After a colourful ten-man squeeze in what is basically a six-person car on my way to Djenné, I had it comparably more luxurious in an equally – or worse – beat up and dilapidated vehicle on my way back to Mopti, owing to the fact that I shared the ride with two ladies whose guide and travelling agent had paid for six places so that they wouldn’t need to go through the ten-man ritual. Very soon into the ride back, the guide, the only man in the car apart from the driver and me, addressed me in French.
„Sorry,“ I said. „I don’t speak French. Only English.“
And then I added, not quite knowing why:
„And German.“
That turned out to be the clincher, which determined the course of my remaining days in Mali. Right on the spot, one of the ladies we’d been waiting for back in Djenné turned in her seat back towards me and asked me, as if to make a check:
„Sie sprechen deutsch?“
„Ja,“ I said. „Das kann man schon sagen, glaub’ ich.“
The two ladies were from Switzerland and we promptly engaged ourselves in a very friendly conversation, which is an easy thing with fellow travellers half the world away from home. Meeting people like that and making friends along the way is most certainly one of the great upsides such travels entail.
Soon, we reached the ferry crossing spot on the Bani river, the same one I’d been at early in the morning. This time, though, the queue seemed somewhat shorter and conspicuously almost devoid of locals. Even the number of people who were selling stuff seemed to have dwindled considerably, compared to earlier in the morning. On the other hand, western tourists were much more numerous and most of them, same as me, were heading back to Mopti. But unlike me, most of them had shiny, air-conditioned four-by-fours as their means of transport, or at least comfortable and spacious vans, specially hired for organised tour groups. Those from such vehicles didn’t quite rush out into the baking hot Malian afternoon when we all stopped to form a queue. Majority of them opted to wait in their cars, cooling off and quite contented to watch the spectacle from the inside. Only the likes of me, who took inexplicable pleasure in riding local transport, welcomed every opportunity to stretch the legs outside, for no scorching sun, for all its lack of mercy, was a match to cramped conditions in shared taxis.
So I went out, roamed around and took my pictures.
For some reason, same as earlier in the day on our way to Djenné, ferries didn’t quite get all the way to the dry land. Flat-bottomed as they may be, I guess they just couldn’t get any closer. They would stop a few metres off, lower their bridge, or ramp if you will, and there was this stretch of shallow water to cross before you got to it and eventually were aboard.
It all went rather smoothly nevertheless for a while. Until a van full of German tourists took its turn to go aboard the ferry. It slid off the dry sand into the shallow water, in the tracks of some vehicles preceding it, and in the beginning nothing looked suspicious. Until it slowed down first, and then for some reason stopped to a standstill. The engine was running quite fine, but the harder the driver tried to get a move on, the more its right rear wheel dug into the wet sand, simply spinning in place. Suddenly, the van got everyone’s attention.
Stubborn driver had a go at moving it along a few more times, but the more he tried, the deeper the van got stuck in the mud. But the worst of all was that it started ominously to keel over. All at once, all those Germans inside the van were in flap and genuinely scared. As on a cue, they started jumping out of it and, miraculously, nobody from inside minded either the scorching sun or the water they had to step in any more. They all just wanted out. Locals, kids and adults, rushed to the scene and started pushing the van back. Quite unexpectedly, I was witnessing an adventure. And to make it all more interesting and pleasing to the eye, it wasn’t even mine.
Eventually, all Germans got out safely, even if a bit wet on their feet. Quite a few were visibly in a huff, but I suppose some things in Africa should be treated otherwise than if they had happened in Europe. Those minor inconveniences – and this was just a minor one, indeed, as soon as the van didn’t keel over and nobody got hurt – only serve to eventually spice up the stories you come back home with.
Once the Germans were all out and on the high ground, the driver tried to move the van again now that it was empty, reasoning correctly that it held less weight, and should consequently clear this mud easier. But it had simply already sunk too deep. It just wouldn’t work. Locals tried to push it back upright. Some attempted to slide small planks beneath the wheels. Nothing helped. For a moment, Germans – if not frightened any more – were genuinely worried as to when and how they’d be able to continue on from there.
