Monthly Archive for June, 2009

Timbuktu to the Dogon Highlands

Published on June 2, 2009 in Uncategorized. 0 Comments

As we approached the Dock I felt a real sense of sadness. The Djoliba River would soon be behind us and the peace of the nights camping under the stars by the river, as cold as those nights might have been, would be left behind.

The day started very cool as we motored through three foot waves that crashed over the bow of our, now familiar, pinnace. Everyone bundled against the north wind that blew into our faces and carried the spray with it to briefly soak us or alternately our bags. As we approached Timbuktu and our final port of call, the day began to warm as the desert sun began to assert itself.

When we arrived at the dock, our pinnace nestled itself in between two other tourist vessels and the skipper and his mate scrambled forward to extend the rickety two-by-six that served as our gangplank for exiting the boat. I waited for everyone else to disembark. I was well aware that my size would make the boat rather unstable as I climbed out from under the straw canopy and made my way along the gangway on the side of the boat.

I emerged from under the canopy into the sunlight and surveyed the little port. As with most architecture in this region of Mali, everything was made of mud brick or cement. The mud brick structures were small boxy affairs with tin or thatched roofs. There was a row of trees stretching toward the road leading to Timbuktu proper and an open area where bush taxi’s waited to carry river travelers into town.

Children and adults clustered around us as we unloaded our bags onto shore. I was carrying my sandals and wearing my hiking shoes. My sandals were still wet from my attempts at washing the mud from them when we made our first camp two days ago. I suppose they were at a place in the boat where the water splashing in kept soaking them.

I disembarked and grabbed my backpack and duffle and piled them together with everyone else’s bags in the sun on the shore between the dock and the trees. MenZeba, Kyle and Khefira were sitting in the shade while the men seemed to be milling around trying to find a comfortable place to rest and watch the locals. Makheru, Malik and Bassirou were off somewhere negotiating for bush taxis that would take us into town, or paying the skipper for the trip, so we were left to fend for ourselves against the street vendors, thieves and curious onlookers.

I felt very nervous about the bags. It seemed that most of the men in our little group were enjoying the sun and the solid ground and not paying too much attention to the young men and children slowly creeping in.

I took it upon myself to make sure that we had a cordon of guards around our bags. I posted myself in the sunlight closest to the open area, KaSabez stood next to me and Nekhitem took the corner nearest the dock. The trees and the ladies nearby kept the locals from horning in from that direction too easily. I kept reminding our guest Robert Conda that he should keep close watch on his bags but for some reason he kept ignoring me and focusing his attention on who knows what in the crowd that was growing around us. His bags were stacked outside of our little cordon of safety and I finally just hauled them in and piled them with the rest so that he would not loose anything to the thieves.

Then Baheru started giving out candy to the children.

The kids went wild, tussling and snatching the candy from each other. He was surrounded by a sea of squealing little bodies that seemed to be all hands and feet pulling him in every direction. In the commotion, I noticed some older boys moving in on our bags and I intercepted them quickly before one or more of our bags disappeared.

All this time, I was holding my wet sandals in my hand. I dared not lay them down in the sun to dry because I was sure that someone would pick them up and run with them. Several people had been looking at them longingly and I knew that these sandals, which I had bought in the US, were better than anything that most of them would see in their lifetime, even if the support within them was broken down from over two years of everyday summer wear. I finally just gave them away to a guy standing in the crowd. He quickly placed them on his feet and stood there with a kind of blank expression on his face, no attitude of thanks or anything, just an air of having gotten his.

The sooner we got out of there the better.

Makheru returned with news of our transportation, but before he told us what would come next he chastised us for giving away gifts in this place. “Why are you giving things away here? You will never see these people again. You mean nothing to them, and if you will give away anything, why would you give away candy to children? It will do them no good. What you are doing is only helping to make these people look at the world as a place where they must beg for what they want. Your gifts should be reserved for your family who will have use for them and remember you when you return.”

This made some good sense, though my first impression was that he really was more interested in his family and friends getting what we had to offer. I would later realize how correct he was about this and I almost immediately regretted the loss of my sandals.

