Africa 2006

Timbuktu is the Hotel California; you can check out any time you like but you can never leave.

Brenna, David (the Ottawa couple I had met a few days earlier) and I met two Americans on our final morning in Timbuktu. They were looking for transport to leave and agreed to share the pinasse back along the Niger River with us to save on costs.

Our pinasse and driver finally showed up at 4pm on the scheduled day of departure, effectively ensuring that we would not be able to leave for another day. Then he demanded twice the already agreed price for “extra fuel”.

We argued and debated but he wouldn’t budge. And neither would I (especially since we had found two extra paying people for him). So we had to abandon the romantic option of leaving Timbuktu.

A search ensued to find alternative transport back to Mopti. Then we discovered that our friendly guide, Kalil, is some sort of Godfather of Timbuktu - once you’re working with him, nothing gets achieved without his approval. So offers for 4×4 were recalled when people found out we were connected to Kalil.

Eventually, after many hours of protracted negotiations and debates (at one desperate point, and to lighten the mood, I said we would pay 5000 less per person if David promised not to sing in the car), we found a driver to take us back to Timbuktu.

The five of us spent our last night it Hotel California sleeping on the roof (we were all short on cash and the banks were all closed for the end of Ramadan), listening to the sounds of the all night party commemorating the festival.

After two flat tires en route back, we finally escaped back to Mopti.

It may not have been the romantic option, but we certainly had the effort that seems to be a pre-requisite for visiting this fabled city.

“For some people, when you say ‘Timbuktu’, it is like the end of the world, but that is not true. I am from Timbuktu, and I can tell you we are right at the heart of the world.” - musician Ali Farka Toure, 1939 - 2006

I took the 21st century version of the ancient camel trains to Timbuktu – a 4×4, windscreen beautifully intact and air in all the tires. My plan is to return the romantic way – by pinasse (like a large covered canoe) on a three-day trip along the Niger River. The reason is a very un-romantic one: it’s much cheaper to return by pinasse that to go.

I also have companions for this leg of the journey (another non-romantic financial reason, but also because they’re nice people): Brenna and David live in Ottawa (so they must be great, right?) and – they just got engaged on the beginning of their trip!

The 4×4 ride up to the fabled city was much prettier than I had imagined. As we bumped along to music by Djeneba Seck, another one of Mali’s great talents, the plains got sandier and sandier and we caught glimpses of dromedary camels being herded by Tuareg shepherds in azure turbans. There were even beautiful rocky formations like in the US South-West.

It was dark by the time we drove over the narrow, sandy (and therefore scary) spit to the point on the Niger River where we caught the car ferry across. We dined in the dark on tinned sardines and peanuts so fresh they taste like peas, and danced with local women while we waited to the ferry to shuttle us across in the dark (rather nervewracking) to the other side. The journey time from Mopti was 10 hours.

Approaching Timbuktu was a little bit like any North American city – first the gas station, then several “Welcome To..” and “We’re Twinned with…” signs, then the African equivalent of mini-marts and chain stores. There is only one paved road; the rest are lined with sand.

The full day we had in Timbuktu was possibly the best one – it was the festival to celebrate the end of Ramadan. Everyone wandered the streets dressed in their finest colourful turbans and kaftans. Even little girls had makeup and high heels on (how they walked through the sand I don’t know!). Happily, it also meant we were left virtually undisturbed by the tourist touts who are legendary for clinging to tourists during their stay.

We walked around the city to visit the homes of the first Europeans to visit this city, and to the three mud mosques of the town. We had tea with Tuareg nomads and scrambled up some sandy hills; Timbuktu is literally on the fringe of the desert.

The town is much more interesting that I was led to believe; the only disappointment is all the garbage, especially discarded black plastic bags which seem to float around everywhere.

We ate traditional toucassou last night at the Poulet D’Or, a huge bread ball with beef pieces and a tomato and onion sauce. I am so deprived of vegetables at the moment, I consider onions a valuable contribution, and Coca Cola a nutritional addition to my diet.

