After a good breakfast which included Timbuktu bread we met Mohamed, now dressed in his guide’s clothes, as a Tuareg, and set out to explore the town.  He wore magnificent white robes and a white turban wrapped around his head and mouth leaving only his bright intelligent eyes sparkling out.  The effect would have been impressive if it wasn’t for his designer trainers. There were three mosques, all mud brick, two museums and three ‘explorers’ houses. 

It was interesting to note that Timbuktu was at its zenith when the gold and ivory was shipped through the town from Ghana and the south across the Sahara, north to the Middle East.  It was in 1324 that Masa Musa made his fabulous pilgrimage. The fabled wealth of the town springs from this period.  According to the history books the European “explorers” only reached the town less than two hundred years ago, in 1812 , by which time it was already well into its decline. Yet Portuguese ships explored the River Gambia and River Senegal and set up an Embassy in Timbuktu in 1565.  There were also Moroccan traders who regularly visited Timbuktu in the eighteenth century and travelled to Germany to buy cloth.  They must have known that Timbuktu was even then a down at heel trading town and not the golden city of European imagination.  Evidently the information never reached the right ears. 

Now the town is definitely threadbare and propped up only by tourism.  Still, there is 24hour electricity, water and an underground sewage system was being installed while we were there.  The town used to be all mud brick which were constantly repaired and replaced.  Now these are being replaced by sandstone blocks and modern engineering bricks. As the sand drifts in the town looks a bit dejected and dependent mostly on its mystique as a tourist destination.  We thought it was not as picturesque as Djénne. 

Mohamed led us through the narrow dusty streets to see the three mosques. The first was the Djingareiber Mosque.  It was the oldest and said to be the most interesting.  It was built in 1325 by an Andalucian architect and poet, El Saheli, on the orders of the famous Kankan Mousa who had just retuned from his pilgrimage to Mecca and his momentous visit to Cairo. Its high castellated mud brick walls had a conical tower in the centre and was frankly not nearly as impressive as the great mosque at Djénné.  Apparently it used to be open to the public but Mohamed said that due to disrespectful tourists, entry to all but the faithful was banned.  He didn’t seem to know the details but we wandered if it was a spin off from the desecration perpetrated by the French photographer in Djénné.
      
The other two mosques were built in the 15th Century.  The Sankoré Mosque was small and simple and according to Mohamed was built by a Berber woman.  This looked much more interesting with a magnificent 30 foot mud brick pyramid shaped tower, studded with toron, or sticks, regularly arranged on the surface.  During the 15th and 16th centuries the famous University of Sankoré was also based here.  At its height the university was an important centre of learning specialising in law and theology and attracting 25,000 students.

The Sidi Yéhia Mosque, perhaps the least attractive externally has magnificent wooden doors decorated with exquisitely cut metal plates.  We were so interested in the Moorish or Moroccan style of the doors and windows we had seen in Djénné and here in Timbuktu that Mohamed took us to one of the many carpentry shops which produce these.  Here we saw the famous doors being put together and chatted to the craftsmen who were justifiably proud of their work.  

After a fire in 1512 which destroyed much of Timbuktu the houses were rebuilt in traditional style producing two or three storey, flat roofed, mud brick buildings. As a tourist town there are innumerable plaques to the good and the great. These include the foreign explorers driven by the greed of their sponsors toward an evident myth of wealth.  Major Alexander Gordon Laing arrived in Timbuktu on 18 August 1826 and stayed in the city for about six weeks before joining another caravan heading north.  Two days after leaving the city he was killed by a spear through the heart delivered by Tuareg tribesmen. A Frenchman René Caillié spent nine months living with a Muslim tribe on the banks of the River Senegal in preparation for his trip. He learnt Arabic and studied the Koran so that he would be able to pass himself off as a Muslim. So he was able to to visit Djenné unmolested in March 1828 and arrived in Timbuktu in April.  After a month in Timbuktu he safely travelled north through Tuareg country to be the first European to reach the city and return safely home to tell the tale, apart from the Portuguese some 250 years earlier.  In 1853 Heinrich Barth, a German, employed by the British Government arrived in Timbuktu having travelled overland from Niger, disguised as a Tuareg.  He had previously led a five year expedition across the Sahara to Lake Chad.   

Near the Sankoré Moque, Mohamed took us into a Tuareg tent made from camel hide stretched over a hemispherical frame of wood.  Clearly this was actually a retail outlet aimed primarily at tourists, but it costs nothing to be polite and the goods on display were interesting. The two men inside, dressed dramatically as Tuareg desert wonderers, offered us green tea and showed us craft work they said they had made in desert encampments.  As we sat cross-legged on a carpet, we were offered a wide range of bracelets and necklaces which were said to be Tuareg silver, which is actually nickel.  Occasionally another man would join us to show us knives and ornaments and other crafts.  We had seen goods like these, some with much better workmanship, all across West Africa.  Most of these are produced in the workshops of the towns.  After a pleasant sip of tea and much praise for the articles on offer we thanked our hosts for their hospitality and efforts and explained that as we were carrying all of our belongings on our back we didn’t want to buy anything, tempting though the merchandise on display was.  With honour preserved all round we departed, refreshed and rested.