Makheru had arranged two bush taxis to take us to into town. Baheru, MenZeba, Nekhitem, BaAshu, KaSabez and I were in the second vehicle. The bush taxi was typically very cramped. Our bags were loaded on the roof and we were loaded into the back. Our seating consisted of a makeshift wooden bench lining the sides and front of what would normally be the cargo area. It was an extremely uncomfortable ride, but we had all been told of such rides and by now were experienced with bush taxies of various types. We took it in stride and I tried to get a view of the desert as it whizzed by as we traveled along the relatively well maintained road to Timbuktu proper.

Something went wrong with our vehicle and we stopped by the side of the road. I was not particularly concerned by this. I had some confidence in the drivers of these vehicles. I had observed the drivers keeping vehicles going that would never even be allowed on the road in the US, and if there was a bush taxi that did not have a cracked windshield, I never saw it.

We all filed out of the back of the vehicle and managed to find some small relief from the sun under some bushes by the side of the road. We really knew we were in the desert now. It was truly hot away from the river and standing around in the sun was not an option. I found a spot for myself near the others in the group and observed the plants and insects around me. I was a little bit nervous. I had no idea what kind of insects we might run into out here on the side of the road and I would hate for someone to be bit by something really dangerous as we sat there in the sand under the sparse shade that the bushes provided.

After sitting around for about a half an hour, I decided to stroll over to where the driver and his assistant were working on the vehicle. When I got there, I realized that this vehicle was not going to be going anywhere soon. The driver had the passenger side wheel completely disassembled down to the bearings and was beating the axel with a wrench. I wondered if he had a cell phone to call for help.

It is not unexpected for things to go wrong with vehicles like these. Most of them seemed to be more than ten years old. There is a compensation for the lack of new vehicles in the culture of the people that live on the continent. There is an uncommon helpfulness and familiarity that exists between people of common purpose, so when an empty bush taxi came driving by in the opposite direction, they immediately stopped and turned around to take us to our destination. The driver of the first vehicle had no problem with this; even though I’m sure he lost the fare. The new bush taxi turned out to be a more comfortable ride too. We arrived at our hotel about an hour behind the first group who had already settled in.

Our hotel was comparatively nice. It was basically a large square building, most of which was taken up by a bar and restaurant. We planned to have a nice meal later that evening on the patio in the courtyard of the compound in which the building stood. It had two showers and several rooms, but most of us would be sleeping on the roof, as we had in Djenne and in Segou.

We spent a significant amount of time inspecting our baggage for water damage. We had one bag that contained a pile of sidereal calendars and many of them were damaged. Baheru, Nekhitem and BouImin took on the task of separating and salvaging as many of the calendars as they could. The rest of us laid out our wet cloths to dry in the sun. Some did laundry since we had not had a chance to do any for three days.

Since we were to arrive in Timbuktu in the morning, the plan had been to walk to the North entrance of the city to view the places of historical significance that Makheru expected to find there. Our delay put this plan in jeopardy, couple that with the work cleaning up our bags and it was not until mid afternoon that we all started out as a group to walk to the North end of the city.

We started out at a slow pace. Makheru was still recovering from pneumonia and malaria and the back streets that we were walking through were filled with sand that made our walk that much harder. Our hotel was on the outskirts of town, away from the main tourist attractions, so we found ourselves walking through a neighborhood that left Kyle aghast and full of complaints. He complained about the donkeys he saw, he complained about the sand, he complained about how the people lived, but we really couldn’t see how the people lived because, like most dwellings that we had seen in urban areas, everything was hidden behind compound walls. The streets were left for the refuse of unused building materials and trash that could not naturally biodegrade. The few people that we saw here look upon us with curiosity, but otherwise left us to ourselves. That was not to last for long.

After walking a few blocks, we came out onto the main road. There was a lot of traffic here and we had to be careful to stay out of the way of the motorcycles that occasionally buzzed by. There were billboards on the other side of the road, but they seemed rather dilapidated. The effect was to give the whole road a kind of run down appearance.

We soon began to pass some street vendors who were primarily vending food stuffs. These vendors were not very aggressive and since we did not intend to stop here, we continued to walk on by, dodging the few legitimate customers that loitered in front of the makeshift stalls.

