Leaving the village on our first hike, I was surprised by the rapport my guide, Hassan, had with the neighborhood kids. When he greeted them, a crying child’s grimace turned to grin and they beamed like only kids can when he leaned over to pinch their bellies. I don’t know how you say “uncle” in Pular (the local language), but I’m sure it’s an endearing term Hassan hears often. After that hike and the ones that followed, seeing Guinea’s larger than life landscape through his imaginative eyes, I too would become a member of the Hassan fan club.
I wasn’t even planning to go to Guinea, but I had to return to Senegal from Mali and it was the most logical route. I’m thankful I did, though, because it showed me a place unlike any I’ve seen in this world. Not long after passport stamping, I was met with stunning scenery that was surpassed only by the people, who opened up their homes to me with hospitality you only seem to find in the poorest of places, untainted by tourism and western greed.
My arrival in Douki, a village in Northeastern Guinea, was more of the same. The kids greeted me and took me by the hand to an open-aired bungalow and plopped me down in a hammock. The leader of the pack, a six year old whose booming voice and presence was belittled by the snot bubbling from his nose, emptied some peanuts into my hands and demanded, “Mange!”
As I relaxed and enjoyed the snack, Hassan Bah entered the hut and enthusiastically welcomed me.
“Yes of course I have a room for you!” He said, voice raspy from too many cigarettes.
The deal: $20 for lodging, three meals, and guided hikes.
He gave me the guest book to flip through while he went to prepare my hut. The book featured hike descriptions, guest testimonials, and a brief history of Hassan’s life—born and raised in Sierra Leone, lived in Mauritania and Spain, Spanish is his favorite language. When he took me to my room I said “muchas gracias” and he gave me a wide grin, his crooked white teeth accentuating his under bite. “De nada,” he said. We spoke the rest of the time in Spanish.
But Hassan didn’t talk much; he let the land do the talking. We were based a kilometer from what is known as the Guinea Grand Canyon, a 2,500 foot valley laden with lush forests, precipitous rock formations, and cool rivers. Etched into the area are a series of barely visible paths the locals use to access neighboring villages and waterways. Exploring the Eastern rim of the Canyon, Hassan would take the lead. If we passed a patch of thorny plants, he would slow to a near stop to get my attention. If it were slippery he would alert me by extending his arms sideways, like a child pretending to be an airplane, and continue descending. It wasn’t that he couldn’t say, “Hey, careful here, buddy,” he spoke English and Spanish perfectly. But I think he wanted to maintain the serenity of the quiet valley, not pollute the air with unnecessary words.
There were times though, when Hassan was all too happy to speak.
“Look there. This is the head of a General. You see? There is his face,” Hassan’s arm outstretched and pointing to what looked to me like a rock, “and his hand is coming up like this, because he is thinking.”
This was Hassan’s hobby, finding faces and figures in the rocks.
“And there, you see? It’s an elephant. And over there, look, there’s a woman. Do you think she looks sad?”
“No, I think she is just admiring the view,” I reply.
Some of his pet rocks really did look like the figures he claimed them to be, but others, like the General, would have required an altered mind state to see. It was fun solving these stone puzzles, and I tried to match Hassan’s imaginative visions.
“Look Hassan, that one there! It’s a turtle…but he is angry…because he dropped his cigarette.”
I spent a few days in Douki exploring the area with Hassan. We scaled rocks and peered over the ledges of thousand foot cliffs; we explored caves and bathed beneath waterfalls; we even spotted baboons, both the animal and rock varieties. It was a magical place that, minus an ocean, was all I could have asked for; the distinct lack of tourism added to the charm. This was an area that, if in a more developed country, even Senegal, there would be entry fees, tour busses, huge hotels and hustlers. But because Douki is in one of the poorer African countries, politically volatile and without much press, it (and its people) remains pure. The kids in Douki, for example, thank you for taking their picture—in Mali they extend their hands expecting payment.
It’s a unique place.
