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.