So far, Timbuktu ceased to impress. It was dusty, dirty and run down and there seemed to be no sign of the many ancient Islamic libraries and their treasures of rare and fragile scrolls and books. We soon came to the outskirts of the old city and I was surprised to find graffiti sprayed on the walls. In the US I looked upon graffiti as an art form when done well. This was just a monochrome cheap imitation espousing the Wu-Tang Crew.

We did have a guide with us leading us to where we intended to go. The guide had his own ideas though. He led us strait into the tourist market.

The tourist market was little more than a wide alley lined with shops catering to the ignorant and urbane who visited Timbuktu apparently just to say that they had been to the most remote place in the world. The streets were strewn with plastic bags and other trash and Tuareg, wearing the signature dark blue or purple garments and turbans, were everywhere just waiting to descend upon us like vultures. Descend upon us they did, all with the same speech spoken in perfect English. This speech became so irritating that I don’t even want to remember what they said, but one Tuareg did say something memorable. “We once enslaved these people.” He said with some pride. I looked at him with a blank expression and though to myself, “Is this guy a total idiot or what? How could he possibly think that a Black American would find such a statement endearing, let alone make me want to buy something from him?” I was so surprised by this statement that I could not even get angry. This young Tuareg had just demonstrated the depths of his ignorance so completely that I could do nothing but turn my back on him and walk away.

Our guide slowed down once he got to the market and began to stroll as if this had been his destination all along. It was nearly 6:00. He soon told us that the tourist district was shutting down and our best choice would be to come back on the following day to view the Northern Gate.

I don’t mind a long walk and after all of the time sitting in the boat or in bush taxis it had felt good to stretch my legs a bit. Unfortunately, the Tuareg followed us out of the tourist district like a swarm of angry bees. I was really starting to get a bit irritated with their persistent buzz of worthless conversation.

It was a long walk back to the hotel and we were all a bit hungry so Makheru suggested that we stop by a street food vendor and grab a snack before heading back. The street food here consisted of some fried dough that was really pretty tasty. We grabbed our snacks and headed back. By the time we found our way through the doors of the hotel compound, it was quite dark and the stars had come out. We walked in to the compound to find a table set for us on the patio.

I was hoping for a good meal. I found myself rather disappointed. It was just spaghetti with a vegetable sauce that seemed little more than tomato sauce with a can of mixed vegetables thrown in. I was hungry and the food was filling so it was fine with me.

After the meal we settled in for the night.

I had found a spot on the roof between BouImin and Nekhitem. As we lay there under the stars, we discussed how we could possibly help Kyle in his transition to manhood. BouImin was full of ideas about discipline based on work. He felt that if Kyle had chores to do each day, he would be able to build character and self confidence. I agreed very much with this. Nekhitem agreed also, and he pointed out that it was necessary for people to stop babying Kyle and taking up for him when he was being chastised. It seems that there were certain situations where we were sabotaging the efforts of Makheru and others by trying to comfort him or make him feel less isolated by minimizing the impact of what others might have said. I tried to think back and determine if I had done this myself, but I could not find an example in my memory. I decided to be vigilant in the future and make sure that I did not do this myself.

Eventually the conversation died down and we all tried to get some sleep. This was the coldest night that I had yet experienced and I was happy to be between my two friends. I only had my fleece sleeping bag liner as a blanket so I was wearing my jeans and a couple of shirts to add to the warmth.

The moon and the stars were bright this night. The light pollution of Timbuktu was not that significant, so the stars were still much more prolific than in the big city. I stared at them as I had done every night while sleeping under the night sky. I soon fell asleep.

I awoke shivering. It was even colder than ever and I noticed that both Nekhitem and BouImin had left the roof. I sat up and looked around. It seemed that most everyone had left the roof except Baheru and MenZeba. They were bundled up together under a heavy blanket. I grabbed my stuff and beat a hasty retreat to the hallway inside to finish up the night. It was warm inside and I fell asleep quickly.

The Djoliba River

Published on June 2, 2009 in Spirituality and Travel. 0 Comments

Kyle woke us in the morning “Ya’ll need te do ya’ll ZemZem n’ stuff caus’ we gon’ go on a boat ride.”

