The dancer is the mask

Mali  |  Anno 1998

 

 

Haute-Volta, that's the name of the country we're leaving. At least if we attach some value to the official sign next to the road. For it has now been fourteen years since Upper Volta changed its name. Not suffering from false modesty, they've come to call their land Burkina Faso, or, in other words, the Land of the Honest People.

There is virtually nothing to indicate that we are crossing an international border

Border between Burkina Faso and Mali

For the rest, there is virtually nothing to indicate that we are crossing an international border. On either side of the imaginary line, the same dusty trail of brownish-red laterite winds through the bone-dry Sahel. This morning in Thiou we have completed the Burkinabè border formalities, later in Koro we will meet the Malian authorities.

 

Tuareg

With our four jeeps we are on the road now for seven hours since we left the Burkinabè capital Ouagadougou at half past eight this morning, about 250 km from here. Earlier this day we had lunch in Ouahigouya. Since then the road has been unpaved and the villages along the way have become a bit rarer – picturesque huts, vital wells, girls bending over their wash basins. A lonely Tuareg greets our convoy kindly from the hump of his dromedary. It is a mystery to us how he manages to keep his balance there.

 

 

Like his colleagues, our driver Wilio Halidou keeps a fast pace with his Isuzu jeep. Fortunately, the dust clouds of his predecessors oblige him to keep a respectful distance. Ouagadougou is his home base. There he lives with his wife and his one-year-old son. As a freelancer, he drives a friend's jeep at his own expense. He's convinced the work is underpaid, but he really likes it. One day owning his own jeep is his dream.

 

It seems impossible to impede the ever-progressing desertification

Gradually the landscape becomes drier and sandier. As we progress northwest, the savannah little by little merges into the Sahel. It seems impossible to impede the ever-progressing desertification. At the edge of this area, just before the sandy plain of Séno-Gondo, we stop in Koro, a sleepy settlement of more than 40,000 inhabitants. We complete our border formalities while the drivers go for a refuelling.

 

Koro – Market place and Great Mosque

It looks like a fortress, the large mud-brick building with the pointed towers that we see a little further down the street. That is not a coincidence. At the time, people consciously opted for an easy-to-defend, rectangular structure. But this is not a castle, this is the Great Mosque of Koro. It may be smaller and less beautiful than its more famous sisters, the mosques of Djenné and Timbuktu, but it still is an impressive example of the typical clay architecture that seems to be Mali's trademark.

Every year the outer walls of the mosque get a major makeover

Koro

Koro – Great Mosque

The building is constructed entirely of sun-dried adobe bricks. To give the outer walls a smooth appearance, they were covered with a thick layer of loam. Branches of palm trees have been inserted at regular intervals, poking out a few tens of centimetres, as if the building were to represent a gigantic cactus.

Of course, such adobe constructions are doomed to perish if you let rain and wind run their course undisturbed. So the outer walls get a major makeover every year. This has been a regular ritual for the local community, year after year, for centuries. During the restauration works, the protruding palm branches act as a kind of scaffolding.

 

This gossamer veil of sand obscures the sun and places people and animals in a dusty scenery of sepia tones

Northwest of Koro, the relatively comfortable laterite roads give way to sandy tracks. It is broad daylight, there is not a cloud in the sky. Relentlessly, the sun scatters its scorching rays across the landscape. Yet it is not a blistering sun shining in the sky, but rather a pale full moon. This is due to the Harmattan, the bone-dry trade wind that blows from the northeast over the country from November to March. More specifically it blows from the high pressure area above the Sahara to the low pressure area above the Gulf of Guinea.

 

 

But that's not the only problem. In the Sahara, the Harmattan scoops up tiny grains of sand, no more than five to ten thousandths of a millimetre in size. This creates a gossamer veil of sand that obscures the sun and places people and animals in a dusty scenery of sepia tones. People are sandblasted and blow-dried at the same time. It is also a very unhealthy condition, which affects the local population. Dry eyes, skin diseases and asthma are common. The sand grains would even carry pathogens such as meningococci with them.

All this has not prevented man from settling here. Picturesque villages glide past the window. Kids shyly watch the strangers drive by in their 4WD monsters. Sometimes they laugh cheerfully, sometimes they jump to the side in fear, sometimes they hesitantly raise a hand in greeting. Women wave back with a broad smile, men observe the spectacle resignedly.

