to me. Feeling better, I returned to a thorough hand washing and after a short while, food arrived. Two bowls of food emerged onto shore and all 14 of us ate together in typical Malian fashion. With 7 people to a bowl, you first wash your hands in a bucket and give them a good shake before digging in with your right hand. Some are highly adept at forming little packets of food, be it rice or pasta or even tô (a millet dish common in Mali), and popping it into their mouths while others simply chomp at their food like a horse, licking the remnants from their fingers before heading back for more. PCVs are, arguably, just as good at this as Malians and don’t hesitate for a second to pick around the fish head that is always included in the bowl to get to the cabbage or even the faranto, a spicy pepper akin to the habeñero. Most Westerners would consider it an uncivilized way of eating, but it’s impossible to deny the sense of community around a giant bowl of food. That night, we had some fantastic Malian pasta and when the PCVs are singing the praises of the cook, you know you’re getting a treat.

With full bellies and weary souls, we all retired shortly after dinner. Some chose to lie beneath the stars before climbing inside their Tropic II free-standing mosquito nets that offered vastly more ventilation than my Vango tent. By this time, the lightning from earlier had blossomed from inland around both sides of us and was reaching out over the Niger. Bolts jumped around the clouds in jagged, semi-circular routes, at first just a few, and then at least one every second before we were engulfed. And yet, there was not a single clap of thunder. While no meteorologist, I did stay awake for every lecture on lightning in my 7^th grade earth science class, and from what I remember, lightning is usual a precursor to thunder. The rest of our group found it equally odd with some claiming that it could be heat lightning, but despite most having heard the term, no one could offer an explanation for what that actually was. Some required no explanation and were happy to pack their things back on the boat to hunker down there for the night. As it was our first night of roughing it in Mali, I wasn’t one to give in so easily and boldly proclaimed that I’d stay and ride it out. This was nothing more than a cool lightshow, I said, remembering Josh’s bravery and spirit from the night previous which had earned him a cool night’s sleep up on Sarah’s roof. Like the head coach of Brazil’s U-17 football team who recently said that his side would win the World Cup only to be knocked out by Ghana in the round of 16, I would be made to eat my words.

Your teeth brushed and contacts out, you climb into your tent, zip the fly and lay down. Three seconds later, off come your shorts and your shirt and you grab at a breath of cooler air from through the mesh of your tent door and think about how lucky the PCVs are to have full mesh shelters. The warmth bears down on your body and a light dew forms on your skin; clinging to the hairs on your arms, legs and head, it begins to bead. Sleep, in such conditions and in sharp contrast to its purpose, requires incredible focus. Flashes of light from above dance on the nylon roof of your tent, but in trying to maintain a semblance of focus, you close your eyes and attempt to cool and calm your body. “Just lie still”, you tell yourself, “and you will cool down”. This is the Malian bed-time routine during the cooler seasons; hot season brings another 6-10˚C as well as harmattan winds and tons of dust – misery, by most accounts. After some time, your body begins to behave itself and you nod off, waking some minutes as your body often fails to keep cool during sleep. You will likely wake a few times to a damp sheet, shift, and attempt sleep once again. All this, and the real show hasn’t even started.

