123 days in

Paris, je t'aime

Well, we made it back to the west with minimum hassle. Our friend Abdu kindly picked us up from our hotel at 1am and drove us to the airport, our seats were waiting for us at the airport check-in desk, amazingly the plane left early, the connecting plane from Casablanca to Paris was also on time, and all our baggage arrived in Paris when we did. All in all it was a very successful departure.

Now we’ve been in Paris for four days and I’m completely in love with the place. I’ve been here before, eight years ago, but it didn’t capture my imagination the way the city has this time. I think I appreciate it more now, and the months of speaking bad French to Africans has helped too.

We looked into leaving Paris for a couple of days in Dijon, but the train costs put a stop to that idea. So now – joyfully – we’re spending the full 10 days in Paris, strolling, photographing and just generally soaking up the wonderful atmos.

I’ve been shooting all film since before halfway through Mali, so the images are becoming harder to post now. However I did snap a couple of digital images today.

More soon.

114 days in

back in Bamako

After the mammoth Dogon trek we headed back to the place we departed for Timbuktu from, Mopti, and spent the next six days sitting around a pleasant hotel, eating and watching life go by. It was so nice to finally have a bit of freedom from guides and over-organisation.

By day five I was getting pretty bored of waking up at eight, walking to town for breakfast, walking back to our hotel, ordering lunch, having a siesta, ordering dinner, going to bed at eight and repeating the process all over again the next day.

Fortunately we bumped into an American guy called Glen on our final day and after chatting a while joined him on his bus journey to Segou, about three hours east of the capital Bamako where we fly from in a week.

So we spent two nights back in Segou bumming around, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere before rising at 5am for a non-existent bus heading to Bamako. The bus finally arrived at eight and the insane driver rocketed us on suspensionless wheels along terrifying Malian roads into the capital around midday. By the end of the ordeal I was a nervous wreck.

Rushing by taxi through crowded Bamako streets to make the 1pm check-in deadline at the mission catholique hostel further damaged our already shattered nerves, but we made it in the nick of time.

We unloaded our stuff and were greeted by the first Australian we’ve met in all of Mali. Pete’s been travel for two years throughout South America and Africa on his BMW motorbike. He’s a pretty interesting guy, so hopefully we’ll have some adventures with him and his mates, then catch up with a local contact in Bamako for few days.

After Bamako we head for Paris to spend a couple of weeks being insulted by ignorant Parisians. After that the trip ends. I’m not looking forward to ending the trip, but we’re running low on cash now so haven’t got much choice.

106 days in

Timbuktu and Dogon delays

The Dogon adventure is over. I’m both saddened and gladdened by that.

There’s no question Dogon country is an utterly amazing place and a must see if you’re in Mali: beautiful tiny villages nestled beneath the sheer cliffs of a great escarpment snaking hundreds of kilometres through isolated Malian semi-desert, stunning nights under star-filled skies, a cultural richness, breathtaking views. Both of us were stunned more than once by what we were seeing.

But the trip was also fraught with money problems and arguments with our guide, again.

Aly is a nice guy. But the problem we had was when he arrived in Douentza to take over the trip, he wasn’t properly informed and or given all the money we handed the original guide. We didn’t know this at the time, but it meant he ran out of cash halfway through and started asking us for more money to complete the journey. To be fair, he wasn’t asking for payment money, he just needed more cash so we could afford to eat, pay the various village taxes, and sleep in safety. In the end we gave in and provided more dollars - with a promise we would get it back - and the trip continued.

But all this strained our relationship with Aly, who was less interested in us after realising his money for the work might take time to arrive from Mohammed at journey’s end. To put it simply, the second half of the journey was a bit awkward for everyone involved.

In all we walked more than 100 kilometres, half of which we covered in the first three days. The beginning half was almost completely non-touristic due to there being fewer villages and less beautiful scenery, giving us more authentic experience. The second half of the journey, while more picturesque and dotted with pretty villages, was obviously full of tourists and so we got hassled by kids and touts more.

