Journey into Dogon Country, Mali

November 2013: A Solo Adventure in One of West Africa’s Most Enigmatic Regions

Why Mali? Why Then?

In November 2013, I traveled to Mali for a week to trek through Dogon Country, a remote and otherworldly region in central Mali known for its dramatic sandstone escarpments, ancient cliffside villages, and the Dogon people — one of Africa’s most culturally distinctive ethnic groups.

Entering a Conflict Zone

At the time, Mali was in the grips of a violent conflict in the north.
Islamic insurgents had taken control of key regions, and foreigners were prime targets for kidnapping or worse.

Although the Bandiagara Escarpment, where Dogon Country is located, wasn’t directly occupied, it bordered the active conflict zone. There were strong warnings not to travel, especially solo.

Going Anyway — And Going Alone

Despite the warnings and political volatility, I made the decision to travel solo, navigating independently across the country toward Dogon Country — a choice that in hindsight sounds insane, but at the time felt entirely worth the risk.

I avoided major checkpoints, stuck to local routes, and relied on word-of-mouth guidance from Malian locals. Every step deeper into the escarpment felt like peeling back a layer of history and legend.

What I Found in Dogon Country

What I discovered was nothing short of incredible:

• Cliff villages seemingly carved into the rock itself

• Tellem burial caves perched high above the earth

• Families that welcomed me with tea and stories under the stars

• Echoes of animist rituals, traditional masks, and ancient cosmology

• A terrain that felt more Martian than West African — arid, jagged, and raw

There were no tour groups. No signs. No security. Just me and the Dogon, sharing a week I’ll never forget.

The Power of Place

Dogon Country was one of the most spiritually intense places I’ve ever been.
It’s a place where myth and geography blend, where reality feels timeless, and where travelers — if they arrive respectfully — are often rewarded with an experience deeper than sightseeing.

Map of my route in Mali

Mali: From Empire to Fragile State

Tracing the Arc of a Once-Mighty Nation

A Golden Age of Trade and Power

Mali was once the wealthiest country on Earth, a powerhouse of the medieval world during the height of the Songhai Empire in the 1300s. It commanded the crossroads of trans-Saharan trade routes, moving gold, ivory, and slaves between West Africa, North Africa, Arabia, and Europe.

Cities like Timbuktu, now evoking images of a remote outpost, were once vibrant hubs of commerce, Islamic scholarship, and cultural exchange. At its peak, the empire’s influence stretched deep across the Sahel, its wealth fueled by access to natural resources and control over caravan routes.

Colonization and Collapse

That golden age would eventually come to an end. By the late 19th century, Mali fell under French colonial rule, marking the decline of its indigenous empires. The once-independent cities of the Niger bend were folded into a new colonial framework, their local power stripped away and economies redirected to serve French interests.

A Troubled Modern Mali

In the modern era, Mali is now considered one of the poorest countries in the world, struggling under the weight of armed conflict, military coups, and terrorism.

The northern half of the country, including historical centers like Timbuktu, has become dangerous for foreigners due to extremist insurgencies and Tuareg rebellions. Tourism, once a lifeline to remote cultural sites, has all but vanished in these regions.

Despite international peacekeeping efforts and brief moments of hope, the situation remains unstable, especially in the central and northern zones where al-Qaeda–linked militants continue to operate.

Geography and the River That Sustains It All

Mali’s landscape is dominated by the Sahara Desert, but its true lifeline is the Niger River, which cuts across the country from east to west. Along its banks sit many of Mali’s most important cities — the capital Bamako, the old trading post of Mopti, and others that still depend on the river for transportation, agriculture, and survival.

A Legacy That Still Echoes

Though the Mali of today is vastly different from its imperial past, the echoes of its rich cultural and economic legacy are still felt. From the manuscripts of Timbuktu to the enduring rhythms of Malian music, the past lives on — even in the face of modern adversity.

It is a country where history and hardship walk side by side — and where every dusty road, every bend in the river, seems to whisper the story of an empire that once ruled the desert.