On to the pinasse this afternoon, if all goes well, back to Mopti by Wednesday and then on to Burkina Faso!

In Dogon Country I slept under the stars, so clear I could see the murkiness of the Milky Way and the sharp silouette of the escarpment. I hoped for a breeze – even in the darkness it was hot.

In the morning, it’s not the visual sunrise that’s most impressive; it’s the aural one.

Waking up is a gradual crescendo, like peeling layers off the onions the Dogon region is famous for growing. Just as the air starts cooling in the pre-dawn, a symphony of sounds begin slowly. (I think I just mixed metaphors, but I have no time to fine tune this writing!)

The first sounds are the constant throbbing of the crickets and other insects. Then the other animals contribute: first the sharp insistent crow of the rooster, then the bleating of the sheep and the occasional bray of a donkey – an incredible sound almost like the spluttering of a car engine when it has trouble starting.

The next layer is provided by the laughter of children and the occasional baby crying. And just before the sun comes up the call to prayer, delivered by a person rather than a recording, echoes across the town. The final element of precussion is provided by the women who start rhymically pounding the millet in huge mortar and pestles, trying to complete the most trying work before it gets unbearably hot. 

It’s a dilligent, but not a loud, awakening, nature’s little orchestra, each component a small but vital part making up the symphony.

By 5.30 am, I’m up and ready to go.

Dogon County is the most visited region of Mali. It’s a 250 km long escarpment near the border with Burkina Faso which has been home to the Dogon people since the 13th century (but don’t quote me on that date – I don’t have my guidebook here!). The Dogon speak their own language (and many dialects) and are primarily animist. The entire region is a UNESCO listed heritage site and it is popular to undertake a trek along the bottom of the cliff, walking the few kilometres between villages in the early morning and late afternoon (it’s too hot midday) and staying on the rooftops of village huts at night, gazing at the stars (there’s no electricity in the villages so the star gazing is pretty good).

I trekked (well, walked is more like it) with a guide and a porter – yes, the good life again – from Tuesday until Friday last week. We awoke with the sun, had a sugary Nescafe and baguette for breakfast, and then walked to the next village where I would relax for lunch and read for a few hours.

On the second day, my guide, Barou, and I were charged by a bull – briefly anyway. The big horned creature, of which there were many en route, gazed at us briefly before stamping his feet and making a run for it. Barou disappeared faster than I could blink, and I ran behind a tree, before the laughing owner of the beast came up and tamed it. Yikes.

The scenery is stunning, with an orangey glow shining off the 200-300 metre high cliff on the left-hand as I walked northwards. The right-hand side are sandy dunes dotted with shrubs. People I met on the way sort of sung their extensive Dogon greetings, which require questions and answers on family, health, children, the day, before moving on.

Walking up and down the escarpment (the main towns of embarkation are at the top) is a bit more of an adventure – I was a sweaty mess after scrambling up huge boulders to reach the top, gripping my camera and tourist Tilly hat with me. After one particularly challenging section, I reached the crest of a hill and saw a woman my age gracefully pass me with a baby strapped to her back and about 50 kg of millet in a pottery jug balanced on her head.

Remind me to visit the gym again when I return home.

Mac’s Refuge in Sevare prepares a nightly sit-down dinner for guests. A three-course meal is served around a long table so everyone gets a chance to meet and get to know each other. My companions for the Moroccan meal last Monday were 10 American missionaries based in various African countries on a retreat (the owner, Mac, is a lapsed missionary himself), and one more former missionary from – the Faroe Islands! He was also born in Reykjavik and so I had a bizarre dinner with a group of missionaries practising my Icelandic. You just never know who’ll you meet on the road ….

West Africa is where old cars and buses from Europe go to die and a journey on one of them is always a mini-adventure all to itself. My 7-hour trip from Segou to Sevare is a perfect example.

