Dusty landscape grew ever dustier as we progressed on our way up north to Sahara and remained as stubbornly flat as a fritter. An interesting rocky escarpment popped up out of nowhere not long after we had left Douentza, but once we left it behind us, there was nothing else around us but the infinite gold-red flatland. The temperature both in an out of our car gradually and steadily rose, so I was back in only my T-shirt again. And everyone endured the ride with remarkable patience and good humour.
All in all, they were a friendly bunch. Katrin and Lea were no novices to Africa. They had already been in these parts, had had their taste of desert many years before, and obviously felt a pull strong enough to keep coming back. Lea was an office employee from Bern and Katrin a teacher in a school for handicapped children not far from the Swiss capital.
Peter was a much-travelled guy himself, who did most of his travelling in a capacity of a U.S. State Department employee, and his last station had been Iraq. West Africa was, exceptionally, his private trip. He spoke excellent French, which was less surprising once you knew he’d studied it in Paris.
Sandy was a free-lance professional photographer which wasn’t that difficult to guess as soon as you saw his two cameras with huge canon-like lenses dangling off his neck. Karen was a free-lance writer who was collecting bits and pieces with an eye on writing about West Africa. Writing what exactly, a book, an essay, I didn’t know. But they kind of gave it to understand, Sandy and Karen, that they were going to pool together his pictures and her letters and try to sell it as a package. Just by the way, they seemed to be in a relationship, as well.
The traffic through the desert was very sparse. Nothing like a flow of tourists and much sparser than an impression we’d had in Douentza. Cars we passed by were far and wide in between so you could easily be deceived into believing that you were the only one travelling through the desert right now. And soon after Douentza, the last traces of paved road had disappeared for good. Now we were going up the dirt road all the way.
And in such a setting, for about an hour under way, we heard a thud and our „Toyota“ swerved first left and then right. Everyone was alarmed and awakened from whatever reverie we’d been in. The driver pulled up. Everybody got out.
It was a flat tyre. Another one for me in Africa.
This time it was the left rear one. Nobody exhibited any overwhelming enthusiasm upon the news, but it looked as if such things were something you counted with on trips like this with a fair probability. Much as neither Guele nor his driver displayed any excessive joy, they were pretty much unfazed, as well. It seemed to be just a hitch they were well equipped to handle. And true enough, they just got out a spare tyre, which was another miracle, considering all other things we carried along, and set about the business of replacing the busted one.
Peter joined in. He must have had a track record of an odd tyre replaced in the past and you could immediately tell by what he was doing that he knew his way around this particular piece of business. Sandy on his part was busy taking pictures of entire undertaking. Guele soon left the spot and ceded the privilege of chief tyre-replacing assistant with all the perks and responsibilities to Peter.
As for the ladies and me, we did more or less the same. None of us pretended to have any idea how to be handy, so we decided that the best help we could offer was not being in the way. They kept by the roadside chatting and making friends with each other, and I roamed off from the road into the desert, treading what to me looked like pristine sand and trying to have my first real taste of Sahara.
Now that we were stopping by due to this inconvenience with the tyre, I realised the road to Tombouctou was not all that deserted after all. It was no traffic in the mould of, say, German motorways, but I could safely give a testimony, supported by some first-hand evidence, that there were far fewer vehicles on the main motorway in North Korea than here. It was not like you were running any risk of being run over by a car in Sahara. They tended to pass only occasionally. But pass they did and now that we were not moving for the time being, it didn’t feel like we were in the middle of nowhere.
The only thing I expected, and which didn’t happen, was that I thought somebody would stop, have a look-see at what had befallen us and offer help. If for no other reason, then for the sake of good form and outer display of solidarity. No one did, though. Whether this was a customary attitude in these parts, or we just didn’t come across as the most likable bunch around, I couldn’t tell. Either way, with our own resources and under our steam, after a while we fixed our old „Toyota“. Some of us having given a contribution in the form of mechanic’s skills and some pitching in with more like moral support, we were again on our way.
The rest of the trip passed without incidents. At least for us. But just as a proof that this stretch we were right now covering was a tricky thing for even newer vehicles than ours, we saw one or two crews repairing their four-by-fours by the roadside. Same as in our case, no one stopped to offer them any assistance. Ourselves included.
And then suddenly, after some five hours of jiggling and shaking inside our car, we saw water and trees. Nothing you could call a jungle, but trees nevertheless. And then, just a few minutes later we came up to the Niger river and immediately ended up in a queue consisting mostly of cars like ours. Except of a much younger age, that is. At three in the afternoon, we were at the ferry crossing point, in a village – or little town - of Korioume, perhaps less than twenty kilometres away from Tombouctou. Not a mean feat at all.
Korioume itself was, in fact, on the other side of the river, to be more precise. That’s where the real houses were and where the paved road would begin again. This side, though, was just a tongue of land – maybe even artificially filled in - pushing into the water, thus creating the most auspicious spot to embark or disembark from a ferry. And dwellings here were only huts, made of mud bricks and straw.
We were all very pleased. For several reasons. First, it was a relief to finally leave the ridiculously cramped inside of our „Toyota“. We realised with a trace of envy that most of other foreigners, in every single one of those new and glossy vehicles that formed the queue with us, had arrived here in much more humane conditions. Perhaps four people per vehicle at most and usually air-conditioned. Well, as we had decided to go local all the way, so here we were now.
