The Good Deed

by Doug Walker

  The day progressed into night and still we were far from the Mali border. Windows were open, then closed, a night chill settled over our piece of Africa. A huckster stalked the car selling a type of blanket and after some haggling parted with one for the equivalent of four dollars.

  Oumou and I leaned against one another, pulled the blanket around our bodies and slept fitfully during the night. Probably about midnight we passed into Mali, pausing at the frontier for sleepy-eyed immigration officers to pass through the cars, looking for nothing in particular, but eager to be rewarded with a choice morsel and perhaps the customary tip from the conductor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Another new day and we rolled on deeper into Mali, a country with at least seven languages: French, Bambara, Fula, Tamashek, Dogon, Bozo and Songhai, as well as English.

  There was morning coffee and spicy tea. We had just left the station stop at Bafoulbe, a fair sized town. Vendors hopped on the train at one stop, hawked their wares, then hopped off at the next and waited for a return train. Not much of a life, but it beat scratching a living out of the earth, and there were the social aspects.

  Tea for Oumou and coffee for me, along with what passed for pastry, was purchased for a few West African francs.

  I told my seatmate that some fellow passengers had given us odd looks, probably thinking an old white man had enticed a pretty native girl into a less than desirable lifestyle.

  Oumou smiled and nibbled on her pastry. Perhaps she was enjoying the situation, but she said, “How could they think such a thing?”

  “Well, you are a lovely young lady and I am a man who is not too old for certain activities. “I can dream, can’t I?”

  “You can dream? You mean you’d enjoy such a relationship?”

  “Of course I would. That’s not to say I’d encourage it. I’m escorting you on your trip to see your fiancé, shielding you from harm’s way.”

  Oumou almost laughed. “Is the word noble?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Since your wife died, have you seen other women?”

  “I’ve known my share of faithless women.”

  “Faithless? You mean they didn’t believe in God?”

  “You might say that. They didn’t believe that I was god.”

  “You think you’re god, or a god?”

  “We’re getting deeper and deeper into a tangled situation.” I took a long sip of coffee that had finally cooled, and a bite of pastry. “My meaning, obscure as it might seem, is that I simply haven’t met the right one. Even at my age, there is a right and a wrong person. The wrongs seem to outnumber the rights by a vast margin.”

  “You are looking for someone to travel with you to Timbuktu on a moderate income?”

  “Plus a good sense of humor, meticulous housekeeper, excellent cook, fancy dancer, passionate about things I like, trim figure, independently wealthy, the list goes on.”

  “You gave me a list of things to look out for in a mate. If these are the things you look for, you will wander the earth alone.”

  “That could be. How about a game of going to the grocery store?”

  “How do you play?”

  “A memory exercise based on the alphabet. I’ll begin. I’m going to the grocery store and I’m going to buy apples.”

  “You’re going to make an American pie.”

  “No. You do B.”

  “I see. I’m going to the grocery store and I’m going to buy bananas.”

  “That’s part of it, but you must say apples and bananas. Then I do apples, bananas and corn.”

  “I got it. Would donuts be OK?”

  “Sure.”

  And so the train shook, rattled and rolled on toward Bamoko on the banks of the Niger River. That river ran northeast, passing through an inland delta and ultimately came to the storied city of Timbuktu situated on its banks. It was a far piece, past the town of Mopti just over halfway, and I had to decide whether to continue my trip by land or be crowded aboard a native riverboat jammed with people, goats, chickens and whatever else crawls or scuttles on the face of the earth.

  As the day and the rain rattled by, Oumou seemed thoughtful, pensive. I knew something was up, but I couldn’t imagine what might be in her mind. Toward evening, as the train approached Bamako, or as Einstein would put it, Bamako approached the train, her thoughts came tumbling out.

  “My boyfriend doesn’t know I’m on this train,” her eyes seemed fearful. Obviously her leaving home had been poorly planned. “Neither do my parents.”