The “gare routieres” (bus stations) are always milling with people. I arrive at 7am – the earlier one leaves, the better the odds of arriving before dark when the driving gets really crazy - buy a baguette with fried bananas and freshly grilled brochettes of beef for a quick breakfast, then make my way to the ticket booth to purchase the 5500 CFA (about 9 Euros) one-way to Sevare, 350 km away.

I chat to the driver and the other bus employee on the trip, in case I need their help later on. One passenger offers to send 60 camels to my husband in Iceland in exchange for me remaining in Mali; I scoffed and he upped the offer to 80 – waddya say, G?

The Sumatra bus is typical of most: the front windscreen is cracked in several places and an A3 sized posted of Amadou Toumani Toure, Mali’s President, is taped to the right-hand side, adding a further obstacle to the driver’s field of vision. West African pop music blasts from the speakers.

My small talk with the Sumatra staff pays off and they assign me an aisle seat in the middle of the bus (safest) and by one of the small “sunroofs” – the windows don’t open, so the main door and the sun roofs are kept open to provide a small amount of respite from the heat. The colour scheme of the bus is based on a palette of “dirt” with “dust” accents.

The aisles are full of sacks of onions and bottles of local beer. There is a large yellow container, presumably full of gasolene. The kaftan-wearing man across the aisle from me is muttering quietly to himself with his prayer beads. Does he know something I don’t?

The 9am bus to Sevare leaves promptly at 9.50, tumbling east along Mali’s main tarmac road, the driver honking frantically to announce when we are about to overtake a slower van with people on the roof or a donkey and cart.

I have a good view of the driver in his tye-died shirt from the rearview mirror. I can see when hi picks his nose and his ears and when he yawns and rubs his eyes. I can see when he leans forward to pick something up off the floor or turns around to talk to his friends.

We stop at most of the villages along the way, usually small communities with mud houses and a mud mosque. Women and children climb onto the bus to sell their wares – everything from sunglasses to sacks of unfiltered water to oily clumps of dough or fresh peanuts. I buy some dough balls and give a couple to a little boy sitting near me. He smiles shyly and accepts. 

The landscape is Sahelian. It’s dusty, like seemingly all of Mali, and flat, dotted with baobab trees, huge termite mounds (a couple of metres high), shrubs, and fields of thin ripe millet, looking like anaemic corn stalks.

I can feel the sweat trickling down my back.

Mohammed, the Sumatra employee not driving, regularly climbs over the sacks in the aisle to inquire how I am. I am too tired? Am I not too hot?

Nope. Everything’s great, Mohammed. I’m lovin’ every minute.

Segou is a relaxing city on the Niger River, with a population of about 100 000, although it feels much smaller. It was once the main city for the Bambara Empire and the old Segou town, 17 kilometres away, still houses the city’s oldest mud mosque.

I am staying at the Auberge, a Lebanese-run facility with – luxury of luxuries – a swimming pool!

I arrived on Friday afternoon and met two other foreigners at the hotel: Bart, a Dutch tour guide taking a day off before collecting his next group in Bamako, and Joumana, a Montrealer on vacation who used to live near Segou. They invited me to go dancing with them later that evening and I happily accepted – when I’m travelling alone I don’t usually go out at night!

But shortly before supper, I started feeling a bit unwell – general malaise, headaches, aches and pains, chilliness. It got worse after dinner and I decided to cancel the evening out in favour of trying to get a good night’s sleep. Ever paranoid about getting a serious illness, I looked up the symptoms for malaria in my guidebook. I had all of them, except the most important – a fever. The guide said to see a doctor promptly if there was a fever over 38C. So instead I slept.

The next day I felt no better, but I did a day of sightseeing with a guide Bart had recommended (named Gaston, and I recommend him too for anyone visiting this way!). We visited the old Segou town and then took a break for lunch (during which I managed a few spoonfuls of soup and slept for an hour). In the afternoon we took a pinasse (a long covered boat) on the Niger River to a town where women create beautiful pottery (one gave me a small plate as a present) and to a Bozo fishing village.

