Travel // Current TV

Tireli

Sure enough, Amasaygou (Dolo, of course), is at the Castor for breakfast at 7am. We lay out the day’s plans, the week’s plans: visits with the elders, the diviners, the traditional healer, the griot, the blacksmith, and a celebration that includes masks, if all goes well. The village of Tireli, 19k’s and an hour+ away makes the best Dogon millet beer (“kunyan”) and has the best mask collection – we’ll go there and talk about throwing a party that we can film.

Maybe it’s because the diviners are such a part of life here, maybe it’s because everyone has the same last name, maybe it’s because Griaule left such a mixed heritage of scholarship and hoax (or, maybe, mistranslation). Whatever it is, the Oral Tradition is thriving in Dogon country like nowhere else I’ve seen. The tourists are here for one thing only: the Dogon way of life. Which is to say, the way spirituality is imbued in all objects. The odd jester’s hats with swinging puffballs. The landscape that makes the arcane, fantastic cosmology seem logical. And it’s not that tourists are here in such great numbers – the toilet is still a hole as often as not, and sanitary conditions are, let’s say, haphazard. Meeting Moussa in Tireli (everybody here is a Saye) is filled with these engaging contradictions – he runs the only hotel in town, which the Women’s Association started with a grant from Nobel winner Muhammad Yunus, he of the microgrant theories. Entrust Moussa to hold the money, and he’ll put together our Festival. Hmmm.

I like him, and we are encouraged that we’ll shoot here, but want to allow Sangha a chance to respond, so it’s an hour plus back to Sangha: 20 minutes on a sand piste including a 75 degree plunge into an empty river bed, 20 minutes dirt road past Amani, the sacred crocodile village, Irili, which is also a World Heritage site (truly extraordinary, Hobbit + Star Wars + Truli plus you name it – Mitterrand helicoptered here!), then a steep ascent up a rocky torture road that is intermittently paved, a road that curves alpine-like past villages, Telem caves, and wild west vistas. An NGO paved the road, but didn’t have enough money to pave it all — paved means a cement slab is sunk into the earth. So they paved the most dangerous parts, so the story goes. If that’s true I don’t know what these nondangerous, unpaved parts used to be – the 4x4 sometimes slows to a roll as pointy rocks and potholes take their toll. Avberage speed is around 3kph. Finally we clear an incline and there’s Lower Sangha spread before us – hundreds of mostly women workers with jugs or rice sheaves on their hand, slowly walking from here to there through the green rice and onion fields of Paradise. In the distance the cliffs, the reed rock escarpment, the Telem caves. An indescribable landscape.

Turns out Sekou is also the man in charge of the Sangha equivalent of the Tireli plan. He asks me, Well, did Tireli work for you? Sure did. Then why not do that? Because I wanted to get a price from the Sangha. From you.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/Sure enough, Amasaygou (Dolo, of course), is at the Castor for breakfast at 7am. We... more

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Oral Tradition. Direct.

Bea and I walk into town at sunset but there is no town. She spots a pregnant baobab tree, which becomes a running joke, the first joke I’ve told that gets a laugh from the Dogons. And not just a laugh – this is a heartshaking thunder clap of a retort, as if I knew something! That’s what this guide named Amasaygou says, the first Dogon I’ve had a real conversation with. He helps us with our Dogon greetings’ riffs, we discuss the compatibility of religions, Animist, Muslim, Christian, all coexisting here. Another joke: a Muslim can have Animist beliefs, but Animists cannot be Animists and have Muslim beliefs. More laughs.

This is taking place at the Campement, built on the grounds where Marcel Griaule’s house was. Griaule had lived with, and studied, the Dogons for twelve years when the Wise Men’s Council told him it was time for him to have a chat with the blind guy, a former hunter named Ogotemmeli. The result was a book, Conversations with Ogotemmeli, that outlined the Dogon cosmology and its interaction with daily life. Incredibly rich and evocative, these stories were the basis of everything – from which side of the room you slept, what the direction the ox plowed, and how each village was laid out as twins, to a divination method where sticks, stones and sand are used to create a sore on the earth, which night animals walk across and disturb. The paw prints and disturbances are read as your future, and resulted in another book, The Pale Fox.