  “I seem to be the only one who knows where you are, other than our fellow passengers. You’ve been thinking about this.”

  “Yes, I don’t know if my boyfriend would even consider marrying me. Here I am running to him. I’ve seen a lot of western movies where things simply don’t work out the way you’ve planned them.”

  “Westerns? Cowboys?”

  “No, silly. You do have some sense of humor. Maybe we’re split aparts.”

  I knew what she was talking about, but I feigned stupidity. “Split aparts? Is that serious? Would aspirins help?”

  “I’m trying to be serious. In ancient times two beings were split apart. If you can find your split apart, it’s a sure bet. Happiness a certainty.”

  “Age might be a factor.”

  “Might be. Might not. You said I was an attractive girl.” I didn’t reply immediately, which drew a sharp, “Didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did. An attractive young lady with a good mind, but going through a period of instability.”

  “So I’m unstable. You mean crazy?”

  “No, certainly not.” I had put my foot in it. “Just a bad patch. You know a good young man in Bamako and your parents are eager to arrange a marriage for you. What to do? You boarded a train for Bamako and had the bad luck to be sitting next to me, an old man who put strange ideas in your head.”

  “Good ideas. You’ve started me down another path. I’ve decided I’d like to travel with you. At least to Timbuktu and maybe beyond. I can see myself getting into a West African marriage that might be something akin to prison. I’d like to live a little.”

  “There are so many reasons why we shouldn’t do that. I could write a book. It would be unseemly, an old man like me.”

  “You’re not so old. It’s the interracial thing, isn’t it?”

  “That’s an absolute no. And I think you know that. Straw grasping. You want a nice trip on your way to the gallows. You know I too would enjoy that, but to consider taking you to Timbuktu and then calling it quits. That would be the depths of depravity. But I can help you get back to Dakar.”

  “I’d rather become a Bamako street walker than ride this hideous train back to Dakar, unless, of course, you go with me as my seatmate.”

  “I’ll get you a plane ticket, I’ll go to the airport with you, I’ll see you off, even wave goodbye, a fond farewell.”

  “Let me think on that.”

  “You are a strong woman and you can influence who your parents pick for a bridegroom. You can refuse suitors. We talked about that.”

  A veil of secrecy eclipsed her face. “Soon Bamako. Then we’ll talk.”

  How it happened is something of a mystery, but this girl who I met a few hours ago had me over a barrel. She would have little problem manipulating a husband.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  We each carried a small bag as we left the station and dove into the evening hurly burly of Bamako, a vibrant, dynamic African city brimming with sights, sounds, smells and music, music, music.

  “It will be dark soon,” Oumou remarked.

  “Truly. We should get something to eat before I find you a room.”

  “Good idea, and I might drink a beer, or a glass of wine.”

  “Have you ever done that?”

  “Once, at a girlfriend’s house when I was sixteen.”

  “Well I suppose it would be OK. This is your adventure.”

  “Darned right.”

  There seemed to
be no restaurants around the station, just food stalls. We checked with a cab driver. Oumou did the haggling, and he carried us to the African Grill on Avenue de la Nation. Oumou again seemed preoccupied, but we started with foutou, a sort of plantain paste, and then had kedjenou, simmered chicken with peppers and tomatoes. We both drank beer.

  Oumou brightened as the meal progressed and the beer flowed. She chattered away about a CD made by an American group I had never heard of called CocoRosie. The title was La Maison de Mon Reve, and the way she described it was indescribable.

  Once she excused herself for a john break and returned with the information that Mopti was about a nine-hour bus trip away and from there it would be possible to boat on the Niger to Timbuktu. I eyed her with suspicion, feeling our deal to put her on an airplane the next day was sealed. Of course I didn’t know if there was daily air service to Dakar or anywhere else.

