We fly into Timbuktu from Bamako, the capitol of Mali, a landlocked nation in west Africa, occupying major expanses of the Sahel and to some extent the Sahara. We leave Bamako at 4:30 a.m.; I've only just arrived at 1:00 a.m. I will realize later that I have no recollection at all of Bamako or the hotel where I slept for a few hours only. I'm told that I'm allowed only 15kg on the flight; the rest of my luggage will be driven by jeep and meet me in Mopti on Sunday.
Two days in Timbuktu is sufficient. My main guide is Ogo, of the Dogon tribe that occupies the cliffs of Bandigaria in the middle of the Sahel. In Timbuktu we have a Tuareg guide in his bright blue turbin and robe. He tells me not to tell anyone our itinerary. Indeed, I hear Ogo tell locals who ask that we will be in Timbuktu for a week. There is Al Qaeda in Timbuktu who are known to lay in wait to kidnap tourists. Ogo tells me harrowing tales of his sojourn beyond Timbuktu into the Sahara as Al Qaeda gave him and his fellow travelers chase for seven days and nights. Timbuktu boasts a beautiful mosque built entirely from mud. But there is nothing else but dust and sand, and the Tuareg nomads. The call to prayer is heard blaring for miles away from the mosque five times a day.
My accommodations are rustic. A room. Bare walls. Concrete floor. A single bed. I will need my cotton sleeper because the sheets appear unclean. A rock on the bed is supposed to pass as a pillow. No blanket. No hot water. I will learn as the trip continues that this might be considered luxury based on where I will be going.
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