In spite of all the recommendations to steer clear of Mopti as much as possible and linger there only for as long as strictly necessary, I decided to devote one whole day to it. The saying went around like the town was simply too corrupted by the unchecked influx of western-oriented tourism, which in its wake sucked in all sorts of dubious characters who both tainted the soul of the real Mopti and rendered the stay there nearly unbearable at times. Like whichever way you went you were tailed by swarms of seedy types whose most unselfish achievement bordered on chasing away the others who might cash in on you instead of themselves. OK, nobody said that in as many words, but a growing number of tourists allegedly chose to stay over in the much quieter Sévaré for precisely that reason.
I couldn’t say I knew Mopti much, but I’d already walked around, even after it’d grown pitch dark, and I couldn’t say the town came across as particularly dangerous to me. Not any more than any of the places I’d been to before in West Africa. And they all felt perfectly safe. True, there was an odd attempt to sell me on this or that, but nothing on the feared scale and most certainly nothing I couldn’t easily handle. If a polite „no“ didn’t work, a bit of a growling and a stern approach did the job just fine. For no matter how pestering touts and „agents“ may be, they were all invariably friendly. They must’ve long ago cottoned on to the truth that if they were to stand any chance with any westerner on any score, they had to be polite. So all considered, Mopti was much more pleasant so far than it was cracked up to be.
My day started off with a breakfast, just as usual. Ibrahima was there, friendly as ever, and as eager to develop our friendship as possible. He made sure to bear me company throughout the meal. Morning in Mopti was kind of fresh, rather cloudy, and tired as I was after a few exhausting days, it pretty much suited me to get in the working gear only by degrees. I enjoyed the temperature which was still hovering only around 20°C, or even a tad below, while I could. Ibrahima kept his jacket on for it was too cool for his liking. Later on, sun would inevitably climb up and temperature would rise. That would be the part of the day for Ibrahima to come into his own, and I would start suffering. But right now it really felt good.
It wasn’t like the two of us discussed with much fluency basic tenets of human existence and the general direction the world was heading to. It was more like part English, part French and part sign language. With sign language having at most times a tendency to comfortably prevail over the other two. But we had an excellent and friendly chat nevertheless from which I left a bit richer in my knowledge of French, for Ibrahima taught me the conjugation of the verb „devoir“. He seemed to immensely enjoy himself at it and we eventually vigorously shook hands and exchanged telephone numbers. I was not entirely sure how we would talk if any of us ever got to ringing the other one up, but Ibrahima insisted on having mine, so I wouldn’t spoil his fun and gave it to him.
And then it was time to start my sightseeing.
„Le Fleuve“ hotel which I was staying in was just a stone throw away from the Bani river and Boulevard de l’Indépendance that ran alongside of it. It was probably the most significant street in the new part of town and whoever has any business anywhere in Mopti, they have to walk at least part of the way up or down the Boulevard de l’Indépendance. Unless they really make it a point not to. As I saw no reason to make such points – or any points, for that matter – I naturally headed down to the river followed by greetings from both friendly kids and adults who happened to find themselves where I was passing by. Kids played in the dust and adults mostly just goofed off, sitting around and shooting the breeze, only sometimes under pretence of selling stuff at the same time in the makeshift shops by the roadside.
And Bani riverbank was the scene of the busiest show one could imagine this early in the morning. The crowd had already gathered in numbers as if they were expecting a football match to kick off any time there. However, the crowd was only a part of it. There were pirogues and pinasses, bringing and taking passengers, but also lorries, four-by-fours and motor-bikes right there in the river, up to the half of their wheels, taking their morning bath as it were. I didn’t have an impression that those vehicles contributed excessively to the purity and cleanliness of the river, but that didn’t bother much the women who were doing their laundry alongside mechanical friends, or men catching fish which vigorously and happily flipped their fins among the immersed wheels and axles.
Well, as I wasn’t going to end up eating it in any possible event, I regarded it with a mere curiosity. Those who were, well, I wished them luck.
