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.........