Unfortunately, we don't have the time to get acquainted. After all, it won't be long before darkness sets in. And then it is dangerous to navigate through the loose sand on this dirt road.

Barely a few hundred metres to the north, the sandstone cliff of Bandiagara rises, at the foot of which is the village of Tireli

Bandiagara Escarpment, village of Tireli

Just before half past six, the famous Bandiagara Escarpment, one of the most impressive natural phenomena in West Africa, finally rises before us in the twilight. Presumably there was a rocky coast here about 500 million years ago, where the breakers dashed against these cliffs. Today, the sandstone cliffs extend for about 150 km, varying in height between 100 and 300 m. Broken rock fragments have formed enormous talus deposits at the base of the cliffs. Right there, on those scree slopes, Dogon people have established their villages.

For a while, we follow the cliff via a sandy road to the south west. One of the jeeps even gets stuck in the loose sand. At seven o'clock, it's almost completely dark when we arrive on the sand dune that our guide Sory has chosen as camp site. The igloo tents already have been set up, but the chickens for dinner still have to be plucked.

 

The village of Tireli

It was a deliberate choice, Sory affirms, to set up camp on this high dune. Because tomorrow at dawn we will wake up to a phenomenal view of the cliffs and the Dogon village of Tireli, which is directly opposite us on the rubble slope. At the moment we don't see any of that in the darkness, but the sounds that reach us convince us that there is indeed a village. The cheers even seem to indicate that they are having a party there.

While the kitchen staff is at work, Sory talks about the Dogon, since they are the reason we are here. After all, much more than other West African peoples, they largely succeeded in preserving their original culture.

The Dogon did not want to convert to Islam. They preferred to stick to their animistic traditions

They are about half a million, these Dogon people. They live scattered on the desert-like plain of Séno-Gondo we crossed a couple of hours ago, on the plateau that extends behind the escarpment, but in particular on the scree slopes at the foot of the cliff of Bandiagara. And that's where we'll be looking for them in the coming days.

Originally it was the Tellem who inhabited the escarpment. They lived in rock dwellings high up against the cliff face. In the course of the 15th century, however, the Dogon showed up. They did not want to convert to Islam. They preferred to stick to their animistic traditions. Being forced into slavery was not an option either. To be safe from these threats, they withdrew to this inhospitable area. After all, the villages on the cliff slopes were easy to defend against slave hunters. And the presence of that rock wall turned out to be an important added value. Because that ripple in the relief is enough to encourage clouds to drop just a little more rainwater than elsewhere in this bone-dry region.

Much more than other West African peoples, the Dogon have largely succeeded in preserving their original culture

We don't know exactly how the confrontation between the Tellem and the Dogon went. Have both populations tried to live together? Did the Tellem immediately flee? Were they driven out by force? As a matter of fact, the rock dwellings of the Tellem in the escarpment have been empty for centuries, while further south Tellem villages still can be found. The village of Yoro is a well-known example of this. Incidentally, in the language of the Dogon, Tellem means “Those who were before us”.

The fact that the Dogon culture survived virtually unscathed for centuries is undoubtedly due to this isolated location. After all, in Mali, social and economic life mainly takes place on the banks of the Niger, a long way from here.

 

Carved wooden window shutter

Carved wooden door

Partly because of this relative isolation, the Dogon culture has acquired its mythical status. But the haze of mystery in which the Dogon themselves shroud their rituals also contributed to this status. Only when you are initiated – a privilege reserved for a limited number of male, circumcised tribesmen – you can understand the deeper symbolism. That has not prevented the Dogon from enjoying world fame for their unique architecture, their wood sculptures, their spiritual masks, their ritual dances. Since 1989, their culture has been recognized as an Intangible Cultural Heritage by UNESCO. We are eager to get acquainted with it.

But first we have to get through the night. It will not be comfortable, we fully realize. But we are used to it by now. These days the daytime temperatures effortlessly rise to 45°C (113 °F), the nighttime temperatures never drop below 30°C (86 °F). Electricity, running water and sanitation of course are not available. But above all it is the wind that adds to the discomfort. High on this dune, the Harmattan has free rein. Nothing can stop it. It effortlessly pushes the ultra-fine sand through crevices and zips. At dinner, the chicken meat and couscous taste crispy from grains of sand.

