Niger River Project

The bush around Niamey is barren and seemingly lifeless. Yet, strangely, it’s home to reputedly the last herd of wild giraffes in West Africa.

The day after Dan arrives in Niger, the two Estonians and us arrange for a taxi to take us into the bush to try and track them down.

Leaving Niamey, we pass fields of litter and detritus. Niger, like every other African country, is fighting a losing battle against a rising tide of filth. Plastic bags are the main scourge, half burried in the ground like strange crops or fluttering – like giant fruit bats – from trees.

After about an hour, we stop to pick up the local guide that is compulsory for viewing the giraffes.

I ask the guide why, in the whole hugeness of West Africa, it’s here that the giraffes have chosen as their last stronghold. ‘Acacia trees,’ he responds. ‘You find them in other parts of West Africa, but here they’re particularly big and abundant – giraffes won’t eat anything else.’

A few kilometres down the road, the guide orders the driver to leave the road and plunge into the bush. It’s more dramatic than it sounds; here the bush is snooker table-flat. Importantly, though, there’s a profusion of large acacias. It looks promising.

Before we proceed any further, the guide doles out a big, fat caveat. ‘Of course, there’s a chance we may not see any giraffes,’ he warns. ‘They’re like hippos or any other wild animal: they free; they go where they please. Be prepared for the worst.’

But his warning proves unfounded. Within only a few minutes of turning off the road, we spot our first giraffes, three of them: a mother and her two children. Our guide has earned his money.

They’re a fine sight. Graceful and silent, they roam effortlessly from tree to tree, stopping at each to savour its thorny delights. They don’t seem in the least bit bothered by us, instead shooting us the occasional inquisitive glance. Other than that, they go about the serious business of eating as if we weren’t there, with the gourmand’s dedication to his food.

We move on and clock six more. This group contains a male, a real brute of an animal, at least six metres high. There’s something prehistoric about giraffes; they seem to break all natural laws of proportion and scale.

But there’s also an incredible gentleness about them. Maybe it’s something to do with their big eyelashes and docile looks. I leave the bush – and the giraffes – with a profound sense of peace.

One thing I don’t understand though: why does having a blue tongue better equip giraffes for dealing with thorny acacia trees? Answers on a postcard please…

After Tabaski, leaving Ben to return to Djenne with Cat, I decided to head off to Hombori, Mali’s very own Monument Valley, with Trevor – an Aussie travelling in Africa for a year.

The bus that we took from Sevare looked no worse than any of the other beaten up vehicles leaving that morning, but it proved less than up to the task. We wheezed to a stop on several occasions, the resident grease monkey being kept firmly on his toes.

Trev and I had been assigned two fold down seats over the back steps. We both looked down quizzically at the empty space that should have formed the bit you sit on. They were then produced, matter of factly, from the overhead shelf and we sat, semi reclined, allowing ourselves a rye smile: we had a relatively obscene amount of leg space. My luck was to drain away quickly, though. And severely.

During one of our impromptu stops, and the obligatory deconstruction of our seats to let everyone off, my money belt with my passport, and I went our separate ways.

Exactly when and where, I have no idea, but having extracted my bags from the bowels of the bus on reaching our destination, I realised what was missing, and knowing I had already checked under the seats, I turned to Trev and said: ‘Mate, I’ve got a really bad feeling about this’.

The bus was crowded with turban clad Touregs, who took the opportunity on one of our stops to conduct an ad-hoc prayer session. It’s possible that the belt fell out here and is still there – unclaimed booty – but not likely. More probable is the assumption that someones prayers were answered: they pocketed the money and destroyed the passport.

Needless to say, this event has slightly influenced the last two weeks!

I carried on with the trip to Timbuctou with Ben and friends, an opportunity not to be missed, then returned about a week ago to Bamako to sort out a new passport and decide on what to do next.

Here, Mohammed from the British Consulate in the Canadian Embassy (the is no British Embassy in Mali) took up the case with a smile and a refreshing ‘can-do’ attitude. He was due to fly to Dakar in two days, so he agreed to take my application with him and return at the end of the week. Meanwhile, our trusted Malian friends Sekou and Adama, together with a returning party of Bens’ friends provided much needed moral support.

With a rather humbling and extraordinary team effort, I find myself here in Niamey with Ben once again, new passport with new visas in hand, just a week after returning to Bamako.

Thanks to everyone already mentioned, and a very supportive family back home…

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