"On 20 April (1828), at sunset, I entered Tomboctou the mysterious and I could hardly contain my joy. My idea of the city's grandeur and wealth did not correspond with the mass of mud houses, surrounded by arid plains of jaundiced white sand, which I found before my eyes."
The attraction at this time of year was the annual Festival-au-Desert in nearby Essakane, an oasis at the confluence of a number of desert trade routes. Nomadic Tuareg tribes from throughout the southern Sahara region traditionally gather here once a year to trade, race camels, and generally socialise, “look for a wife, widen the gene pool”. In recent years, the music program has become a greater focus of the festival, the compulsive rhythms and chants of the music of the desert, and the seductive appeal of Malian music in general attracting a small but growing number of intrepid Western visitors to the event.
And so I jumped into PJ&P's 4x4 to join a few hundred other “babou”, as us whites are called, along with the couple of thousand locals and nomads, for what is billed as the most remote music festival in the world. Driving at speed is required in these conditions, keeping up momentum so as not to get stuck, and it was a hair raising and exciting ride through the dunes. Travelling in a convoy of four or five vehicles meant there were more hands to help when one foundered. On one such occasion, when we were all pushing, I noticed with disbelief the three middle aged Germans still seated inside. I can't think what was in their minds (they didn't pay for this?), but I for one wasn't going to help push them, and stepped back! It was strange this reaction of disconnection from what is happening around. I'd noticed a similar thing on the ferry across the Niger River the previous night. After the four or five hour endurance trip to get there, then night falling on the river bank, and the eventual boarding onto the small pontoon for the hour’s ride across to Timbuktu, two middle aged American ladies remained in their vehicle reading! For others of us, getting onto the ferry then setting off to chug across the Niger River at night, the two banks a half mile apart barely illuminated by the starry sky, was a somewhat magical experience. (I had actually seen this phenomenon in a previous life as an Expedition Leader driving passengers across a desolate, spectacularly beautiful altiplano in Bolivia, or maybe remote, dramatic mountain passes in Tibet. Perhaps the fact of someone else being in control means there's more energy needed to engage with where you are, and this then reduces with fatigue? I had seen it a number of times though still didn't have an answer. One of the visiting Paddy's was a great example of the opposite, having a seemingly endless reserve of enthusiasm, energy and curiosity about his surroundings!)
The whole experience was guaranteed to revitalize any jaded music fan, and for me was a tremendous success – I had high expectations for the weekend, and they were exceeded! The unreal moment was lying in the warm sand outside a Tuareg tent in the late afternoon, listening to Liam O'Maonlai on harp and Paddy Keenan on low whistle playing with Afel Bocoum and some of his superb musicians. Three days was enough - I was nearly overwhelmed by it all, beaten into submission by that very persuasive Malian rhythm stick! I think the same could be said for PJ&P!
As Timbuktu doesn't have many road options –- the same road out again didn't appeal - I bade farewell to the three lads and put the bike on a pinasse, a small local river boat. Sean the Aussie joined me with his bike. (He'd made it to the festival after riding ‘til 11pm the previous night, getting to the ferry the next morning, before hopping onto a 4x4 in time.) We had negotiated a price of €75 each, including food, and set off with a few other westerners on board for the lazy three day trip upriver to Mopti. It was a strange sight, our two bikes nestled together on the small boat.
To take a trip along the River Niger in Mali nowadays, I'd read, “you will find your boatman speaking at least half a dozen quite distinct languages or dialects in the course of a normal day, including Mandekan, Soninke, Wolof, Fulani and Songhay”. Seeing life from the river also allowed a privileged glimpse of the mysterious Bobo people, fishing from small, poled dugouts as they've done for centuries.
Chugging down one of the many channels in this inland delta, we would glide past a small collection of huts on a spit or sometimes an island, firewood stacked in a tidy pile on the river bank, smoke rising from cooking fires, little evidence of the twenty first century,– until I spotted a 'Fifty Cent' t-shirt on one fisherman! On the three day trip, we passed numerous mud built settlements on the banks, many with small though impressive mosques. Occasionally a public transport boat would pass us coming down river, seriously heavily loaded with goods, sometimes alarmingly low in the water. The river communities, cut off from any road access, depended on the river transport for trade and supplies.