I rolled over and blearily glanced at him standing in the middle of the room. I didn’t mind getting up. I had not slept particularly well, but I was rested enough. I began wandering around looking for… I don’t know what. I finally did my ablutions and climbed the stairs to the roof to do my ZemZem. I came down to MenZeba setting out bread and coffee for breakfast.

“Let’s eat now and we must get ready to go soon.” Makheru said.

I like a good cup of coffee in the morning made from fresh ground beans. There would be none of that on this trip, but I was thankful for the Nescafe, as my friends had told me I would be. We had plain baguettes and butter as well as canned milk and sugar to go with the coffee and bread. The meal was satisfying if simple. Soon we were assembling inside and outside the room. Maakheru said. “OK, everyone who is ready stay outside. First I think we are waiting for one person, then they go inside, then we are waiting for someone else.” I stood outside near him and waited for what ever would develop next. Everyone began to file out and we finally were on our way to the river. BaAshu and I were the last to leave. We stayed behind to fill up the five gallon collapsible jug and put it in the sling that he had brought. I hefted it on my shoulder by its straps and hoped that our walk would not be too long.

We turned left as we exited the little compound and walked down the sunny street. There were trees lining the right hand side, though they provided little shade on the dirt road on which we walked. I didn’t mind the sun in the least. It was a glorious day to be alive.

It was surprising how compact the compounds were, sharing walls with each other and composed mainly of whitewashed bricks made from local clay. Everything was very neat and tidy in comparison to Bamako. We approached a paved cross street and made a right and then an immediate left down Rue 21. There were trenches on the sides of the streets here, but nothing more offensive than the usual donkey dung. I had seen worse dodging goose poop when I used to walk to work in Addision. IL.

This road was obviously a tourist area. It was lined with quaint looking restaurants that soon gave way to souvenir shops. I caught site of an arch in the distance that was covered with a finish the color of the red earth surrounding us. Beyond this I glimpsed a fairy and I soon was looking upon the Djoliba river.

It was wide and placid today. The water was a living green and though I could smell the usual fishy background, it was not too unpleasant. A cool breeze caressed my body as I stepped up to the sloping retaining wall leading down to several traditionally constructed boats, one of which would carry us on our adventure up the river.

Kyle was walking beside me. “I know we ain’t takin’ the big boat hungh? We gon’ take one’a them lil boats over their.” He said with some trepidation. I smiled over to him and nodded. “Do you swim?” I asked.

“No.” he replied with an adolescent squeak in his voice. “If the person next to you can swim, you can swim, just don’t panic.” I said.

We walked down the embankment to the largest and most colorful of the boats and climbed in. This boat was a medium sized version of the boats that the river dwellers used for every purpose. It was long and narrow with a long prow that had a pole sticking far ahead of the boat. I noticed a wheel in the prow with a couple of brightly colored seats for a passenger and the pilot. There was a diesel engine in the back of the boat to drive the prop. The boat had several compartments for passengers all of which were covered by a canopy of woven grass that stretched most of the length of the boat. Khefira seemed anxious to board. Though she was pregnant at the time and in her second trimester, she scrambled aboard like an old deck hand, as comfortable as if she were walking through her own living room. “It’s traditional for the pilot to enter first!” someone called out. BaHeru yelled, “Look at you!” Khefira turned and smiled, “Hey, I’m at home.”, “She’s a pirate!” said Makheru.

Khefira is a good friend and a lovely woman. She is married to my personal HatTenee, Nehez Mineooh. Her Mother is an American of European descent and her Father is Japanese, from a family that had immigrated to the US before the Second World War. She is about 30 years old with dark black hair tinged with a few wisps of grey. Her dark brown eyes with a slight epicanthic fold often alternate between humor and seriousness. She is very important to us on this trip. She is a world traveler and expert chef, having studied in Italy. She handled most of the travel arrangements and, after Maakheru, she is the leader of our team. She is in very good shape being a traditional African dancer as well. She even danced last night during the party that the locals gave us on the roof of our little hotel, quite a feat for a woman six months pregnant.

As it happens, she is a pirate. It is in her bloodline.

