Border formalities into Mali are surprisingly easy and informal given the heightened state of security that exists there, with Al Qaeda’s northern division causing issues from mid-line up to the border with Niger and across neighbouring Mauritania, so we are quickly into the first town – a typical border town of squalor and – for the recent rains – flooded dirt roads.
The choices for accommodation are limited: one local campement that looks quite uninviting and, on progressing through to the other end of town, a closed auberge. So we made the (fateful) decision to push on in a race against the dark to the next town along the way. Being as obvious as we are parked by the side of the ‘high street’ a pick-up with two locals in it stops to enquire if we are heading out of town; as they are as well, we should follow along. Normally – and given AQ in the shadows – I would decline; but they are also taking on board a load of locals looking for a free ride, a bicycle and assorted overstuffed bags of greenery so I figure nobody’s kidnapping the only two whiteys in town under the eyes of a load of locals and we agree. How many more stupid mistakes can we make in one trip ...
Off they tear, not in the direction our GPS shows we should – along a clearly defined, albeit flooded, road bearing left – but right, and into a copse of trees and out along a (also flooded) donkey path. Much rolling and fording of swollen potholes commences as we try to keep them in sight, following deeper and deeper into the unknown and further and further off our correct trajectory. I go with the ‘they know a short cut’ thought process and duly tag along, offering calming words of encouragement to Clare, who is both decidedly less convinced and most definitely less happy about this new plan. An hour along and they stop in a small cluster of shanties and huts, popping over to the truck to announce this is their village and the end of their route. I try arguing that they said they were heading to the next main town, and not their middle-of-nowhere home village and that’s why we followed them, but they are very unconcerned – it is simple, they say: from here it is simply a straight drive into town. No problem they assure us repeatedly.
Now, we have been in Africa long enough to know three things all too well: 1) there is no such thing as a straight line here; 2) pointing off in one direction does not necessarily mean the direction being indicated is to your required destination, but may just as likely be to the extent of the individual’s knowledge; and, 3) “no problem” to a local most usually means there will indeed be a problem for us types ...
But, in for a penny, etc, and we’re already an hour into it so – fools! – we decide to give it a go.
Bon voyages all round and we are off; but now I am with Clare on this and not at all happy with what we’ve got ourselves – no, scratch that, what I’ve got us - into. Sure enough, we are soon hopelessly mired in amongst the tall maize fields and, with darkness now rapidly approaching, the drive becomes like trying to find our way out of a farmer’s Halloween maze of high walls and narrow passages all leading nowhere. A stop at a local village – well, in fact, we drive right on into the compound through a narrow opening in it’s surrounding thick wall of mud and right into the centre courtyard – is greeted with stares of incredulity and a very curt issuing back out the way we came.
The GPS is baffled by the dozens of possible routes and we are getting nowhere fast. For the first time on the trip my This Is Not Safe alarm is going off very loudly inside my head and we need an effective exit strategy fast – all the warnings about hostage takings and AQ activity and within an hour of arrival we’ve gone and placed ourselves in the most stupid of situations possible, well outside of any security possibly offered by the local gendarmerie all placed well back in town ... N.O.T. G.O.O.D.
I opted for simply reversing and following our tracks back out as they are clearly defined in the thick mud we’ve been wallowing through in the maze, Clare for the more scientific GPS re-coordinating back to the main entry point. She navigates brilliantly and soon enough – few turns into donkey paddocks and other ‘not the right way’s’ notwithstanding – we are back on track (literally); though I do note that our tracks are also clearly visible to both our left and right at the junction where the GPS finally, triumphantly, announces our location so either action would have worked, but I am (much) relieved that by following her projections we do now know with certainty exactly where we are at and so, with a sharp right turn and a giant exhalation we are quickly out of the maize maze and within the hour back to the border town where the whole ridiculous and foolhardy exercise originated.
So, a night in the campement it is to be then ... Where we are charged 10 USD for the privilege of parking and use of the communal hole in the ground toilet awash in urine, flies and thick noxious fumes. Nasty, nasty, nasty ... A night in damp bedding and feeling utterly minging we are up early to hang everything out to dry now that the sun has burned the rain away before getting away as quickly as possible towards Dogon country (and a clean toilet. Or bush. Anything but that bog ...).
