The hike through Dogon is over and I am reluctant to leave this beautiful, peaceful place. Rasta is officially off-duty but gives me a ride to Djenné to see the iconic Great Mosque and the madrassas that have attracted Islamic scholars since the 14th century. I sit in the back of the Land Rover feeling a bit glum.
For the first time in many days, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. My hair and skin are dusted with the same ruddy color as the earth, my nose is a sunburned triangle, my clothes are stiff with dirt and sweat. I have never been so filthy in my life and I have never cared so little. I look utterly unfit for human company.
We cross the Bani river on a small barge and drive into Djenné's Monday market preparations just after the sun rises. Trucks unload, women emerge from all directions carrying babies and baskets full of produce, fish, millet. Within minutes a critical mass gathers in front of the imposing Great Mosque, the world's largest mud brick structure. Built in 1907 on the site of a 13th century mosque, the Great Mosque is central to life in Djenné both in location and in its enduring relevance. It makes an impressive backdrop to the chaos of market day, the sights and smells of which make me extremely uneasy after several days of solitude and quiet.
There are people everywhere - so many people it's nearly impossible to move, to bargain, to buy. I let the crush of bodies carry me along as women hawk their wares in a cacophony of Bambara, Fulani, Djennéké. Suddenly I hit my limit. I am a Rainman freaking out over the smoke alarm, I am Nell going batshit crazy in the forest. I retreat to an empty side street to hide. More than anything in the world, I want to be alone and undisturbed.
"CA VA CA VA CA VA CA VA?" shriek four little boys who seem to be bolting straight at me.
"Ça va bien," I answer wearily.
They follow me the rest of the day, swarming around me like mosquitoes. I find an internet cafe and thirty minutes later, realize that they are waiting for me outside. I retreat to my hostel for a bite to eat and when I emerge, they appear. I climb to the roof of a building to take photographs and see them waiting patiently below.
"Cadeau?" they ask. "Cadeau cadeau cadeau cadeau?"
They are holding me hostage for a present.
I buy a sad, flimsy-looking soccer ball and we kick it around with a gaggle of street kids who whoop with delight at my pathetic, amateur-hour fakes. Just as I'm about to bend it like Beckham for my adoring fans, the ball bursts. I watch the children's bodies deflate along with it, their faces falling. There is nothing more tragic than a group of kids gathered around a dead soccer ball. Dispirited, we gradually disperse and I wander back to the hostel as the light grows dim.
The square is empty. Two women are engaged in the Sisyphean task of sweeping the ground clean and the effect is a choking cloud of dust that hovers above the town.
I spot Rasta sitting in a restaurant smoking and drinking tea. I am happy to see him - we have not been more than four feet apart for many days, and I realize that as much as I crave solitude, I also miss his company.
"Taaaaaaaaataaaa!" he calls out. "Older sister! Come sit by me." He is listening to music on his phone and plays me a few of his favorite songs. I whip out my iPod and play him a few of mine. We are having a cultural exchange.
"What does it mean, 'Gold Digger'?" he asks.
After I explain the concept of broke niggaz, ballin' shorties, and prenups, I tell Rasta about the market and the children and the soccer ball and how much I miss being in the Dogon even though I've wanted to come to this place for so long.
"Oooooooh, Taaaaataaaaaaaa," he laughs. "Why are you so sad?"
"I don't know," I say. "But I feel very sad tonight. I don't know why."
Rasta grabs his jacket. "I will take you to someone who will tell you why."
* * *
I follow Rasta down a narrow alley that opens up to the madrassa, where students from all over the world have studied the Qur'an for centuries. I trip over a pile of wooden tablets covered in Qur'anic verses and stumble my way up the dark and uneven steps.
"Rasta, where are we going?" I ask anxiously. We pass students studying in ascetic cells by lamp light. They greet us in Arabic.
"Taaaataaaaaaa," he sings, ignoring me. As usual, information is in short supply.
At the top of the stairs is a slightly larger cell with a beaded curtain. I linger shyly by the entrance as Rasta parts the beads.
"Salaam aleikum," he says. Wa aleikum as salaam.
A bearded man dressed in white sits crossed legged on a thin mat weighed down on each corner by papers and books. He smiles and motions us in.
Rasta has taken me to a marabout.
Marabouts are holy men, spiritual leaders, teachers, ascetics, amulet-makers, fortune tellers - or all of the above, depending on where you live. From the look of him, this guy's the real deal: the monk-like simplicity of dress, the gaunt chiaroscuro face, the vague, mystical look, the piles and piles of Qur'anic exegesis in his whitewashed room.
Detracting from the overarching ascetic/monastic vibe is a badly dubbed Kung Fu movie, which has captured the attention of an eight year old boy, whose rapt expression radiates the ecstasy of a pig in shit. Rasta is also completely captivated, and it is only slowly, languidly, reluctantly that the marabout pulls his gaze away from the television to ask me to write my name on a piece of paper.
He looks at it, thinks for a few seconds, and begins to scribble furiously, creating what appears to be a combination of squiggly lines, Arabic and unrecognizable symbols. This goes on for several minutes: scribble, scribble, Kung Fu, scribble, smile encouragingly, scribble scribble, Kung Fu. I smile back, thinking: A Rastafarian, a marabout, a Shaolin warrior, and an overfed American walk into a bar...
Rasta nods at the piece a paper, now almost completely covered with columns of scribbles, squiggles, dots, and the names of the prophets. "Now he will tell you your problems."
He begins to translate:
You are worried about your work. You need to be the top man, the best. You are unhappy. You will be the best, but not at this work. You are worried about your husband, about your husband dying before you.
Meanwhile, the boy changes the channel to another program.
WHERE IN THE WORLD IS OSAMA BIN LADEN? screams the television.
You will be a very old woman, with very long white hair.
GOVERNMENT ASSASSINS ARE POISED TO ROUTE OUT THE TERRORISTS!
Your nature is to travel, and when you travel, you never have problems.
BUT WHY HAVE THEY NOT FOUND BIN LADEN?
But sometimes there are problems in your family. Your father is very upset that you are here.
NOT ALL MUSLIMS AND ARABS ARE TERRORISTS. SOME ARE WELL EDUCATED AND POLITICALLY MATURE!
If you sacrifice a goat and distribute the meat to the poor, in twelve months your problems will be resolved.
"Do you have a goat?" Rasta asks.
I reply with regret that goats are difficult to come by in New York and that even if I had one, I wouldn't quite know what to do with it. Images of a botched sacrifice play like a bad slasher movie in my head - blood everywhere, bleating goat, me flapping my hands in panic, PETA activists throwing buckets of red paint. We pay the marabout the equivalent of $2.50 and he offers, in response to my goat problem, to sacrifice one for me and distribute the meat in Djenne.
I happily make a contribution toward a goat. It seems like a grand idea - all of my problems solved, goat meat for the poor, no bungled execution in the streets of Brooklyn. I've got all of my bases covered. After all, one can never be too careful or too lucky.