  Outside the restaurant, we set out for an acceptable hotel that the cabbie had told us about. The Hotel Yamey was three or four blocks away and located near a couple of interesting restaurant/nightspots. On the way my partner revealed her next plan.

  “I want to sleep with you, then I’ll go.”

  “No,” came my instant response. “Remember my age and remember you are a virgin. Your first experience with sex should be with a younger man under ideal circumstances.”

  “What are ideal circumstances?” she questioned, eager for knowledge.

  “It would be good if you were married.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. You’ve never had sex with someone outside of marriage?”

  “Let’s not drag me into this conversation. I’m talking about you and your hopes and aspirations. Life can be beautiful. Sex can be ugly.”

  “You paint a grim picture, but tonight I aspire to sleep with you. If you don’t let me I’ll become a street walker.”

  “You said something like that before as if it’s the worst thing that could happen to you.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” We were in sight of the hotel and I said, “I’ll get you a room.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “I didn’t lie to you, I just left something out.”

  “An error of omission, if you want the English term.”

  “Yes, omission. I told you I had kissed my boyfriend, but I omitted that I had also slept with him, several times. He had a room in Dakar.”

  I gave her a quizzical glance. “Are you lying to me?”

  “No. I don’t lie.”

  “In matter of love and sex, it seems proper in some circles to tell little white lies.”

  “Me, a little black girl, telling little white lies.”

  “I give up. We’ll sleep together, then you are off to Dakar. That’s understood.”

  “Of course.”

  I didn’t like her tone of voice, but of course I was looking forward to the hours ahead.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was full light when I woke the next day. We had been awake deep into the night. She was looking at me with wide, sad eyes and a pouty mouth.

  “You have taken advantage of the little African girl.” Confusion, was I in for it? Five full seconds passed, then she was all over me with a fury, giggling and tussling. It began again.

  Later she brought coffee to the room and said that there was no plane departing that day. I assumed she had asked at the desk, but I didn’t plan to crosscheck. This might not be heaven, but we could see it from here. See it looking at the cracked ceiling of our small room, in the faded draperies and cracked tiles of the bathroom.

  There were two restaurants a stone’s throw from the hotel. One, oddly enough, was called Appaloosa, the other Soukhothai. We had occasion to visit both during our stay. Some say Tex-Mex meets Beirut at the Appaloosa. The menu includes Lebanese meze, plus steaks and pizza, with very little Bamako. We lunched there, but avoided the seedy nightlife crowd, which was expensive and rowdy.

  The Soukhothai had class plus high prices. One look at the prices on its wine list is enough to curl one’s hair. We walked back to the African Grill for our evening fare and picked up a bottle of wine and a few beers for the room at what passed for a 7-Eleven.

  The morning of our second day at the Yamey, Oumou cuddled close and said, “This is like our honeymoon.”

  Her statement struck me like a hammer. Flashing through my mind was a scrap from a poem, one of my mother’s favorites, “…a feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, but resembles sorrow only as a mist resembles rain.”

  Holding Oumou tightly, I kissed her on the cheek. Pressing down upon both of us like a leaden cloud was the reality of our doomed relationship. Did she feel it as I did? I, a worldly man of many years, not able to deal with this situation that this young woman seemed to revel in. What were her innermost thoughts?

  “We must check on the airline schedule, ” I told her. She immediately changed the subject.

  “I am an urban person. Dakar as you know, has a heavily European flavor. Even here in Bamako, the bar girls at the Appaloosa next door are blondes. I know very little more about African tribal life than you do. A few generations back, there was a Frenchman among my ancestors. Beyond that, on both sides of the family there are probably English and Portuguese.”

  Certainly I had noted that Oumou wasn’t all that black; her features were almost European. Her hair, while jet black, was heavy and straight, more like a Chinese person’s. I had not remarked on her appearance, or she on mine, an aging Anglo. But where was this conversation leading?

