Afternoon Tea in Timbouctou

Maybe I’m a bit shallow, but for me the real highlight was actually being in Timbouctou. I was neither surprised nor disappointed by the place – it was pretty much how I’d expected it to be with one exception. Timbouctou is a dusty ramshackle town with streets of sand on the edge of a desert, and because it was the Muslim feast of Tabaski the streets were deserted. The majority of people kicking about town that day were Westerners getting stocked up for the Festival au Desert. Timbouctou is not completely devoid of glimmers, however, and the Manuscript Museum is one of them. If you like doors then you’re also in the right place because there are some beautiful carved and studded doors around town. The Maison des Artisans is worth a look although the hassle can be quite intense. Of course, if you’re into early 19th-century explorers then you can visit their houses. If you’re passing Timbouctou in February then the Festival au Desert is a highlight in its own right.

Quick Tips:

You can get a "Timbouctou" stamp on your passport at the tourist office near the Djingareiber Mosque.

Best Way To Get Around:

As with most towns in Mali, on foot. Many of the narrow back alleys are impassable by cars anyway. Any trips out into the desert would either be in a 4x4 or on a camel.

Popular with a broad cross-section of travellers so consequently there is a wide choice of room-types and prices available. The rooms are situated in a traditional Timbouctou style building with two floors of rooms overlooking a large sandy and shaded courtyard. There are self-contained rooms available with A/C, but the majority have a fan and shared toilet/shower facilities. The rooms all feel cool and are pleasantly decorated and the shared facilities are clean and have plenty of room. All room prices include breakfast. You can camp in the courtyard or on the roof. The roof has a great view over the town and the dunes but if you’re camping up there it means walking through a large shared dorm to reach the stairs and you feel you’re being really noisy at night.

Behind the main reception entrance is the bar and restaurant leading to a large patio area facing in the direction of the setting sun. Popular with tourists and locals alike, the bar is a wonderful people watching location. The food was well-prepared but a bit pricey with a spectacularly limited menu. With the combination of the Muslim feast and the Festival au Desert, Timbouctou was in fact spectacularly devoid of food when we were there. Spaghetti appeared to be the staple foodstuff around town so the hotel was probably doing quite well to rustle up some eggs.

There were few guides and street vendors outside but that was because most had already left for the Festival. Being right on the edge of town but within easy walking distance of the centre, it’s the location of this hotel amongst other things that makes it a pleasant place to stay. Plus, there’s always the exciting prospect of an elderly gentleman known as "The Barber of Bouctou" who, regardless of your gender, will offer to give you a haircut and shave for a "bon prix!"

Firstly, the correct name of this museum is Institut des Hautes Edutes de Recherche Islamique—Ahmed Barber (IHERI-AB) which frankly doesn’t instantly strike you as a "must see" and does little to suggest what you can actually see. It’s also a hell of a mouthful to say if you don’t speak French and need directions. Even the acronym doesn’t help. Anyway, whether you speak French or not it is near the Post Office and most of the locals seemed to call it Islam Library or Ahmed Barber. You’ll find it—don’t worry.

 

Secondly, I’m not a museum sort of person because I generally prefer to see things in their natural setting. Not that it looks much like a museum either on the inside. Outside, the obviously new building had been constructed using a mixture of traditional and contemporary materials. It looked entirely in keeping with the surrounding buildings, yet stood out as being of some minor importance. Inside the imposing brass studded wooden doors it was slightly different. A dark, derelict hallway with a couple of dusty desks along one wall, and closed wooden doors on the other. It echoed. A shaft of light falling onto the floor at the end of the hall indicated a doorway leading outside. The doorway led to a broad veranda which ran along two sides of the building, and surrounded a really nice small garden. Swishing in and out of doorways leading off the veranda there was a bustle of green robed gentlemen. They did not look recognisably Muslim but they did look like a religious order of some kind. I went to sit on a bench while the other two went to ask about seeing the manuscripts.

This unpromisingly named building is actually home to over 20,000 manuscripts dating as far back as AD1204, all needing to be catalogued and restored. There are estimated to be over 30,000 equally precious texts "in circulation" in Mali. The aim of the institute is to rescue and restore as many of these manuscripts as possible before they literally turn to dust, or end up on the foreign market. Next thing, I hear my name being called, ‘…come on… come and see this’. There wasn’t a lot to see but what I did see was quite beautiful. Only a couple of display cases in the centre of a small room but their contents were just stunning. It wasn’t just the beautifully executed pages of the Koran with their faultless Islamic calligraphy but the notebooks, written by scientists, lawyers, and doctors that provide a social and cultural history of Islam.

