I spent the morning with the Fulani Tour Group who were returning from the Festival of the Desert in Timbuktu. We visited the Ndomo Bogolan workshop, on the outskirts of the town. The group were invited to sit and listen, and take part in a hands on explanation of this textile dyeing process.
Bogolan is a kind of cotton textile decorated with iron rich fermented mud and other vegetable dyes, such as indigo, which produce a range of colours from palest grey, to black, to yellows, blues and oranges. The professor here is Monsieur Boubacar Doumbia, an ex art teacher, who now has an international reputation for starting the first Bogolan place in Segou (a few of his students a have peeled off and started their own) and now runs a conservatoire. He gets orders from around the world.
I’d visited before, so I chatted to the staff who were busy creating beautiful textiles. I found it very relaxing to see them making, dots, wavy and long straight lines, with such confidence and great results, something like watching a good potter throw a pot on a wheel.
The shop at the end was full of treasures, and the Fulani Group homeward bound later today, set to a shopping frenzy to use up their CFAs.
A central street in Segou
After driving along the river, they dropped me at the end of my road. Fond farewells said, and off they went. As I wandered down my mud lane, I recalled just how nervous i’d been last time they had left me in Segou on the 30th December. Now I was feeling safe, confident, relaxed and very happy, all worries extinguished by the welcome received here.
Madou breaking up clay watched by Dolo
Madou’s great gang of friends and helpers have been continuing to apply the Banko to every wall in sight, almost every crack has been repaired too. Even the toilet has a smart coat. Alasanne the taxi driving friend, seemed to be the least employed, on tea making duties, and wanted to borrow my pen. I sat with him and drank green tea while he wrote an A Vendre (For Sale) sign for his old Mercedes. He wants 1000,1500 CFA’s for it. Madou joked; why didn’t I buy it then he could drive me everywhere and then he could use it, then when I came back id have a driver again. I said, yeh great, so you can drive me home, across Mauritania, Morocco, Spain, France, then be refused a visa for England. I’m still mad about Seydou’s being refused last summer.
After, I asked if he had time to wander up to the road with me to buy some salad vegetables. He took me straight over to the gardens next door and we negotiated three leafy lettuces and three beetroots for 125 CFA, pulled straight from the ground, fed and nourished by the river.
Along the edges of this great river are winter gardens, opportunistic plots of land, fertilized by riches left during the rainy season floods. It’s now the dry season, and the water has receded. These flood margins are covered in salad vegetables, potatoes, cabbages, beetroot, and onions. Its like living on the edge of one huge allotment. No hoses are needed; the water is right here.
Watering is done constantly through the day, from dawn to dusk. Sometimes in large tin watering cans, but more often than not, from round calabash gourds, with one small (6 cm) hole in them. Filled in the river, these are then rocked to create a kind of surging spray.
Malians are so resourceful. Having carried their water, they are not about to let it escape too fast. The vegetable beds are built up with low walls of mud, just enough to contain, and to be used to separate crops. These provide pathways; which you can with some balancing, walk along.
Eating freshly grown, freshly harvested vegetables has to be one of the simplest, most delightful things available to us as humans.
The mango tree spot
At night the lights along the river’s settlements, twinkle, like any seaside scene. I can see that the rivers edge meanders in and out. Ive always been drawn to live on the coast. Landlocked Shropshire, where I live, has the greatest, longest British River flowing through it.
Here, the Niger River is my sea. This is my coast. If I stay long enough, the seasons will bring me tides.
Ségou, where I am staying, is known as the city of the Balanzans, as it was built in the ancient Balanzan forest. The word Ségou means at the foot of the Balanzans’. As you enter the town from the west, (my side) the road is lined with mature Balanzans, with incredibly knobbly tree trunks, looking rather like heads poking out. They provide welcome extra shade for the cyclist and pedestrian. Balanzan trees remarkably, lose their leaves in the rainy season, providing nutrition at their feet, so it’s common to grow them interspersed between crops for this reason.
Shea Butter , is derived from the Shea tree (Karité) via its nuts, it is also used to make soap. Mali is a very dusty, dirty place, and soap here is vital to keep those clothes and people looking sparkling clean. Soap balls are sold at the market, and very good soap it is; natural and pure.
New worlds unfolding
I spent the rest of the afternoon working, cutting away the edges of a piece of paper, the Wall Street Journal to be precise. Then tweaking two semi visible worlds and assembling one complete new world. Its rather like making a mosaic, as each piece has to be balanced and in the correct relationship to the next, while maintaining believable shaped continents, and a circular shape. I enjoyed putting some tiny scraps into the oceans, to create Islands.
I reflected while I did this, that my sisters voyage in her sailing boat across the Atlantic, from Cape Verde to the Caribbean may have some bearing on why I’m thinking about the world too. The next practicality is to glue the dried pieces to the painted board. Sylvie has gone to Bamako so I’ve asked her if she can get me some extra strong glue. Something like Bostik at home would probably do. If I cant get strong enough glue here, I may have to leave them as floor pieces. There is something attractive to me about that idea; they could be viewed from all sides that way; viewed as if we are the Gods looking down on our play thing, the planet below.
Atelier news
You never know who is going to walk into the Atelier at any given moment. Today the French Ambassador to Mali, (based in Bamako) stopped of for a chat with Dolo. Then more Tourists who have got wind of the great artists workshop, trailing a very endearing Elage Keita; a confident young sculptor from Senegal. His work sounded interesting, Metal I think, used in street theatre performances. He was certainly good at talking about it. I didn’t have the French to tell him I’ve performed on and off rivers in Britain, but did mention the big scale work I’ve been doing.
The building works here are hotting up too. Any number of electricians came this morning to fix the light fittings and put up a fan. I admit defeat. I scuttle to my room. I cannot work with this much disturbance.
It’s cool and bright outside, so I decide to visit the gardens again. I had just missed most of the gardeners, they’d just returned to their home to eat, and rest; still it was beautiful. I found it wasn’t so easy as I thought walking along the river. There are barriers and obstacles erected along the way dividing up land. So I had to zig-zag to and fro from the river, I tried to stick to paths that were used for watering. There did seem to be one major path just back from the river, which I walked along too, but this wasn’t as satisfying. The waters edge was uncommonly tranquil with many pirogues tethered to the shore, no sand men, no washer-uppers, no fishermen, no gardeners. As I walked along my eyes met the accumulated rubbish – its no different on any English beach. Detritus; discarded clothes, plastic, broken, useless stuff. I spotted what I thought was a huge crab shell. Id not seen those on any market stall, but why not freshwater crabs? This great river brings gifts in so many ways. On closer inspection, this wasn’t a crab shell, it was a group of very large spiny Oyster shells cemented together by time and Oyster glue.
Being seen
The other night while dining with Dolo he told me that it was Seydou’s Father who taught him, nurtured his creativity and set him on the path as an artist. I mention that my father did the same for many people, in the time he was a teacher in Shrewsbury. A great teacher sees your potential and encourages it. A great teacher, you will remember, with gratitude, all your life.
My bike has had a series of problem, sometime they appear resolved, then I learn otherwise. I abandoned the idea of riding into town this evening, and walked along the river instead. I could see the huge ferry in the far distance, which is docked during their dry season, as the river is too shallow for it to go anywhere. It was a lovely walk. Why hadn’t I done it before?
There were lots of people still watering, even tho the strength of the sun was disappearing. The nearer I got to the festival site, the more hassle I got. That’s why. I will remember to avoid the Quai des Arts, until the festival proper.
Meetings in the Middle of Somewhere 