High on this dune, the Harmattan has free rein. It effortlessly pushes the ultra-fine sand through crevices and zips

The village of Tireli

 

* * * * *

 

The wind howls around the tents all night. The tent cloth flaps continuously, the strings pull on the pegs incessantly. As well anchored as they are, it's probably only thanks to us and our luggage that the tents don't fly through the air. In the early morning the wind even increases in strength.

The climax of our encounters is right around the corner – a performance of the famous mask dance

At the base of the escarpment, on the other hand, the excitement could not be greater. A little wind doesn't seem to discourage people in Tireli. The festivities continue into the early hours. For the moment being we've no idea what there is to celebrate so intensely.

Just before six we crawl out of our tents, a bit dazed. For the first time we can take a look at our bivouac by daylight. On this bare sandy slope, our tents are the only resistance the Harmattan encounters. Whirling his way around these obstacles, the wind has dug deep trenches in the sand. Gradually, some tents have partly sunk into those trenches, some are hanging ridiculously skewed at an angle of 30°.

All night the gossamer sand has settled on our sweaty bodies. A shower! A shower! My kingdom for a shower!, the distraught Richard III would cry out in this situation. But all Sory has to offer is a bucket half full of water. Just one bucket for all of us.

Yet somehow Sory manages to conjure up a breakfast worthy of the name – bread, omelette, cheese spread, jam, coffee and tea, flavoured with a pinch of sand. He himself cannot really enjoy it, because one of the empty tents takes to the skies. Together with some drivers he runs after it. With great difficulty they get hold of the tent.

But it must be said, Sory was absolutely right, the view here is unparalleled. It's like sitting in a grandstand, ready to enjoy the scenery. Barely a few hundred metres to the north, the sandstone cliff of Bandiagara rises, at the foot of which is the huge scree where the village of Tireli has survived for about five centuries. There are several dozen houses, you have to look closely to spot them, as the clay brick buildings are the same colour as the sandstone boulders in between. Only their smooth walls distinguish them from their cluttered environment. Some houses seem to have a flat roof, others have a very nice pointed roof.

Just after eight we climb to the village centre. The climax of our encounters is right around the corner – a performance of the famous mask dance. But first there is the obligatory greeting of the village chief.

Thus we learn that they had a funeral to celebrate last night, as will be the case for the nights to come. Not that there is a corpse out there anywhere. What they celebrate is a dama, a ritual performed for people who died months or years ago. The goal is to guide the souls of the dead to their final resting place through a series of ritual dances and rites. To this end, they are singing long songs all night long.

Originally, death did not even exist among the Dogon. At the end of their lives, the men simply turned into snakes and thus acquired eternal life

Originally, death did not even exist among the Dogon. At the end of their lives, men simply turned into snakes and thus acquired eternal life. That came to an end long ago when primeval man rebelled against the divine order. The gods did not take that, henceforth man would be mortal. Since then, annual rituals have been required to escort the dead to their resting place. Only then one can be sure that the deceased can join his ancestors and that order in the universe is maintained. This myth strongly reminds us of the Biblical Fall.

The mask dance is also part of this dama. For it is only after young initiated men have performed this dance that the deceased enter the community of the ancestors. Only then will they be able to survive in a child that is born later.

Full of expectations we go to the tei, the small square in the centre of the village. In the middle a cairn forms the ritual centre of the event. That's a holy place, no one is allowed to enter this cairn.

 

The orchestra is ready, the masks are coming

It seems as if the whole village has turned up to attend the spectacle. Village elders in indigo robes have already taken their prominent places. The orchestra is also ready – two men with a flute, two men with a huge metal cowbell, two men with a drum. A little further back, women and children sit on the rocks waiting curiously for the events to happen. Women are supposed to respect a certain distance when the masks are dancing. This is a men's business, that much is clear.

The dancer is not wearing his mask, the dancer ís his mask

Completely introverted, the dancers bring their masks to life – driven, inspired, unstoppable

Suddenly, rhythmic drumming starts loudly. Higher up, twenty-four masked men emerge from behind the houses and run dancing onto the square.

 

Kanaga masks

Women are supposed to respect a certain distance when the masks are dancing. This is a men's business, that much is clear

The large wooden masks they wear are impressive. Sometimes we immediately recognize the creatures they represent, sometimes we don't. One of the masks is estimated to be nearly four meters high. Yet each dancer has both arms free. He holds his mask only with his teeth. We will not get to see the dancers' faces, even when they are resting after the dance. In principle, no one should know who is wearing which mask during a traditional dama. And even that is a misperception – the dancer is not wearing his mask, the dancer ís his mask.

