Koro Mali: I don't know who designed this "toilet" arrangement, but the duty holes are on either side of the two foot pads. I tried to imagine how one might do serious business with this arrangement without being a contortionist. 

Koro Mali: One of the several shopping clusters found around town. I did discover a hotel here, but use your imagination and project from this picture to get an idea what I saw when I checked it out. For a while it looked like I'd be forced to spend the night in this delightful squalor.

Koro Mali: Mosque building demonstrates the unusual architecture commonly found in this region for important buildings. Most of the others were constructed of sticks and thatch, often patched with plastic scraps and metal scraps.

Hello from near Timbuktu,

I'm in Mopti Mali, as near as I'm going to get to Timbuktu. Day before yesterday a convoy of 4X4's ran into some bandits on the track to Timbuktu and two German tourists are dead. Yesterday another local in the same area as the previous attack also got shot dead. 

The last time I sent a real postcard with pictures I think I was in Sokode Togo. Since then I've been to Dapaong Togo, Ouagadougou Berkina Faso, Oauhigouya Berkina Faso, and now here in Sevara-Mopti Mali. I leave for Bamako tomorrow... an 11-12 hour bus trip I'm told.

I've been unwell for the past 10 days; lower G.I. track distress and at one point became seriously dehydrated... kidneys stopped doing anything! Another traveler says amoeba infections are common in west Africa and you may be sure that Escherichia coli lurks in every nook and cranny of this part of the world where people take care of their evacuation needs in the most casual ways. I'm taking one course of the CIPRO I have with me hoping whatever ails me is bacteria. I'm now 3 pills into the 6, and the distress is better. At least I'll be protected from Anthrax in any of the mail I open for a while even if it doesn't kill what ever else is eating at my guts.

This Internet cafe is slow and unreliable... and expensive ($8/hr) so I'm quitting. More later when I get into some real civilization. I see I again lost my connection to the ISP! Hope I can get this out before the dust gets me. I don't know how people handle breathing so much dust. It's killing me.

Peace for now,

Fred Bellomy 26 October 2001

Postcard from Mali + pictures

Hello from quite remote,

The previous brief postcard from Mopti Mali omitted pictures as well as most of my observations while in that little river town. Since I sent it I've found more friendly Internet services and have had time to get a few more thoughts about Mali committed to cyberspace.

The day I entered Mali started in OUAHIGOUYA, a small town in the northwest of Berkina Faso. The Mali border post in Koro is several kilometers beyond the actual border itself. I had the feeling I might have been the first foreigner with a non-African passport the immigration officer had encountered since being assigned to this dusty, desolate part of the country. For ten minutes he studied every page like a geography text, asking me questions (in French) every now and then. Finally, he called his superior who dismissed the other officer's concerns with a wave of his hand and the first officer stamped the entry information into the passport.

As I walked the several blocks into the village looking for onward transportation, several young men tried to be helpful. Under these circumstances I usually correctly assume such people are touts hired to entice passengers to their employer's inferior vehicles. These guys however were actually trying to help the obviously rare white traveler.

As I wandered the two square blocks that constituted the town I discovered the unusual architecture of the only decent building it had: the mosque. The few other adobe buildings looked sad, but were people's homes as best I could determine. Perhaps a dozen old cars sat scattered around the main square. Smells of food cooking seemed out of place next to the odors of urine here and there. A couple stray dogs patrolled silently; dogs almost never bark anywhere in the Africa I've visited. Several kids chased one another noisily. Other people lazed in the shade to avoid the hot mid-day sun. I saw nothing that looked like an actual bus station, though several "refreshment" stands offering Coca-Cola and a variety of local foods seemed to suggest I had found the center of town.

Eventually I stumbled onto the only cluster of bush-taxis available in the village and started the process of trying to negotiate two front seats in one of the three dilapidated station wagons assembled there.

About ten other people were loitering around the area, apparently waiting for a ride. The lackadaisical dispatcher first tried to interest me in hiring the exclusive use of a car. After some misunderstanding, I made him understand my preferences and he offered me one of the "two" front seats in the next scheduled station wagon. The other front seat space had already been sold to a large man and no way would he and I and my bag all fit comfortably in that small area with the driver. With gestures, the dispatcher let me know he could care less and went back to his paperwork.

As there were barely enough people for one trip today, it began to look like I might be stuck here for the night. One of the kids hanging around the area pointed out the nearby location of the only hotel in town and off I jogged to check it out.

