Quick update

I'm just online for a few minutes but being as I've been neglecting my blog and have a few minutes before my hour is up at this internet cafe...

A few things I find it hard to belive - I can't believe I haven't written since India! Wow. I left Mali almost 3 months ago??? Which means I've been traveling for as long... all equally unbelievable. Mali seems ages and worlds (in some ways is) away from where I am now yet also it doesn't feel like I've been traveling for that long either. Then again, if I think about all I've done and where I've been, back to seeming like a lot. Hmmm...

I'm currently in Bangkok after leaving Cambodia this morning - I had to make an unexpected trip back into Thailand so I can get to Laos where I'll arrive tomorrow morning making three countries in less than 24 hours (odd because you really shouldn't have to travel through one to get to the other). The short version is: I couldn't get my visa for Laos at the border with Cambodia and since it has been the Water Festival in Cambodia this past week, everything, including the Laos Embassy, has been closed. Thus my detour through Bangkok.

I'm about to run out of time but I'll just add that I counted up all my photos as I just backed them up yesterday and I have 5000 and counting (this is without any editing mind you) so after some time back home I'll have plenty of albums to post. I'll see what I can do though and get you a few while I'm still on the road.

Photos from Northern India

Ladakh, India

Last days in India

Let’s see – a lot has happened since I last wrote an entry – I’ve criss-crossed this country and then some. I’m writing this off-line so may repeat a few things as I can’t remember exactly where I left off.

I had an amazing ride down the mountains from Leh in Northern India (this is back on September 16^th) – both the scenery was amazing (amazingly beautiful) and the ride itself was amazing (amazingly long and bumpy). Really though, the ride wasn’t all that bad and was far better than I’d anticipated – the views more than made up for the lack of comfort. We left Leh about 5am and drove through some great landscapes. The highest pass we drove over was actually higher than I wrote in my last post: it was over 17,500 feet! (5300+ meters) Wow. Talk about thin air. And I was just driving through, not having to walk more than a few feet from the bus – kudos to anyone who hikes up at these high altitudes! It took a full day of driving and we still only were able to descend down to 11,000 feet (Leh was almost 12,000). A nice rest at a guesthouse that even had running hot water and we were on our way again at 7am. We finally pulled into Manali around 3pm and I promptly got on another overnight bus to Delhi two hours later.

I took a couple good photos but all have that spec of dust on them so I’ll need a little Photoshop before I can be satisfied. In fact, I rushed my decent from Leh back to Delhi partly because I didn’t know how long it was going to take to get my camera cleaned (in addition to applying for my Chinese visa). Taking a full two days to handle those two simple tasks, I was on my way further south to Rajasthan and Jaipur.

First though, let me tell you how incredibly frustrating it was to get my Chinese visa! The extensive list of documents, letters, forms, copies, etc. was ridiculous: two page application, one passport photo, photo copies of my passport data and Indian visa pages, cover letter stating my purpose for visiting India (where I intended to stay, how I would financially support myself, etc.), confirmed hotel reservation for the duration of my stay (silly since who would believe I was going to stay in Beijing my entire trip), copies of my flight information with confirmed departure flight, invitation letter from a friend already residing in China, copies of her passport data, visa and residency permit pages, past three month’s history of my personal bank account (since that was insufficient I also needed a letter of financial support from a family member with copies of their past three months bank account transactions)!!! On top of that, since you need your passport to travel around India (to stay in hotels, buy train tickets, etc.) I also needed a letter from the Chinese Embassy stating they had my passport while I was applying for a visa, a letter from a travel agent explaining the same thing, extra copies of my passport data and visa pages, and the receipt from my visa application. Ahhh!!! It wouldn’t have been such a pain in the @#$ but they kept leaving things out that I needed or would then tell me that I needed to write something differently – I had keep going back all day waiting over an hour in line each time! So frustrating!

Ok for those of you from the US or Europe that just skimmed over that last paragraph – go back and read it. That experience is nothing new to many foreigners from pretty much any country other than Europe and the US who have applied for a visa to the “west”. In fact, for them it is even more complicated with marriage certificates, deeds for property, more letters, forms – the list goes on and on. Essentially, just know that is what they go through if they ever want to. I knew it was a hassle but it was a humbling experience for me in a way.

Ok, back to Jaipur. I found this great website called couchsurfing.com – something that I’ve actually been doing throughout most of my travels but now I can do it much more simply and be a little more content with going to sleep at a stranger’s house whom I’ve never met before… I stayed with a wonderful woman named Yogi up in Delhi and she connected me with numerous others since which have had great influences on my trip thus far.

In Jaipur, I ended up staying in what has become the Jaipur Aiesec (a student group I was in back in University that helps to organize internships abroad) trainee house where I got to meet a bunch of great people. I didn’t get to spend much time with my actual host but did get to chat a fair bit with the various trainees staying there – from Colombia, Turkey, Tunisia, England, Germany, Poland, etc. Arun and his family were gracious hosts and pointed me in the right direction for my brief visit to Jaipur. I skipped some major sites so will have to do a return trip and hope to see them on my way back through whenever that may be.

On my second day, after taking a few pictures my camera just totally died! I was devastated! If you know me at all, you’ll know that photography during my trips is a big deal to me and not even being able to take photos was really hard. It is one thing to have some dust on the sensor that can at least be photoshopped out later but an entirely different story when you can’t take anything at all. I must have sat at the bottom of the Amber Fort (which was quite impressive) for almost an hour trying to figure out what to do: my next destination – literally that day – was Agra and the Taj Mahal. I couldn’t go to the Taj and not take a photo! The nearest place that could fix my camera was back in Delhi… after Agra though I would just keep going in the other direction, so if I was going to get it fixed, it had to be now. I walked around the Amber Fort, admiring the place and recording it with my eyes. In a way, it was an interesting experience since I am so used to traveling with my camera. To go somewhere so beautiful and not take any – to just appreciate it for what it was. I still prefer having my camera.

By lunch time I was back on a bus north to Delhi so I could be at the Canon place the next morning when they opened at 8am. To do this, it meant staying in Gurgoan, the tech/business park and lucky enough for me I met a nice guy on the bus up that offered me a flat dry place to sleep for the night.

I’ll leave it there as I’m going out to meet some friends for dinner in Delhi…

As always, stay tuned!! ;-D

(Oh and I have tons of photos – I just haven’t found a good place to upload them yet… don’t worry I’ll get some up eventually!)

It's snowing!

Well first, I'll bring you up to where I am and how I got here...

Writing from Leh, Ladakh, Northern India at almost 12,00o feet...

The rest of my trip out of Africa and onto my first plane in over two years (a bit of a feat for me - in fact might be the longest stretch I've ever done in my life) went well. I left Kumasi the next day (after my last post) and travelled by bus down to Accra with one of my friends from Mole Natl. Park. We crashed at her friend's place and just chilled for the next few days - went to a beach and hung out, made some friends and finished my book (Shantaram, which I highly highly highly recommend). I got a chance to see an old friend from my last trip in 2007 and went off to the airport for my flight on Friday, September 5th. I left Africa. Wow, can't believe I'd been on that continent for over two years! I still don't really know what to say... I guess the best i can come up with is that I was ready to move on. Don't know exactly what I'm moving on to but none-the-less, move on.


