In Cape Town, South Africa, a few months earlier, I’d found a book tucked away in a travel supply store. Ross Velton’s Mali: The Bradt Travel Guide fuelled my desire. Jealousy sprang to the fore when I encountered Michael Palin’s newly released Sahara in the Johannesburg airport. I flipped nervously through its pages. Palin had been there, with the BBC in tow, as part of a year’s venturing back and forth throughout the Sahara.
As I’d hoped, my reading broadened my knowledge. In medieval times, Timbuktu had been central to African trade. The benevolent leaders of the Malian Empire endowed the city’s universities. Under the Songhais, books were plentiful and knowledge was a source of wealth and pride. Timbuktu was Africa’s capital in all things spiritual, commercial, and intellectual. It was this image of an imagined utopia that glued itself on European minds through rogue, hearsay reports and rumours that reached willing believers. The Timbuktu of the fourteenth century lived on in the dreams of Europeans for centuries. It was a fascination distorted by distance.
It was September, four months before my departure, when latenight fears first crept beneath my sheets to plague me. “Hyenas and wild cats are widespread,” I’d read that day. The thought of lingering on a dark, lonely road, struck with the bad luck of missed transport, progressed to a vision of a black-backed jackal, fangs bared, staring me down.
Tales of atrocities emanating from sub-Saharan Africa did nothing to quell my fears. (“They let the man free in the jungle, as he asked; but not before hacking off his arms and legs.”) I rationalized that I would be in Saharan Africa, but then a guidebook warned about the danger of being left alone in the desert unless you were willing to pay surcharges demanded by the (about to disappear) guide. Now, like Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade, “I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble,” but “reasonable” was beginning to seem like a concept I couldn’t take for granted.
Health issues and travel are inextricable. The travel industry facilitates the worldwide spread of communicable diseases. Twisted together, perpetrated by tourism, are SARS, AIDS, West Nile virus, Norwalk, and a host of other unwanted experiences.
Medical clinics specializing in travel health and safety have the deserved “first-stop” reputation when strange lands beckon. Safety and precaution are the only methods to defeat worry.
“You’re going to the armpit of Africa,” the prim doctor said, as I rolled up my sleeve for the first injection. “We can only do so much for you.” She was as thorough as she was adamant. Whether one is concerned about sleeping sickness (trypanosomiasis by a less say-able term) or other insect-carried diseases, avoiding insect bites is key. “Take a mesh to drop over your hat when walking, and wear light porg shirts and pants sprayed with DEET.” Her non-medical prescriptions included advice on taking a mosquito net for my tent, spraying it with permethrin before I left the country, and carrying ample repellant and bite salve. They added weight to the packing list.
Her succinct warnings abounded: “Swim only in the ocean or your bathtub.” Best simply not to submerge in stagnant water; stick with hot showers.
I looked into the eyes that cautioned with more sincerity than her words did.
“But stay out of fresh water,” she stated. “You court a parasitic infection that will ruin your trip and live in your body for months afterwards.”
She worked through a series of health issues, and for each item she passed me a pamphlet or prescribed medicine: malaria is preventable (though it can be fatal) — begin doxycycline two days before departure and take it daily on your journey, plus every day for a week post-trip; stay away from fruit. Bacteria and viruses often lead to what she called “traveller’s tummy,” a euphemism that makes it none the more pleasant a volcanic experience — begin taking Dukoral two weeks prior to departure, and repeat one week before.
“And in case that gets worse, I’ve something that will bung you up,” she offered. And so it was that I packed blockage pills (ciprofloxacin), mindful of her advice: “If you have to use them, you should probably seek medical attention.”
The ability of Hepatitis A and B to damage your liver lengthened my list of concerns. The specialist reviewed the “meningitis map” on the wall of her windowless office, showing clearly that West African travels take you there.
She continued with clinical efficiency. Typhoid. Boosters for measles and tetanus-diphtheria. And she took the time to ensure that I’d had a one-time polio vaccine, as most westerners have had as a child.
