SAND BOATS
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This week sees the start of my second visit to Mali, and I now post the last thing from my last visit to this amazing, culture rich country.
But a week into the three month stay in Mali, my first experience of West Africa, a short visit to a bar on the river side led to the discovery of the sand boats, pearing over the bar wall, I could see all the men diving, digging, swimming, washing and shifting sand. Daniel Charles, my accomplice, and I, were hooked on an idea!
Over the next six weeks our curiosity grew, as did our disire to learn more, and our persistance continued, untill Daniel and I found ourselves, one Friday evening, on a sand-boat with this humble, gracious man, Balla:
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Just to clarify, this wasn't to be some romantic cruise in the Med, stuck on the boat for up to two days, EVERYTHING would happen on that boat, the biggest concern, of course, being bodily functions. Popping an imodium, we left the shawline of the murky Nijer.
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With roughly a dozen empty boats lashed together, we began our journey upstream. Each vessel had one man, and they all elegantly hopped from boat to boat, bailing water and socialising. Not wanting to seem rude, joining in seamed like the best option. Although apparently it's humorous for a woman tobaboo (white person) to grab a bucket and start bailing out the water, it probably didn't help that I wasn't very good at it either!
The men, knowing the direction in which they were travelling all still found time to pray. The driver, seen standing, soon swapped places enabling him to pray too. A once hive of activity, the pontoon like structure of linked boats turned into a peaceful place to be, until the praying finished and the activity commenced once more.
With night time looming, a bed was set up for us.
With night time looming, a bed was set up for us.
As the darkness fell, our boat-host, began to settle down for the night, we all shared our food, and I discovered that Balla made the best food I have tried to date in Mali.
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Props to FCO for the map.
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Still not entirely sure in which direction we travelled, from the location of airports close to where we stopped, we either went into the Red Zone, or came close to the border, both being the most dangerous places to be in general, but even more on the river due to the Malian Police having no boats and the Niger (as seen above) taking us strait to Timbuktu, the heart of the Red Zone.
After eating, everyone settled, all sleeping, all
apart from Daniel and myself, our active imaginations and the clearest view of
the stars prevented us from sleeping through what is the daily work environment
for these guys.
Eventually drifting off, we were soon woken by the sudden deadly silence (after our ears adjusted to the noise of the diesel engine motoring us up the Niger), followed by a buzz of movement, the slapping of water on wood and humming of low voices.
Unable to capture what followed visually, my less than elegant string of descriptive words will have to suffice: In the dim starlight, the men once again elegantly leapt from boat to boat, untying the ropes that lashed them together, with minimal effort and noise, the pontoon once again became individuals, drifting away. Our host jumped out, able to just reach the sand bed with his toes, he gently pushed us into his desired position and forced the engine block-anchor sat on the bow is the boat over the side. We were soon surrounded by a constant pace of diving, scooping, pouring, and shifting. The mens wet skin looked like silver under the white star light. After a while the low level of sloshing sand and splashing dives was interrupted by shouting, still unsure, Daniel and I decided these shouts must be either to ward off crocs or bad spirits, or to warn or the above mentioned 'bodily functions' floating away downstream! This continued until all the boats were full, then like cherios in milk, they came back together.
Eventually drifting off, we were soon woken by the sudden deadly silence (after our ears adjusted to the noise of the diesel engine motoring us up the Niger), followed by a buzz of movement, the slapping of water on wood and humming of low voices.
Unable to capture what followed visually, my less than elegant string of descriptive words will have to suffice: In the dim starlight, the men once again elegantly leapt from boat to boat, untying the ropes that lashed them together, with minimal effort and noise, the pontoon once again became individuals, drifting away. Our host jumped out, able to just reach the sand bed with his toes, he gently pushed us into his desired position and forced the engine block-anchor sat on the bow is the boat over the side. We were soon surrounded by a constant pace of diving, scooping, pouring, and shifting. The mens wet skin looked like silver under the white star light. After a while the low level of sloshing sand and splashing dives was interrupted by shouting, still unsure, Daniel and I decided these shouts must be either to ward off crocs or bad spirits, or to warn or the above mentioned 'bodily functions' floating away downstream! This continued until all the boats were full, then like cherios in milk, they came back together.
It very much felt like we left as observers, and returned as friends, despite the language barrier. Once on dry land, after the farewells, Dan and I sat on the riverbank and watched the other pontoons coming in.
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One again, thanks to Dan for great company! And after returning from this, we'd worked up a bit of an appetite, so what is there to do other than to go and buy some meat, and nearly getting killed a few times on the way. ......... but maybe that story entirely! |
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