The Myth of Merula

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to get online to update this blog with Blackbird’s story. I will attempt to catch up over these next few days, which I will be spending in Sevare, going over my notes, recordings and photographs. I stayed in Dogon country much longer than I had anticipated I would. The reasons why will become clear as I continue with my story.

After leaving Blackbird’s home after our first meeting, I spent the night in Apurali’s courtyard on a foam mattress supplied by one of his wives. (He has two.) She was the one who gave me a generous serving of chicken last night. Knowing that the Dogon can’t eat chicken every day, I slipped her some money. She broke into a broad grin. I hesitate to pass out money too freely, not wanting to corrupt the people and lead them to expect that every white person who visits is a walking ATM for them — which is how white people are viewed throughout the areas of Mali that see the most tourists. But I hope to get her on my side and keep her there, and it seemed like the right thing to do in this instance. Her name is Binta.

The next morning, I decided to do some hiking in Dogon country before heading back to my room in Sevare. My travels within Mali have been stressful so far, for a spoiled American like me, and my room in Sevare is no luxury suite, although it’s not bad by Malian standards. I was in no hurry to get back to it yet. My encounter with Blackbird yesterday was intense. That morning, I felt like enjoying myself as if I was just a tourist.

I wanted to see a market, and Apurali obliged me. After that, I wanted to see a fetish market. A fetish market is a kind of market that exists in nearly every Malian village, but the tourists seldom see it. It is where magical items are bought and sold. Apurali would not take me. I told him I thought I would just hike alone for awhile. I thought I might find somebody else who would take me to the local fetish exchange. He looked distressed and asked me if I was mad at him, and I assured him I wasn’t. It’s hard to explain to a Malian the desire to be alone. The Dogon people and every other people of Mali is tribal or close to their tribal roots.

As I was walking, a few minutes afer Apurali left me, I was spotted by a hawker who had followed me around when I stopped in Mopti several days ago. He agreed immediately to take me to the local fetish market for a few Malian dollars.

I smelled it before I saw it. A putrid stench hung in the humid air, and as I drew closer, I could see that the smell was a mixture of rotting monkey heads, leopard paws, and many other animal body parts I did not recognize. I even saw what looked like a shriveled pair of woman’s breasts. As I asked my new guide what each fetish for sale was, he informed me without batting an eyelash. Antelope testicles, rhino horn, albino human toes… “Does Miss want to see a sorcerer? I know a good sorcerer,” he said to me in French.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the thin, twisted, unmistakable body of Akyundo, who was apparently in the process of bartering over something hidden inside of a wicker cage. As soon as my gaze fell upon him, he must have felt it, because he immediately turned his head and met my eyes. He said something in his native tongue to my hawker guide. “We must go now, Miss.” He hurried me away by my elbow. As we were walking swiftly away, I heard what was unmistakably the cry of a human infant. I turned around just in time to see a small, very pale infantile hand curl around the edge of the wicker cage door.

I asked my eager hawker guide to leave me and gave him more money. As soon as he was out of sight, I bent over the side of the trail and vomited. I thought the vomiting was from the smell and shock of the fetish market, combined with the sudden and unwelcome revelation that Akyundo seemed a sinister character with a newfound hostility toward me. It turned out that I had developed a bout of dysentery.

I spent the next three days with Apurali’s family, sleeping outdoors on the foam mattress at night, with chickens walking on me and goats nibbling at my toes. During these three days, I honed the fine art of discreetly using the hole behind the house, in a place where it is hard to get any privacy. I tried to be as pleasant and helpful a house guest as I could be, but I gave up on helping with dinner, because Binta would only laugh at everything I did. I didn’t know enough to sort rice before cooking it. I didn’t know anything. So I sat on my foam mattress and wrote in my journal, sometimes breaking the monotony by playing a popular African stone game called Mancala with Apurali’s delightful and polite children. He has two daughters and three sons ranging in age from 2 to 11.

On the third day, Akyundo showed up.