The whole spectacle was quite engrossing, so I took my time. Some people were also only picnicking there, having spread something – difficult to term those things as blankets since they now only resembled such articles, whatever they may have been in the distant past – on the ground, and making themselves comfortable and cosy amidst that bustle. An odd stray mongrel lazily watched the whole event with half interest at best, mostly just lying there, usually hardly motivated to as much as pop an ear. It could’ve been the most unusual day as usual as I had witnessed so far.
Opposite side of the Boulevard de l’Indépendance was in a way as busy and enchanting as this riverbank. At regular intervals side streets branched off the Boulevard de l’Indépendance, away from the river, and they might have been narrow and just a collection of shabby tin shacks. But they were every bit as vibrant and alive with commerce and social life as the other side right by the river. Motor bikes and bicycles were the vehicles of choice on this side. I mean, those terrain cars were simply too big for those little alleys even if they had been dying to go there. Well, instead of four-by-fours, you could see goats as prominent leaders among the equals of assorted free-roaming domestic animals.
This part of Mopti was in fact the New Town. Which, by extension, means there should be the old part, as well. Actually, Mopti is a three-island settlement sitting at the confluence of the Niger and Bani rivers. Once upon a time those islands were separated by water, as islands should be, but it’s been quite some time since the water between them was filled in, and now you don’t need to swim or row to hop from one to another. Each one of them kind of retains its unique character and you can clearly tell the difference. But today they all make up one and the same town, and are only called their own different names, the New Town, the Old Town and Medina Coura.
Most of the tourists seldom venture out of the New Town. That’s where most of the hotels are, where restaurants are, travel agencies and boats, and usually most of the foreigners find little of interest further from this part. The sole notable exception is one of the few true Mopti landmarks, the Sahel-style Grand Mosque, or Misire Mosquée, at the western tip of the Old Town island. It means it’s the first thing you come up to when you pass by the Water Tower, down the Avenue de l’Indépendance, and enter the Old Town. But as elsewhere in Mali, Grand Mosque is off-limits to non-Muslims, and the best you can do is take your pictures from outside. They say you can buy yourself a good view from a spot on a nearby rooftop, but I didn’t go for that. I didn’t deem it that important.
Yes, there was a difference in the Old Town. Not so much in the architecture. But the life was different. It was kind of real, not in the least tourist-oriented. I did draw people’s attention, but for entirely different reasons than back in the New Town. They merely watched me with curiosity. Those bolder ones would say hello and I would greet them back. And those most courageous even occasionally asked to have their picture taken, which I duly obliged.
If it was possible, and it was, this part of town was dirtier and shabbier than the new one. There were more animals in the streets. There was more waste – often in piles – strewn around, particularly in side-streets and back alleys. And I made sure to have a peak in at least a few. After all, that was also a part of true Mopti and I was determined to see it. Particularly in those narrow passages going out onto the water, the living conditions of locals were outright dismal. Kids were playing and donkeys picking food on heaps of garbage, unapologetically growing right among the cluster of straw huts that obviously served as dwellings for at least some of them. Those less desperate lived in low, cramped mud houses. Open channels should have served the purpose of evacuating the sewage effluent from neighbourhoods, but to me they basically looked stale all the time. And even if they did what they’d been dug out for when I turned my back on them, it all spilled merely a hundred metres farther off into the same river where those people did their laundry, washed their dishes, and themselves, and caught their fish.
It reeked heavily. And yet, people were friendly, and even there some of them, mostly kids, asked me for a picture.
Just a block away, back on the Avenue de l’Indépendance, things looked better. Of course, it was all still Africa, but not that hopelessly way below any visible poverty line. Next to those poorest of the poor, people along the main avenue did resemble a life in civilisation. There were shops there, there were boutiques, and even video clubs. There was a school and cars. True, they were not as affluent as the folks in the New Town, but they only had to have a peek round the corner at those in the side alleys towards the river to feel well off.
In one of the tiny shops I stopped by to buy myself something to drink. The cloud cover up in the sky began to tear apart and sun was taking over the game at full pelt. Good old Ibrahima back in the „Le Fleuve“ hotel must have felt much more comfortable by now. And the more comfortable he felt, the harder it was all on me.