Midway through the trip we pulled into Niafounke, the home town of Ali Farka Toure, to stock up on food and fuel. In Essakane I was in the company of a small group talking with Afel Bocoum about his memories growing up here, and of Ali Farka. Emphasising his discomfort with being labeled his 'musical successor', he paid tribute to the man and his musical influences. With no roads, radio or TV, music was very important for communication and was very much a part of life here. This obviously was the case in the desert as well. I couldn't help but draw (fanciful?) parallels between the supposed 'Blues' sound from here and the American deep South, both poor isolated communities on river deltas! In answer to another question about the poverty found here, Bocoum claimed, ”We believe white people have bountiful riches falling from the sky! Here we have the water, we have the human resources, the question is, what is missing?“ I had heard Bocoum had an Irish connection (one of his wives is Irish!). He had been to Ireland on holiday, and liked it a lot, finding the musicians were 'open', in his words. He enjoyed learning new melodies from them. (There was a slightly rushed attempt at a collaboration at the festival with Liam O'Maonlaoi on harp and the piper Paddy Keenan on low whistle joining him and his band on stage. To my ears it wasn't successful, neither of the Irish lads appearing too comfortable, and speaking to Paddy Keenan afterwards I'd be surprised if he continues with the experiment. Perhaps the circumstances weren't right.)
Also travelling on the pinasse was Damian, an entertaining travel companion, who had a successful world music website www.fly.co.uk. He was keen to pay his tributes to Ali Farka, and so Sean, myself and a Swiss girl who came along to interpret, hopped off the boat promising the 'capitaine' we wouldn't be long, and traipsed up through the dusty, mud town in search of the family home. On the way was the bustling old traditional market enclosed in mud walls, a few acres in area. Stalls - shaded with large mango trees, or woven grass mats overhead supported by crumbling, old mud posts - displayed everything a household living on the edge of the Sahara and the river may need to get by.
Iron basins of grains and dried pulses, a modest variety of vegetables, small smoked fish fillets splayed out in rows, a table with a recently butchered goat, large tablets of salt, display cases of cassettes, bolts of colourfully designed cotton, plastic kitchenware in bright primary colours, hardware and iron farm implements. On reaching the house, Damian respectfully enquired whether we could enter, and was ushered in, the rest of us tentatively following. We were very sensitive to the fact that the man was less than a year buried and were careful to observe proprieties. However we were made to feel very welcome in the family compound, introduced to one of his wives (he reputedly had three including a Dutch woman, and had maintained another wife and home here in Niafounke,– which is perfectly in order in this culture), his brother's wife – a strikingly noble and handsome looking woman who seemed to hold the authority, and various children and nephews. Though very traditional with all life being lived outside in the dusty courtyard, the dark kitchen a mud built outhouse, the home had a discernible sense of comfort and of comparative wealth. I believe we displayed satisfactory deference, as the family seemed quite comfortable with Damian's questions, and volunteered to show us around, first to an outside room where Ali Farka would rehearse with other musicians, and then in to a lavishly decorated lounge where some of his awards hung, including the Grammy certificate he received with Ry Cooder for the album 'Talking Timbuktu'. Apparently the statuette for the other Grammy, 'In The Heart of the Moon' with Toumani Diabate was held by a brother.
Some of the late Ali Farka Toure's family in Niafounke
On leaving, the sister-in-law insisted a nephew accompany us to the 'Hotel Ali Farka Toure' close by. This is where the great man recorded his final album 'Niafounke'. After taking the obligatory tour there and buying a crate of beer for the boat, we made it back through the sandy streets to the river shore, finding our pinasse still there!
At the fall of evening, we would pull onto a deserted sandy beach and put up our tents for the night. It was lovely to rest on the sand, a fire flickering in the dark, the Niger flowing a few yards away. I was beginning to really get the hang of the enforced idleness of the boat journey. It allowed plenty of time to reflect on and savour the many unforgettable memories from the weekend in Essakane, in fact the whole trip to date, and to contemplate the next stage –towards Central Africa.
Riding the Niger
Sunset on the Niger
Arriving into the river port of Mopti after the three day journey up from Timbuktu
Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer from the steps of the mosque, Timbuktu