 

That’s why I was slightly surprised that they were displayed in daylight and that the ‘custodian’ handling the manuscripts and books was not wearing gloves. I guess that’s the sort of thing they need donations for as well as the purchasing of manuscripts.

 

The labels on the exhibits are far too big but go, briefly enjoy and donate.

 

(Photos by Mandy Millward - hers were better than mine.)

"Right, how about we go for a wander, have a cup of tea somewhere and then do the shopping OK?" We’d already been out in the morning and sampled the delights of the Post Office, the Internet and the Manuscript Museum but that hadn’t exactly involved much in the way of sight-seeing and we still had to go shopping for food so it sounded like a plan to me. As there were hardly any people around it was quite strange wandering the back alleys. We didn’t bother using a map, when we came to a choice of alleys we just went up the most interesting looking one. Occasionally there would be a glimpse through an open doorway to a courtyard beyond, usually crawling with small children and men, just sitting around.

I can only assume that it was the women who were responsible for the wonderful cooking smells coming from these houses. Eventually we came across what was described as Bouctou’s Well. Legend has it that Timbouctou was named after the woman who used to look after a Tuareg well. The Tuareg for well is tin hence Timbouctou. Other people will tell you that Timbouctou is actually the Tuareg word for "depression in the ground," and the name is therefore self-explanatory. So take your pick. I just hope Bouctou was paid well!! The unspectacular and very dry shallow hole in the ground that may or may not have been the original well if that had even existed was in a large walled area between buildings and there was a sign up saying that the space was being developed into a museum. Around the well were scattered a couple of different types of desert tent and a more permanent reed dwelling. Some small trees provided a bit of shade and there was an extremely over-priced souvenir stall. On the other side of the alley from this ambitious project was the front door of an explorer called Berky. If only he’d known what he’d be missing eh?

It was actually quite good to be able to have a look at a bread oven or take photos of a pile of fresh-made mud bricks without someone looking at you as if you’re mad. The few local people we saw were usually female, dressed in their glad rags and all really friendly. At one point a highly excited middle-aged man in immaculate flowing robes came running towards us in the street with his arms outstretched shouting the most effusive greetings in French. For a wild moment I wondered if we’d met before because it was like he was greeting old friends.

"You go to festival yes?" he asked. "You see my clothes yes?" At least that’s what we thought he asked us. The first part we could cope with but we had to get him to repeat the second bit.

"You see my clothes?" he repeated then turned and walked away from us. Except that he didn’t walk he flounced. It was bizarre, a short middle-aged bloke from Timbouctou was mincing up and down the street in front of us. We just stood and stared. He stopped in front of us threw open his arms again and the word "Fashion" exploded from his mouth. Then it clicked.

"Fashion show," I said back to him, "at the Festival. You make clothes for the fashion show?"

"Yes yes," he replied, beaming " and you see my clothes yes?"

He told us that this year, as in previous years, his clothes would be at the fashion show and he was so pleased that we would see the show. We told him that we had heard about the fashion show and were looking forward to it. He then abruptly turned and ran off shouting "Must go. Very busy. Much work many things. I go yes?"

After that we decided it was time for tea. This is not always as easy as it sounds in Mali and it was becoming sort of obvious that Timbouctou was going to be a real challenge. A handful of shops selling mattresses, a few street traders selling piles of wilting green leaves, not a café in sight and we didn’t bring a map. Terrific! We asked about and when people could help they all seemed to point in the direction of the Grand Marché. We walked around that building I don’t know how many times before we realised it was the Grand Marché.

Although I knew it was less than 5 years old, I hadn’t really expected the market in Timbouctou to look like a derelict three-storey 1960s office block. So we were standing on the broad steps of this building when we noticed a piece of A4-sized paper stuck on the concrete wall with a bit of masking tape. Written in fluorescent green felt pen was the word CAFFE with an arrow pointing to the bottom of a concrete staircase. Inside the style was definitely of the concrete brutalism school of architecture.

