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Yes, Virginia, there really is a place called Timbuktu. Youve probably used the name before as an expression without ever knowing that this legendary city does actually exist. Its in Northern Mali (West Africa) in the dunes of the Sahara desert, sleeping, slowly being buried in sand. And while stories describing the citys streets as "paved with gold" were proved false by the first European explorers to reach Timbuktu, the name does aptly describe a place on the edge of civilization because even today, on the eve of the 21st century, reaching it is difficult. It was near the end of my fourth extended visit to West Africa that I decided I had seen just about all there is to see in this region, been just about everywhere I was allowed to go, ran from enough coups, and contracted enough parasites to last a lifetime. I knew I probably wouldnt be coming back to the region again. I figured it would be a fitting grand finale to end my West Africa travels in that most fabled of cities: Timbuktu. Camel Train Most people who visit this city built on sand arrive via airplane. Yes, the city has an "airport" serviced a few times a week by the ever-dependable Air Mali. At least there are supposed to be a few flights a week. In reality, like every other form of transport in Mali, you can easily end up waiting a few days or even weeks before getting a seat out of town. I heard from one group of travelers who had Air Mali tickets out of Timbuktu, but were bumped from their flight due to overbooking. A mere three weeks later they got a seat on a flight out. And if you are lucky enough to get a seat on a flight, you may be in for a bit of a shock. This aint American Airlines. I heard from a fellow traveler who once sat down on an Air Mali plane and found that his seatbelt was not bolted to the floor, but tied in a knot to his arm-rest, and the barf bag in front of his seat was already bulging full of crusty, old vomit. My travel partner and I immediately ruled out flying to Timbuktu. After all the interesting, if not life threatening, forms of transportation we had endured over the course of our extensive travels in West Africa, it just didnt seem fitting to arrive at that most proverbial of all travel destinations in an airplane. We needed a form of transport with a little more character. We wanted that one final story to top all that we had been through so far. Like the time we were travelling in Guinea in the back of a pick-up truck crammed with nineteen people. The driver ran over a possum-like creature in the road, and we pulled over for an hour and a half as the passengers and driver arduously fought over who got to take the road-kill home for dinner. Or the time we were riding in Burkina-Faso in probably the worlds oldest bus on probably the worlds worst road. The bus was loaded to about 200% capacity: two people to a seat, chickens running through the isle, goats and other livestock tied to the roof. We hit a pothole the size of Rhode Island and the windshield completely fell off. The driver nonchalantly tossed it onto the roof of the bus, tied it down and kept going. By the end of the 15 hour bus ride we were covered in so much dirt that we looked like coal miners. Throughout the trip we entertained ourselves by writing with our fingers on the dust and grime accumulating on each others foreheads like one writes on a dirty car windshield. After briefly going over all the options, we decided that there is one and only one way to arrive in Timbuktu in style: on camels. We caught a bus to Douentza, Mali, about 200 km South of Timbuktu, where we arranged the trip. In the town market we asked around about any camels for hire and found a kid who lead us about three miles outside of town to a nomadic camp. We sat on the hard, dry ground in front of a tent fashioned from sticks and woven straw as we waited for its owner to return. At first the nomad said he presently had no camels to spare since it was the planting season - camels being the tractor of Northern Mali. We offered to pay him $20 for each day we used his camels (about what the typical Malian earns in a month) and not surprisingly, two camels suddenly became available. He told us what supplies we would need to buy in the market mats, turbans, water jugs, rice, tea, blankets then he said we would leave the next morning. As we got up on our camels for the first time that next morning we werent sure just exactly what we were getting ourselves into. Although, it was a good omen that this was the first type of transportation we had ever taken in West Africa that actually left on time. It seemed that a trip like this should require more preparation than a ten-minute conversation with a nomadic farmer and a quick stop at the market. And, our luck so far on this trip had been anything but good. Before leaving for Timbuktu we had already run into two coups and plenty of trouble. Our troubles on this trip began back in Senegal. We landed in Dakar, Senegal on the first day of June, 1998. After a week of exploring the arid coast of northern Senegal we crossed over the thin sliver of a country, The Gambia, and into southern Senegal. Known as the Casamance region, southern Senegal has experienced periods of political turbulence during the last decade as a result of a separatist movement. Rebels have attacked and killed scores of government officials as well as tourists in the recent past, so before heading into the region we made sure the situation was safe. We were told that the main road to Guinea-Bissau was safe, but not to venture too far off this route. Despite the assurances we received, we felt a little nervous during the night we had to spend in the Casamance in the city of Zinguinchur. The next morning our fears were justified. We were leaving our hotel heading for the beach resort of Cap Skiring on the coast when the owner stopped us as we were walking out the door. He told us that the day before, separatists rebels had gained control of the road to Cap Skiring we were about to take and killed a car full of people just fives miles outside of Ziguinchor. Immediately, we decided to leave Senegal and head south to what we thought would be the serenity and safety of the undeveloped but beautiful archipelagos of Guinea-Bissau. After crossing into Guinea-Bissau our first impression of the tiny, tropical country was that it had to be one of the most peaceful places on earth. We saw mud huts with thatched roofs interspersed under row after row of mango, coconut and cashew trees not far from the lazy, unspoiled, white-sand beaches and crystal blue ocean. Everything about the country seemed so peaceful and relaxed. The countrys border with Senegal was nothing more than a string of used-car-lot flags strung across the road and a tiny, dilapidated, wooden shack housing a border guard stamping passports. The friendly but serious old guard studied our passports diligently as if to ensure that all of our papers were in order before letting us enter. Of course he probably had no idea what was written on them because he was "reading" our passports upside down. Apparently, like a lot of border guards in West Africa he was illiterate. After handing back our passports the guard told us his dream has always been to visit the United States because he had heard that hotels in America are so big they have waterfalls inside them. While putting our passports away we joked that this country didnt need
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