That night I will visit the Kirili’s friend, Sekou Amadou Dolo (everyone in a Dogon village has the same last name: in Sangha that would be Dolo). His first words are, can Animists can’t have Animist beliefs, correct? The idle chitchat I’d had with Amasaygou just an hour or so before had already become part of Sangha lore, was returning to me in another conversation. Sekou “knows” me. Not only that, but he is asking me if I think Amasaygou would make a good guide. Why not? Things make sense in a way that is clear and understandable – the medium is the message, the content is the messenger.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/Bea and I walk into town at sunset but there is no town. She spots a pregnant baobab... more

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Last Dreams in Timbuktu

Sana is going to let us scout his house. Good to have Abdul back — we drive. Bea and Karamo hop out to follow Sana, I am slower and when I get out they’re gone. I ask Lamont where they went. He points across the street. I saunter into the compound, and when I see a woman with two children staring at me in surprise and fear I call out for Sana. Suddenly, a tough-looking guy steps out of the main house with a pistol. I say Je cherche Sana, je vous empris, and with a flick of his gun I get myself out of there. Next thing, he’s out on the street, sans pistol, and Abdul is trying to calm him. Sana comes out, tensions ease. I tell Lamont he almost got me shot. Sana says not to worry, “he is military man.” Seems like that’s good cause for worry to me.

This morning (December 8) is Tobaski, a major Muslim holiday. Lamont sees the military man cruise by the hotel in a truck marked Commissar Police. Bea calls her Mom in Sao Paulo to tell her about the nightmare she had last night, of a military takeover in Brazil. She helped an old woman over a bridge, basically carrying her. Everyone was calling the military “Crocodiles!” Her mother says not to worry – there will never be another military coup in Brazil. Because of the internet.

I am reading Paul Auster’s Man in the Dark, which posits an alternate universe where 9/11 didn’t happen and where the US is not in Iraq. Instead, there’s another civil war in the States. As always, ever-expanding writing enmeshed in great story. Please don’t kill the characters, kill the author! Etc. My headlight goes out, change batteries in light without light, man in the dark.

Over Tobaski breakfast, the same old instant Nescafe, powdered milk, round loaf of bread with butter and red fruit jam, I know something is different.

The grit is gone. How can there be a loaf of bread in Timbuktu sans sand? Must be time to head out. We’ll try for Dogon country tonight, but will probably end up at the crossroads in Douentza. Road conditions are impossible to learn in advance.

But then until last night we thought Tobaski would be two days from now, which is the date Papa Susso had told us, and we were looking forward to a Dogon el Eid (Arabic), Fete el Khabir (French). That turned our schedule around. Let me sleep in this morning. Anything could be going on in America. Last dreams in Timbuktu.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/Sana is going to let us scout his house. Good to have Abdul back — we drive.... more

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Timbuktu

Timbuktu Bucks

It’s expensive here – dinner costs around $10, double the price of Dakar and Bamako. The jewelry hustlers are all over you all the time. And you understand it – a tourist arriving here is like Mali making a pact to export to Montenegro. It’s hard to get here: the pharmacist yesterday apologized for his lack of lip balm, and promised it would be on the next plane into town. Right. The only way to export your work is to get a tourist to carry it home. And the exchange rate is lower, too.

Big Day Shooting

Bea and I settle in for a Production Meeting and lay out a morning in town and afternoon with the Tuaregs. Sana introduces me to his brother, Sandi, who turns out to be his cousin, who turns out to be… etc. When Sana sees me looking at Bradt’s, he casually drops the news that it’s Sandi on a camel on the cover. Indeed.

Losing a Negotiation with the Tuaregs

No problem.

We go to the Tourist Office and shoot my passport getting the official Timbuktu stamp. Only took me thirty-five years. Shoot the outside of the 15th Century Mosque that looks as much like Arizona as Timbuktu. Have a great conversation with Sana at the sacred Tim (well) of Madame Buktu, who lived alone but her well became the way station that became the stopover that grew into today’s Timbuktu. Karamo buys a homemade, tin-can mbira, and we have an impromptu jam ‘round the well. I fall in. It’s dry.

