Category: Mali

We made it–to Timbuktu. In a sense it was inevitable–Timbuktu is the sort of place that most travelers aspire to have on their travel resume; even if there were nothing to see, tourists would flock here for the sheer cachet of its name alone. Timbuktu is a byword for distant, for remote, for that place to which, if you have been, perhaps you have been everywhere else as well. As a souvenir t-shirt on sale here puts it, “I’ve been to Timbuktu and back”–no other destination sounds like such an achievement. It is one of those places, like Zanzibar or Samarkand, that everyone has heard of, even if they’re not sure whether it really exists and don’t know its location. Well, the legendary city of the Mali empire, the city of Mansa Musa, the city so long closed to Western explorers, does exist, even if it has seen better days, deep in the Malian Sahel, a few miles from the Niger River.

But there are a couple of ugly truths about Timbuktu. The first is that, in some respects, it’s not so remote at all. Few places in this day and age are all that remote, and this is true even for Timbuktu, as infamous as it is for its remoteness. Timbuktu has an airport with regular flights to the city of Mopti, the second biggest city in Mali, and, believe it or not, Mopti has direct flights to Paris (not to mention connecting fights through Mali’s capital Bamako to various other destinations). I don’t know the actual schedules, or how good the connections are, but possibly you can fly in from Paris in the morning, change planes once, and be in Timbuktu by the afternoon. If you’re willing to fly, Timbuktu is just hours away, however unadventurous that may be. (Flying to Timbuktu, in my opinion, largely defeats the purpose of going.)

For that matter, we didn’t even have to get on a plane to arrive at Timbuktu in an unusually (for Africa) carefree and comfortable manner–we took a cruise. Well, perhaps cruise slightly overstates the situation, but COMANAV, Mali’s state boat company, operates a weekly boat service up and down the Niger, from Mali’s capital Bamako, through Mopti, Timbuktu and Gao, in the far east of the country, and back. The boat’s not a sure thing–it runs only when the river level is high enough and is sometimes subject to serious delays–but it offers a level of comfort that one doesn’t find too often in West African transport, let alone for a destination as exotic as Timbuktu. The fares are not cheap (about USD 100 from Mopti to Timbuktu, a 36 or so hour run, in a first class cabin for two with sink but shared bath), but the ride allows one to enjoy the traditional route to Timbuktu from the south–the Niger River–while maintaining a sense of journey and adventure and without having to shell out for a private pinasse (up to USD 1000) or suffering the conditions on a public pinasse (see post of 12.04).

There are many classes of service on the boat, but the most luxurious (which we did not take) includes your own spacious cabin with air conditioning, mini-fridge and bath, while a few of the classes include decent meals served in a basic but spacious dining room, complete with karaoke machine. A second class cabin, with four bunks.

And quite a journey the COMANAV is. Even if your immediate surroundings are almost luxurious, and out of keeping with general conditions in West Africa, I can think of few better ways to witness life on the Niger than from the comfortable deck of the COMANAV ship.

With ample deck space–the boat was surprisingly uncrowded, especially considering that fourth class tickets are actually quite affordable–you can peacefully survey the natural beauty of the Niger, as it expands into its inland delta and then contracts toward the top of its bend.

Villages passed en route provide glimpses of traditional Sudanese mud-brick architecture, with its elaborate ornamentations and textures. At some stops, there was enough time to take a short walk into town. Following the route on our map, we found ourselves chuckling as we described ports as “halfway to Timbuktu” or “three quarters of the way to Timbuktu.”

The voyage is especially notable for the amount of commerce that it facilitates. The first picture shows villagers selling prepared food to the passengers on board. While meals of decent local food were included in second class and above (the classes that most foreign tourists take), those in third and fourth classes either prepared their own food or bought food from ladies who rowed pirogues up to the boat with plates of (usually) dried or fried fish. We even saw a few live chickens change hands, but it was unclear whether passengers were actually slaughtering and cooking them onboard. The second picture shows a procession of women departing the ship with baskets of produce. The boat acts as a sort of moving market, and these women seemed to be riding not to go anywhere but to sell merchandise. At each stop, regardless of time of day (or night), the boat would play loud dance music, letting people know that the boat had arrived, and the ladies would set up a sort of market right in front of the boat, selling produce to the villagers. The third picture shows a sort of convenience store set up on the lower level of the boat. Apparently, in addition to certain fruits and vegetables, the villagers on the boat’s route lack pomades, matches, cigarettes, candy and toothpaste (some of these items may also have been for sale to the boat’s passengers). Villagers would board the ship, when in dock, to purchase items from these onboard stores.

