to Timbuktu and back

The illustrious city of Timbuktu, founded by Taureg nomads in the 1100's, is located at the edge of the Sahara desert and a few miles away from the Niger river, making it a prime location for trading. In the years following, the city flourished as salt trading, its main revenue, carried its weight in gold.  Through the city's wealth it also became a city of learning, with numerous universities and Qur'anic schools, thus acquiring national acclaim.

That acclaim turned worldwide in the mid 1300's when the ruler of Mali carried so much gold with him (180 tons worth) on his way to Mecca, that when he stopped in Egypt the Egyptian currency lost its value and put both Mali and Timbuktu on the map.

Centuries later, legends of Timbuktu drove European explorers to seek out the fabled city. The first recognized explorer to reach the city was British Captain, Alexander Gordon Laing, but was killed upon leaving.  Since then it became more than just a quest to find the city of gold, but to return home alive. Rene Caillie, a French explorer, was the first person to accomplish the feat through cunning maneuvers.  And now my name has also been added to the success list, as I too can say I have been to Timbuktu and back.

For here am I sitting in a tin can, far above the world

On the many flights I have been on in the last 30 years, I have only been nervous twice.

The first time was on a flight from Zanzibar to Nairobi when the pilot exclaimed over the loud speaker, "Have a safe flight!" 

The second time was on my flight to Timbuktu.  After we reached a safe altitude, the co-pilot became our steward as he pushed a trolley down the aisle and handed out croissants and juice.  Half way through his duties, the captain also left the cock pit to use the bathroom... located at the back of the plane.  Longest three minutes of my life.

Now, I know planes run on auto pilot, but there's a security in knowing someone is keeping watch-- just in case, right?

Dispelling the myth

Timbuktu. The local your mother threatened to ship you off to unless you stopped acting up. A city paved in gold. The point of no return. And to some people, a purely fictional place. 

Being in Mali, country of previously stated "mythical location", I felt it my duty to find out if any of the above statements were accurate.  Well, all except the one about your mother threatening to ship you off, because we all know that's true.

To be quite honest, my desire to visit Timbuktu was the catalyst behind showing up in Mali at all. I just didn't know if that desire was going to be fulfilled, since the city is quite literally in the middle of nowhere-  not to mention advisories warning not to go (advisories including threats of Al Qaeda in the region).  My parents have often stated I have selective hearing... and this time was no exception. So Bremen and I decided we should at least try to give it a go.

Tuesday morning we were at the airport at 6am. The one flight of the day left an hour later.  We got in line (there are two, one for each airline) and were immediately told by two Germans, who were predatorily guarding the line, that we'd have to try the other airline. They stated they chartered the entire plane to Timbuktu - all 30 seats, and there was no way we were getting on. So we went to the other airline only to find out they didn't fly to Timbuktu that day. When we stepped back to the end of the line of the initial airline, the Germans again made it a point to tell us we weren't getting on.

In vain efforts to discourage us, they explained that because it was a holiday (Muhammed's birthday) the flight was full. Instead of giving up, we told them we'd check with the airline representative. In turn they preached that it was futile to try to get on a flight the next day or the day after because those flights would be full as well. After each attempt of discouragement, we again repeated our resolve to check with the airline; with our smiles growing bigger and their disgust showing more evident on their faces.  Nearly exasperated, they tried one last attempt by spewing out it was pointless thinking that if, by some miracle, we did get a flight up, we'd be lucky enough to get a flight back, because certainly they'd all be full too.

Smiling, we went to the front of the line where the representative asked us wait off to the side. So we waited. And waited. And continued waiting for 40 minutes. Fifteen minutes before the flight was to take off the Germans came up to us, with a changed demeanor, informing us we may be in luck. Five minutes later the airline representative explained that two people from the Germans' party never showed up. Meaning, there were two free spots on the fully chartered plane. Two! Just for us! It was perfect.

With ten minutes remaining we rushed through all the details of purchasing and paying for the flight, filling out documents, hurrying past customs and a security check in order to arrive at the gate before it was too late.

But we made it, right on time to join the Germans and local government officials on a flight to Timbuktu. We even managed to maintain smug looks on our faces as we passed by each one.

Photographs made of words

It is hard for me to think of a place I've desired so much to photograph, but felt unable to.  Photographing people and certain buildings in Mali is taboo - and with hundreds of eyes watching the white girl, it leaves little opportunity to sneak in shots.

Bamako is a vibrant city: the people, the mud/concrete homes, the red dirt that sticks to your shoes, feet, legs, and everywhere else on your body. Women dress in colorful gowns with bold prints and head wraps.  Motorbikes zoom in and out of traffic, with most motor boys wearing an airline provided eye mask around their nose and mouth to protect them from the smog, instead of a helmet to protect them if they fall.