From a paper-thin sleep, one from which you could possibly hear a butterfly flap its wings, you hear a drop of rain hit the top of your tent. The first drop is followed by a second and by the third, the commotion begins as the PCVs who stayed on shore spring to life and begin to take down their shelters in preparation for a move to the boat. For their added ventilation, the Tropic II offers next to no protection from rain and PCVs seem to know that it’s nearly impossible to sleep when you’re wet. A few drops of rain never hurt anyone, I thought, and with a real tent, I’d be fine; I was going to be a rogue and ride this out. The rain gave way shortly after the first round of evacuees had made it back on board the boat and gave way to a few gusts of wind. Short, light puffs quickly became slightly longer, much stronger torrents before the storm that had now totally surrounded us unleashed its full might upon my tent. When wind nearly blows your tent over with you in it, you should consider giving in. I was beyond submission and quickly threw on my shorts and grabbed the various pieces from inside my tent and tossed them into my back before climbing out of my tent to begin the return to the boat. Far from surprised that I was one of the last on shore, I held my tent firmly with one hand and awkwardly began to remove the poles from their straps with the other. Moving quickly lest I be blown into the Niger, and with Yuri’s help, I quickly rolled my tent and stuffed it haphazardly into its sack before slinging my pack on my shirtless back and following Yuri back to the boat. There, clamored together like refugees, the PCVs had donned rain jackets and hats and had arranged makeshift sleeping areas in the limited space on board. As the last to arrive, space was highly limited and I was tucked into a corner between Emily and Gretchen; any further sleep would have to be done sitting upright. After 30 minutes, somewhere in the neighborhood of 3am, most of the group had accepted that any further sleep was unlikely and as such, rolled up the thatch sides of the pirogue to view the weather that we were experiencing. Yuri was quick to grab his camera and fired off a number of long-exposure shots, getting a couple of crackers which are available in my gallery. Together, we welcomed the dawn as it was our ticket out of there and before 5am had reared its head, we were motoring up the Niger – day 2 had begun.

Not surprisingly, most of the group managed at least one nap during the day. Some were lucky enough to get an entire bench to themselves, while others took to the roof and still others put mats down on the floor of the boat and kipped off for a few hours. With a few impressive sites along the way, I spent a good part of the day enjoying the scenery before someone had the brilliant idea of breaking out some playing cards. It wasn’t long before a 5-team spades tournament was formed and for the next 4 days, at least one game was going on during every moment of daylight. Hours of bidding, trumping, frustration, victory and maddening miscommunication made up the bulk of the daylight hours while eating, reading and sleeping rounded out the rest.

The second night, we arrived again just before dark. The crew told us that we hadn’t made it as far as they’d hoped and would have to camp here. Besides Kareem, our crew consisted of a female Fulani cook, a 30-something ‘captain’ and 2 assistants in their late teens or early twenties. The two younger lads mostly helped to get the boat unstuck from shallow areas, moved bags to and from the boat and put the thatch sides up and down as required – and neither ever wore shoes. Getting as close to the sloped bank as possible, the barefoot lads anchored the boat 6 feet from shore and laid the gangway down with one end right into the river. Having undergone an operation on an infected mosquito bite on his ankle earlier in the day, Yuri wasn’t sure how he was going to make it to shore. As not only his surgeon, but his friend and brother, I came back after dropping my bag on shore to piggy-back him to the dry shore; let it not be said that my generosity and size are not used for worthy ends. With the bit of rain from the previous night as fair warning, tonight would see the addition of my rain fly and I would ride it out on shore for the night. I offered the additional space in my tent, which is limited, to Yuri – an offer he accepted. After another round of unpleasantness, I returned to the tent. Though the night was cooler than the one before, the addition of the rain fly had turned my warm tent into an insulated shelter; a hugely unfortunate side effect. Furthermore, I had one of the hairiest chaps known to the human race sleeping not 4 inches from me. Like having a heat-emitting sweater lying next to you, I wondered how on Earth this guy had managed to maintain relationships with some very nice girls including his current girlfriend, Kathy. I suppose in the deep winter chills of Colorado, having a small gorilla next to you would be a comfort, but he’d managed to keep relationships going during the summers, too. One day, I’ll have to get him to tell me his secret. Again, I returned to my calming meditation and managed to find sleep.

Yuri woke me the next morning with a complaint that I had unleashed a fart so bad it had rousted him from slumber. He had chosen the side away from the door of the tent, too. In one sense, I felt bad for him, but then again, I giggled at the payback for all the nonsense he’s put me through over the years. We exited the tent to find that despite being barely past 5am, we were the last tent on the shore. Under cloudy skies, we packed up, shooed the mouse from under our mat and headed back for another day aboard the boat. Today was a special day, though I had totally forgotten about it until Yuri remembered just before breakfast.

Senou IS paved - Mali: Arrived

Summary: Dom flies to Bamako, Mali and meets up with the Peace Corps gang who will be his companions for his time there. Booze did flow, dance moves were thrown and a hangover was earned.