Into the Cliffs of Time: Trekking Through Dogon Country

A Journey Through Ancient Culture and Escaping Faith

A People Hidden in the Rock

The Dogon people, long known for their animistic beliefs and shamanistic practices, have lived in near isolation along the Bandiagara Escarpment, a vast sandstone cliff stretching across central Mali.

Roughly a thousand years ago, the Dogon fled from the area of Sibi (in what is now western Mali) to this remote escarpment. They were escaping the twin threats of Islamic expansion and the trans-Saharan slave trade, both of which pushed smaller ethnic groups into hiding.

The cliffs of Bandiagara offered a natural fortress. In their jagged walls and hidden valleys, the Dogon carved out homes, villages, and granaries — often built directly into the rock face. It was defense by design, and it worked. The isolation of the escarpment protected their traditions for centuries.

Old Ways in a Changing Faith

While the Dogon resisted Islamic conversion for generations, modern realities have slowly shifted their spiritual makeup. Today, roughly half the population practices Islam or Christianity, while the other half still follows traditional animistic belief systems.

Yet, even among Dogon Muslims, traces of the old ways remain. Spirit rituals, ancestor reverence, and cosmological beliefs continue to blend into daily life — creating a syncretic mix much like Voodoo and Catholicism in Haiti or Benin.

Echoes of the “Short People”

When the Dogon arrived at the cliffs, they found traces of an earlier, mysterious people. Described in Dogon oral tradition as “short people,” these inhabitants had built homes and burial sites even higher on the cliffs, accessible only by rope ladders.

Their identity is unknown, and by the time the Dogon settled here, these people had vanished. But their cliffside dwellings and burial chambers remain, clinging to the rock like whispers from a forgotten past.

The Sirius Mystery: Dogon Cosmology and the Stars

One of the most fascinating and controversial aspects of Dogon culture lies in their cosmology — particularly their advanced knowledge of the Sirius star system.

According to Dogon oral tradition, a star called Po Tolo (a companion to Sirius) was invisible, incredibly dense, and had a 50-year orbital cycle — descriptions that match modern scientific knowledge of Sirius B, a white dwarf only confirmed with telescopes in the late 19th century.

The Dogon say this knowledge came from celestial beings called the Nommo — amphibious, sky-descending spirits who brought order and sacred knowledge. This myth has fueled speculation about ancient extraterrestrial contact, most famously in the book The Sirius Mystery.

Whether these stories stem from ancient oral astronomy, early exposure to Islamic scholars, or something more enigmatic, they add a powerful layer of cosmic mystery to Dogon belief systems.

Living Culture in Stone and Wood

Dogon culture is everywhere — in the way homes are shaped, rituals are performed, and stories are carved into wood.

• Granaries with pointed thatch roofs

• Wooden doors carved with ancestral and spiritual motifs

• Masked dances that embody spirits and mythic beings

In the 1990s, Dogon villages became a popular trekking destination, especially among French travelers. Tourists came for the landscape, stayed for the culture, and left awed. But in recent years, that story has changed.

An Empty Trail in a Land of Spirits

When I arrived, I didn’t encounter a single other tourist.

With Mali’s ongoing political instability, especially in the north and central regions, Dogon Country has become largely off-limits.
Terrorist threats, kidnappings, and civil unrest have nearly erased the tourism economy, leaving the villages quiet, weathered, and proud — still clinging to their traditions despite it all.

Preparing in Bamako

Before heading east, I landed in Bamako, Mali’s dusty capital on the Niger River.
I stayed in a small French-run guesthouse, where I explored the bustling markets and strolled the riverbanks. But my time there was mostly practical:

• Arranging transport to Dogon Country

• Suffering from a badly infected finger that needed treatment before venturing into more remote areas.

Fishermen on the Niger River in Bamako

The Bushmeat Market: Tradition and Tension in Bamako

In Bamako, I visited a bushmeat market unlike anything I’d seen before. Baboons, crocodiles, and hyenas were sold — some for consumption, others for use in traditional medicine or religious rituals.

Vendors were wary of cameras, aware of the trade’s controversial nature, especially regarding endangered species and international scrutiny.

