The Timbuktu School for Nomads

by Nicholas Jubber

  Roads have challenged its primacy, but the river will never lose its significance in a land where water is so precious. The passage to Timbuktu, although several times slower, is widely preferred to the desert road, thanks to the frequency of bandit hold-ups on the latter (I did travel by the desert on my return journey, and every time a motorbike flashed near the truck, fear stirred in my belly like the early warnings of dysyntery). Pirogues pole out from every village, loaded with goods for sale – rice, millet, watermelons, bananas – and return with cargo or passengers. On this trip, the Tikambo was specialising in sacks of Dutch quality onions and crystal sugar, much of it kept in the hull, doubling as ballast.

  Up on the roof, I had the perfect lookout. I watched the kingfishers launching their diving raids from Bozo fishing cages, barred by bamboo verticals and my own sleepy lashes. Nimble stevedores passed goods along the gangplanks and swung out of the hull. Naked children turned themselves into balls, throwing themselves off the breakwaters, cracking the polished soapstone of the river. Grown-up men waded more gingerly, one hand cupped over privates, while bare-breasted laundresses kept their own quarter, scrubbing and squeezing T-shirts and boubous that only needed a few minutes in the sun to dry. They underlined the Niger’s other great role: as a giant bath-house, drawing people together for the camaraderie of the early-morning wash, like the hammams I visited in Fez.

  I revelled in the riverside life, until the sting of the sun drove me under the covers. My fellow passengers were less bothered. Most of them treated the river with the same insouciance as the egrets floating out of the hippo-grass, or the reeds that swayed and dipped to our ripples. Yet every so often, the Niger reminded us it could bite. Rips and creases broke through waxy boils, a swell broadsided the Tikambo and waves pawed at the gunwales to squeals in the hull.

  ‘Our river is angry,’ said the sugar seller.

  As night plunged, firelight danced on the banks, smoke unfurling banners over villages and fishing hamlets. A cheer went up at the sound of a splash – someone had braved the river for an evening bath, his skin varnished by moonshine. Speakers were placed on the roof and hooked to a Walkman to play a song by the blind albino Salif Keita. We sat on the packing cases, nodding to the rhythm, a few of the passengers clicking their fingers.

  The camaraderie of the boat was exhilarating, even when I couldn’t follow any of the half a dozen languages in which the conversations were held. Scooping up fistfuls of rice from a communal dish, I broke into the crusty bread I still had left, before giving myself over to the insects.

  We had passed the junction of the Issa-Ber and its sister branch, the Bara-Issa. You could tell we were near Timbuktu because the architecture of the villages was changing. Fretted parapets stretched across the glassy mirror of the river, under the buttressed walls that bore the originals. Echoing back through time, they were a dirge for the troubled history of the Niger; the fortress homes of a settled people protecting themselves against the menace of the desert.

  It was still dark when we moored at the port of Koriumé. We would have to wait until transport arrived on the car ferry from the other bank. I had barely slept, but I felt wide awake, fuelled as much by anxiety as adrenalin. I wished there was a little further to go; I wished I could have another day on the river and go to Timbuktu tomorrow.

  Clambering down the gangplank, I lay on the foreshore and watched the early Bozos out with their driftnets. They were sliding around an isle of reeds in the middle of the river, indifferent to the bustle around the banks. Riverlife was carrying on with only a passing nod to the landlubbers.

  The peace was broken by truck horns and human shouting. Nosing out of the rose-bleach of dawn, a ferry glided over the plate-glass water, carrying passengers who had followed the desert track from Douentza. Along with a couple of jeeps and dozens of livestock was a Malian army SUV with a mounted gun.

  There was some business with the driver, so the soldiers planted themselves on the slope, digging into their cigarette packets, balancing their guns between their legs. I wondered if they might be able to advise me. They would know about the bandits and the danger in the desert; maybe they could give me some tips. They didn’t look surprised when I approached them, so I sat down and offered a light.

  It took a while to start the conversation. I wasn’t sure how many questions I could get away with; I was wary of annoying them. But the corporal beside me was affable and surprisingly frank. Each question he considered for a few moments, then replied in clear, rapid spurts.

