Across the sand sea lies the mighty Niger river and many a forgotten kingdom

Loading up boats on the Niger

Young workers wait for more heavy loads ( towels on heads to cushion the weight ), they look to me like their considering strike


Hanging out with the boat workers was a pleasure


Commerce on the Niger is a colourful and ancient institution


The captain and skipper

The sky was immense, the water immense, a magical ethereal world where the banks hung in the middle like surreal floating islands


Hoards of small boats sidled up to our pinasse to sell fish and fried snacks

Looking from our pinnasse to another loaded up with colourful mattresses

Zebu cattle by the banks

A wall of fire, the sunsets defy belief

I know its a tired cliche but the sunsets really are different, the sun nearer the equator is huge. The flat riverine lanscape provides lots of sky and water to act as the largest of stages for a nightly show


Sail boats! Technology from across the ages

This was a long thin village on a long thin island, on Lac Degbo where the Niger spreads out like a mini sea

One a Mali's many iconic mosques, Mopti

Hand Hand made coal braziers and other essential cooking utensils

Beautiful otherworldly streets in Djenne

Masks with a grace and style that seems to speak to you

People washing in less than clean pools of the drying up Bani river, Djenne

Djenne has many Moroccan style windows

The famous and striking mosque in Djeene is the largest mud building in the world

Ive still lots more to write here, but it is slowly being updated

I’m writing this in the pleasant riverside city of Segou. Today was amazing after breakfast I was invited to see how Millet beer is made and to taste some (it’s rather sharp, a definite home brew taste). Then I got invited to visit old Segou 10 kilometres away. It was amazing exotic and alien the soudanic style mud buildings from Mars but the people very much down to earth.

The above piece was written a few weeks ago on a painfully slow connection, Id uploaded a load of photos but they decided not stay put. Since then I’ve either had no time or been a long way from the nearest computer. So I’m putting this out just to publish something if only small. When I get time I’ve lots to write about from a magical boat trip on the Niger, to staying with the Tuareg in the desert north of Timbukto or visiting the amazing world of the Dogon people. So lots more to come.

Two days on a bus to dusty Bamako

Balancing bananas in Bamako

Dakar was big and crowded. On leaving my hotel the friendly neighbourhood prostitutes would grab my arm, all the while smiling a coy smile. I’d have to politely shake them off, only to be confronted by a whole host of con artists. From the crude "cadeau, cadeau pour moi?" (a gift for me?) to the more sophisticated scams, stories, and entireties to friendship.

The streets are crowded with goods and produce. People were selling sunglasses, nuts, cakes, anything that can be carried and the ever present chancers. This all forming a seething mass that is squeezed into uneven pavements by less than road worthy taxis, colourful truck busses and mopeds that intern is all squeezed into uninspiring blocks of commerce and city sprawl. In short not pretty but colourful and full to bursting with life.

An angel in Dakar, Dakar chathedral


Camel cheese, Dakar

After a few days of trying to be alert on the tiring city streets I was ready for a change. So when I discovered a bus was leaving for Bamako Mali, right now! I jumped at the chance despite, dodgy circumstances.

Crowded commerce, Bamako market

Rooftops from a rocky escarpment overlooking Bamako

The bus I was to catch was half full of mattresses the other half given over to only 5 passengers including me. This looked dodgy but when an English speaking guy from Ghana (Ghana was a British colony hence the English) said to me I wasn’t to tell anyone where I was going as it was secret…well alarm bells started ringing. But here was a lift to Bamako leaving now, I didnt want to stay in Dakar, so I took a chance.

Bamako's green buses


Father and son fishing on the Niger, tranquillity a stone’s throw from Bamako’s mad streets

It took a bumpy two days of bus travel to reach Bamako during which there was a confusing return of half my money as the bus decided to go only as far as the border. At the border the bus left impatiently while myself and several others were eating. My bag was on this bus and I had a minor heart attack at the thought of losing the film I’d worked hard to capture that was stored within. A mad dash to courier one by one the stranded passengers ensued and I marvelled at the chaotic nature of this journey.