It was a fascinating yet uneasy experience — a raw intersection of cultural tradition, survival economics, and wildlife exploitation. A place that raised more questions than answers.

Fishermen on the Niger River in Bamako

Fishermen on the Niger River in Bamako

A Finger, a French Guesthouse, and a Very Strange Clinic Visit

Prepping for Dogon Country… with an Infected Hand

The Helpful Hostess at La Venise Malienne

My stay in Bamako began at La Venise Malienne, a French-run guesthouse tucked into a quiet corner of the city. The owner — a kind and incredibly helpful French woman — was a lifesaver. She helped me sort out the bus schedule to Mopti, connected me with a local Dogon guide, and, most urgently, assisted me in arranging a visit to a medical clinic.

Why the urgency? I was nursing an angry, swollen hangnail, infected during my time in Yemen, and by the time I reached Mali, my finger was turning blue and pulsing with pain. Not ideal for a weeklong trek through remote cliff villages.

The Beetlejuice Clinic

The clinic itself was straight out of a surreal scene — think Beetlejuice meets West African hospital. The waiting room was packed with at least 50 people, many of them holding babies or crying children. The line stretched out the door. I almost turned around.

But just as I was backing out, a clinic worker noticed me, took one look at my foreign face (and possibly my finger), and ushered me to the front of the line. It was a mix of relief and guilt — I didn’t ask for special treatment, but I didn’t exactly say no either.

“Your Camera for Your Finger”

The doctor examined my finger and delivered a blunt diagnosis:

“Your infection is bad.”

When I asked about treatment, he replied,

“How much can you pay?”

I chuckled, assuming he was joking. He wasn’t. He then asked if I’d be willing to trade my camera to save my finger. I smiled nervously. He didn’t. After a long pause, I said, “Let’s just talk price.”

Eventually, he offered to drain the pus and stitch the wound for the CFA equivalent of about $20 USD — a much better deal than losing my Nikon.

“Be a Man and Watch”

He pulled out an oversized needle for the anesthetic and warned me,

“Be a man and watch as I put the needle in.”

I hesitated. He waited. I looked. He jabbed.
I got light-headed.

Then came the scalpel, the oozing, the bandages, and finally, a prescription for antibiotics. The whole thing took about 30 minutes, and I left the clinic with a numb finger and a strange story, but no missing camera.

Good to Go

By the next day, the swelling had already gone down.
My finger was bandaged, my gear packed, and with the help of my guesthouse host and a stranger with a scalpel, I was ready to head east — toward the ancient cliffs of Dogon Country.

My infected finger a week after my medical procedure to drain the infected puss in Bamako

Night Bus to Sevare

Crossing Mali Under Cover of Darkness

A Risk I Wouldn’t Normally Take

After leaving the clinic in Bamako, I headed straight to the bus station for an overnight ride to Mopti/Sevare.

Generally, I avoid night travel in Africa. Between banditry, fatigued or drunk drivers, and poor road conditions, the risks are high. But I was short on time and didn’t want to miss my chance to trek through Dogon Country — so there I was, boarding a night bus bound for a region known for terrorist ambushes and roadside kidnappings.

As a foreigner, I knew I’d be a prime target if anything went wrong.

Unexpected Allies

To my surprise, I wasn’t the only outsider on the bus. I met two Dutch war journalists, en route to Timbuktu to cover a story.

While Dogon Country was risky, Timbuktu was still fresh from an ISIS occupation, and the road north remained highly unstable. The journalists invited me to join, and in a different reality — with more time — I might have said yes.

Still, their presence was a comfort. They spoke French, knew the political terrain, and were far more experienced with high-risk travel than I was. We stuck together for the ride, and I felt better knowing someone had my back if trouble arose.

Arrival in Sevare

After a long, sleepless night on the bus, we pulled into Sevare the next afternoon. Together we checked into a local guesthouse, where I met the Dogon guide my Bamako host had arranged.

We sat in the courtyard and discussed the logistics of the trip: a three-day trek through Dogon Country, starting the next morning. My guide would return with a car and driver to take us to the trailhead.

