Timbuktu/Tombouctou/Timbuctoo photos

Road to Tombouctou is paved with.....deep sand. That one was deeper than we expected!

Dyingerey Ber Mosque

Discovering Tombouctou

Tombouctou streets

The Grand Mosque, Tombouctou on the site of the world's first university

Linda sharing Malian tea in the desert.

Camel trip with the Tuaregs

There's another new post below this one - keep reading!

The journey south

Deep in the Sahara desert, salt is mined and carried in slabs by camel caravans to Tombouctou (Timbuktu). From there it is transported by traditional wood and canvas boats called pinasses down the Niger river to Mopti. This route and method have changed little in hundreds of years despite the advances of modern technology.

For one week in March, the 2 pinasses of Aliyou Hamadoun carried 30 tonnes of salt, 10 tonnes of grain, several baskets of dried fish, 2 Malian families, 1 BMW R1100GS and 2 sunburnt Irish adventurers along this famous route.

March is in the dry season in Mali and the resultant low water levels cause problem for the navigation of these boats. Sandbanks lurk just beneath the surface. The drivers (Bozo people) know every inch of their river, having lived in harmony with the river for generations. They weave paths between the sandbanks, which is particularly challenging at nightfall! We were prepared for a journey of 3 days and 2 nights, and had the appropriate rations of drinking water and biscuits that we felt would safely see us throught the trip. 7 nights later, thanks to low water levels, and many large sandbanks, we whooped songs of joy as the lights of Mopti were visible in the distance. We were worried that we might be hallucinating, as we had become accustomed to the slow pace of life - early mornings, early nights, no lights in the river villages and a distinct lack of consumer goods (the ubiquitous Coca Cola signs)! The most challenging aspect was never knowing when we'd get to Mopti. Mike might disagree, and say the most challening aspect was being roused at 6am to jump into the river and start pushing the pinasse as we hit yet another sandbank. Mike shattered any colonial myth that the white man lies relaxing on the boat while allowing the natives to do the hard physical work. I, on the other hand, was happy to abandon my feminist principles, and allow the men to push us out of difficulty on every occasion!

Our pinasse carried a family of 2 brothers, the wife of one of them, and 4 children (age 6,9, 11, 14). We soon discovered this was their home. The children's school and playground was the 80 ft pinasse, complete with cargo. The river was their home, and providesd all they appeared to need. The river served as toilet, shower, washing machine, dishwasher, cooking water, drinking water and rubbish bin. They treated us as part of the family, and provided us with 3 meals a day (rice, rice and rice - with fish and gravy for lunch!) You know you're really considered a big sister when you go to the part of the pinasse where the toilet bucket is kept, and you're no longer afforded any privacy, but instead jokingly poked in the arm and told to hurry up!

The kids were completely fascinated by us. They were quite shy at first, and seemed genuinely afraid when I sang a song and tried to play a clapping game with one of them. They spoke only their own language (Sorhei), whereas almost all Malians speak quite good French. We assume this was because, like their parents before them, they had never been to school. It was surprisingly difficult to communicate with kids that age. We couldn't kick a football with them, and the signs we used and thought were universal didn't see to be understood. Eventually we discovered playing cards, and taught them a variety of games, and how to count to 10 in French. I was also quite touched when they named their doll Linda in my honour!

It was a facinating trip watching the steady stream of fisherman in their pirogues and similar cargo pinasses. We gained some insight into traditional village life along the Niger, were in awe at our first sightings of hippos in the wild, and captivated by the beautiful birdlife passing overhead. So, we were glad it took that little bit longer than planned. And we survived with the daily meals and the water and biscuits we had. You see, being Westerners, one always assumes you need more than you actually do!!

Our boat on the right, the bike's on the left.

Linda relaxing on a bed of salt slabs. (That's a faded Malian flag, not an Irish one!)

An Capall as cargo.

Niger by night.

Hippos out for an evening

Typical river-side life.

Wild Irish fisherman pushing the Pinasse

In Mopti, we negotiated with 5 men for them to lift An Capall from the pinasse back to dry land. From here, with 2 sets of stiff legs, we rode to Bandiagara. This is the gateway to Dogon country, where we undertook a 3 day trek through intriguing villages built along the top and foot of an 80 metre high escarpement. The Dogon region has held fast to traditional ways of life. The religion is Animism (worship of ancestors and nature), and gender roles are clearly delineated. The men hold village meetings in low roofed woden structures: so low you have to crouch when inside, thereby eliminating any possibility of fighting. A woman's primary role is to reproduce, and the Dogon women are strong - grinding millet, carrying branches on their heads, usually while pregnant and with another baby strapped to their backs! Life in post-recession Ireland never looked so appealing! The scenery was absolutely breathtaking, and at times reminded us of the Burren in County Clare and the Kimberleys in Australia. We were treated to traditional dancing (very fast footwork!) and our guide introduced us to some fascinating old village people. The kids had no problem in introducng themslves to us. Mike says I look like a female Jesus with dozens of kids trailing behind me!

