It was only this morning, or nearly at noon to be precise, that we finally got an opportunity to have a good look at Korioume. Just as I had already mentioned on our way up north, the place is just over ten kilometres away from Tombouctou and even less than that from the Tombouctou airport. So we didn’t have time yet to get uncomfortable in the car when we arrived by way of paved road in this settlement and joined a long queue of vehicles, mostly western-owned or western-hired four-by-fours, waiting to cross the Niger on their return from Essakane. There was no telling how long it would take us to make it to the other side of the river. It clearly depended on so many things. Among them the number and efficiency of ferries operating the crossing.
But one thing was clear. It was a long queue, it grew by the minute and vehicles ahead of us easily numbered in tens, perhaps even pushing one hundred or thereabout. However long it was going to take us to accomplish the crossing, and hopefully it wouldn’t stretch into hours like on our way here, we knew it wouldn’t be just a matter of minutes. We had some waiting on our hands, in any case.
So we got out of our „Toyota“ to keep our legs stretched for as long as the opportunity permitted it, as by now everyone knew we wouldn’t have that luxury so often later in the day. And the moment I was out, three local kids came up to me and started pleading with me to give them some food.
„Monsieur, manger,“ was what they were saying. Or at least that’s what it sounded to me. But that’s most certainly what they meant. For even if I misunderstood them, their gestures of hands going to their mouths left little room for mistakes. I had some food on me as I knew we would be in for a long ride through the desert. Each one of us in the car had something to chew on when hunger would kick in. However, one of the things I also had were two pieces of already hardened French bread which for some reason I hadn’t eaten. And by the looks of it, the chances for me to eat it grew ever smaller. Besides, those two pieces were somewhat tainted by occasional dark red, beetroot stains. Nothing to render them inedible, but not exactly the prime-quality food, either. But you don’t throw food away – that’s at least what I’ve been taught all of my life – and I’d been loath to throw those two pieces of bread just like that. Yet. And so when the kids approached me, I gave them that bread.
With those beetroot spots on it, it even gave those hungry children a pause. So they first looked at me, and then at the bread. I nodded and said:
„It’s good.“
It was all it took them to voraciously start wolfing it down. It was a sad, almost heart-wrenching scene. And I didn’t feel good about it at all, for I knew that what I had just given them was basically something that was on its way to soon become just a waste for me. In other words, no sacrifice under any stretch of imagination. I just disposed of the waste in this manner, nothing more.
During the day Korioume was pretty lively and interesting. Nothing in the way of being oversized, it was nevertheless a settlement which – at least at first impression – offered quite a bit in terms of diversion for waiting travellers. There was basically just this one road, which as already mentioned, happened to be paved. On either side of it there were vast swampy expanses and only at its end, when it practically reached the Niger river, there was a branch or two in the shape of a dirt road. This particular, branching spot was considerably wider and it was, I would say, probably the main Korioume square, if you were generously inclined to call that widening a square in the first place.
Anyway, whatever you called it, a tiny market was there and that was were locals sold usual stuff like food prepared on the spot, fruit, vegetables and even things like clothes and fabric, but I suspect that those latter ones were meant more for local customers. You could buy cold drinks, too, and that was what the whole setting was generally offering for our diversion.
So, waiting for our turn to cross the Niger, I roamed around, taking pictures and checking the place at ease. As everything was so close, you couldn’t avoid bumping into your fellow passengers every few minutes. Marianne and her little son were checking fruits on offer, and Katrin and Lea were buying fried fish.
And then, at one point, Barbara came excited to me and said:
„I saw the princess!“
„Where?“
„In the queue.“
So we walked a bit back along the still ever growing queue of vehicles until she pointed at a dark-red, sturdy „Toyota“, in an infinitely better repair than ours, which had Mauritanian licence plates. Car windows were rolled down and in the right-hand back seat there was a relatively young woman, sporting dark sun-glasses, leaning her head against the window frame, in an obvious attempt to doze off. Whether her attempt was successful or not, it was impossible to tell.
„That’s her,“ Barbara showed in her direction, trying to be as discreet as possible.
„You’re sure?“
Of course, for all I knew, this woman could be anyone. One of princesses of Monaco, indeed, or just a tourist as me. As far as I was concerned, odds were the same either way. But Barbara seemed certain.
„Yes, I saw her picture in a magazine.“
And then added, almost by way of an apology:
„My grandmother buys those magazines, not me.“
Well, whoever was really buying them, I took her word for it. Whichever way you turned it, she couldn’t possibly be less informed about it than me. So I took a few pictures of the sleeping lady. If ever an opportunity would present itself that I saw her in a magazine myself, I’d have a reference to go back to. And check if this was really the one who she was cracked up to be.
Once the princess was safely in my photo-archives, I could go back to roaming Korioume again. It too had a few back-passages of its own where tourists just a block or two away didn’t venture. There were women washing laundry in the river, right by a small fleet of pirogues moored until some time later, probably after tourists left, they might be put to some use. There were kids in ragged, dirty clothes, playing their games under the eyes of their mothers. There were domestic animals as about everywhere else in Mali.
When I got tired of that, I returned to the spot where most of the tourists lingered and where the vehicles were embarking on the ferries. Another kid came up to me and simply said:
„Cadeau.“
„Cadeau“ being a present, of course. Or in the best spirit of practical translation, money.
I ignored him at first. But he wouldn’t be shaken loose by merely being ignored. So he kept repeating „cadeau“ until I finally reacted and asked, having learned from that Frenchman on my way to Djenné:
„Pourquoi?“
For a moment he was confused. But just for a moment. And then, coolly, he said:
„De rien.“
Somewhere from the dark corners of my mind, a flash of recollection from my grammar school French classes told me that „de rien“ meant „for nothing“. So I gave him that by now well-rehearsed line that if he wanted something, he had to give something back in return. Now, that part finally convinced him that today he wasn’t going to get anything from me. So he left.
And then there was some bustle, high-pitched voices, arguments and a soldier taking matters in his hands, whatever was going on. I drew nearer and then realised what it was. It was our Guele, jumping the queue with our car again. Or trying to, in any case. He would have probably done it if somebody hadn’t objected strongly. A short but loud argument ensued, in that colourful and fiery African manner, and a fiercely-looking, armed soldier jumped in to mediate. Somewhat humiliated, Guele had to retreat. And the other guy went on to embark on the ferry.
I sat down on a stone right by the Niger river. This rather dirty fishing settlement of Korioume was probably now more thriving on tourists passing by as they were embarking on ferries than on the fishing itself. I don’t know how brisk business was here today, but whatever they made, in African terms it had to be considerable. The stream of tourists leaving Tombouctou seemed infinite.
As I was waiting for our turn to cross the Niger and finally go on to Mopti, Princes Caroline of Monaco, or at least the woman Barbara had identified for me as such, embarked the ferry and left. We would’ve been on the same ferry if that soldier hadn’t found Guele out jumping the queue a bit too cheekily.
I had to hand it to her – if that was her, because I might never know what she really looks like – that her vehicle didn’t stand out in any way and she blended in perfectly. She’d been keeping a low profile and there were no visible bodyguards around her. If that was her, I repeat. But for the sake of a good story, let’s say it was.
Next ferry was ours. We jumped the queue considerably again. Guele wouldn’t be deterred and eventually we embarked much sooner than otherwise we should have. He said he’d paid „a lot of money to do the business“ and get us up ahead. So just over two hours after we’d arrived in Korioume, we were on the other side of the river, having left a seemingly endless line of vehicles behind us, as well as all those stories – founded or unfounded - of a terrorist attack on the Essakane festival.
