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...

Still in Marrakesh. At this rate I’ll never leave!

Some old guys having a chat over coffee Marrakesh


The most famous land mark in Marrakesh the tower of the Koutoubia mosque

I'm feeling quite frustrated at the moment as I've been waiting for the software to upload my videos for some time now. Iv'e got my mum to post it but it seems to be delayed. ARRR!! I'm impatient to leave now I can hear the desert calling me.

So here are some sketches of Marrakesh there's also some more photos and things to come when I get round to it.

Marrakesh and the High Atlas

A man on the roof of his house in the High Atlas

I’ve been in and around Marrakesh for some time now. When I first got here I was ill after an arduous journey which I’ll talk about in a moment. After my illness I spent time trying to organise the posting of my much needed software so as to be able to show my filming. Unfortunately for me it was the Muslim holiday of Eid so the post office wasn’t open for three days. Since then I’ve been waiting patiently for my package.


A dried food stall in Place Jemaa-El-Fna Marrakesh.

Marrakesh is a vibrant colourful city. It’s modern with lots of construction and luxury flats for wealthy Moroccans. It has fashion boutiques, fancy restaurants and all the consumer trappings of a modern city. Plus lots of tourists but the life in the Ville neuvele (new town) doesn’t interest me much. I’m more attracted to the ancient rhythms of the medina.


Food stalls Place Jemaa-El-Fna with the tower of the Koutoubia mosque in the background Marrakesh’s most famous landmark

The main attraction for tourists and the centre around which Marrakesh revolves is the Place Jemaa El Fna . Jemaa El Fna is a large irregular shaped square that is startling in its size and openness being surrounded by the dark claustrophobic streets of the old town. However it’s not these qualities that make it special it’s the chaotic life of the place. For instance there are snake charmers and men with monkeys. There are traditional musicians and all manner of oddities. It’s not until night though that it really comes into its own. As the sun sets many food stalls are set up which great big flames and wafts of smoke that catch the dying sunlight and spread evocative charcoal smells. As if this wasn’t atmospheric enough this is when the tribal sounds of drumming starts, creating a palpable electric buzz of excitement and a real festival atmosphere every single night!


Men stirring steaming pots of snail soup Place Jemaa-El-Fna

Over the last few days I’ve been hanging out with a Belgium punk rocker and a Canadian tree planter. I’ve met some peace corps workers, three American girls who have just spent two years in The Gambia, in rural villages. Two years! They were also planting trees and had lots to say about the strangeness of living with large families with two or more wives per husband in rural Africa and of a prime minister who claims to have cured cancer. This is just to mention a few of the interesting people I’ve met in Marrakesh.


Washing hanging up in the village the High Atlas

While waiting for my software to arrive I went to a place called Imlil for four days. Imlil is high up in the Atlas Mountains at just below two thousand meters and not far from North Africa’s highest peak Toubkal at 4167 meters.

Id spied the distinct peaks of the Atlas when I first arrived. They are clearly visible from Marrakesh as a high solid wall of shimmering white against a blue sky. So when I finally arrived in the frosty cold of Imlil amid towering snow clad peaks I was very happy, especially after the noise and dirt of Marrakesh.

Imlil is a small collection of shops at the bottom of a deep valley that splits four ways at Imlil. The surrounding slopes are where the inhabitants live in beautiful mud brick houses that hang preciously from rocky slopes.

The valleys rang with the sounds of roosters and goats, the call to prayer (a soulful wailing that proclaims the greatness of God and summons the faithful to worship 5 times a day) and the sound a whooping and laughter. The whooping and laughter were due to a local custom where after sacrificing a sheep for Eid as done all over the Muslim world the inhabitants of the high atlas would then ware the sheepskin with the sheep’s horns fitted to a mask. Thus kitted out, the man in the costume then runs around the steep rocky paths of the villages chasing everyone with a stick. This appears to make everyone feverish with excitement and goes on, at least where I was, for around 6 days. Six days of madness.


Mosque and mountains Armoud High Atlas

My host in Imlil was the crafty Ibrahim who like many Moroccans was a keen business man. I shared a comfortable but freezing cold mud brick guest house with three runners from Leicester who had come to Imlil to train in the high altitude.
During the day I walked up into the snow line and down into pretty valleys while at night I played cards with the Leicester lads while eating huge steaming mounds of couscous and tajine. Ibrahim would come in to talk to us softly in a mixture a French and English with a wry smile on his face and sly chuckle.

A house Imlil - the villiage I stayed in, in the High Atlas

Im now back in Marrekesh waiting for my software. I feel thourghly refreshed after the calm of the mountains and am enjoiying the relative warmth of Marrekesh. 17 to 18 degrees in the day and a little above freezing at night.

Ive met a thuorghly nice Morrocan guy who has introduced me to his family and fed me generously. Plus there are always new faces at the hostel Im staying at.
So things are ok at the moment but Im itching to get my software and push on south to Muaritania.

The view from my window across Imlil the High Atlas


The view from the top of a moutain I strugeled to climb in the thin air and snow

Some strange rock formations the High Atlas

Oh nearly forgot to talk about my arduous journey to Marrakesh. After feeling rough in Rabat I foolishly thought I was well enough to travel. But it being Eid the trains were packed and I mean really packed so that people were squashed up against windows and put on intimate terms: I witnessed many colourful arguments which arose in the cramped tense atmosphere but always seemed to end in laughter. All in all it was certainly an experience but one I couldn’t really appreciate as my flue like suffering became painful diarrhoea which made the journey very long indeed. This kept me from eating and detained me with bowel problems for the next day. I feel healthy now and am very much looking forward to what will happen next as I have no idea, which for me is the joy of travelling, the unknown. So till next time ...

Sickness in the capital

Busker with twirling hat piece within the ancient walls of Rabat’s Kasbah

This door also in the Kasbah has many tools adorning it reflecting the ever present making of crafts

Sorry I haven’t written in a while. I got some virus while in Rabat and was out of action for a few days. I think I’ve been going at it a bit too hard and have mentally and physically worn myself out. After recovering from my illness, a horrible flue like thing followed by stomach problems, I felt quite low and sick of trying to film and write and the like. It’s taken a few days of taking it slow to pick myself up and find the mental energy to carry on.


Rabat is a nice place a bit quieter after the madness that is Fez. It’s orderly and clean although has some very dirty bars which I managed to get on film and will put up as soon as I’ve got the software to do it. Which has been another problem, but hopefully I’m going to get my mum to post the original CD to me.


On the plus side I got my Mauritanian visa without fuss. I bet most people don’t even know where the country is, it being such an obscure place. It’s the next country down from Morocco and fills me with excitement and foreboding. To get across the country will mean crossing some very remote and vast expanses of desert the Sahara no less, and then on to mysterious Mali and the fabled city of Timbuktu. I can’t wait.

Beautifull coulerfull crafts in the artisan quarter Rabat

In the next exciting enstalment of one man travel plan: The Exciting Vibrant city of Marakesh