(Sorry I'm going to have to make this short as the power is out and I've just been told there are one a few more minutes of battery... yeah, still in a developing country)


I flew Emirates to Delhi via Dubai and having a ten hour layover, I had to leave the airport. My flight landed at 6am and my next flight wasn't until 3:30pm. I figured I would go grab breakfast somewhere and then an early lunch with a little sight-seeing before heading back to the airport. Not so simple. First it took over an hour to get from the airport to downtown and more importantly, second, it is Ramadan - nothing was open to eat! I'm used to Mali and being respectful to the Muslims who are fasting but at least there they accept that there are other people who aren't fasting and as long as you're discreet, it isn't a big deal to eat and drink. Dubai on the other hand, you can get a fine for eating or even drinking water in public. After hitting up some hotels (too expensive) and then a mall (food court closed) I found a Carrefour (a large supermarket) where I could at least guy some food (I found TimTams!!!) - anyhow, after getting this lovely food, it was by now almost noon and I was starving.

However... i couldn't eat my food! I asked around where I could hide away for a few minutes but the only suggestion I got was go sit in a bathroom stall! Eventually, I found a closed restaurant where I hid to eat. Next, I was off to the airport for my flight! And thus was my experience in Dubai! The mall I choose to go for their food court also was the one with Ski Dubai - wow, talk about something extremely out of place!

Overall, my opinion of Dubai is: not worth it. If you're en-route to somewhere else and can stop there for a day, sure. Otherwise, it is just a giant shopping mall with crazy buildings that shouldn't be there. On any undeveloped land all you have is sand - essentially, the entire place was sand and they've built this crazy city where it doesn't belong. Sure the tallest building in the world is there but really - Dubai isn't worth it. If you want to go driving on sand dunes or ride a camel, there are better places.

My time in Dubai did have a highlight though: when I was back at the airport and went to sit down to wait for my flight, I sat down and looked up to find none other than a Cinnabon! Talk about fortuitous! That totally made my day. Remember, I'd been living in Africa for more than two years - Cinnabon was one of those things I dreamed of having... not something I really ever went to in the states, but live in Africa for two years and you'll understand.

Well, the batteries seem to be lasting (no fast high pitched beeping yet) so I'll keep typing...

I arrived in Delhi about 9pm on the 6th, a day and a half after I left Ghana. My wonderful aunt arranged to have someone pick me up and I'd found a place to stay using couchsurfing.com. Really a great introduction mostly because it let me ease into India. Sure it is my first time here, but it wasn't as much of a shock as it would have been for someone coming from Europe or America - Africa is different sure, but it wasn't as in my face as it could have been I suppose.

I took it easy in Delhi and only really got out to sight-see my third day there (my second was a monday when everything is closed). I didn't really have any plans upon arrival as to what I would do with my next month in India. In fact, I hadn't even opened the outdated lonely planet from 2003 I got just before leaving Mali. Some people might be shocked to hear that I didn't really have a plan (whatsoever) but really, some of my best trips have been ones where I just figured it out when I got there... and I did just that. The woman that so graciously offered me here hospitality and a place to stay when i arrived took me to a friend's house the next day. That friend used to write for guide books in India and lead trips in the Ladakh region of Northern India - needless to say, she was a bit inclined to suggest traveling up there and the next day I bought a ticket north to Leh.

Little did I realize what I was getting into! For starters the airport I flew into is the highest commercial airport in the world at almost 12000 feet! I would have to adjust to the altitude, ok I'm from 8000 feet in Colorado, shouldn't be too big a deal... oh wait, I've been living at sea level for the past two years - nope, I arrived a little after 6 am, was checked into a hotel and lying in bed by 7 where I stayed for the next 12 hours! Wow. I have never been away from altitude for so long that I really felt the effects - sure I've had a small headache or a tiny shortness of breath but this was a whole nother level. Now I know, and can really sympathize with all those tourists coming to Aspen. (I will say that 12000 feet is a little different though...) :-p The view out the window was magnificent by the way - I'll try and get some photos up when I head south and internet isn't so expensive.

Next, I had to borrow some clothes so I didn't freeze when I got here. 12000 feet means pretty cold - I wasn't planning on coming up here (remember, I didn't have a plan and even when did think about what I might do, going north where it's cold was pretty far down my list). When we landed, the pilot annonced the local weather: 3 degrees! (37 F) It was a bit of a shock to say the least. Delhi was 40 (104 F) and I'd just come from Mali where during the hot season, it got up to 52 (125.6). I'm now about to leave tomorrow morning and I've asked for additional blankets just about every night since I arrived - I'm up to at least 7 and I'm still cold in the morning! I'm going to have some adjusting to do when i get back home to colorado, but at least there I'll have some proper warm clothes...

Leh feels like Tibet. It is nestled in-between Pakistan and China in the Himalayas and there are lots of beautiful monasteries perched on the sides of mountains. Amazing. Again, I'll try and get some pictures up another time. Part of the reason I came here right away was there has been a festival here with lots of traditional dances and other various activities. The other, and more important one is the later I waited, the colder it would be.

I'll just say that it was great and I'm really happy I came. I'm ready to get going though as it snowed a bit today and as we'll be driving south over some of the highest motor-able passes in the world (over 5000meters/16400feet) - it is time to go. I don't want to be stuck here for the winter! Of course, I'm really just ready to see more of India!

Ok, the beeping started on the batteries... Oooo! Before I forget, I saw the Dalai Lama today! (No time to proof-read so sorry for any errors!)

I'm not in Delhi

Just a quick post to let you all know I'm alright and was not in Delhi today. I'm up northern India in Leh in the Ladakh region and should be heading south in a day or two.

I don't know many details, but there were a series of bombings around Delhi today. Click here to read an article.

My trip is going well and will try and put up a full post about my travels before I head south.

Elephants!!!!

I'm going to have to interject into my story about my trip last may and come back to that later.

Right now, I'm in Kumasi Ghana after going to Mole National Park. I spent three days traveling from Bamako, Mali (oh by the way - I'm done with the Peace Corps... minor detail I'll come back to later). I made great time (if you would consider 3 days on African transport tolerable) and got in late the night of my arrival. Got up early (6am) the next morning to go on a "safari" - really just walking around with a guy carrying a big gun to see some animals. We didn't have to go far, they were all over the place! In fact, on the night before when I arrived, there were some warthogs blocking to door to my room - nothing a few pebbles couldn't fix. Anyhow, we saw a bunch of different kinds of antelopes, more warthogs, baboons, monkeys, and elephants! Wahoo! I tried three times since I've been here in West Africa to see elephants and finally got my chance - thrid times a charm as they say.

I'll keep this short (as my posts from now on may become) since I'm writing this from an incredibly slow internet cafe - and I need go catch my bus to Accra. I'll upload photos when I find a faster place.

I'm going to the beach just west of the capital for two days before going back from my flight on friday to Dubai and onto Delhi India!

Peace Corps to Pare Ranks of Volunteers

Thought you might be interested in this Washington Post story about Peace Corps' financial woes. I might note that the annual Peace Corps budget is equivalent to what amounts to a rounding error in the calculation of the overall US federal budget...

Despite Bush's Goal of Doubling Program's Size, Tight Budget Forces Cuts
By: Christopher Lee Washington Post Washington, D.C.

The Peace Corps, the popular service program that President Bush once promised to double in size, is preparing to cut back on new volunteers and consolidate recruiting offices as it pares other costs amid an increasingly tight budget, according to agency officials.

The program, which has a budget of $330.8 million, is facing an anticipated shortfall of about $18 million this fiscal year and next, officials say. Much of the gap can be attributed to the declining value of the dollar overseas and the rising cost of energy and other commodities, officials said. That inflates expenses for overseas leases, volunteer living costs and salaries for staff abroad, most of whom are paid in local currencies.