This second bus stopped and started, we were all ushered off the bus onto another one, (several times!) and back again for what purpose I don’t know, all the while I wearily watched my bags. Such is the joy of African travel.

We eventually headed of, many hot hours since I had arrived at the border (the border town Kayes supposedly being the hottest town in Africa!) into yet more bush though dryer here than the Senegalese bush. Scrub and various exotic trees including the iconic boababs which are often described as upside-down trees as there trunks are swollen and the stubby branches look like roots reaching for the sky, drifted by. Then just before dark we drove through the striking Mandinke Highlands, which were soon engulfed by the deep star filled blackness of the African night.

All the while I was confused hot and tiered trying to keep an eye on my bag and my circumstances. I did however to much relief reach Bamako at 3.30 in the morning more than a little tired but in one piece and amazingly having lost nothing.

For the road was long and led to mysterious unexpected places

The Grand Mosque of Touba

So what and where is Touba? Touba is the burial site of Chiek Amadou Bamba Mbacke, founder of mouridism Senagalese folk hero and religious icon. The mosque is built over the family shrine in the town of Touba and is probably the holiest place in Senegal.

Mourdism is one of the many Muslim brotherhoods, which came about with the spread of Islam to North Africa. In contrast to the original Arabian form of Islam where everyone is believed to have a direct relationship with God, the class based societies of the local Berber people found certain individuals to be prophets with divine insight able to perform miracles. Now one of the early brotherhoods from Morocco, the Almoravids (where the name Marabout which means holy leader/saint came about) helped to spread this form of Islam into northern Senegal and then on to the southern Sahara and Timbuktu in present day Mali.

When the French started to make expansionist inroads in West Africa a lot of local people found that there traditional tribal leaders interests coincided with French interests, thus the French attempts to subjugate the peasants helped push them towards the influence of the brotherhoods and Islam against both traditional and foreign rulers.

The mouridya brotherhood was founded in 1887 by Amadou Bamba. His court in Touba attracted many followers with anti colonial sentiment, which lead to Amadou's expulsion by a worried French administration. This only lead to Amadous infamy and place in Senegalese history and legend.

He was exiled to both Mauritania and Gabon for seven years. While travelling to his exile by ship he is said to have been told not to pray by the French colonials who said " if you pray aboard this ship you will anger me and if you don't you will anger your God ". The marabou is said to have replied by placing his prayer mat on the sea out of the colonial’s jurisdiction and miraculously prayed on the water.


My guides Alage and Mohamed sat either side of our traveling companion Thierry in the middle with me just visible in the foreground At Ibra Falls grandsons place

When I arrived in Saint Loui in northern Senegal I met Mohamed and Alage to young chancers and guides who where always doing "business". I was always weary as hustlers and unsavoury people plagued my short time in Saint Loui and I never really felt I knew what was going on or had much control of the situation. They did however turn out to be nice people who showed me a side to Senagal I was completely ignorant to and would otherwise have remained so. For this I am very thankful.

After several days exploring the faded colonial charm and river side setting of Saint Loui (one day of which I was yet again sick and for the first time learnt the joys and wonder of projectile vomiting, it was really quite impressive, plus an added bonus diarrhoea) I agreed to visit a strange place that I kept hearing about, Touba.

I left with my two guides Id met in the bar and a French man Thierry who was already well acquainted with Alage and Mohamed. It took three fairly uneventful hours to reach Touba after which everything became very strange and bewildering for me.

Mohamed and Thiery at the mosque, Touba

We piled into a small truck like thing that passes for a bus in these parts, they are painted brightly with religious iconography often of Touba and have two low benches on which up to 15 or so people squeeze in. In this we travelled to M'backe a nearby town where you can smoke and drink. Touba is a religious town that derives its authority not from the police but from the maraboutic militia who enforce a strict ban on alcohol and tobacco. We arrived at a small compound which turned out to be the home of the grandson of the great Ibra Fall.