Soaking up the remaining moments of relative luxury on board the Dakar-Bamako flight, my window seat gave me a perfect view of the lush, green, hilly West country of Mali; a striking contrast to the dusty brown of Senegal. Despite being only a 90 minute flight, the courteous and well-presented cabin crew of Air Senegal were not only quick to get everyone seated, but also provided beverages and a small meal. As I tucked into the surprisingly tasty poulet, I wondered what it might have been like had I taken the more arduous route on the train. While I was no doubt missing the experience, I wasn't entirely sure that was a big loss; there would certainly be no A/C on that train and there were no goats in the cabin of this plane.

I was daydreaming when the landing announcement came over the loudspeaker and only picked it up half-way through the Ouolof version; the second of three. I'd joked with my father about not being sure if Bamako's Senou airport had paved runways and after a hard landing, I must admit, I looked out my window to check. Obviously belonging to a less-developed nation, Senou does indeed have paved runways and even a baggage track, but it also has something I've never seen in any airport in the world. After collecting your bag (mine arrived this time!), you are obliged to put them through an X-ray scanner! I suppose I can see a case for it, but it does seem a bit O.T.T. Perhaps Mauritania's Nouakchott airport (which restricts any import of alcohol) allows departing passengers to carry WMDs in their checked luggage and Mali got sick of it; T.I.A. Having passed that hurdle without being subjected to a bag search, I attempted to leave before I was yelled at in French by a hugely perturbed female security agent. Seeing in my eyes that her exclamation did not compute in my brain, she angrily motioned to the baggage tag on the suitcase of some woman whom she was harranging. Giving my tag to the taller, more docile, male security agent, I skirted past the cruel wench and entered into freedom - finally, Mali.

It was never firmly decided who would meet me at the airport and so I scanned the crowd for a sign with my name. From behind a crowd of awaiting Malians, she appeared. Standing at 5'7" with rich brunette hair that clearly contrasted her overly pale skin, I recognized her from a photo on Yuri's blog. "Are you Dom?" she asked, somewhat timidly. "I am. And you must be Kathy," I replied. Kathy had liaised with Satguru travel and had arranged transport to take us from the airport to the Peace Corps office in Bamako. On the 15 minte drive, we engaged in the typical meet & greet conversation interspersed with me cracking jokes at Yuri's expense. I also learned that she'd not been well and that her neck had been very stiff and sore. Here in Africa, that may mean something as simple as just having slept funny or it can be as serious as cerebral meningitis. This was so Yuri. I'd come nearly half-way around the world and Yuri had sent his ill girlfriend to come collect me! Still, I've come to expect such from him. He more than once has called me mere hours before arriving at Denver International Airport asking for a ride. Still, we're brothers and there isn't much I wouldn't do for him.

I still hadn't really come to terms with West Africa yet. People living in what in the States would be considered filthy conditions combined with a general lack of infrastructure still struck me as unusual and uncomfortable; it was obvious that Kathy was already well-adapted as she was wearing open-toed sandals whereas I had on my Salomon Gore-Tex trainers. Through the dark, Kathy directed the driver through the maze of Bamako streets; no streetlights nor streetnames here. I hadn't paid for my ticket from Dakar to Bamako as Satguru only takes cash. Thankfully, after some discussion and help from Yuri, they'd agreed to let me pay them on arrival. Paying the driver, we thanked him for the ride and headed inside the Peace Corps compound. In a back office with the A/C blasting, four female Peace Corps volunteers were hard at work researching grad schools and seeing if their projects had been posted online. I would learn a great deal about Peace Corps during my time here including much about the difficulties they encounter. From the native language of Bambura not having words to express certain key aspects to cultural differences in work ethic as well as financial constraints, Peace Corps volunteers are forced to be some of the most critical thinkers in Mali. I, concurrently, commend their diligence and worry about their mental health. One volunteer (or PCV), Kara, told me about a project she was trying to get off the ground to organize training for first responders. I was immediately intrigued as I'd completed EMT school some years previous. She told me that, due to not knowing how to swim, some emergency personnel had delayed in attempting to rescue some people in a flood and at least one of the victims had drowned. Kara was attempting to organize swimming lessons at a local hotel's pool. Naturally, the hotel wanted to be paid, but so did the first responders. And thus began the difficulties. Funding for Peace Corps projects isn't nearly as available as I had imagined. In FY2007, the Peace Corps budget was $319 million. That may seem like a large figure, but NASA's budget was over $17 billion. So, while finding funding for this project was not outside of the realm of sanity, organizing something as simple as swimming lessons takes serious effort and appeals for funding. Often, it's the volunteer's family and friends who donate to their project. Furthermore, projects frequently require the involvement of someone with some clout. It's relatively easy to ignore a PCV, and the first responders lacked a leader/champion. Kara had a contact, a former general in the Malian army who would be a good fit, but he would not get directly involved as he feared people would figure out that they could find him at the Peace Corps office and try to ask him for money. Kara wanted to climb a molehill, but as she said "had just had her mind blown" as she found a pretty big mountain, instead.