  ‘We’ve been in the bush around Gourma,’ he said. ‘There are lots of bandits. They’ve been living in the bush for years so they know the best places to hide. It’s difficult to surprise them.’ He nodded towards the SUV. ‘Too much noise. One mission, we drove in convoy, but by the time we reached their camp, they were gone. We found only their provisions – medicine, macaroni, water, flour. It seems they were living pretty well.’

  The bandits had superior desert know-how. That was why the army was starting to lean on the one group who knew the desert even better.

  ‘Many of the bandits’, said the corporal, ‘try to hide in the camps of the nomads. But the nomads are tired of them, so they come to us and tell us where to find them. We give them medicine, water, food, whatever we can, and they tell us what they’ve seen – trucks that passed, how many, which direction they took.’

  This point of view is not shared by everyone: in Timbuktu I would hear of extrajudicial killings and nomads dragged out of camps. But for the corporal, nomads and soldiers were united by a shared goal.

  ‘The nomads are fatigued by the jihadists. Their food’s been robbed, their animals have been taken. They want an end to this. They know if they cooperate with us, we can help get their lives back to normal.’

  He talked about busting a gang of bandits who had kidnapped a group of Qatari bird hunters; manning checkpoints against suicide bombings; taking part in a shootout in the desert town of Goundam. The latter ended in chaotic success for the army. It was one of those anecdotes that bring the jihadists to life, reminding you that for every murderous psychopath there is a clown as hapless as a Keystone Cop.

  ‘We tracked the jihadists to a building in the centre of town, and we were winning the shootout. Only two of them were still alive. One of them escaped. We shot him in the leg but, before we could catch him, the other one ran out of the building. He had a bomb belt and was going to explode himself. He had enough to blow us all up. But one of my colleagues had taken off his helmet and laid it near the door – and the jihadist tripped over it when he ran outside. He blew up straightaway! It was very lucky for us, no one was injured.’

  ‘What about the other jihadist?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh.’ The corporal drew on his cigarette and flicked it along the foreshore. ‘He was bleeding very heavily, so it was easy to find him. We just followed the trail of blood until we found him under a tree. Then we shot him dead.’

  The road from the port seemed to tumble out of my memory. Bony eucalypti drained the shallows, weeping shade onto the road, where river traders rested in palm-reed tents. Workers were bending in the rice fields, their legs stolen by the lush green blades. The truck ahead of us disappeared behind its own particulate contrails, and a couple of passerines dived through the fug, to emerge untroubled on the other side. The track was lumpy and soggy, the bonnet seesawing in the windscreen and a tasselled prayer swinging under the rear-view mirror.

  It didn’t take long for the land to dry. Sand bullied everything out of the way, letting only a few thorn bushes share its territory. This was the ‘Passage of the Fate of the Virgins’, named for a group of fifteenth-century slave girls who were slain because they didn’t move fast enough to entertain the soldiers of the tyrant Sunni Ali. It was an early example of the heartache and blood that have been pestled into the sand between Timbuktu and its port.

  We jolted onto tar, gliding to a stop at an oil-drum checkpoint. Further ahead were a billboard for Orange phones, sign
s for USAid, warnings against HIV (‘Fidelité, Abstinence, Preservatif’): the gamut of international billboards, heralding the most mysterious city on earth. When I first visited Timbuktu, these billboards had been pale and dust skinned; now they were battered and misshapen and gouged with bullet holes. One of them – for Colonel Gaddafi’s Fond Libye – lay flat in the sand. They had become ciphers for the condition of Timbuktu, rather than the organisations they were supposed to be promoting; as telling as the rows of sand-filled barricades and gun emplacements behind them. Light roared through the ripped-open doors; gun stocks rattled on the fender. Moody, early-morning soldiers’ eyes scanned the truck, and we lifted our legs so they could poke under the benches, in case we were hiding any weapons.

  Ahead lay Timbuktu, slung low like a nomad snoozing under an acacia. Frayed palm-reed tents lined the road; walls of mud and limestone thickened, knitting a maze in the heart of town. Across the road from the wreck of the Al-Farook monument stood a row of soldiers on high alert, weapons braced in the gateway of their barracks.

