Night of the Dogon

After seven hours of sweaty trekking through the sand and desert cliffs of Dogon country, we arrived at dusk.

On a rocky plateau, surrounded by a flat expanse of rocky nothingness, stood a small lone table. With a green tablecloth and little mini woven chairs. Strangely surreal. Uncomfortably small.

Next door, what I had thought was a stable were actually the sleeping quarters. The ceiling was a degrading patchwork of long intertwined sticks, caving in in a number of places and so low you had to hunch over to stoop around. Thin foam mattresses lay on the dusty, rocky ground, and looking up you could see the stars through the holes in the patchwork. Or at least through the holes not covered over with a strip of cardboard.

The shower consisted of a bucket of cold water within three chest-high mud brick walls and a curtain blowing in the wind. Great 360 degree view of the scenery from my showering spot and, admittedly, vice versa. I washed in the pitch dark of early evening and then, bereft of towel, waited to air dry, wondering which would kill me first: the surprising chill of desert wind at night or the mosquitoes circling with glee at the sight of all that exposed skin.

After I’d stopped shivering, a dinner of spaghetti and chicken was served and eaten by starlight.

I started gnawing on a chicken leg, but couldn’t pry any meat off of it. Frustrated, I gave up and put it aside, chalking it up to the toughness of desert chickens. I was about to fork the other piece of chicken into my mouth when, by the faint light of the north star, I saw a jagged outline that looked suspicious.

I set my fork and chicken down and fished for my flashlight in my pocket to better illuminate my meal. Well whaddaya know, I’d almost stuffed a chicken’s head into my mouth. That jagged outline I’d spied was that telltale red flap of skin chickens have on their heads. And the other piece that I had taken for a chicken leg was actually the extended chicken’s foot and claw. Wonderful, just wonderful.

I opted to forgo chicken for the remainder of the meal, although one nagging thought kept resurfacing despite my valiant attempts to repress it: could one of the chicken’s eyes have fallen out and still be in my spaghetti? I’ll never know.

At night, the mosquitoes danced and the rocks under my thin foam mattress ensured future prosperity for chiropractors everywhere. In a corner, a miscellaneous rodent gnawed to sharpen his teeth, and in the distance, a rifle shot echoed through the cliffs.

Night in the Dogon had arrived.