It’s a journey we won’t forget.

96 days in

Timbuktu and Dogon delays

The name Timbuktu conjures in the western mind images of parched isolation, Arabs atop loping camels, and veiled mystery. But in reality the place is one big tourist stop-off. And having stopped-off most go back the way they came. A little disappointing really.

But it was nice to reach our farthest-most destination. And we did head by camel to a Tuareg (travelling nomad type) encampment about two hours north of Bukkers. The night under the stars was magical, but the whole affair was just another tourist event in reality. In truth we only went because we got the excursion at half price - repayment for our boat ride getting so messed up.

In all we spent two aimless days in Timbuktu before being ferried by luxurious 4wd through the desert to Douentza, a gateway town to the fabled Dogon country. From here we’re supposed to be trekking for 10 days through Dogon in its entirety, but already the trip is delayed because our guide speaks little English, and the replacement guide he brought this morning speaks even less! So, after various aggravated phone calls to Mohammed we’re awaiting the arrival of an English speaking guide from Bandiagara; he should be here tonight, and in the morning we’ll be off.

Most of Pays Dogon is UNESCO heritage listed and is the top of many guide books lists of things to do before you die. This is largely due to the now abandoned 12th century Tellem (a now vanished pigmy tribe of people) villages, built high atop the cliffs of a vast escarpment in the desert.

Mali is becoming an irritation because we hoped the place would be less touristic than it has revealed itself to be, and so far all we’ve done is follow guides around. Dogon will be the same, but we’ve heard it’s very hard to explore this region without a good guide.

And there’s no electricity, running water or internet in any of the Dogon villages: I’m starting to feel a bit like a pampered, whinging westerner. Wah wah.

92 days in

one bastard of a boat ride up the Niger

Well we made it to Timbuktu. But not without an insane amount of hassle. We’re learning that’s kind of the way they roll in Mali though.

Everything was fine for the first few hours of the trip, until we realised we’d only stopped once, for eight minutes in 12 hours. And the captain wasn’t showing any signs of slowing down. When we questioned him, he said he’d stop at midnight, recommencing the journey at 6am. This caused a veritable shit storm among the eight passengers and the arguments started. The talk of mutiny didn’t stop until midday the next day.

Turns out there was some mix up between our contracts and the captain’s agreement with our guides, because he was intent on getting to Timbuktu in two days and we expected the trip to take three. To add further insult to our already festering injuries, our impressions were the boat would stop around 6.30pm and tents would be made for us along the banks of the Niger, Kumbaya . That was not the captain’s impression, which was fine by Sian and I, because we had our own tent and after managing to persuade him to stop at nine we promptly stormed off the boat to pitch up for the night. That turned out to be a mistake.

Around midnight I awoke to some gut-wrenching grunts and groans coming from outside our tent. Practically frozen with fear I leaned over and whispered into Sian’s ear to wake up, just as whatever African beast outside let out another guttural moan.
Both now frozen with fright we mouthed to each other questions about what to do, what it might be, where the thing was, etc. As more deep breathing and heavy grunts sounded in the dark, it became clear whatever animal taunted us, it possessed massive lungs.

As a motor boat cruised by, I dared to sneak a look outside. But I saw nothing, just a dark mass of scrub and the black reflection of the mighty river Niger beyond. As I was surveying the area the thing made another terrifying noise allowing me to pinpoint its location, about 10 metres off shore. That confirmed it, a Hippo.
Then I really started shitting my pants.

I’ve heard stories about Hippos being the most dangerous African animals and so my imagination was fraught with images of the terrible creature trampling us to death where we lay. My panic went on for about two hours or so until I eventually realised it probably wasn’t interested in us and drifted back to sleep. Sian, on the other hand, had fallen back to sleep 10 minutes after I awoke her.

