The Gems of Tsingy De Bemaraha

by Roger Weston

  Paul stopped and stared at Marwan. “You want to turn around? Is that it? Give up?”

  “No! Never,” Marwan replied.

  “Okay then. Follow me.”

  Marwan did as instructed.

  Back in Gao, Paul scanned the riverbank. A row of small boats along with a few of the larger motorized pinasses were moored at the water’s edge. Paul scanned the occupants’ faces. At the end of the line he saw a man as ancient as the desert minding his own business. The man’s dusty thread-bare turban hung over to the left side of his head. He wore the tattered veil below his nose, thus exposing his skin which was the texture of a fig. Paul walked down to the man’s pinasse and introduced himself. After agreeing to take Paul and Marwan upriver, the old man shooed a fly off his big nose and rubbed his tortured eyes with the back of his hand.

  Paul pushed the flat-bottomed boat off the muddy bank, then climbed aboard. The 36-foot craft was as narrow as a cheetah and the aft section was covered by a tunnel-shaped, camel-skin canopy.

  The old man's name was Tariq. He handed Paul a pole and told him to push the bow around. As Paul did so he heard the outboard motor putter to life and felt the pinasse slide upriver.

  Paul set the pole down, and then gazed out across the muddy river at the sleek sand dunes that lined the far bank of the river.

  “Next stop Timbuktu,” Marwan said.

  Paul nodded with a grim smile. What was he getting himself into? Who was he to think he could take on the world’s most wanted terrorist by himself? Was he crazy? And what kind of guy brought a kid with him to lead the way?

  With excitement in is voice Marwan said, “During the 16th century, the caravan route linked the gold mines of Africa to the Mediterranean making Timbuktu very wealthy.”

  “Yes, I know,” Paul said absently.

  “Timbuktu used to be one of the great centers of Islamic learning,” Marwan continued, “Paja said a revival is happening. I went there many times with him. He was my spiritual teacher…,” the boy said as he lowered his gaze.

  Paul swallowed hard. “Look, Kid. I’m sorry about what happened to your grandfather.”

  Marwan looked up at Paul with sadness in his eyes. Under his right eye a tiny patch of salt appeared where a tear had evaporated in the heat. “Abu Bakr will pay for what he did to Paja,” he replied with determination in his voice.

  ***

  Otto Kroucher limped along the streets of Gao. He had left the sheikh to canvas the town hunting down any sign that Marwan and the American had been there. It was good to be alone. He shooed away goats that wandered freely along the dusty roads of the town. Wandering aimlessly he confronted each villager he passed in the street, asking if they had seen the American. Nobody had. He rested in the shade of an acacia tree. Gathering strength he pushed on with new resolve. He knew that the sooner he found the American, the sooner he could leave this life behind. As he marched on he came upon a merchant who was sitting behind a make-shift shelf lined with thick slabs of salt. The man fingered one of the white chunks with downcast eyes as Otto inquired if he had seen the American. The man claimed that the only foreigner he had seen was him. As Otto turned to leave, he kicked dust at the man. He continued down the sandy path. At the end of the road he saw a dwelling with a vine-laden overhang. The coolness that the vine offered lured him inside. Sparks flew as a blacksmith beat on a fat anvil with a bulb hammer. The artisan stopped pounding to respond to Otto’s question.

  “I have seen the American you speak of,” he said. “I tried to sell him one of my carved staffs. It appears that he could use one.”

  Otto smoothed the material of his checkered head-cloth with a sweaty hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a leather pouch with money spilling out of it. He smirked. Everyone knew that in the desert blacksmiths were held in high esteem and were rich. “Where is he now?” Otto asked.

  The man shook his head. Setting his iron hammer aside, he replied, “He was on the street, walking toward the ferry.” He held out a calloused and blackened hand. “Now that I have helped you, you must help me.”

  Otto hissed at him, turned his back and limped toward the door without dropping any coins into the man’s hand. On the street Otto swatted at several goats and headed back to the plaza where he had planned on meeting the sheikh.

