Rasta and Adi lead the way. In typical fashion, I trail behind them, bewildered. Where are we going? What are we doing? Is that Chubaka standing on a rock?
We make our way through crowds of women, children and young men toward the sound of beating drums. Up a hill, down a hill and then --
-- a flash of color like a volery of tropical birds taking flight.
Men with masks, men with stilts, men in traditional Dogon hats.
A celebration of ancestors, of bountiful harvests, of manhood and community.
Little boys look on, waiting for the day they will be invited to dance.
We are unexpected and accidental guests, standing back to watch the dazzling panoply unfold.
We walk on, still far from camp.
The light fades across the plain and the baobab trees take on dark and craggy shapes. An ox cart with two young boys passes by, greeting us in an elaborate exchange.
We hop on the cart, sitting behind the older boy who clucks and grunts and waves a stick in encouragement. The bony oxen are disgruntled and tired, slowing down in protest only to be prodded in the testicles by the older boy.
We sit in silence as the cart rolls along the uneven path and watch the sun dip behind the cliffs of Bandiagara. It is the start of a new year. I close my eyes and bow my head, thanking the gods for the fullness of this day.
Images: All photographs my own. Click to enlarge - they look nicer that way.