We left Timbuktu about mid day to drive back south.  At the ferry we were the only car.  So rather than wait, we paid the full 14000 CFA and crossed the river immediately.  We met, Kemo, a soldier who turned out to be in a signals unit in the Mali Army, and Halifa, a laboratory technician from Mopti hospital who was doing some work at the Timbuktu health centre, so we gave them both a lift across the desert to Mopti.  Whilst the romantic notions of desert life and far flung settlements are compelling it is equally interesting to meet the modern face of Africa and talk to men who are engaged in maintaining microwave communications installations or calibrating sensitive medical equipment in the Timbuktu health facilities. About halfway back to Douéntza we stopped at a rest point where there was a rustic shelter so that people could get out of the sun.  Incredibly they had a generator and a fridge full of cold drinks.  A man with a camel walked out of the shimmering desert heat and allowed us to take his photograph.  He couldn’t quite understand why we want to photograph an ordinary bloke travelling with goods for local shops, but he humoured us, without asking for anything in return. Halifa bought us all a soft drink, including our man with the camel. 

On the way back we stopped to photograph another donkey train taking grain up to Timbuktu to trade for salt.  As we were taking the photograph one of the donkey train drivers walked purposefully toward us.  I thought he might have take exception to me photographing the scene without asking.  Essa thought it was OK and I was glad to have Halifa and Kemo backing me up. It turned out he wasn’t feeling well and after describing his symptoms I gave him a course of penicillin and hoped that would help. 

Back in Douéntza, Kemo, the soldier, bought us all roast lamb and Halifa, the lab technician, bought another round soft drinks to thank us for the lifts.  We dropped Halifa off at a cross roads where he could get a bush taxi home.  Kemo wanted to go to his barracks which was on our way back to Mac’s in Sévaré. 

It was good to get back to Mac’s Refuge to meet the other travellers and have another marvellous meal. We met an American woman, Ann, who was travelling along the same route but in the opposite direction.  She had just come from Ghana and Burkina Faso and was planning to head for Dakar in Senegal. 

This article is part of a series describing our tour of West Africa
Previous Page:  Next page:  Photographs

Through Mac we hired a 4×4 which took us down to Djéné to see the famous 600 year old mud brick mosque. Essa, the driver was a quiet, reliable man with a pleasant demeanour.  Essa said that the whole town of Djénné, including the grand Mosque had been designated a UN World Heritage site in 1988.

Our guide, Baboucarr, was one of the guides recommended by Mac.  His working name was John Travolta.  He said the tourists liked a familiar name which they were comfortable with and which they could remember to pass on as a recommendation, if it was merited.  We picked him up at the ferry over the Bani river.  The great mosque, said to be the largest mud brick structure in the world, was an impressive sight with three large square towers, in the centre of the front façade, each reaching over 10m into the clear blue sky.  Each tower had an array of wooden poles, or toron, sticking out of the surface so that workmen could easily climb to repair and maintain the banco exterior after the rains each year.  Around the massive toron studded walls were pointed castellations giving the mosque the air of a fairy tale castle.  Standing on a three metre high plinth the Mosque dominated the central market square.  It was said that with the main worship hall being 50m by 26m and with 90 pillars supporting the wooden roof the mosque could accommodate a few thousand worshipers. 

According to Baboucarr an original mosque was build by King Koy Konboro in the thirteenth century, when he converted to Islam. Apparently in his religious zeal he demolished his palace and build what became known as the Konboro Mosque.  It survived for many centuries until Amadou Sékou, a Muslim Fundamentalist, shocked by the inhabitants’ revelry in the square in front of the Konboro Mosque, allowed it to fall into disrepair considering the building to be desecrated. Sékou then built a new mosque in 1834, but this was converted into a madarsa, a Koranic school.  The current Djénné Mosque, built in 1907 rose from the rubble of the 13th century Konboro Mosque on the same site.  

Unlike many of the world’s great mosques non Muslims were not permitted to enter the Djénné Mosque.  Baboucarr explained that a French fashion photographer had held a fashion shoot there a few years previously involving scantily clothed women.  This stupid and flagrant disregard for customs and religious sensibilities had led the Mosque Council to ban all but believers.  I can well imagine a similar outrage if the photographer had tried the same stunt in St Paul’s Cathedral or the Vatican.

