January 15th, 2007
The following post was written on the back of a long, tough stretch, and not in the best of spirits, so today I decided to add to it – but to put the add ins BEFORE the rest, so that you don’t go away wanting to slit your throat at what a miserable git I am. Two things I came across on this leg that I would never have anticipated: tortoises and crocodiles. And there you were thinking I was in the Sahara. But it’s true; they both exist here, though not perhaps in the usual fashion. The crocs, yes. Just like in Australia, there is the odd waterhole that plays host to reptiles of the large, scaly, and scary variety. I was extremely skeptical, and kept thinking I was misunderstanding what was being said, but there was no mistaking the drag marks where a large camel had met his downfall. I was invited by excited locals to stay and watch until I spotted him, but I have seen enough of crocs in my life to sadly decline. An interesting lesson though – don’t plan on camping anywhere near waterholes. Not that they turn up with great regularity anyway. And the tortoises – well, they are a big deal here. We stopped in a tent for tea one day, and I was invited to sit on a lovely looking cushion in the corner. I was vaguely suspicious of the keen stares, but I get stared at a lot, melekhva or no melekhva, so they didn’t set off any big alarm bells. Just as I lowered myself the “cushion” moved, and the assembled nomads collapsed in screaming fits at their favourite party trick, as the poor old tortyoise stumbled out. They are popular here and kept for their shells, from which the nomads make jewellery to sell. But I can’t help but feel sorry for them; it just doesn’t seem fitting for stately old tortoises to be party tricks in a Saharan tent. Every now and then my Western squeamishness wins out, I guess. The other thing I am glad to be finally able to say – whether it is because I am close to the Malian border or not, I don’t know – but the women suddenly got friendlier. One actually walked to our camp with a small goat as a present, and as we were totally hanging out for a feed of decent meat at the time (and I say that without any irony – you know you have been here too long when the sight of a tiny goat gets you salivating) I accepted it and went to get some money. But – for the first time since I got to this country – she waved me away in horror and said it was, actually, a present (a REAL one!), and what she really wanted was for us to come and eat in the tent – if Mohammed would slaughter the goat, she would cook it. I was so bowled over in shock I nearly kissed her; instead accepted with alacrity, and enjoyed every mouthful, washed down with goats milk made the best way – shaken into a yoghurt and then mixed with sugar. I love that stuff. That was by far the best day I had on this stretch. So, now you can read the depressing stuff. Here goes the post as I wrote it last night – I apologise in advance for the upcoming moan session: I am crossing my fingers that this actually works. I don’t hold out any high hopes, to be honest. This should have come to you from the desert. I thought the problem was with the solar panel; turns out the laptop – the newly fixed laptop – aint so fixed as I thought when it worked in Nouakchott. I am not going to go on ad nauseum about all this, but I can only say is that to get out into the desert, after all that traveling and military style organisation, and discover stuff wasn’t working – when it had a day before – was one of the more dispiriting things that has happened to me on this walk. I’ve no idea when things will alter, either, and I am sick of saying they will, so all I can say is hang in there and put up with sporadic posts for the foreseeable future. I am in Nema. Not Bassiknou, as previously stated; I changed course. In two days I will be heading back out, this time for Timbuctou, and should be there in fifteen to twenty days. It has not been an easy stretch. After another interesting taxi ride – this one direct, no sleep, interspersed at four in the morning by a young man giving me a very earnest lecture on the evils of the West and why I should convert immediately to Islam or be lost forever – I landed back in AAyoun at eight in the morning, and walked the five km back out to the camp. After tea and biscuits Mohammed and I decided to head straight back into town to search for a guide, as the next day was the big fete, and I knew everything would be closed and thus there would be no possibility of buying anything or finding a guide. So we embarked on the usual round of going into a thousand little shops, talking to everyone, letting it be known we were looking; then went and bought everything I would need for the next leg. On our second round of going back to the same shops, about three hours later, there was a bloke in one by the name