Pays Dogon

The Dogon are a people unique to Mali. It is said they sought refuge from wild beasties in the cliffs of the Bandiagara Escarpement when it was still a forested region. Now, you can see the desert approaching once you descend the fallaise into the plain where dunes encroach from the northeast. The Dogon chased out the Pygmies (who liked the forest and therefore ran off to the Congo River basin) and settled in villages along the 200km escarpement. With the Peuhls to their west, on the top of the ridge and in the plains beyond, the Dogon were introduced to Islam but have generally held fast to their animist beliefs. Many villages still retain their traditional religious chiefs who are in contact with the Creator, Ogon (all this I learned from our guide and from what my fiancé had learned in school, so forgive me if there are errors) ; though, in nearly every village we visited there was a Catholic mission and often schools supported by the Church. Still, we chanced upon a traditional mask ceremony for two funerals. 

When there is work to be done in the fields, people who pass away are burried but there is no passing ceremony to recognize their accomplishements. These two elders were very accomplished and therefore merited an elaborate ceremony. Women born during the Dogon fête of the year become the master of the ceremony. They hold large, decorated calabashes (gourd spoons) and are the only ones allowed to dance along with the masked men. Each mask represents either fertility (these male dancers are equiped with breasts), rain, hyenas, lions, hunters, and life (the tallest of them all…this dancer must have an amazingly strong neck to raise and lower the tree-trunk of a mask attached to his head). The men drink millet beer before starting the ceremony and a few dancers had to be removed from the circle for drunkeness. I was amused by certain more modern decorations on the masks : colored plastic mirrors, « Nihe » sneakers, and other « chinoiseries ». The rest was made from Baobab and monkey-fruit wood, grass and natural dyes. 

The Baobabs of Pays Dogon are huge and numerous. You can see the scars from where bark was harvested for masks and uses in the home (rope or baskets). The trees really do resemble a tree pulled up roots and all and planted upside down. One of my favorite quotes from the trip was to Diallo as he sat under the shade of a Baobab : « Hey, does this thing that resembles a Peuhl speak Fulfulde? » (a Poullo woman passing by selling milk). He responded in Fulfulde, of course, and we decided to buy some milk. From then on we refered to him as « this thing here ». It was interesting to see him playing tourist in his own region. He had never visited Dogon Country before and enjoyed himself. 

The hiking wasn’t so rigourous, but on the way back you end up scalling the escarpement quite quickly (it’s no more than a 1km climb) so a few in our group got vertigo. The force of the wind made some passes precarious, particularly how it has over the years carved rocks down to perfectly round boulders wedged into crevasses just waiting to fall on the innocent passerby…we had difficulty imagining how the Dogon lived in the cliffs (the oldest villages were literally caverns dug out from the cliff face)—how would they have transported water ? How did they use the toilet ? We joked how the sleep walkers of the tribe most certainly had been selected out. Our guide explained the Dogon knew how to fly and therefore the height of the cliff posed no problem. That was how they beat the former Pygmy dwellers of the region. To us, it was certainly a task to climb through the villages to reach areas reserved for the religious chiefs. Each village has a meeting shelter/hangar (still used today) to settle disputes and discuss village matters. The roof is so low no one can get angry and abruptly stand up to intimidate others. Plus, most of these structures were carefully constructed along cliff edges to be more visible to passerby ; therefore, making a ruckous would also result in a tumble. I was amused by a c.1904 French oil canister turned into a drum. There were often signs explaining local laws such as « No widowers allowed for three years » and you have to wonder what dispute that sign settled. We also noticed the Dogon sensibly had houses for the women to retreat to each month. I wonder what has changed in society that women no longer get 5 days to themselves each month?? 

The populations were very accostommed to tourists. Especially the children. We were left alone for the most part, though were still asked to buy things or to give them things. Craig enjoyed beat-boxing with the kids, leading them in rhythms and songs as we hiked along the base of the plateau to our campement. We asked a few students to show us their notebooks. A 4th grader couldn’t answer simple questions in French nor write clearly. It seems they focus on local language and teach it orally reminding me if Mali wants to truly be independent of aide they need to improve basic education first. We especially enjoyed observing the daily work : drying and pounding onions into balls to store them all year (a Frenchman introduced this type of onion to the area and it grows in abundance); watering of gardens with gourds ; pounding millet ; cloth dying (I bought some indigo) and guiding. We ran into many other tourist groups with their guides. I hope to go back and hike for more than two days, possibly towards Sangha and the north part of the escarpement. There is certainly more to discover, particularly about the regions geology. The guide explained it was underwater, then a forest, and now it is slowly being turned into desert. But much of the rock and its coloring led us to believe there was volcanic activity. Pumice and other igneous rock doesn’t just fall from the sky. But, to support the guide, there was a lot of evidently sedimentary stone with bits of shell and evidence of sealife petrifed. I can believe why Pays Dogon is the most visited area of Mali : beautiful terrain, interesting culture and great trails. The people for one, yeech ! A bunch of donkeys ! 

I’m sorry, as a koyraboro, in the name of joking cousins, I just had to.