While I was inside the shop, three teenage girls came along, and whatever they had had in mind originally, it had now taken the back seat to their delight upon seeing me there. Without much ado, and with no hesitation, they accosted me and loudly started asking me to buy them a „cadeau“.
At first, I was quite amused. They did their best to corner me, but their boisterous bursts of laughter whenever I „didn’t understand“ what they wanted from me was a fair trade-off in terms of fun. The shop owner was most certainly entertained himself, as well. I had a hunch that he secretly cheered on the girls, for every successful completion of their friendly undertaking to ease the weight of my pocket by relieving me of some of my money would implicitly mean additional turnover for his little business. However, he prudently kept at the sidelines since a true businessman must be well prepared for every outcome of the market fluctuations. He couldn’t know yet for sure which of the forces would eventually prevail, so understandably he wanted to stay on the best of terms with both parties.
At one point I finally let on that I did understand what the young ladies wanted from me. That provoked much joy and happiness, and now the girls proceeded to the phase two of the whole enterprise by advancing some concrete suggestions as to what the „cadeau“, i.e. my present to them, might best consist of. They showed admirable creativity, picking all sorts of articles, sweets, shampoos and what have you, and pushing them under my nose with laughter, so that it would help me decide what best to settle for. However, I had an ace up my sleeve, which they didn’t expect.
My French was bad. I had started toying with an idea of studying it up as something told me this might not be my last visit to these parts. Or at least to Francophone Africa in general. But that was a ways off into the future yet. Right now it was still in a dismal state. However, while they were on about what forms and shapes a possible „cadeau“ might adopt in this particular instance, I came up with a well-rehearsed sentence which Ibrahima had helped me put together in the morning at breakfast, and which now clearly caught them off-guard:
„Dans mon pays, si je te donne quelque chose, tu dois donner quelque chose à moi, aussi.“
It should have translated as „in my country, if I give you something, you must give something to me, as well“. I was not sure if it was grammatically impeccable, but the message it delivered was clear. It stopped all three girls in their tracks. Their laughter subsided and they took it very seriously. After a while one of them asked me what I wanted.
I was all like „Je ne sais pas. Qu’est-ce que tu as?“ It should have meant „I don’t know, what do you have?“ Well, again I was not sure if my delivery was foolproof, but the young ladies caught my drift just fine. Now quite serious, they started debating something among themselves in French, probably along the lines of what could please the foreigner best, so they would eventually get their „cadeau“. In the meantime, I settled my bill for the bottles and opened the door to leave. Alarmed, they grabbed me by the sleeve of my T-shirt and asked again what I wanted. But I managed to tear myself loose, switched back to English, saying „think about it and let me know“, grinned and left with a wave of my hand.
Just a block away there was an intersection where a dusty side street crossed the paved Avenue de l’Indépendance. Or the other way around. Anyhow, just some way off from the intersection there was this fine mosque, not really Sahel-style but rather a modern thing, but pretty just the same. And at the street corner itself, a few guys were taking it slow and easy, sitting next to an enclosure out of shaky poles for a cow and two goats, and seriously discussing the future of the world and other essential topics. As soon as they saw me, they greeted me in a most friendly manner and next thing I knew, I was sitting there with them, shaking hands all around and drinking my coke. It didn’t really matter that we couldn’t understand the fine nuances of each other’s contribution to the general course of the discussion. Or hardly anything at all, more to the point. We nevertheless rapidly grew to become best of friends. That’s how easy it was.
By now, I was quite tired of my long walk and felt a short break would do me good. So why not stop by with this friendly lot?
Then after a while, it was time to move on again. In fact, I didn’t have a clear idea how far I would go. „Lonely Planet“ city maps are just a make-do stuff which serves its purpose because you usually don’t have anything better on hand. They are never comprehensive, and while at most times the information they give you is quite sufficient, occasionally you wish there was more. Like now.
