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Pink sand

Wednesday, January 31st, 2007

Gao is the former capital of the once great Songhai empire that ruled this part of West Africa several hundred years ago. Today, it’s not all that much to look at, a typical Sahara/Sahel town with wide sandy streets, flat-topped mud buildings and the innevitable piles of filth.

I get the overnight bus from Mopti to Gao, arriving at about six in the morning. Emerging tired and bleary, I’m immediately set upon by the innevitable tout who takes advantage of my state and whisks me off to some dismal looking campement south of the town.

Actually, it turns out to be a gem of a place – cheap, relaxed with friendly staff and other guests, though from first glance it looks a total flea-pit.

I meet up with a young Tamashek speaking local, who introduces himself as Small Guy. I never find out his real name, but he’s a handy fellow and helps me arrange my onward trip to Niger.

The thing I immediately notice about Gao is actually apparent from its absence: here, the children aren’t yelling ‘toubab’ at me every step I take as they do in other parts of Mali. And they aren’t demanding ‘cadeaux’ – the presents that kids in Mali’s touristy areas seem to expect from whites.

‘Here, some of the children are actually scared of white people,’ explains Small Guy. ‘In Timbuktu and Mopti, children’s parents encourage them to go up to white people and demand presents. But here, some adults tell children that white people eat Africans. That’s why they aren’t coming up to you.’

It’s a refreshing chang, and makes me want to stay in Gao for longer. Sadly, I’ve only got one full day here, but in the afternoon there’s time for us to take a pirogue out on the Niger to a nearby site – the Dune Rose – which, as the cunning linguists will know, literally means the pink sand-dune.

Pulling out of Gao in the little pirogue, the dune is immediately obvious, a huge towering eddifice on the opposite side of the river, slightly upstream. We must be a good couple of kilometres from it, but even at this distance its scale is evident.

The river at Gao is wide and divided into a number of channels by swathes of thick aquatic vegetation. My pirogue driver sticks to these areas, as the plants act as a buffer against the strong river current making the going much easier.

After about an hour we approach the foot of the dune. It looks more orange than pink, but the sun is beginning to set bringing out the first tinges of ‘rose’ for which the dune is famous.

‘The dune is sacred,’ Small Guy informs me. ‘Local believe it is home to ancient spirits and every year they come here to make sacrifices to the spirits.’

I can well understand why superstitious locals might believe the dune has magical properties. Its size, for a start, seems to defy all natural laws, soaring at a precipitous angle straight up from the water’s edge, to at least 150 feet high.

We jump out of the boat and start climbing the mound. The sand is fine and deep, and the going tough. Each footstep I take disappears up to the ankle, and it’s a stuggle to get to the top.

When we do though, it’s definitely worth it. The sun is now well and truly on its way down – ‘sleeping’ as Small Guy says – turning the west facing side of the dune a deep coral pink.

Along the ridge of the dune, the wind from the east has blown the sand into a sharp crease that looks like it has been sculpted by an artist with a knife. The windward side of the dune is also now in deep shadow, a sharp contrast to the pyrotechnics going on on the other face.

And the wind, the wind…With nothing to stop it for hundreds of miles as it sweeps over the Sahara, it comes driving over the dune with frightening power. With nothing to protect us, sat perched on top trying to enjoy the view, we’re totally at its mercy – and that of the sand it blasts in our face, filling our eyes, ears and mouths and stinging exposed skin.

Sitting – or rather huddling – on top of the dune, I realise that this is the first point along the Niger’s whole huge length that I’ve managed to get anything like a view overlooking the river and its surroundings. The land through which it flows is so flat and featureless, that not at any point have I surveyed it from on high.

It’s a magnificent sight. Huge and majestic, the Niger threads a glittering path through the dull browns and beiges of the Sahel stretching into the distance on either side.

Viewed in this way, within its landscape, it’s easy to see why the Niger is such an important in this part of the world. Quite literally, it is the only source of life in this harshest of environments. The people who do manage to scratch out an existence here only do because of this geographical freak. How different things might have been had it flowed south and not north from its source 1500 miles away in Guinea.

Ten minutes is all we can handle on top of the dune. The wind defeats us and we tumble and roll our way back down to the safety of the river.

Leaving Timbuktu

Wednesday, January 31st, 2007

Timbuctou High Street.Kitsch imagery in a Timbuctou restaurant.Those with passports have them stamped.Boarding the 'Bak' - to BamakoNear Douhenza.

