Talking Timbuktu - 12/03/07

Our first stop in Mali was Segou, a small town on the banks of the Niger river.  The day after we arrived was Monday, market day.  A crush of people, come to trade their wares, be it dried fish, vegetables of plastic Chinese tack.   The market, which was the whole town, was awash with bright colours, from the stalls and from the fabrics of the traders clothes.  It was also awash with the pungent odour, or rather odours, all mixed together, resembling that of a thousand hot, sweaty dogs.  We also hired a motorbike to visit Old Segou, 9km from town, past the old colonial buildings.  It was so unimpressive that we missed it.  Twice.  More impressive was the Niger river, we stopped at a couple of places to admire it.  So clean and clear, with flat riverbanks and little islets acting as pastures for cattle and goats. 

Niger river

The guy we hired the motorbike from, Van, is a perfect example of Malis “guides”, the fastest growing profession, hordes of young men loitering outside hotels and restaurants offering tours, souvenirs, motorbikes, etc.  Sometimes useful, more often a pain in the arse.  We drank millet beer with some of the guides at our hotel.  Monika swapped her old, smelly sandals with one for his brand new pair. He was so happy with the deal he gave her a pair of earrings as well.  The worst thing about it was neither of them were drunk.

Segou market

Despite the touts and beggars that are around, Malians, and indeed West Africans in general, seem to be very honest and trustworthy.  They are very proud of this and you never have to worry about anything going missing from hotel rooms or on long bus journeys.  With the exception of the German couple in Larabanga we have yet to meet anyone who had anything stolen, indeed there is always somebody ready to help you if something goes astray by your own accord.  In Segou I left my bag, containing my camera, passport and a few hundred dollars, in a café.  When I returned a few minutes later it was waiting for me behind the counter, diligently left there by the boys who had earlier been pestering me for a “donation” for their football kit.  Needless to say they received one after this.

Segou

Our next stop was Djenne, home to the worlds largest mud building, the UNESCO listed mosque.  It is stunningly beautiful, up there with the Taj Mahal in terms of visual impact, especially as it changes colour with the passage of the sun overhead.  Dusk in Djenne is a perfect example of the “golden gaze” of Africa, between ‘pm and –pm when everything glows orange and the streets re-awaken after the heat of the day.  The whole town of Djenne, and the sister village of Solassa which we visited by horse and cart, is quaint and pretty, narrow alleys snaking between the imposing mud buildings.

Mud mosque, Djenne

We spent an afternoon in Djenne drinking tea with some locals.  The drinking of African tea in Mali is quite a tradition.  The ritual lasts for hours and it is very impolite to leave before at least the third cup.  This is no problem however because the cups are actually large shot glasses and they are half filled with froth, so it is hardly enough to quench a thirst.  The people, especially the old men, like to spend hours making a brew, and the taste changes from bitter to sweet as the leaves get used.  The only problem with this traditional African tea is that is made in China.  They make the tea cheaper there, as well as all the traditional arts, crafts and cloths so the Africans no longer need to make anything.  China does it for them.

Pays-Dogon (Dogon Country)  is touted as one of the top5 trekking destinations in the world.  It runs along the Bandiagara escarpment  with villages clinging to the cliffs, and clinging to their traditions.  It took a while to get there from Djenne, the best part of day playing chequers with the bus driver, but once there we soon found an English-speaking guide and arranged a three-day trek.

Entering Dogon Country

From the town of Bandiagara we took a  taxi to Dourou and entered Pays-Dogon through a gap in the escarpment, down to the village of Nombori.  Dogon revealed itself like the lost cities of gold. There were irrigated fields dotted with baobab trees and, behind, the village rose up into the escarpment.  To our right the escarpment merged into some high sand dunes.  We spent the first day circling Nombori and the three villages of Idjeli, all mud huts, granaries with pointed roofs and sacred areas where no-one dare to tread.  Above the villages are the former cave homes of the Tellem pygmies who inhabited the area before the Dogon and were driven out after a war in the 14th Century.  In each village there is a mud hut where women incarcerate themselves for the duration of their menstruation.  Every time two Dogons meet, a long drawn-out greeting ensues;

“Puy” (Hello)

“Seoea?” (Fine?)