We returned at sunset and I did not feel well at all. Just to make sure, I asked the hotel management for a thermometer to check my temperature – turns out it was 39.3 (guess it’s hard to tell in the warm climate!). Even though I have not been in Africa very long, and have been taking anti-malarials and preventative measures, I thought best to be on the safe side and so we called a doctor.

Dr. Zoumana Traore arrived promptly within 15 minutes to examine me. He first checked to see if I had appendicitis (NOT something I would like to get here!) but after I explained everything he prescribed me Coartem as a malaria treatment, explaining that the clinic to test for malaria would not be open until Monday and it was better to treat rapidly than to wait. If it wasn’t malaria, then the drugs do no harm anyway. Dr. Traore assured me that I should be feeling better overnight – “inshallah”.

I’m happy to report that I do feel much better today – my fever and headache are gone, and I’m just a little tired. I’ll probably never know whether this was malaria or not (the doctor said I don’t need to be tested now unless the symptoms return) but if I’m feeling better then it doesn’t matter! (it strikes me that it must be unlikely since I haven’t been here very long and took all the precautions; on the other hand, I have never been ill with these symptoms before when travelling).

Off to Sevare tomorrow and then on a three-day trek through Dogon Country. Stay tuned!

Tens of mosquitoes. Five cold showers. Three power cuts. One long night.

Such was my first night at the Auberge Toguna in Bamako, Mali’s capital, where the air conditioner mysteriously blew coolish air and yet the room remained warmer than the hall outside.

My one full day in Bamako, a city far more pleasant than I had anticipated, was primarily spent on practical matters. First up was locating the mysterious Visa Entente Cordial: rumour has it that buying this visa from one of the relevant countries (Cote d’Ivoire, Benin, Togo, Niger and Burkina Faso) gives entry to all five of the countries, saving on time and visa costs. But very few embassies actually issue it or even acknowledge its existence.

I started with the Cote d’Ivoire Embassy with no success. Then I visited the Consulate of Togo (escorted to the door of the office by a man who drove me there on his moto, free of charge, after I asked him for directions at his corner store). The Consul himself informed me that the Entente Cordiale no longer existed. I countered that I had only two pages left in my passport to fit the remaining visas. The Consul assured me that I could buy a visa for Togo (which I did) and if I showed border officials that my passport was nearly full, and paid a small “fine”, it should be no problem to use in all the relevant countries. We’ll have to see to the truth of that, but my books say most other visas are available at borders in any case.

Next errand was arranging for a guide for my upcoming trip to Dogon Country, often seen as the highlight of any trip to Mali. I met Karen, an American who co-owns Toguna Adventure Tours, to co-ordinate this part of the trip.

My afternoon was spent visiting an impressive (and air-conditioned!) National Museum and wandering around the city – who knew so many different shades of brown could make a city so pretty?

In the evening I was invited to break the fast on the street with a small group of men, one of whom owned a small shop where I had been buying my mineral water. They offered me a tasty local dish, whose name I neglected to write down, of millet, flour and water.

The next morning, after I much more pleasant sleep at the Auberge, I left at 7am to catch an early bus for the 260 km journey to Segou, Mali’s “second city”.

In my guidebook, the train between Dakar and Bamako was billed as one of Africa’s last great train journeys. The Malian train takes about three days to complete the 1225 kilometre journey. There is no defined schedule - a new departure time is set once the train arrives in a city.

I was on my way to the station for the scheduled departure time of 13.00 when we discovered that the Express had been delayed until 16.00 - not an unusual development. I returned to the flat, and went to the station at 15.00. After waiting for about an hour and a half I was told that the train was again delayed for repairs until 19.00.

A few minutes before the new scheduled departure time, the faded green and yellow cars of the Express inched into the station. Hundreds of passengers crowded on. Many were traders, mostly in the free-for-all seating of 2nd class, with their sacks of onions and rice and fabrics. First class seating has assigned seats, although admittedly with the same torn cushions and dirt as second class.