of Mohammed Lmin. I have a lovely photo of this Plonker, but, as usual, photos aren’t an option here. He didn’t seem a Plonker. He talked well and said he was ex military; neither Mohammed nor I particularly liked him, but his price was right, and he seemed competent enough. There weren’t any other serious options – about ten blokes tried for the role, but I am getting to the point where it takes all of five minutes and ten questions to rule the majority out. I just wish that I had managed to ask the right ten questions of Plonker man. So, despite misgivings, we struck a deal and agreed to walk to his place the following day, about ten km the other side of town. Utterly shattered, I headed back to the camp for one night’s kip. Unfortunately the neighbouring tent heard us return and wanted to get a look at the tourist whose camels had been hanging around for a week, so it was cous cous and tea until midnight, as you do. Or as I would seriously have rather not. But some things in the Sahara are necessary, and walking straight by their tent twice without the usual courtesies would simply have been impossibly rude, so another sleepless night it was. And we got up at dawn and walked. We were supposed to pick Plonker up and keep walking; but it was the fete, after all, and he wanted to rest, with his family. I am no slave driver I was also exhausted, and said I wouldn’t mind resting for a half day. But, it was the fete, after all, and again, impossible to decline hospitality. So Mohammed and I made what we thought would be our last camp, and headed up to Plonker’s tent to eat some festival meat, and drink the tea. Every bloke in the village turned up, and the tent was full of smoking, chatting men, whilst Plonker sat there feeling very happy with himself as they all admiringly said, “Wow, walking with a tourist to Bassiknou! How cool are YOU!” I started to get a bit nervous when he began to talk about walking to Oualata instead – I had already ruled this out. But he said he knew guys there who could get me to Timbuctou, and sometimes it is worth walking a bit out of your way to get the right person for a tricky stretch, so I wasn’t totally unprepared to consider it. But it all came down to money, money, money, and I didn’t like just how obsessed he was with the stuff. Nevertheless we finally agreed to change course and head to Oualata; I was feeling frustrated by this stage, as what I REALLY wanted to do was my original plan of walking direct to Nema, by far the quickest route; but I always try to think a stretch ahead, and if he knew everyone in Oualata and was prepared to help me get the right guide for the harder Timbuktu leg, then I would compromise. So we decided on an (extortionate) price, and Mohammed the Good and I returned to our camp, both not entirely happy, and prepared for the next day. We packed up in the morning, a bit peeved that Plonker was late. He finally rolled up as we finished packing, and I said my goodbyes to the old Mohammed; watching him shamble off with Plonker’s missus, I couldn’t help feel I had just made the most serious mistake of my life. It took me all of five minutes to realize just how big the mistake was. The guy walked like he was a corpse. After three hundred metres (!) he needed to stop for a “break”. After five hundred, he told me he was sick, and needed to buy a donkey to ride instead of walking. I just looked at him incredulously, basically said – “don’t bother” – grabbed a passing kid (thank god we were still on the edge of the village) and told him to run and fetch Mohammed the Good. I had ten nail biting minutes wondering if I was too late, shades of Harraba the Terrible passing before my eyes, cursing myself for my stupidity, terrified I was now stuck with this idiot – who was still smoking, laughing at me, and telling me that he was fine – he just needed to rest a little. After five hundred metres? You must be kidding. Seeing Mohammed the Good shamble down the road, earnestly listening to the kid, was the most glorious sight I have ever seen. He summed the situation up in two seconds, agreed with me that the guy was useless, and relieved him of the responsibility of being my guide. We walked ten km or so in relative silence, then he stopped, we unpacked the camels, made tea, and he looked at me with a little smile and said: “So, Paula, where are we walking to now?” And I could have cried with relief. I told him all about the five hundred metres, and riding a donkey, and needing a rest, and he howled with laughter and offered the greatest insult one Arabic man can give another – “he is not a man.” And we drank our tea, and he told me that he wasn’t tired anymore after a few days rest, and no way was he letting me walk with someone like that. So I told him that what I really wanted to do was walk to Nema, because whether I know anyone there or