We've now crossed into Burkina Faso. More details on this beautiful country soon.........

Dogon village

Linda and our guide, David about to tackle the steep descent down the escarpement.

Road out of Mali and into Burkina Faso

Toubabs and Tuaregs in Timbuktu!

Bandiagara, Mali. 6080 miles by road / 350 miles by river!



Africa can't be tamed.


As soon as you think that you're getting a handle on it, it throws something new and unexpected in your path.

There are clocks here but they seem irrelevant as Africa runs to its own beat and all you can do is listen and wait and fall into its rhythm.

Since we last wrote, the adventures have come at us faster than we could imagine.


After Bamako, we followed the path of the Niger river to the historic towns of Segou and Djenne.

Segou was where the Scottish exlorer, Mungo Park first stood at the banks of the Niger and determined it's west-east flow. As we had breakfast on a terrace watching the fishermen push the pirogues out, the current was so gentle that the morning breeze pushed the waves upstream.

Djenne is an island town of mud walled buildings. The centre piece is the 5 story mud walled mosque towering over the market square like a dirt fairytale castle.
We crossed onto the island by means of a small car ferry. But being Africa, the ferry docked straight onto soft sand of the beach.
I've mentioned my interest in riding on soft sand already and when we were leaving the island the soft sand played it's part in a dramatic exit.
The ferry couldn't dock properly so the driver dropped both ramps steeply down into the water about 3 metres from the waters edge.
This required the vehicles to take run at the ferry, through the soft beach sand, into the water on the softer sand and thump, up onto the ramps.
Linda dismounted and pointed the camera.
I lined up; held my breath and let the clutch out.
The sand was fine, the water was grand. but when the front wheel hit the ramp the Capall reared up onto its rear wheel and came down at an angle on the ramp.
At this stage, the bike was only half on the ramp and I was commited so I kept the power on.
The rear wheel hit, to similar effect and bounced the bike even more towards the gap between the ramps.
It did briefly occur to me that this mightn't be my finest moment in biking; just as the front wheel fell off the ramp.
For a Walt Disney minute, the bike dangled with the front wheel out over the water and yours truly leaning back hard, until about 10 local men swarmed the bike and we picked it up back onto the ramp.
Somehow, the only casualty other than the blood vessels in my face, were the front bash plate mounts which did their job and protected the engine.

Two days later we were in Douentza.
From here we headed north off the tarmac on the 150 miles towards Timbuktu.

Timbuktu is that semi-mythical town that we've all heard of but don't think it real.
It had drawn explorers from Europe as far back as the 15th century and most didn't return.
It's not as difficult to reach now but it still ain't no picnic!

We had heard discouraging stories about this section of piste and very quickly found out that they were all true.
Put simply, it was the worst 150 miles I have ever driven.
Many years of heavy trucks had pushed the hard packed dirt of the road into a series of corrugations.
The locals call them escalier (steps) and they were the same effect as driving on 150 miles of cattle grids.
We took three days, cheering when we reached another stone marker telling us that we had just passed another 5 km in the prevous 20 minutes.
At the end of the first day and 60 miles, we rolled into the town on Bambara-Maounde. We were grateful for the stop and the cold drinks but mightily confused as Bambara-Maounde was about 40 miles due east of where the map said we should be.
Africa was up to its old tricks; in this case our Mali map, drawn in 1985, updated in 1992 basically showed the road going the wrong way.
We're still not sure where we actually went but we were always happy as long as the 5km stone marker kept appearing. Every 20 minutes........

As I started the bike in the morning at Bambara; the oil level indicator window blew out the side of the engine with most of the oil following it.
I couldn't blame it - I wasn't too keen on setting off on more of the same track either.
About an hour later, it was back in place with chemical metal and instant gasket but this was a very lucky save. If this had blown out while we were on the road, the first I would have known would be that sound of pistons welding themselves to cylinders followed by a bang and then silence.

On the third day we entered Timbuktu.
Even after being there, it's still semi-mythical.
Narrow alleys led a labryth through mud-walled building which haven't changed in 1000 years.
Tribes and ethnicities meet and mix; Songhei, the orignal settlers; Fulani and Sorhei, the river people; Tuaregs, the blue-robed nomads of the desert; and Toubabs, us!
Since Senegal, every child that sees us shouts "Toubab, Toubab"! At first we thought it meant hello or welcome, but eventually discovered it meant, simply and accurately, White Person.
And that's how we're known. Children seem to be able to call Toubab before they can walk and it's the backdrop chorus everywhere we go.
Timbuktu is on the edge of the desert and we took a trip into dunes in a way that The Capall couldn't manage. We took the original ship of the desert and tried not to fall off the back of wo camels.
The reference to ship must be because of the up and down motion the rider feels when they walk.

We have a lot more to tell but to give my fingers and your eyes a rest, I'll finish this post now.

We're leaving for Burkina Faso tomorrow but when we get there we'll tell you about the 350 miles by river! And no, I didn't drop the bike in the water.........