 

The tei with the cairn in the centre of the village

As the masks make their first rounds, the village chief watches the scene carefully. Do the masks dance a flawless course? Is the rhythm right? Are the prescribed rituals followed to perfection? We cannot assess whether this is the case. What is clear is the intensity with which the dancers do their thing. Completely introverted, they bring their masks to life – driven, inspired, unstoppable. Clouds of dust rise from the sand with every step their bare feet take.

 

 

Anyway, the dance master seems satisfied. Rhythmically he hits the hard ground with his stick, he can hardly contain himself to join in. Eventually he too will enter the tei with a broad grin on his face and take a few steps in the dancers' tracks. It is striking how graceful his movements are, he immediately overshadows the young dancers.

 

The dance master enters the tei himself

Dressed in their indigo boubou, the traditional wide tunic, the elders don’t miss anything of the action. Every now and then they murmur to each other, with a small wave of their hands in the direction of the dancing masks. It doesn't take much imagination to guess what goes on between them – things aren't as they used to be when they themselves were on the tei.

 

The orchestra

Critical elders

Most masks appear to be present in duplicate, sometimes there are even three or four. After the introductory dance with all the masks together, they now perform in pairs, each with their own choreography and their own cadence.

 

Human mask

Oryx masks

 

Bird mask

Hyena masks

Often the masks represent easily recognizable animals – a buffalo, an antelope, a colourful bird, a striped hyena, an oryx with impressively long horns. Funny are the hunters with their fat noses and ugly teeth, holding a spear in their right hand.

 

The masks are resting

The cowrie shells come all the way from the sea, more than a thousand kilometres, and are therefore very expensive

Satimbé masks, human mask

Buffalo mask, bird mask

Pullo yana mask

All masks are distinctly geometric in shape and strongly stylized. Usually it is rectangular, elongated faces that stare at us, with square eyes and beam-shaped noses. Sometimes they are triangular, with conical facial shapes. Often the masks were originally coloured, but usually very little of that remains. The bright sun, the abrasive sand and not to forget the termites have done their job over the years.

 

Pullo yana masks, sirigé masks

The dance master is satisfied

The meter-high masks that immediately caught our attention at the start of the performance turn out to be sirigé masks. They look a bit like narrow ladders and that's exactly the point. For each crossbar represents one of the stages of knowledge that the young men gain during the initiation. The transition from childhood to adulthood is what a sirigé mask aims to draw attention to.

The presence of three stilt walkers is surprising. Moreover, they are the only dancers who do not wear a wooden mask. Their faces are covered only with a fibrous mat on which cowrie shells are attached. They come all the way from the sea, more than a thousand kilometres, and are therefore very expensive. The mask continues in two bands up to the dancer's chest, where two conical shapes are supposed to represent women's breasts. These pullo yana masks therefore represent young girls, the long stilts emphasize their elegance. But the dancers are men, of course.

 

Pullo yana masks

Satimbé masks

We already knew that women are excluded from anything to do with masks. There is, however, an exception to that rule. The satimbé mask reminds us of that. On top of the face mask is the image of a woman with arms raised. In her right hand she holds a ladle. Is this then the archetypal image of the woman in the kitchen?

According to legend, it was Ya Sigine, the Sister of the Masks, who gave the masks to mankind

No, this is Ya Sigine, the Sister of the Masks. It was she who gave the masks to mankind. Because according to legend, she managed to surprise the Andoumboulou when they were dancing in the bush. The supernatural beings were shocked when they saw the woman and left their masks behind during their chaotic flight. The woman took the masks to the village, where the men appropriated them. Since then, the priestess Ya Sigine is the only one allowed to participate in the dances. She is also the only woman allowed to have masks dance at her funeral.

And what about the ladle? This ladle is imbued with a vital force that would be even more dangerous to women than the masks themselves. In this way, women still know their place in the Dogon society, should Ya Sigine's fortunes lead to some bold ideas.

 

Kanaga masks

Depicting the rising and setting of the sun

In comparison, the kanaga mask looks rather primitive. Only two white-painted tridents adorn the top of the face mask. One of them points skyward, the other points down. The black geometric decorations can only be called Spartan.