But things weren’t all that bad. Somebody came up with an idea to hitch the van with a rope to one of the four-by-fours still back up on the dry land, and to try to tow it out of the water. Then the van would give it another spin. Only, empty this time. They did it like that and after some effort and initial unwillingness on the part of the van to leave the cool and refreshing water, it eventually gave in and with the friendly help of some local pushing hands, they successfully pulled it out.
Now everyone was curious as to how the van would fare next. But the driver was a smart guy. He swerved a bit, just enough to avoid the ditch it had dug out in the wet mud, and this time made it safely across the stretch of shallow water and onto the ferry. With a hearty round of applause from all the Germans involved.
After this thing, there were no incidents of any sort any more. However, it imbibed us all with a sense of caution and a surprising number of passengers opted to cross the water on foot, even if it meant soiling the shoes, rather than risk another rescue operation like this.
Once on the other side, the whole thing soon faded out of picture and we all turned to other matters. Swiss ladies and I continued our friendly chat and at one point one of them, Kathrin by name, asked me about my next plans on the trip. I said I was trying to fix my transport on to Timbuktu, and the Essakane festival. Then she suggested this same guy who was their guide, saying they’d done everything through him and were also heading up to Timbuktu. Like almost everyone seemed to be doing now. Without much hesitation, on an impulse, I accepted and said I’d come along when we reach Mopti to arrange those next five days.
Now, I reckoned I needed to trust someone, even in the sea of scammers and cheats. So if that guy was good for those two Swiss ladies, I saw no reason why he wouldn’t be all right for me.
And that’s how it was. Along the way back to Mopti, we all got quite friendly and when we arrived, I immediately signed up to the group. The guide, Guele as they called him, promised to take care of everything, transport to and back from Timbuktu and Essakane, accommodation for all the days, food and festival tickets. I asked for a special arrangement whereby I wouldn’t go to Essakane right away, but would rather stay on in Timbuktu for one more day, and only come later, so I could see the town since I would hardly be back any time soon again. That too was no problem. So we signed the contract, I gave him 100000 CFA francs for part of the transport and accommodation costs, and 140 € for the festival ticket.
„It’s very difficult to find a hotel room in Tombouctou now,“ Guele said to me.
„But you can do it for me?“
„Yes, I can,“ he assured me.
He told me we would leave the day after tomorrow early in the morning, at five. But in case I needed him before that, for anything, I could be free to ask for his service. I told him I might want to go for a pirogue ride on the Niger river tomorrow.
„When?“
„In the afternoon.“
No problem, he said. He’d arrange it. What time? Three o’clock.
It was already dark when I clinched the whole deal. I wished a good night to the Swiss ladies and left, finally knowing what the rest of my trip in Mali would look like.
I walked up the Boulevard de l’Indépendance along the Bani river to my hotel, right in time to see the sunset. The strip of land along the river was as busy and crowded as ever. And I was tempted to linger around for a while. But then I thought better of it. I was tired. The day had already been long for me. Besides, I’d have an entire day in Mopti tomorrow. I figured that some rest would do me no harm.
Back in the hotel, I made my enquiries about breakfast next morning with an intention to retire to my room straight off. However, the guy who offered me the information about the breakfast turned to be so nice and friendly, and so eager to talk, that we ended up chatting for more than an hour. His English was on the level of my French, but if two people are bent on becoming friends, then no language barriers can stop them. So I eventually learned that the chap’s name was Sory Ibrahima Konaké, he worked as a teacher in one of provincial villages and now, off the school season, sought to make some extra dosh by pitching in in the hotel. While on this job, he slept, ate and worked here. No sightseeing or something. That never really came to his mind.
When I finally locked the door to my room behind me, my day was still not quite over yet. I had to do some laundry of my own. Indeed, not in the river as locals did, but rather in the bathtub. Though, laundry nonetheless. For this had easily been my dirtiest trip so far. Never before in my life did I get so dirty so fast. So this evening I washed my jeans for the second time. And on top of that, Annette had done it once already. Of course, I washed my T-shirt, too. But this evening even my knapsack came to its turn.
However, this was Sahel. With every step of the way I was getting closer to Sahara. And what else is Sahara but sand and dust. And then some more of it.
Come to think of it that I still had two more weeks to go before I would fly back home, there was probably more washing to come. Particularly after Timbuktu and Essakane. Or Tombouctou, as locals call it. But if that was the price to pay, so be it.
