We reached Segu after a five-hour bus ride. I was happy we weren’t riding the “Bush cab”. Most of us found a spot in the back of the bus where we hoped we could stretch out a bit and relax and maybe sleep.
Leaving Bamako was a blessing in itself. It seemed that the bus could not leave soon enough for me. I could almost say that I hated the traffic, the glare and the pollution of this city. I expected to be challenged by bugs, smells, and heat. She hadn’t expected those smells to be too familiar, the smell of diesel and burning coal and gas. The people weren’t really that friendly and looked at everyone there, with a few exceptions, with great suspicion.
The mosquitoes were tiny, persistent and irritating. Maakheru told us that in the bush, the mosquitoes were over for the year. He complained that in Bamako mosquitoes live all year. I think he had reason to complain. Of all of us who were there, only he contracted malaria.
The bus stopped a couple of times on the way out of town. The first time it pulled up, I had a harbinger of good times to come. Vendors would enter the bus and bring rolls, water, soda bread, and anything else a traveler might need for a long trip. A little girl came on the bus selling muffins. She was so beautiful. Her voice had the sound of bells ringing as she held up her buns for sale. He was spellbound by the sound of that voice and the beauty of her eyes. I fumbled for my camera to take a picture of this vision of innocence and purity.
The bus continued and I settled in as best I could to enjoy the bus ride. It was sweltering when the bus stopped, but when it was moving a lovely breeze blew through the bus and carried away the smoke and dust and the disgusting stench of Bamako, may I never see it again.
We stopped once for a “pit stop”. Several of our group got off the bus to relieve themselves, including Maakheru. He seemed to be better. Another of our group, Robert Conda, was almost left behind when the bus pulled away. Finally he caught up with us and we continued north towards Segu.
As we approached Segu, the Djoliba River appeared on our left. Just a few tantalizing glimpses as we traveled down the highway at a respectable pace, occasionally passing along the way.
We arrived at the bus station in Segu and I was prepared for another dusty and polluted experience, but luckily, we had put those things behind us. A small contingent of porters and vendors assaulted us as we unloaded our bags and piled them up while Maakheru went out to find us accommodation. He was still worried about the computers we had with us. We hadn’t sold a single one and I was working very hard to find a formula in my mind to break the grip of depression that was snapping at my heels.
Malik hovered around me like a mother hen, continuing to make sure the laptops would sell. He had offered the most promising buyer, who had said they would meet us at the bus station, that he would pay for transportation if he came to Segu to make the purchase. “Please, I don’t want to hear about it anymore until someone is in front of us with the money.” Malik seemed a little hurt, but I think he understood. I hadn’t wanted to lug these computers through the bushes on the way to Ouaga, but realized I would have no choice.
I decided it was time for me to begin my pilgrimage.
The bus station in Segu was clean and well maintained. The buildings were freshly painted and the people were friendly. The vendors weren’t too persistent as they seemed to realize that we were more interested in finishing this leg of our trip. Maakheru returned with a couple of young men and a boy carrying a handcart. It turned out that one of them, a handsome young man with a confident demeanor and beautiful blue-black skin, was also of the Dogon lineage.
It was just a short walk around the corner, and soon we found ourselves entering a very pleasant courtyard. A canopy of woven grass stretched from left to right. A table was set up in the corner of the front porch of a small hotel, which was only one step above ground level. Chairs were set up under the canopy and a small tree grew in the center of the courtyard with an earthenware jug sitting next to it containing drinking water and a small statue wearing a necklace of cowry shells.
The building was painted yellow. A set of double doors led into what could be a great room or bedroom with a kitchen to the right. I noticed that there were cow horns stuck to the door and strategically placed in various places in the building. There was a set of stairs leading up to the roof of the building he wanted to explore.
The courtyard continued around the building to an area at the back where we found a water spigot, and beyond that a walled area for showering and relieving themselves. Khefira and MenZeba quickly made a line of bees for this area. Apparently, Khefira was looking forward to her first outdoor shower of the trip with great anticipation.
Three or four young men greeted us obsequiously in the courtyard. The young Dogon was among them, and Makheru began to negotiate the price of our stay. This was the first of several such negotiations that he would observe. When the deal was finally done we all took our suitcases off the cart and placed them on the left wall of the great room while one of the young men proceeded to drag the futons out and place them on the floor.
I went up the stairs to the roof and found a very pleasant space overlooking a lot below where a couple of old men were weaving huge barrels of straw under the shade of a couple of trees. While there, I was able to see how all the buildings were connected to each other in a maze of brick walls and corridors that was compact and efficient. The children were playing in the little courtyards and I could see through some of the open windows where the women were busy doing one task or another.