  “What have you learned?” the sheikh asked, stroking his gray-streaked beard.

  “The blacksmith said he saw a foreigner heading toward the ferry last night.”

  “I know. I checked all the hotels.” The sheikh patted dust out of his robe. “The American has already checked out. I need new information.”

  Otto leaned forward his bulging eyes opened wide. “There were here?”

  “Yes, now we must call Abu Bakr for further instruction.”

  Otto nodded while masking revulsion. Rancid bile spilled into his knotted stomach. He'd rather talk to the devil than to Abu Bakr, but this time he had no choice. He would make the call so as not to arouse any suspicion with the sheikh.

  He pulled out his Sat Phone and dialed. As much as he hated the sheikh for all that the man had done to him, he’d knew that he’d probably have done much worse if not for Otto’s international contacts in the underground network. Not only had his contacts probably helped saved his life, they now made him somewhat valuable to the cause. At one time he thought they would make him rich, now he only planned to use them to facilitate his escape.

  Abu Bakr came on the line: “Where is the American?”

  “He checked out of a hotel in Gao. They may still be in the area.”

  “May?” he accused.

  Otto glared angrily at the sheikh, then spoke into the phone: “We're about to track them down. I didn't want to call you until we had definite information, but the sheikh insisted.”

  There was a long silence. “You will do well to obey the sheikh. This is your first chance to prove yourself, Otto. If you succeed, I will give you more authority. If you fail…,” Abu Bakr paused and breathed hoarsely, “you will not fail. Marwan must not be harmed. Is that clear?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don't care if you hurt the American, but bring Marwan to me alive.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  Otto feared to speak another word. As the silence dragged on, he felt tension straining within him.

  “Someday you will be important in my organization, in the revolution.”

  “I aspire only to serve,” Otto continued. “I enlisted in the Unity Movement because I devote my life solely to the great cause.”

  “You will be tested. But in the long run, if you perform as I expect you will, you will receive money and power such as you cannot imagine.”

  “I am grateful,” Otto lied. He knew how shallow promises were coming from filth like Abu Bakr. Could Abu Bakr give him back his natural gait that the sheikh had beaten out of him on Abu Bakr’s orders? No! Otto would limp for the rest of his life thanks to him. “I will exceed your expectations,” he said.

  “Keep me informed.” The line went dead.

  Otto shoved the Sat Phone into his pocket.

  “What did he say?”

  “We must keep looking for them. I'll meet you back here at dusk.”

  Otto spent the next couple of hours walking the town, his limp increasing as he grew tired. He saw nothing and no longer bothered asking around. He knew that if Marwan and the American were still in town he would spot them sooner or later. He did check a couple of other hotels to see if they'd checked in for the night. After a while, he found himself sitting in a restaurant having a cup of tea while he smoked. He had had to skim expense money just to buy the cigarettes. The more he thought about the lowliness and injustice of his position, the angrier he got.

  He was at the end of his patience. He had to get out of this life soon. It could be years before Abu Bakr trusted him with enough money just to buy his own smokes. He knew that Abu Bakr could decide on a whim to bury him before that ever happened. Ott
o shivered as he thought back to the jail where he’d been held. He remembered—could never forget—how almost hourly for a month the guards came in, held him down, and beat his left heel with a Coke bottle. Often the sheikh performed this cruelty himself and seemed to take pleasure in it. Even after he could no longer walk they came back and beat his heel.

  “Who are you working for?” they demanded. “We know you're lying.”

  They did other things to him as well, things so dark he blocked them out of his mind. If he dwelled on them, he knew he would break down permanently.

  Otto took a desperate drag off his cigarette. He blew the smoke out his nostrils and finished his tea. He would walk around some more, looking for the American.

  Back outside under the setting sun, he walked down to the waterfront. Of course he had already looked for the American there, but he would look again. He passed by the blacksmith’s hut. His heart thumped hard, each pump resonating in his ear.