No mask is more associated with Dogon culture than the austere kanaga mask

Yet no mask is more associated with Dogon culture than this austere kanaga mask. When the French anthropologist Marcel Griaule wanted to know more about this mask in 1938, the Dogon deliberately led him astray. They claimed it represented a kommolo tebu, a white bird with a black forehead. Griaule, after all, was an uninitiated. So the true nature of the mask had to be hidden from him.

In the meantime, mores have loosened up somewhat, also among the Dogon. We now know that the kanaga mask has a double meaning. On the one hand, it refers to the sky god Amma, the creator of the universe. The crossbars represent his arms and legs. On the other hand, it refers to the intertwining of the parts of that universe, with the top crossbar representing heaven and the bottom one representing the earth. As if to illustrate this, the dancers now and then skim their masks low over the ground. This is how they depict the rising and setting of the sun.

 

Of course the debriefing happens in Sigi So, the sacred language that only the initiated know. After all, you are not allowed to address masks in any other way

The mask dance comes to an end. The dancers rest for a while, we can see their masks up close. Then they gather around the dance master for what we would call a debriefing. Of course this happens in Sigi So, the sacred language that only the initiated know. After all, you are not allowed to address masks in any other way. But the dancers are restless and soon the dance master gives the sign they are waiting for. Relieved, they run upstairs where they can take off the heavy masks.

 

* * * * *

 

Through the wide riverbed at the foot of the cliff we continue to the northeast. Apparently some rain falls here every now and then, as trees, shrubs and a few tufts of grass survive in this relentless drought. Wrinkles in the sand reveal that water is sometimes present here. Thanks to that, the Dogon manage to herd some livestock and grow a number of crops – millet, sorghum, sesame, onion, among others. They are indeed very adept at farming. It has to be, given that the drought has regularly plagued them for centuries. Many Dogon rituals are associated with drought.

 

 

Higher on the scree slope is the village of Amani. We leave the jeeps behind and follow Sory up a rocky path. It's not steep. Yet we sigh and sweat in the blazing sun, even though it is barely half past ten in the morning. However, the reward is not long in coming. Gradually, a formidable panorama unfolds before us – the sandstone cliff face, the village with its adobe buildings, the overgrown bed and in the distance the imposing dunes.

 

Dogon villages on the Bandiagara Escarpment

Amani – Granaries

Further and further, Sory leads us up the slope. Gradually, in the distance, a handful of structures attract our attention. These are clay houses, built in the shelter of a cave at the bottom of the cliff face, but of a very different architecture from the houses of the Dogon. It was there that the Tellem resided, until the Dogon appeared in the 15th century.

Gradually, a formidable panorama unfolds before us

The village of Amani

We can't get closer than a few hundred metres, because the Dogon still use the place as a burial site, a sacred place that should not be disturbed. Yet from this distance we can form a reasonably good picture of the houses. It must have been quite an achievement for the Tellem to build houses and live there.

 

Bandiagara Escarpment with Tellem clay houses

The Tellem probably arrived here around the 11th century. Archaeologists have been able to deduce this from grave finds – bones, pottery, baskets, pearls, fabrics. That wasn't easy, for the Tellem cut their graves into the vertical rock walls. With ropes and ladders they managed to reach the most inaccessible places.

It must have been quite an achievement for the Tellem to build houses and live there

Agriculture and animal husbandry, that was not what the Tellem concerned themselves with. Gathering fruits, catching fish, hunting wild animals was enough for them to survive, Sory explains. After all, at that time this was no dry, inhospitable environment as we see it around us now. A thousand years ago, this was a vast forest bursting with life. Meanwhile, desertification has put an end to this.

 

Amani – Toguna

Amani – Tellem houses

In villages like these, Muslims and Catholics now live side by side. An odd observation that is, since the Dogon withdrew here at the time, precisely to escape the pressures of advancing Islam and to maintain their own animistic traditions. There's even a celebration going on in a small church – it's Easter today, after all.

 

* * * * *

 

A strong, hot north easterly wind is still howling over the terrain. Tiny grains sandblast our skin. But the excellent lunch Sory presents – chicken and rice, topped with a tasty sauce and the obligatory pinch of sand – and the siesta under the shelter of Amani's school make up for it.

A thousand years ago, this was a vast forest bursting with life

 

It is now half past four. Ireli lies partly in the shadow of the cliff when we arrive there with the jeeps. That makes the short climb less exhausting. Fifteen minutes later we are on the central square.

