At 6:30, yet more suggestions of guides for the way ahead, as there are “Many routes down the scarp”, but also breakfast. This was to be another 4,000 deal but we hold out for the 2,400 change not received from last night, and it is agreed. Coffee (for two, I don’t drink it) and rice. Time passes. As we’re eating at eight a.m., Muhammed pokes his head around a wall to say hello, as he and the Italians have just arrived, but mercifully, no more discussion ensues. I doubt that we looked welcoming.
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At nine we’re away, still declining guide offers for the route ahead. We follow the road under construction and in about forty minutes have reached the obvious edge of the escarpment, which drops in two stages some 600ft to the sandy plain just visible through the dust haze. The first stage is an easy stroll across slightly mounded bare rock. The road ahead continues to be unmistakable, but for the second stage I insist on following it rather than setting off to follow a straight line that might well place us at the top of a cliff, such as are clearly visible elsewhere in the distance.
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Soon enough we’re down, where the road, still under construction, heads off across the plain, obviously in the direction of Bankas some eight miles away, though not visible. We turn left, however, to follow a clear dirt track that runs NE along the base of the escarpment, itself also rather obvious. Only the blind could need a guide to find their way along this route!
Shortly we arrive at a small village. It is obviously Kani Kombolé from the presence of a small mud mosque, but it is on the plain NE of the descent road, not SW as the Lonely Planet map shows. No matter, we can’t get lost. More important, it is now noon, and the sun is oppressive.
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We take cover in the village “sun bunker”. Some short tree trunks hold a platform about a yard off the ground atop which is piled a yard-thick layer of plant stalks. These are from sorghum, and look like sweet corn (or maize) stalks. Beneath are short lengths of tree trunks, polished from long use as benches and we recline with some locals and chat, with those who speak French translating. The open sides allow access to whatever air movement wafts past, and though light comes in also, it is as nothing to the direct glare blocked by the thick insulation. We’re told that at night this shelter might be used by husbands who have lost an argument with their wife. There are no couches to go and sleep on! Actually, people often sleep outdoors, as the huts can be oppressive by night.
Around us amongst residences are the peculiar box-on-end shapes of the storage houses, perched on stone piles to discourage ground burrowers. Nearby is the village well, a substantial concreted shaft that goes down some sixty feet to water. We’re introduced to the chief, and give him the traditional half-dozen kola nuts (“Who brings kola, brings life” is a traditional saying in West Africa), and he has a bucket of water fetched for us to have a wash. There is no mention of any “village visit fee”, though there are queries about our guide. As we had a big breakfast, we decline offers of a lunch, so there is nothing to do other than chat and wait.
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By four p.m. the glare has abated somewhat, so we set out and shortly are walking in the shade of the escarpment. We pass Teli, its cliff village in the shade. The light would be much better in the morning as it would be shining directly onto the cliff face. This is our plan for viewing the cliff village by Ende but before we get to it we run into most of the Truck Africa group coming the other way, with two donkey carts to carry their baggage but after some chat, each party continues to its chosen destination. Teli for them, and Ende for us.
Shortly we meet Edouard, who stops to invite us to his compound in Ende where we would stay “For free” and enjoy cheap food too. He is hastening after the other group in order to deliver some repaired sandals, but will be back soon. As we approach a village a fellow claims to be his brother and guides us to the compound on the far side. As night falls we are introduced to the chief, who may be granddad; he gets some kola nuts, then we are invited to step into a room of souvenirs, some supposedly ancient and from the Teli predecessors. We decline the opportunities (we’re carrying our own baggage, just for starters) and return for rice and stew at CFA 2,000 between us. Bottles of warm beer would be 1,000 each, so we decline, though Sam and Chong can’t resist a warm coke at 600. Also, we pay to stay, so when Edouard turns up, I deliver a gripe. It is not that 1,000 each is so much, it is the “misunderstandings” that wear on the patience.