not, it is the most direct route to Timbuctou, and that is my priority; I said it didn’t matter that he didn’t know the way, as I had GPS and the compass and map, and that I thought it would take twelve days. And he smiled and told me no worries, twenty would be fine if I needed him, and went off to commune with the camels, as he does. And I looked up at the sky and thanked every God there is and ever was for saving me from what would have been an unadulterated disaster. And boy, would it ever have been. Of all the stretches I have ever walked, anywhere in the world, this has been the toughest, by a long, long way. The sandstorms blew up on the first day and have still not stopped. The prickles that we were walking through turned into knee high grasses, also with prickles, and the little ones turned into spiny thorns that drive straight into your feet. We had to zig zag every few days to get to water sources; and I confess I cocked up once by over correcting my navigation ( though not badly enough to be dangerous, just enough to seriously make us both curse the dropped kilometers, and enough to make me damned sure I stopped to check the GPS every hour). Every kilometer of every day was walked against a driving headwind, over tough terrain, and the wind simply never dropped, even at night. Cooking in that was no fun; nor was sleeping. Walking twenty five against the wind and through prickles is nothing like a normal day, and we were both exhausted within a week. Our clothes were ripped to shreds, it was impossible to have a wash, and everything we owned was prickle infested. The problem is they get stuck and infected, and on this leg we both wound up with a myriad of small but nasty wounds, and no real way of fixing them. I have never felt so run down and just plain exhausted in my life – a feeling not helped by the fact that I couldn’t, yet again, communicate. But we still got along like a house on fire, and still had time for a laugh, and all I could think every day was how lucky I was that Mohammed was with me, to be calm, supportive, and just – no hassle. We got to Nema last night and, thank the gods once again, today found a bloke from the same tribe as Mohammed – they know the same people – who seriously knows his stuff, isn’t money obsessed, and has agreed to walk me to Timbuctou, for a reasonable price – less than I expected to pay. He is a good man and I feel safe with him. (Update the following day – he is a good bloke. But we had a slight misunderstanding, and I now realize that he is planning to ride a camel there – says he is too old to walk that far. We finally agreed that he will buy the camel – he thought he was riding one of mine, of which, my friends there is no chance in hell – and I am still happy with him. But I have to tell you I am not expecting things to get any easier on this leg – he insisted I buy a gun, not for people, but for animals – looks like there are things out there a bit nastier than tortoises and crocs after here. He also warned me to get some tough trousers as the grass is waist high and loaded with prickles for the first two hundred km…I just put my head in my hands, which are a mess of sores, and groaned. As the good old Paris Dakar rally is in town, the only hotel is full; so I am staying in a room shared by ten, with no water – “toilet, what toilet, there is a dirt heap out back” – in full view of everyone, but hey, that is why African women wear melekhva. I am the local freak show as normal, and every person I pass explains to their neighbour that I am the Australian woman with the camels and that, GUESS WHAT, I don’t ride them! The excitement at this never ceases. Not for others, anyway. For me, after the fiftieth time every day – and I am NOT exaggerating – the novelty wears off somewhat. I was going to stay here for a few days, but I’m off tomorrow, as soon as we’ve bought the gun, a new knife, and supplies. Man that sounds very GI Jane doesn’t it? Believe you me, I am the most useless thing with a gun you have ever seen, so I am more likely to turn up in Timbuktu minus a foot and a camel than with an animal skin coat. Shall keep you posted on that one. As for the knife? My guides all like knives, and I never have the heart to say no when they eye one of mine imploringly at the end of a stretch – particularly when the guide is as wonderful as Mohammed. This is my fifth knife. Doing well, huh?) I have to cut this short as the place is closing and I am being eyed with hostility; if I can, will add more later. If I can’t, will print it out and read it to dad to post for me – there is still no connection here, and I have been in and out for two days. Thank to you all for the emails. I promise a serious update from timbuctou – there just isn’t anything I can do about this stuff, no matter how annoyed and frustrated I might feel about it. Cheers