The Unexpected Guide

When I met him, I was surprised. My guide was in his 60s and walked with a crutch, the result of polio contracted in childhood.

At first, I worried. Would he slow the pace? Would we need to modify the route? But those thoughts vanished quickly. Despite his crutch, he moved with effortless balance, his gait practiced and sure.

He’d been guiding for decades, and as I would soon learn, there were few people who knew the escarpment as well as he did.

Niger River Near Mopti

Into Dogon Country: The Trek Begins

Chameleons, Breakdowns, and the Road to the Cliffs

A Vehicle with Personality

The next morning, my guide arrived in a vehicle that was more miracle than machine. Stripped of all non-essential parts — including several that probably were essential — every function required a secret trick known only to the driver.

I’d seen plenty of these Frankensteinian vehicles across the developing world. With enough duct tape, prayer, and improvisation, they just keep going.

The Road to Bandiagara

We rumbled along a dusty, rutted road, bouncing toward Bandiagara, a gateway village at the base of Dogon Country. The ride was slow, loud, and a full-body experience.

Then came our first stop — an unusual one.

A Hissing Rescue

I spotted a chameleon slowly crossing the road and yelled for the driver to stop. I hopped out and gently moved it to the safety of a nearby tree.

Instead of gratitude, the chameleon hissed at me, clearly displeased with the relocation. So much for being the good guy.

The Inevitable Breakdown

Our second stop wasn’t voluntary. The engine sputtered, coughed, and gave out in the middle of nowhere.

But in Africa, I’ve learned that breakdowns aren’t emergencies — they’re just part of the journey. After some roadside tinkering and creative wiring, the driver somehow brought the engine back to life, and we continued on.

Where the Road Ends

Eventually, we reached a village at the edge of the escarpment — the literal end of the road. From here, everything ahead was foot access only.

We slung our packs, tightened our boots, and set off on foot into Dogon Country’s rugged, roadless terrain.

The landscape transformed quickly: steep escarpments, dusty trails, and ancient cliffside villages only reachable by walking. I had officially crossed into one of Africa’s most isolated and spiritually charged regions.

Our vehicle broken down

Chamelion I rescued from the road

Trekking the Cliffs of Dogon Country

Villages in the Sky and Nights Beneath the Stars

Cliffside Worlds Beyond the Road

For several days, I trekked through the heart of Dogon Country, moving from village to village along the Bandiagara Escarpment. The landscapes felt almost otherworldly — some communities clung to the cliff face, while others nestled at its base or were built directly into the rock, their mud-brick homes camouflaged against the stone.

There are no roads here. The only way in — and out — is on foot.

Endless Heat, Timeless Hospitality

Each day, we hiked for around eight hours, navigating rocky paths under the blazing Sahelian sun. Even in November, the temperature soared well above 100°F (38°C), and shade was a rare luxury.

Despite the heat and isolation, the people we met were consistently warm and welcoming. While tourism once brought steady income to this region over a decade ago, foreigners are now rare, and my presence seemed to be appreciated. Locals often smiled and thanked me simply for coming.

Village Fees, Water Stops, and Rooftop Beds

Each village we entered required a small fee paid to the local chief — a common practice that helps sustain the community. I also made it a point to purchase bottled water and simple meals locally, supporting the villages as I passed through. Water, thankfully, was generally available.

At night, I slept on the rooftops of village homes — a common accommodation for travelers. I’d lay out my sleeping pad under the stars, often on a flat mud-brick roof surrounded by silence and the flicker of distant cooking fires. For a small fee, the homeowner hosted me, and I fell asleep each night in a place that felt suspended between worlds.

Dogon village

Dogon Village

Rocky escarpment

My guide leading the way

Village people going about their day

Wildlife-Dik-Dik-tiny antelope

A hunters house with baboon skulls on his exterior wall

Granaries in the Sky

Echoes of the Past in Cliffside Dwellings

The highlight of my time in Dogon Country was seeing the ancient dwellings built directly into the cliffs — architectural feats that seemed to defy gravity. These mud-brick structures, tucked into rock crevices high above the valley floor, were once inhabited homes, part of daily life for the Dogon.