Some more photos

We've found a decent internet connection so we're finally putting up some photos.

Malian village off the beaten track with great kids.



Senegal dust.

Fixing the Capall in Chefchaouen, Morocco.

Charming the snakes in Marrakesh?

Marrakesh sunset.

Mauritania. Sahara. Linda. Camels. Sand.

Impromptu music with Mauritanian holy men.

Linda surrounded by Senegalese kids in St Louis.

Parque de Langue de Barbarie, Senegal.

Linda being taught how to cook, Senegalese style. Louga.

Kids!

Dust and duct tape.

Bamako, Mali. 5220 miles from home.

Heat.
Habits learned in north Europe cause you to wait for the water to heat up before you step in.
Then you remember this is Africa and although hot water is unlikely, you really wish the water will stay cold.
It feels like the water has soap already mixed but it's actually the perfect film of sweat covering you.
This is 9am. If you left it any later to get out of the tent, the heat inside would start to drain whatever energy you have.

Bamako
Bamako is pure Africa. The city heaves in the heat as thousands of mopeds, laden with over-sized boxes buzz around while the crowds mill in the markets. Everything and everyone seems to be moving but the speed of the vehicles is offset by the deliberate, slow pace of the pedestrians. A slow pace to conserve energy in the sweltering temperature.

We're camped by the Niger. It's wide with many little islands and for me it's difficult to reconcile how easy it was for us to travel here with the many Europeans explorers who died trying to find this river 200 hundred years ago.

The other paradox is that while in many ways, this is a modern city, 60 miles from here people are eking out an existence on arid dusty land.

Driving
When we were planning this trip, we looked at maps of the continent with roads marked as being passable only in the dry season.
I wondered how the bike would hold up and I wondered how I would hold it up on the sand and gravel.
I have to say that our overall feeling has been one of surprise at how easy it has been.
That's not boastful - it's simply that the road conditions range between ok and perfect!
We've ridden over 5220 miles. In total, approximately 60 miles of that have been piste (dirt track). The rest has been asphalt with much of it billiard table smooth.

The bits that challenge can be grouped like this.
Non main roads into villages. These are usually dirt and dust but the surface is consistent and easy.
No Mans Land or either side of a border crossing. These are the worst roads as neither government wants to spend money for the other to benefit.
Road works where the traffic is diverted off the main road onto piste.
Towns! The lesser streets in most towns are dust, dirt and sand. Junctions are the worst where the sand is twice as deep.

I'm happy driving on the dirt and dust but the deep sand is horrible.
When we were planning how to load the bike we tried to keep the weight as even as possible between the wheels, but the natural and easiest place to put stuff is towards the rear.
So, especially when the fuel is low in the petrol tank, the bike is weighted toward the rear.
On most surfaces it's no problem whatsoever but in sand the rear wheel digs down and the front wheel lifts out and starts acting like a rudder.
At these moments, poor Linda has to hop off and walk past the difficult section. I stand on the pegs, leaning forward, let the clutch out quickly and power forward at 20kph with a spray of sand behind.

Dangers on the road? No.
We'd heard horror stories about the driving standards in Africa. This is our fourth contry and so far it's been grand.
Taxi drivers don't use the rules of the road but what's new there?
The main thing we've been watching for are livestock wandering on the road.
Cows, camels and pigs are easy to deal with as they lumber slowly across.
Goats scamper as soon as they hear the bike or the beep of the horn.
Donkeys are the most troublesome. They move quickly and usually at inappropriate moments.
Our nearest miss was a trio of suicidal donkeys who threw themselves in front of An Capall as if they were part of a Donkey Suffragette Movement.

The heat is the biggest factor for us to deal with. Our thermometer was reading 43 degrees yesterday and that's with the wind blowing over it.
Actually the wind is hot. When I open the visor of my helmet, I feel like I'm checking to see if a roast chicken is cooked.
We changed Linda's helmet to open-face which has cooled her down.
However, with the thick dust and the sweat and sunblock on her face, when she takes off the helmet she looks like a 1950's racing driver. As if I don't find her attractive already!

An Capall Mor
The bike is holding up the finest.
Three of the four indicators are held on with duct tape and the neutral light sometimes appears in 1st gear but that's the sum total of problems.
The off-road tyres are wearing but not significantly.
We've cleaned the air filter but haven't needed to change it. That surprised us as the dust is so thick.
Duct tape has been a major part of the journey.
It's held on bits of helmets, blocked holes in tubes of glue and in mosquito nets, holds on the intercom leads to our helmets, sealed the sides of the toolbox, stuck sunglasses together, and hold bits that we are finished with, but need to keep under the boxes.

Washing
The dust gets everywhere.
We ran out of clean(ish) clothes yesterday and so spent 4 hours hand scrubbing today.
And I mean scrubbing!

Hello
Finally, but certainly not leastly, a special hello has to go Baby Molly and Baby Jack who made their appearances in the last few weeks.
Welcome to this cool world and we look forward to having a chat with you when we get back!