“Umana Seoea?” (How are your family?)

“Uni Seoea?” (How are your children?)

“Gye Seoea?” (How are you?)

“Nya Ugona Seoea?” (How is your village?)

“Owa Seoea, Seoea, Seoea” (Fine, Fine Fine)

Luckily it only has to go one-way, whoever starts first.

Back in Nombori a jeep tour of rich French tourists had arranged a “traditional folklore” evening.  We gate-crashed it to have a look.  Who did they think we were, these scruffy westerners, kept separate from the, drinking millet beer with the locals as they watched from their armchairs?

I would like to tell you more about Dogon history and culture but our guide was next to useless and answered our questions with one word responses.  I didn’t expect much from the guide other than to stop me causing a disgrace by trampling over someone’s grave or something but considering the cost of a guide for two people per day (including food and accommodation) is equivalent to minimum wages in the UK he could have been more professional.  The money he made from our trek will allow his whole village, Nombori, to live for a month, if he spreads the wealth. 

The second day we left Nombori and crossed the high dunes and along the plains to Gimini.  Here we climbed the escarpment through Consog-Ley (Lower Consog) to Consog-Do (Upper Consog).  The views from here along to Benigmato were incredible.  During the trek we always had lunch and rested between midday and 3pm.  I first thought this pointless but even a few steps in the searing heat at this time is exhausting.  The food on the trek was surprisingly good, no African specialities.  Benigmato has three “quarters” – Christian, Muslim and animist.  We ate in the Christian quarter.  Whilst we rested a small boy had a tantrum because he had put on his good shoes and wanted to go to church.  His mother had to tell him to wait until tomorrow, it was only Saturday.

Family in Benigmato

The descent from Benigmato was like the image of some futuristic ‘Wellsian’ utopia, green fields on ledges between the towering rock formations.  At this point of guide really lost it.  He started smoking weed, telling us he would never do it in front of older German tourists but it was Ok with us because we are young.  Really? Why?  He then continued to smoke throughout this day and the next, right to the end of the trek.  That night in Yawa Talu I swapped my hiking boots for some souvenirs, but I could keep the boots until the end of the trek.

I was rearing to go next morning but we had to wait for Abraham, to finish smoking.  The whole morning was spent walking along the flat plain, passing the villages of Ende and Teli, both very much damaged by tourism.  Ende is known for its fabrics, especially those dyed in indigo.  Teli has a nice mosque and some more Tellem caves in the cliffs but not much else other beggars and touts.  It is strange that in Ghana, Togo and Benin there were next to no beggars at all, you would see more in an afternoon in Norwich than in a month in any of those countries, but in Burkina Faso and Mali there are many.  They are mostly young boys, carrying empty tomato tins on string, ready for ‘donations’.

Abraham had disappeared in Ende and re-appeared in Teli, his excuse ranging from “I fell asleep” to “I was buying a door”.  When we complained about it he sulked like a child, walking 100m ahead the whole time, meaning when we reached Kani Kombole to climb the last 5km to Djiguibombo we got lost twice.  In Djiguibombo he had the temerity to ask that when we recommend him, not to say that he smokes.  I told him he didn’t have to worry about that.

Mosque, Teli

Back in Bandiagara he disappeared again so we left the boots with another guide, told tm what we thought of Abraham and fled for Mopti.  Mopti is Mali’s biggest port and is a chaotic hive of activity.  There is not much to see but it is strategically placed on the Niger river and between Djenne, Dogon and Timbuktu.  We were told to expect hassle but we didn’t really experience any, mostly just friendly welcomes.  We relaxed at the excellent Hotel Ya Pas De Probleme, which even had a small swimming pool (albeit colder even than the Hartsdown pool in Margate).  The most common budget sleeps in Mali are mattresses or space for tents on the roofs of hotels, flat roofs remember, although even these can cost around $5 each.  It does get chilly at night, how can it be so hot all day and so cold at night.  We chatted to a French guy called Jerry, wheelchair-bound and with limited movement in his hands and arms, who was driving his Renault Megane around West Africa, he gave us some excellent tips for travel in Senegal and The Gambia.