When going to a destination such as Timbuktu, the journey should be at least half the fun, and our COMANAV trip did not disappoint. We arrived well-rested and well-entertained, having enjoyed the scenery, interactions on board and brief village stops, and even having gotten a little work done (as there was electricity on board).

What is the second ugly truth about Timbuktu? As the guidebooks warn you, there is actually very little here. The state of Timbuktu of today speaks more to its remote location and less to its past glory as the great city of a fabulously wealthy empire. Back in the 14th century, Mansa Musa, ruler of the Mali Empire, was so rich from the gold mines of West Africa that on the hajj, or pilgrimage to Mecca, his spendings depreciated gold prices in Cairo for over a decade. It was starting from those times that Timbuktu became, in the eyes of much of the rest of the world, a city of great exoticism and allure. Now? Yes, there are some ancient mosques, which have been lovingly restored and are fine examples of Sudanese mosque architecture, but the Great Mosque of Djenne [post to come] is far more impressive and, like the Djenne mosque, the mosques of Timbuktu are closed to non-Muslim tourists. Yes, there is something like an old city, but it is nothing compared to dozens of other old cities we have seen, and certainly far smaller and less interesting than, again, Djenne. How about the desert? Well, as any world atlas can tell you, Timbuktu is not located in the truth Sahara, but in the Sahel transition zone, a sandy area yes, but one with regular hardy vegetation and not too many of the high dunes of one’s childhood fantasies. Just as one would not go to Timbuktu for its architecture or a tangible sense of history, one would not go to Timbuktu solely for the desert scenery.

Foremost among the sights of Timbuktu are three ancient mosques (the Djingarey Berre mosque is pictured below), “explore
rs’ houses” said to be the buildings in which the first European explorers to Timbuktu stayed (that of Rene Caillie is pictured below)and libraries holding the medieval manuscripts for which Timbuktu is famous (the Ahmed Baba Institute is pictured below).

Typical Timbuktu street scene: more sewage than romance

So why go to Timbuktu at all? Is it even worthwhile? Well, our stay in Timbuktu was greatly enriched, perhaps even redeemed, by our choice of lodging: Sahara Passion (link). We saw the two proprietors, the unlikely husband-wife team of somewhat grizzly Touareg Shindouk and youthful Canadian Miranda Dodd, advertising their hotel at Timbuktu’s port when we arrived into town. They were embarrassed at trolling for customers at the port but due to recent and confusing changes in location, they needed the additional visibility despite being recommended in multiple guidebooks. The two drove us to their guesthouse-cum-family home, located on the northern outskirts of town. On the way there, we were afraid that the location might be inconvenient, as it was located a good kilometer or more from the “old city,” and at first sight we were concerned about the relatively spartan conditions (e.g., the city’s power grid does not reach their home, posing difficulties for travelers as electronically dependent as we (see post of 8.20), though they do have solar power for smaller items and can charge larger items in their town office on request). But if the charm of the two hosts and the insights they offered into life in Timbuktu weren’t enough, and they would have been (we were especially impressed by Shindouk’s wise and cosmopolitan worldview), we soon realized that their location was also a tremendous benefit, for it helped us to understand and appreciate what is special about Timbuktu.