The building sat in the middle of a dusty bare dirt lot and looked nothing like any hotel I'd ever seen before. Constructed of adobe mud bricks, I could see no signs of electricity. Inside the dark lobby things were cleaner than I'd expected, the rates were only 5000 CFA (about $7) and the place had a bar. The tiny room the receptionist showed me had a bed, a bucket of water (lord knows for what), and an electric light bulb hanging from the ceiling, a tiny storage chest and nothing else. The light would have power later in the evening the proprietor assured me in limited English. I thanked him for showing me the room and said I'd be back if I didn't get a ride onward. There must have been some sort of toilet facilities, but I had a pretty good idea what it would be from my prior encounter with another outhouse near the bush-taxi depot (see the picture!).

Back to the taxi stand I trotted, now motivated to take any transportation out of this place that might be available and as soon as possible. The dispatcher acknowledged my agreement and indicated for me to sit down and wait with the rest of the supplicants. Front seats usually are assigned to well dressed older women first, then well dressed young women, then old men, in that order of preference... unless there is a white foreigner expressing a preference for a front seat. I rarely got stuffed into one of the over crowded back seats of any vehicle. I imagine most of the blacks were just as happy to be separated from my smelly foreign body odors. Even daily showers complete with deodorant soap scrubbings could not prevent me from smelling like a locker room after I'd been sweating profusely for a few hours in the sweltering heat.

About an hour later the dispatcher indicated another station wagon that had arrived and said he could sell me two front seats in it. Expecting this vehicle would be the second to go some hours after the first one filled, I paid my 10000 CFA fare and got into the front seats to establish possession. To my great surprise and relief, many of the waiting people soon piled into our car and we were off almost immediately.

The dusty roads presented an obstacle course to the driver and he weaved back and forth to avoid the many potholes, often driving completely off the road itself. At one point he stopped at a police station and seemed to be asking directions. When he returned to the car he checked with the other passengers who seemed to agree with some mysterious decision he'd made. As it turned out, they had decided to take a "short cut" through one of the national parks that runs through Dogan country because the roads were partially paved through the park. The scenery included unusual geological formations on either side of a deep rift, cliffside cave dwellings, many unique villages and examples of terraced farming practiced by people in this rocky region. I felt like a tourist on an expensive travel package. The others in the car excitedly pointed out special features as we passed them along the way. Of course, their French descriptions meant little to me, though I tried to react with animated appreciation each time.

Peace,

Fred Bellomy 26 October 2001

Mopti Mali: One of the long haul passenger boats that take some of the most adventurous (young) foreign tourists down the river to Timbuktu, a three day trip.

Mopti Mali: Interesting architecture of our lodge, the Hotel Kanago. It is typical of many "modern" buildings in Mopti.

During my brief walk outside the motel complex that evening I found numerous touts anxious to sell me various forms of transport to Timbuktu the next day. Most spoke very little English and I got almost no useful information. I did learn that the nearby river town, Mopti is much larger and might offer more agreeable accommodations.

The next day after a typical breakfast of coffee, bread and butter I managed to hitch a ride into Mopti, a distance of about 15 km. Here, the touts were thicker and more persistent than in any other West African town I'd visited. One guy refused to be discouraged and dogged my every step for ten minutes. Finally, I walked over to a traffic cop and indicated I felt harassed by this guy. As I left the guy seemed to be arguing with the cop who had spoken sternly to him.

Several people had mentioned the Hotel Kanago (33,000 CFA about $48) being the best in town and I had a cab drive me over to it. Located across the street from the river, it turned out to be an island of civilization in this otherwise primitive land. The hotel's "reception desk" sat outside under a patio umbrella near the pool, very practical in this sweltering heat. The rooms all had blissful air conditioning... and several friendly lizards.

As best I could determine, tourists are the main source of income for the town and our hotel the main stopping point for the many groups headed for Timbuktu. Luxury mini-vans filled the parking lot every night. Hustlers, touts and beggars buzzed around the periphery of the property ready to pounce on any hapless tourist who ventured out of the protective hotel enclosure.

