The end of the road

february 9, 10. timbuktu.

At the end of the long, bumpy road is the magnificent Niger river. The track stops. A shack sells cigarettes, coke, peanuts and can rustle up fish and rice while you wait. We sit down in the shade of the Landy and wait for the ferry across the Niger. A gaggle of children join us, seemingly fascinated by Marie-Jo’s South African bracelet and my right knee. It’s a strange mix, why anybody should be interested in MJ’s lovely, golden, multi-layered beaded bracelet is beyond us. But after a while, it becomes tiring having the kids touching us and worshipping my knee. I draw a line in the sand around us - a penalty box - and banish the kids from entering. It works!

The two ferries that cross the river arrive at the same time. An embarrassment of choice. The waiting 4x4s and lorries jostle for position. We reverse down the bank and up the ramp onto one of the ferries, then watch with trepidation as a very old looking rust bucket of a lorry wobbles up the ramp towards the Landy. Will it stop in time or will it push us off the other end of the ferry and into the river? The tension mounts as it shudders to a halt just in front of the bull bar. Oof. It’s a lovely ride up the Niger for the next hour, puttering slowly by the villages on the edge of the dunes by the side of the river. The fishermen in their pirogues and women washing clothes at the water’s edge. The ferry is large enough to carry two 4x4s and a lorry. The motor doesn’t work however, so a pinasse (a motorised pirogue) is lashed to the side of the ferry and we potter along powered by it’s 25hp motor.

Timbuktu is about 20 km north of the Niger. Why they didn’t build it at the river’s edge is anybody’s guess. Instead, they built the town on the edge of the dunes and built a canal from the river to the town to allow pirogues to reach Timbuktu. Tim is Tamacheq (the language of the Touareg) for well (as in hole in the ground with water in it). Bouctou the name of an old woman who owned a well at the edge of the Sahara where nomads stopped to take water. Hence Timbouctou or Timbuktu. As you might expect it’s a sandy sort of place. Nothing special and pretty quiet as there aren’t many cars and the sand acts as a sound muffler. We liked it, although as a tourist place it has a high ratio of guides to normal people. “Normal people” are those that go about their lives - go to school, go to work, clean the porch, sit around staring at tourists, that sort of thing. You are not special to them. Guides, however, are those who are immediately your friend, want to spend time with you, find you a hotel, show you the sites, have dinner with you, sit and chat with you, see you last thing at night and first thing in the morning. They’d tuck you up in bed if you let them... and there was money in it for them...

Baba the guide told us he was our friend and we were nice. He showed us the way to a hotel where we could camp in the courtyard and that had lots of shade. It was alot nicer than the hot shadeless side street that passed as a campsite at the entrance to Timbuktu. We were grateful. He also had an official guide badge and we were worried we were getting too much like the cynical sort of people who wrote the end of the previous paragraph. We hired him for a tour around the town the following morning. And also to take Marie-Jo on a sunset camel ride (really a dromedary).

Beforehand however, it was time to try another typical Malian dish for supper. The “To” - the millet-based-stomach-filling-pancake with fish-gunk-sauce - from Segou hadn’t put us off totally. Tonight was “Toukas” or “Toucassou”, a dish from Timbuktu. In the middle of the plate, a big round island of bready dumpling-like consistency. Surrounding this a tomato based sauce made with a secret but local mix of 12 spices (including cinnamon). The odd piece of meat and potato floundered against the side of the bread island. Like the “To”, it was extremely filling. Unlike the “To”, it really wasn’t too bad - being essentially a sort of stew and dumpling (albeit heavy on the dumpling and light on the stew). We retired to bed suitably replete.

As for the tour the next day, it was ultimately disappointing. We didn’t really learn that much more about the town than if we’d followed our own guide books and we didn’t notice until later that he’d forgotten to take us to the library that houses a fine collection of 13th and 14th century manuscripts. Hmm... Later that afternoon, Baba returned with a Touareg dressed in blue and a big white dromedary with prominent teeth and a bale of hay behind his hump. A wooden seat nestled between his hump and his neck. Marie-Jo was ready. Long trousers and her own cheich (turban), bought in Mopti and very fetching on her. The dromedary sat down and let MJ climb onto its back and rest her shoes on its neck. Photos and video footage taken, it was off into the dunes, led by Baba and theTouareg on foot and carrying her kilo of Touareg tea to give to the Touaregs she was going to have tea with. Unfortunately, we were told the tea I’d bought in Mopti wasn’t in fact the sort of tea that the Touareg actually prefer and hanker after, but it was tea. Hmm... so far to-day it’s Guides 2 Mark & Marie-Jo 0.