  I had thought often of Timbuktu over the last couple of years. I felt like I was visiting some old, sickly friend who’s just been let out of hospital – unsteady on his feet and barely out of danger, but alive.

  I looked around, almost pinching myself. For a long time, I wasn’t sure if I would come back. The sun tickled the edges of my T-shirt, but I couldn’t stop the shiver in my spine. A memory sensation, an echo of the terrible dread I had felt when I was last here. When it all went so horribly wrong.

  The School for Nomads

  Lesson Eight: Score

  THE DESERT SPREADS AROUND US, A RUMPLED CARPET OF FIRE. WE HAVE been riding for several hours and I can feel the scorch of the rope on my hands. My lips are chapped and my throat has the texture of dry kindling. The light spins off the sand at ruthless angles, stabbing me like a crazed stalker, jabbing my shoulders and stinging my eyes. The wind is no relief: in cahoots with the sun, it lifts the tail of my turban and whiplashes my neck. A peculiar thought flashes through me and makes me burst out laughing. At last, the desert has got under my skin. Right under! It is in my ears, my mouth, my eyes; it has dug under my fingernails and smeared behind my ears.

  Only a few hours’ riding lie between us and Timbuktu, but we will spend one last night in the desert. There is a tinge of green in the distance, so we scythe between the dunes. It may not be verdure, but it is certainly pasture, and the camels tuck in with relish, trails of green slaver dribbling down their chins.

  ‘I don’t like it when I’m near the city,’ grumbles Lamina.

  ‘You prefer to sleep in the desert?’

  ‘Of course! We are Berabish. The town is not our place. It has too much noise.’

  There’s a blowout on the edge of the desert, a couple of miles out of town. This time, I am able to build the fire without any help. I collect a bundle of sticks and make a lattice over a small pit, crouching behind the flame to shield it from the wind. Jadullah leaves me in charge while he goes to hobble the camels and I tend the ashes, fanning them to keep the heat for the pot.

  ‘Do you think I could do the azalai?’ I ask, later.

  We are squatting around the bowl, filling our palms with the fluffy rice. Jadullah looks at me, the most intense, most intimate gaze he has given me. ‘Yes,’ he mutters. Our eyes lock for a second, then he turns back to the food and digs out a fistful of rice.

  Lamina’s answer is more detailed. He clasps his hands together and rubs his beard against the knuckles, tipping his head from side to side.

  ‘I am a serious man,’ he says. ‘I do not say this if there is no truth in it. I see you are a serious man too, and I believe you can do this.’

  I want to jump up and punch the air. I want to give Lamina a hug. I want to grab Jadullah and kiss his beard. I stay exactly where I am and nod.

  We carry on eating, and I ask for more information about the azalai. Every detail is a precious addition to my store of learning. It feels as if the caravan trail could be within reach. Is it too elegiac? A magic carpet-ride adventure, too distant from the real lives of nomads around the Sahara? If so, I don’t care – the romance has snared me already. I lie down on my blanket, daring to imagine myself as part of a desert caravan: strapping my cargo in grass-twine ropes, loading it onto my camel, riding the long path to Taoudenni, and coming back with a slab of salt as big as a tombstone.

  Naksheh gives me a lovely last ride, a smooth glide between the dunes in the apricot bloom of dawn. It is the kind of ride you never want to end. You could carry on for ever, drifting between the dunes with this wonderful creature, all your struggles veiled by a dreamy pall of amnesia.

  We couch outside the high metal gate and Lamina strides inside, Jadullah following, while Abdul-Hakim stays with the camels. He gives me a high five and his eyes follow me, puckishly, to the gate. Inside, Berabish traders are lolling on the carpet. My host comes over and clasps my shoulders, greetings are rallied, and we settle across the rug to enjoy a soothing glass of tea.

  My training is at an end. I lie back, enjoying the tenderness around my temples, the perverse pleasure of fatigue. If I were a character in a comic strip, there would be a bubble of Zs already gathering over my head. But one more thing needs to be settled. Because now, lolling my head on a bolster, I am to be told my score.

