Drums & Dancing

We arrived in the rocky plateau village to the sound of drums and dancing and watched for about half an hour as men in brilliant blue and purple outfits danced behind elaborate antelope masks and black masks adorned with cowrie shells. We were forbidden from taking photographs, apparently because the fete had been arranged by a French film crew who didn’t want overzealous tourists ruining their shot. Apparently, the story behind the film is two French men – young, cocky footballers, as far as I can tell – decide to return mask their grandfather took from a Dogon village decades ago. The dance was meant to initiate them into the culture. It was beautiful and dusty, the pounding feet sending up clouds, which mingled with their skirts, which were kind of like brilliant hula skirts. The drums weren’t technically drums, but empty water drums, and they were accompanied by whistles. The children were even more forbidden than tourists, apparently because the Dogon dancers identities are meant to be secret and they fear if the children learn their identities, they’ll spill the secret. I think it’s reverse psychology, as I’ve never seen children more interested in anything than forbidden somewhat foreboding dancers.

We sat down to dinner after another open air shower and a bucket of laundry. I now find showering outside rather lovely, although I could do without the accompanying smell of someone else’s piss. Even laundry seems somewhat relaxing, coming as it does at the end of the day, after a long dusty walk. It’s somewhat satisfying to build up suds in a bucket and measure the day by the depth of the resulting dirt. Laundry and shower are usually bookended by a cold beer and there’s really very little as satisfying as bringing a cold beer to your lips as the night air gently lifts your damp hair to lick at the nape of your neck. Air drying has never felt so good.

Last night, a fete followed dinner, with drums and whistles and women of all ages moving rather spastically tot he rhythms. I turned in early, longing for a bit of solitude and a chance to enjoy the stars, which have so far proven rather elusive. The breeze picked up and held up through the night, so that I was glad not only for my sheet but that I’d thought to tie my underwear to the clothesline. The girls came tripping up late as usual and the morning sounds came early, as usual, intensified by the proximity tot he cliffs. This stone village is surrounded by smooth rock and the smallest sound carries and in the typical fashion, cows call, donkeys bray, roosters crow, guinea fowl let out their squeaky wheel sound, babies fuss, toddlers play until wounded and then they whine. Only the women and young girls were move silently across the stone. They have done their talking outside the village and grow quiet as they approach. The men trade greetings boisterously a process that involves a handshake and fingersnap and the sing-songy rhythm of asking about health, wealth, family and farm.

The girls emerged at Soulemane’s insistence shortly after 8.30 a.m. and leisurely munched on breakfast. I felt myself getting more and more despondent at the idea that this waiting is to be my existence for the next few days. A big giant country I’m paying good money to see waiting there to be discovered and I’m stuck at the breakfast table waiting for the Sisters Grimm to get the lead out. Unbelievably, as I sat wearing running shoes and with my camera ready, Aureillie decided it was a good time to do her laundry and could not be dissuaded. In some ways, it seemed a shame to dissuade her as the day before a gaggle of children told Marion (in Dogon, of course) that it looked like she’d sat in “kaka” because the back of her shorts were so dirty. Anyway, Soulemane took me out to a lookout point where they view was obscured only by the sandy haze. Watching Soulemane negotiate the rocky cliffs is painful, but a little like watching a car crash, or something like that. It’s graceful and coordinated and strong and yet complicated and seemingly painful watching his good knee hyperflex as his bad leg is set down. His right leg seems almost completely useless, good for nothing but balance. But he scrambles fairly well albeit somewhat slowly and has fallen only once, which is better than my record.

After visiting the visa, Soulemane gave me free range to explore, so I walked to each arm of the village (the Muslim and animist parts) and up and around the rocks. At one point, I clamoured up a rock to get a better vantage point for the village and found their hiding place for their masks. I snuck a quick picture, then sat there for a half hour contemplating life without a job and whether my ambition is on the wane. At 11 a.m., I saw the girls and Soulemane finally head out and by the time they returned at 12.30 p.m. Soulemane had grown quiet. I’m not sure the girls even noticed.

I spent the afternoon reading, then we headed out of the village and further up the falaise to see an animist village perched on a ledge. The village was like something out of a painting, like a hobbit village but with actual people. It was probably the least touristy place we visited, where the children asked “ca va?” before asking rather shyly for bonbons but not in the way of the other children. (In the afternoon, two children returning from school stopped by the table to eye up all of the girls treasures, which are many in a child’s eyes and I think it’s somewhat cruel to lay them out, then walk away as though they weren’t precious. All afternoon I watched children and the occasional woman stop by the poubelle to rifle through the refuse and walk away with a small treasure like an empty box or a broken shot glass.) We climbed up on a small hill and watched village life unfold: old men with fraying clothes laying out straw for the petits ans, the women returning with firewood, the children trudging home with their schoolbooks on their heads, whether in knapsacks or not. On rooftops, onions dried alongside balls of doughy material. The women pounded millet and children fought or played, sometimes it was difficult to tell which. We stayed until the light faded and then marched back to the auberge for dinner. I was unreasonably hungry and ate three pieces of chicken, then drank some millet biere and regular biere and toddled off to bed to watch the sky with it is hundreds of stars. I thought the African sky would be just loaded with stars, as though the heat and humidity would have the same fecund impact on the sky as it has on the rainforest, but the sky at home seems clearer and more plentiful somehow. I think the African sky is somehow romanticized because I’ve certainly seen more stars in the night sky during the dozens of times I’ve driven into the lane, parked just beyond the motion sensor light and stared up at the sky with the dog at hand.

In the morning, the usual scene unfolded, with Soulemane and I waiting for the girls, who were woken by the auberge owner at 8.30 a.m. He told me he would take the girls as far as Mopti, then drop them. He had planned to go with them to Timbuktu, to hire a car and go, but he couldn’t hack it anymore. I agreed.

In the morning, I went off by myself for a couple hours while the girls got ready. I scrambled up and down rocks and visited with the children who were just delightful. The only downfall was literally a fall in the downward direction, which left me with a bruise on my knee that’s paining me still, and the memory of Ron boot, who died while hiking alone I Africa. Bad memory but good warning.