Those factors "have materially reduced our available resources and spending power," Peace Corps Director Ronald A. Tschetter wrote in a July 22 letter to Rep. Betty McCollum (D-Minn.), a member of the House Appropriations subcommittee that funds the program. "Tough budgetary decisions must be made now in order to ensure a financially healthy agency next fiscal year," he added.

The agency estimates its foreign- currency-related losses at $9.2 million for fiscal 2008 alone, spokeswoman Amanda Beck said yesterday.

In part, the program is caught in the political standoff between lawmakers and the president over the federal budget. If, as seems likely, Democrats delay final passage of the spending bills that fund the government until after Bush leaves office next year, programs such as the Peace Corps could be forced to operate at current funding levels indefinitely, administration officials said.

Beck said the agency could experience another $9 million in losses in fiscal 2009 in a "worst-case scenario" in which the agency has to operate under a year-long continuing resolution.
But that scenario is very unlikely, McCollum said yesterday, noting that her subcommittee has signed off on the agency's $343.5 million budget request and its Senate counterpart has approved $337 million.

"It's only going to be a short amount of time before a new budget gets through, and the Congress is committed to moving Peace Corps in an upward direction," she said, adding that the agency should ask for short-term supplemental funding if it needs it.

Beck said the "best course of action" would be for Congress to approve the president's full budget request. In a July 21 letter to Tschetter, McCollum wrote that she had "serious doubts" about the agency's plan to close regional recruiting offices in Minneapolis and Denver by Jan. 1.
"It is my goal to see a growing number of highly qualified, diverse and determined Americans of all ages committing themselves to serve our country as Peace Corps volunteers," she wrote. "Achieving this goal will require . . . a strong nationwide recruiting presence."

Tschetter described the closures as "mergers" with other offices in Chicago and Dallas that are part of a move toward a "field-based recruiting model" expected to save $1.5 million. Thirteen people will be reassigned to other jobs in the agency, officials said.

The tight fiscal climate also means an anticipated scaling back in new volunteers next year by 400, wiping out planned growth and leaving the overall number of volunteers at about 8,000, according to Tschetter. Volunteers serve for 27 months and are paid a stipend of about $2,500 annually.

Managers at Peace Corps headquarters in Washington have been asked to cut their budgets by 15.5 percent. The agency even plans to stop providing copies of Newsweek magazine to volunteers in the field, something it has done since the 1980s.

"It just seemed like an extravagance," Beck said. "Everything is under consideration, including the director's travel."

Kevin Quigley, president of the National Peace Corps Association, a nonprofit group of former volunteers, said, "I worry about what the [budgetary] implications are for the next president, who we anticipate will have plans to expand Peace Corps."

Established in 1961 by President Kennedy, the Peace Corps provides skilled volunteers to other countries while promoting mutual understanding between Americans and people of other nations. About 190,000 volunteers have served in 139 countries since its inception.

The 8,079 volunteers today number the most in 37 years but are far fewer than the goal of 14,000 by fiscal 2007 that Bush set in his 2002 State of the Union speech.

Expanding the program remains a popular idea. Sen. Barack Obama (Ill.), the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee, has pledged to double the size of the Peace Corps by 2011. Sen. John McCain (Ariz.), his Republican counterpart, has praised national service and said there should have been a stronger national push to encourage people to join the Peace Corps and other volunteer organizations after the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks.

Pictures from our hike to Telimeli

Walk from Doucki, Dongol-Touma to Telimeli

Hot Season Trip – Guinea (Part Deux)

As things tend to, I keep saying I’ll come back and write the continuation of a story, post, etc. but I always get consumed and carried off by whatever and wherever life takes one here in Africa. I will stop apologizing – it’s just the way things are.

Now let’s see if I can start where I left off: Getting off the beaten track of the touristy Fouta Djalon (beaten and touristy is actually a stretch, I was already off the track) and onto the remote road between Pita and Telimeli which truly is a track - at best.

After some delays getting from Labe to Pita due to some sort of strike – not a good omen for this fragile country – we arrived in Pita and set off to find Koumi-Berri, the chef du syndicate for vehicles towards Doucki. The sept-place still had some spaces to fill (with us it was already eight) and we took advantage of the time to stock up on supplies for our trip into the bush. Being unsure what we would be able to find, we played it safe and bought everything we would need for the few day stay in Doucki and the couple day trek from there to Telimeli. Having limited space and heavy bags (we would be carrying everything we had packed for the next month), the food consisted largely of spaghetti, maggi cubes, small cans of tomato paste and a couple onions. It was going to be a bit bland but it would get us there… Inch’Allah.

Two hours waiting in Pita, an equal amount of time crammed in a Peugeot and then a quick 2km walk to Doucki – we arrived just after dusk to the great hospitality of Hassan Bah. Hassan is a character – he speaks French, Italian, Spanish, and English along with a slew of local languages – a rarity doesn’t quite cover it. About ten years back, a Peace Corps Volunteer, working in a next-door village, stumbled upon his wealth of knowledge about the surrounding area and helped him establish himself as a local guide. He has since perfected his trade and now provides a unique, if rustic, experience for those wishing to explore the surrounding hills, canyons and cliffs. The benefits of his tours – bringing foreign tourists along with their foreign cash – have been spread amongst his family who in turn spread it to the wider community. It is a great example of the community being truly invested since they see the direct and positive impact of it on their lives. Although – it has not extended so far that they didn’t start cutting down large tracts of forest to clear land to plant rice… but I will get to that later.

Chris and I got settled into our mud hut, took cold-water bucket showers, and had a nice meal of rice with manioc leave sauce. After another night of good conversation we retreated to the candle lit hut for a little reading and sleep – it was to be a big day tomorrow. We arranged to go on a large loop through the surrounding area with Abdurahim (Hassan’s brother since he was busy with family obligations after a recent death in the family). He was to take us through most of the major sites in the area – with help from that Peace Corps Volunteer – they all had been given catchy names such as “Indiana Jones” and “Hyena Rock”. This part of the Fouta Djalon is referred to as the “Grand Canyon” of Africa and rightfully so, it was by far one of the highlights of my time in Guinea. In fact, after Dogon Country in Mali, it is the most picturesque place (other than some of the beaches I suppose) that I’ve seen on my travels here in West Africa. If you were to take Dogon, make it a canyon, add lots of green, take out all the little animist villages, make it even more remote (if that’s possible), and you have something close to this beautiful area of the Fouta Djalon.

Doucki is situated on the top of one side of the quasi canyon and we set off the next morning passing “Hyena Rock,” descending past the “Bob Marley Stage” and down to the valley floor. After walking along a little stream for a while, our guide materialized an eclectic lunch of rice, avocado, tomato, maggi, and sardines – surprisingly good (at least to someone who doesn’t have access to avocados…). From there we needed to get back up to the top of the cliffs, 1000-1500 feet above, by making our way through a narrow crag in the cliffs – aptly named “Chutes & Ladders”. It was a steep climb up ‘ladders’ of bundles of bamboo poles lashed together with vines. It wasn’t quite the rainy season when we went in early May but had it been a few weeks later, they surely would have been more like “chutes” ;-) Upon reaching the top, it was a little after 3pm and still the heat of the day. Rather than continuing on in the blazing sun, we found some pools and took a refreshing dip before finishing the 15km loop back to Doucki.

