Choosing the cheap accommodation option in Timbuktu (which sits on the edge of the Sahara Desert in case I hadn’t mentioned it) means no air conditioning and not even a fan. So it was hot; real hot last night. We did have a mosquito net and since Timbuktu is also just a few miles from the Niger River it’s possible, I suppose, that an enterprising mosquito might buzz into town looking for an easy meal.
We have very little time to explore this morning, but since the Sahara is right on our doorstep (and at some point during the night slipped under the door of our room) Christi and I wander around a bit. Not too far you understand. We didn’t want to get lost and have to drink outr own urine or blood to survive. In fact as soon as we began to feel a bit thirsty we high-tailed it back to civilization, well Timbuktu, anyway (we’re such wimps). Still the Sahara is at its most attractive in the cool of the early morning, before the heat begins to rise and life becomes a daily struggle just to survive.
We will return to the Sahara several times over the next few months, but for now we’re leaving the desert and returning (eventually) to the cool, refreshing climate along the Atlantic coast. Sadly, our ultimate destination is not the idyllic Brenu beach in Ghana this time, but the cosmopolitan city of Dakar in Senegal. And while the first part of our return journey is by deliciously comfortable air travel, the rest will be bumping along dusty, dirty tracks aboard the Dragoman truck, the highlight of which will be bush camping (I know it will be a highlight because it says so in the brochure).
Ali the Ice collects a rather hot and sweaty Christi and me from our cheap and cheerful hotel before stopping at the posh hotel where Stan and Sinead glide into Ali’s 4WD smelling pine-fresh and sporting a healthy glow from their recent massages. Bastards. Our flight from Timbuktu to Mopti is 45 easy minutes and it’s another 75 minutes to Bamako, the capital of Mali. If all goes well the Jeep Group will reach Timbuktu sometime today. By that point we will have rejoined our Dragoman group. In fact Granpere organizes a transfer for Stan, Sinead, Christi and I to ferry us to the current Dragoman hotel, which is called The Sleeping Camel. Our billet is actually a tent on a small patch of brownish, dying grass. This is more than made up for by a nearby patisserie, which serves the freshest, most delightful orange juice.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching tale of broken hearts and broken test tubes.
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