The staircase had a twin on the other side of a large, high-ceilinged atrium overlooked by walkways running along the upper levels. Even though light entered through the atrium ceiling it was dark and gloomy. In short, it was like being in an uncompleted suburban shopping precinct but instead of builders material lying around it was full of rubbish. Not rotting rubbish, just stuff like boxes, sacks and planks of wood. That’s actually when we realised it was the market. Having seen the Manuscript Museum that morning I don’t think it was unreasonable to expect the market building to be, if not equally vernacular in design, then at least to have some aesthetic merit.

The stairs led to two floors of small shop units, all shuttered and locked. Suddenly a small head appeared around a concrete wall and giggled. Another head appeared just above the first but immediately disappeared at the sound of a voice echoing behind them. There was another giggle from the first head then it too disappeared. The voice came again, Come. Come.’ So we did, up a small flight of rough concrete steps onto the roof. Timbouctou in magnificent disarray was spread all around us. Immediately in front of us were a few plastic tables and chairs shaded by reed matting. The giggling head and its companion were nowhere to be seen but standing gesturing us towards a table stood a young boy of about 15 years old. "Come come," he said gesturing again. The view was excellent and the toilets a pleasant surprise. This makeshift rooftop café was just the perfect and only place for afternoon tea in Timbouctou.

Afterwards we came across the Maison des Artisan which gave us the opportunity for a bit of invigorating and intensive Tuareg Trader Dodging. Silver jewellery – maybe, an indigo dyed blanket – possibly, but do I look like someone who needs a Tuareg massage and just what is a Tuareg massage anyway? It was time to go. We passed a sign for the local driving school and wondered where you went once you’d learnt how to drive. Around town small shops and workshops had been set up in abandoned freight containers. How did they get to Timbouctou and why leave them? How come spaghetti seems to be more widely available than cous-cous in the shops and restaurants? Why did the army barracks have two armed sentries at the main gate of their camp when there was a huge hole in the wall round the corner? And just who was this guy Berky anyway?

As we wandered back to the hotel we pondered these questions and although we had differing theories for each we did however, concur that Timbouctou may no longer be mysterious for reasons of inaccessibility but it was still deeply mysterious in other respects.

Well it’s not every day that you stand in line waiting for your cornflakes and you’re joined by a fully robed and armed Tuareg scratching his groin! The previous afternoon we’d spent a fair amount of time wandering around the festival site watching the magnificent Tuareg on their camels, round their tents, preparing and cooking food, making and selling crafts. It seemed perfectly reasonable to us that we too should be subject to a spot of reciprocal curiosity. He declined the offer of breakfast but stood leaning against the side of our truck and, girls, did he have eyelashes to die for! God only knows what he thought watching us though.

A group of about 25 mixed gender adults of varying ages, some sitting in a circle eating, others waited for food. In the centre of the circle were two females stretched out comatose on plastic rugs. The empty beer bottles from the previous evening’s pre-performance aperitifs were clustered between the camping stools. Were we a tribe? What was that warm brownish liquid we were drinking that was obviously quite unpleasant? Where were our children? Why did we, after eating, rub sand on our plates, dip them in water and then walk around waving them in the air?* Did he find us inoffensive or did he consider us a brief unpleasant encounter? Or was he just wondering which poor sod had the job of cleaning the scrambled egg pan? I’ve no idea.

Nevertheless he stood watching for about ten minutes or so then nodded, turned and walked away over the sand. We shouted goodbye. His visit had been neither expected nor unexpected. Beyond the obvious elements such as music, a stage, camels, tents, Tuareg, and the desert there were few expectations about the festival. If you are the sort of person who finds uncertainty difficult to deal with then the Festival of the Desert is not for you. On the other hand, if you enjoy the slightly surreal and are unfazed by the absence of any particular order in your life for a few days then this is the place.

The place in question is an oasis called Essakane, that could be anywhere between 60 and 85km NW of Timbouctou depending on which guide book you read, who you talk to, your mode of transport or which particular sand trap of a route you take once off the hardtop road. You’ve also got to factor in how many times you have to stop and dig yourselves out of the sand. The first Festival au Desert was in 2001 and Essakane has been the fixed site since 2003. Hosted by the Malian Government, all the elements of a traditional Tuareg gathering have developed into a successful fusion of both Tuareg and Malian culture and music. A number of international musicians have performed at the festival since 2003, some well known, some obscure, some excellent and some frankly embarrassingly abysmal. The musician perhaps most closely associated with the festival is the recently deceased Ali Farka Touré.

