constanttrek

The good life

March 16th, 2007

Sometimes it amazes me that one can walk only 100km or so, and yet have so many adventures…this past week has been a real whirlwind of colour, change, challenge and, best of all, joy ; and I am back in lovely Gao to tell you about it. 

I returned to the camp with Moussa ag Mohammed, my new guide, and a friend of his, who owned the four wheel drive I returned in.  The four hour trip was rather a blissful change from the ten hour truck haul, if rather less interesting to write about ! 

It all seemed, for a short time, as if for once things would go smoothly – Esman was waiting in the village with the camels, he seemed content to leave, and even took tea with Moussa and I, confiding that he was exhausted and looking forward to going home.   

Yep.   

Right up until the point where he realised that I wasn’t paying any more than the half of the complete price to Menaka that I had already advanced him. 

To put this into perspective :  Tomboctou to Menaka is some 750km.  Tekumba, the village we were camped nearby, is about 60km short of being halfway to Menaka.  I had agreed a price of 500,000 CFR – about 1500 dollars Australian, an extortionate sodding amount – to get to Menaka, and advanced Esman half of this in Tomboctou, knowing full well that I had Gao as a get off point if I wasn’t happy.  In Gao I had put aside another 50,000 – about 150 dollars – as payoff money, in anticipation of just such a dispute.  We also had a written contract, witnessed by police, which clearly stated that I could terminate the agreement at any point, so I wasn’t overly worried about getting out of it – but I was prepared for a battle. 

Oh, and what a battle I got. 

I smiled and handed him 25,000 out of the fifty I had in reserve, said thankyou and goodbye, and suddenly - it was Harraba all over again :  ‘give me my money !  I’ll walk to Menaka !  Let’s go !  I don’t leave without MY MONEY !’ 

Now I had kind of forseen this, hence handing over only half of my reserve – I have learned some tough lessons regarding money negotiations here, and there was no way I was going to get stung again.   In Africa – and particularly Arabic Africa – a dispute is considered public property.  Nobody takes offence at every onlooker for a mile around (I do not exaggerate) entering the debate and taking sides, often heatedly.  It is not remotely uncommon for kangaroo courts to be held on every corner. 

So it didn’t suprise me when the advocates for both sides began to line up, and the grand argument began – should ‘le blanc’ (me) walk all the way to Menaka with Esman, or alternatively pay him the full 500,000 (this being the position of Esman and the several Arabs who had taken his side) or should Esman accept the fact that he had already been paid for the kilometres he had walked, and was in addition being paid a bit extra to get home, and just go (my position, obviously, upheld by the majority of onlookers from Tuareg to Songhai to Arab). 

In short order it became obvious to all that no solution was in sight, and so a delegation of local worthies was called.  In an hour we had a mayor, the heads of every local tribe, marhabouts, military commanders, and every onlooker who could fit into the mud hut of the chief of the village. 

Esman and I both told our stories, and were asked a series of questions.  I have been through this process in one way or another a couple of times, and I am always impressed by the civility and orderliness of the proceedings ; it might to a European mind seem a sodding great fuss over nothing (eg : you idiot Esman it’s a forgone conclusion, just take the money and piss off) ; but I have a huge appreciation for the dignity, good humour, and grace shown by the participants, and this was no exception. 

Esman didn’t get it, though, and although all of the persons of note gave their considered opinion to general nods of agreement that he should just take the money and go, he was sticking to his guns, and his Arab cohorts were screaming racism, since the chief was Tamashek and there was no really senior Arabic leader there. 

So one finally arrived, from a neighbouring village – and a hush descended immediately, for this, it was plainly obvious, was NOT a man to be messed with.  He asked me a few brief questions with great courtesy ; then spoke with great respect to Esman.  In minutes he banged the floor with his stick, and with immense good humour, calmness, but nonethless no mucking about whatsoever, told Esman how it was going to be.  This was the moment I had been waiting for ; with a great show of wanting to maintain good relations, I offered the seething, mutinous Esman the remaining 25,000. 

You may think I’m crazy – but you don’t let a man like Esman lose face in front of a whole village – not when you are about to leave town for a remote area, and he has a pack of local mates who know every route. All were mollified at this outcome, and Esman actually shook my hand, at the insistence of the Arabic chief – after the handshake in such company there is no room for him to commit a wrong.  (Interesting that the handshake was not insisted on until after I had offered the extra money – it takes time to learn how this stuff works, but had I not done so, and then been attacked a few kilometres from the village, the consensus would have been that it was my own fault for not playing the game right, no matter how many sympathetic noises would have been made.) 

And so, after six hours, the matter was concluded, and Moussa and I set off. 

Only the problem was – due to an (in retrospect) humorous misunderstanding , Moussa had not realised he was actually meant to walk.

 It is a confusion in French ; we had spoken about ‘le marche’ – I had made it clear that I walk 25-30km per day, and when I used the term ‘marche’ it was in the literal sense, of walking.  Moussa had interpreted ‘marche’ in the general sense of “voyage”.  So we had a very agreeable conversation in Gao, where I warned him that it was tough going, and he happily said that was what he was used to doing with donkeys and camels , and had done all his life, he was Tuareg after all and by God, the voyage was his life ! 