Early the next morning we started our more than ambitious if not mammoth trek from Doucki to Telimeli – over 70km away. Looking back, it sounds a bit silly that we were going to try and attempt that in two days. Hassan accompanied us for almost an hour and a half for the first 7km where we caught a passing mini-van ~6km to Dongol-Touma. Having what was to be our last meal of rice (compared to our bland spaghetti) and a cold coke, we set off just after noon. The first day was pretty much all downhill and we covered a good distance going a little over 20km. Not quite as dramatically scenic as Doucki, it still merited a few photos. Unfortunately, the air was smoky from all the slash and burn going on to clear land to grow rice. We tried to reason with Hassan one night about how they were mutilating this beautiful area to make way for rice. Ultimately, however, feeding your family will always overrule almost any argument – even though they understood the value of maintaining the local environment for its tourist value – that could not compete with their basic need for food.

We persevered down the never-ending road descending all the while and even though we improvised a nice little short-cut – by sunset we were still a ways from our night’s destination of Ley-Mira. Luckily for us, someone passing (of which there may have been three all that day) offered to give us a lift the remaining 16km. In general, the people along the way turned out to be incredibly nice – we were frequently loaded up with all the oranges we could ever want, let alone carry. Using our water purification tablets to be safe, we were welcomed to fill up wherever there happened to be a pump. Pumps weren’t in every village but they were frequent enough so that 2 liters could sustain you in-between… in fact I was quite surprised by even the small number we did come across in that extremely remote area. One sign that really emphasized the degree of sophistication that existed in Guinea was how there was almost always a cement building in every family’s compound – something that is very rare outside large cities in Mali let alone tiny villages in the remote backwaters of the country. Anyhow, after our new friend Abdoulaye Berry gave us a ride to Ley-Mira, we were well fed and showered before stretching out on a mat in his hut to sleep.

Being woken before sunrise, we were almost pushed out the door by 7:00 and on our way. It was four flat kilometers to a ferry crossing where the road started its gradual ascent towards Telimeli. Of course it wasn’t that simple, there was a sign just a few yards past the river, which was a little less than clear. We decided rather than go off in the wrong direction, we would wait a little while for someone to pass and ask which way to go. However, that was a bit optimistic being as remote as we were. Finally, a car did pass and kindly answered all our questions: “Is Telimeli this way?” – “Yes.” “Is Telimeli this way?” – “Yes.” “Which way is shorter?” – “Yes.” “Where are you going?” “Yes.” Great, thanks for the help!

We tossed a coin, went straight and were rewarded a short walk later by a water pump and people that truly were helpful. Relieved we’d chosen the correct road, we continued on and by mid-morning, we were tired and just wanted to get there. Where we had originally wanted to walk the entire length, Chris and I had an unspoken understanding that if a car did pass we would take a ride. Marching on in silence up the evermore-inclining road, our feet hurt, shoulders hurt, and we drudged on. Still an unknown distance from our destination, we ran out of water and couldn’t seem to find a pump… the last two we had passed were both kaput. While stopping a short distance from one of those pumps to rest, a villager who’d seen us approach the broken pump came over with a jug of water. This was a very generous gesture as the last water source was at least two to four kilometers away. We gratefully accepted the water, filled our empty reservoirs, and added our purification tablets – the half hour wait couldn’t come soon enough. The water was probably well or river water and wouldn’t be a good idea to drink, but still not knowing when we would find the next water source, it was our only option.

About a half hour later, just as we were starting to consider drinking that water, we walked into a tiny village where we determined Gougouja, the town were we could continue onto Telimeli was not too far away. We resolved to press on and wait to get water there. By now of course, it was well into the heat of the day and we finally pulled into Gougouja about 2:30pm thoroughly exhausted and parched – waiting another painful 30 minutes for our tablets to do their trick. We ate some rice and sauce for lunch and waited almost 3 hours for a car to take us the remaining 45 minutes north to Telimeli – just as we were loading our bags onto that car; another one pulled up and passed us coming up the road we’d just walked.

The next morning, we were up early once again to catch transport to Kindia, about a 3.5-hour drive south. The journey passed unspectacularly – unspectacularly since nothing went wrong and there were no delays. The scenery was actually quite pretty and we had plenty of chances to appreciate it – we all frequently had to get out and walk up a hill while the car drove up to meet us at the summit. Does the fact that that seems normal and doesn’t register as a unique or special event mean something??

In Kindia, we had a short wait (two hours) before finding a car going to Madina-Oula on the Northwestern border of Sierra Leone – what seemed to be the best entry point to access our destination of Outumba National Park. It wasn’t and our route gave us yet another opportunity for an adventure… however, I’m going to end this post here and pick up with our remarkable journey over one of the worst roads I’ve ever encountered in all my life in the next edition.

To be continued…

A little note on Plastic Bags that we can all relate to...

I can say from my experiences over here in Mali and through my travels everywhere - this is an issue that needs some attention. People often ask what they as an individual can do to reduce their impact on the environment: You don't have to wait for our municipalities, states, countries etc. to ban them - make a choice not to use them. Simple.

Be the change you want to see in the World.

Video from Guinea and Photos

I couldn't get this video to load in my previous post - so here it is separately (the time-lapse video of driving in the Fouta Djalon). I've also included some links to some of my photo albums from Guinea. For all my albums see think link on the left to my Picasa Web-albums.

Dalaba, Guinea

Cascade de Samba

Hot Season Trip – Guinea (part 1)

Keeping with my usual timeliness of things – I’m finally sitting down to write this about 3 weeks after I’ve returned from my trip… Thus is Africa – I suppose the lack of a sense of urgency has had its impression on me. In any event, here is my tale (or at least the start of it since I’m not planning to post the entire story now).

During the months of late February to early June, Mali becomes unbearably hot for most normal/rational human beings. Life essentially stops; and everyone commits all their energies to coping with the heat – coping because that is all you can do, you can’t deal with it, you can only suffer through. Having lived through most of the hot season last year, I knew better… I did what my privileged self was able to: leave. This time I had saved up my vacation and left for the entire month of May – anywhere else but the stifling heat of Mali.

For my escape: I choose a loop taking me Southwest to the beautifully lush Fouta Djalon region of Guinea, South to war-torn Sierra Leone, north-east-south-skipping through Guinea for a moment into-fragile Cote d’Ivoire before turning back North to Mali. Overall, it took me just over a month – traveling the first half with a fellow volunteer, Chris Bentley – before parting ways and continuing on my own. It was an amazing voyage and one that not many people have the fortune to experience – all told, I didn’t see a single tourist, not one in an entire month+. There were the odd foreign NGO workers or expats but I didn’t come across one traveler in any of the three countries I passed. This is also where, now that I am safely home, I suggest you take a look at the US State Department’s travel advisories for those places... And without further ado, below follows my experience in Guinea.

Chris and I met in Bamako and early the next morning crammed ourselves into a Peugeot 504 – a sort of station-wagon – known as a “sept place,” meaning seven places. However, being were we are and gas as expensive as it is, it is normal to see the driver plus three passengers in the front, four in the middle, four in the back, 2 in the trunk for a grand total of 14 – yet that isn’t even including the 2-6 people riding on the roof! In any case, sept-place is a little misleading. The first third of the journey was on a newly paved road that might as well be considered an autobahn in West Africa and was fairly painless (other than the discomfort of sitting three of us in the far back between the rear wheels).

From there on the experience went downhill – not in the literal sense, we actually gained elevation. Our driver was trying to drive from Bamako all the way to Guinea’s capital, Conakry in one day – a trip that would take almost 24 hours. As the road condition gradually deteriorated and became increasingly curvier and more pot-holed, he tried to maintain the same speed from the autobahn portion before. Our frequent protests to his irrational speed and driving style (trying to avoid every pothole is impossible, you have to pick your losses or at least slow down!) went unheeded. It was one of those cases when you wanted to just get out and take another car but knew if you did, you could be marooned for days in an isolated village. We arrived unscathed almost 13 hours later in Mamou before continuing to our destination of Dalaba where we were to commence our thorough enjoyment of the cooler climate... I went from taking up to six showers a night to stay cool in Mali to needing a thick wool refugee blanket to stay warm!