Who is Ibra Fall? Well he was one of Amadous main disciples who spread the word as to Amadous story; praying on the water and his defiance in the face of French imperialism, and therefore a pretty important figure, who founded his own branch of Mouridism Baye Fall. I was fast being introduced to a whole new world and history that I never new existed.


The outer prayer halls Touba

I was soon introduced to the illustrious grandson. Although it took me a little while to work it out. He was a softly spoken man who moved slowly and purposefully and definitely had the air of someone who was born knowing there place in the world. He sat on a bed underneath a straw roofed wooden awning in a sandy courtyard. Behind this was a painting, three round-bordered portraits set in a brown background with curvy borders that depicted his prestigious lineage.

We four sat down on mats on the sandy floor and shook his hand pressing it to our foreheads, which is a sign of respect. Sitting there looking up at his large solid head and his gentle paternal smile I felt a bit like I was meeting Santa clause although I was nervous I would make some terrible faux pa.

After greetings and a very relaxed chat a large silver bowl was brought out containing fish rice and vegetables. We sat crossed legged and ate African stile with our hands which was strange enough to my Western sensibilities. But then the famous grandson started to rip small pieces of veg and fish adding some spice and a sprinkling of Lime juice before rolling the carefully prepared food in his hand and gently but assuredly directing me to take this offering. He then did the same for Thierry and slowly spoon-fed us reinforcing his appearance as paternal figure and making the experience very bizarre for me and I’m sure Thierry who kept smiling giving me nervous and knowing glances.

Things carried on in a strange vain when we met I think the grandsons wife or perhaps mother she was certainly older. We sat crowded on the floor of her room surrounded by important looking photos of her and religious leaders. She prepared a strange sugary drink, which seamed to have small bits of spongy cheese in it after which she encouraged us all to sit while she muttered prayers. She then motioned to spit over our outstretched hands to which we were required to act out washing our faces in ascent. We gave her a small offering and then left to see the grand mosque, one of the biggest in West Africa.

I’m running out of time now, things to do an all but next time Il right about the beautiful tropical island of Gorèe and its depressing slave history plus the booming metropolis of Dakar and beyond to Bamako Mali.

Mauritania to Senegal

Me in suitable head gear in the hot hot heat of Mauritania

THERE ARE SOME MORE PHOTOS ON HERE AND SOME MORE TO COME WHEN I GET THE CHANCE. The last time it took an hour to write this and upload one photo due to slow connection times twas a nightmare.

I’ve managed some more bumbling ineptitude that has led me unexpectedly to Senegal a country I wasn’t necessarily planning to go to. This is how it happened:

Having arrived in Nouakchott the capital of Mauritania on New Years Eve, which was fairly disappointing, I now had a three-day wait before I could get a Malian visa. This is due to the fact it was new years day followed by Friday and Saturday so the embassy was shut. Now there’s little to do in Nouakchott despite its capital status so I planned a little side trip.

This is where the inept part comes in. I decided to go to Dwialing national park, which is a large area of wetland down by the Senegalese frontier. I some how got it into my head that it was a short two hour ride away and that it would make a nice two day excursion while I waited for my visa.

The reality was a three hour very squashed journey through heat and dust to Rosso the nearby town from which its difficult to arange transport to the park which is a further two hours away on dirt roads. I seem always to blindy go forth misinformed with my own fantsy idea of how things will turn out.



After a long uncomfortable trip through dusty hills covered in sparse acacia trees ( the lanscape is looking more and more like I imagined Africa to look like compleate with round thatched huts great! ) I arrived in Rosso on the Senegalese border where I found it very difficult to get a lift. Luckily I met some peace corps workers who were staying in Rosso and invited me to stay with them.




I was assured by my new American friends that there was little to see in Mauritania, so rather than travel all the way back to the capital and then embark on an even longer journey east to the Mali border, I decided to visit the national park and then hop over to Senegal. The choice was between hours and hours of rough desert travel in alcohol free Mauritania, or a short ride to the fading colonial splendour, of colourful beer serving, bar blessed, Saint Loui in Senegal. The choice wasn't difficult. And so this is how ineptitude led me to a whole new country.

Mauritania!