Mopti port

The road to Timbuktu is infamous for being a bumpy ride.  Most people get there by tourist pinasse and leave by jeep.  A ‘pinasse’ is a reasonably large boat used for passengers and cargo on the Niger river.  It just has an unfortunate name, Monika was constantly amused by guides offering her their ‘big pinasses’.  Anyway, we decided to go to Timbuktu by road and return by pinasse.  The jeep was supposed to depart at 9am, we arrived at 8:30, enough time for a cuppa and a chip butty before leaving.  How naïve.  We left at around midday, took the main road and arrived in Douentza at 3pm.  Douentza is one of the arm-pits of Mali, a jumping-off point for Pays-Dogon but with no income from it.  The town is full of beggars and touts and everything costs too much.  I saw a guy carving wood by the jeep.  I thought he was an artisan, making souvenirs.  He was building new shocks for the jeep.  We had not even got off-road and we needed repairs.  We eventually left around 8pm and it took another four hours to reach the Niger river, just downstream from Timbuktu.  We slept.  At dawn the sun rose like a thick egg yolk, revealing hippos bathing.  We took the first car ferry to Korioume and from there the jeep sped the last 18km and through the cements gates to the fables city of Timbuktu.

Timbuktu

For many years explorers such as Gordon Laing and Rene Caillie tried to reach Timbuktu.  A long hard journey frought with danger.  If the heat didn’t get them then they risked assassination if, as an infidel, they were discovered.  They had to disguise themselves as Muslims, often Tuaregs.  The question is…why?  Why take so much trouble to reach somewhere whose name is synonymous with “the arse-end of nowhere”? Which it is.  More aggressive street kids, pushy Tuareg sellers and tourist taxes.  The city is pounded by constant sand-storms.   It is not such a bad place however and the clay ovens in the streets baking are bread are a sight to behold, even if the bread is always sandy!  There is just not much there.  My favourite quote from our guidebook is:

 "Timbuktu has only one official taxi, and he does not work after 6pm”¹

Timbuktu’s  port, Korioume is a shit-hole however.  I saw a small boy confirm this by leaving perfect circles of diarrhoea at regular intervals in the road.  We were stuck there for the best part of a day waiting for the boat to Mopti.  It was supposed to leave at 8am. Did I say naïve before?  If I tell you all how much we paid you will all laugh!  It eventually left at 4pm and we made fast progress through the night.  It was quite warm with everyone squeezed in together, each with their own little space, the smell of goats emanating from every blanket.  A fat woman resembling a frog cooked rice and morsels of meat for everyone.  The next morning we arrived at Tonka, barely a quarter of the way to Mopti, and stopped.  I explained to the ‘captain’ that we had paid for spaces on a cargo ship, plus meals for a three-day journey to Mopti.  He was angry, but not at us, he had been done up as well.  He felt sorry for us and let us stay on his boat until we sorted something out, they would be waiting two days before heading on to Mopti.  He even persuaded the frog to cook for us, not an easy task.  Tonka was another seedy port and on our second day there we looked for alternative routes out.  We found truck-buses (literally trucks converted into buses) that take three days to get to Bamako, and a guy in a jeep offered to take us to Bamako for 50,000CFA, amazingly cheap for what he offered but still too much for us.  We ended up on another pinasses, paying more money for even less space, I was perched on the edge, on the verge of falling overboard at the first sharp turn.  As the pinasse left the port a rowing boat pulled up alongside us and singled me out.  They demanded I pay another 5000CFA “transport tax” or disembark.  I asked why but he would not tell me it is because I am a Toubab (white person).  This is a word you must get used to.  In Mali, especially upcountry, white people have no names, they are just ‘toubab’.  Here is another except from the Lonely Planet:

“Greeting people in Mali is very important and you will often see highly formalised ritual greetings which last for minutes”²