The town itself was composed of many three storey mud brick and banco, flat roofed houses.  The streets were narrow to create shadow so that it was as cool as possible.  We went inside a few houses and these were also pleasantly cool.  One feature which intrigued us was the toilet tower.  These three storey high towers built onto the houses were accessed from the top. When full, indicated by a trickle of liquid from a vent near the top, a hole was broken in the bottom and the waste taken by cart to the fields to be used as manure. 

From the flat roof  of Baboucarr’s house there was a panorama of flat grey mud roofs dominated by the silhouette of the towers and castellations of the great mosque. He introduced us to his wife, and two baby daughters, as she was sitting on a mat on the earthen floor preparing a meal of cous and small fresh water fish. According to Baboucarr many of the householders felt that the traditional mud and banco houses were difficult to maintain and their design didn’t fit in well with modern living.  So there were some houses being refurbished using modern brick.  Anxious, however, to preserve the traditional look and feel of the town the city fathers had obtained grants to repair many of the houses using traditional methods.  So Djénné still has the air of a thriving centuries old town, worthy of being one of the top tourist attractions in Mali.  We certainly found Djénné as interesting as say Bruges, in Belgium, with a similar old world charm. 

At the end of a very interesting day we returned with Essa to Mac’s Refuge in Sévaré to another delicious evening meal chatting to our fellow guests around his big communal table.  Our discussions centred around Timbuktu and the best way to get there.  On the one hand we could spend three days on a tourist piroque from nearby Mopti, gliding down the River Niger, through the great inland delta.  Alternatively we could hitch a ride on a commercial trading piroque in Mopti and cover the distance in a less comfortable but probably more interesting trip.  The overland trip was another option. Using public transport bush vans the journey from Sévaré to Timbuktu would take two days.  We decided that, for us, the best option was to trace the ancient salt road from Mopti to Timbuctu with Essa in his truck.    

Steve, Joyce and Debbie had spent a quiet day at Mac’s and were beginning to restore their equilibrium.  A message from their son, Jeff, delivered by a messenger from the chief of the village he was living in indicated that Jeff would join them in about a week. 

Essa met us in the morning and we went to fuel up the truck.  Then we called into his compound where his wife brought out a basin wrapped in a cloth which contained his food for the trip. The first 200km was on a well surfaced road to Douéntza.  We stopped there to buy our favourite, roast lamb seasoned with Sahara rock salt and a box of 24 bottles of water which we would need later.  Then we headed out into the desert over a graded latterite road.  This took us past huge precipitous outcrops of red rock glowing in the morning light.  Soon the road disappeared and we drove over smooth desert pavement past small bare bushes and isolated pockets of scrub.  The route through the red sand was marked by boulders and the tracks of other vehicles. 

A donkey train of 100 donkeys each loaded with four slabs of Saharan rock salt walked past going in the other direction, from Timbuktu to Mopti. Four Tuareg herders loped along beside them with long effortless strides. Each slab was about a metre long, 40cm wide and about 3cm thick.  The rock salt was mined at Taoudenni, about 700 km north of Timbuktu and brought there probably by truck.  In the past camel trains of hundreds of camels took a month to cover the distance which now takes a few hours.  Essa told us that the Tuareg was saw traded grain and other crops for the salt and brought to Mopti.  

The 200km desert route took us through large areas of sand with some bushes, low scrub and some areas of sparse grass.  We passed the occasional man on a camel and several camels roaming free nibbling the few leaves on the bushes but never saw another vehicle for the whole of the journey to the Niger ferry.  Occasionally the tracks in the sand faded out, but Essa seemed quite confident that we were still heading in the right direction.
 
Eventually we reached the ferry crossing at the River Niger.  A spit of yellow sand extended out into the broad blue river. At the ferry crossing Margaret attracted a crowd of little girls who hugged her legs and no doubt hoped for presents. They were the children of families who sold food and refreshment to the travellers waiting to cross on the ferry. We waited two hours for the ferry to Karioumé on the far bank. As we waited other vehicles turned up, the drivers and passengers sitting patiently on the sand and chatting, in the shade of their vehicles. During that period we chatted to local farmers who managed to persuade three donkeys and two cows to climb into an open pirogue to be ferried across the river. 

The crossing on the ferry, a small but relatively modern, diesel powered craft cost 14,000 CFAs and that was split among the number of vehicles travelling.  As there were seven cars on the crossing we paid 2000CFA each. Gliding up the River Niger toward Karioumé we saw fully laden trading pirogues, with bright ornate designs painted on the bows, hull down in the water, and men standing on the arched canvas awnings. From the ferry it was a short drive on a well made road, past the airport to the town.  We stayed in the new Hotel Hendina Khan.  The manager was a very friendly affable man who chatted easily to us.  In the evening we strolled into the town and met Mohamed, a young man, with stylish sunglasses, who professed to be a student who worked as a guide to supplement his income.