Exhausted from the previous day’s journey, we didn’t rise from our slumber until almost 11am – something that would have been impossible just the day before in Mali’s heat. We strolled out of the Tangama Hotel and had a gander around this beautiful little town surrounded by hills and greenery… It was quite refreshing after over six-months of brown and dust in Mali. After a nice walk around town (I found Capri-Sun!), we stumbled upon the tourist-information center and rashly organized a hike out to the Garaya Waterfalls. We hiked this in an afternoon but would recommend a full day or at least ¾ day, having lunch there. Our guide helped us navigate the meandering tracks through the hills and gave us what could only be termed a culinary tour in that he frequently would grab a hanging fruit off a nearby tree and hand it to us to eat. Other than a few mangos, I can say that they were nothing like what’s found in western markets – my favorite being a large purple grape-ish looking one that smelled and tasted like lavender.

The next day we found Katy, a Peace Corps volunteer focusing on tourism - meaning we had lots to talk about. For lunch, we found some “Kaba” a sort of boiled corn stew that, after adding a little pepper, was almost identical to something found in Latin America – delicious! After a stroll through Villa Jeannine, the old colonial administrative complex, we hopped on transport going north a few hours to Labe. Below is a time-lapse video I took along the way (taking 1 frame a second, compressed into 15 frames/sec for playback – I love my new camera!). You probably wouldn’t notice, but Guinea was unique among West African countries in that there are no ‘check-points’ throughout the country. Being from the west, this wouldn’t even register except maybe for a few Europeans who remember before the Schengen Zone. I can hardly express how much these ‘check-points’ inhibit life over here and thus what a relief it was to go without them.

Now well connected into the Guinea PCV community, we called and were met at the carpark by Jim, a small business volunteer in Labe. He immediately took us to their PC house where a small gathering of local volunteers were relaxing before heading to a training in Mamou – a town we passed through only days before. As they were just reaching their first three months at site, there was a lot of wisdom to transfer and general information to exchange over pizza at a local hotel.

Early the next morning, we were off once again to Timbi-Madina, a small village off the road between Labe and Pita that is the gateway to the Samba/Saala Waterfall. Although it meant we couldn’t go out to the falls the same day, the cool – in fact cold – weather was a relief and gave us a respite from our unremitting travel. In reality, it was probably only 70F but to us it felt far colder and provided a good excuse to sit around and drink hot tea. We stayed once again with a Guinea PCV and had a lot to talk about. She was a “G-vac” volunteer, meaning she had been evacuated from Guinea in January 2007 but was compassionate enough to return and complete her service in this still fragile country. Having spent a little time in the US before returning, she had a few movies and we were able to get through the first half of Knocked-Up before the power went out and her laptop battery died.

With the weather cleared and sunny, we borrowed some old-school Huffy bikes from a missionary neighbor friend of hers and set off on the 15km ride to the waterfall. After strapping water and lunch to the bikes, it was a gradual uphill accent before a steep 3km down to the falls – a bit scary with the Huffy’s intermittently working brakes. We first headed for the lookout before looping back around to swim in an upper pool and jumping off the various smaller falls. By early afternoon, we’d called it a day and rode, or rather pushed our bikes up the first 3km before coasting the remainder back to Timbi-Madina. Exploiting our new friend’s cooking ability we made some glorious guacamole and lentil chili before retiring for the day.

A quick trip back up to Labe and back down to Pita, we set off for the next chapter of our adventure along the remote road to Telimeli – but for that you’re going to have to wait as this post is getting lengthy not to mention the giant wall of dust bearing down on Segou (not good for computers)…

To be continued…

Back in Segou safe and sound

Just online for a minute - wanted to let you all know I'm back in Segou. I'll start editing my photos and try and upload them as soon as I can!

Why I'm not in Mali right now

Just wanted to show you a picture that explains very well why I am not in Mali right now and taking a little trip:

Not only are there incredible dust storms right now but it is also 110+F (46-47C) most days... as Kathy just told me - the glue bonding her cutting board just melted and it fell apart. Yeah - glad I'm just about anywhere but there right now during the hottest part of the hot season...

From Freetown, Sierra Leone

Hello from Freetown, Sierra Leone!!

I'm just posting a brief update to let you all know I'm safe and having a great trip so far.

I had a great time hiking and biking around Guinea - saw lots of spectacular waterfalls and hiked all over Guinea's equivalent to the Grand Canyon... beautiful! When I get back to Mali, I'll upload some of the many photos I took. Otherwise, we went down some of the worst roads I've ever been on in all my travels - which, after all my travels, is saying a lot! Coming into Sierra Leone we had a lot of luck getting to some very out of the way places and even made it to Outumba Natl. Park to, among other things, canoe down the river and see at least 10 hippos! That's all I have time for now but I'll put up full stories later when I get back to Mali in a few weeks!

Watch out for telephone wires!

The other day I was went to the post office to pick up my weekly economist and check if I had any other surprises. It was a sunny day (pretty much all days between October and May are with varying degrees of hotness and haziness) around two in the afternoon with the sun just starting to make its decent towards the horizon – just low enough to escape the shield of my helmet’s short visor. I biked down one of the few paved roads and turned west onto the barren dirt road leading to the post office. I was cruising down the street at a fairly swift pace – just below full speed where you start to sweat but fast enough to get a good breeze going to cool you off. I suddenly felt a rapidly increasing pressure on the front of my neck just below my adams apple… the next instant I was off my bike and flying through the air! I’d been clotheslined!!! I’m talking clothesline straight out of a movie where the character is abruptly thrown backwards by an invisible force.

I can only imagine what it must have looked liked – me obliviously biking down the street when out of the blue I fly off my bike and crash onto the ground. Unfortunately, nobody was able to enjoy such an amazing incident, as the road was empty when I went down. I imagine I would have quite a popular YouTube video had it been on film.

A telephone line traversing the road had fallen off one of its poles and fell to rest on a six-foot wall below. This left the cord precariously strewn across the road at the perfect (or not so perfect) height to catch me on my neck as I rode by on my bike. It happened so fast – I literally had time to think: “oh, how strange, something is pushing on my neck” – WHAM! I’m in the air.

The cord slid up my neck till it reached the top of my throat where my head connects. Next, it forced my head backwards as it lifted up my chin and I was almost horizontal to the ground. Luckily, not only did I have my helmet on for the impending crash that was to come next but there was some slack in the cord or I might not be here today to write this. Somehow, my right foot got stuck in the triangle of the frame and my knee got twisted pretty good too.

I was most concerned with my knee at first since it immediately swelled up and was black and blue but that went away after a few days of constant ice and advil. My neck turned out to be the real issue. Long story short – after many x-rays, a trip to Bamako, more x-rays and a CAT-scan I was given a neck brace and diagnosed with a sprained neck. I can’t tell you how silly I looked in the neck brace let alone how silly I felt. I pretty much didn’t go out in public for a while.

Fast-forward a couple months to the present and I feel much better. There is no such thing as “physical therapy” in Mali, so I was left with figuring out my own exercises to rehabilitate myself. For a while, my entire spine was seriously tweaked but now just the top of my neck where it meets the back of my head is causing problems – where the whiplash gave me the most pain. The crazy thing is – this really isn’t that weird of an event – it is just another random thing that can happen in Africa. You just never know when a random telephone wire is going to be hanging across your path… I suppose I’ll watch out for them next time???