  ‘Oh! I’m going to be marked?’

  I feel a pinch of apprehension. I tried my best, but some of the lessons were hard. Will I lose points for all my mistakes, my erratic riding, my poorly brewed tea? I’ve been fascinated by the lifestyle, but I am not cut from the same cloth as nomads like Lamina and Jadullah. Besides, I feel content with the trip. I don’t want to be deflated by some unsatisfactory number!

  ‘Before now,’ says Lamina, sitting down on the carpet, ‘no one would have scored more than 15 out of 20, but you have scored 18.’

  I feel stars swimming around my head. Is it fatigue or excitement? It is becoming hard to tell them apart. Given my mediocrity as a cub-scout and the bollockings that fell on my head in the Combined Cadet Force at school, I never expected this. I have passed with flying col-ours! I can go on the azalai!

  ‘In the lists of our tribe, your name is now added,’ continues Lamina, ‘and even if you do not return for ten years, your name will always be there.’

  I sit there, smiling gormlessly, too happy to say anything in reply.

  It is two weeks until the next azalai – the last of the season. I can stock up on provisions, fatten myself up and prepare mentally for the journey. I will go and visit my friend Abdramane in the desert town of Goundam. It will be a great way to while away the time, before meandering back to join the caravan; the chance of a rest and some mental preparation. The timing could hardly be better. The desert is safe, the Tuareg rebellions are in the past, I am fit and healthy, and my guru believes I can do it.

  ‘Your place is ready,’ says Lamina.

  His grip on my hand is tight and warm. I remember how bewildered I felt at our first meeting. Traditional phrases pop and trill, hands clasp tight and palms press against chests. I drop among the bolsters, watching the brothers floating out through the gate. Next time I see them, we will be setting out on the caravan together.

  I can hardly wait!

  23

  Lights Out on the Sahara

  ‘NICHOLAS! ARE YOU FINE?’

  Still a little weary from the desert, I clamber down at the riverside village of Tonka. Stretching towards me is my friend Abdramane. We met on the journey up river and he scribbled down his number before he disembarked. ‘I want to greet you in my family home’, he told me, ‘and present you to my family.’

  My azalai training is complete and I have a couple of weeks to spare. Abdramane helps me onto the wharf, and we fall into a hearty African hug. I feel like a stick embracing a tree. Warm, lambent eyes dip into his cheeks between two rows of tribal scars, markings of his Songhay ethnicity.

  A pick-up truck is ready to leave for Goundam, so
we hurry over to secure our berths. The bed is already crammed, some of the passengers swinging their legs over the cab. The usual triumvirate of driver, lubricator and mechanic are doing their rounds, checking the wheels and covering the luggage in netting, clipped to hooks on the gunwales. For the human cargo, however, there is no such precaution. It looks like a full-on way to ride, windy and dusty and exciting if you don’t have to do it too often: a cross between a cattle truck and a roller-coaster. But Abdramane is insistent about where I should sit.

  ‘Let us not take unnecessary risks, Nicholas. You must stay inside.’

  An eerie world surrounds us: thorn bushes and colourless scrub, fuzzed by the odd stick-and-skin tent. I can understand why Abdramane is being cautious. The route could have been designed by a bandit chief: they could pounce on us while a herd of cattle trudges across the road, or conjure themselves out of the dust clouds raised by a passing jeep. When an army truck roars past, I feel a twinge of reassurance. At least there is state protection – nobody would dare to attack on a road used by the Malian army! I sit back in the comfort of the driver’s cab, reminding myself why there is no reason to be worried. Mali is safe these days. The Tuareg rebellions are in the past. No tourists have been kidnapped for a couple of years. What have you got to worry about? And anyway, you’ve survived a couple of weeks in the desert already. You’ve got baraka!

  Still, there is the odd disquieting detail. When we roll past a couple of guarded steel drums and grind to a standstill in a fly-blown marketplace, I feel like an animal that knows it’s being watched. Men in hoods and veils trench their hands in their pockets and scuttle between walls of broken mud. In a backwater like Goundam, I stand out like the Elephant Man. It isn’t until we are safe inside that I can relax.