One particularly brazen beggar riding a special tricycle for the disabled, made frequent forays into the parking lot to start his pleading. On one occasion, he followed me out of the parking lot and down the street for several blocks, before finally yielding to my refusal to give him anything with the angry retort "I'll be back!" And back he was. Several times during my three hour walk this guy would appear out of nowhere restarting his pleading in mostly French, sticking close, blocking my way until I managed to go where his trike couldn't follow. Back at the hotel I asked if the hotel encouraged such irritating behavior. "Absolutely not!" they replied and proceeded to give the guy a stern lecture as he parked on their lot. "He won't bother you anymore." they assured me. And, he didn't. But I saw him talking to a number of locals along the street where I had to walk to get into town and it seemed like I met with increased hostility in that area during the following days.

The river road is full of life and picturesque. Hawkers yell out the virtues of their produce. Groups of ladies huddle around a newly displayed piles of fish, excitedly selecting the fixings for the next family dinner. Long skinny boats stand near the concrete banks of the river while others move slowly as men pole them against the gentle current. I saw only one boat with sails. At specific points, groups of ladies pound piles of soapy clothing and rinse them in the river water before laying them on bushes or the ground to dry. Most work bare breasted. I make a point of not staring.

The single cyber cafe in town has one old terminal, poor connections with an ISP in Bamako and wants $6.75/hr. I'll wait for better facilities to file my next report.

Some of the kids begging for money reach out to tug on my sleeve. Instinctively, I move my arm away by raising my hand and the kids draw back like I have just threatened to hit them. I've seen this behavior in many places throughout West Africa. Makes me think the kids must actually get hit a lot.

It is so hot and dry in this region that cold soft drink bottles don't sweat. Washed clothes dry in an hour. I see people sucking water out of clear plastic bags all day long. I drink 2-4 liters of bottled water every day myself and still get dehydrated. At one point my kidneys slowed to a trickle for about one full day. Guessing at my dehydrated state and possibly inadequate salt intake, I licked up a pinch of salt and started the flow again almost immediately, amazing.

Most tourists get up to Timbuktu in one of the many 4-wheel drive vehicle caravans that make the 6-hour journey everyday. (The locals call 4 by 4's Quat-Quats.) Some take the weekly 3-day $75 steamboat down the river and other adventuresome souls spend the same amount of time on board one of the small $15-$40 boats to get there. One young couple with whom I spoke said the trip wasn't too bad; they slept and ate on the boat and used a tiny enclosure on the back of the boat for toilet duties directly into the river. Thinking of dealing with my contact lenses, I quickly put the notion out of mind and started making enquiries about joining one of the overland caravans.

Prices seem to be tailored to the affluence of the traveler as I heard fees ranging from $15 to $300 per person for trips ranging from one-way transport only to three-day all-inclusive trips. As I negotiated with the hotel travel agent to join a group, reports started coming in that bandits had attacked a caravan the previous night and two people had been shot dead. On hearing this several other people staying at the hotel cancelled their plans to follow the same route. Later that same day another report arrived that there had been yet another murder in the same region as the earlier ones. That did it. I'll see Timbuktu in the next life.

Peace,

Fred Bellomy 26 October 2001

BAMAKO Mali: Typical street scene in this capital city. Note the dusty unpaved streets. The city had many monuments, but very few finished streets.

The bus to Bamako turns out to be reasonably comfortable, but a trip promised to take only 8 hours actually took 12. With all my African bus experience I should have expected as much. Each of my two seats cost about $10 for the 600km ride. We left Mopti at 10:00 and arrived in Bamako at 21:30. Several people had recommended the Mande Hotel on the river so I shared a cab with another American Peace Corps volunteer who wanted to go in the same direction. After 12 hours of asking my body to help me ignore the lower digestive distress with which I'd been coping for the last week and a half, almost any hotel would have been acceptable, so I took the room without even checking it out. I'd decided to start a course of treatment with Cipro, guessing my digestive problems could no doubt be traced back to interaction with all the casual sanitation with which I'd had to deal. The e-coli rascal topped my list of prime suspects and Cipro is an effective weapon against that as well as Anthrax and a host of other beasties.

My stay in Bamako was a series of one-night stands, every night a different hotel. I got bitten by at least one mosquito in every hotel. None of the three I tried really made me feel comfortable, mostly due to the fact that the city itself made me feel uncomfortable. Very few of the streets are paved and all are clogged with cars, trucks and pedestrians; lots of motorcycles, bikes and pushcarts moving in unpredictable directions. There were monuments at every major intersection; many still under construction, but I saw no road work anywhere.