Theft panic hits city...

I'm on the lookout...

(Reuters) By Joe BavierWed Apr 23, 1:07 PM ET

Police in Congo have arrested 13 suspected sorcerers accused of using black magic to steal or shrink men's penises after a wave of panic and attempted lynchings triggered by the alleged witchcraft.

Reports of so-called penis snatching are not uncommon in West Africa, where belief in traditional religions and witchcraft remains widespread, and where ritual killings to obtain blood or body parts still occur.

Rumors of penis theft began circulating last week in Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo's sprawling capital of some 8 million inhabitants. They quickly dominated radio call-in shows, with listeners advised to beware of fellow passengers in communal taxis wearing gold rings.

Purported victims, 14 of whom were also detained by police, claimed that sorcerers simply touched them to make their genitals shrink or disappear, in what some residents said was an attempt to extort cash with the promise of a cure.

"You just have to be accused of that, and people come after you. We've had a number of attempted lynchings. ... You see them covered in marks after being beaten," Kinshasa's police chief, Jean-Dieudonne Oleko, told Reuters on Tuesday.

Police arrested the accused sorcerers and their victims in an effort to avoid the sort of bloodshed seen in Ghana a decade ago, when 12 suspected penis snatchers were beaten to death by angry mobs. The 27 men have since been released.

"I'm tempted to say it's one huge joke," Oleko said.

"But when you try to tell the victims that their penises are still there, they tell you that it's become tiny or that they've become impotent. To that I tell them, 'How do you know if you haven't gone home and tried it'," he said.

Some Kinshasa residents accuse a separatist sect from nearby Bas-Congo province of being behind the witchcraft in revenge for a recent government crackdown on its members.

"It's real. Just yesterday here, there was a man who was a victim. We saw. What was left was tiny," said 29-year-old Alain Kalala, who sells phone credits near a Kinshasa police station.

(Editing by Nick Tattersall and Mary Gabriel)

To Timbouctou and back… almost

After lots of planning and changing of dates, my brother and parents left Bamako early the morning of January 8th heading up country. We made a quick pit stop in Segou to drop off some fantastic goodies they brought over – enough to fill an entire suitcase between them – before continuing Northeast towards Mopti. There, we met up with my good friend Hassimi who would be our guide over the next few days through Dogon Country.

If you’re a frequent subscriber, you might recall Hassimi from my travels when my friend Dom visited me last August. Most Peace Corps volunteers use him as their guide – he speaks English and is used to our peculiar mix of needs: clients who expect the usual guide package but add in our language and cultural knowledge from living in Mali and we require someone on their toes… plus we know how much things cost.

Early January was chosen for the cooler weather as to not shock my family too much – late February to early June and October/November were out of the question due to the oppressive heat (something I’m enduring as I write this now halfway into April). The “rainy season” from June to September was ruled out as being too difficult to get around and also still too hot. Thus the “cold season” from December to mid-February seemed intuitively appropriate for my cold whether family to visit. However, in retrospect, the rainy season is probably the best time to come. Sure, it can get hot but cools off whenever it rains and it rains frequently. The countryside is green versus the barren deadness of the dry season where by January it already hasn’t rained in three months and won’t for another five. Add in the dry harmattan winds blowing in from the north over the Sahara bringing a gray haze that obscures the sun a good 20 degrees before it can reach the horizon and, yes, it is hotter but I now firmly believe July to September the best time to visit. And I digress…

Dogon Country was as fantastic as always – I’ve now made three trips and plan at least two more before I’m done here – this time we started in the middle/south section of the escarpment that stretches southwest to northeast and hiked northeast for a few days. We weaved our way up and down the fallaise wall hopping from tiny village to village. I think I have said it before in another post, but the similarities between ancient Dogon villages (then inhabited by the Tellem peoples) and the Anasasi Native American tribes of the southwestern United States always amaze me – their villages perched in the cliffs high above the plains below.

Hassimi started by taking us to the first Dogon village to convert to Islam with the oldest mosque in the region (if you look back in my photo album, it is the white one near the beginning of the photos). From there, we meandered between villages along our route – visiting bogolon cooperatives (mud dyed cloth), basket weavers, blacksmiths and woodworkers all practicing the age-old techniques of their trades. While it was technically the ‘cold season’ we still did our best to avoid being exposed to the sun between 11am and 3pm as the African sun never quite looses its intensity. Even when the sun wasn’t at its height, we would dart between the shades of the Baobab trees sparsely placed along the way.

Quick note: I don’t know if you remember but the ‘baobab’ tree is the same one from Antoine de Saint Exupery’s The Little Prince – before coming to Africa that was my only exposure to this bizarre creature. I have never seen any plant quite like it. It has a thick trunk, especially when contrasted to its short scrawny branches – equally out of place as a T-Rex and his tiny arms. The legend goes that god ripped it out of the ground and smashed it back in upside down with its roots twisting towards the sky. While at times it seems like the ugliest tree imaginable, it simultaneously arouses a sense of beauty strange, as it is mystifying.

Appropriately, the last village we visited was the most animist of the trek with the lone mosque relegated to the obscure edge of the village. Conversely, each family had their fetish prominently placed in their concession along with numerous village fetishes placed throughout the village each with a specific purpose and its own set of superstitions.

At one family, Hassimi asked if we had any medicine we could spare to a reliably unlucky family – especially for an ageing old woman. Not being a roaming medicine cabinet yet still propagating the stereotype that every white person is a doctor, we produced about seven packets of Lemon-Lime Emergen-C. Given we were in fact not doctors (contrary to popular opinion) nor did we know exactly what was ailing her – we figured some extra vitamins could at least supplement the meager amount she received from nothing but millet and sauce three meals a day.

Before starting our way south back to Bamako, I took my family to Mopti where I purposely got us lost to wander the narrow streets of the city. I feel that one of the things tourists miss is just letting yourself be enveloped by the charm of the place and becoming lost to your senses. Some people might not agree with me – and at times, I can hardly argue – but while sheer poverty can be, and often is, overwhelming there is something to be said for the rawness of their existence at all. Of course one could do without the trash strewn everywhere along the ground and stepping over the reeking sludge/sess-poll gutters but if you can get past that you might just surprise yourself. The light was perfect and I got some amazing shots of the grande mosque just as the sun made its plunge westward.

For the voyage back to Segou, I insisted on leaving the private rented car we took on the way to Mopti for public transport. I felt it important to show my family not just what I go through whenever I travel but what all Malians endure whenever they move from place to place. The bus was certainly on the nicer end of the scale of Malian transport but still provided sufficient doses of chaos to satisfy my urge to share this part of my life. In order to make the trip not too punishing for my family, we took the first bus at 7am to avoid being on the road during the heat of the day. While at the time they resisted, I think they now appreciate the experience – having glimpsed, just glimpsed – a little bit of my life and a perfectly regular day-to-day experience for hundreds of Malians.

In Segou, we shared lunch out of a communal bowl with my homologue and his family – by this time my family had a few chances to practice even though their performance was less than perfect, especially the hopelessness of my dad’s – demonstrated by the huge pile of rice between his feet and the bowl. My mum presented my homologue with a pair of glasses an optician from Aspen had so generously donated which he was extremely grateful to receive.

