The Road to Djenné - Mali, Backpacker Africa Travel

From day one the trip was gruelling. The heat so unbearable my partner was forced to change his shirt thrice daily; his armpits had begun to emit smells not even the putrid sewerage channels of West Africa could rival. (Thankfully our discovery of Dettol soap in the Kejetia markets managed to kill the offending bacteria before it could cause permanent damage to the Ozone layer.) Food (when we could find it) was of reasonable value in Ghana but once we reached Burkina and Mali it was often unpalatable and very expensive. Our accommodation was basic; sleeping in rooms so filthy our skin tried to crawl away from our bones as we slept. On one occasion we were cheerfully informed that the toilets for 'le blanc' were 2.5km north of the town.

But finally, after six weeks of sweating, swearing and bathing in Dettol, we found ourselves in the dusty port town of Mopti - a mere 140 km south west of Djenné. Our goal was in sight. Suddenly the pain seemed worth it again. We were in luck too. The Monday markets would be on in Djenné at the same time we had planned to arrive.

The next morning we made our way to the bush-taxi station just as the sun was beginning to rise. (We had been warned that the infrequent transports to Djenné left especially early on market day). Unfortunately for us, most of our fellow travellers seemed more entranced by a pirated copy of Collateral Damage than catching a ride to Djenné. Finally, however, the movie ended and the bush-taxi (a rusty pick-up truck lined with two hard, wooden benches) crammed with 23 people, including us, two distressed babies, countless sacks of millet and a few live chickens strung to the roof, began the long journey to Djenné.

In theory, the trip is not far but in reality it is long, grinding and for the most part scenically-challenged. The landscape is semi-arid scrub punctured only with the occasional baobab tree. Every few kilometers the taxi stops to squeeze in another hopeful and in every town we wait as the local women ply their wares. But the people you share the journey with smile at every neck-crunching bump and it's hard not smile back once you accept your collective fate is as entwined as everyone's arms and legs.

As the midday sun scorched above our heads, we arrived at the banks of the Bani River . Djenné lies on a floodplain and the only way there is by wading through ten metres of bilhazaria-infested waters before boarding onto a most unseaworthy vessel. Once on the other side we were permitted back on the taxi which then wheezed its way into Djenné, seven hours after we first began our journey.

Djenné was once an important link in the sub-Saharan trade route; these days it is a sleepy little town largely unscathed by modern progress. The streets are medieval consisting largely of narrow winding alleys lined with mud brick houses and deep, rambling sewers. In the middle of the town sits the jewel of Djenné - the Grande Mosquée. It was not as large as I had expected, but as it sat solemnly on a raised platform made from mud, it had a towering, almost watchful, presence over the main square. The current Mosquée is not as old as the rest of the town. It was built in 1907 to replace the original Grande Mosquée, which had stood on the site since the 13 th century. However, its newness does not seem to detract from its architectural magnificence, history or significance to the Islamic culture. And even though, as non-Muslims, we are were permitted to enter it there was something magical about watching it melting in the African twilight. It reminded me of a giant sand castle.

The market splayed in the front of the Mosquée, was however, less impressive. A handful of tired tomatoes, a wheelbarrow of goat-soap balls that looked deceptively like floury bread-baps (I learned this the hard way), a couple of donkeys and a few women selling kettles. A local informed us that the market was not at its usual best as the fete of Ramadan had just ended and most of the traders had now left for the day. I felt disappointed at not seeing the market in full throttle and blamed Arnie's exploits back in Mopti for our loss.

Still, I had come primarily to see the Mosquée and it was, indeed, an impressive sight. Did it look like chocolate mud cake? In forty degrees heat? Not really. Was I glad I made the trip? I think so. But perhaps I was just tired, more interested in retrieving my bottom which I had lost somewhere on the road, or hungry for something other than the soap. I suppose, in the end, what impressed me most about Djenné was not the Mosquée itself but rather that, despite the heat, the journey, the dust, we had made it there at all. And more importantly, if we had made it there, we might even make it out again!!