Back at the campement we settle the account so far, and then head off for the route to Benigmato. Our guide will not be shaken off, earbashing us continually. When we get to the start of the gully we emerged from, I farewell Sam and Chong and now have the guide's undivided attention, which he devotes to the need to make a booking now for a mobylette (a small motorbike) to take me to Bandiagara tomorrow. Yes, I see no prospect of continuing alone, nor any pleasure in waiting here a while in the hope of forming or joining a party, nor does going with a guide appeal.

I want to go to the cliff edge while there is still light, and my remora insists on coming along, though when we overtake a local woman I get some respite while he chats with her, probably bemoaning the obduracy of foreigners. We go down into the bed of a canyon, and continue to where it ends in a drop to the plain below. The view is splendid, with villages visible on the plain and on the scree slope below the cliffs, and my earache abates somewhat.

Looking down the ladder

Along the right-hand side a rockfall has jammed a crevice and the path continues to it, twisting through gaps and under boulders to where it ends suddenly at a sheer drop. I peer cautiously over the brink to see that tree trunks have been set vertically against the cliff, with steps cut into them. There are three stages to the descent, a tangle of branches forming a platform for each change of tree trunk. Everything depends on how firmly the branches have been jammed into crevices in the rock.

I have no intention of trying it, even without my pack, however I'm told that women convey water down this, and while I'm there, a woman arrives, removes her sandals, and without apparent distress, swiftly climbs down, the child on her back dozing peacefully. On the way back I ask if this is the only way down near here: yes, but shortly we see some people headed along another trail and he says that that route has no ladder. The usual incoherence.

Back at the campement, dinner is discussed, sortof. "How much?" is answered with "No problem." I should have insisted. It proves to a fish stew with many bones, though palatable enough. For dessert, there is renewed discussion of the mobylette for tomorrow. The price remains at 7,500. Bah, I'll walk.

The night started in cool atop a roof, but some distant lightning, both north and south of me comes closer. I think of Sam and Chong in Benigmato, and wonder if they are being soaked. This issue soon comes closer to home, as at eleven p.m. a dust storm sweeps over us, so I descend from the roof to the room. It has no door, and as the rain starts I must shift further from the breeze by the doorway into the interior heat. Relief is gained at one a.m., when a full downpour starts with fierce lightning and thunder that soon cools the air. Slowly it abates, at about two am.

In the morning there are puddles everywhere, the sky is overcast and it is delightfully cool. At seven, breakfast is discussed after I still refuse to pay 7,500. The donkey cart for the same distance was 6,000 and there could be no return the same night whereas the motorbike fellow could easily go and return in the same four and a half hours, nor is petrol all that expensive, not that a 200cc motorcycle is a guzzler. "But you could be in Mopti for lunch!" Yeah, getting away from here has its appeal but I reply that 7,500 is a night in a hotel plus a day's food. So stuff this. Concerning breakfast, rice and chicken could be prepared, but as for cost, again a refusal to answer. No doubt much time will vanish as well, wasting the cool part of the day so that I really should have to go by bike.

Right. Enough of this, muesli and milk for breakfast.

The kid doesn't like raisins either, nor does he want to try a spoonful of my muesli mush. Oh well. Soon, I'm ready. And the bill? CFA 3,500. "What!" No wonder they'd been shy of announcing details, and somewhat tentative in announcing the price. A fresh argument begins. For example, lunch for three yesterday was 2,000 (though we'd supplied the spaghetti, big deal); ah, but dinner featured fish. Well, I happen to have a 2,500 note, so I plonk that down and leave. Stuff them all, though I notice that granddad is amused by the strife. He doesn't think much of the younger generation either.

The direction I must take is somewhere a bit north of west, to NW for the way to Bandiagara. That side of town is by our entry near where some substantial non-Dogon buildings cluster (possibly the kid when we arrived heard "campement" as "commandant") and a kid confirms the direction.

Shortly, the younger brother catches up, and for a 'gift' he will show me where the road from Bandiagara debouches into town. For him, CFA25 is satisfactory. On the way he agrees that there is a Post Office amongst the buildings, but my query of "Open at 7:30?" causes confusion, so onwards. I have no interest in exciting the notice of any officials who may be loitering in the vicinity.