Although I did try to walk the city as much as possible, the dust kept irritating my eyes making contact lenses almost impossible to tolerate. Pretty soon I just gave up. It occurs to me that most of the dust I have encountered throughout Africa results from too many people being crowded into too little space.

Internet access availability could have been better. Both of the two places I found were slow and expensive ($5.75/hr), so I did little work while in Bamako beyond getting out that brief first Postcard from Mopti.

Almost none of the cafes on the street came close to meeting my sanitation standards, so most meals came from the hotel kitchens. At one point, while checking out a bank complex I noticed a company cafeteria and asked if I could eat there. A nicely dressed bank employee told me in English I could. The rice and meat sauce, bread and a Coca-Cola cost $1.40. The kitchen did not look like it would have passed a California Health Department inspection, but being in the middle of taking Cipro made me feel invincible health wise. Besides, the concoction tasted delicious! The Cipro did seem to be doing its job and already I noticed some improvement in my lower abdominal symptoms.

The only rational way northwest out of Bamako to the Senegal is by train I learned. So, after only three days exploring the capital city I got a first class ticket ($16.60) and boarded the train for Keyes. We left at 09:40, the first class compartment crowded with second-class passengers. I say that because many were noisy, had scruffy bags/boxes of goods/cargo, threw trash on the floors and generally did not behave much like first class passengers. The compartment itself had seen better days: most of the seats now torn, floors dusty and windows clouded with dirt and dust. I am the only white on board. At one stop I actually got off the train to be sure I'd boarded the right car. I had. The second-class cars were worse.

Every manner of produce paraded below our windows, most of which I could not recognize: long skinny roots, big fat dirty roots, huge squash the size of basketballs, giant bamboo sprout-like bulbs which people eat both raw and cooked, smoked fish... Women and kids shouting "wasabay, wasabay" as they pass our always-open windows sell most of the stuff. The smoke from tiny cooking fires wafted in through the open windows at every stop reminding me of my mountain camping days.

At one point the train plunged through a grass fire burning across the tracks and the sudden increase in heat felt like an explosion. The smoke that followed made breathing difficult for a few minutes. One lady across the isle had four live chickens tied together by their feet. One got loose flying around the car as passengers tried to catch it. Another, possibly in a bid for clemency laid an egg on the floor.

All I had to eat or drink all day was 1.5 liters of mineral water, a stolen breakfast roll from my last hotel, 4 tiny bananas and a handful of unshelled peanuts purchased from a platform vendor at one of the train stops. As I carefully unshelled each nut to avoid touching it with my unwashed fingers before throwing it back into my mouth, people began watching the process with obvious amusement. At least one figured out from my actions and my limited French vocabulary the reason for my strange behavior and nodded approval. The others just snickered.

Vendors patrolled the cars offering drinks and food. One guy sold roasted meat; in my semi-starved condition it smelled heavenly. He served it on a torn piece of newspaper after deftly cutting it into bite sized pieces by holding the chunk meat in his left hand while the right worked a knife blade through each of his fingers until he had cut the large hunk of meat into smaller bite sized pieces. Wiping his greasy hand on a grubby rag, he made change with one hand from his pocket while balancing the rest of the meat with the other. I kept wondering when he had last visited a toilet and if he had bothered to track down some of the scarce water to wash his hands before all this intimate contact with the food. His customers appeared oblivious to any sanitation concerns.

Mile after mile we rolled, stopping at every tiny point of habitation to take on and let off passengers... and it seemed to give the vendors a chance to sell all kinds of stuff to women apparently doing their monthly grocery shopping on their long trip home.

The endless cramped trip begins to take its toll with the babies and some scream, others squeal, some laugh. A radio shouts some owner's idea of music; deep, throbbing, rhythmic. It is so hot and humid sweat dampens my notes smearing some of the writing beyond recognition. Mosquitoes swarm around our legs, occasionally pausing to take a bite.

Across the isle is a family with two children, a boy about two and a girl about three. The little boy kept looking at me. Finally, I returned his gaze and his mouth widened showing two rows of bright white teeth. I returned his "smile" and he immediately began screaming, his face contorted in terror. His parents smiled uncomfortably, but were not amused. They said something to the kid and threw a cloth up to shield his view of me. They kept talking to him as he repeated his terrified glimpses in my direction. Toward the end of the trip the father, who looked about as primitive in his native garb as any African I've seen, said something soothing to the kid. Shortly thereafter the kid "hexed" me... held up his right hand in my direction with the fingers pointing in awkward directions and looked menacingly at me. I've seen a lot of strange things in my life, but hey! This demon possessed kid looked scary! The father glanced contemptuously in my direction. Most African parents use encounters with my white skin to educate their children about races; not this guy. I'm curious what he told the child, what he himself believes.

