Anything is Possible

JOURNAL: July 13-15, 2009

 

Izac showed me the bleached wooden beads around his neck. "This is for women but I can wear it because I am rasta." He occasionally twisted  tiny buds on his head, hoping to speed the development of dreadlocks. On vacation in Hombodi, I decided to hire Izac as my guide because he didn't have any money, I  didn’t have much either, he ultimately charged me 20 bucks for 3 days and well, he was entertaining as s**t.

 

Hombodi was a beautiful town where the desert meets mountains, sand dunes are  juxtaposed with marshes.  Minutes from a hike along a spectacular, if dried up waterfall, the old village is made of stone with narrow meandering passageways shared with herds of cattle, children play soccer while bouncing the ball in and out of alleyways and around goats and cows.  Along the road, the new town is not near as scenic, but boasts generator-fueled electricity for a full 3 hours at night (during Marina, of course).

 

Izac has no transport, so we were walking for 3 hours in the afternoon sun just to get to the Mein de Fatima (Fatima's hand), a stunning rock formation of 5 giant spires in the shape of an open hand.  My turban was a lifesaver, keeping me cool and safe from the intense desert sun.

 

As we walked we collected friends heading the same direction.  Soon there were 5 of us. The Mein du Fatima towered in the distance, in contrast to the flat desert plane. The road stretched endlessly in each direction in the blinding desert sun.  We came across a young cow, collapsed on its side in the sweltering midday heat.  A small puddle of drool had formed under her mouth.  Her chest heaved as she breathed-- the only motion in her otherwise lifeless body. She had been stricken ill with something. The 5 of us picked her up (one lifting her head by her ear) setting her down in the shade of a tiny thorn tree.  She lifted her hoof lifelessly, slowly pawing at the air, so we arranged her on her stomach, legs folded underneath, the way cows traditionally rest.  In this condition, it was only a matter of time before she would die.

 

Izac was Pular or Fulani.  Originally nomads who herd cattle, the urbanized Fulani have lost their traditional livelihood, and often lost their language, but they never loose their love of milk and cows.  Back in Bamako, a Fulani acquaintance's Facebook profile photo is of a cow in a pasture; the other day my Fulani friend was sporting a T-shirt with a giant picture of a cow on the front.  I don't think they would understand why I find that hilarious, so I try to keep my smiles private.

 

Izac was actually his rasta-rapper name-- we also were accompanied by Elpazo-- a Burkinabae named after the Texas city "El Paso."  One of the guys would provide the beatbox, making percussive sounds with his throat, while the other broke into rap-cadences in French-Pular-Rasta mixed with traditional sounding Pular musical refrains.

 

Jah mone Izac o rasta non

rasta yaku o ya rata stile

mako o vert-jaune-rouge

Kufuhe mako obere

Doula mede daouoni

 

My name is Isac, a rasta man

I am rasta and I love the rasta style

i like wearing green-yellow-red

and i wear an obere [an obere is a traditional wide-brimmed fulani hat with lots of decorations used to attract brides]

That's my style and its worth a lot

 

Soma Doumbia o rapeur non

Rapeur yaku o yarata

Daoula mede daouoni

 

Soma Doumbia is a rapper man

He loves the rapper style

that's his style and its worth a lot

 

We stopped for a moment for Izac and Elpazo to exchange shoes so they could each wear one black and one white shoe, rapper style. This had followed a debate about giving me shoes, since I was planning to hike and rock climb in sandals (yeah, I know, brilliant, but I did it in Asia too and it worked out fine).  In refusing the shoes, I dodged a massive bullet as Isac's shoes proceeded to disintegrate into wildly swinging open flaps, and we continually stopped so I could check out his blistering toes and wrap them in toilet paper.

 

Scaling the mountain, we followed a series of rock stairs offering spectacular views of the desert dotted with villages until we came to rest among the massive spires.  Exhausted and out of water, we came across a small lake, it was more like a giant reeking mud puddle.  Filling up their water bottles, the water look like thick muddy orange juice.  I tried not to wince as they thirstily drank the water down.  The voice of my friend Alvaro, a pharmacist working for a Spanish NGO, echoed in my head "Have you seen the water people drink here????" he had said in horror, "80% of the people here have parasites." I decided not to partake.

 

Exhausted and covered in sweat, we limped along the road anticipating another 3 hour hike back to the village, when, thank God, a bus happened along.  The bus was more of a minivan, and it was packed to the brim with men hanging along the outside and piled on top along with bags of produce and livestock. There was only room for each of us to hang on with one hand and one foot from the back, and one man swung precariously from an open door.  I looked up face to face with a goat whose legs were tied securely to the roof of the van.  It looked me dead in the eyes, and licked it's chops.  *What is it thinking?* I wondered nervously. One bite and i would be rolling in the asphalt.  The goat licked its lips.  Loosing interest in my face, the goat began to sniff my hand.  *Please don't bite me please dont bite me please dont bite me*

 

Thankfully we arrived home in time to watch Marina and collapse.