Unfortunately, with a deadline now in place to get Clare to the “finish line” of Morocco in order to catch her flight back to the UK and gainful employment, we do not have the luxury of time to fully explore the region, famous for its unique and spectacular ancient villages carved into the face of the escarpment, so we target one location and head there – only to be met by a washed out road. We appreciate now why the area is said to be best explored on foot on treks lasting upwards of 2 weeks so we will have to enjoy the area only on the periphery. But the scenery as we wind our way up the steep tailbacks is spectacular, all dusty red rock with waterfalls cascading down, and we are - quite by chance when flagged down by a young fella roadside - lucky to be invited to tour the village at the highest point of the escarpment where a wedding ceremony – complete with very unhappy-looking bride and a reception playing a selection of Bob Marley’s finest – is underway. We wait for the catch, the ‘tourist angle’, but there is none – just a proud local Jack-the-lad keen to show us around (and off to the others) so we learn much of the culture and it’s ‘shouldn’t work but it seems to just fine’ mix of ancient animism practises, Islam and Christianity, set on a scorching piece of barren rock.
Back down the sharply-winding road, well-paved in white concrete, and with a few hours hard driving once back on the flat, marvelling all the way at what is arguably the most exciting physical environment we’ve yet travelled through, we make great time and stop for the night early to prepare for the run to Timbuktu the next day (or Tomboctou as it is referred to there, en Francaise).
Once set up with a most-welcomed cold beer in hand we are given dire warnings that the road about 13 km’s out of town has “plus de l’eau” and we are offered a guide who says he will moto out with us and then walk us through the obstacle. Sounds all a bit unnecessary for us seasoned veterans of the road but I agree - price though to be negotiated after crossing completed. Rounding a bend the next morning, after 13 km’s of decent gravel which has left me wondering what all this prior fuss was about, we are astonished by the sight of the road disappearing into a great swollen flood spanning 100 meters across, with an abandoned tour bus sunk over on its side dead centre, water lapping through its windows - apparently it’s been there a week; three cars have also been swept away in that time and the area is swarming with herders swimming their goats across, commercial truck drivers milling about casting nervous glances and local entrepreneurs who have sounded out the safest path across eagerly crowding around shouting their best “trust me, not him” sales pitch.
Not deep – donkey mouth height as Clare puts it, as she watches them drink and walk across concurrently without lowering their heads – but the current is strong and the sunken crossing narrow – one false move while blindly aiming between the posts set on either side and it’s a drop of about four feet, more than enough for gravity and the current to quickly take over and you’d be away downstream before you could get the door open and be out. Right, so, how much were you asking to guide us (safely) across ...?
My main concern – other than putting all my trust, and the vehicle’s safety, in the hands of someone who if he screws the route up will not be the one to be losing everything – is to keep the engine live; it is obvious from the shore that the water’s depth will be well over the exhaust and, as I’ve nothing to jury-rig an extension with, once it’s under there can be no stalling or the engine will suck it all up on re-start and that will be trip done for us ...
Hundreds of pairs of eyes a’watching, water will be halfway up the door, route across is an unseen unknown, outcome of next few minutes actions either jubilant celebrations or destruction of truck and/or drowning. Right, so, no pressure then ..
With my (hopefully soon to be well paid for successful services rendered) guide on front left and assorted hangers-on and opportunists clinging to every other side I take it into diff lock low second and enter with what I judge, and hope, is the right mix of caution and forceful initiative; with much banging on the sides, waving of arms and yelling from all outside I cross in what must look from above like a swarm of ants carrying a huge meal back to the nest. Water quickly fills the foot wells up past my ankles but only a few tense moments later I’m safely on dry land the other side, cheering myself and clapping to the assistants, who respond with massive bright smiles and a round of applause in return for mine to them. And open palms.
But my ‘official guide’ quickly elbows them all aside and, with relief opening my wallet a fair bit wider than it usually ever goes, I hand over 10,000 CFA (about 20 USD) to him; along with a further 1000 CFA to the youngest member of the crew – aged maybe 10 or 12 - who, despite not being invited, had appointed himself both Head Coach & Cheerleader, sticking himself like a remora at my open driver’s side window and shouting encouragement whilst confidently pointing the way while the water swirled around him mid-chest level before delivering an enthusiastic bang on the shoulder to me as soon as I had stopped. A (gratefully received) tip for him just being a great kid.