We left Douki on our final hike just before sunset, as the call to prayer bellowed from the Mosque’s loudspeaker. Hassan seemed distracted, and I noticed him walking faster than normal. He lead me a short distance through the bush and down to the edge of the canyon, where a ledge dropped a thousand feet straight down to a small village on the valley floor. He sat me down on a rock and pointed out a vulture that glided with the updraft off of the cliff side. I followed it with my eyes, jealous of its ability to soar freely above the immaculate land. When my eyes returned to Hassan he was hastily removing his shoes. Then he turned his back to the sheer cliff, closed his eyes, and knelt in prayer.
Only Hassan. Only in Guinea.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
Taylor's Travels: Mali Road Trip
Lonely Planet lists travel times between West African cities as follows:
Dakar to Bamako—1-3 days
Bamako to Djenne—8-12 hours
Mopti to Timbuktu—10-24 hours
I read this and make a mental note, “Road travel unreliable, be patient.” But I largely ignore the extensive and varying travel durations. In my optimism (read naivety) I assume that between the publishing of the guide book and my arrival, West Africa will have sufficient time to pave their roads and patch their tires, and I’ll be skipping between destinations like I was on the autobahn. I obviously forgot the fun little word play on “assume” my mom taught me as a kid.
I’m in Djenne to see its famous Monday market and giant mud Mosque, but I’m heading to Sevare in the afternoon; the trip is meant to take just under two hours. Seems easy enough. I do laps through the busy market in the morning then head to the group taxi stand and buy a ticket. I ask the driver when we are leaving.
“When the car is full,” he says.
Not exactly what I was looking for, but OK. I find a patch of shade and I sit. An hour and a half later the car is full, and 11 of my new buddies and I pile into a dilapidated station wagon and are on our way. On the dirt road out of town, I can feel the scraping of the car floor on the ground as we waddle through holes in the road, the car seeming to buckle under the cumulative weight of the passengers and their bags of rice. At least we’re moving though.
We’re moving until the river crossing, where we just miss the ferry. The midday sun makes shade a rarity, but I find a thin patch near the car and I sit. 45 minutes later we are across the river and onto a paved road, “its all downhill from here,” I think to myself.
Not that it’s going to be a comfy ride. It’s 100 degrees, my shirt sticks to me like duct tape, and the hot wind blowing through the open windows can’t seem to find a passage between my seat mates and me—the car is packed beyond belief. But at least we’re moving.
Within five minutes we get our first flat tire. Damn it. I find a tree that looks lonely and plop down underneath it, ready to wait. But to my surprise the driver has the thing changed before I can even get my book out, and we’re back in the car. NASCAR pit crews beware if this guy ever makes it stateside.
I drop the ball when I sit back down. The locals who flank me, in their infinite crowded car experience, establish superior leg and shoulder positioning, and I’m left leaning forward with my knees glued together, trying to find a happy place. It may be cramped, but at least it’s hot. And at least we’re moving.
Around the time both my legs have officially fallen asleep, we make a curious turn 90 degrees off course, into a village with a funny name. Another flat. 15-20 minutes, max, the driver assures us, and disappears into the village with the mangled tire.
I’m a pro at this point. Shade. Sit. Bring it on. The quick fix of the first flat is but a distant memory, not to be replicated this time. I rest near the car with my back against a mud home, and spend an hour enjoying the harmony of the metal workers shaping cookware (TINK! TINK! TUNK! TINK!) next to me and trying to recall the meal that could have caused my churning belly. When the 250 pound woman on my right begins nursing her toddler, I take a destinationless walk. I return some 15 minutes later, and, like coming back from the bathroom with your food waiting for you, the driver is attaching the repaired tire and we are again moving.
I know better than to have any hopes at this point, so I’m not disappointed or surprised when the driver turns into a town to “pray” (I mean come on, you can’t argue with Allah), and then backs his car into a service station. The good news is the sun just set so shade is not an issue, and the red African soil and I are now well acquainted.
