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The extract which follows was taken from "From Gatwick to Djigibombo", a journal relating the details of a trip which I took in the 1990s with a group of architectural students. Our journey took us from London, England to the Dogon country of the West African republic of Mali.
There were 13 of us, 8 men and 5 women, with our (male) course tutor and group leader. As the only West African male in the group, I was obliged to act as a sort of cultural liaison for the expedition - a role which (having spent most of my life in Europe and America) I took up with mixed emotions.
"We hit Mopti in the latter part of Saturday morning. The town is situated just off the flood plain of the Niger River which, as its name suggests, is covered over with water during the rainy season. At this time of year though, it's little more than a sandy basin with occasional stretches of sodden ground, populated by reclining cattle.
In stark contrast to Bamako, the buildings are earthen and voluptuous, built in the traditional style. The sky overhead is clear, deep blue, and cloudless. Coupled with the perpetual view of the Niger on the horizon, Mopti presents a beautiful, impressive vista.
I checked us into seven rooms at the Bar Mali (same name as the hotel in Bamako; must be a franchise). I slung my bag in room 20 and retired to the bar, which was dark, woody, and decorated with the kind of amateurish colour prints of beauteous African womanhood that look like they were painted by the same guy who does the cover illustrations for those books the Hare Krishnas assault you with in Oxford Street - and probably were.
Most of the group joined me at the bar by 1:30, at which time the first of our potential guides arrived. Mopti is one of those towns with a highly active "grapevine". What one person knows is almost instantly common knowledge.
Within a few hours, we were inundated with guides. Guides were filling up the bar, cramming the lobby, lining the street outside the hotel.
The vultures had swooped.
Dinner was a tense affair; steak and chips (quite good, if a bit oily) conducted under the watchful eyes of the gathering vultures. The lads (not as conscious of the need for a shower and change of clothes as the girls) ate first. Outside, a party swung into first gear, and an American tourist was robbed.
Mark, surrounded by Dogon guides, continued to wheel and deal.
The atmosphere grew heavier and uglier as the vultures homed in. The tension grew also, and that familiar "you could cut it with a knife" feeling also. You could almost feel the fingers grasping for your wallet.
The girls arrived late, and the attitude of the vulture horde (all male, of course) altered accordingly. As Colin C. (one of the Canadians in our group) put it: "It's bad enough they’re late; they all came to dinner tricked up like whores!" This may have been a bit unkind – although I sensed that some of the others silently agreed.
It was true that the girls (dressed to a woman in thin white t-shirts, sports shoes, and black cycling shorts) were creating something of a stir. While not exactly red light district, their outfits were certainly not conventional female attire for this part of the world.
After the first couple of lewd remarks from the local men nearby, I was compelled ( Elena C. dug her fingernails in my arm, and refused to let me out of my seat) to sit as chaperone while the girls ate.
My contact lenses were playing up again in the smoky atmosphere. I ignored the pain, and concentrated on getting through this second dinner, which eventually passed without incident.
So far so good, then.
Still, it was kind of inevitable that we’d get into trouble. And we did.
First, it suddenly became abundantly clear the extent of our cash crisis. Mark called an emergency shareholders’ meeting in one of the rooms upstairs. Figures were jotted down. Recriminations flew. Someone jotted down some more figures. Someone else threatened to leave.
And then, the guide known as Le Docteur made his move.
Disgruntled at his lost commission (Mark had finally found last year’s guides, and agreed to hire them), and surrounded by like – minded cronies, he voiced a protest, inventing some cock - and – bull tale about money owed him from last year. He threatened to bring in the police to prevent our departure for the Dogon country tomorrow.
We sat there for several hours, surrounded by grim, hard-faced men – many of whom were presumably armed. It suddenly hit me that we were being held hostage. Jesus wept.
And so did I, my poor eyes streaming with tears behind increasingly uncomfortable contact lenses.
Mark, Steve, and I spent the time in earnest negotiation with Le Docteur and his heavies. It was an uphill struggle, as Le Docteur pressed his claim for 20000 CFA francs. We had talked him down to 15000 when the police arrived to finally settle the dispute.
In a scene straight out of a Mafia picture, myself, Mark, and Big John H. (this was a time for muscle and quiet authority) were driven from the hotel premises with Le Docteur, in an unmarked car. We stopped in a dark alley, and the policeman (plain clothes presumably) finally got Le Docteur to accede to 15000 CFA francs, and our right to continue our travels to the Dogon..."