Second, being at the crossing point at around three o’clock gave a promise of being early in Tombouctou. Earlier than we had thought, in any case. Maybe while it was not dark yet?
And finally, the whole spot was so lively and lousy with life that no matter how you might have felt up to the arrival here, this thing was bound to lift you up.
This was positively the first place in Africa during my trip where locals were comfortably outnumbered by us white tourists. There were villagers, kids and adults, who tried to make some dosh on us, same as usual. There were Malians, both Tuaregs and non-Tuaregs, who would be crossing the river. But they all combined were in a minority. It seemed as if entire present tourist population of Mali had descended on this very spot here.
Of course, just to make sure that the place doesn’t run out of diversions before its good time, there were numerous domestic animals around, as well. Donkeys, cattle, goats, chicken. In and out of the river. But it was all one huge and friendly crowd with everyone in the best of cheers.
However, things started dragging on ominously. Time went on by with seemingly little progress and it looked as if only one ferry operated the crossing. With such a long queue and so many cars coming on, that didn’t bode well at all. You could take only so many pictures on such a thin and short strip of land. You can have only so many chats. And then you exhaust all your resources of entertainment and find yourself down on your patience.
I chatted with Barbara for a while. She was by origin from Surinam, but was born and living in the Netherlands. And of course, a real Dutch citizen. She seemed to first have had a serious bust-up and then a break-up with her long-time partner who was at the same time the father of her two children. And he was a – Croat. She didn’t speak Croatian, though, except for just a few unprintable words which are chiefly used to underline your strong sentiments on whatever matter you need to show true passion. The words which most of people who learn languages outside of traditional language courses usually start with. Anyway, in the follow-up to that break-up, she had decided to prove herself she could live independently and the life hadn’t stopped for her. The way to do that, she figured, was to leave her kids to the care of her family for ten days or so and come all by herself to Mali. So here she was.
Among the crowd there I saw Johann, the Belgian from Mopti, as well. His car was a bit up ahead of us. We had a nice little chat, not writing off a possibility to meet in Essakane again.
Another person I’d seen before, and was again seeing now, was this American guy who had found ticket prices for the festival outrageous back in Djenné. The one who had complained „like they are shipping Michael Jackson or U2 in“. Anyway, whatever his thoughts on this subject now, whether this was a climb-down on his previous stand, or he had just decided to go along with it since he was already here, no matter what, I couldn’t know. Not that it mattered much, either. Simply, he was here.
And then suddenly, there was a commotion. Among the seven of us who had come together, at least. And a few more people. Peter came running to notify us:
„Our driver is jumping the queue!“
It seemed to be true. For some reason, I don’t know how or why, our old battered „Toyota“ suddenly found itself near the embarkation point. I was not sure how good an idea it was, realising that I wouldn’t be happy myself should someone jump like that ahead of me. And I was in no mood of picking up a punch just for being one of the passengers in it. But it was really only a few locals who grumbled. Considering the fact that everyone sought to leave this spot as soon as possible, and how slowly the queue moved ahead, it all passed remarkably peacefully.
And as a confirmation of all that, Guele himself appeared and said:
„Yes, we are getting aboard.“
Some three hours after we had joined the queue, and with the sun about to set, we finally found ourselves on the ferry. Much as it was at the expense of quite a few of others still out there on the land, it was a relief. Even if one thing was for sure. We wouldn’t reach Tombouctou by daylight.
Ferry was heavily loaded with cars. But also full of people. One of the most colourful characters turned out to be a Tuareg chief. He looked both formidable and intimidating, probably due to the fact that he had a real sword hanging off his hip. However, Peter entered a chat with him and the chief proved both communicative and friendly. He spoke no English, but Peter’s French was excellent. The guy was still a tribal chief and lived in the desert, but also had seven sons who regularly attended school. The oldest one had already graduated from a university and was now running his own travel agency. True to the legendary hospitality of desert people, he soon invited Peter to his village, saying that he would be „always welcome“ there.
Peter was touched.
The whole crossing took us some half an hour. At one point, forgetting they were in Muslim Mali and not in the U.S., Karen and Sandy started kissing each other. Nothing you would shoot as a defining scene in a romantic love story, but not a just peck on a cheek, either. Whereas any of us westerners hardly popped an eye, it didn’t go down all that well with the chief. Politely, but sternly he said something to Peter in French. Right away, Peter translated into English:
„He says you could be more polite.“
Sandy and Karen were clearly embarrassed. Same as them, none of us would have given it any thought and might have done the same if we had been them. But we all now realised, including themselves, that they had crossed the line on this one. This was Mali.
But the Tuareg chief remained as polite as before, for all his formidable sword. So he made no mention of it any more. And Sandy and Karen kept at respectful distance from then on.
During the crossing, one of the guys took out his rug, spread it on what little space he could find on the deck, and started his late afternoon prayer. Maybe to keep himself entertained now that he had been denied the right to kiss Karen, Sandy grabbed one of his photographic monsters and was about to take a picture of the guy in prayer.
But Peter checked him in his action sharply:
„Don’t take that!“
Sandy stopped right there in his tracks.
„Why?“
„Don’t take that!“ Peter repeated. „They won’t like it.“
Taking his word on this for granted, Sandy aimed his lens on the magnificent sunset instead. And as far as I was concerned, it was more than a fair trade-off.
When we reached the other bank and disembarked, it was six thirty.
And pitch dark.
