- Fulani Tribe
Mali, West Africa somewhere near the Mauritanian border 2005
Our vehicles sped over the dry dirt road. Thick red dust boiled up by our tires spewed into the cars stifling us even though we covered our noses and mouths with cloth. I wanted to laugh because my companions looked like a troop of clowns heading to the circus; their wind-blown hair was coated in a thick layer of Bozo-red dust. Except I knew I looked just as bad if not worse.
It was hot so we couldn’t close the windows and besides our driver wanted his open. To our irritation, he insisted on driving close behind the vehicle in front thus maximizing the amount of dust that we were forced to breathe. We tried to ignore our discomfort and wondered aloud how long this could last. Then we saw the Fulani.
They appeared as if by magic. We hadn’t seen a soul for an hour or so and here they were: a long line of bullocks carrying howdahs filled with men, women, children. All of their belongings were strapped to the slow, plodding beasts. We stopped to watch the mirage-like procession. The Fulani did not acknowledge us. They passed silently. No child called out, not even a hand was raised in greeting. None of us made a gesture, either. There was a feeling that something unworldly was happening..