We visited my service, the counterpart organization where I am placed, OMATHO (the regional office of the Ministry of Tourism) and met everyone I work with. Otherwise, we took it easy the couple of days in Segou – sort of a respite from the breakneck pace the trip had been so far. We even rented a boat and had a nice relaxing ‘cruise’ on the Niger. Overall, it was nice to be back to my home away from home. It feels strange even writing that but it’s true: Segou is my home and has been for almost two years now – amazing how much time has gone by and how fast it went. I am really glad my family came and was able to share in my experiences over here. Now when I talk about the Niger, Madani or the Djoliba they will know exactly what I’m talking about – even be able to picture it themselves.

Good to be a gangster

A friend sent me this and I thought you all might enjoy...

Another point of view

Here is a recent article from the Economist about one of their journalist's travels through Mali...

Mali

High livers

Apr 17th 2008
From Economist.com

The Dogon find safety in altitude

Monday | Tuesday | Wednesday | Thursday

Thursday

THE Dogon, a Malian tribe best known for their ritualistic wooden sculpture and the unusual architecture of their villages, live primarily in the Falaise de Bandigara, a 150km escarpment entirely different from the flat, desert scrub that comprises so much of Mali’s landscape.

A guide for Dogon Country is best picked in one of the region’s main cities, Bandiagara or Douentza. They will be most familiar with Dogon cultural etiquette. We take a chance and rendezvous with Allaye—our 23-year-old guide from Djenné—in Timbuktu and travel south together through the Réserve de Douentza. We reach north Dogon country at dusk and stop in Banani for the night.

Safe haven

For Allaye, this trip is a homecoming: he originally comes from Endé in south Dogon, but lives in Djenné during the tourist season where he can find more lucrative work. When the tourists go home, so does he, to help his family farm its millet crop. On this visit, close to the festival of Eid, he is on the lookout for a sheep for the family to sacrifice as part of the celebrations—as will every family. His parents are depending on him to deliver.

There is no better way to enjoy a night in Dogon (outside the rainy season) than to sleep on the roof terrace of the village camp. Malians find it a little cold; I had no problem, and braving the gentle evening breeze to sleep under the blanket of stars, unpolluted by neon lights, is one of the highlights of my time in Mali.

In the dark I can make out the faint outline of the top of the escarpment, looming over the village, and wonder what sights the dawn will unveil.

It doesn’t disappoint. Banani sits under an overhanging cliff, the face of which was once home to a Tellem village. Their mud houses and cave stores are still visible, hundreds of metres up, clinging to the vertical cliff face.

The Tellem people are said to have inhabited the escarpment around a century ago, long before the Dogon made their homes there. Little is known about the Tellem but according to Dogon legend, they were pygmies who could fly or had special magic powers—how else could they have built dwellings in such inaccessible places? Scientific theories suggest a wetter climate allowed vines and creepers to cover the cliff face, acting as natural ladders.

Many Dogon villages also cling to the cliff face, though much lower down. At Ireli, we trek up into the village using strategically placed boulders as steps—some so steep I must clamber on all fours, feeling slightly foolish as villagers sail past effortlessly, often with babies on their backs and a load on their heads.

At the togu-na—a seating area beneath the shade of a millet-stalk roof—some elders are shooting the breeze. Allaye stops to chat, giving us a chance to catch our breath. Most villages in Mali have at least one togu-na: villagers bring their disputes here for male elders to thrash out. The roof is built too low for any man to stand up straight—a deliberate flaw designed to serve as a cooling-off mechanism. Stand up in anger and you will hit your head.

Fetishes are another mainstay of the Dogon village. Often a simple dome of tightly-packed, dried mud, these sacred objects are believed to protect the village and their powers are strengthened with the blood of animal sacrifices.

Further along the falaise in Endé, the villagers make their homes at the foot of the escarpment, but it is still possible to trek up through their abandoned village on the cliff’s face to the very top, where the Hogon—a Dogon spiritual leader—once lived. Scan the low-lying roof carefully and you can spot the teeth of the animals sacrificed in honour of the Hogon.

According to historic accounts the Dogon—largely animists—built their homes halfway up the falaise to avoid capture, enslavement and forced conversion to Islam.

As I turn my back on the Hogon’s house and look out for miles and miles across the low-lying plains at the foot of the escarpment, a slight feeling of vertigo sets in, and I start to understand why, in those times, clinging precariously to a cliff-face was the safest way of life.

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Wednesday

“WHY do you want to spend two nights in Timbuktu? There’s nothing there,” Allaye asked us over breakfast back in Djenné. Malians’ lack of enthusiasm for this fabled city can be surprising but is, in the end, well placed.

Strategically located at the edge of the Sahara Desert and the top of the Niger bend, Timbuktu became a trading post in the 11th century for gold, slaves and ivory from the south and salt from the north. Over the next two centuries it grew wealthy, and in 1336 Kankan Musa—the king of the Malian empire—ordered the construction of the Dyingerey Ber, Timbuktu’s grand mosque, which made the city a centre of Muslim scholarship.

The journey's better

But Timbuktu began to decline in the 16th century, and though it remains an important location on the salt-trade route, it is a mere shadow of its former self. The sandy streets seem somehow silent and deserted despite the hustle and bustle of daily life, and I realise that the allure of this city—now synonymous with the “end of the world”—lies in the journey there, rather than the destination.

Between 1588 and 1853, 43 Europeans tried to reach Timbuktu, which was then barred to all non-Muslims. Gordon Laing, the first European to reach the city, is said to have been murdered as he tried to leave. René Caillié fared better, mainly because of his intricate preparations, which included learning Arabic, studying Islam and disguising himself as a Muslim before entering the city. Heinrich Barth arrived in September 1853, disguised as a Tuareg, and stayed for the best part of a year before narrowly escaping with his life and returning to Europe.

The sightseeing tour of the city—which takes just an hour, even at a gentle stroll—takes in all three explorers' houses and (my favourite) the well on which Timbuktu supposedly began.

Bouctou was here

The well, so the legend goes, was tended by Bouctou, an elderly Tuareg woman whose tribe set up camp in the area around 1000AD. When the men left to tend their cattle, Bouctou was put in charge. Tim means well in Tamasheq (the Tuareg language); the encampment came to be known as Timbouctou—the well of Bouctou.

My companion is sceptical about the dried up hole in the ground, but I’m willing to take any stories Timbuktu has to offer.

“What about the Flamme de la Paix?” I ask, as Kalil—our guide in Timbuktu—starts to wind up the tour. Looking a little inconvenienced, he beckons one of his young associates over. “He will take you to see the monument,” says Kalil. “I’ll meet you back here in an hour for the camel ride out into the desert.”

Situated on the north-western edge of the town, the Flame of Peace marks the spot where a Tuareg uprising in the 1990s—fuelled by claims of discrimination at the hands of the Bambara-dominated government—ended with the ceremonial burning of 3,000 weapons. Many of the guns were used to make the striking monument, which glistens bright gold when the sun sets.

The peace has been short-lived. In autumn 2007 36 Malian soldiers were taken hostage by Ibrahim Ag Bahanga, a Tuareg rebel leader. Another 33 were kidnapped in March.

He recently issued a host of demands, including a reduction in the Malian military presence in the north, the release of two Tuareg said to be held by the authorities and the creation of a new regional development board. Reports in the Malian press suggested that business interests, more than political concerns, motivated Mr Ag Bahanga’s actions.

Mali’s burgeoning tourist trade currently peters out at the edge of the Sahara; it requires a peaceful solution to this standoff. Both the British and American governments warn their citizens against travelling to northern Mali because of reports of rebel fighting and banditry in the region.

Despite that, Mali’s salt traders still make the 36-to-40-day return journey, by camel and caravan, from Timbuktu to the salt mines at Taoudenni in the north during the cool season, from October to March.