I understood that the „Lonely Planet“ Mopti map most certainly included everything worth seeing in town. I was confident that they had not left out anything of sightseeing interest. But roaming the streets apparently aimlessly, like I was doing now, not in search of any landmarks but just experiencing local life first-hand, could take you beyond the limits of the „Lonely Planet“ map. And that might entail some uncalled-for adventures in the shape of getting lost. Well, that far I wasn’t prepared to go.
So when after some time I found myself in front of the city football stadium, I decided to have a look and then turn back. That was about as far as what I could with reliable certainty still consider a charted territory.
Miraculously, or maybe quite ubiquitously for Africa, the stadium was wide open. So I entered, climbed the terraces and found myself, all on my own, in the shade of the roof cover. The edifice had been built, as I had been told yesterday, for the African Cup of Nations, staged in Mali in 2002. Mopti had hosted a few games in the event. But this stadium had already started showing signs of neglect and disrepair. The way it was now, it would at best make it into Croatian first division, as just one of the venues, not more than that. National team, or even later-stage international club fixtures, would hardly get a pass to play there.
But for me it was a spot of rare delight. Because in Mopti it’s almost impossible to find a location for yourself outside the confines of your hotel room where nobody would be on at you and you’d rather be left alone. Unexpectedly though, I found a moment of my peace there, taking my rest before shortly thereafter I would head back to the commercial centre, the New Town, over there by the Bani river.
On the whole, I could say that people of the Old Town were very friendly and communicative, eager to talk even if they didn’t speak English, and some girls were stunningly pretty. Along the way, just for fun, I would occasionally wink at some and it seemed to make one or two quite happy. That’s how life could be pretty as a consequence of simple little joys. And they talked of global recession and similar loads of tosh over there in the white world. Could anything be less important than that swill? I mean, really? Why don’t they just have a peek, as I had, in places like this, where poverty is so alarming that you either refuse to believe it or outright blank it? And yet, miraculously, people smile here. All the time.
And then I started working my way back. However, I didn’t retrace my steps on Avenue de l’Indépendance. Instead, I decided to take a different road, along the opposite end of the island the Old Town was on. I figured I would come up to the Misire Mosquée from the other side and another angle, and thus acquire myself an even more comprehensive picture of what “real” Mopti was. If that was my goal, then it was accomplished with success. But along the way I only witnessed some more of an even more shocking poverty. At certain places, unless your stomach was really in a good shape, you were best advised not to go.
Fortunately, by now I was used to the fact that not all of the earth was Europe and I was immune to things called cultural shocks. But one thing was for certain. Mopti Old Town was decidedly not for the faint-hearted. And not for those who never travel independently.
Eventually I returned to Misire Mosquée and Avenue de l’Indépendance. And there, just before I was to cross back into the New Town, I ran into the Portuguese couple from Djenné the day before. We stopped for a few minutes and had a friendly chat, as it is most usual on such occasions. They asked me where I was coming from and I told them I had just visited the Old Town.
„We want to go there now, too. What is it like?“ they asked me.
„Well, if you don’t mind poverty and dirt, I can say it’s really interesting,“ I offered.
Of course, we were all going to Tombouctou tomorrow. And that was all. We wished each other a great time, safe trip and continued each in pursuit of our own goals.
Maybe two hundred metres farther off, I met two more of those instant friends you make fast on such trips. This time those were Katrin and Lea. They too seemed to be heading off to the Old Town. We smiled at each other, waved to each other and then again I was on my way.
When I crossed back into the New Town, I realised I was hungry. Guele, the guy through whom I had arranged transport to and everything else around Tombouctou, had promised to come at three for the pirogue ride. I had a good hour until then. So I decided to have a lunch. „Sigui“ restaurant was a place recommended as the best eatery in town, and as it was on my way back to the hotel where Guele had promised to meet me, I saw no reason why not eat right there. You enter the „Sigui“ right from the Boulevard de l’Indépendance and find yourself in a lovely gravel-covered yard. Or garden. Even if you’d by definition expect garden to somehow include grass and at least some free-standing specimens belonging to plant life. The thing is, in terms of greenery, this one was comfortably lagging behind surfaces called jungle. It leaned more towards being called an anteroom to Sahara. Were it not for a hedge row along its low walls and a few trees that created some shade, that is.