Shindouk

The edge of town–to the north, the wilderness and the way to the Maghrib

As I mentioned in my post of 12.04, much of the strategic significance of Mali, the reason it played such an important role in medieval African history, is the bend in the Niger River, which facilitated communication between Arab/Berber North Africa and black sub-Saharan Africa. The swoop of the Niger northward to Timbuktu allowed for camel caravans to relatively easily cross the Sahara to a sub-Saharan port, with access to goods such as gold, ivory and slaves. Timbuktu is, in other words, the gateway between North Africa and sub-Saharan Africa. From Sahara Passion, this is demonstrated more clearly, more plainly, than I thought possible.

Just south of us is Timbuktu, largely an African city, not dissimilar from the mudbrick town of Old Djenne or others in Mali. The residents are mostly black and dressed in colorful clothes, their markets (and behavior) also colorful. The heart of the city is surprisingly dense, crowded in the way that African cities can be.

To the north? Still the Sahel, yes, but mainly sandy desert, a wilderness of emptiness. We were told that a day’s drive away there were some settlements, but even there encampments are said to be scattered a great distance apart, so that there is essentially nothing in the way of dense neighborhoods. And the residents? Almost all Touareg, a fiercely independent and historically nomadic North African Berber group, in skin color tan and not black at all.

Nomad-style encampments on the edge of town. These were mostly populated by people who were ethnically/racially black but culturally Touareg, presumably the former (some would say current) slaves of the Touareg.

Touareg camel caravan on its way out of town

Even if the history of Timbuktu is not palpable in the city’s remaining monuments, the significance of its location, the role it has played as a transition or pivot point between North Africa and sub-Saharan Africa, is still very much tangible, especially from the northern edge of town. Topography, ecology, mode of living, race–everything seems to shift from the few miles south to the few miles north of Timbuktu, and the city, just as it has often switched hands from black African powers (the Mali Empire and the current state of Mali) to North African ones (the Touareg and the Moroccans), is truly halfway between the worlds of sub-Saharan Africa and North Africa.

Two of the many shades of TImbuktu’s residents

There are many other interesting points of interest surrounding Timbuktu, which make it a place far more fascinating than it superficially appears. One of the most intriguing is the 40-day salt camel caravan, which brings mined salt from Taoudenni in the Sahara to Timbuktu to be sold in other parts of Mali and beyond. Another is the status of the former slaves of the Touareg, black Africans who have been culturally integrated into Touareg society, with some clinging on to a familial/employee role, if not still outright chattel. We were told that, to this day, the people working at the Saharan salt mines are black in skin color. Then there are the famous manuscripts, thousands of volumes bearing evidence of Timbuktu’s past history as a center of education and culture (however hard it seems now to believe). But my knowledge on these topics is limited, and many websites touch on them, and so I encourage you to use google to learn more.

We know we haven’t seen it all, but we’ve seen a lot, and so when we see something that qualitatively or quantitatively stands out compared to things we’ve seen before, we are all the more impressed and astonished. Such a place is the port of Mopti.

Mopti is a medium-sized city on the banks of the Bani and Niger rivers, halfway between Bamako, Mali’s capital, and the legendary city of Timbuktu. The Niger River is the lifeblood of Mali–as the country is located at the edge of the Sahara, largely in the transition zone known as the Sahel, the river is an essential source of water, food and transport in the country, a sustainer of life and commerce. The northward horseshoe turn of the Niger River in particular, known as the “bend” of the Niger, has acted for centuries as a conduit for communication and trade between “Arab” North Africa and the savannah and jungle of sub-Saharan “black” Africa, helping now Mali become a center of several empires. Timbuktu is at the northernmost part of this bend; Mopti can be seen as its westernmost point, the base from which trips to or from the north and east started or ended.

Link to map of Mali at the Perry-Castañeda Library
Map Collection

Mali’s river ports have the same significance today that they had in the past. Much of the population lives along the Bani and Niger Rivers, and given Mali’s relatively primitive road infrastructure, river travel is still competitive in time and cost, and the choice for many, making the Port of Mopti one of the busiest, most hectic centers of river transport we have ever seen. On market day, the level of frenetic activity is comparable to that of transportation centers in urban India and the lack of development and filth comparable to Indian cities or, what came to our mind, the watery slums of Jakarta–but what makes Mopti stand out is that, compared to similar hubbubs in India or scenes in Indonesia, the setting is more rustic and the conditions more primitive, making Mopti altogether more overwhelming, especially given the relatively small size of the city compared to those of urban Asia.

