Northwards on the Niger

Two hundred and fifteen years ago Mungo Park sailed down this river on the fateful journey which put an end to his life and exploration in some rapids in northern Nigeria. What he saw on the riverside must have been quite similar to the spectacle that unfolded before us, the hundred or so passengers sailing north on the fast, small river vessel Modibo Keita (right below) making its way between Mopti and Timbuktu’s harbour at Kabara where it moored yesterday.

                                                                      

The sun bakes the vast unchanging river  landscape where there are three colours only : the blue of the sky and the water, the green of the pastures where large herds of cattle graze tended by their Fula shepherds, and  the burnt umber of the earth and the small mud- built villages which dot the shore, but only infrequently in this sparsely populated region. These three colours have been muted and unified by fine layers of  sand from the Sahara into which this  river flows against all geographical likelihood in a northward great arc.  There is almost no sign of modern life in these villages: no satellite discs, no corrugated iron, hardly any cement buildings.  At night the darkness is complete along the shore. 

Decades ago I journeyed down this river for the first time. My memories of that time are different: a livelier scene with more river traffic, more stops at small village ports when the pirogues made their way to the ship to try and sell their produce-mainly fried fish- to the passing ship. That time the ship was the larger and slower General Soumare, which is still used during a few months a year,  but now the water stands too low. I was lucky to catch one of the last journeys on the Modibu Keita.

My fellow passengers were a fairly homogenous bunch of relatively prosperous merchants or civil servants from the Timbuktu region on their way home having spent Maoloud with friends and family in Mopti. The tickets for the 24 hour journey cost 38000FCFA (E58) for a seat on the communal passenger deck. There are also cabins to be had at a costly 180 000FCFA9 (E274).  The journey by road Mopti-Timbuktu by local transport costs only 15000 (E 23) but it is beset by dangers from assorted bandits and anyone with a modicum of means will choose the river. There were four armed FAMA (Forces Armee MAlienne) soldiers on board, occupying the top deck as look-outs and checking all baggage before allowing the passengers on board.

I opted for the seat on the communal deck and did not regret it.  With typical Malian bonhomie the  travellers at my table had soon  incorporated me into their little group. Next to me sat Ibrahim Toure, the General Secretary of the Mairie of Timbuktu. He was attacking Hamza Maiga, the administrator of a prominent Timbuktu NGO sitting opposite me, calling him his ‘slave’. Then he turned to me and suggested that he would sell him to me. Would I be interested? He was not worth much and he would sell him quite cheaply. Maiga objected vehemently and insisted that Toure had got the wrong end of the stick. It was in fact Maiga who would sell Toure to me.  They were engaging in cousinage, the  jolly banter between the different tribes of Mali. Only this time the two protagonists were both from the Songhai tribe. But there is a difference well-known to all Malians, based on a legend of what happened between the Maiga and the Toure in the mists of time, which makes all and sundry able to understand and join in with the teasing, which never fails to provoke hilarity among Malians. There are many who believe that this aspect of Malian social behaviour is the reason which has cemented together the tribes of Mali and prevented the types of inter-tribal violence which has marred so many African nations.

(Some journalists and commentators are now trying to simplify aspects of the present Malian situation by explaining, for instance, certain troubles in central Mali as a tribal problem. Ancient battles have recommenced in the villages of the Macina, the inland delta,  which have been deserted by the law and order  previously provided by the state. The pastoral Fulani are set against the sedentary tribes of the Macina,  and this is described as a problem of race. This always makes me very angry.  This is not a problem which has its root in race but it quite simply  an economic problem. If your cattle invade my fields and destroy my livelihood I will take revenge whatever tribe you happen to belong to. It is not because of your race. I know that is a fine point and in practice it looks like a tribal feud, but it is in the interest of Mali to  promote the truth and that is that Mali’s tribes do not hate each other, on the contrary. )

Another member of the jolly band of travellers at my table was Mme Nana, a land owner from the Commune rural  of Dire.  The owner of six hectares of rice, she was a well-to-do lady. She had fled Dire when the Jihadist invaded in 2012, accompanied by her very sick husband. He died in Mopti one week later. She could not get help for him: the Mopti hospital was overwhelmed by the wounded Malian forces, fleeing Gao in tatters. I remember this moment too well. A Malian father and son arrived at my hotel in Djenne from Mopti. They did not speak at first and they did not want to eat. Finally they described the scenes they had witnessed in Mopti as the Malian army arrived, some bare feet, some incoherent and seemingly drugged, barely able to stand and having had nothing to eat for days.  
 Madame Nana continued to Bamako where she lived for two years before returning to her farm. 

The journey was punctuated by three good Malian style meals, all included in the price. There were continual films on the big screens: some produced by the film making neighbours, the Burkinabe whose soap operas of village life never cease to amuse  Malians. These were interspersed with Indonesian video nasties with much demonic goings-on and much blood spurting while  handsome heroes flew  through the air in impossible Kung Fu acrobatics.

At three thirty in the morning we docked  briefly at Nianfounke, the home of the celebrated late Ali Farka Toure, the blues man of Mali. This feels like the beginning of the North, and now we had arrived  within the territory claimed by the insurgents during their ten month occupation in 2012. 

Once arrived at the Timbuktu port of Kabara the following afternoon at three, I was immediately called over by the local Gendarmes. Who was I? What was I doing there? Why was I on crutches?  Why was I on my own? How long was I staying? Why was there no one there to look after me and greet me? (I must say, I had been wondering the same myself. It turned out later that a misunderstanding was the cause, not neglect..) I was given escort by the gendarmes to their head quarter in the centre of Timbuktu, where I was interrogated by the chief, as well as a nice Spanish man  from the MINUSMA, (the UN mission to Mali) who asked the same questions. Then they called Imam Essayouti from the Djingareber to  check my story. When he had confirmed that I was telling the truth they finally escorted me to my hotel, where I  had dinner and then slept for 14 hours.