A boy has fallen in with us, going my way, so the kid retires. We're on a footway, wide enough for vehicle, but no tire tracks are evident. There has been heavy rain during the night, and we approach a waterfall with a substantial flow. On the far side of the stream, the track is definitely for feet only, and beyond we pass by soggy fields of bare earth around a series of small lakes held by concrete dams. Off to the right I can see some mobylettes moving, but when we come to a cross road, he says to turn left rather than right, while he continues to the village ahead. I'm tempted to head right as the mobylettes were headed the required WNW but he was definite. So instead I turn left and go south a bit where once past the village the track curves to the right, now heading the desired WNW across the plateau for as far as the eye can see.

A pair of farmers pause from their unison hoeing to confirm that this is indeed the way to Bandiagara, so away I go. The road is wide enough for vehicles, though again, no sign of tracks. The overcast remains solid and widespread, so I think that Sam and Chong, away to the southwest will also be enjoying good walking weather.

Walk walk walk. Feet, do your stuff.

At nine I stop just short of the summit of a broad ridge of nearly bare rock to fill my canteen from some only slightly cloudy water and have a wash and shave. I check my feet, which report no worries, then stride on. So far the only traffic I've encountered has been going to Dourou, but shortly a motorbike comes up behind me and offers a ride. For 3,000 (which was my offer from Dourou), he can get stuffed as I'm about halfway, and he is going of his own accord. Instead, he can take the local who has come up behind us, for rather less, no doubt, though I'm not close enough to observe any exchange of cash.

Field Chequerworks

At ten I pause, and refill from the trackside. The view is good, and shielded from the sun, the conditions pleasant enough for a stroll. I'm fortunate in the recent rain, as that means that water is plentiful, thus another refill of near clear water draining from a field through the road embankment. Around me are extensive field chequerworks: stones arranged in a grid a few feet to a side, especially alongside the river I'm now following. A fellow in blue robes atop a camel passes me and salutes politely: a Tuareg, here?

At eleven I think of the tin of sardines in my pack. Yes, why not. I have no bread, but it is still tasty enough to wish for seconds, and the salt is appreciated. As I finish, a local on a push bike stops to chat with the surprise apparition by the roadside. Etienne is from a small village, and also dislikes the large villages. As for the guides, he loathes the money-hungry schemers. They are no longer Dogon people, as they seek western clothes, western shoes, western consumer items, and the western life style, all of which requires western money. By contrast to the 'guides', Etienne is studying, hoping to become a doctor. This would offer some prospect of benefit to his local community.

Onwards, and at 11:40 I top a rise to see a radio mast ahead. Aha! Bandiagara. Suddenly, a Toyota with passengers clinging to the back speeds past, followed by two 4WDs belonging to some aid agency, the first vehicles I've seen except for a car and a 4WD heading for Dourou. Oh well, I didn't really want a ride and I'm nearly there.

I'm on the edge of town at 12:30 so five hours (as estimated) to cover sixteen miles. I cross the just unflooded bridge and enter town, alas, some distance from the vehicle park. A smoothie, in sunglasses despite the continuing overcast (so much for the claims that it wouldn't shade me for long), suggests that I join him for coffee and that I should engage a vehicle as it is over a mile to the vehicle area. Aw, get stuffed. As I continue, I see four foreigners plus their attendant pest, but they don't seem to want to talk. Perhaps I looked a bit grim.

At one p.m. I'm at the vehicle area, and beset once more, but a truck leaves "At once". For 500 baggage fee, plus 1,200 fare (1,300 if in the cab), the tout can get stuffed. I settle with the truck driver's aide for 1,500 all up, and we do indeed depart soon, at 1:15. Perhaps I will still have a (late) lunch in Mopti.

But no. Before clearing the town we pause to tow a 4WD out of a muddy ditch, then at two we stop: some problem with the rear springs. After the sixth sudden drop of the truck's rear, I get off to see what is going on. The damn fool 'mechanic' is attempting to jack up the rear with a tube set atop the jack, atop some wood blocks to reach up to the frame. Naturally, the column fails, and that it will do so every time eventually gets through. He borrows a large wooden mortar which makes a good base, upturned. We continue at three, stopping again for some hammering. So much for lunch in Mopti. We arrive at 4:30, so away I trudge to the Hotel Bar Mopti, hot and irritable, to find a soccer game blocking direct access. More vexation: is there no end to it!? But then I'm in and showered.

Out to the Regal for eats. No potato and ragout, nor rice and sauce, but I can have couscous and sauce, plus the dreamt-of tomato salad. Yum. A third, then a fourth bottle of coke down, and off to the Dogon Patisserie for dessert in a better humour.

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