Snapshots on the road

The bus from Bobo to Bamako leaves at first light. The bus station is shabby and run down but the bus leaves on time – seats are numbered and luggage tagged. We are even given a carton of juice each as we climb aboard. The landscape is flat and arid – villages are few and far between. In some places great mounds of newly harvested cotton line the roadside ready for collection. The bus crew have a great selection of tapes and we cruise along to a soundtrack of Salif Keita, Ali Farka Toure, Bouabacar Traore – here we are at last rattling along on our way to Mali.

Crossing the border turns out to be easy. I had expected long delays and complications but as we leave Burkina Faso and enter Mali formalities on both sides run smoothly. Officials are polite and business like – we are given chairs under the trees in the shade as we wait for our passports to be stamped – assumptions shattered! Soon we are on our way again.

At every stop the bus is surrounded by motley gangs of boys, mostly barefoot wearing an array of filthy tattered cast offs from the charity shops of the world (container loads of clothes and shoes are dumped here in West Africa and the “home use” market is a necessity for most and a bargain hunters treasure trove for the likes of me. In Ho I have bought my first ever Ralph Lauren Polo chinos and a fabulous pair of Doc Martin brogues). They carry rusty old tins and buckets for their food and are mostly from the Koran schools. They have to beg for their food in theory to teach them humility but this seems to be a far cry from the grace and dignity of Buddhist monks with their begging bowls in South East Asia. There are several hundred thousand of these children across Mali, many of them sent by their parents from rural villages, glad to have one less mouth to feed. In the NGO sector there are growing concerns that many of these children are abused and exploited in these unregulated schools.

We arrive late afternoon on the outskirts of Bamako. The bus station is chaotic and a teeming mass of travellers, hawkers and hustlers. The taxis here are even more run down and battered than in Burkina Faso and after a lot of haggling we pile into an ancient yellow Mercedes that whisks us across the mighty Niger and into the city. We stay in the Hippodrome District in Hotel Le Djenne. This proves to be a wonderfully calm and relaxing haven away from the constant clamour and hustle of the streets. It is a small place tucked away in a back street – the rooms all individually decorated by local artists – a delight.

When not being constantly harangued on the streets or having to haggle for just about everything, we spend a lot of time in search of music clubs, although this is no easy task. On our first night we are driven endlessly around the city by an increasingly irate Taureg in search of the legendary Hogon club (Tiamane Diabete) only to eventually discover that it shut down some months ago. Helpful locals suggest salsa instead. We end up at the Savannah Club drinking incredibly expensive drinks and would you believe it listening to a band playing Michael Jackson covers – are we really in Bamako, with its legendary music scene? The next night we fare a little better ending up at the Djembe club, a seedy smoke filled joint with a band playing mean blues. One room is full of prostitutes and there is a continuous coming and going of clients to another room out the back, but at least this place oozes atmosphere.

The road to Timbuctou is long – the landscape becomes increasingly dry and desert like and the villages more and more further apart. It takes two days to the fabled city with a stop off in Severes. We at last reach the Niger and face a long queue of 4x4s waiting for the ferry on their way to the Desert Festival. Entertainment is provided by some local herders arguing with the ferry men about transporting their cattle across the river and the ensuing chaos and comedy as they try to drive them on the ferryboat. We cross as the sun sets, watching the timeless rhythms of life on the riverbank. Perched on the edge of the desert I like Timbuctou from the very first moment we arrive.

Many people are disappointed by the fabled city – I find it charming – run down, dirty – almost forgotten as if slowly disappearing into the surrounding desert. The narrow streets of the old quarter twist and turn - a maze of disjointed streets and alleys. It is hot and dusty and life goes on very slowly here. The Djingareiber Mosque is under renovation, paid for by the Aga Khan, and closed. We wander around, visit some of the explorer houses including the legendary Heinrich Barth house and sit on rooftops drinking tea, watching the world go by on the edge of time. The place has something special about it – its wonderful history, its old universities all silently and slowly crumbling. On the edge of town is a peace memorial marking the end of the last major Taureg rebellion– The Flame of Peace. Here hundreds of AK47s have been set on fire and have moulded and fused into a lump of concrete. The monument is already falling down – abandoned and almost forgotten already and beyond, stretching out as far as the eye can see, the desert, the endless desert.

Djenne – Monday is market day and the place is bursting at the seams. The streets around the mosque are clogged with donkey carts as the traders set up their stalls before the magnificent mosque. A great heaving mass of colour and movement. This is one of the most famous sights in West Africa – the mosque – the largest mud structure in the world. It dominates the central square, standing a few meters above it. There are six steps leading up from the market to the mosque – a journey from the everyday profane and material world to the spiritual sanctity of the cosmic mothership. Well, maybe... Enterprising residents charge a small fee for climbing up to their rooftops to view the magnificent panorama – the mud brick skyline. Of course there are also the inevitable masks and bagolans for sale. Narrow ancient streets thread through the town – there is the stink of shit everywhere as we marvel at the fading beauty of the old town houses. Sunlight and shadows play upon the old walls – the magic as dusk approaches. I have this sense that it would be so easy to disappear through one of these dark doorways and never return.

Onwards to Mopti where we stay in a rather plush joint on the banks of the Niger. Women cover the riverbanks with their colourful washing. We walk down to the harbour – it is disappearing under heaps of rubbish and the banks are hidden under a thick mulchy crust of paper, plastic and cloth. Everywhere people are either disembarking or preparing to leave. The sleek, long pirogues ply their trade – passengers packed in beneath huge piles of goods. Great stashes of huge calabashes wait to be loaded together with brightly coloured mounds of plastic buckets and bowls. As evening falls we watch the pirogue builders, still working by the light of their oil lamps.

The next day we travel along the Niger by pirogue to the Inland Delta. It is a lazy and gorgeous way to travel. We stop off to visit a Peul village. Further back into time – single storey mud houses and a prickly medieval looking mosque. The children run after me – the Pied Piper – we play and play – it is intoxicating. We sing and dance – the giant toubab and them, snotty, ragged and beautiful. It still breaks my heart everytime to think of what will become of these children, what world will they inherit, what lives they will grow up to lead. Further downstream we visit a bozo fishing village – more children and more high jinks. Daydreaming as we sail slowly on, lazing regally on the roof of the pirogue with just the gentle sound of water lapping on the prow – so mellow and I think just how lucky I am.