A market in front of the World Heritage Grand Mosque built of mud.

1:01pm Sunday 2nd November 2008

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Djenne is a city built of mud. Whether it is the Grand Mosque, which was rebuilt in 1907 after being allowed to fall down, or the houses, everything is built of mud-bricks skimmed with more mud to make a smooth finish. The Mosque itself has spars sticking out of the walls for platforms and ladders to rest on during the annual repairs. Hundreds of volunteers rebuild the parts that are damaged or completelu washed away. In front of the Mosque is the site of one of the biggest markets in Mali. The first traders arrive the night before the market and excavate the holes for the uprights for the stall shelters. Families chat round small charcoal cookers which heat tea while chewing meat cooked on an open grill of in a mud oven. Then they settle down to await the dawn; By 0600 several buses have arrived, disgorging their passengers with their produce and animals. Across the causeway that connects the city with the surrounding countryside, the first of the farmers arrive in carts drawn by horses, donkeys and oxen. Some of the brightly painted carts are heavily loaded with sacks of grain, people, goats and general farm produce. Boys with push-carts take the produce across the causeway and up the narrow street towards the Mosque. While the passengers go into the city, the carters wash their horses down in the river before tying them to the carts with a bucket of water and some grass. By 0800 most of the stalls in front of the Mosque are up and everything from cloth, to matches to dried fish is being bartered over. The noise level increases as the heat of the day rises and the smell of spices, dried fish and the open drains conjoin to create an aroma special to Djenne. There are three old horsemen left in Djenne and I managed to meet two. The first was at his house in a side street. The local guide had to ask at several houses before finding the right one. It was not the easiest walk avoiding other pedestrians while trying not to tread in the black ooze that twisted and turned down the centre of the street. Abou, the horseman, told me of a time when there were a lot of horses and all the young men used to compete in races and displays of horsemanship, but today the young men prefer motorbikes. He showed me bits that he had had made for individual horses, several needed mending, but there were no longer the saddlers and metal workers who could do it. His horse was away in the countryside until the mosquitoes died down. We talked for some time until the local guide told me it was tile to leave. Outside the heat of the afternoon sun was stifling in the narrow street. In the early evening I went to the opposite end of town to meet Hidra, a friend of a Sweedish woman who had opened a traditionally built hotel. He arrived in all his finery, from his decorated leather boots to the brass fittings on his bridle and high-backed saddle. Unfortunately the light was fading and all too soon he had to leave so that he didn't get run down by the buses leaving the market. However he confirmed that out on the plains of the Dogon was where the best horses were. He was riding one from there which had been brought to the city by some traveling musicians. My guide insisted we should get back, but I had a drink with the owner on the flat roof of the hotel savouring the light breeze coming off the river, even though it brought the first of the mosquitoes.