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I woke up at 5 am and couldn't get back to sleep, so at 6 I put on my bathing suit and went for a swim in the pool for half an hour, doing lazy laps, watched by the sheep. At about 7 I went and had breakfast, and had a lovely conversation with a Malian woman who works for the Aga Khan Foundation. Her name was Salimata Niang Diallo, and she told me that she had been to Laval and Ottawa, and her daughter is currently studying at Laval. She told me she would be in Ottawa in July, so I gave her my contact information and said I would love to see her, and she gave me some possible contact numbers in Segou and Mopti. It was when I went to the lobby with my luggage to wait for Papa that I discovered that that I've been operating an hour ahead of everybody else in Mali!
Papa came to the lobby around 8, and said to give him 20 minutes. We left about 8:30, and headed for the Grottes des Missirikoro, stopping briefly at what is now a large open sports field, with a low earth embankment along one side. The embankment is apparently all that is left of the tata, the mudbrick wall that fell to French cannon fire in 1898.
The road to the Grottes was dirt, and I learnt a new French phrase - nids des poules, for potholes, which it had in abundance. We bumped our way past numerous donkey carts, cyclists and motos, all of which were easily able to match our speed on that road. At the village of Missirikoro we picked up a local man to act as guide. At the grotto, we parked under a shady tree and Al Fady, the driver, a tall, young, goodlooking Bambara man, stayed with the Landcruiser while Papa and I and our guide explored the series of caves and holes dotting a large outcrop of rock that make up the Grottes. They were filled with bats and birds. Local animists make sacrifices of chickens, sheep, goats and even the occasional cow to ask favours of the gods. People come and 'camp' up here for up to several days, chanting and praying. We went a short distance into one cave (none of us had torches) and could hear a low, droning chant over the twittering of the bats and birds. One of the caves has been taken over by the local Moslems and turned into a mini-mosque.
After returning to the village to drop off our guide, we stopped for a sip of the local 'African' or 'Tuareg' tea. It is a very sweet, yet strong, green tea and making it is an ongoing ritual. A small china teapot, usually blue and identical in size to the Neti pots we sell at Singing Pebble, is filled half full of dry tea leaves. About half the remaining space in the pot is filled with sugar, and water is added. The teapot is placed on a charcoal brazier and heated to boiling point. Then the ritualistic stage is reached, as the tea is poured into a glass shot glass, then poured back into the pot, poured into the glass and back several times before being boiled some more, then the pouring back and forth commences again until it is deemed ready to drink. The glass is filled and passed to the most senior person present, or the guest, and drunk, then handed back to be filled for the next person. After 3 or 4 people have drunk, more water is added, and the process is repeated. There always seems to be somebody making tea wherever one goes.
We drove back to Sikasso, and then headed out on the road to Heremakono and the border. The side road off to the waterfall, or chute, was about halfway to the border. The waterfall was actually a series of small waterfalls, and it was refreshing to sit on a rock at the edge of the largest drop (maybe 10' or so) and dangle my feet in the water. There were also lots of butterflies, big, patterned blue ones, and small white ones, yellow ones and orange ones. I could have happily stayed there longer but Papa had an agenda, and off we went.
Papa came to the lobby around 8, and said to give him 20 minutes. We left about 8:30, and headed for the Grottes des Missirikoro, stopping briefly at what is now a large open sports field, with a low earth embankment along one side. The embankment is apparently all that is left of the tata, the mudbrick wall that fell to French cannon fire in 1898.
The road to the Grottes was dirt, and I learnt a new French phrase - nids des poules, for potholes, which it had in abundance. We bumped our way past numerous donkey carts, cyclists and motos, all of which were easily able to match our speed on that road. At the village of Missirikoro we picked up a local man to act as guide. At the grotto, we parked under a shady tree and Al Fady, the driver, a tall, young, goodlooking Bambara man, stayed with the Landcruiser while Papa and I and our guide explored the series of caves and holes dotting a large outcrop of rock that make up the Grottes. They were filled with bats and birds. Local animists make sacrifices of chickens, sheep, goats and even the occasional cow to ask favours of the gods. People come and 'camp' up here for up to several days, chanting and praying. We went a short distance into one cave (none of us had torches) and could hear a low, droning chant over the twittering of the bats and birds. One of the caves has been taken over by the local Moslems and turned into a mini-mosque.
After returning to the village to drop off our guide, we stopped for a sip of the local 'African' or 'Tuareg' tea. It is a very sweet, yet strong, green tea and making it is an ongoing ritual. A small china teapot, usually blue and identical in size to the Neti pots we sell at Singing Pebble, is filled half full of dry tea leaves. About half the remaining space in the pot is filled with sugar, and water is added. The teapot is placed on a charcoal brazier and heated to boiling point. Then the ritualistic stage is reached, as the tea is poured into a glass shot glass, then poured back into the pot, poured into the glass and back several times before being boiled some more, then the pouring back and forth commences again until it is deemed ready to drink. The glass is filled and passed to the most senior person present, or the guest, and drunk, then handed back to be filled for the next person. After 3 or 4 people have drunk, more water is added, and the process is repeated. There always seems to be somebody making tea wherever one goes.
We drove back to Sikasso, and then headed out on the road to Heremakono and the border. The side road off to the waterfall, or chute, was about halfway to the border. The waterfall was actually a series of small waterfalls, and it was refreshing to sit on a rock at the edge of the largest drop (maybe 10' or so) and dangle my feet in the water. There were also lots of butterflies, big, patterned blue ones, and small white ones, yellow ones and orange ones. I could have happily stayed there longer but Papa had an agenda, and off we went.
Our next stop was a side road off the other side of the main road, a short distance back towards Sikasso. To get down the road we had to edge past a large truck that was being loaded with fresh mangoes. A little further down the road Papa pointed out the tea plants on either side of the road. We stopped at a factory where Papa talked one of the men sitting idle under a nearby tree into showing us around. He led us through three large connected Sheet metal buildings where the raw tea leaves were turned into the finished product. All the machinery - choppers, pressers, driers and cookers, were made in China, and all were indescribably filthy. Admittedly, it was not the season for preparing the tea, but I could only hope that they all received a comprehensive scrubbing before use! I paid our temporary guide 1000 CFA and we left. At the main road we begged some ripe mangoes from the men loading the truck, and I ate one on our way back to town. It was delicious, but as usual I got covered in juice. I didn't have a knife to slice it with, and vowed to buy one at my earliest opportunity.
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