Africa 2006

In Dogon Country I slept under the stars, so clear I could see the murkiness of the Milky Way and the sharp silouette of the escarpment. I hoped for a breeze – even in the darkness it was hot.

In the morning, it’s not the visual sunrise that’s most impressive; it’s the aural one.

Waking up is a gradual crescendo, like peeling layers off the onions the Dogon region is famous for growing. Just as the air starts cooling in the pre-dawn, a symphony of sounds begin slowly. (I think I just mixed metaphors, but I have no time to fine tune this writing!)

The first sounds are the constant throbbing of the crickets and other insects. Then the other animals contribute: first the sharp insistent crow of the rooster, then the bleating of the sheep and the occasional bray of a donkey – an incredible sound almost like the spluttering of a car engine when it has trouble starting.

The next layer is provided by the laughter of children and the occasional baby crying. And just before the sun comes up the call to prayer, delivered by a person rather than a recording, echoes across the town. The final element of precussion is provided by the women who start rhymically pounding the millet in huge mortar and pestles, trying to complete the most trying work before it gets unbearably hot. 

It’s a dilligent, but not a loud, awakening, nature’s little orchestra, each component a small but vital part making up the symphony.

By 5.30 am, I’m up and ready to go.