The room was comfortable and well equipped but not very well finished for a new hotel.  The evening meal was basic but wholesome.  Each diner was equipped with a fly swat so we guessed flies must be a problem at some times of the year.   

This article is part of a series describing our tour of West Africa
Previous Page:  Next page:  Photographs

Our journey East continued with a late start, up at 07:00, to have a leisurely breakfast and walk to the bus station carrying our rucksacks to get the 09:00 bus.  The Somatra bus company however was not so good.  We asked the bus controller, whom we now dubbed, ‘the fat controller’ what was happening but his explanations were vague. He could not say which bus was going to Sévaré nor when it would leave.  So we settled down to wait. Buses departed and the crowds in the bus station gradually dwindled as the time passed.  Chatting to fellow passengers, those hoping to reach Sévaré eventually emerged and coalesced into an impromptu self help group. Snippets of information and intelligence were shared.

Eventually there was a stirring and news that we would be leaving at 10:30, and that proved to be right.  So we climbed aboard, already a cohesive group.  After about three hours travel on good roads there was distinct thud which attracted everyone’s attention and heralded a rear tyre blowout.  Everyone got out of the bus to inspect the damage.  No problem I thought, change the tyre and off we go again. When it was realised that the jack carried by the bus was broken, the women and children drifted off to a nearby village to sit under a tree and settle down for a long wait.  It’s at times like these that you are pleased that you packed the extra two litres of water, you never know then they will come in handy. Some of the men stayed with the bus and tried to flag down passing trucks in the hope that someone had a working hydraulic jack to lift the bus. After about three hours a truck with a working jack stopped and waited whilst the bus was jacked up. I joined a few of the men to form a chain unloading the luggage to get at the spare tyre. The burst tyre was replaced with another threadbare tyre and we were on our way again to Sévaré.

As the bus journey extended we stopped for food and time seemed to stretch the way it often does in Africa.  Then of course we had to stop to pray. After the town of San we broke down again.  This time the repair only took half an hour to fix.  However the journey of 400km which should have taken about five hours actually took nine. So we rolled into Sévaré after dark.  Luckily Margaret noticed the sign to Mac’s Refuge on the outskirts of the town and we stopped the bus and said our goodbyes to the passengers. We walked the 2km to the hotel with our rucksacks to find Mac’s Refuge on a quiet back street.  On the way we saw school children using the streetlights to read their books and do their homework. 

Mac’s Refuge was quite basic with concrete floor rooms, showers in the rooms, but no toilets.  The toilets were outside the rooms but adjacent, functional and clean.  The welcome from Mac himself was great.  He was a former missionary, born in Mali to American missionary parents.  All of the guests sat around a large table on benches and enjoyed the wonderful food that the kitchen produced.  The cuisine was neither Malian nor western but rather local ingredients cooked by Malians to produce a range of excellent dishes which would suit western tastes.  Around the table were travellers from UK, Netherlands, Estonia, Canada and USA. The conversations explored where we had all been and seen and where we were planning or hoping to go. Tips, hints and warnings were exchanged, along with currency from counties along our routes which had no value outside the country. 

It was an extremely interesting and encouraging conversation presided over by the knowledgeable and sympathetic Mac. When describing our journey to Sévaré Mac was surprised how long it had taken and asked which bus company we had taken.  He said that the Somatra bus company was one of the first bus companies in Mali and that their buses were now older and so more difficult to maintain than those of their more recent competitors.

As well as being friendly Mac was helpful.  He provided advice on excursions and even set up four wheel drive vehicle rental.  He encouraged travellers to hire the local four wheel drive trucks, explaining that some of his neighbours and acquaintances at invested in them in anticipation of being able to provide a service to travellers passing through. We met a Canadian family of Mum and Dad, Steve and Joyce and their thirteen year old daughter Debbie.  They came from northern Canada and had never been to Africa or any other third world country before.  Their twenty two year old son, Jeff, was an engineering volunteer who was involved in setting up water supply and sanitation projects in Mali for about a year. Since his project had been slow to get off the ground Jeff had invited his folks to spend Christmas with him, promising to look after them and introduce them to the very different customs in Mali.  So they had just flown from Canada to Paris and then to Mopti.  When they arrived they received a message from Jeff that he had found an interesting project to do and would not actually be around to guide them and look after them.  Having spent a half day in Mopti visiting the picturesque but demanding market and visually stimulating and frenetic warf on the Niger the family were suffering from profound culture shock.  Neither the Steve nor his daughter Debbie could hold a coherent conversation.  Only Joyce, with a smattering of French, seemed to be coping.  We were not impressed by the errant and neglectful Jeff!

This article is part of a series describing our tour of West Africa
Previous Page:  Next page:  Photographs