Well-chuffed, we’re soon back underway – trailing a long stream of water behind us draining out from every pore of the truck - through stark and beautiful scenery and dodging suicidal goats and camels until reaching the ‘ferry terminal’ – a collection of makeshift shelters of plastic sheeting and wooden poles – where we deposit the local herder who I had earlier picked up on the side of the road and offered a seat up on the roof rack rather than his walking our way in the stifling heat, for what will turn out to be the world’s slowest drift across through the flooded delta and river over to Timbuktu.
On arriving on the far shore we are very surprised to find ourselves driving along a long, narrow peninsula road neatly bordered each side with tall green trees, like going up the drive to some old European castle - though it doesn’t take long to disabuse ourselves of that romantic and pleasant image as we soon enter an expanse of very unforgiving-looking sparseness and dry and are quickly upon the fabled town, looking every bit as ‘middle of nowhere’ as its name has always invoked.
I am thrilled, giddy really, with the idea of my finally being here in a place I have imagined since first hearing of it in my teens, a distant and at the time so unattainable wonder evoking in every sense ‘adventure’. May I never stop travelling, but the Bucket List is complete.
Much like Kathmandu, another BL entry previously marked off just to do, not to actually be at for what it may have to offer, Timbuktu itself does not in any way live up to the strength of its name, being little more than a largish settlement of drab sandy buildings existing for the ancient but still active camel-borne salt caravans and the odd tourist (of whom there are all of 5 there including us) - but it never was supposed to be a town to visit; it is just, and really no more than, a magical image, and for that it proved worth every effort required to get there.
And as we are to learn repeatedly throughout both Mali and then Mauritania, no tourists (of whom - given Al Queda’s north African brethren’s enthusiasm for kidnappings across the region - there have been virtually zero in either country since early 2008) means guidebook recommendations count for little: the ‘wonderful French-run auberge extensively decorated with local artefacts, with award winning chef’ manned only by a sleeping local and empty save for roosting birds and great whirls of dust; campsites boarded up and falling into disrepair; ‘stunning balloon rides across the sweeping dunes at dawn’ existing only on faded posters, pilots exiled to a life far less romantic back in France; and any sought after amenity such as a restaurant requires sending a local off on the hunt for someone to (begrudgingly) return to staff it (or, more likely, to not). Sad really; across both countries it’s like a party everyone’s grown used to enjoying has come to an abrupt and unexpected end, leaving all still gathered there with little more to do than sit around the facade of it all and talk about how good it all used to be ...
We, however, jump in with both feet as best we can and go Full Tourist here for the first time, organizing a dawn camel ride out into the dunes for the next morning; a tour of the ‘old town’ to photograph plaques commemorating intrepid European explorers who had made the journey to find the ‘lost city’ in the 1800’s (most of whom then subsequently killed for having done so) and the original well for which the town gained its name eons ago (Timbuktu – however it be spelled – meaning “Well of Woman with Large Navel” – which, though being highly evocative in its own right, is not quite a match for what it has since become renowned as being); and, that night, enjoying a seemingly endless round of negotiations for Touareg trinkets and hand-crafted camel skin foot stools – the sales patter and rounds of tea accompanied by vibrant stories of life in the desert, camels and the salt caravans but more likely than not being delivered by the kid from down the block who picked up a few things in the local market.
But no matter, we shelve the cynicism of the past few months and just flow along with it all, breathing in the atmosphere and thoroughly enjoying the experience of just being there (save for the camel ride, all herky-jerky movement with hard wooden saddle and rough woollen blanket for padding, which Clare declares to be one of the most uncomfortable experiences of her life and, indignantly, “NOTHING like riding a horse!” and quickly, painfully, erases all previous interest she had in returning to join the month long salt caravan trip that had previously appealed as being “such an incredible opportunity!” But having done a half day before in Kenya on one of those beasts I knew with certainty this skinny arse would not be going anywhere near such a thing, “incredible opportunity” or not ...).
Too soon – though having exhausted all possible entertainment and experience to be found there – we head back to the ferry (obviously the Express this time, it hitting a racy 4 kmph versus our first 2.7 km version, which had caused our GPS to ask if we’d want to switch to “Pedestrian Mode” as we tracked our progress across the river); and from there we swing back south and then west towards the Mauritanian border – the finish line, just two countries away now, looms large ...
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