Motor vehicle accidents kill or injure many in West Africa, and the doctor’s related concern was that local medical treatment, if required, may not resolve all problems or may create new ones. She provided me with syringes in a packet and signed a note of permission for me to carry them. Despite this provision, she advised: “Don’t have an injection if you can avoid it. Take packaged oral medication if at all possible.”
I was leaving her office with a satchel of material (everything from tensor bandages for strains, to salves for cuts and burns) and a healthy dose of advice when she added, “Of course, the food. Avoid street vendors. Drink only bottled water with sealed caps. No ice. Never. And stay away from unpasteurized dairy products.”
All in all, fairly comprehensive travellers’ paranoia.
The desire to travel is often motivated by a curiosity about someone else’s home; the novelty of learning about those whose daily life is markedly different from our own, even though we share a planet. Every day I tapped into the Mali news website, tracking headlines about the cholera epidemic, updates on the tuberculosis outbreak, and news about the locust gathering.
“FLOODS DAMAGE ANCIENT TIMBUKTU” shouted the morning’s BBC World Edition when my sons both flipped it over on e-mail. Alarmed by the heading, I opened the folio to follow a story weeks in the making and just as long in reaching our part of the world. (Neither CNN nor the CBC nor Fox News carried the story; hands up, those surprised.)
Heavy rains had pounded the seamless earth beneath Timbuktu, and the water had nowhere to drain. Instead, it puddled around the base of earth-built walls, wound through the maze of narrow streets, and flushed into the open sewers. In one home, it seeped through the mud foundation, surprising and drowning two children.
One hundred and eighty mud buildings (banco is the local term for this construction) were destroyed. The edifices slowly folded back to earth. They would be rebuilt around their wooden doors and splintered shutters. More expensive homes, built with limestone foundations and walls, were spared. But the nightmare was not over. It was predicted that the River Niger would overflow its banks, displacing a million Malians in fishing villages along the water’s edge.
One afternoon a Malian entry visa was happily secured to the last blank page in my passport. So I made my currency arrangements. Travellers cheques are cumbersome to use in that part of the world. VISA withdrawals would take two days to authorize. I tucked U.S. dollars, British pounds, and Euros into my money pouch, since West Africa’s currency was not available at Heathrow, let alone in the street exchanges of London or Cape Town. The currency is known as Communauté Financière Africaine (equally explained as Colonies Françaises d’Afrique), the franc CFA or, in local parlance, seffe. It is available only in the member nations of the West Africa Monetary Union, which regularly expanded its participating countries, contributing to the economic good, the travellers’ convenience, and the disappearance of indigenous currency art. The exchange rate was 500 seffe to one U.S. dollar; 650 to one Euro, and 400 to one Canadian dollar.
At work, I never prepared for business travel. My arrangements were made for me; I checked my tickets on the way to the airport to find out which airline I was on, looked at my hotel information in the taxi at the other end to get an address. This trip would be different. I would make my own arrangements.
There is no book called What to Pack for Your Trip to Timbuktu so I rummaged through websites, mined bookshelves, and eventually compiled a suitable list and began to assemble my travellers’ paraphernalia. My first concern was food
. I envisioned myself emaciated on the road to Timbuktu, unable to carry on. I purchased cartloads of granola, energy bars, peanut butter. Thinking of a dry throat in the desert, I stocked Gatorade, chewing gum, and lozenges.
Choosing a backpack created another conflict: capacity versus functionality. I chose a High Sierra of singular orange, ensuring that it would not be mistaken for any other backpack. Not much chance of that; resting on the floor, it towered past my waist. A case encompassed its full width and length, and two end packets completed its ability to hold thirty kilos. The straps were wide, sturdy, and tucked behind a flap when not needed. A handle slipped out at the top for pulling the backpack, suitcase-like, on thick wheels. But now it seemed too large for the journey; I was disenchanted with how many comforts it could carry. I spent two months trying unsuccessfully to get rid of it, to replace it with something smaller and more manageable.