Anyway, there were few rough and wobbly tables in the garden, some wooden, some metal, and at one of them two guys were sitting, having just started their lunch. One was a white tourist like me, and the other a local, probably a guide. The white guy greeted me bang off, which he probably wouldn’t do back home, but here standards and rules of conduct were different. It turned out he was from Belgium, going around by name of Johann, and as probably everybody else, heading up north to Tombouctou next morning. Obviously, I was witnessing – and being party to – a migration movement on a large scale in progress inside Mali.
„Sigui“ restaurant had a shaded terrace, too, which you get to by way of stairs, and I decided to have my lunch up there. By now, sun was already high up and doing what it does best – torturing western tourists in Africa and offering them a glimpse into advantages of being a meatloaf in an oven. In climates like sub-Saharan, at least during the day, you do occasionally need a respite and my lunch gave me a good opportunity for one more.
From up there in the shadow, I was just taking it easy and enjoying my downtime. This apparently being a time of prayer, some people produced rugs, spread them right on the ground and knelt down in prayer. Others went about their own business, either being too busy to observe the prayer time right now – maybe like my waiter – or simply less particular about practicing their religion. And I watched with interest.
I returned to the hotel comfortably on time and under no pressure at all. I didn’t know how punctual Guele would be. After all, we were in Africa. But you can’t change your nature, particularly not overnight. So I made sure to be back in my hotel room pressure-free some time before three. Just in case.
And miraculously enough, just a few minutes after three, Guele and a companion of his turned up on my door.
„Ready?“ he asked.
Once again, considering that this was Africa, it was easily right there with any Swiss punctuality. I was impressed.
And yes, I was ready.
We didn’t go far. Same as in the morning, just over to the Bani river. With a difference that Guele deemed it necessary this afternoon to get me there by car. In price included. We got to the same spot where in the morning I saw all those assorted vehicles getting a wash. Now the vehicles were not there any more. Almost, that is. But laundry was still being washed, even if I couldn’t swear that the same women were still doing it. Probably not.
I saw Johann the Belgian again, we exchanged another friendly greeting and then Guele led me to one of the pirogues. The ride was going to cost me 10000 CFA francs. Guele pocketed half of it on the spot and added:
„Give the rest to the man when you return.“
The „man“ in question was another guide, who was coming along with me. Not the pirogue poler himself. So I inferred that the ride itself cost probably not more than 5000 CFA francs and the rest was Guele’s profit margin. But then again, I also realised that no matter how I tried, I would have probably not been able to negotiate the arrangement for any less than I had. And no matter through whom I went. So I refused to lose any sleep over that. Instead, I decided to take it easy and enjoy myself.
I had expressed a wish to spend some three hours on the river and possibly see the sunset from a pirogue. Guele had said „no problem“ and it was my understanding that I had such an arrangement. The poler, who took his son along, spoke absolutely no English. The kid, who may have been around ten years old, spoke even less. The guide spoke some, though.
The whole affair was so conceived that they first took me to the nearest island village, the one easily visible from the opposite side of the Bani river, the Mopti side, that is. The villagers were camera friendly, or at least positively indifferent towards being photographed. That said a lot. Like that tourists were a common sight for them and someone must have explained to them that not being camera shy would eventually help them get a slice of the money pie. My guide indicated as much, as well. But we didn’t disembark. We just slowly glided along the bank, so that I could take all the pictures undisturbed, or simply relax if I chose so.
After that, we went around the island and reached the confluence of the Niger and Bani rivers. There was not much by way of the water traffic. Just one or two fishing pinasses, one or two pirogues and that was all.