Fishing boats Nouakchott


Majoral gardens Marrakech a beautiful place designed by Ralph Lauren, apparently



More of the tranquil and brightly coloured gardens a haven from the noise of Marrakech. More photos to come, promise!


I really am leaving Marrakech!


So the software saga continues. Id waited about two weeks in and around Marrakech for software to enable me to upload footage of my trip. I had to wait for the post office to open as it was closed for the Muslim festival of Eid and then there were further delays better known to the Moroccan postal system. Basically I was waiting for a CD from my mum, which I had stupidly left behind. When it finally arrived it was the wrong CD. I nearly cried.

Well this means there will probably be a second episode to filmyonder when I return and fill in the gaps with all the interesting footage I’ve taken.

Western Sahara

I went through a mix of emotions when after so much hassle I discovered I had the wrong disk for my camcorder in my hands. I felt anger then frustration followed by deep despair and then giddy elation, like someone who has just received devastating news and is going through shock. This was an over-reaction but this is how I felt. Events are feeling more dramatic to me in far away Marrakech. The elation came when I realised that come what may I was free to leave Marrakech and head of to the obscure disputed territory of Western Sahara and one through the desert to the equally obscure country of Mauritania. Like a schoolboy on a trip I was giddy with excitement.

From Marrakech I got on a horrendously long bus ride (16 hours!) to Lauyoune the administrative capital of Western Sahara.

Western Sahara used to be a Spanish enclave. When the Spanish left they left Morocco and Mauritania to fight over the territory with little regard for the local Sahawri people. In the end Morocco marched I think 30,000 men ( I'm not sure the exact details right now, this is a very rudimentary history so don't quote me ) into the territory. Thus claimed Morocco has pumped money and people into the region to help Moroccanise and consolidate there claim. Much in the same way that China is Chineseifing Tibet to their own ends.

This little known conflict has resulted with Sahawri raids on the all important iron ore train in Mauritania so as to try and deflect Mauritanian interest and a 15-year war come stalemate with Morocco. There is a vast wall in the sand carving up the territory upon which the Sahwari polisario hopelessly outnumbered in the face of to the much better equipped and financed Moroccan army. There hasn't been a shot in years so don't worry I haven’t been through a dangerous war zone.

There are currently 100,000 or so Sahawri refugees in camps across the border in Algeria. These camps have been here for thirty years or more. There are people now who have been born in exile and have never even seen their homeland. There seems little hope for these exiled people and their occupied country. America and Brittan are supporting Morocco so as to stabilise the region against the so-called dangers faced in the "war against terror".

In this tense climate I travelled through numerous police checkpoints and past military bases. I was pretty nervous in this police state as for obvious reasons they don't take to kindly to journalists poking around this "Moroccan territory" and although I don't look a picture of professionalism I do have a camcorder. Which I am very much attached to.

Thankfully my time in this dusty frontier land past without problems and I met scores of the most generous and helpful people.

From Lauyone I endured several long drives through Dhakla and on to Nouadibou in Mauritania.

Mauritania

I had planned to ride on the open top of the afore-mentioned and famous iron ore train: The longest train in the world at 3 kilometres! Unfortunately being the bumbling dopey person I am I royally messed up the money situation.

I was ripped of by my unscrupulous driver, he short changed a 50 euro note. So I had little money and, there being no cash machines in Nouadibou, I had no way of getting any. I should have known this before hand but then I am dopey and bumbling. I had £35, which they couldn't change as they only except Euros. I tried to phone home to get money wired but had little money to spend on credit and couldn't get through. The situation started to feel desperate.

I fortunately managed to find someone to change my pounds with and was told I had just enough to get a taxi to the capital to spend the night and get a taxi the next day to Senegal where they have cash machines. I had literally just enough, it would be very tight. So began a half panicked rush to get out of the country and more long rides over impossibly long distances.

I'm now in Nouockchott the capital and they do have cash machines here. Thank God! What I’ll do next I'm not exactly sure.

I’ll write some more about Mauritania soon. Plus I hope to put some more photos on here so keep checking. Until next time...