  As he entered the building, he closed the door behind him.

  “Did you find your man?” the blacksmith asked.

  “Not yet, have you seen him?”

  “About an hour ago,” he said. “Now I must ask you to leave. I don’t work for free.”

  Otto stared at him silently. Anger pulsed through his veins.

  “Where did they go?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Why didn't you wait and see which way they went?”

  “Why should I? I have much work to do.”

  “You knew I was looking for him.”

  “You must leave now. I'm very busy.”

  Otto’s eyes lit on the leather money bag in the corner. His pulse quickened. That was his seed-bag. It was what he needed to escape from Abu Bakr. He reached across the counter and grabbed the hammer. Once swing was all it took.

  He pushed all the money into the leather bag and pocketed the pouch. Although his faith had never been strong, he now thought of Mohammad and justified his actions. He had read of Mohammad's raiding and plundering in the desert. He quickly stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

  Squirming through a tribe of goats who bleated loudly in protest, Otto fled to the waterfront where he nervously scanned the shoreline. “Can you take me down river?” He asked a man as thin as the pinasse he stood in.

  CHAPTER 29

  With Tariq running the outboard engine and the pinasse slicing through the brown river, Paul frowned at another boat that was passing on its way downriver. The driver eased off the gas and several indigo-turbaned men stood in the big canoe looking intently in their direction.

  Paul casually turned his back to them and coiled a rope. “Don’t slow down.”

  “I will decide how fast to go,” Tariq grumbled.

  “If you want to live, you won’t slow down.”

  The old man’s eyes filled with hatred, but he kept the vessel going at cruising speed.

  The driver of the other pinasse sped up then passed them by. Tariq waved at them as his wake rocked their boat. Then he turned to Paul with an intensified glare. “This is my boat. I will do what I want with it. If you won’t obey me, I will drop you off over there,” he said pointing to a sun-baked sand dune. “It is possible you could make it back to Gao, but not very likely.”

  Paul took a step toward Tariq. Then he felt Marwan’s hand on his chest pushing him away. Paul cursed. He took a deep breath then crawled under the camel-skin canopy that arched tightly over the bow of the boat. In the coolness of the shade, he focused on the sound of the river sloshing against the hull. What the hell he was doing back in Africa on a pinasse in the middle of the Niger River? He had promised himself that he would never come back to this country, that he was a changed man. He was done with his violent ways.

  As Paul thought about his past, regret flooded his soul. He crawled out of the canopy and sat in the open boat gazing ahead at an upcoming crook in the river.

  As the boat cut through the water, Paul saw Marwan settle under the canopy and lay his head on a bag of grain that served as ballast. The pinasse continued winding through the bend in the sluggish river. As it did, Paul noticed a hippopotamus submerged near the river’s edge. The idea of jumping into the Niger to escape the demons that tormented his soul tempted him, but then he put the idea out of his mind. He knew that would be the choice of a coward. He would do what he came here to do.

  As evening grew near, Paul found himself increasingly preoccupied by the isolation of the desert and the river. He watched as a vast garnet-red sunset filled the sky. When darkness overcame the desert he felt totally alone. Only the towering sand dunes that crept past as the vessel made its way down the muddy waterway offered solace. He laid his head on a sack of rice and breathed deeply of the fresh desert air. He gazed at the emerging galaxy that was revealing itself brazenly in the sky and began to think that maybe there was hope for him. Maybe Ryan was alive. If he was, Paul would make amends with him. He would beg his old friend for forgiveness for his despicable actions. His spirits began to lift slightly. They lifted just enough for him to think about what he needed to do when he got to Timbuktu.

  The rumble of the outboard engine brought him back to the present. He listened to the monotonous buzzing of the motor as it continued to carry them downstream. The sound soothed his weary spirit and eventually he drifted off to sleep. Several hours later he was awakened when Tariq refueled the outboard. When he did, Paul stood up and offered to take over the steering, encouraging the old man to get some rest. Apparently the man had forgiven him for telling him how to drive his boat earlier in the day and gladly handed the rudder to him. As Paul navigated the ancient vessel, morning light lit upon the desert in magnificence. The sun rose over the horizon coating the sand in gold.