From the Niger we reached another island and there we disembarked. I was told that some Tuaregs had a camp there, whether permanent or not, I could not tell, but it was our next station. We would go up, the guide and I, and I could have a look at the „genuine“ Tuareg fishing village for myself. Well, how genuine it really was, remains open to debate. If nothing else, even if I am by no means an expert on Tuaregs, I wondered how natural fishing came to those people. I mean, what little I knew about them, it was always about deserts, camels and caravans. But fishing? I said as much to my guide. But he coolly reassured me that the Tuareg were excellent fishermen, too. Well, not entirely convinced, I still knew I would be on a shaky ground if I pressed the issue any further, so I left it off right there.
Anyway, up on the island, in a pretty deserted-looking village, we were received by a Tuareg woman, carrying a bundle of cloth in her hands. She was all like „I am sorry.“ I understood she was on about something and „I am sorry“ actually meant „I beg your pardon“. Like she was preparing a prank on me. I realised this was not happening for the first time and I was inclined to believe that almost every tourist who got there underwent the same treatment. So I abandoned myself to her, which after a minute or two ended with her wrapping me all up like a Touareg, turban included. With this new attire on, I was now allowed to have myself photographed. The guide happily obliged.
After I was entertained in such a way and hopefully mollified for some possible consequent parting with my dosh, they took me to a small shop full of Tuareg souvenirs and assorted trinkets. However, I was staunchly guarding access to my wallet and relentlessly fending off any charge that would put its integrity in jeopardy. My purpose was to no little extent aided by the fact that there was not a single item on display to even mildly arouse my interest. So I just bought a coke and we left the village.
Back in the pirogue and afloat again, we returned to the Bani and glided along some more island villages. They were all pretty similar, even if for someone who was seeing them for the first time they all still looked very interesting. With only notable difference that this was no mainland and people were restricted in their movements by the fact that they were surrounded by water, in essence the whole thing pretty much resembled everything on the Mopti side. Women were either doing laundry or washing dishes, kids were occasionally having a dip in the river and men were either fishing or mending nets.
„Do the kids from here go to school?“ I asked the guide.
„Yes, they do. But usually, if they finish school, it’s only a primary school.“
„But they have no electricity on the islands, do they?“
„They have no electricity,“ the guide confirmed.
I wondered how much the situation on one such island would improve with time if at least some of the kids would make it to, say, the end of the secondary school. A bit more advanced education would certainly broaden their understanding of life and in a few years they were going to take over anyway. Well, that kind of question remained unanswered. At least for me.
And so, on we went until eventually we arrived at another island where we were to disembark again. It was another fishing village, and the only difference to what I had seen before was that they had a mosque there. So we went ashore, passed by some straw huts and entered a cluster of low mud brick houses. In the middle of it all was a small size version of Misire Mosquée. Some kids and women were beating milk into butter with long, thick poles inside massive wooden vessels. Some men were mending – or weaving – nets against the background of some local music from a tape recorder connected to a car battery. So in a way, there was electricity in the village after all. Only, not from a power grid.
Anyway, everyone went about their own business, hardly paying any attention to the two of us. It felt as if they were simply suffering yet another foreigner in their midst only for the sake of a few francs they would get some way off down the line. We wandered around a bit and maybe ten or fifteen minutes later returned to our pirogue. Thereby my ride effectively came to its close.
Except not quite, of course. We had yet to cross back to the town side of the Bani river. And at the lazy pace that our poler was going about this business, it took him over twenty minutes to complete the action. Shortly before the sunset, with the sky again rather cloudy, I ended my afternoon on the river.
And then there was one more thing left to do.
I had to visit Guele in his office so he would give me the final info on the trip to Tombouctou the next morning. When I got there, I saw Lea and Katrin who had their sleeping quarters in the same block and were now taking it easy in the yard before they would retreat to their rooms. We had a small chat, basically informing each other on what we had been doing during the day. While we were at it, Guele himself arrived. By his account, everything was in order. He was still looking for a confirmation from another person whether they would join us or not, since he planned to have four passengers, but as far as we were concerned, who was going to be the fourth one was of less significance.
“What time do we leave?” I asked.
“Four o’clock,” he said.
Well, it was going to be a long and taxing day, by the looks of it. But, wasn’t I paying exactly for that or not?