After a PCV from outside of Bamako, a loud, boisterous chap named Aaron burst into the office, everyone decided it would be a good night to party. It was obvious that after a few weeks in a village, contact with Westerners is a welcomed reprieve. A few of us headed to a local hotel where PCVs who come in for medical checkups and other business can stay with vouchers they receive every quarter. Kathy was kind enough to give me one of hers so I could stay the night there. Kathy, unfortunately, would not be staying in the large, 2 bedroom place as her neck pain had earned her a night in the medical office. Our departure the next morning for Mopti in order to start an 8-day riverboat trip was looking more and more like it would be without Kathy; a looming sentence that she was desperately trying to avoid. When we entered the room, Pete LaFrancoise was lounging on one of the beds which seemed to float amongst a sea of mattresses. Mike was sitting on the floor playing a game on his laptop. It was clear that this room had been well used for quite some time.

Over the next couple of hours, I answered all kinds of questions about who I was and about GlobalTrek:Africa as we tucked into the bottle of Absolut I’d donated to the cause as well as some of the local tipple. Something that claimed to be whisky, the label actually described the stuff as “elaborated”. This was the stuff that puts hair on your chest. In Aaron’s case, it’d gone further adding it to his outer shoulders as well as taking it off his head. For a minute, I wondered if drinking it would lead to blindness, but then I tucked in for a good induction swig. Choking back the swig, I knew that this was going to be a fun night in Bamako.

We started, as any good night should, with tequila shots. After that, details become hazy, but there was certainly plenty of Flag beer and plenty of dancing that attempted to look like salsa. We’d done a number on ourselves with the local booze and after a staggered walk back to the hotel, I crashed next to Aaron on a mattress and dreaded the 6:30am wakeup before the 7am arrival back at the Peace Corps office. Ultimately, I made it, granted a couple of minutes late, but I’m happy to blame that on the short delay caused by standing in a pile of vomit that Aaron kindly left for me prior to his early morning departure. Just more than slightly hung over, I passed through security at the Peace Corps office where Josh said he was just calling people to find out where I was. After bringing my bag to the SUV that would take a group of us up to Sevaré, I grabbed a space on a couch, tossed back 600mg of ibuprofen and a good couple glasses of water and tried not to go back to sleep.

The journey to Sevaré took just over 8 hours. We’d stopped a few times to check in with a couple PCVs in towns along the way and also for lunch where I had my first experience with riz sauce. Simple rice with a peanut sauce and, if you can handle it, some spicy sauce called faranto, lunch in Mali can be very basic. Getting out of the air conditioned SUV at the Peace Corps office in Sevaré, I was soon hot, sweaty and disoriented and headed inside where a pretty decent library of reading material proved that PCVs have plenty of time on their hands. I grabbed a copy of “The Kite Runner” and went outside to try to catch one of the couple of lizards I’d seen scampering around the compound. We were soon met by Sara who was stationed in Sevaré. A wonderfully cheery girl, she spoke French without even trying to feign an accent and was most welcoming. We would spend the night at Sara’s house and in the morning, head off for our boat trip – sadly, without Kathy.