Over the weekend many tributes were made to the then seriously unwell musician by both officials and performers. Foreign visitors, more familiar with the "western" style of festival may find the organisation and management at Essakane to be a bit of a shambles. It’s not really though, because it seems to manage itself. So what if the order and times of performances shown in the programme bear absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to the actual reality of events? Does it really matter if, after dragging yourself through miles of inhospitable terrain at great peril to yourself in order to worship at the feet of your favourite calebasse player you end up listening to some Nirvana tribute band from Sweden? Do you think you might have a problem listening to an opening speech nearly 3 hours long and seems to involve thanking everybody in the Malian telephone directory for their support? Again, if the answer is yes, then forget it. Go to WOMAD.

The reality of the festival was spectacle, theatre, drama, intense colour, the unfamiliar sitting side by side with the familiar. The rich bronze leather of a Tuareg tent contrasting with the metallic silver paint of the showroom gleaming Toyota 4x4 parked outside. A statuesque Tuareg standing on the ridge of a dune, satellite phone held to his ear. The space on both sides of the stage was taken up by rows of Tuareg on camels watching the performers. Pedestrians had the front of the stage where at night, between your feet sat vendors with small charcoal stoves selling steaming hot tea and coffee.

But it wasn’t just the performers who provided the spectacle – so too did a few of the audience. One afternoon a group of us were sitting on the ridge of the dune opposite the stage listening to the music when someone said, ‘I see Colonel Gadhafi managed to make it this year!’ Sure enough, there was this man standing alone ramrod straight staring intently at the stage wearing a uniform identical to the one Gadhafi wears on formal military occasions. Dollops of gold braid on the epaulettes and on the rim of his cap, aviator sun glasses – a dead ringer! Someone told us he was actually the local mayor but it did seem a slightly unusual mayoral outfit.

So what about the music? Well the two comatose females on the plastic rugs could attest that staying up until 4am to hear Baba Salah on the Friday night had been worth the effort. Only 3 hours late but still sticking to the programme. At some point on the Saturday afternoon it became apparent that the best course of action was to forget the programme, relax and take the music as it came. OK, so you might miss your favourite Mauritanian kora player but you could discover you have a passion for the chants guerriers of NE Mali instead. On a personal level, if you ever get a chance to go and see a South African/Brazilian act called Ktah Keya then go.

Unusual is probably the best word to describe this group of, to quote the programme, musicians, dancers, cameramen and translators(!). I’m still not quite sure what I was listening to and watching, or even if I liked it, but it was definitely different. Sadly I have to report that we were unanimous in our verdict on the lead guitar wielding American lassie and her banshee-like wailing dedicated to the people of Essakane. The people of Essakane were for the most part of the same opinion and left in their droves for the dance tent which was excellent. If you ever wonder what happened to rave music, well with the added element of numerous modes of national dress it’s alive and kicking in Mali.

On the whole though the music was fine especially some of the chanced upon small, impromptu, acoustic sessions that took place round the site over the weekend. When not effusively thanking the sponsors yet again, in between acts, there was a good deal of reference to the festival being a platform for world peace and cultural exchange from the highly excitable MC. My personal favourite cultural exchange was listening to some of our lot sitting round our campfire one night with some Malian army guys comparing the difference between animal sounds in English and West African! And as for world peace well, why not?

The Festival au Desert is an extraordinary but somewhat problematic event to write about. Although still in the minority, the number of tourists has been increasing steadily since its inception. Logic dictates that the more word spreads about the festival the more tourists will attend in future and so the essence of the experience will change. There is rumour of a proposed hardtop road over the last 30km or so over the dunes which would make the journey from Timbouctou considerably shorter than the 5 hours it took us and infinitely more accessible to larger numbers of visitors.

It will then just be a matter of time before it will no longer be possible to wander round the VIP tents and hobnob with the performers or the Minister for Culture and Tourism or wander onto the stage and sit in the corner during a performance. It remains to be seen whether the organisers can or even want to prevent the commercialisation that seems to have been the way with larger established festivals in Europe and the US. Having been to the festival and had a brilliant time I can’t help wondering if I am contributing to the erosion of authenticity by recommending it to other travellers? On the other hand, why shouldn’t everyone have the chance to sit on a sand dune, wrapped in blankets, under a full moon while listening to some excellent music drinking mint tea?

* best way to dry them!