happy birthday mom!

06-30-07 – Happy Birthday Mom!!
It has been quit the long while since I have posted on this blog. It is not to say, however, that I have been lazily mulling around Africa without much to say. I have simply been living on and off busses for the past three weeks. Nearly three weeks ago I quit Ouaga to make my slow crawl across Burkina and mali to reach my final destination of Timbuktu (Tomboktou in French).

My first destination after leaving Ouaga was a small town called reo. Enroute my nike hiking sandals, which have served me so faithfully for these past four years, finally wore through the sole of the shoe, popping the air sacs inside. I found it necessary to seek out some new sandals and once more I stubbornly selected a pair of sandals that to me represent the best of Africa: tire sandals. These are sandals that have their own origins in those worn tires that traverse Africa. They are a hallmark of African ingenuity and resourcefulness. Indeed, it is examples like this that put our own recycling efforts to shame. While we would be more inclined to expending the effort to reduce an object back to its basic materials, so as to be reformed into a similar object, the African (and I do speak in a general sense as I have found this to be true across the 6 countries in the 3 corners of Africa that I have visited) will use and reuse every aspect of an object to make things completely new and unintentioned by the original fashioner of an object. Take the case of tires. Tires are cut apart, stripped and used to make harnesses, water pouches, any number of cords, and, of course, sandals. I often get told that these are the shoes that last. In the US, when buying any shoe, it is always good to take some time to break them in. Unfortunately with tire sandals, they tend to break you in before you break them in. I have been hobbling around for the past two weeks, and even had blisters on top of blisters at one point. I hope at some point my feet will forgive me for my follies.
In this small town of Reo, I had a chance to meet abbe Nicholas, who is an older retired priest who once taught moral theology at the catholic university of west Africa in Abdijan. He reminded me of the essential place that a prophetic voice with regards to injustice has within inculturation.

My interview with him was preceded by quite a long conversation with three high school teachers around issues of religion and the catholic church. It became a little more volatile than I would have cared for, and I later realized that one of the conversation contributors was the local catechist, but it was refreshing to have such conversations over a few beers. One of the teachers is the brother of a priest friend of mine in Ouaga. He offered to drive me around on his moto to get between the bus stop and this small village, and by and large, this voyage was only really possible because of him. If there is one thing that can be said about this region is that it is dusty. I would take a tissue paper and wipe down my face and it would come away red from the dust.
Moving on from Reo to Bobo, I entered a lush countryside that simply oozed with fertility. One could buy 5 mangos for the equivalent of 10 cents! Mango is quite an amazing fruit. If you cook with an unripe mango, you could make a great apple pie. If you use a ripe mango, you can get a great peach cobbler.
Arriving in Bobo, I made my first destination to be the cathedral. From the outside, this church looks like an oversized airplane hangar. Entering later in the week, however, I realized that this was perhaps one of the most beautiful churches I have visited all year. The stained glass windows and carved pews are stunning.
Marching past the market, I collected the attention that one typical gets as a backpacker, namely I became hounded by guides. One in particular started falling me, named ya-ya, and indeed we became friends over our trip, despite the persistent feeling that he would try and squeeze as much money out of me as he could. I guess that is the African market place. I have been here long enough to learn to encourage with words rather than with funds.
I had quite the strange experience as I was invited by one of the guards at the catholic mission to visit the sacred fish pools. It is indeed here where the sacrifices are made to the sacred protector of the land.



Sick again
If there is one obvious lesson that can be learned from reading the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, it would be that we really shouldn’t use our own bodies as science experiments.
Sitting around with the seminarians, I asked them if the water was filtered. The cook had already said no, but they retorted saying that of course it was filtered and claimed that the cook didn’t know what he was talking about. I should have known better, and trusted him who was closest to the source, but I decided to test it myself. 2 hrs later as I sat in church the stomach cramps began. I fasted the whole day following as I bussed to Bamako just to be ensure a safe and more comfortable, if hungry, ride.

I checked my weight last week and I was hanging around 76 K. I just came from checking my weight at another place and it claimed I was at 66 K. I hope that it was wrong for the sake of my health. Perhaps it is once more time to visit a doctor.
I tested once more…. 70 K…. still disconcerting.

I arrived in Bamako around 1:30 in the morning. It was far to late to lodge at the sisters, so I engaged in what I deemed to be a prime African experience at the time, and I slept at the bus station. Not a terribly comfortable experience, but I slept in solidarity, if uncomfortably, with my other travelers. All to save a buck or two. Although, arriving in a new city, it is not in ones safest interest to just hop into town after the midnight hour.

Bamako is a city where one can easily see the old touches of colonialism. Old decaying, yet still beautiful buildings mark the city. Walking around with some Italians that I met, we discussed the irony of these buildings. So many of them are owned by the government, and they will not sell them off to someone who might be interested in restoring them. Instead, they stand symbolically, falling into ruin. Is this a symbol, however, of the passing one ancient evil, or is it merely a symbol of the weaknesses of the current one.

Going to the national museum, I walked, for perhaps the first time in 11 months, through well groomed green grass, which is there for the explicit purpose of looking nice. It may have seemed to a be a slight luxury seeing the sprinkler system shoot water across this small park, but it did cause me to pine for home.

Leaving Bamako, I caught a night bus on to Djenne. Well, that was the original plan. I accidentally slept through the djenne stop and only woke an hour after we had passed it. Arriving at 5 am, I checked into the nearest hotel and crashed. The town of mopti itself is quite pleasant. With another traveler, I arranged a trip into Dogon for the following day, and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to take care of my shoe situation.

Dogon country is listed as being one of the top ten places you have to visit before you die. While I found the area interesting enough, I think that would be a bit of an exaggeration. Perhaps if I had been able to visit there during a festival of one sort or another, but otherwise, you just are hiking through village life. It doesn’t help that heat, illness and dehydration pretty much sapped my energy. Our guide for the trekking was name hamedou. Humuorous guy, but the experience was lacking in the depth that I desired

Sunday was our last day in Dogon country. By this point I had formed and broken through and least 6 blisters. I was able to repair my tire sandals the first day on the hike, thus allowing me to set aside the Chinese imitation pumas that had a sole about as thick and supportive as a piece of paper. My feet looked a total wreck, as I wrapped them in Kleenex and electrical tape to keep up the pressure, and down the pain. The worst experiences were likely when I got sand in the open blister wounds.

My feet hated me.

On Sunday, we arrived at our final village on the plateau. That same morning there had been baptisms (one finds with the most recent animist groups, far more converts to Christianity than in any other area of the country.) The drums started pounding and within seconds, I saw three old women, run into the center of the circle and start dancing.
This was a cause for celebration, and we spent the next two hours witnessing superb local dancing. I even put my own right foot in and shook it all about, as I participated in the energetic dancing.

My feet hated me all the more

Leaving dogon country on Monday morning, we caught a bush taxi directly to Djenne, an ancient city that has still managed to maintain a continuous tradition of bangko (mud) architecture. We were heading there for market day. I can’t even begin to describe the hodgepodge group of travelers who were in the back of the pick up heading there. We had everything from the 10 day traveler, to the 3 month volunteer, to the five month roughin it travel and the 5 year seeker. But those stories will have to come another time. I better go put on some pounds, so, as promised, to be continued….