Now that the midday heat has passed, the village comes alive. Some men are watching us. The presence of tourists does not really surprise them anymore. The building where they gather looks like a roof on legs. It's a toguna. Sory calls it a palaver room for men.

In practice, the main aim is to avoid heated discussions leading to fights

Ireli – Toguna

It is a strange building, which is precisely why it is perhaps one of the most typical buildings of Dogon architecture. The flat roof is at least one meter thick and consists of several layers of millet stalks. The space underneath is a maximum of one metre high and open on all sides. You can sit or lie there, but not stand up. This is called a conscious choice. Because by bending over one shows respect for each other. At least that's the official statement. In practice, the main aim is to avoid heated discussions leading to fights. Lying down, it's just a bit more difficult to become violent.

The toguna is strictly off limits to women. Conversely, the punulu is off limits for men

Men of all ages gather here to do all kinds of important things – chew tobacco, exchange the latest gossip, discuss business, make decisions. The toguna is strictly off limits to women. Conversely, the punulu is off limits for men. Menstruating women are considered unclean. Women who have their period therefore have to leave their family home for five days to live in the punulu on the outskirts of the village. They take their youngest children with them. The kitchen utensils they use should only be used there. In the evening the other women also gather around the punulu, so that the building has become a counterpart to the toguna. Although it is a construction of lesser quality that the women had to build themselves.

 

Ireli – Tellem houses

Sory leads us through the village via steep rocky paths until we stare in amazement at the rock face. While in Amani we had to settle for a handful of Tellem houses, we are looking now at a real village. Dozens of houses, mostly tubular, sometimes rectangular, are glued to the rock face. Moreover, all those beautiful mud houses have survived the centuries almost unscathed. To the extent that some Dogon have since found a home there.

 

Ireli – Tellem houses

The maintenance of these high mud facades is not an easy task. Just like with the Great Mosque of Koro, sticks stick out of the facades, making it easier for plasterers during the renovation. Although it must be said that the overhanging rock wall keeps the erosion by rain within limits.

The beautiful wooden ladders have become coveted collectibles for tourists

Cave dwellings

Even in the perpendicular rock face we can distinguish many cave dwellings. They are dizzyingly high, without ladders or ropes they are almost unreachable. But the beautiful wooden ladders that the Tellem used to climb the rock face are long gone. They have become coveted collectibles for tourists.

 

Like a gigantic serpent, the black body of Lébé meanders over the full width of the facade

The colourful facades of some Dogon houses are impressive. We recognize the image of a hyena mask, a hunter with a bow, a sirigé mask, a kanaga mask. Completely new to us, however, is the representation of a snake. Like a gigantic serpent, her black body with red and white speckles meanders over the full width of the facade. This is the earth god Lébé, Sory explains. Together with the sky god Amma and the water god Nommo, this sacred serpent forms the pantheon of Dogon mythology.

 

Sandstone plateau

It is already close to six when we climb to the plateau with the jeeps. The dirt road winds its way up the cliff wall in countless hairpin bends. Three quarters of an hour later we stop at the Campément of Sangha. That is a super deluxe place to stay, because they have by far the most precious thing we can imagine – showers. The water that flows between our feet to the drain literally turns blood red from the desert sand.

Compared to tents, a room with four walls and a window that can be closed seems like an incredible luxury. But in the meantime we know better. Without hesitation, we drag our mattresses up the ladders and settle in the open air on the flat roof.

Without hesitation, we drag our mattresses up the ladders and settle in the open air on the flat roof

Tonight, in the streets they will be celebrating again the funeral of three men who have died in the past two years. Although these men were immediately buried at the time, their spirits are only now being escorted to their final resting place in a joint – which means cheaper – feast. But the partygoers won't keep us awake. Neither will the stiff, hot winds. Not even the roosters and the donkeys in the early morning. Because we simply are exhausted.

 

* * * * *

 

The village of Banani

Half a dozen boys try to sell us large bottles of mineral water. Good thing too, because water is what we will need more than ever for the next few hours, not only when we descend to Banani, but especially when we climb back to the plateau. It is only seven o'clock in the morning, but if the temperature does not drop below thirty degrees at night, you can hardly expect any morning coolness.