To the salt and back

I walk a few hundred yards beyond the Flamme de la Paix to the edge of the Sahara. Looking out across the forbidden desert with my back towards Timbuktu, thinking about the lonely, unforgiving salt routes and rebel fighters who command the dunes, I really do feel like I’m standing at the end of the world.

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Tuesday

ONE can drive or even fly to Timbuktu, but the most picturesque route to this legendary place is via a slow boat on the Niger River—a journey that’s only possible during the second half of the year, when water levels are high enough.

The river’s lush banks and calm waters are a haven from Mali’s hot, dusty roads and bustling inland towns. We hire a pinasse—the most popular boat amongst Malian riverfarers—in the port town of Mopti for our long journey north.

The Bozo, a fishing tribe, are the unofficial keepers of the Niger. Watching a Bozo fisherman standing at the head of his pinasse, effortlessly casting his net across the river’s surface is one of the journey’s chief pleasures.

Slow boat to Niafunké

The camaraderie on the river is infectious; I quickly find myself waving to every boat we pass. At each village, the children run down to the waterside, waving vigorously as adults saunter down behind them and offer a calmer greeting. I wonder what they would make of the unspoken “No talking, no smiling, no eye contact” rule of commuters on the Thames back home in London.

No river journey to Timbuktu is complete without a stop at Niafunké, the former home of Ali Farka Touré—a blues guitarist who died in 2006. One of Africa's most renowned musicians, Touré maintained close ties with Niafunké, even naming one of his best-selling albums after it.

In 2004, he became the town’s mayor and put much of his own wealth into upgrading the roads, sewers and electricity. The affection between him and his compatriots was mutual and even now, two years after his death, one inevitably hears Touré’s rough voice and sinuous, hypnotic guitar licks flowing through rolled-down car windows across the town.

We visit Niafunké on market day. Markets are the preserve of women in Mali—they are both buyers and sellers—but they shoo my companion away when he points his fancy-looking digital camera at them. Here in Niafunké, one of the larger markets along the Niger, you can buy anything from fish (fresh or dried) to grains, pulses, herbs, spices, powdered okra and shea-butter soap, all displayed with a healthy dose of buzzing flies.

There is one exception to the women-only rule—red meat, which is butchered and sold by men, often in a cordoned off section of the market. One of the traders lifts a cow’s head up by its horns like a trophy for the camera.

If women in Mali are generally camera-shy, the children definitely are not. When we leave the market, school’s out and we find ourselves surrounded by kids looking for a high-five or a handshake. There are screeches of “Toubabous! Toubabous!” and “Ca va. Le foto?” as they eagerly jostle each other to line up for a snap.

Amadou, our guide on the river, tells us that a toubabou is a white person. “Even me?” I ask, slightly puzzled. “Surely I look more like a Tuareg,” I say, reckoning that my Indian colouring is closer to the lighter skin tones of the northern Malian tribe. “No,” says Amadou. “You’re definitely a toubabou.”

As we approach Dagaberi—a village an hour or so down the river from Korioumé, the port for Timbuktu—Amadou warns us that “the children are quite friendly here.” I wonder how much friendlier they can get but find out soon enough.

As we walk through the village, a separate child grabs each of my fingers. There appears to be a scramble for the little fingers. “If you get to hold the little finger, it’s meant to be good luck,” says Amadou.

Back at the pinasse, the kids peer into the boat, pointing at our pile of empty water bottles. Malians’ have a remarkable talent for recycling, and the kids scramble for the bottles Amadou distributes. A scrap breaks out and one boy wrestles another into the shallow part of the river, grabbing his bottle and sprinting off with it into the village.

I’m embarrassed that empty water bottles are all that we have to give away. Guidebooks advise donating through charities; former visitors tell you to bring useful things like blank exercise books and pens. That sounds like a good idea when you’re surrounded by tens of children asking for a cadeau of some sort, but with so many left standing empty-handed, what is the right thing to do? I still can’t figure it out.

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Monday

DJENNÉ has just disappeared. I am standing on the banks of the Bani River, tired and irritable after a day’s journey from Bamako, Mali’s capital. The sun has set, and without streetlights, the city on the other side has grown invisible. I wonder if I will have to roll my sleeping bag out on the wrong side of the river.

After a series of frantic mobile-phone calls to Baba, our fixer in Bamako, we hear something snaking its way through the river towards us. Usman, Baba’s friend in Djenné, has persuaded a local fisherman to bring us back across the Bani.

As my feet squelch in the mud on the floor of his unsteady boat, I’m thankful for the informal network of guides, fixers and friends of friends that help shuttle independent travellers across Mali. That help comes at a price, of course, which I’m fortunate enough to be able to afford.

Many hands make light work

Mali is not a common tourist destination. In the run up to the trip, everyone I tell gets excited about the prospect of my holiday in Bali.

That could soon change. Tourism is a growing industry in this land-locked, sub-Saharan country. In 2007, 250,000 leisure visitors came to Mali—a 155% increase on the 98,000 tourists in 2002—generating $175m. That’s still dwarfed by the revenue generated by the more established cotton, gold and mining industries. Tourism is held back by weak transport infrastructure and, outside Bamako, a lack of hotels acceptable to the mainstream traveller.

Our receiving party—Usman and Allaye, an English-speaking guide, which is fairly rare in this former French colony—deposits us at the Auberge le Maafir, which my guide book calls a “pleasant place” with “attractively furnished rooms.”

Alas, a mosquito net hangs over the linenless bed and a battered wardrobe stands in the opposite corner to a rickety desk and chair. Another corner of the concrete-floored room is walled off for a shower head, a ceramic basin with unsteady plumbing and—the one luxury—a flushing loo. “I’ll see you at seven in the morning,” says Allaye. “We can visit the mosque.”

Tourism is transforming the lives of many Malians like Allaye. Most visitors hire guides, and the work is much more lucrative than, say, cotton farming. Allaye has learned English and a smattering of Italian from his clients. Some leave behind thank-you gifts of clothes and other useful things (one particularly generous tourist gave Allaye a laptop computer).

In the morning we proceed to the Great Mosque, one of Mali’s major tourist attractions. The largest mud structure in the world, the mosque was built in 1907 on the site of a predecessor that dated back to the 1200s. Its curved lines remind me of Gaudí’s Sagrada Família.

The morning sunlight casts a golden hue across the mosque’s walls, contrasting sharply with its cool, dark interior, splintered with shards of natural light coming in through small holes in the roof that, in the rainy season, are covered with ceramic pots.

Officially, non-Muslim visitors (particularly women) are barred, but a guide can get you in. It is worth the trouble. I am not Muslim but there was something about the mosque that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise, in acknowledgement that I was in the presence of something great.

Perhaps it was the sheer scale of the building, and the labyrinth of corridors created by the rows upon rows of roof-supporting wooden pillars that I knew would later be full of worshippers bowing their heads towards Mecca—a scene that will look no different than it did a century ago. This extraordinary building, like the city it dominates, had resisted (or missed out on) the advance of progress.

At the end of Mali’s rainy season, in September, around 4,000 volunteers from Djenné and the surrounding towns and villages will flock to the mosque to render its external walls with mud, by hand. It’s said to take just one day.

Such traditions die hard in Djenné. Some are necessary, others less so, but still they persist. As we wander around the neighbouring village of Senussa I notice that the teenage girls going about their daily chores—pounding millet, carrying water from the village well—are all bare-breasted. “They go without clothes until they are married,” says Mohammed, our guide for the afternoon, noticing the flicker of curiosity on my (British) face.