Today, however, they serve a new purpose. Most of these cliffside structures are now used as granaries, safely storing grains away from livestock and moisture. Over time, most Dogon families have moved down into the valley, where modern homes are more accessible and practical, especially with the decline in conflict and need for fortified positions.

Still, these cliffside dwellings remain powerful symbols — reminders of the Dogon’s historical resistance, ingenuity, and connection to the land. Seeing them up close was like stepping into a living museum carved into the rock.

Cliffside Houses

Cliffside Houses

Cliffside Houses

Cliffside Houses

Looking out over the flat plains below the escarpments during sunset

Looking out over the flat plains below the escarpments during sunset

The Hogon’s House

An Empty Shrine and a Warning from the Spirits

Keeper of the Old Ways

In each Dogon village, there traditionally lives a figure known as the Hogon — a man of both spiritual and political authority, charged with maintaining ancient rituals and guiding the community through dreams, taboos, and ancestral knowledge.

The Hogon lives alone, usually in a house perched high on the cliffs, dressed in white and tended to by a virgin caretaker. While he may be married, he must not touch others or leave the compound during periods of spiritual transition. His role is one of isolation, wisdom, and symbolic purity.

A Visit That Came Too Late

In one village, I asked to visit the local Hogon, curious to meet this living emblem of Dogon tradition. But I was told the Hogon had recently died.

His house sat empty, its walls silent, its door closed. But the story that followed revealed a deeper shift — not just in one village, but in Dogon culture itself.

The False Hogon

After the death of the previous Hogon, a new man stepped forward and declared himself Hogon. But villagers believed he did it not out of spiritual calling, but to enjoy the status and income that sometimes came from hosting tourists.

Soon after, he too passed away unexpectedly.

To the villagers, it was no coincidence — they saw it as punishment from the spirits, a warning against misusing sacred roles for personal gain. Since then, no one has dared take up the position, and the Hogon’s house remains vacant.

A Tradition on the Edge

Becoming a true Hogon is a serious, lifelong commitment—one that demands seclusion, discipline, and belief in a cosmology that fewer and fewer young Dogon are willing to adopt.

In a rapidly changing world, where tradition and modern life collide daily, the legend of the last self-declared Hogon serves as a cautionary tale — and a symbol of the fragile line between reverence and disruption in sacred tradition.

Up by the Hogon House

Hogon House of the Hogon that Died

Carvings, Symbols, and the Disappearing Art of the Dogon

A Walk Through Spiritual Architecture

Sacred Design in Mud and Wood

The architecture of Dogon villages is unlike anywhere else in the world. Homes, shrines, granaries, and meeting halls rise from the earth in forms that feel at once ancient, symbolic, and alive.

Walls are shaped with intention, and carved wooden elements — doors, shutters, lintels, and beams — carry deep animistic meaning. Many of these carvings were created for shamanic use, each figure and pattern tied to a cosmic force, ancestor, or ritual belief. To walk through a Dogon village is to walk through a spiritual manuscript — etched in earth and wood.

A Blend of Faiths

Amid the animist shrines and cliffside granaries, I also encountered beautifully crafted Islamic mosques. Built in the Sudano-Sahelian style, they stand quietly among the older structures, reflecting the region’s layered spiritual identity — a landscape where traditional Dogon beliefs coexist with Islam, often within the same household or village.

A Vanishing Legacy

But not all the original carvings remain. Over the years, many villagers have sold their intricately carved doors, windows, and sculptures to foreign buyers — collectors, tourists, or art dealers.

These pieces, once sacred or family heirlooms, now hang in galleries and private homes around the world. The loss is more than aesthetic. Each carving carried spiritual significance, a tangible link to the Dogon worldview, now removed from the community it once served.

It’s a difficult truth: the economic hardship faced in these remote areas has driven many to sell their heritage, often for modest sums. What remains is still extraordinary — but the emptier doorways and faded carvings are a quiet reminder of what’s been lost.