Walking around the city on a Monday provides a stark contrast to the quiet weekend. The streets are filled with movement. People (mainly men) congregate at their food, sim card, or tire stands made of plywood. Women sit outside washing clothes in buckets, lining the clean linens on the local football field -turned stadium's fence. One woman multi-tasks by washing her naked baby's feet in one bucket while another continues washing clothes in a second. Most women walk around with baskets on their heads full of items; men with items hanging from their necks. Boys huddle around Foosball tables covered by the shade of a tree or a makeshift roof.

My less than rudimentary French was my crutch. All conversations lasting around 3 seconds - enough time to say a basic greeting of hello and how are you. I was waved over a few times by men who would take my hand and start up a conversation in French. I'd smile, trying to find a perfect moment to ask if they speak English and explain I'm American. They'd take to the news as warmly as they had started the conversation. They'd try hard to communicate in the 5 English words they knew, and then would revert back to French, leaving me clueless as to what they were saying. I could only guess what the conversation was about.

One gentleman called me over from the street to the wall he was leaning against. His smile showed his rotting teeth, two of which were missing from the front of his mouth. He took my hand, asked my name, told me his, then asked where I was sleeping by pressing his hands together and placing them by his ear as he tilted his head. I pointed to myself, repeated the same gesture he had, then added the words 'mon ami' while pointed in the direction of Bremen's house. He understood, although (from what I gathered) he still informed me that if I need a place to sleep, I was welcome at his house and he proceeded to pointed out where it was. I thanked him and continued on my way.

Ten minutes later I was approached by a boy in his mid 20's. He spoke no English, but also asked if I had a place to stay. I again tried explaining I was visiting a friend. He offered me his number, just in case, and led me to his house, since I was in no hurry to get anywhere.  Along the way people would say hello and ask how I'm doing. All very friendly and polite. When we reached Mohammed's house, he led me into the courtyard where 2 women, 3 men and a few children were gathered. They each greeted me warmly, one (who was ripping up meat in a bowl) even offering me her chair. I graciously declined. I shook hands with each person then said goodbye. They thanked me for coming.

Having arrived from a country where people are closed and look inward instead of out, I tried wrapping my head around their hospitality and generosity. Maybe it has to do with the warm climate, leaving people with warm hearts.  Or maybe their poverty has left them with a greater sense of humility and charity. Unfortunately I wasn't around long enough to figure it out - if there is a reason at all.   I'm just grateful to have experienced it.

Bamako residental street

Malian tradition

Overlooking Dogon Country, Mali

I never knew upon my entering Mali I would return home with a new name. What's more surprising is that I was in the country less than 24 hours before shedding the name my parents spent nearly 9 months deciding upon. Naming your own child must be an arduous process... after all, it is (most likely) the name he/she will be known as for the rest of existence. But naming a stranger-- that can be done in seconds.

Bremen, the friend I visited, and I had stopped at a fruit stand near his home the afternoon of my first day in Bamako.  One of the locals at the stand asked my name.  After introducing myself, she looked at me, smiled and then told me my new first name.

Later in the evening, on the way to a dinner party, we entered a taxi which was already occupied with 3 other women (besides the taxi-man, which is what all drivers are called).  We crammed our way in and made small talk. One of the women asked the taxi man his name and discovered their last names were the same.  They began laughing, then asked us what our names are.  Once Bremen stated I had no last name, they offered me theirs.  I smiled and accepted the offer.

It was as simple as that, and was the only name I used during my stay.

So you too can decide whether you'd like to call me by my birth name or my new Bambara name, Awa Sangare.  Because I now answer to both.

You're going where?

- I'm going to Mali!

- Oh nice, I love Maui.

- No, no... not Maui, Mali.

- I leave on Friday for Mali... can't wait.

- Wow, world traveler! How long are you staying?

- Just one week.

- You're going all the way to Bali just for one week?

- Oh, no, not Bali... Mali - West Africa.

- You're going to Mali? You're not scared?

- Not one bit!  I'm counting down the days.

- Claire!  Haven't you seen Sahara??

- No, why?  Should I? 

- Well, probably not now.  But I think you're crazy for going.  Just be careful...

- I really don't know how I feel about your going to Mali, Claire.

- Mom, I'm going to be fine.

- Well, what about all the advisories warning people not to go?  I tell you what, I'll reimburse you half the price of your flight if you promise not to go.

- Thanks but no thanks, I'm not passing this up.

- But what if you're abducted and turned into a sex slave??

- Haha... one could only hope.

Small Market in Timbuktu, Mali

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