My previous entry discussed general matters of land-based conveyance systems in West Africa, but failed to provide either specific examples from this terrestrial mode of conveyance or explore the modi operandi of more aqueous forms of transport.
The historic town of Djenne lies on a large, sandy island on the Bani River in Central Mali. Known locally for its diverse Monday market that draws traders from the surrounding area, the town is more famous internationally because of its mosque, the world’s largest mud structure and a UNESCO world heritage site.
Despite the notoriety, the town is somewhat illogically underserved by transport options: Travellers coming from either the west (Bamako) or the east (Mopti) usually find themselves not so ceremoniously dumped at a junction some thirty kilometres from the town. Onward transport, of course, can only be arranged following the usual procedures (waiting in the sun until the bush-taxi is just a bit fuller than full, sharing your seat with protruding metal things, taking pictures of the driver/master mechanic underneath the hood miles from anywhere, etc., etc.). Once en route, however, everything is in order -- until one reaches that which even the chutzpah-laden African car dares not traverse: The Bani River. The Bani is certainly not the Amazon, but its width and depth are sufficiently enough to ensure that our car, possessor of a body that one could charitably describe only as somewhat porous and of questionable buoyancy -- and uncharitably only as a P.O.S – would not come through the fording with particularly flying colours. The answer, thus, was a ferry.
I use the term ferry only in the broadest, instrumentalist conception of the term: A long metal plank, equipped on one side with a motor and bedecked with several Bob Marley stickers would perhaps more accurately illustrate the nature of the conveyance. Having arrived in one piece from the road junction some 26 km away, I took my place in the departure terminal (there was a large metal crate on the shore whose 4 foot high ledge gave a commanding view of the river – I took this to be the departure lounge) and waited for the next sailing.
The Bani River, however, is somewhat infrastructurally challenged, in that it is singularly devoid of a dock. The river itself is laden with sediment and is consequently quite shallow. Given this lack of port infrastructure, the river’s shallowness, and the geometric composition of our plank-cum-ferry, there was precisely zero opportunity for a dry boarding procedure. In my opinion, the night we went to Djenne probably wasn’t so bad; in a Herculean effort, the ship’s captain managed to wedge his floating plank just some 4 m offshore in preparation for our embarkation. The other vehicles’ occupants were able to keep their feet dry since their transport was of sufficient enough construction to manage a short river-bound excursion immediately prior to boarding. Our conveyance, alas, in her asthmatic, wheezing, porous, and rusty (though I must say very stoic!) condition would most certainly not have had the stamina to ford the 4 metres of shallow water and board the plank with us occupants also on board. It was, thus, a reversal of the Normandy Invasion (or perhaps, more appropriately, Dunkirk?), with groups of people running through the water to board a quasi-buoyant sheet of metal immediately before departure. Though I’m not sure my feet necessarily took a liking to Bani River water (nesting worms anyone?), the embarkation was at least accomplished without the accompaniment of any sort of Normandy-style gunfire.
Once boarded, the captain dispensed with the standard safety demonstrations and instructions as to where to find personal floatation devices and life rafts in the event of an emergency in transit (I’m sure such safety procedures are a regular occurrence on Malian ferries, but we just happened to catch our captain on an off-day). Out of the vehicles, the ferry comfortably held room for about 20 people, although was filled on our crossing by about 20 more.
Though daylight was waning fast, I took an inventory of the plank’s fellow passengers, cargo, and conveyances. In the front, there was our anaemic bush-taxi (a lack of light precluded me from taking another photo of our driver industriously diving underneath the hood in an attempt to conjure up a new engine through a bit of alchemy or other such magic trick), followed by a two story bus – one story for the bus itself, a piece of machinery that at one time very much might have been painted orange, and one story for the varied collection of boxes, rice bags, and wildebeests tethered to the top (OK, there were probably no wildebeests, but it was too dark to ascertain absolutely that there were no wildebeests present). Behind the large, vaguely orange bus was a Mercedes that had remarkably succeeded in maintaining its blackness. It is with great regret that I failed to quiz the vehicle’s owner as to how he had succeeded in achieving this on an African road. Lastly, and lest one forget the conveyances that all of us used in yesteryear, there came a horse and buggy. The horse, looking none the worse for wear after fording part of the Bani, was evidently transporting a precious cargo to the market in Djenne. Closer inspection, however, revealed a multitude of rusty metal bits on their way to the bazaar (such an impressive collection of rusty metal things in all shapes and sizes conjured up memories of Mardin’s Hotel Başak, and their toilet facilities which happened to double as a rusty-metal-bit depository – I imagine the allusion is helpful to precisely no one, given that few sane people would ever darken the door of Mardin’s elegant Hotel Başak, nor have had the pleasure of ever spending two long nights there); I was regretfully unable to locate the purveyor of these metal bits the following day during the marché.
Our three minute crossing completed, I silently acknowledged my fellow passengers (be they man or beast) and returned to our stalwart bush-taxi (our driver had apparently constructed some headlights during the crossing using metal coils and prayer during our ferry-ride) for the remainder of the journey to Djenne.