The festival wraps up after three days of sound, colour and spectacle. Stupidly, the organisers have arranged the event so that the last day falls on the same day as the only weekly flight from Timbuktu to the outside world, so a large chunk of the crowd leaves before the main acts come on on the final night. Nevertheless, they’ve been a memorable three days.

Early on the morning after, we all squeeze back into the 4×4 and hit the piste. Adaman takes us on a slightly different route back to town, but it’s still a white knuckle ride as the car slews its way through along the sandy piste.

We get back to Timbuktu in record time. There’s a subdued air. Not only are we all tired after three days partying in the desert, but today Dan and I will be going our separate ways.

As blog readers will have seen, he managed to lose his passport a week before the festival. If he’s to stand any chance of sorting things out and carrying on the journey, he’ll have to get back to Bamako as soon as possible; fortunately, that’s exactly where Adaman is headed.

My plan is to stay in Timbuktu and find some transport heading east to a place called Gao, towards the border with Niger, the next country on the itinerary. Although the normal route to Gao from Timbuktu is over the river then south through the bush to the main road, I’ve heard there’s a much more interesting route across the desert skirting along the north side of the Niger. My plan is to find one of the trucks that ply this route a couple of times a week and hitch a ride.

I bid a subdued farewell to everyone. We’ve had a fun time together and I hate it when good things come to an end – even though they always must do.

The car disappears in a cloud of dust. As soon as it’s gone, I set out to find somewhere to stay. The hotel which has said I can put my tent up in its yard is depressing, so I decide to look for something else.

I’m immediately leapt upon by one of Timbuktus numerous and incredibly boring touts, who offers to take me to a place. Reluctantly I follow. I’m pleasantly surprised to discover he’s actually brought me somewhere really decent – a huge room to myself in a large family home, and less than a fiver a night.

I dump my stuff and set to work to find some transport. I head to the marketplace where most transport goes from and ask around.

The news is not good: normally trucks do go the way I want, though irregularly, but thanks to the festival and its huge demands on transport, there’s unlikely to be anything for at least a week. My choice is simple: hang around in Timbuktu and wait, or find some wheels going to south to the main road to Gao – the very same direction Dan and everyone else just headed.

In the end I decide to push on rather than skulk around. There are lots of cars still milling around from the festival, so I start hunting around for a space in one of these. I still have friends in Timbuktu, namely the ubiquitous Oumar,and between us we sort something. It looks like it’s going to be expensive, but there’s not much choice.

Funnily, I end up in the same car as the other Ben and Dan, the two guys who came in our pinasse from Mopti. The road heading south from Timbuktu is horrendous. Heavy rain during the wet season and passing traffic have conspired to give the piste a surface like a washboard. Then there’s the thick red dust that comes blasting in through the windows covering us all from head to toe.

To top it off, our car starts playing up. Smoking hubcaps? Anyone ever seen that before?

We limp into Mopti about 12 hours later. Literally as we pull into a petrol station, the vehicle runs dry and we all have to get out to push it to the petrol pump. Talk about cutting it fine…

Desert sands

Thursday, January 25th, 2007
Outside Essakane.  The sand traps us for a while, but Adama maintains a zen like focus.We have the two tents at the top left.  ... <a href=[Continue reading this entry]

Fallen empire

Thursday, January 25th, 2007
A Timbuctou dawnStreet sceneDoorwayGordon Lange's House[Continue reading this entry]

To Timbuktu

Tuesday, January 23rd, 2007
A peaceful crossing between manic Mopti river banksDrying washed clothes, MoptiHeading back the aptly and rather fetchingly  ... <a href=[Continue reading this entry]

Goat bollock, anyone?

Sunday, January 21st, 2007
A spitting bollockOut back in IbiEnjoying the fareWho's the  ... <a href=[Continue reading this entry]

Tabaski

Sunday, January 21st, 2007
Girl drinking at 'Le Campement' IbiIbi villageAtemelou KodioTrev and  ... <a href=[Continue reading this entry]

Digging the Dogon

Wednesday, January 17th, 2007
Bamako Bus StationSanta reaches SegouMince pie anyone?[Continue reading this entry]

Alive and well

Saturday, January 6th, 2007
A festive street scene in Bamako Happy new year to all our readers out there. This is just a quick update to let you all know that we're both alive and well. ... [Continue reading this entry]