After the pilot had climbed aboard and positioned himself in the main steering area, aft of the engine compartment, we all began to file in one by one. I handed the jug of water to one of the deck hands before I climbed aboard myself. The deck hands braced the plank that we were all using, as if they were expecting me to be nervous. I walked on with as much grace as I could muster and thought the plank had the worst of it.

I felt no particular excitement as we pulled away from the small pier. I have been in boats of many sizes before so I was comfortable in the compartment with Kyle, Malik, Bass, Amouzou, Justice and BouAnkhi. Malik, Bass and Amouzou were playing a card game called Ghanaian Five. I joined in and we had a wonderful time. Next thing you know, we looked to the riverbank and saw a small temple approaching as our boat motored placidly toward the shore.

The temple was sitting a ways back from a stone retaining wall that circled it like a small version of some medieval castle. Sprouting from the earth at the top of the wall and in front of the temple was a huge majestic tree. This tree seemed to stand guard over the temple like an ancient warrior. The folds of its trunk reached far into the ground, rooting deeply in the earth and creating crevices and crannies where children played and the elderly sheltered from the hot sun. The birds seemed to treat this tree with a kind of reverence.

It soon became clear that this was our destination. The children of the prosperous nearby village came running out to meet us as we made landfall on a small beach of reddish brown sand in front of the temple. BouImin, who always seemed to revel in the attention of the children, soon was surrounded by innocent little faces filled with curiosity and joy at our appearance.

I climbed out from under the straw canopy and disembarked onto the firm sand and walked up to the wall. A steep stair of about seven steps led to the top of the wall, which was just higher than my six foot five inches of height. As I climbed the stairs, the scope and beauty of the temple and the tree which sheltered it came into full view. I immediately noticed an elder sitting in front of the door to the temple. Everyone was gathering around under the tree for the presentation of our guide, Ibrahim. Instead I went to the elder and paid my respects. I felt a strong affection and respect for him. When he looked into my eyes, I felt as if gentle hands were caressing my soul.

This was a wonderful day.

My colleagues required my attention as Maakheru began to speak. At first, he was only translating what Ibrahim was saying. Ibrahim told us that the people of this village, Segou Kora, were the descendants of the first Islamic people to come here and that this was one of the oldest Islamic temples in the world. All of a sudden, Maakheru turned to Ibrahim and just took over the lecture completely. He explained that this was not an Islamic temple, though it was used for that purpose now. In fact, all Islamic Temples must have their entry way pointing toward Mecca. This building had an entry way pointing directly east. The building’s age pre-dated the Islamic religion.

Maakheru said that it was true that the people who came here were Moslems, but they found this temple here when they arrived along with many other architectural artifacts. I somehow got the impression that the tree was even older than the temple and that it predated civilization itself. It seemed that there was something special about the tree and I really couldn’t take my eyes off of it. My ignorance of the meaning and purpose of my perceptions began to wear upon me again, and I was reminded of the questions that continued to burn inside me. “What is fantasy, and what is reality?”, “What is the difference between Imagination and fantasy?”, “What is real?”

We soon moved on to the interior of the village. I followed along with the group, enjoying the sunshine and the attention of the children. They seemed to enjoy walking along with us and holding our hands. I took this as a sign of genuine affection.

Happiness in Segu

Published on June 2, 2009 in Spirituality and Travel. 0 Comments

We arrived in Segu after a five hour bus ride. I was happy that we were not riding the “bush taxi”. Most of us found a spot in the rear of the bus where we hoped we could stretch out a little and relax and maybe sleep.

Leaving Bamako was a blessing in and of itself. It seemed that the bus could not leave soon enough for me. I could almost say that I hated the traffic and glare and pollution of this city. I had expected to be challenged by insects and smells and heat. I did not expect those smells to be all too familiar, the smell of diesel and burning coal and gas. The people were not really that friendly and I looked upon everyone there, with a few exceptions, with great suspicion.

The mosquitoes were tiny, persistent and irritating. Maakheru told us that in the bush, the mosquitoes were finished for the year. He complained about how in Bamako, the mosquitoes lived year round. I think he had reason to complain. Of all of us there, it was only he who contracted malaria.