During the night a support string snapped on my net hammock, so the rest of the night on the ground. The others had spent the night on the roof for the cool, and shortly after dawn I join them to photograph the cliffs and cliff dwellings, gloriously illuminated by direct morning sunshine.
Breakfast is on fried dough discs, also for 2,000 so that’s another post-agreement price rise. Edouard is not around to suffer another grumble, and we’re spared yet another spiel on the need for guides. We also decline offers of local guides to visit the cliff dwelling area, instead setting off at 7:45 along the very obvious track. Our only difficulty is in naming the various villages along the way so as to match our position with the rather simple line drawing that Lonely Planet terms a map. There is one easy landmark along the escarpment, an isolated pinnacle that looks something like a giant head and neck, about a mile north-east of Ende, but it is not marked on their sketch. Likewise, the cliff edge is not straight, but has bays that also are not shown. As we go, everyone we talk with wants to know where our guide is, and I take to replying that “We have eaten him”, just for some variety.
Along the way we replenish our water at a pump on the plain below a village almost invisible amongst the boulders of the scree slope. There is no need to wonder where its sewage will drain to, but this is where the water is available so this is where the pump must be. A pump is preferable to a well, as the water can easily become contaminated, either by something falling in, or by something adhering to the bucket as it is returned to the well. Further, wells seem to have a special etiquette: who has a bucket, a rope, and the right to draw water is unclear, as most of the wells we see are idle with no equipment, although the rim of the well is always deeply grooved from the rubbing of the ropes.
At pump wells, our procedure is simple. There are always people drawing water, usually children, so we take over the lever and fill all of their containers. This is not a minor effort: the children work in teams, or hang from the pump handle. At the same time we’re filling our containers, and they are many. I alone have two water bottles of one and a half litres each, plus my British Army enamelled iron waterbottle with its wool covering and sling. The plastic bottles have to be handled carefully as they easily spring a leak (yes, fizzy drink bottles would be far better, but I hadn’t found any), already Sam and Chong have had trouble. Plain metal bottles are not good, as salts in groundwater will corrode anything, including aluminium, so the enamel is needed. Thick plastic waterbottles still crack, and can taint the water too. You cannot possibly carry enough water for the whole trip.
It is a conveyor belt. As I walk along I drink at will from my canteen, its quart lasting all of half an hour. Meanwhile, one water bottle in my pack is lasting out the delay for the sterilising tablet to do its stuff (ten minutes for one litre is recommended, for two litres half an hour) and the second is in reserve. Next, at a convenient point to stop, the sterilised water is transferred to my water bottle where evaporation from its wrapping will cool it somewhat (cool water is an elixir to cherish), and by the time it is finished, we hope to have encountered another pump.
Despite the dryness, while walking, my shirt is damp with sweat, so it gets rinsed out along with my singlet when the opportunity arises. Sam and Chong soon notice that the result is worth the trouble, as evaporation is impeded from saline liquid. They are wearing shorts and T-shirts, in dark colours, whereas I have full coverage loose cotton clothing in pale brown, plus a thick wool hat which I keep wet. The idea is that my shirt will keep the sunlight from contact while the singlet will hold sweat against my skin to cool it. This scheme is overloaded here, but as soon as I stop walking, my shirt is dry in five minutes.
Walking is actually an effort, even along the flat, as the track has a layer of dust that, although thin, noticeably sucks energy, encouraging shorter steps and a slower pace so as not to waste effort disrupting the sand. Alas, my feet, although well-sized, still have a higher weight to area ratio than do for example the plate-sized feet of a camel.
On a bit more, to Dondourou where we would like to shelter from the impending noon, but we seem unwelcome so we leave the village. We head directly for the cliff, looking to find shade under a large tree, one with a solid shadow, unlike most that have only scraggly foliage on scattered twigs. All trees look to have been flat-trimmed below but this is not due to diligent human topiarists but the goats, who stand up on their hind legs to reach. Or climb up into the tree if it has low branches.