  “I do know some African history and travel lore. For one thing, the place you seek, Timbuktu, is on the edge of the Sahara at the top of the Niger bend. It once was the end of a camel caravan route that linked West Africa with the Mediterranean. Now it is a shabby town with small buildings and desert sand blowing through its rotting streets. In the late 1500s the Moroccan armies sacked the city and the caravans came no more.”

  “You do know your history, so what are you leading up to? I can tell you have something in mind, although you will not deter me from my quest.”

  “Nor would I want to,” she mused. “What I will tell you is what every traveler to Mali must see and that you seem to be ignoring: Dogon country.”

  “You’ve got that right. What’s a Dogon?”

  Oumou huffed. “World famous. What a tourist you are.” She took a playful pinch at my ribs and I wondered if we were in for another romp in the sheets, but she was determined to go on with her Dogon story.

  She said that some strange folks lived beneath, or near, a huge escarpment, the Falaise de Bandiagara, east of Mopti. The wheels in my head turned as they calculated that we were some distance from that place. The people could truly be called unique because of their complex culture, art and peculiar houses and granaries. And the best way to get into that culture is on foot, using trails that linked the various villages and ladders and stone stairs to higher levels.

  When she had finished her pitch, I said, “You want to go?”

  “Yes, the experience of a lifetime. We go together.”

  “Together,” I repeated, wondering what sort of remote wilderness, mentally and physically, I might wander into. “Your father, is he a kind man?”

  “Very kind.”

  “When you show up after a long unexplained absence, is he likely to do an honor killing?”

  “Oh, no,” she grinned. “We’re not that kind of Muslim. We’re down-to-earth practical people.”

  “I have no real agenda, as you have so obviously noted. So it might be possible to make such a trip, which would take days not hours. But I think you should inform your parents that you are OK and will return home soon. Is that possible?”

  “Oh yes, Andy.”

  She seldom addressed me by name, but by doing so at that moment, she went a long way toward sealing her most recent bargain. How many more chapters in this topsy turvy epic?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Reading about Dogon country, I found it was one of the gr
eat wonders that I had somehow missed, the major attraction in Mali, and one of the ten places a person was urged to visit before being overtaken by death. Their religious beliefs, their peculiar etiquette and their villages, each different from the other, all might be called unique.

  Simply meeting with a hogon, a Dogon spiritual leader, was said to be an experience in itself. And there were masks and ceremonies, some staged as many as sixty years apart.

  Preparations for plunging into Dogon society were many with a wealth of details. A guide must be carefully picked, making certain to pick a Dogon native who knows the rules and the territory, the number of days on the trail, the trail itself. The best thing for my purposes would be the lower trail from village to village, avoiding the heights, which often included strenuous climbs and rock scrambling.

  After reading the rules thoroughly, I turned the guidebook over to Oumou and left the complicated details to her. This was her trip, her opportunity of a lifetime, our last derry down, and we would go first cabin – if sleeping in rough village huts could embrace that term. We would do a five-day trip, which seemed just about right.

  My job was to get us from Bamako to Mopti, a good daylong bus ride, then, after spending the night, on to Bandiago, a jumping-off spot to Dogon country. My mission accomplished, I had accumulated a stack of francs from various ATM machines, and I let Oumou take over.

  If I set down the details of the trip, it would be simply a travelogue. We enjoyed every day; there were tough times and many high spots. The sleeping arrangements were not conducive to wild sexual activity, but we got by.

  At the end of the trip, with the guide paid off and most of the francs distributed for various reasons among the Dogon natives, we repaired to Bandiagara, spent a blissful night in a hotel, then on to Mopti where there was an airport. One last night, then true to our plan, Oumou boarded a plane for Dakar.

  The passion, the joy, the sadness, all caught up in a final embrace. Vows to stay in touch, which both parties sincerely meant to keep, then a last goodbye and wheels up for Dakar. This left me with a very empty feeling and not much enthusiasm for pushing off for Timbuktu, which I could do either by road or river.