I had opted to splurge on my ticket, and had purchased couchette, which entitled me to one bed in a cabin of four. Each bed is comprised of a piece of hole-filled foam, about 7 cm thick, and an extremely diry cover sheet (everyone had brought their own linens). Ostensibly there is a restaurant car, but it was closed for this trip.

We had boarded the train by about 19.30, by which time the sun had set. There are no lights on the train until it starts moving, so we were in complete darkness, with only the malaria carrying mosquitoes and dozens of cockroaches for company (my compartment mate kindly pointed out all the creepy crawlies to me with her flashlight). As we were stationary, the heat continued to rise, the air was stifling, and I was a sweaty mess.

And we waited to depart.

And we waited….

And we waited….

At 23.30, after fours hours onboard the stifling dark train, and after several very pleasant conversations with the other incredibly tolerant passengers, I took a stroll along the platform to casually inquire (I say casually because there was no point in getting upset about anything; it was just as interesting to have a chat with someone) about what might be causing the delay. I was told by friendly officials (who first wanted to know where my husband was) that the train would leave once all the traders’ bags were loaded onto the train, and was assured this would happen before midnight. Inside the main terminal building, there were literally hundreds of sacks left to load, and a handful of men standing around them not doing much of anything.

And that, dear readers, was the end of my experience on the Dakar-Bamako Express. For in fact, I am a quitter.

I headed straight to the nearest telecentre and called Arona and Miriama and said that I wanted to take the plane to Bamako since the departure was not in sight.

I returned to the train to pack up my things and bid farewell to my brief travel companions. As I endured a walk of shame along the full length of the train, my hands full of water and food for the journey (which I gave away to the other passengers), many people who had set up rugs outside on the ground to lie and wait called to me: “Madame, are you leaving the train? Why?” I felt lazy and guilty as I had to explain that I didn’t have much time in Mali and the train probably wouldn’t arrive until very late Friday at the earliest (this was Tuesday). What a spoiled rich Westerner.

But once I got back to the flat, I felt much happier with my decision. I’ve taken long train journeys before, and I’ve met lots of local people on this trip so far, so I wasn’t missing my only chance to do such things. And, quite frankly, although I am taking this trip to some extent to be independent and adventurous, this just wasn’t any fun.

So first the eggs (see my first blog entry), and now the Express train - but I’m happy with the decision.

I took the Air Sénégal flight to Bamako yesterday. (The friendly people at the station even fully refunded my train fare!)

Wolof and French are the main languages of Senegal. The Wolof word for “yes” is Waaw, pronounced Wow.

It’s my last day in this friendly country, and I think waaw, in both senses, sums it up well. The scenery is fascinating (baobab trees, huge termite mounds, and sandy beaches), and the people incredible. For much of that I must thanks my hosts, Arona and Miriama, who have ensured that I was helped every step of the way on my visit. But everyone I have met so far has been welcoming and generous. I hope you all get a chance to visit one day!

My Senegal Top 10 (in no particular order):

1. Getting met not only at the airport, but immediately at the bottom of the aircraft steps - the best possible introduction to Africa.

2. The impressive use of contacts to help people out. I thought this was unique, but then I also remembered how helpful my contacts and friends-of-friends were when arranging this trip.

3.  The failed attempt at the Dakar-Bamako train - I’m glad about my decision and impressed by all the others who stuck it out uncomplaining.

4.  My sojourn into the Gambia under the watchful eye of Mme. Samb.

5.  Arona and Miriama’s generosity and hospitality. Fascinating company in great surroundings and great food.

6.  Breaking the fast outside in the courtyard in Geoul.

7.  The sheer intensity of my first big Africa city experience: the smells, the sweat, the smiles.

8.  The tranquility, despite the heat, of the Ile de Goree.

9.  My first transport experience and the various related tests of my patience.

10. How impressed people were at my few minimal attempts at Wolof.