Can't Wait?

The stars twinkled as I looked up at the clear night sky. As I lay on the makeshift bed, layers of blankets and sheets, neatly squared up on the mat, my eyes were closing. The stars beckoned, seemingly so close, it felt like I could stretch out my arm and touch them. As if saying good night, they were warm and welcoming.

I was a stranger in this house. Lying outside, on top of the flat mud finish roof, thoughts of the planned outing to the Dogon escarpment swirled as I drifted into slumber. My hosts had generously offered me the best bed in the house. I graciously declined. The air inside, at 45 degrees in the evening, stood still - much like time in this ancient land. I opted for the roof. As we mounted the Y shaped tree bark ladder, the air instantly became thinner. I wasn’t alone. Most of the neighbours were outside too.

We were in Dogon land. The Dogon people of Mali, renowned for their mysticism proudly share their land with all who are drawn to the ochre plains.
My guide Badara came to fetch me at the crack of dawn. As I sipped sweet milky tea, I had no idea what lay ahead. We set off through the village, the desert sand slithering under our feet. Badara’s friend, also a guide was joining us on what I soon realized was a trek.

As soon as Malik joined us, he smiled and pointed to my shoes. Clearly ill equipped and not prepared, my Birkenstocks were soon replaced with his more practical mountain sandals. We set off again. Walking slowly, there was no rush but it would be a few kilometers before we reached our milestone.

With no signposts, no cell signal and limited language capacity, I soon disappeared into my head and followed my two chaperones. I couldn’t look up. Navigating the shifting terrain took serious concentration. Not yet six AM and the sun leisurely announced its intention to bake all who dared expose themselves for too long. Soon, the sand underfoot became pebble like rocks. We had started to ascend. It was a gentle rise.

Deceptively so; the pebbles grew to become foot sized rocks that trembled as we stepped forward. After a few ginger steps, I realized that softly-does-it would not work. Badara and his companion patiently guided me to the flattest and more stable rocks. As we zig-zagged up the slope, the balancing act became one of trust. When I quelled my angst of twisted ankles and stepped forward confidently the rocks moved less.

I gratefully received the first lesson offered by the Dogon mountains. We had reached a mountain peak. Sizing up the expansive horizon in my camera lens, Badara told me to look down to my left. So taken with the grandeur of what lay around me, I hadn’t stopped to look down.Halfway down, I saw what looked like stick people etched into the almost vertical mountain wall. I saw more rocks, getting bigger and bigger and a path, barely visible, snaking its way down to the village at the bottom.

We set off, the sun moving up higher and our water reserves lower. Determined to get to the bottom, we were soon halted in our tracks. It was market day. We had to make way for trails of livestock, men and women going into the village where I had slept to trade their wares. I marveled at how the goats, nimbly plotted their path up the steep mountain. We waited.

Women, wearing long indigo boubous, came with large calabash on their heads. Inside, fresh milk covered with a circular straw cover. They paused, when they saw our travelling party now perched on some rockstools as we waited for the market trail to pass. The women paused and spoke in high-pitched tongues. Badara and Allassane laughed. Apparently, the women were worried about our expedition. Going down was fine but what about coming up.

Smiling with appreciation for their concern, I searched for the kola nuts we had brought the day before. They were an offering for the elders who were to greet us at the foot of the mountain.Soon enough, we were there. In a cave like structure about a metre high and two metres wide, there sat the elders. The cave was cool and dark. Their browny white cotton apparel was topped off with conical hats and most of them gnawed at chewing sticks.

Sentinel guard at the mouth of the village, their rheumy eyes greeted us in silence. Badara reminded me to take out the kola nuts and place them on the cave floor. I hastily responded wondering what came next. They asked where I came from and what brought me here. Badara told them all they needed know and we passed through with a toothless smile from the elder closest to me.

Parched and exhausted, we quickly found a spot under a tree. As I looked at the circular structures propped up on rocks around me, I mistakenly thought they were huts. These were not dwellings they were mini grain houses, set up for times of drought and hardship. As we sat drinking dark, warm fizzy drinks out of red cans, we prepared to exit.

I remember I couldn’t wait to come here. I’d read so much about the strength and dignity of the Dogon people. Soon it was time to leave. There was only one way out. Up. I couldn’t wait to get to the top. Overawed, I was going to have to wait. As I channeled adrenalin and will into my stiffening calf muscles, the more difficult it became. I remembered the trick for navigating the wobbling rocks on the way down. It took one step at a time.

I was going to have to wait. I swiftly decided to stay in each moment and do just that – take one step at a time knowing I would reach the top of the Dogon escarpment once more. I did. Mountainous, still, majestic, the Dogon hills were breathtaking.

