Faces of Mali

Limping into Timbuktu

The piste runs directly north of Douentza to Timbuktu, 200km away. It weaves through an undulating Sahel landscape of acacia bushland, sand and close cropped grasslands. The surface has heavy corrugations, an effect created by the passing of vehicles over time. These literally shake a car to bits, and the wayside is littered with parts of exhausts. It is possible to get relief from the corrugations by driving on parallel sandy tracks, but these are also wearing, as you must keep up momentum to avoid getting stuck, and will inevitably hit a large hole and decide to try the main track again.

So, the car was getting a pounding - by half way it was spraying grease from a leaky hub seal on the right, matched by hydraulic fluid from a broken shock absorber on the left. The corrugations are much less noticeable if you can keep up speed, about 80kph, as you then skim the tops, but it takes full concentration to scan the road ahead to plan the route and also to avoid the holes.

About 10km before the river crossing for Timbuktu we hit a big one, the hard surface suddenly gave way to a deep pit of soft sand. The car landed heavily on the front end. We managed to drive out of it, but everything was not well, the front wheels pointing in different directions - the steering push rod was badly bent. We spent an hour trying to straighten it using the bottle jack.

The Sand Trap That Did The Damage

Ferry across the Niger approaching Timbuktu

It was lucky we were not far from Timbuktu. We drove slowly on to the river crossing, having lunch by the bank as we waited for the ferry. We reversed up the ramp, followed by a horseman with a decorated saddle, bare feet in round metal stirrups.

There was only another 10km then to Timbuktu, and we limped in with great grinding and squeaking. We checked in at a hotel and gave them a pile of very dirty clothes and towels, showered, and went in search of repairs. The hotel called a mechanic, and he sat in and showed us the way through the maze of sandy streets. Along the way, the police gave us a hard time about having three people in two seats, which is a bit of a joke considering how they fill vehicles here. They also insisted we should visit the Customs for a laissez passer document, and register with the police, both of which I expect will be opportunities to make donations to local funds.

On the outskirts of town we parked under a tree amid a collection of vehicle wrecks, mechanics, apprentices, consultants and onlookers. With a handful of tools, they set to work, removing the steering rod and dispatching it to the forge for straightening. A couple of hours later, the car was driving better than ever.

Hitchhikers

Mali is one of the poorest countries in the world, but fuel prices are not much different to Ireland - 82c per litre for diesel and almost €1 for petrol. I expect this is because of the cost of trucking it in on poor roads from the Atlantic coast in Ivory Coast or Senegal. There is little motor traffic - government or NGO Toyota Land Cruisers; some heavily laden trucks, often broken down; and a variety of decrepit buses. It is much more common to see people walking, in donkey carts, or - especially here in the North - on camel or horseback. 

We pick people up whenever feasible. One fine gentleman sat into the car and announced that he was Baobucar Cisské, the Grand Marabout and Grand Imam of Hamdallaye, a historic town north of Djenne. The next day, we stopped in the middle of nowhere for a young man who spoke surprisingly good English. He was a Nigerian footballer who had come to play in Mopti, but for some reason the job had fallen through, and now he was penniless and walking to Bamako. It was about 45˚C and he'd covered over 40 miles from Mopti since the previous day. He promised to remember us when he is playing for Chelsea. 

The group in the photo were near the Dogon village of Yenndouma, returning from market with a heavy sack.

 

Djenne and back to Pays Dogon

Con arrived on Monday, which is market day in Djenne, so we decided it would be worth a detour to the famous town. We took a ferry across the Bani river, which is very low at this time of year, and drove along a causeway - in wet season the town is almost surrounded by water. We crawled through the busy streets to the main square and parked under the wall of the great mosque, the largest mud building in the world. The market is wonderfully chaotic, and ideal for short people, as the awnings are all tied about four feet from the ground. We bought potatoes, onions, lemons, bananas, ginger and tomatoes, and Con got a little carved Dogon granary door. 

The dust was choking, and after exploring a little we retreated to the courtyard of Chez Baba, a hotel near the square, for a beer (the inferior Flag instead of Castel). The sun did not set, but faded into the dust haze, as trucks were packed with goods and people. When the crowd had dispersed we moved the car to the hotel, and slept on the roof, with a fine view of the mosque and only a few mosquitoes. 

From Djenne we drove into Dogon country again, taking the same route though Sanga that Stefanie and I followed last week. We camped under the ancient rocks of the escarpment, so peaceful that I could hear the sound of bat wings in the night. In the morning we spent a couple of hours fixing stuff in the car, visited by a group of small boys. They almost fought over who would do the breakfast dish washing, and in the end one passed the dirty items, one washed, one dried and one stacked the clean items. They gave the stove a good cleaning too, and ate our left over pasta. 

A few miles on, we explored one of the villages, invited by a resident. He led us up a boulder track to the old village, now mostly abandoned. It has water, but the effort of carrying goods up and down has resulted in most people moving to the new village below. Only his family remain, and his wife was at work pounding couscous in their courtyard. He was very proud of his little terraces of crops, including onions, tobacco, papaya and banana, irrigated from the spring by hand using calabashes.