Walking around Mopti’s harbor, especially on market day, is an unforgettable experience. The harbor is shaped something like a square, open to the Bani River on one side with boat access by paved ramps all along the other three. The heart of the city lies on one of those three sides, and market districts on the other two. Starting from the city corner, it is an easy walk around the three sides of the square to the refuge of bar/restaurant Bar Bozo on the fourth corner, a ramble that can take anywhere from 20 minutes to a few hours, to take in the diversity and energy of the many activities of the harbor.

Primary and most important is the loading and unloading of cargo and passengers from the many pinasses that travel up- and downriver. As I mentioned above, given Mali’s relatively poor road infrastructure, river transport is an essential means of getting around, and getting goods around, the country. Given the high cost of fuel and the poverty of the country, unsurprisingly Malians try to maximize the utility of any transport run. We had become accustomed to the fact that minivans and buses in Mali generally do not run until absolutely full, and that any vacant space is used for passengers or cargo. For example, on one minivan ride, our driver insisted on stopping for every single opportunity to carry extra freight, whether it was a sheep or a bunch of wood waiting at the side of the road, and squeezing passengers into every available space, with some sharing the floor with an adorable tiny lamb. We were still incredulous, however, at the extent to which the pinasses of Mopti are loaded, well beyond any reasonable capacity.

When a boat can no longer be filled at shore, because the weight of the load makes it sink into the mud in the shallow of the harbor, it is floated to the middle of the harbor, and loaded further.

Two thoughts immediately come to mind. The first is safety. An overloaded car or bus may be uncomfortable, yes, but at least there isn’t the danger of sinking. With the boats crammed so full that they float just inches above the water, and with cargo and passengers sitting on top of their roofs, it is all too easy to picture the boats tipping over, with the passengers left to swim to shore or drown (it goes without saying that there are no lifejackets on board).

The second is the overwhelming discomfort of a long pinasse journey. A typical pinasse ride from Mopti can take anywhere from 6 to 36 hours–destinations and fares are often painted on the boat–and it is hard to imagine the physical discomfort of such a journey, given that each passenger has barely enough room to sit, let alone sleep. The trips grow even longer if the ships, overloaded, run aground in shallows, in which case the ship has to be unloaded, freed to deeper waters, and then reloaded, a process that can means additional hours of delay. Hardier backpackers than we opt to take such public pinasses from Mopti to Timbuktu–we opted for the big COMANAV ship, with our own private cabin.

Smaller pirogues for intracity journeys. Some of these are clearly lived-in, like the floating homes of Vietnam or southern China.

There are many more activities, however, than just the loading and unloading of ships. On one side of the harbor, salt is sold. Now, this is not just any salt, but salt from the Sahara, brought by camel caravans some fifteen or so days from Taoudenni to Timbuktu, and then by river to Mopti, to be cut and sold to Fulani herders. The salt trade is an ancient one, and one of the principal commodities North Africans offered in exchange for gold and slaves. It is simply amazing that this trade still lives on, that this is still the most economical means of obtaining salt in Mali.

On another side of the harbor, fish is dried and sold. Entire clans, it seems, from elder to juvenile, are involved in the preparation and sale of river fish, dried or smoked to an unappetizing black. Fish is an essential source of calories and protein for Malians.

While walking along, it can be difficult to take pictures because at any given moment, in any given frame, the camera is likely to catch a man, woman or child squatting (urinating or defecating) at the water’s edge. The amount of garbage and general filth is depressing, and it is heartbreaking to see those responsible for the port’s upkeep.

Finally, starting just above the water’s edge and stretching several blocks inland, there are markets, with a wide range of goods being sold, urban goods for those boarding ships and products from the countryside unloaded off ships and sold to the residents of the city.

The pinasse pictured here seemed to be traveling back with a tremendous stack of empty containers, which presumably brought goods for sale at the market.