The Scent Society

“If you burn this in your house, your husband will never leave you!” she insisted, thrusting a pungent decorated glass jar in my face.

Sokhna Anta Diop, the grand dame of incense was seated opposite me on an oversized day bed. I had spent an afternoon sitting with at her fragrance shrine; one of Goree’s Island’s best kept secrets.

For those in the know, Sokhna Anta as she was affectionately called held the keys to undisputed marital bliss and female power. Well heeled high society Dakar women regularly took the ferry ride to Sokhna Anta’s shrine. The well marketed designer fragrances kept in city boutiques had nothing on what they would find in the warm, embryonic den.

Here, she kept a glorious variety of wood shavings, seedlings and resins neatly lined up in carved wooden boxes. Above the boxes, rows of glass bottles, filled with aromatic oils, (some from as far as the Middle East, she boasted), were the tools of her trade. Sokhna Anta took great pride and joy in creating incense that once experienced, became highly sought after.

Sokhna Anta’s prowess in blending perfume essence to enhance a woman’s natural scent was legendary. Hers was an intuitive gift balanced by an expert sense of smell which she had inherited from her grandmother. I watched customers come and go. Time was a pre-requisite. This process, an intertwining of scent, soul and spirit could not be rushed. Expertly mixing oils and wood , she told stories in a languid pose.

No matter which day you sat with Sokhna Anta, and no matter which story you heard, her mission was clear. Her quest was to create incense which punctuates each day with an unforgettable fragrance memory spelling your name - a priceless gift of self to the world.

Before I left the shrine that day Monday, she invited me, winking lasciviously, to join her a few days later at the tour. They told me it was a women’s only gathering. The only man permitted was the DJ who was discreetly (but respectfully) positioned on the verandah outside the room where 25 women had gathered for their monthly tour.
In the community centre perched on top of the hill, women gathered in celebration of self. It was their time. A special time together, when music, dancing, lace underskirts, edible delicacies and raucous laughter was the order of the night.
I was there by special invitation; Sokhna Anta’s guest, unwittingly lured into a secret society that would change my life forever.

Women, dressed to the nines, coiffed with high gloss and heady scents streamed into the room. A spirit of lascivious freedom to be was palpable.
The DJ was warming up. His laidback selections, melodious love songs eased us into what was to become a hi-octane evening of festivity.

Incense, smoking on coals in a huge open-mouthed clay pot hidden in the corner of the room thickened the air. In the cavernous room, nestling high on the hill, hidden from the ferry-loads of Goree tourists, the tour took place religiously every first Thursday of each month.

Women of Goree, the tiny island, two miles across the waters from Senegal’s bustling capital, Dakar proudly held the first Thursday sacrosanct. My presence was honorary. Not to be taken for granted, participation was obligatory. No bashful onlookers allowed. The tour was a space for unbridled self-expression and spirit affirmation.
No men, no children, and no girls under 18 were allowed to come close to the hilltop – it was an unwritten culturally-coded understanding amongst the close-knit community.

Those who were barred never questioned why. Prepubescent girl-children gazed in awe as their mothers dressed in ceremonial preparation for the tour. Teenagers, almost 18 spoke in hushed tones about what they imagined the women would do at the tour. Their turn would soon come but until then, they were content with being hand-maidens in the time-honoured preparation that came days, even months before the tour itself.
The aroma from the incense grew more intense as the smoke thickened. Almost breathless, I drew deep breaths searching for O₂. The temperature was rising the atmosphere was incredibly close.

Suddenly, a svelte, long limbed woman arresting in her gilt edged silky boubou, jumped in front of me. Jolting me out of my smoky reverie, she lifted the layers of gold shimmer and flashed her crochet lace petit pagne as a symbolic invitation to dance. The DJ, invisible but locked into the triumphant vibe had moved from easy to intense mbalax rhythms.

Deeply rooted in traditional drum patterns with pop overtones, the mbalax music reverberated around the walls and through the glassless window frames. Things got heated. Legs and arms flew high into the air, as skirts, ornate head wraps and veils spun like flamboyantly dressed spinning tops. Other women clapped each other into the centre of the ring to in a competitive display of dance, theatre and posturing.
As each woman showcased her style of unique beauty, personality and charm through her dancing circle, it was clear that this was no lightweight party fun. The tour was a ritual which called on each woman to, through time-honoured practices ranging from incense making to stringing waist beads, reveal their singular, unmistakable identity stamp.

The celebration was a masked ball where in exuberant mood; each came to honour the individual. There in the corner, between the heaving bodies, I spied Sokhna Anta Diop, regal as ever, as she stoked the incense urn. Dripping with shiny beads topped with a taffeta twirled head dress, she was as deep and mysterious as the fragrant smoke itself. Though we spoke different languages, no translation was necessary. I had been here before.