Mosque

Mosque

Mosque

Shaman House

Shaman House

Wood carvings in window

Wood carvings in window

Wood carvings in window

The True Highlight: The People of Dogon Country

Genuine Warmth in a Harsh Landscape

Faces of Kindness

As awe-inspiring as the cliffs and carvings were, the true highlight of Dogon Country for me was the people.

Everywhere I went, I was met with friendliness and openness. Villagers happily posed for photos, never asking for money — a rare and refreshing experience for a traveler. Their smiles were unforced, their hospitality genuine.

Life in Motion

Daily life unfolded in quiet, rhythmic beauty.

• Men gathered beneath stick-framed shelters, open on all sides, where they sat cross-legged discussing village matters.

• Others wandered in from the bush carrying small bundles of firewood slung across their backs.

• Women balanced jugs of water on their heads, often fetched from wells miles away.

• Children played inventively, using whatever scraps and stones they could turn into toys.

It was a humbling portrait of a community that has learned to thrive with little.

Contentment Without Electricity

Most villages I visited had no electricity, no fans to cut the heat, and no artificial light after sunset. Yet there was a surprising sense of contentment and resilience — a peace that comes from people living in rhythm with the land and drawing joy from simple routines.

Their resourcefulness, hospitality, and grounded way of life left a lasting impression. In a world so consumed with more, the Dogon reminded me of the quiet power of making the most of what you have — and doing it with grace.

Teacher I met in her schoolhouse teaching children

A Pen Pal from the Plateau

Letters Across Continents from a Mission School in Dogon Country

A Chance Encounter in a Classroom

While passing through one of the villages along the escarpment, I visited a Catholic mission school nestled at the edge of Dogon Country. Inside, I met a dedicated teacher, standing at the blackboard, guiding her students with energy and patience despite limited supplies and no electricity.

We struck up a conversation, and a genuine connection formed. She invited me to sit with the class, and I spent part of the afternoon listening to lessons, answering students’ questions, and witnessing their passion for learning firsthand.

A Long-Distance Friendship

Before I left, we exchanged contact information and promised to write. Over the next six months, we became pen pals. From my home in San Diego, I sent her letters and care packages — notebooks, pens, art supplies, and occasionally, photos of my own daily life to share with her students.

In return, she sent handwritten letters full of gratitude, updates about the school, and reflections on the world beyond her village. Each envelope from Mali felt like receiving a message from another world — one connected not by convenience, but by intent.

A Gift I Still Keep

One of her students, a young girl with a quiet smile, gifted me a hand-drawn image of a traditional Dogon mask — an unexpected and deeply meaningful gesture. I carried the drawing home carefully, and I still keep it today. It’s a simple piece of paper, but it represents the heart of my experience: connection, culture, and kindness.

Though our correspondence eventually faded, as so many long-distance connections do, the memory of that teacher and her class has remained one of the most personal and touching moments of my time in Mali.

Little girl who gave me her drawing of traditional Dogon mask as a gift 

Man smoking a pipe

Man carrying firewood

Village Kid

Girl and her teddy bear

Girls carrying water on their heads from a well

Village girl

The Road Back to Bamako

From the Cliffs to the Capital

A Quiet Goodbye

I finished my trek in the late afternoon. After days of hiking through remote villages and sleeping under the stars, it felt surreal to be back in my guide’s rickety old car, bouncing along the road toward Mopti.

He dropped me off on the edge of town, and just like that, the journey was over.

The Night Bus Alone

From Mopti, I boarded a night bus to Bamako — this time, traveling solo. The Dutch war journalists I’d ridden with earlier were long gone, off chasing their next story.

The ride was long and quiet, cutting through a dark, empty stretch of rural road. I stared out the window, watching the desert fade into night, feeling the weight of the past few days settle in.

Return to the River

I arrived in Bamako early the next morning and checked into a small hotel along the banks of the Niger River.

I ordered a quiet breakfast and sat with it for a long while, listening to the hum of the city and the water flowing past. After days of silence and simplicity in Dogon Country, the noise of the capital felt jarring — but grounding too.

I spent a few hours resting and reflecting before heading to the airport for my midday flight to Dakar, Senegal.