A Kilo of Salt

Buy a kilo of salt, one chunk, dug straight from the earth, two bucks. [NB - this purchase is destined to appear on the poster for LinkTV’s broadcasting of “On the Road.”] Stage the meeting of Sana and Bob at the Hotel Bouctou, another of the seemingly infinite number of places where Ted Joans lived. The owner, another friend of Ted’s, tells us he always stayed in Room 2. But we’d already shot in front of Room 1 – Ted’s number one room, according to Sana. Lunch, like all meals in Timbuktu, takes forever unless you’ve ordered in advance. Omelet clocks in at an hour and fifteen minutes. Last night we ordered chicken. We heard a squawk about half an hour later.

In the afternoon it’s Tuareg time – I ride a camel into town, Karamo and Lamont ride into desert. Bea and I scout the village – located in the midst of scrub and sand, a particularly unhappy piece of desert. Bea immediately asks for a dune, which Sandi conjures up and which totally makes the shoot. Camels, hypnotic music, the sword dance. Karamo sits in on kora. It’s decided professor Bob should ride his camel sans handler, which turns into a rich comedy of camel stubbornness and poet exhilaexasperation. The sun slides down. The women are wearing incredibly ornate silver headresses which mingle gorgeously with their deep indigo clothing. Bea requests a woman to dance. She moves away from her drum, settles on the earth, and subtly moves her hands. Waves of sand. An hourglass without the glass.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/Timbuktu Bucks It’s expensive here – dinner costs around $10, double... more

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Last Night on the Niger

It couldn’t be. But it looked like a rainstorm ahead. The river got choppy. Whitecaps appeared. The temperature dropped. The air turned to milk. I had Beatriz and Lamont start shooting and they shot for an entire tape, an hour. We were moving through memory. Inside a cloud. The trees along the river were shaking. It was the last night before Timbuktu.

The sun came down like an iron cover on a pot. Suddenly darker than dark. We huddled around the table for warmth – no food till new land. The Captain’s flashlight revealed nothing but swirling wisps of fog. The moon ghosted up, and the familiar two stars that have been her accompaniment on this trip, but otherwise the sky and river merged into a black tunnel. It was very late, we were very hungry, very cold, freezing, a few miles from the Sahara.

But the Muse calls. I turn on my headlight to jot some words. “Fermez la lumiere!” bellows the Captain. “Turn off your light! It’s dangerous!” “What’s the danger?” I reply, trying to get some perspective. Silence. Crocodiles? Hippos? Are we lost? I see a flashlight on the left shore. “A gauche!” I shout, half a joke, half hoping the Captain will heed my advice and pull us in to safe haven.

This is supposed to be the time to travel by water to Timbuktu – the river at its highest. Much of the year the trip is impossible – the Niger dries up as it bends (“le boucle,” the Buckle) south at the Sahara. Thirty years ago the Niger flowed through Timbuktu. Now it’s almost twenty kilometers away. Desertification for real.

But tonight the river’s height has changed the shoreline. The fog cloud has turned things around. The high water has caused some of the riverfront villages to be abandoned. Where can we put in for the night? Where is the shore? We cross the broad river, searching. Our jokes have subsided. For almost two hours the Captain stands at the prow, making small hand gestures to the man at the wheel. This way, that.

Suddenly we are ashore, a lonely sand spit, wind blowing mercilessly. The lone tree explodes in a cacophony of scolding and we name the place “Monkey Island.” As the crew sets up the tents, Karamo goes ashore to record the madness. It’s not monkeys but egrets, huddling themselves, reproaching us for invading their sorry dune.

We take dinner on the boat. Last night had been full of stories and imitations of each other. Tonight, our last night on the Niger, is full of tent-shaking monsters – grit teeth to stay on ground. Sand blowing everywhere, somehow getting inside the tents. Frantic dreams. By morning, my sandals, left outside, must be dug out.

We break camp. Two tents blow into the Niger and are fished out with poles. We cast off at daybreak. We’re too cold and tired to shoot.

The blankets we’d bought in Niafunke became our outerwear. All we can do is make time downstream. We are promised a Tuareg village; the one we find is deserted. Filled with loneliness. Finally, late afternoon, we enter Timbuktu like most: tired, dusty, bumping along in an open bache (small truck), wrapped in rags.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/It couldn’t be. But it looked like a rainstorm ahead. The river got choppy.... more

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Off to Bamako

After all the hoopla and tears of yesterday, we settle in on the roof. The starry canopy, the rustle of breeze from the Dakar shore, it’s a respite refuge. Papa and Karamo trade kora, get Bea to sing. I read a few poems, we make up songs, poems, sayings, teasings, proddings, yuks. It’s the oral tradition in action, and as ephemeral as Eric Dolphy’s last date, real life art.