The bus stopped a couple of times on the way out of the city. The first time it stopped, I got a foreshadowing of the good times to come. Vendors would enter the bus and bring in muffins, water, soda bread and anything else that a traveler might need for a long journey. I little girl came on the bus vending muffins. She was so beautiful. Her voice had the sound of bells ringing as she held up her muffins for sale. I was spell bound by the sound of that voice and the beauty of her eyes. I fumbled for my camera to snap a picture of this vision of innocence and purity.

The bus continued and I settled in as best I could to enjoy the bus ride. It was oppressively hot when the bus stopped, but when moving, a lovely breeze blew through the bus and carried away the smoke and dust and the sickening stench of Bamako, may I never see it again.

We stopped one time for a “pit stop” Several of our group got off the bus to relieve themselves, including Makheru. He seemed to be doing better. Another of our group, Robert Conda, was almost left behind as the bus pulled off. He finally caught up with us and we continued North for Segu.

As we approached Segu, the Djoliba river came into view on our left. Just a few tantalizing glimpses as we traveled down the road at a respectable pace, passing the occasional donkey cart or bush taxi on the way.

We pulled in to the bus station in Segu, and I was prepared for another dusty polluted experience, but thankfully, we had left such things behind. A small contingent of porters and vendors assaulted us as we unloaded our bags and accumulated them into a pile as Makheru went off to find us accommodations. I was still worrying about the computers that we were lugging along with us. We had not sold a single one and I was working very hard to find a formula in my mind to break the grip of the depression that was snapping at my heals.

Malik hovered around me like a mother hen, continuing to assure me that the laptops would be sold. He had offered the most promising buyer, who had said that they would meet us at the bus station, that he would pay for transportation if he came to Segu to make the purchase. “Please, I don’t want to hear bout it anymore until somebody is in front of us with the money.” Malik looked a little hurt, but I think he understood. I had not wanted to lug these computers through the bush on the way to Ouaga, but I realized that I would have little choice.

I decided that it was time for me to start my pilgrimage.

The bus station in Segu was clean and well tended. The buildings were freshly painted and the people were friendly. The vendors were not too persistent as they seemed to realize that we were more interested in ending this leg of our journey. Makheru came back with a couple of young men and a boy bearing a hand carts. It turned out that one of them, a handsome young man with a confident bearing and beautiful blue-black skin, was also of Dogon lineage.

It was but a short walk around the corner, and we soon found ourselves stepping into a very pleasant courtyard. A canopy of woven grass stretched across from left to right. A table was set up in the corner of the front porch of a small hotel, which was only a step above ground level. Chairs were set up under the canopy and a small tree grew in the center of the courtyard with an earthen jar sitting next to it containing drinking water and a small statue that wore a necklace of cowry shells.

The building was painted yellow. A set of double doors led to what could be a great room or sleeping room with a kitchen off to the right. I noticed there were cow horns jammed into the door and strategically placed at various locations throughout the building. There was a set of stairs leading up to the roof of the building that I wanted to explore.

The courtyard continued around the building to an area in the back where we found a faucet for water, and further a walled in area for showering and relieving oneself. Khefira and MenZeba quickly made a bee line for this area. Khefira was apparently looking forward to her first outdoor shower of the trip with great anticipation.

Three or four young men greeted us obsequiously in the courtyard. The young Dogon was among them, and Makheru began negotiating a price for our stay. This was the first of several such negotiations that I would observe. When the deal was finally done, we all pulled our bags from the cart and placed them on the left wall of the great room as one of the young men proceeded to drag futons in and place them on the floor.

I climbed the stairs to the roof and found a very pleasant space with a view of a lot below where a couple of elderly men were weaving huge straw barrels under the shade of a couple of trees. As I stood there, I could see how all of the buildings were connected together in a warren of brick walls and passageways that was compact and efficient. Children played in the small courtyards and I could see into some of the open windows where woman were busy doing some chore or other.

An occasional motor scooter would travel up and down the dirt road outside the entry way to our hotel and everything seemed to be moving at a very leisurely pace. I felt myself relaxing with every breath and an emotion filled me that until then had been a faint memory. Tears filled my eyes as I realized that I was truly happy in a way that I had not been since my childhood. I looked up into the clear blue sky and felt the sun shining down on my face like a mother caressing a baby. I was truly home.