Peace,

Fred Bellomy 29 October 2001

The thirteen hours to the end of the line in Keyes got us in after dark (22:40). The nearest hotel, appropriately named the Hotel de la Gare at first said they had no rooms; then later found one for me on the roof, overpriced at $26. It did have air conditioning and they sprayed for mosquitoes at my request. The receptionist suggested I have a beer while waiting for the room to be prepared. He walked me over to the hotel's patio bar and helped me order a tall Flag. As I sat sipping the beer a young woman in a tight skirt sauntered over to my table and asked in limited English: "You ask me sit down?" I indicated I didn't want company and she returned dejected to a table with three other equally charming ladies making some sounds like "Well, I tried" as she rejoined her group. I slept well that night, free of the digestive distress at last. 

After an early morning prison breakfast at the hotel, I started off walking in search of a bus station. Only one cluster of transportation vehicles exists in this minor town in the north-west corner of Mali, and the monarch presiding over the activity there insisted that everyone do things his way or not at all. A variety of run-down cars, mini-vans and buses came and went under the all seeing eye of the overlord. No one went anywhere without his authorization. Arguments erupted periodically between him and among waiting passengers and drivers. People tried to make separate deals with drivers only to be shouted at and browbeat into compliance with his rules (designed to insure he got his commission on every passage as best I could tell).

My special requirements of two comfortable front seats leaving sometime this century seemed to present King Recalcitrant with an irritating dilemma... or was it a lucrative opportunity? The only thing he could suggest required my hiring a private car at astronomical fees. I naturally declined and left the area to look for any other possibility that might get me to the border some 100 km away. I quickly learned I would have to deal with the people in the bush-taxi lot or nothing at all.

Back I went to more humbly consider all the options there. By now, my situation had attracted the attention of several drivers and a second dispatcher who began making inquiries for me. Eventually, another car arrived and he said I could have the one wide seat next to the driver in the front, if I were willing to pay for two seats and that the car would be leaving almost immediately. I agreed and jumped into the front seat squeezing next to my bag leaving barely enough of room for the driver to shift gears. There I sat while animated discussions raged among the King, the dispatcher, the driver and several would be passengers.

After about 15 minutes watching the commotion I got out of the car and started looking at some of the other vehicles that had recently pulled into the lot. Suddenly, all problems with our car were resolved; the driver hustled me back into the front seat and ordered FOUR guys into the back seat. They good-naturedly complied. I paid 10,000 CFA and they each paid 5,000 and appeared happy with the arrangements.

I'd been struggling with the process for over two hours, but we were off... well, not quite. The driver had to retrieve a spare tire being repaired nearby. Then, we did finally leave in a cloud of red dust that followed us all the way to the border. At one point an ominously deep wump-wump-wump announced a flat tire. Several passengers pitched in getting the tire changed and we were soon on our way again.

Peace,

Fred Bellomy 1 November 2001

PS: You might enjoy the IMF video: "The Fabric of Reform," a the story of real people, shot on location throughout Cote d’Ivoire, Mali and Cameroon, including in the storied city of Timbuktu. The music is African; the narration French.

PSS: As I sit here putting the final touches on this postcard, I am still mulling over the moving speech delivered by Tony Blair at the London Mayor's banquet last night (12 November 2001). What some of us have whispered among ourselves about the scourge of humanity, he echoed with the roar of his office and political stature: every influential religious moderate of every faith must disavow the violent extremist fringes preaching hatred under the cloak of religious piety. And, those of us enjoying the privileges of modern civilization must turn our creative attention to those members of humanity who remain stuck in envy and anger at the single minded greed of the "free market" industrialized world. "It is no longer acceptable for the moralists and the realists to continue in opposing camps." said Blair.

I hope the rest of the Western World heard his speech and carefully considers the ideas he so eloquently elaborated. It is time for statesmen to speak for all of humanity, rather than the exclusive best interests of their nations alone. FB 13 November 2001