 

The next day, I convinced Alvaro to come with us to the dunes, sporting skis and snowboards.  Izac had warned me 5 times that there was "water we have to cross" to get to the dune.  I didn't get it.  is there some kind of extra expense? do we need to rent a boat? I couldn't understand what the big deal was.  Until of course, we got there.

 

"I am NOT going in that," Alvaro intimated, wide-eyed, when we arrived.

 

By "we have to cross water" Izac meant that we had to wade barefoot across a swamp.  Above the deep layer of slimy muck, thick, black murky water exuded a smell worse than sewage.  Something slid along the reeds visible only as a current in the still black water.

 

“Have you seen the things that are in the water?!!? There is this giant slimy black thing with antennas that’s this big” he motioned nearly a foot long with his hand, “I don’t know if it’s that but there is this parasite that bites you and its larvae burrow into your skin…. I saw posters of it in the hospital, its disgusting.”

 

“Come on man, you work in the hospital.  If you get a parasite you can take some pills and you’ll be fine,” I replied.  Elpazo echoed encouragingly in English, “Yes! You can do it!”

 

Alvaro wasn’t kidding.  That region boasts a series of unpleasantries, such as shistosomaisis, a worm whose larvae bore into your skin, then travel through your bloodstream into your lungs for a while, before boring into your liver to grow.  The most famous African worm, the one that bores into your leg and grows to be massive and has to be slowly removed over the course months by slowly turning a stick to pull it out, can also be found nearby.  But most disturbing is the flesh-eating bacteria, Beruli Ulcer.  The bacteria eats away the flesh, deep into all of the tissues, leaving its victim with gaping, holes and smelling of rotting flesh.  The posters of that in the hospital were stomach churning, children whose faces were rotting away, bodily holes revealing bone.

 

Alvaro was trying, unsuccessfully to explain that he wasn’t afraid of the water per say, he was afraid of parasites.

 

“You can do it,” Elpazo repeated in English, “Anything is possible.”

 

“And what about the parasites?” Alvaro returned.

 

Not understanding, Elpazo replied, “Yes, yes, anything is possible in Africa.” “Anything is possible” and its multiple meanings soon became my favorite phrase. “What time does the bus leave?” “Anything is possible.”  “Do you have time to go to the waterfall?” “Anything is possible.”

 

“Come on man, it’ll be fine.  I’ll go first,” I offered.  Once I stepped in, I immediately reversed my position.  “Oh my god this is disgusting.”

 

Wearing sandals or shoes are impossible as you sink into the black sludge.  Making a disturbing noise that only swamp muck can, the sludge oozes between your toes, crawling up your leg to engulf your calves.  Soon I was in the thick filmy water, the black liquid creeping up my inner thigh, leaving a trail of ooze on my skin as I struggled to step through the muck now invisible under the water.  Alvaro followed, “Thank you Joshua. I am going to remember this trip for forever now.” I winced as I stepped on a thorn buried in the muck.  Something slimy slid over my foot and I shuddered.

 

The rancid smell and disturbing physical sensation stood in sharp contrast to the swamp’s stunning physical beauty. Green reeds jutted out of the glistening water, among a grove of submerged trees.  A flock of white birds passed low overhead.  As we stepped into the light green pasture at the end of the swamp, I realized that this was the greenest I had seen in a long while.  White goats and cows grazed along the pastel pasture, unlikely grasses creeping up between the sand"the pasture quickly gave way to the towering dune system, bathed in the setting sun.  It was one of the most unlikely and beautiful sights I had seen.  Children from a nearby village crowded around to watch us take turns snowboarding down the sandy slopes (ending abruptly as we crashed unceremoniously into the pasture at the foot of the dune), helping us carry our equipment in the exhausting treck back up the dune each time.  It was definitely worth braving the swamp.

 

We couldn’t bear to part from the dune until the sun sat dangerously low in the sky.  We rushed through the swamp in the dying light.  As we exited the muck, darkness descended and with it violent gales of wind and sand.  Lightning flashed, revealing  brief glimpses of thick clouds of swirling black and blue.  The thorn trees made black silhouettes foregrounding the grey mountains in the distance before the black sky.  The beautiful daytime landscape was just as beautiful now, painted in subtle hues of black and blue, sporadically lit with blinding flashes of lightning.  With a deafening clap of thunder, rain joined the wind, and we were instantly drenched from head to toe.  The sand covering our bodies and filling our pockets quickly turned to mud.

 

Amidst the unlikely compatibility of revulsion and beauty, of discomfort and awe, of fear and contentment, I had to agree with Elpazo.  Anything is possible.