In a half hour the service boys have our chariot laced up and ready, and we depart on what would be the final crawl to the Sevare finish line. We arrive in one piece. Total time—just under five hours.
Of all the virtues I hope to acquire through travel, patience is the one I am perfecting in West Africa. Unscheduled stops and flats, rivers and roadblocks; I’m learning to take deep breaths, relax, and sit—cause this could be a while.
Dakar to Bamako—1-3 days
Bamako to Djenne—8-12 hours
Mopti to Timbuktu—10-24 hours
I read this and make a mental note, “Road travel unreliable, be patient.” But I largely ignore the extensive and varying travel durations. In my optimism (read naivety) I assume that between the publishing of the guide book and my arrival, West Africa will have sufficient time to pave their roads and patch their tires, and I’ll be skipping between destinations like I was on the autobahn. I obviously forgot the fun little word play on “assume” my mom taught me as a kid.
I’m in Djenne to see its famous Monday market and giant mud Mosque, but I’m heading to Sevare in the afternoon; the trip is meant to take just under two hours. Seems easy enough. I do laps through the busy market in the morning then head to the group taxi stand and buy a ticket. I ask the driver when we are leaving.
“When the car is full,” he says.
Not exactly what I was looking for, but OK. I find a patch of shade and I sit. An hour and a half later the car is full, and 11 of my new buddies and I pile into a dilapidated station wagon and are on our way. On the dirt road out of town, I can feel the scraping of the car floor on the ground as we waddle through holes in the road, the car seeming to buckle under the cumulative weight of the passengers and their bags of rice. At least we’re moving though.
We’re moving until the river crossing, where we just miss the ferry. The midday sun makes shade a rarity, but I find a thin patch near the car and I sit. 45 minutes later we are across the river and onto a paved road, “its all downhill from here,” I think to myself.
Not that it’s going to be a comfy ride. It’s 100 degrees, my shirt sticks to me like duct tape, and the hot wind blowing through the open windows can’t seem to find a passage between my seat mates and me—the car is packed beyond belief. But at least we’re moving.
Within five minutes we get our first flat tire. Damn it. I find a tree that looks lonely and plop down underneath it, ready to wait. But to my surprise the driver has the thing changed before I can even get my book out, and we’re back in the car. NASCAR pit crews beware if this guy ever makes it stateside.
I drop the ball when I sit back down. The locals who flank me, in their infinite crowded car experience, establish superior leg and shoulder positioning, and I’m left leaning forward with my knees glued together, trying to find a happy place. It may be cramped, but at least it’s hot. And at least we’re moving.
Around the time both my legs have officially fallen asleep, we make a curious turn 90 degrees off course, into a village with a funny name. Another flat. 15-20 minutes, max, the driver assures us, and disappears into the village with the mangled tire.
I’m a pro at this point. Shade. Sit. Bring it on. The quick fix of the first flat is but a distant memory, not to be replicated this time. I rest near the car with my back against a mud home, and spend an hour enjoying the harmony of the metal workers shaping cookware (TINK! TINK! TUNK! TINK!) next to me and trying to recall the meal that could have caused my churning belly. When the 250 pound woman on my right begins nursing her toddler, I take a destinationless walk. I return some 15 minutes later, and, like coming back from the bathroom with your food waiting for you, the driver is attaching the repaired tire and we are again moving.
I know better than to have any hopes at this point, so I’m not disappointed or surprised when the driver turns into a town to “pray” (I mean come on, you can’t argue with Allah), and then backs his car into a service station. The good news is the sun just set so shade is not an issue, and the red African soil and I are now well acquainted.
In a half hour the service boys have our chariot laced up and ready, and we depart on what would be the final crawl to the Sevare finish line. We arrive in one piece. Total time—just under five hours.
Of all the virtues I hope to acquire through travel, patience is the one I am perfecting in West Africa. Unscheduled stops and flats, rivers and roadblocks; I’m learning to take deep breaths, relax, and sit—cause this could be a while.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