Day two of the boat ride was somewhat better, with the boat crew stopping more often at various small villages and the day ending at 7pm with a camp fire and food. There was also a chance spotting of the previous night’s tormentors as we watched a small herd of Hippos dash for the water.

We only realised the next morning the reason why the crew were ok with stopping at 7pm: Timbuktu was just ten minutes from where we’d camped, so by 7.30am we were docked and on the way to Timbuktu in a 4wd.

So we’re in Timbuktu now and it seems pretty much like a nothing town in the middle of the desert. But the point was more getting here really.

89 days in

Mali so far

The mammoth day of travel ended at 4am when, after being accosted at the airport by late night touts and again accosted when we refused the price of our first hotel, we found ourselves staying in a pretty decent, pretty cheap place.

The next day we met Mohammed. Mo is a pretty well known Malian guy with a highly successful tourism company. He also owned the auberge we stayed at. Anyway, most of our first day was spent haggling with Mo over trips to the Dogon region, trips to Timbuktu by boat, trips to the salt mines of Taoudenni and trips to about anywhere else you can think of. In the end we agreed on a price for a boat trip to Timbuktu because we were going that way anyway.

In the late arvo we looked for a bus to a place called Segou and spent two hours waiting for it to leave in the craziest African bus station: guys arguing, music blaring, people selling stuff, just general mayhem really – perfect for making low budget public transport even less bearable.

Five hours after departure we rolled into Segou at 1am. The trip should only take around two hours, but our bus was so overloaded and clapped-out we were lucky to arrive at all. By this stage we’d had two late nights with long uncomfortable journeys in between, so it was nice to finally get somewhere relaxed and just spend a couple of days wandering the streets, getting aquainted with black Africa.

Our next stop was Djenne, a world heritage listed village on account of it being the location of the world’s largest mud built structure, a mosque. But there’s not much else there, just loads of tourists and touts. And the locals seemed pretty unfriendly compared to Segou, probably because they’re sick of tourists waving wads of cash about and being generally arrogant.

Anyway, we hated Djenne, so today we met up with Mohammed, who’d just arrived in town, and managed to scrounge a lift in a comfortable, air conditioned four wheel drive to Mopti, the departure point for boats to Timbuktu.

Mopti is a pretty nothing place, but being with Mohammed meant we stayed at a cool hotel where we met two cool English guys, Ben and David, bound for Cameroon in a rally. For the last ten days the Chocks Away Team have been stranded in Mopti because their 1934 Austin 7 has completely carked it, so they’re waiting for a truck to ferry them the rest of the way.

This evening the guys in the hotel killed a goat in celebration of Mohammed’s return. It was a great night chatting with Dave and Ben, drank a bit too much though. Today I also started getting sick; think some food I ate last night at a local Djenne food stall might’ve been tainted with evilness.

Tomorrow we get up early for the boat to Timbuktu. Looking forward to spending three days meandering up the Niger River.

84 days in

Casablanca by night

The trip seems like it’s getting more complicated. In the last 24 hours we’ve decided to can our idea of spending another week in Morocco and heading into the Western Sahara, because there’s nothing really down that way and there’s little point of travelling so far unless you’re going to Mauritania as well. Not to mention the huge distances, a journey we’d only have to repeat less than a week later.

Instead we’re going to Mali by plane on Thursday. Morocco has practically closed its border to Mauritania following the kidnapping of three Spaniards in November, and two Italians in December, so now you’ve gotta go all the way to Rabat to get a visa from the Mauritanian embassy direct. This would have been a massive hassle for us, and because of the danger of kidnapping we’d only be shooting through the place on our way to Mali anyway. So we figured we might as well save the money we would have spent doing all that and shell out for a plane ticket instead.

With that in mind this morning was spent frantically trying to find the cheapest possible online flight, ensuring we could make it to Casablanca by bus in time and resecuring our shitty hotel room before the grumpy owner turfed our stuff out onto the street.