Tourism is a big industry in Mali, and many try to make a living through dealings with tourists. One of our walks around the harbor w
as nearly ruined by a young man who we think must have been on drugs, and rattled on incessantly about absolutely nothing (including about how black Africans are now free, and get paid to have sex with white women), eventually becoming quite belligerent when we asked to be left alone. (A while later, he came back to apologize.) Other times, men would come up to us announcing themselves as “captain pinasse,” saying that they have a “big pinasse” and asking if we wanted to ride–no pun intended, but nonetheless inducing much giggling on our part. Derek’s favorite was the boat tout who approached saying, “I have a big pinasse with two tourists on it, but I need two more.”

At the end of the walk, at the corner most distant from town, lies Bar Bozo, a neo-colonial perch of foreigners seated to watch the sunset and the endless show of the port, located next to a workshop for the repair of pinasses and pirogues. As the sun sets, one can see not only the activity of the harbor but the relative calm of the river just beyond, with fishermen bringing in their nets.

We’re not that big on holidays. Maybe it’s because I grew up in an immigrant household, in the awkward place of not really being able to fully appreciate the holidays of our origin, for lack of public acknowledgement and others with whom to celebrate, nor those of our new home, which were foreign and unfamiliar to us (I think every immigrant family must have a story involving its first Halloween). Or maybe it’s because from college to law school to clerkship to working abroad, we’ve moved around so much, and often been far from our family and friends with whom we would wish to commemorate a special day. Whatever the cause, routinely we see holidays come and go, marked only by an office function, perhaps, or a day off and an excuse to get out of town. Thanksgiving for us for a few years meant a time to go up to Canada for the weekend, where things would be open. This year, the time of Thanksgiving dinner passes on a bus, bound from the Malian border with Senegal to Mali’s capital, Bamako.

Thanksgiving on the road

Our Thanksgiving lunch (no Thanksgiving dinner)

For what am I thankful? However contemptible I feel for feeling it, and however nonsensical it is, while traveling in Sub-saharan Africa, it’s easy to feel a sense of relief for not having been born here. The conditions on this continent can be so challenging, that to my spoiled first world eyes, they seem almost impossible to endure. To live in 40 degree Celsius weather with no accessible place air-conditioned, to be constantly pestered by flies and mosquitoes that in addition to causing the usual itchiness carry disease, to have to keep myself and my clothes clean without water much less hot water on demand, to have to work so hard for so little and be appreciative for having any job at all… Of course, had I been born here, or were I really forced to live it, I am sure that I would adapt and make do. But I was not, and I am not.

Backpacking is, from the most cynical perspective, a voyeuristic “slumming it.” Backpackers travel to countries that are, generally, cheaper and poorer than the places we come from. In doing so, we sleep in airports and train stations, in hotel-cum-brothels, in dorms with shared bath; ride in minibuses, share-taxis and boats crammed full with freight and humanity; grow disheveled, with scruffy faces, patched and dirty clothes and grungy backpacks; exert ourselves, carrying our loads on our backs, taking 24-hour bus rides and hiking hours between villages. Why do we do this? Why not just travel in the developed world? In part it’s cost, but it’s also because we want to see the less developed world, in part because it is less developed, to see things that no longer exist (never existed?) back home. The contrast between places such as Africa or India and the world we come from, whether New York or Hong Kong or Paris, is so great that it is almost unbelievable that such disparate places exist at the same time in the same world.

So I am thankful for the incredible privilege of seeing it all. For the ability to travel from Venice to Dakar in 24 hours, at an expense that is manageable for me. For having a job back home that allows me sufficient money, and time, to do what I am doing. At no point in the history of the world has travel been so easy, so accessible, to so many (though of course still only a tiny sliver of the world population). With the advent of discount airlines, the proliferation of guidebooks, the rise of English as an international lingua franca and the ubiquity of the internet and ATM machines, with a bit of money and time almost no destination is beyond reach. And despite the homogenization and globalization of the last fifty years, fascinating differences, truly exotic (to us) locales, still exist. To experience more than it seems one person has a right to experience, for that I am thankful today.