I retired back to the hotel for tea of my own with Cisse, the hotel manager and his friends and to watch the ACN final between Eygpt and the Ivory Coast. Lots of shouting and screaming later Eygpt had won and Marie-Jo was back from her trip into the desert. She walked into the courtyard like a true cowboy! “A cushion would have been nice!” she murmured after having spent the last our and a half bouncing around on the wooden saddle as the dromedary bobbed its way over the dunes. The view of Timbuktu from the desert was special she found. A town within the dunes, rising out of the sand. But her bum hurt. Boy, did her bum hurt. Rubbed raw!

Overlander info:

The ferry crossing cost us 5,000cfa on the way there (2 cars and a lorry) and 10,000 cfa on the way back (2 cars only) after we gave up waiting for anyone else to come along.

We stayed at the Auberge Sahara Passion for 5,000 cfa a night (tax included) for both of us after a bit of negotiation. GPS: N 16°46.905 W003°00.834

11 february. timbuktu to douentza

Back in Douentza, after the long drive south over the bad piste, we bumped into Mike and Julia. They were heading north towards Timbuktu themselves and had come up through the Dogon country. Our routes were crossing. We caught up on news that evening over chicken and chips and beer, a firm favourite but mostly a disappointment since Morocco due to the scrawny chickens (poulet-bicyclette) available. Tonight’s though were fine, covered in tasty Malian honey.

Overlander info:

We stayed at the Auberge Gouma in Douentza. 5,000 cfa for us both, with simple but clean showers and toilets. GPS: N 15°00.608 W002°56.875

12 february. douentza to bush camp near burkina Faso border

Douentza is the northern end of Dogon country, a countryside made up of a row of cliffs over some 50 miles and a flat plain below. Tens of villages cling to the cliff edge, some at the top of the cliffs but most nestling in a row along the base. Very picturesque, Dogon villages cling to traditional ways, with sacred and mysterious rituals passed from father to son. Sacred burial grounds cover the area. As do guides... It is pretty much impossible to visit the area without first taking a guide. There are very good reasons why this is so. Dogon country is at or very near the top of the list of key tourist destinations in Mali and many of the 200,000 or so tourists who come here each year make the trip up from Bamako to visit Djenne, Mopti and on to Dogon country. So they don’t trample willy nilly over sacred Dogon burial grounds in hired 4x4s and to explain Dogon culture and rituals guides are pretty much required. Trying to enter a Dogon village without a guide is a sure fire way of ensuring that your every minute is likely to be taken up with fighting off increasingly persistent offers of service from a swarm of guides.

We decide to pass.

A very nice and picturesque drive along the base of the cliffs and through the plain (and several Dogon villages) later, we bush camp a few miles north of the Burkina border ready to cross tomorrow.

We’ve really enjoyed Mali, from the challenging roads to the laid back chaos of Bamako with it’s lovely museum and busy market; the cracking music in Segou and the family we camped next to for a week; the friendliness of the people everywhere and Timbuktu (worth the trip). It is a poor, poor country swarming with NGOs and missionaries doing their thing. We found life expensive however, especially for branded items. 50p for a can of coke, the same for a litre of Diesel. £1 for 250ml of local honey. £2 for 4 toilet roll. 60p-80p for tinned tomatoes (and most tinned goods). Sure, these may not be items that most Malians buy day to day. Veg in the market was around 40p/kg for tomatoes, oranges, potatoes, bananas. Beef around 75p/kg and chicken upto £2.50/kg. To put this into context, we met people who (said they) earned £10 a week as a campsite guard or worse £10 a month as a waiter in a restaurant! The family we lived next to in Segou for a week - a family of 2 women and 12 kids - lived off the left over food from the restaurant. The “To” we were so dismissive of, that we could hardly eat half of, was their breakfast the next morning. It’s sometimes hard to place our trip and what we are doing within this context.

Ferry cross the Niger to Timbuktu

It all began with an old woman who had a well...

Our own little Touareg

A Dogon village