Occasionally a motorized scooter would go up and down the dirt road outside the entrance to our hotel and everything seemed to move at a very leisurely pace. I felt myself relax with each breath and an emotion that until then had been a vague memory washed over me. Tears filled my eyes as I realized that I was truly happy in a way that I hadn’t been since my childhood. I looked up at the clear blue sky and felt the sun shining on my face like a mother stroking a baby. I was really at home.
I put my emotions away and went downstairs to see what was going on with the others. Maakheru was asking if we would like to pay a couple of dollars each to have some music that night. “Do you want to pay a few bucks to be pampered with music tonight?” she asked her. I was the first person to speak. I was short on money, but this seemed like something worth spending it on.
Khefira and Zeba had finished showering and were busy making us sandwiches with leftover fish and fresh vegetables they had saved from the day before in Bamako. We had purchased plain, fresh baguettes, which seemed to be a staple in Mali.
A while later, some of Segu’s boys came by and brought some djembés. A djembe is a traditional African drum that found its origin many years ago here in Mali. One of the boys, whom Maakheru had nicknamed “Ja Rule” because of his resemblance to the rapper, sat down with Bass and Maakheru to play. This was a wonderful time. Maakheru was still a bit weak from malaria and had a very persistent cough, so he had little energy to play for long.
Ja Rule’s real name was Papu. Later that day Papu was playing djembe on the roof with Bass and I joined them. Papu sat me down with a djembe and showed me a simple rhythm that I stumbled over for a while. He started to sing and Bass joined in. Justice, a brother from the New York School joined us on the roof and I handed him my djembe. I took out my harmonica and tried to choose a tune.
Justice is about 6’1″ and only a year younger than me. He is a big guy like me and has been involved in the study of African spirituality for many years, but has only been studying with the center of the earth for about a year.In Primero Justice seemed a bit distant.He kept to himself at the airport and also in Bamako.Segu had worked his magic on him too and here he started to open up and spend more time interacting with everyone else in the group. more than before.
That night, a group of artists passed through our small venue. There were two djembe players, a tum tum player, which is a stick drum used to keep time, and three beautiful women. One woman brought with her a European man who appeared to be her boyfriend. The leader of the group was an amazing djembe player. While he played, the women would spontaneously get up and dance traditional party dances.
I had experienced something like this before in Chicago on the 63rd street beach on the south side. There is a drum circle that forms there almost every night in summer and especially on weekends. Many Africans come there to play and dance. This was a smaller version of the same thing, but the dancing and drumming were more coordinated and much better.
Zeba, a member of our group, dances semi-professionally in Chicago with the Najua dance troupe and allowed the other women to talk her into joining the dance. She seemed to have a hard time keeping up with the drummers, but she seemed to enjoy herself immensely. She soon lost her shyness and danced with the other ladies.
I have rarely seen and heard such beautiful places. The sky was clear and the moon was bright even though it was not quite full. The drummers’ hands moved so fast at times they were just a blur, matched in speed only by the dancers’ feet. At one point, one of the drummers took off his shirt revealing a lean physique and took over the dance. Everyone cheered and yelled as she moved with a powerful grace that made me wish I was capable of such things, but that would only be a dream to me.
Soon another member joined the group. He was a young man who was severely crippled. He couldn’t stand up straight at all and moved from place to place on all fours wearing sandals to protect his hands. He was just as friendly as everyone else and clearly quite strong and comfortable in his skin. All the other members of the troop treated him as an equal. He also took the floor to dance as well.
Her dancing was neither clumsy nor graceless. She had an energy and a joy for life that left me in awe. In America he would have been marginalized and denigrated, but here he was strong and accepted. I had never experienced this and felt somewhat ashamed of my own initial reaction to his presence.
Soon the main djembe player began to serenade each of us. Well… I don’t think serenade is the right word, because it was more of a display of his virtuosity. Upon completion, we would give him our payment for the performance. He did something with the djembe that he had never seen before. He took a glass and slid it along the head of the drum with one hand while he beat the drum with the other. He gave the djembe the character of a talking drum where he could change the pitch at will.
Makheru finally climbed onto the roof as the main djembe player was finishing his rounds. Makheru is a master drummer, so he knew it would take a lot to impress him. The lead drummer pulled every trick in the book on him, seeming to realize that Makheru was our leader and the man to impress. Makheru sat in his chair wrapped in a blanket, unimpressed, until he made the djembe speak. It was after this that Makheru offered her payment from him. Later, Makheru proclaimed that he was “Very good”.