  Shortly after sunrise, Tariq crawled out of the canopy with concern on his face. He pointed at the water and said, “We must get off the river. Now!”

  Paul looked at the smooth surface of the Niger River. The water had taken on a sickly yellow-brown hue.

  “A sandstorm is on the way,” Tariq said as he wrapped his turban tightly around his head.

  ***

  Basha Hadid knocked on the door of a small mud house in Timbuktu. He was a stocky man with a broad face and fleshy cheeks. A young child opened the door.

  “Hello,” he said, “I am calling on Ishak Talal. I am Basha Hadid, a scholar from Sankore University.”

  The kid grinned and ran into the dark house. A minute later, a small man with reading spectacles came to the door. “What do you want?” Ishak said. “I told you that my collection is not available to the public. Don't bother me again.” Ishak swung the door shut, but Basha shoved his foot down inside the door jam, preventing the door from closing.

  “What do you think you are doing?” Ishak said. “This is my house. Get out of here.”

  “Give me another minute,” Basha said. “I haven't told you everything,”

  “You've wasted enough of my time.”

  Basha withdrew an envelope from the pocket of his robe and handed it to Ishak. Looking at the envelope with skepticism, Ishak opened it up and fingered through the cash. “You never mentioned money the other day.”

  “You never gave me a chance. All I want is an opportunity to look over your manuscripts.”

  “What is it you're looking for? What's so important that you would pay this much money?”

  “You've heard about Dailia Redsull's efforts to make Timbuktu a secondary place of pilgrimage for those who cannot afford to travel to Saudi Arabia?”

  “Yes, of course, a good idea. The pilgrims would revive our economy.”

  Basha smiled. “Indeed. But not all would profit equally. Our claim as a holy Islamic town goes back centuries. Wise men say that wisdom and the word of Allah are to be found only in Timbuktu. That wisdom is here, in your manuscripts and in the manuscript collections of sixty other families. I've already perused over a dozen other collections. I'm making a very general survey of these collections. I've been told yo
u are the custodian of over three hundred ancient manuscripts.”

  Ishak nodded proudly. “My collection may not be one of the biggest, but it is certainly one of the best.”

  “Which is one of the reasons I am here. Dailia is planning to partner with owners of some of the best collections. She has set aside a large sum of money to preserve these manuscripts so that they will continue to attract Islamic scholars and pilgrims. She has sent me to evaluate various collections to determine if they qualify for inclusion in her preservation project. If your collection is as valuable as you believe, we would bear the costs of preservation with an agreement that you would make small portions of your collection available to scholars in the future. This would generate an endless flow of publicity which would be broadcast throughout the Islamic world, especially throughout North Africa.”

  “I promised my father I would keep his collection in the family.”

  Basha smiled. “And indeed you shall. Your father could never have imagined the immense value that his collection could have for all of Islam, to say nothing of his son's personal fortunes.”

  “Tell me more about that part.”

  “Perhaps you're aware of Dailia's immense wealth and power in Timbuktu and elsewhere.”

  “I've heard stories.”

  “Recently she has become one of the biggest landowners here in Timbuktu and has bought up numerous businesses. If you are cooperative regarding the greater utilization of your precious collection of manuscripts as any responsible and good steward should, Dailia will reward you openly and financially in the future. That envelope you now hold will prove to be little more than the seed which gives birth to the great tree of prosperity. Will you accept this seed of our good intentions and welcome me to peruse your revered collection?”

  Ishak looked down at the envelope in his hand.

  “Consider me as you would a nursemaid to a needy orphan,” Basha said, “the orphan being your collection which would deteriorate without proper care. I'm sure your father would want nothing more than the preservation of his precious manuscripts.”