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Our cook leaned over the edge of the boat, a limp chicken in hand. I looked on, feeling slightly queasy as she began plucking the bird furiously. Soft, white feathers drifted like billowing smoke and came to rest on the murky waters of the Niger. It wasn’t long before the fowl was stripped bare. That would be our dinner for the night. It was as fresh as they come.
We were bound for Timbuktu. Our vessel was long and wooden, with a rattan roof that you could climb out onto and lie in the sun listening to the faint rustle of reeds. The body of the boat was lined with rows of wooden slats for seats and a key feature was the makeshift toilet at the back. It was nothing more than a hole in the floor surrounded by flimsy wooden walls that were close to collapse. Squatting proved to be quite a challenge and aiming was virtually impossible.
One morning a great herd of cattle crossed the river just in front of us. The herder was swimming right alongside the cows, urging them on and trying desperately to steer clear of flailing feet. They got very close to our boat – we could see their wide eyes and frantic, flared nostrils. Wilder creatures in the form of great, hulking hippos wallowed lazily along the bank. They barely lifted their cumbersome heads as we glided past.
It took two nights to get to Timbuktu. Each night we moored on an embankment and pitched our tents in the wilderness. After our stomachs were filled with delicious chicken and rice, we sat around a roaring fire late into the night. Jordan played his guitar while we bobbed along to the tune, occasionally swatting hungry mosquitoes that hummed in our ears.
When we reached Timbuktu, we felt as though we’d been on an epic journey. It somehow seemed right that it should be difficult to reach, as people have created this image of the city as a forgotten, almost mythical place.
The city consists of a series of dusty roads lined with mud brick buildings. Rows of freshly made bricks were baking and turning pale in the hot sun. In the afternoon we relaxed in a local bar, which was merely a shack filled with plastic chairs and a crudely constructed counter. Children clothed in dirty hand-me-downs played happily in the streets with deflating footballs, ecstatic smiles on their faces.
The following morning we rose early to embark on a camel trek into the surrounding desert. The smelly beasts lumbered across the low dunes, threatening to toss us off their humps on each downward slope. Outside of the city, we came across desert dwellings; houses that were dome shaped to keep out the sweeping sands.
It wasn’t long before we were due to leave Timbuktu, but not before having our picture taken under the city sign in the square. Now we had proof that we’d been there.
While we waited for the convoy of jeeps to collect us, a horde of children came out to ogle at us. The longer we waited the friendlier they became. I had four of them clambering all over me, inspecting my alien red hair and scratching at the weird tattoo on my arm. I grabbed one of them by the hands and swung him in a big circle until he squealed with delight. Then they all wanted a turn. They elbowed each other and raised their arms as if to say, ‘pick me, pick me!’ I whirled children around until I thought my brain might pop. They hung onto my arms, desperate for more fun. When the jeeps arrived I climbed inside and looked back at the cluster of kids, with their frantic waving arms and disappointed faces. They probably rarely saw white people in these parts. I waved goodbye and watched them disappear into the clouds of dust kicked up by the wheels of the jeep.
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Our journey back to base took all day. The bumpy sandy road became tiresome, but I had time for reflection. Wherever I went in Africa my most memorable moments were of the people. And now I’d been to Timbuktu! Not many westerners can say they’ve done that. I closed my eyes and pictured the children and their smiling faces, while a hot breeze rushed across my face through the open window, caking my skin with layers of dust.
Copyright © 2009 Gayle Bentham
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