Moments: Encounters

Mopti, Mali

We recruited our guide- Mohammed Amin from Tamale. He speaks French, English as well as eight local languages spoken between Ghana and Mauritania. The night we employed him we camped in Mopti, Mali, next to the safety of a security post. In less than five minutes a team of men, women and children from the village had surrounded our vehicles. Mohammed shooed them away fanatically but with moonlit vision I made out apparitions of children who were not there but reappeared.

A man remained from the dispersed crowd; he wore a white shirt and unkempt afro. He stayed without invitation even after Mohammed had gone into town with two members of the team. He watched from a distance whilst I cooked and gave himself the task of shooing away our regenerated spectators.

Once our modest meal of noodles and Kilichi was prepared, I offered him a plate. He accepted and ate with us. No words were exchanged, no moneys traded but we communicated on the currencies of human need and curiosity. As I prepared to retire into my tent, he beckoned me with the clearing of his throat, then he stretched out his palm and gave me a sweet.



Wataga, Mali.

After ten hours of driving, it was time to stop for the night and rest in the village that would have us. There was no index for our decision; our village would be the next one we saw. We saw the sign Wataga and pulled into a small cluster of huts 600kilometers from Bamako. Mohammed was our emissary to the Chief . From the road we saw a row of huts, but once we were in, we saw a clan of about 120 people led by five brothers. We saw a primary school with the previous days’ lessons on the board. We saw a bakery, a well, a farmhouse of cattle, donkeys, horses and goats. The people of Wataga gave us their homes, security, food, and an orchestra of ululating children who sang to us under the moonlit sky.




Wataga's Bakery.

An elder in Wataga.

Wataga's primary school.

Camping under the stars.

Keur Gahl, Senegal

Majestic gazelle of the Sahel, she stands heads over her peers. We sight her, striding towards our broken down vehicle with water for sale for our parched throats. Kelechi is keen to get a shot of her, but once they sight his photo machine, the group scrambles off a distance and returns to us. I go to them with my smattering of French but they throw my words back at me; they speak Wollof. I take a shot with my less intimidating camera and show them my images. Our preferred subject is amused and stands still for more shots by the rest of the group. She is probably 18years old, she is expecting a child and after we spend twenty minutes shooting her alone, her friends thrust her infant in her arms. At the end of our shoot she hurriedly tells her friend her phone number and he writes it for us.

Dame en Keur Gahl

Momo: Dakar, Senegal.

Momo runs a hotel along the coast in Dakar. His job also includes showing visitors the sights in the State Capital. He has seen many people pass through Dakar and in spite of the Paris- Dakar traffic, he has never heard of anyone who drove to Dakar from Nigeria enroute to London. He is fascinated and insists on showing us the vibrant nightlife in Dakar. Like many Dakarians he dedicates time to exercise and grooming but feigns oblivion to his own charm. He is disarmingly flirtatious and meets my eye in a conversation.

“I like you” he says after showing the same interest to another member of the team.

“Thank you”, I responded.

“You don’t have to give me thanks” he continued in patchy English.

“What should I give you then?” I retorted.

“Nothing” he said.

It is 1.30 a.m and I writing a blog post at the hotel lobby but he insists on conversing nonetheless.

“I like you because of this amazing trip you are making” he explains.

“You must like my Captain three times more then because this is his third trip”.

“But your Captain is a man. I admire him, but I don’t like men” he said casually.

He pauses and soon after I continue to write when he speaks again:

“Would you like something to drink; I want to go out to get some drinks.”

It’s 2a.m and I imagine that stores must be closed. I tell him I don’t want anything. He insists and I suggest that he buys anything. He is unsatisfied and insists that I name what I want. Finally, I say “I don’t know”, then he says:

“You are driving from Lagos to London, you have to know.”

I did know. I was hungry and asked for potato chips and water and five minutes later, he returned with my request.






Dakar