The historic town of Djenne lies on a large, sandy island on the Bani River in Central Mali. Known locally for its diverse Monday market that draws traders from the surrounding area, the town is more famous internationally because of its mosque, the world’s largest mud structure and a UNESCO world heritage site.
Despite the notoriety, the town is somewhat illogically underserved by transport options: Travellers coming from either the west (Bamako) or the east (Mopti) usually find themselves not so ceremoniously dumped at a junction some thirty kilometres from the town. Onward transport, of course, can only be arranged following the usual procedures (waiting in the sun until the bush-taxi is just a bit fuller than full, sharing your seat with protruding metal things, taking pictures of the driver/master mechanic underneath the hood miles from anywhere, etc., etc.). Once en route, however, everything is in order -- until one reaches that which even the chutzpah-laden African car dares not traverse: The Bani River. The Bani is certainly not the Amazon, but its width and depth are sufficiently enough to ensure that our car, possessor of a body that one could charitably describe only as somewhat porous and of questionable buoyancy -- and uncharitably only as a P.O.S – would not come through the fording with particularly flying colours. The answer, thus, was a ferry.
I use the term ferry only in the broadest, instrumentalist conception of the term: A long metal plank, equipped on one side with a motor and bedecked with several Bob Marley stickers would perhaps more accurately illustrate the nature of the conveyance. Having arrived in one piece from the road junction some 26 km away, I took my place in the departure terminal (there was a large metal crate on the shore whose 4 foot high ledge gave a commanding view of the river – I took this to be the departure lounge) and waited for the next sailing.
The Bani River, however, is somewhat infrastructurally challenged, in that it is singularly devoid of a dock. The river itself is laden with sediment and is consequently quite shallow. Given this lack of port infrastructure, the river’s shallowness, and the geometric composition of our plank-cum-ferry, there was precisely zero opportunity for a dry boarding procedure. In my opinion, the night we went to Djenne probably wasn’t so bad; in a Herculean effort, the ship’s captain managed to wedge his floating plank just some 4 m offshore in preparation for our embarkation. The other vehicles’ occupants were able to keep their feet dry since their transport was of sufficient enough construction to manage a short river-bound excursion immediately prior to boarding. Our conveyance, alas, in her asthmatic, wheezing, porous, and rusty (though I must say very stoic!) condition would most certainly not have had the stamina to ford the 4 metres of shallow water and board the plank with us occupants also on board. It was, thus, a reversal of the Normandy Invasion (or perhaps, more appropriately, Dunkirk?), with groups of people running through the water to board a quasi-buoyant sheet of metal immediately before departure. Though I’m not sure my feet necessarily took a liking to Bani River water (nesting worms anyone?), the embarkation was at least accomplished without the accompaniment of any sort of Normandy-style gunfire.
Once boarded, the captain dispensed with the standard safety demonstrations and instructions as to where to find personal floatation devices and life rafts in the event of an emergency in transit (I’m sure such safety procedures are a regular occurrence on Malian ferries, but we just happened to catch our captain on an off-day). Out of the vehicles, the ferry comfortably held room for about 20 people, although was filled on our crossing by about 20 more.
Though daylight was waning fast, I took an inventory of the plank’s fellow passengers, cargo, and conveyances. In the front, there was our anaemic bush-taxi (a lack of light precluded me from taking another photo of our driver industriously diving underneath the hood in an attempt to conjure up a new engine through a bit of alchemy or other such magic trick), followed by a two story bus – one story for the bus itself, a piece of machinery that at one time very much might have been painted orange, and one story for the varied collection of boxes, rice bags, and wildebeests tethered to the top (OK, there were probably no wildebeests, but it was too dark to ascertain absolutely that there were no wildebeests present). Behind the large, vaguely orange bus was a Mercedes that had remarkably succeeded in maintaining its blackness. It is with great regret that I failed to quiz the vehicle’s owner as to how he had succeeded in achieving this on an African road. Lastly, and lest one forget the conveyances that all of us used in yesteryear, there came a horse and buggy. The horse, looking none the worse for wear after fording part of the Bani, was evidently transporting a precious cargo to the market in Djenne. Closer inspection, however, revealed a multitude of rusty metal bits on their way to the bazaar (such an impressive collection of rusty metal things in all shapes and sizes conjured up memories of Mardin’s Hotel Başak, and their toilet facilities which happened to double as a rusty-metal-bit depository – I imagine the allusion is helpful to precisely no one, given that few sane people would ever darken the door of Mardin’s elegant Hotel Başak, nor have had the pleasure of ever spending two long nights there); I was regretfully unable to locate the purveyor of these metal bits the following day during the marché.
Our three minute crossing completed, I silently acknowledged my fellow passengers (be they man or beast) and returned to our stalwart bush-taxi (our driver had apparently constructed some headlights during the crossing using metal coils and prayer during our ferry-ride) for the remainder of the journey to Djenne.
Our asthmatic bush taxi in a rare, kinetically inclined moment.
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