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Badkhen - Walking with Abel : Journeys with the Nomads of the African Savannah

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Badkhen Walking with Abel : Journeys with the Nomads of the African Savannah
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Walking with Abel : Journeys with the Nomads of the African Savannah: summary, description and annotation

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Named a Top Summer Reading Pick by the Los Angeles Times, Playboy, Esquire, Christian Science Monitor, Vol 1. Brooklyn, BBC.com, and Mental Floss
An intrepid journalist joins the planets largest group of nomads on an annual migration that, like them, has endured for centuries.

Anna Badkhen has forged a career chronicling life in extremis around the world, from war-torn Afghanistan to the border regions of the American Southwest. In Walking with Abel, she embeds herself with a family of Fulani cowboysnomadic herders in Malis Sahel grasslandsas they embark on their annual migration across the savanna. Its a cycle that connects the Fulani to their past even as their present is increasingly under threatfrom Islamic militants, climate change, and the ever-encroaching urbanization that lures away their young. The Fulani, though, are no strangers to uncertaintybrilliantly resourceful and resilient, theyve contended with famines, droughts, and wars for centuries.
Dubbed Anna Ba by the nomads, who embrace her as one of theirs, Badkhen narrates the Fulanis journeys and her own with compassion and keen observation, transporting us from the Neolithic Sahara crisscrossed by rivers and abundant with wildlife to obelisk forests where the Fulanis Stone Age ancestors painted tributes to cattle. As they cross the Sahel, the savanna belt that stretches from the Indian Ocean to the Atlantic, they accompany themselves with Fulani music they download to their cell phones and tales of herders and hustlers, griots and holy men, infused with the myths the Fulani tell themselves to ground their past, make sense of their identity, and safeguard theirourfuture

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A LSO BY A NNA B ADKHEN The World Is a Carpet Four Seasons in an Afghan - photo 1

A LSO BY A NNA B ADKHEN

The World Is a Carpet: Four Seasons in an Afghan Village

Afghanistan by Donkey: One Year in a War Zone

Peace Meals: Candy-Wrapped Kalashnikovs and Other War Stories

Waiting for the Taliban: A Journey Through Northern Afghanistan

Walking with Abel Journeys with the Nomads of the African Savannah - image 2

Walking with Abel Journeys with the Nomads of the African Savannah - image 3

R IVERHEAD B OOKS

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street

New York, New York 10014

Walking with Abel Journeys with the Nomads of the African Savannah - image 4

Copyright 2015 by Anna Badkhen

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

The author gratefully acknowledges permission to quote from the following:

Cuckoo your footprints, by Yosa Buson, translated by W. S. Merwin and Takako Lento, from Collected Haiku of Yosa Buson. Translation copyright 2013 by W. S. Merwin and Takako U. Lento. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org. Cymatics (Frequencies) by Hassen Saker, from the film-poem triptych terra lingua: three aspects. Used by permission of the author. Kadara by Amadou Hampt B, translated by Daniel Whitman. Copyright 1988 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. Used with permission of the publisher. Reality Demands, from Miracle Fair:Selected Poems of Wisawa Szymborska by Wisawa Szymborska, translated by Joanna Trzeciak. Copyright 2001 by Joanna Trzeciak. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Sometimes Pleasing, Sometimes Not by Jenn McCreary, from & now my feet are maps. Used by permission of the author. We Travel Like Other People, by Mahmoud Darwish, from Victims of a Map: A Bilingual Anthology of Arabic Poetry, edited by Abdullah al-Udhari (London, Saqi Books, 1984). Reprinted with permission of Saqi Books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Badkhen, Anna, date.

Walking with Abel : journeys with the nomads of the African savannah / Anna Badkhen.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-698-14271-8

1. Fula (African people)Sahel. 2. Fula (African people)Mali. 3. Fula (African people)Migrations. 4. Badkhen, AnnaTravelSahel. 5. Badkhen, AnnaTravelMali. I. Title.

DT530.5.F84B34 2015 2015004476

305.896'322dc23

Maps by Jeffrey L. Ward

Illustrations by Anna Badkhen

Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the authors alone.

Version_1

No matter how far the town, there is another behind it.

F ULANI PROVERB

I walked on knives

to get here & now

my feet are maps.

J ENN M C C REARY

Visit httpbitly1AKu9Jy for a printable version of this map THE HOPING - photo 5

Visithttp://bit.ly/1AKu9Jyfor a printable version of this map.

THE HOPING

If you set out on a journey pray that the road is long Z BIGNIEW H ERBERT - photo 6

If you set out on a journey pray that the road is long

Z BIGNIEW H ERBERT

Y ou could hear them from miles away They went tprrr tprrr and they went jet - photo 7

Y ou could hear them from miles away. They went tprrr! tprrr! and they went jet jet jet! and they went jot jot jot! and they went ay, shht, shht, oy, trrrrrr, uh, uh! Repeating with proprietary virtuosity the calls their ancestors had used to talk to their own herds since the dawn of time. As if they journeyed not simply across distance but across eras and dragged with them through the land grooved with prehistoric cow paths all the cattle and all the herders who had laid tracks here before. You could almost make out all of them in the low scarf of shifting laterite dust, cowboys and ghosts of cowboys driving true and phantom herds on an ageless migration that stretched forever.

The Fulani and their cows tramped along the edge of the bone-white savannah, restless slatribbed wayfarers weaving among slow cattle just as slatribbed. Nomads chasing rain in the oceanic tracts of the Sahel. The cowboys wore soiled blue robes that luffed in the wind like sails, and their gait flowed smooth and footsure. Each step stitched the waking earth with a sound smoothed by millennia of repetition, a sound of sorrow and hope and loss and desire: the sound of walking.

They whistled and laughed and hurled their clubbed staffs underhand at the cows that were too hesitant or too distracted or out of step and they called Girl! Shht! and Die! Die, bitch! to such cows, but never in anger. They filled the soundscape with the chink of hooves and staffs upon filaments of shale, with yips and ululations, with incessant banter about cows and women and pontifications about God and swagger about migrations past. They moved in tinny bubbles of bootleg music that rasped from the cellphones they dangled on lanyards from their necks. Some had strapped to their chests boomboxes they had decorated with small mirrors, like disco balls. Their music said go on, go on, go on, go on, go on, in the same iambic beat as the songs of the Kel Tamashek camel riders of the Sahara, the Turkoman goatherds of the Khorasan, the horsemen of the Kazakh steppes. Music made for walking and cowbells. Music made out of walking and cowbells.

Their herds fell together and drifted apart and even when the cattle drive swelled to many thousand head, the Fulani always knew which cows belonged to whom. They seared lines and dots and crosses into the hides of their cattle with sickle-shaped branding irons, but these hieroglyphics mostly were of no need to them because they recognized their livestock and the livestock of others from the serrated silhouette of the herd, from the way dust billowed in its wake, from the particular gait of the bulls. You learned such knowledge somehow.

Those are Afos cows, Papa.

No they arent.

How can you tell?

Thats just how it is.

But how can you tell?

When I see cattle, I know.

Oumarou Diakayat squinted at the procession of cattle and cattle drivers filing into the sunrise. He had risen in the cool blue predawn from the wide reed pallet he shared with his wife, Fanta, their youngest son and daughter, and two small grandchildren, and washed from a small plastic kettle and prayed while most of the camp still slept. In the modest manner of his generation he had wrapped his indigo turban three times around his head and under the gray stubble on his narrow chin and across his thin mouth, in which a few teeth still remained, and dragged his millet-straw mat out of the cold shadows of the hut.

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