Tough sleep, Papa too. We’re up at dawn to pray. Hit the local internet as its opening at 9, and sign in, but before we can do anything I realize the guy gave us hour (not half-hour) passes and guess what – they don’t work. Nothing works, oy. Into town, Place de l’Independence, big email place signs us in, I am able to upload our first photo! A young boy cooling out under the Barack Obama Bookstore sign. But, get this – Bea’s mom forgot to attach the passport PDF! It’ll be hours before we can get the copy. Tragedy rearing, we decide to hit the Brazilian Embassy anyway (BTW, we were stuck in the elevator there yesterday for five hellish minutes).

And Lo and Behold! Bea, now a Goddess as well as a Genius, is able to walk out half an hour later with a new passport in hand. Tip o’ Hat to Carlos Leite and his staff!

We shoot some great interviews about Senghor, and the port billboard as well. Run into his wife’s sister-in-law. Our cab driver knows nothing, a great moment. Lots in Wolof, the Arabicky-rasp and lightning crashing amazingly against the rolly rotundity of Mandinka…

Let’s make some passport Xeroxes, put ‘em in the Black Book (production book), what say?

And then, let’s go Bamako!

Simply Put on the Roof

Want to hear a poem: call Bob

Want to hear a kora: call Papa

Want to watch a movie: call Bea

Want to put it all together and sing it at the same time: call Karamo

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/After all the hoopla and tears of yesterday, we settle in on the roof. The starry... more

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African Time

I finally ask Karamo to look at my watch. We cannot figure out what day it is. Bea and I think it is the 15th, Karamo assures us it’s the 18t. I can’t make out the date on my watch because the hour hand is bisecting it. Pause.

We’ve been in Africa less than a week and we’ve lost three days.

The main reason it takes so long to drive Gambia are the police stops, about every 25 miles – every time you enter a new district they have to make sure you are not sneaking in from Senegal. Occasionally they’ll wave you through after you slow to a stop, but usually they scrutinize the driver’s ID and insurance and the white folks’ passports, and a couple times they tried to shake us down.

One policeman asserted that the fact the Gambian stamp entering from Senegal didn’t have an exit date meant I was illegal. Papa tried convincing him that it wasn’t my fault, and then I told the story of my triumphant entrance into the Gambia: instead of paying a tax on the blank tapes we brought with us, the Commander of the Border gave me his card, a smile, and a copy of the Koran, which stunned Papa – evidentially, there is no more auspicious act than being given a Koran. And all I had to do was promise to help get his son into Columbia, no problem. This particular cop wasn’t moved, and it wasn’t until I asked his name (Sanghay) that he backed off.

Between Sotuma Sere and Basse maybe a hundred cars a day pass, which gives the paramilitary police at the checkpoint plenty of time to think of a scam, and the one they came up with was pretty good. The stern policeman stuck his head in the car and told the driver to get out. The crime: Bea, who was shooting Papa’s childhood from the front seat, did not have her seatbelt on. AND, the policeman as policeman said as he carefully unfolded an ancient Xerox, THAT is against the law!

I went into my professor spiel: educational intent West African Culture to the world of poetry yes yes after which policeman as policeman says, Can you read? I take the paper.

It’s the paper that is central here, the magical power of writing. Like many 5 and 10 Dilasi notes (2 ½ cents a Dilasi), it had been so used that it had turned to vellum, the letters weakening, changing to other letters, the folds more like rivers than creases, the vellum feeling like earth, dust just barely formed into a solid.

The writing was that peculiar colonial Brit that you hear from bureaucrats here. Section 3, Subsection (d) Paragraph 2 says that unless you are an ambulance, security vehicle or fire truck ON DUTY (emphasis policeman as policeman’s) front seat driver and passenger MUST wear their seat belts, or they can be arrested.

Bob Holman is the host of a new travel series focused on endangered languages called ON THE ROAD WITH BOB HOLMAN on LINK TV. He traveled to West Africa, Middle East and Asia and these are his blog stories from his travels. More information at http://www.rattapallax.com/blog/on_the_road/I finally ask Karamo to look at my watch. We cannot figure out what day it is. Bea and... more

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