I banked my emotions and went downstairs to see what was going on with everyone else. Makheru was asking if we would like to pay a couple of dollars each to have some music that evening. “Do you want to pay some dollars to be pampered with music tonight?” he asked. I was the first person to speak up. I had little money, but this seemed like something that would be worthwhile to spend it on.

Khefira and Zeba had completed their shower and were busy making sandwiches for us from left over fish and fresh vegetables that they had saved from the day before in Bamako. We had acquired fresh plain baguettes, which seemed to be a staple food in Mali.

A little while later, some of the guys from Segu came by and brought some djembes. A djembe is a traditional African drum that found its origin many years ago here in Mali. One of the guys, who Makheru had nick named “Ja Rule” because of his resemblance to the rapper sat down with Bass and Makheru to play. This was a wonderful time. Makheru was still a bit weak from the malaria and he had a very persistent cough, so he had little energy to play for very long.

Ja Rule’s real name was Papu. Later in the day Papu was playing the djembe on the roof with Bass and I joined them. Papu sat me down with a djembe and showed me a simple beat that I stumbled through for a while. He began to sing and Bass joined in. Justice, a brother from the New York School joined us on the roof and I turned over my djembe to him. I pulled out my harmonica and tried to pick out a tune.

Justice stands about 6’1” and is only a year younger than I. He’s a big guy like me and has been involved with the study of African spirituality for many years but has only been studying with the earth center for about a year. At first, Justice seemed kind of stand-offish. He kept to himself in the airport and also in Bamako. Segu had worked its magic on him as well and here he began to open up and spend more time interacting with everyone else in the group much more than before.

That night a group of performers came by our little compound. There were two djembe players, one player of the tum tum, which is a stick drum that is used to keep the beat and three beautiful women. One woman brought a European man with her who appeared to be her boyfriend. The leader of the group was an incredible djembe player. As he played, the women would spontaneously get up and dance traditional party dances.

I had experienced something like this before in Chicago at the 63rd street beach on the South Side. There is a drum circle that forms there most every night in the summer and especially on the weekends. Many Africans come there to play and dance. This was a smaller version of the same, but the dancing and the drumming was more coordinated and much better.

Zeba, a member of our group dances semi-professionally in Chicago with the Najua dance troop and she allowed the other women to convince her to join the dance. She seemed hard pressed to keep up with the drummers but seemed to enjoy her self immensely. She soon lost her shyness and danced with the other ladies.

I have rarely seen and heard such beautiful sites. The sky was clear and the moon shown down brightly thought it was not entirely full. The drummers hands moved so fast sometimes that they were only a blur and were matched in speed only by the feet of the dancers. At one point, one of the drummers removed his shirt revealing a lean physique and took over the dance. Everyone whooped and hollered as he moved with a powerful grace that made me wish that I were capable of such things, but that would only be a dream for me.

Soon another member joined the group. He was a young man who was severely crippled. He could not stand up straight at all and moved from one place to another on all fours using sandals to protect his hands. He was just as friendly as everyone else and clearly quite strong and comfortable in his skin. All the other members of the troop treated him as an equal. He too took the floor to dance as well.

His dance was not clumsy or graceless. It had an energy and joy for life that left me dumbfounded. In America, he would have been marginalized and denigrated, but here, he was strong and accepted. I have never experienced this and I felt somewhat ashamed of my own initial reaction to his presence.

Soon the main djembe player began to serenade each of us. Well,… I don’t think serenade is the right word, because it was more a display of his virtuosity. Upon completion, we would give him our payment for the performance. He did something with the djembe that I had never seen before. He took a glass and slid it along the head of the drum with one hand while striking the drum with the other. It gave the djembe the character of a talking drum where he could change the pitch at will.

Makheru finally came up to the roof as the main djembe player was finishing his rounds. Makheru is himself a master drummer so I knew that it would take much to impress him. The main drummer pulled every trick out of his book, seeming to realize that Makheru was our leader and the man to impress. Makheru sat in his chair wrapped in a blanket unimpressed, until the made the djembe talk. It was after this that Makheru offered him his payment. Later Makheru proclaimed him to be “Very good”.