The Djoliba River

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.