As in the Dogon Country.  What I want to know is, where are the rituals in the greeting “Toubab! Cadeau!?” (“White man! Gift?!”).  To me it felt like the equivalent of walking round England shouting “N*gg*r! Money!?” using perhaps the most disgusting word in the English language.  It sounds awful but this is how you are sometimes made to feel in Mali, especially the northern, rural areas.  There is always somebody ready to lift you from your pit of despair however and in the middle of the night our ‘travel angel’ appeared.  A guy from the boat came, took all our luggage and asked us to follow him. We balanced on the edge of the boat before climbing on the canvas roof and being assigned a place to lie at the back of the boat.  He even gave us a blanket.  In the morning I awoke to a new sensation, marvel, at the hordes of fishing boats on Lac Debo.  The scene was reminiscent of the final scenes of Apocalypse Now where they enter Kurtz’ camp.  The sunrise was amazing a during the day we passed so many boats, villages and yet more hippos.  We chatted to a Nigerian guy and when we told him that over $300 billion of money has been ‘lost’ by the Nigerian government since the oil came on tap he said – “All the African leaders are criminals, only out to help themselves, but if it were me I would do the same” – I hope this was not an insight into the African psyche.

Niger river

We eventually arrived in Mopti at around 8pm; for the final five hours we had been without water, constantly resisting the urge to fill our bottle in the Niger.  We missed the last bus to Bamako, which disappointed the guy from the boat who was looking to get a kickback for his kindness the night before.  We took a taxi to Sevare, on the main road and from there picked up a truck-bus to Bamako.  The conductor ignored the calls of three hangers-on who had followed us and charged the correct fare.  The bus sped through the night and we passed Segou around 3 or 4am.  We stopped just twice for the driver to have power naps, each less than half an hour and then he was back behind the wheel driving like a lunatic again.  By dawn I realised our 8am ETA was in jeopardy as we had left the main highway and were following the back roads, stopping at every village and sometimes in the middle of nowhere, often for prayers.  We were stuck right at the back and there was not enough space for Monika’s legs in the footwell and my knees were bruised all over.  We eventually arrived in Bamako at around 11am, as we pulled up to a house the whole bus started a crescendo of prayer, I suspect it had been a special charter journey to the important funeral of an Imam or someone.  In any case we had had enough so we jumped in a local minibus to the centre.  After a couple of false starts, “No room at the inn”, we finally got a room at the Maison de Jeunes.  We were just about ready to collapse after five days on the way from Timbuktu, we were filthy and exhausted.

Whilst not a bad city, Bamako is uninteresting and we spent out time collecting visas, catching up with correspondence and searching for an ATM, there are none anywhere else in Mali.  We also indulged in croissants and excellent coffee in the various patisseries around town.

The train between Bamako and Dakar is legendary for its lack of timetable and extreme delays.  We were told that it might leave on Saturday, or it might be Wednesday, and could take 40 hours, 4 days or even a week.  Usually we would jump at the chance of such a romantic adventure but time is of the essence so we decided on the dependable bus, departing every day at 9am and taking just 25 hours.  Wait for it.  After we had loaded everything, many people had 15 bags or more it was 10am before we left.  We made slow progress through out the day, much of the road being unsealed, dusty piste.  As we approached the western-Malian hick town of Kayes a family started vomiting, it was amusing, the two women, sisters maybe, both needing their bowl at the same time!  They left at Kayes and tried to leave their bowl on the bus.  I feigned ignorance and chased after them to hand it back, acting as if I had done them a  huge favour!

By now we had missed the border and had to overnight in Kayes, this was made slightly bearable by catching the game between Real Madrid and Barcelona on TV in the market.  The next morning we crossed the border with ease, only to be held up for three hours whilst all the traders, mostly loudmouthed women declared their goods through customs.  It all became clear, that is why they have so many bags.  It reminded me of our days as bootleggers, except we never got caught.  I expected Senegal to be more developed but it was just as bad, maybe worse.  We trundled on through day and night.  At the evening stop around 10pm the whole bus loaned when Monika was about 30 seconds late in buying a baguette (it was a tasty one full of meat, chips and egg!), one guy shouted in English “Lady, we ARE in a hurry!”.  Really?   We eventually arrived in Dakar at 6am the following morning, only 25 hours late. 

Travel in Mali is much harder work and requires more patience than other countries in the region, but it is worth it.  Just.

¹ Lonely Planet - West Africa, 6^th Edition, 2006, p528