Once a week I worked a trapline of outdoor and mountaineering stores, vetting necessities: along with clothing suited for the desert night’s temperature of five degrees Celsius or the midday’s thirty-five, I gathered travel trinkets like crampons and lanyards, whether I needed them or not. (I did not.) At home, the floor of my room became littered with waterproof matches and candles, water purification tablets, and gauze strips.
In addition, I would carry a day pack. In a sop to good practice and paranoia, I duplicated many items in case one pack got lost. These essentials I chose carefully: maps, medical supplies, copies of important travel documents.
But still, fearful thoughts awakened me at night. A racing heart, images of tigers (there are none in Africa), and threatening faces resulted in the resolution to pack a sheath knife, sturdy and familiar from camping trips; a danger if stolen. Swiss Army knives won out — one for each pack.
The Bradt Guide mentioned a European-based company that relied on someone in Mali to make local arrangements for their once-a-year, eight-person tour through Burkina Faso, Mali, and Senegal. Through this company I got the name of Mohammed, who owned a travel service in Mali. It took a number of unanswered e-mails and a further direct prod from the European company before we were connected.
Mohammed was, however, a fountain of information. Timbuktu would be reachable with effort, time, and money. On the cheap, delay and frustration often ruled. You could travel on the River Niger for three days from Mopti to the small port of Korioumé in a long, thatch-roofed boat (pinasse), loaded with trade goods and people, smelly and uncomfortable. Then hitch a ride by road for seventeen kilometres to the arched entrance of Timbuktu. It seemed the right way to earn that achievement. Alternatively, there was a decent (in African terms) road from Mopti to Douentza — a distance of about 185 kilometres — followed by a day’s drive via four-by-four north from Douentza to Timbuktu. My preferred plan was the river route heading to Timbuktu. (If you want to make the travel gods laugh, show them your plans.)
My first e-mail to Mohammed outlined my ideas. “I leave in a little over a month. While I’m quite keen to be on my own as much as possible, I’m mindful of the need for arrangements for river travel. And for a guide and driver between Timbuktu and Bamako, though I don’t wish to involve guide costs when they’re not necessary.” I sketched a possible travel sequence, a noncommittal itinerary.
Mohammed’s reply positioned it all nicely and proposed an overland route to Timbuktu as the best strategy. “This is the busiest time. Options are scarce. After Timbuktu we will get you on pinasse and send you back to Mopti. You will definitely need a guide for Dogon Country and Djenné, but after that it is your discretion.” He ended with an apology for “the delay in our response.” I trusted him.
There was a ghost train in West Africa. The Lonely Planet guide told of tracks between Dakar, Senegal, on the Atlantic coast, and Bamako, the capital of Mali. It hinted at twice-weekly passenger service. Sorting out this train trip became, for me, symbolic of the unreliable information about this part of the world. Once I found it, the train did everything it could to vanish from my plans.
Although Timbuktu exists, there is a common sense that it is, in fact, nowhere. The train took on the same characteristic. Every reference was different. One book stated that the rail line existed but that the once-upon-a-time passenger service no longer did. An independent website said the train ran only on Wednesdays. Another source was emphatic that since departure was chronically unreliable, travellers should make other plans. A government website implied that the train existed. A recent travel article said, “It is no longer there to be ridden.”
One story stipulated that if you did have the choice between taking the rumoured Wednesday train or the purported Saturday train, take the former: first, it derailed less often; second, it had fewer thieves.
I e-mailed Mohammed to ask if the train ran and, if so, when it departed. His wife replied that when it did, it was dangerous. “You are definitely very ambitious in your endeavors to travel to Mali!” she began. “With your desire to delve into the Malian culture and language you will win many hearts,” she said. “I do not advise travelling by train between Senegal and Mali. It is extremely uncomfortable, chaotic, and no matter how careful you are, you are bound to have something stolen. There are many ways to be adventurous, but travelling this train is not a fun one.”