Only he thought he was walking and then riding when he got tired, as nomads do. 

So the first day came as a bit of a shock.  And he didn’t tell me, so all I saw was one very ticked off little nomad getting sulkier and sulkier, throwing himself down at the end of the day and not moving, shooting me malevolent glances and muttering in disgust. I guess you can imagine, after the Esman drama, the level of my dismay. 

On day three, we had a particularly rough one – a fierce sandstorm followed by a scenic but traumatic (with camels) walk along a heavily populated path right by the river.  We were barely talking, and I was despairing, wondering what the hell had happened to the lovely young smiling bloke I had hired in Gao. We got to the village and he basically downed tools, took his pack off the camel, and said : ‘I just can’t keep going like this.  You wait here and I will find you someone else – but this is horrible and I won’t do it.’ 

I just looked at him in absolute astonishment. After everything I had gone through in the previous weeks, I just couldn’t believe it was happening again – and so quickly.  And I was so tired, and the sand was hurling, and the villagers were gawking and the camels leaping about unhappily, and I just thought :  oh to hell with this. 

And without saying one word – even goodbye – I just turned around and led my camels out of town. 

I got about five km away and found a canyon with rocks that sheltered from the wind, and I unpacked the camels, and then, I am totally embarassed to admit, for the first time since I arrived in Nouadhibou, I sat down on a stone and the tears just ran down my face. I wondered what the hell I was doing wrong, why I had lost two guides (ok – one I was totally glad to be shot of) in a week ; if I was totally unreasonable and difficult to work with ; and, worst of all, how I was going to walk my three exhausted camels to Menaka without a guide – since everyone in Gao knew about the Esman drama, and also knew Moussa, my chances of arriving there and finding anyone willing to walk with the mad cow Australian woman were looking pretty remote.

And then, just when I really couldn't see much to be happy about, there he came, little Moussa, trotting over the hill shamefacedly with his backpack, and I don’t mind admitting that my little bit of tears turned into a torrent of happy ones at the sight.  He sat down and for the first time we worked out the miscommunication that had led to his anger – he had thought I had deliberately tricked him, I had thought he was a lazy lying sod, etc ; we made tea and had a cracking good laugh over it, and he told me that he would pick up a donkey from a friend in Gao to help him along, and that he was incredibly sorry for losing the plot – but I seriously understood that.  If you are going to lose it, arriving in a village after thirty km in the middle of a sandstorm with cranky camels and an eager crowd, when none of it is a routine you are used to, is a sure time – and I thought it showed pretty great character to come after me. 

And I am really, really chuffed to say, that we have since had just the best time – it is a little like when I was walking with Madani, and had a friend to laugh with.  It has been out the window with all the hard core nomad stuff and in with eat when we feel like it, drink one pot of tea instead of three in the morning, work together, and, best of all, stop for me to use the cameras, in which Moussa has huge interest.   He is incredibly knowledgable about the region, speaks seven languages, is brilliant with the camels, and just great fun – and I am stoked to bits to have found him. 

So we walked here to Gao, and are taking a couple of days to feed the camels up – they are already loads better, and it is bliss for me to walk with someone who agrees with me about where is a good place to stop – and funnily enough the camels began putting weight back on straight away.  It has been good to have my own judgement in this area reaffirmed, as Esman constantly told me I had no idea what I was talking about – strangely enough now that the camels are eating what I want them too, they are getting stronger and are not remotely grumpy. 

The day before we got here, we passed a village holding a huge fete.  I never pull out the camera usually ; but Moussa spoke to the chief, who was also Tuareg, and I was invited to take photos of the whole thing on the condition I make copies.  So the photos littered through here are of the men and women of the village, and as I write this the internet cafe manager is printing the lot off for the chief, with whom I am having dinner tonight.  That is he and I together in the photo – he was giving me his mobile number. He had also heard about the Esman drama, and spent some time telling me very seriously not to be afraid, that the nomads in the area would look after me.  I told him that I have never known a place where conflict is resolved in such a measured, balanced and honourable manner, and that I have met with only kindness and understanding in the villages I have passed in Mali. Which is absolutely true.  I love it here. 

Best of all, I have come back to Gao which I love, and the Camping Bango – this is Moussa depacking the camels in the courtyard – and it has been a little like coming home for me.  I am only here for a couple of days, just to organise Moussa’s donkey and feed the camels up a bit, and we are off again ; but it is lovely to be back in a town I really like, amongst such friendly and helpful people – I am carted around everywhere on the back of one motorbike or another, since the guys at the Camping won’t hear of me walking ; get fed Madame Haowa’s awesome fish kebabs ; and sleep like a baby on the terrace.  The company is great, my camels are happy, and Moussa pops in and out all day long. 

Sometimes it is just when I really think that things are screwed up beyond belief, that something finally goes right (I hope I haven’t just jinxed myself) ; but I am on the road to Menaka in a day or so and I have a really good feeling about it – and then I will be close to Niger !  Yes, I am running late, and it is getting hotter, and I worry about the heat and my camels and the route after Niger.  But I am also still here and for once, things are going really, really well, and I guess that for the first time since I hit prickle country, I feel as if I can kind of relax and actually enjoy being here. So cheers to that, huh ?  

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