Leaving Timbuktu
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…
Tags: Travel
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