 

The village of Banani

Is it because the morning sun sets the village in a golden glow? Is it because during the descent we get a wonderful bird's eye view of the village, like a horseshoe surrounded by the red rock face? Is it because the houses and granaries of the other villages can't really match those of Banani? We do not know. The fact is that we immediately experience this village as the most beautiful of the four that we were allowed to visit.

 

Traditionally, a Dogon house is built as a metaphor for the human body

 

During the descent it is not difficult for us to recognize the typical elements of a Dogon house. Traditionally, a house is built as a metaphor for the human body, Sory explains. The cylindrical turret represents the head, two holes in it refer to the eyes. The open interior space represents the trunk, the raised chambers to the left and right of it the arms, the vestibule at the front refers to the legs. At first, timid Sory doesn't dare tell us that the entrance to the vestibule symbolizes the genitals.

 

 

Polygamy is the norm here. Men can in principle have four wives, in practice they never have more than two. Often the first wife is chosen by the parents and the second wife is taken out of love, Sory clarifies. Sometimes the potential spouse goes to work elsewhere for a while to scrape together the money needed for the marriage. For example in Mopti, a city on the Niger, about seventy kilometres to the west.

 

To know how many wives a man has, all you have to do is count his granaries

 

To know how many wives a man has, all you have to do is count his granaries. Those are the buildings with the gabled roofs that intrigued us from the start. A man always has two 'male' granaries. One of them serves to store millet and sorghum. It is very well protected against mice and has two floors with two doors one above the other. These are often gems of wood sculptures. Only the man – the head of the family – is allowed to take the daily portions of food here for the meal.

 

Carved wooden window shutter

The second 'male' granary has a small door at the bottom and serves as a sleeping place for the old men. Strangely enough, this bizarre location gives them exactly the respect of their fellow human beings.

 

Decorated house facade with buffalo, kanaga, pullo yana and sirigé motif

In addition, every woman has her own shed. These 'female' granaries are off limits to the master of the house. Divided into four small compartments, they have only one door and are fitted with small windows – mice are no threat here. The women here store their personal belongings, possibly their jewellery, as well as the baobab leaves and beans they use daily to prepare their sauces. So if you count two "female" granaries in the man's yard, he has two wives.

 

 

In this society, in principle, men take on the heavy agricultural tasks. They build houses, repair granaries, weave straw for the roofs, make tools. Women, on the other hand, fetch water, do the cooking, work the fields, plant crops for daily meals, make ceramic pots. And they brew beer. Drinking beer is a prerogative of men, while brewing beer is a prerogative of women.

Drinking beer is a prerogative of men, while brewing beer is a prerogative of women

Banani – Toguna

At the toguna a few men observe us. A little further on, we have the great honour of greeting the Hogon, the spiritual and political leader of the community. We recognize him by the white Phrygian cap he wears. He does not really convey inspired leadership. He doesn't look very happy either, rather apathetic.

The high position of the Hogon is nothing to envy

Toguna

The Hogon

His high position is nothing to envy. No one is allowed to touch him. He is forced to sit on a piece of a hollowed-out tree trunk, because he is not allowed to touch the ground either. Nor is he allowed to wash, for at night Lébé, the sacred serpent, comes to lick him clean and convey her wisdom. He may only get his food from a virgin who is not yet menstruating.

And he didn't even choose all of that himself. Designating a new Hogon doesn't work in the same way in all villages. Here it is an uncircumcised boy walking through the village and dropping a stick at a random front door. If that happens to be your door, then your fate is set until you die.

Usually one or more villages fall under the jurisdiction of the same Hogon. In this case, that's eight villages around here. In our view, the Dogon culture shows great homogeneity, but in practice several dozen different dialects and sub-dialects are spoken. Some differ so much that they are incomprehensible to each other. Naturally, the Hogon is supposed to know all the languages of his own territory.

If the stick falls in front of your door, then your fate is set until you die

In addition, every Hogon should experience a sigui, a grand festival that only takes place once every sixty years. A bizarre requirement, as the average life expectancy in Mali is only 45 years.

 

 

It is half past nine when we climb the rock wall again. More than an hour later we drive over the rock plateau to Bandiagara. Dogonland gradually disappears into the dust clouds behind the jeeps. Although it seems more correct to say that this magical land will always remain hidden behind the veil of its enigmatic mysteries. Just before Mopti, we meet the first signs of what is called civilization – a military checkpoint.

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Jaak Palmans

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