“As to the train,” I replied, “I need to do this.” My youngest son, Sean, who has travelled by rail in many parts of Eastern Europe, said to me, “Don’t pack anything you’re not prepared to have stolen.” I mentally prepared to re-provision in Bamako if the worst happened. My air bookings were made into Dakar rather than Bamako, solely to take advantage of the possible train trip. Mohammed’s wife captured the image well: “It sounds certain to be sadder than any train I’ve been on.”
A U.K. conference on business tourism presented me with another opportunity to speak about tourism’s international obligations as well as its potential to bring prosperity to tourism destinations. In London on a Monday, with another presentation scheduled that Friday for Tourism Edinburgh’s annual meeting, I seized two research days mid-week at the British Library.
In the rare book room, I felt I would at last find the obscure facts I needed. I sniffed the ambience and grazed among the shelves. The room smelled of thinking. I searched titles on the computer, working through the list I had compiled from countless bibliographies and references. With a click of the computer mouse, the books I requested were pulled from mysterious, hidden shelves. Then, surrounded by walls of leatherbound volumes and silent fellow readers, I sat on the research bench, anticipating the impending facts and stories. The reader’s light came on at my designated seat, beckoning me to the library counter, where the first six books were ready for my perusal.
The pages consumed unnoticed hours. I gulped words as a parched throat would water. I flipped between books without discipline, a hungry man at a smorgasbord. When I settled down, it was with books I’d sought in stores to no avail, and older tomes not available at other libraries.
The next day in the rare book room, I fondled an 1813 edition of Mungo Park’s Travels in the Interior of Africa. Gently placing it in a felt easel to protect its fragile binding, I opened the gatefold map of Park’s West African travels, its edges brown with frail markings. There was no mustiness, only the harmony of age and paper.
If I were to live a borrowed life, I would have chosen Mungo Park’s. He, more than anyone, symbolizes to me the adventure traveller. History credits him with sighting the River Niger and determining that it flowed, contrary to educated thinking in Europe, eastward. Inland. I read through his book anxiously, only to find that, despite all his preparations and tenacity, Timbuktu had eluded him in both 1795 and 1805.
After two long days of reading, I left the British Library unshaven and bleary-eyed, my mind filled with archaic phrases, dismal stories, and haunting images.
It was raining, and I walked two kilometres in the freshness. In the night’s damp I reached Stanford Books and Maps off Leicester Square, hidden behind a
reconstruction of its facade. On the second floor, I found myself in Africa. Shelves and tabletops offered dozens of books on the continent.
Park’s Travels waited on a wood shelf in a recent edition with an afterword by Anthony Sattin. Again I was struck by the coincidences that informed my preparations, as Sattin’s book The Gates of Africa: Death, Discovery, and the Search for Timbuktu, was my history bible.
Stacking my coat, Park’s Travels, and an English map of Mali for purchase, I browsed the African titles. In a shipping box not yet off the trolley lay an untouched Rough Guide to West Africa. I debated the guide’s £18 cost against the fact of already having two other editions of the book. What hints or directions could be new? I picked it up and thumbed through it, looking for information on train service between Dakar and Bamako. This was my most reliable test for unreliable details and conflicting information.
Muttering hope, I skimmed and found The Express International. That was the train Malians were responsible for, the Saturday train, my hoped-for-against-hope Dakar departure. I read that this train “has not been in operation for several years.” My disappointment was confirmed; my route would not work as planned.
Then, the Océan-Niger. An enchanting name for a Senegalese operation of mixed reputation. The guidebook called this trip a “gruelling journey — one of the last great train rides in Africa.” It ran! On Wednesdays. It was the only train from Dakar to Bamako. One of my problems was solved as another was created: four extra days in Dakar, as my arrival date there was fixed with an air ticket. Now, it seemed, so was my departure from Dakar. At least it would be by train.
Then I came across a confusing statement about the train: “At the time of writing … the service appears to have ceased operating entirely.” Time of writing? I paged the book for its publication date. It was that very month. This must be true. The Lonely Planet Guide to West Africa, published a year earlier, suddenly seemed as dated as my dream.
To Timbuktu for a Haircut Page 3