Add to this our lingering concern Sian may be pregnant: ever since a rather primal moment alone together at sunset on top of a Spanish mountain we’ve been slightly worried, so before we could do any planning for Mali we had to find a pharmacy and ask, in broken French, for a pregnancy test. This morning it seriously felt like the trip was in jeopardy of total collapse. She isn’t, by the way.

So tomorrow we’re up a 0530 to get the 0630 bus to Casablanca from Agadir (via Marrakech) so we can catch the 2330 flight to Bamako (Malian capital) which lands around 2am.

See you in Mali.

82 days in

desert bitches

Today we’re leaving our friends and their beautiful Kasbah after spending two nights in the lap of luxury - free of charge - while I photographed the place for them.

It’s been enjoyable to just laze around the pool, drink beer and wine (which I haven’t really done since Spain) eat delicious food and be generally pampered.

At times I’ve felt like a freeloader and’ve had to remind myself I’ve spent hours photographing and retouching images for Sylvie and Nasser, so it definitely hasn’t all been free. Sian hasn’t had to do much though.

Yesterday Nasser showed us around his home village, a tiny place called Tamnougalt: picturesque with a well preserved Kasbah (owned by Nasser’s family) and a crumbling Jewish Kasbah. Not much else though.

Anyway, today we’re off to Zagora; a small town in the desert. It’s mostly a place where people go for camel treks into the Sahara, and not much else I gather, so we’ll probably only spend a day or two there before heading off to M’hamid and the end of the road. Then to Agadir and onto the Western Sahara.

79 days in

Agdz

We’ve spent the last few days in a tiny village called Adgz. It’s pretty much off the tourist trail; the occasional bus load stops for a break and a few tired drivers stay the night in one of the cheap hotels. But apart from that there’s just a few Kasbahs near the town catering for rich (mostly French) tourists wanting to get away from everyone.

Today while on our way to visit Ksar Agdz (an abandoned village near Agdz) we met the owner of one of these hotel Kasbahs. He noticed me photographing a crumbling Jewish Kasbah nearby and approached me asking if I was a photographer. When I said I was, he mentioned his need for images to go with an expose that Home Magazine is doing on their hotel. He then asked if I would shoot his hotel in exchange for a free night’s accommodation and complimentary dinner, to which I agreed.

Nasser turned out to be a great guy. He and his French wife built their hotel three years ago, and it’s a stunning place with beautiful gardens and a pool. He’s also a great source of local knowledge, and has offered to take us to the place he grew up, a beautifully kept Kasbah in a nearby village, incidentally used in the movie Babel.

So tomorrow morning we head 30 minutes walk out of town to photograph Hotel Kasbah Azul. Never thought I’d be picking up commercial jobs on this trip.

77 days in

the desert

I can’t sleep. We got into the desert last night after a long bus ride which wound through the Jebel Sahro mountains, and immediately spotted the first supermarket since Spain... they sold booze.

I bought the cheapest bottle of wine I could find for about four euros, and drank the majority in our hotel room. It was this Moroccan made red that tasted pretty good, considering the label. Did the trick anyway.

This was the first alcohol I’ve had in nearly two weeks and I think the break has made my body slightly intolerant to booze, because I woke up feeling pretty shitty. But it could also be something in the wine: Morocco isn’t known for its prowess in the vineyard.

We wasted today walking around the town of Ouarzazate and ended up hiring a quad bike for an hour, which was alot of fun until Sian followed the guy in front up a steep hill at full speed, got all four wheels off the ground and sent me flying off the back. Grazed my hands and arse on impact.

Tomorrow we’re up at 5.30 to get the bus to a place called Agdz; some one horse town even further into the desert. I’ve heard that there’s an abandoned village nearby though, so we’re gonna check it out. A guy from Magnum covered it in 96, so might be worth the visit. Plus there won’t be any tourists around.

After that we’re heading for the end of the road, a place called M’hamid: 40 kms from the Algerian border and the arse-end of everything.