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National Geographic : 1969 Mar
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National Geographic, March 1969 On the far side of the market Yenndouma men slaughter and barbecue goats, conduct ing a brisk open-air restaurant trade. But only men eat here; meat is a rare treat for Dogon women. I therefore felt greatly privi leged when the men asked me to share a goat leg (very tough). The market is the heart of the famous "bush telegraph." The men, comfortably seated on the roots of an old silk-cotton tree, take long drafts of konyo, or millet beer. With an occasional thought-provoking pinch of snuff or a crunch on a cola nut, they swap the news and gossip of the cliffs (opposite). Tomorrow would be Sanga ibe, market day at Sanga, and the news of Yenndouma would travel with the merchants. And Yenndouma would receive all the latest news of the other villages upon the return of the mobile market five days hence. Goats Have a Taste for Dogon School My house lay between the marketplace and the government school. Each morning boys, and sometimes girls, walked four or five miles to their sun-baked mud desks to learn to read Mamadou et Bineta, the Malian equiv alent of Dick and Jane, a French text about Moslem children. All other lessons were also conducted in French, the official language of the republic. Though Yenndouma's school, like many in Mali, was made of mud bricks, one classroom had walls of straw, and each evening before going home the children ringed it with thorny acacia branches to keep out foraging goats. One night as I lay on my cot, a volley of shots broke the dark silence. Round after round rang out as men came to dance and shoot off their flintlock guns on the roof of the house of an old man who had died and been buried in the cliffs the previous week. At dawn I joined the mourners. A group of old women sang in the dead man's courtyard, beating great hollow gourds and shaking the dried, seed-filled fruit of the baobab tree. They continued through the morning while friends filed in to offer condolences and the traditional gifts of millet and monkey bread (the common name for baobab fruit). On the roof of the house the younger women began a slow deliberate dance. The pace quickened toward evening when the mourners converged on the village square. The women, bunched at the entrances to the square, drummed on gourds and swished fly whisks to dolorous rhythms. Then, from every corner of the village, men came shouting and brandishing flintlocks, crafted by the village blacksmith and crammed with homemade powder. They followed a drummer into the square to give their friend an unforgettable send-off. Noise, sparks, and sulphur fumes filled the air as a mock battle was staged in the dead man's behalf. Holding guns at arm's length, the men raced across the square to engage imaginary enemies. Groups advanced and retreated, making mock lunges at the other mourners with guns and spears. For most of an hour the battle raged, until participants, daylight, and gunpowder were all exhausted. The rugged beauty of the funeral reinforced my desire to see the dama ceremony that fol lows the funeral of an important man. Held a year or more later, the dama is a second funeral in which dancers put on huge wooden masks, bid a final farewell, and commend the dead man's soul to the ancestors. Hunter Awaits a Musical Cue I heard through the bush telegraph of a dama to be held at Idieli, a village 19 miles southwest of Yenndouma, in honor of a village elder who had died the previous year. When I arrived in Idieli, the dama was already under way. Masked dancers filled the village square in a wide undulating circle, their fiber skirts swinging. All were men, but their masks and costumes mimed both men and women, as well as birds and beasts. Half a dozen kanagadancers, men in masks topped by the outstretched arms of Amma, swung into line in front of me. Now they began a series of great swooping arcs. Three, four times they circled, swept down to touch the ground with Amma's creating hands, and then soared up again. Soon dannane, the hunter, would take his turn. He waited, crouching, his ocher tunic Sharing gossip and millet beer, men of Yenndouma pass market day around the base of a huge silk-cotton tree, local equivalent of the old general store's pot-bellied stove. One seals a bargain with a vendor, left. Dogon women, background, bear the brunt of market-day chores. Traveling mer chants make a regular circuit of the cliffs, setting up shop at Yenndouma every fifth day. They hawk wares, buy cloth, and serve as a "bush telegraph," carrying news from village to village. KODACHROME © N.G .S. 442
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