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.