The no-road to Timbuktu

We’re finally allowed to cross the internal border from Southern Mali to Northern Mali.

The crisis started in March of 2012 when a loose coalition of rebel movements threw out the official Mali State from Northern Mali. 

The alliance of groups such as al-Qa`ida in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM), Ansar Eddine, and the Movement for Unity and Jihad in West Africa (MUJAO) managed in the following months to take town after town, all the way to Konna, only 100 miles north of Mopti, the hinge that separates north and south.

This advance prompted the intervention of 4,000 strong French troops. We don’t need to follow the news or the maps to know where we are. Every few meters we find cars and trucks that apparently were bombed by the French while the jihadist were trying to retreat back north.

Oumar, our driver, shows us on the side of the road the bombed truck that the jihadist had taken from a local business to carry the bodies of death rebels. Almost as disturbing, on the side of that truck, we find a pile of bombs from the French air-strikes. 

We also see a bombed jihadist training camp.

From March 2012 to the French liberation in January of 2013, the legendary Timbuktu was victimized by these fundamentalist groups, that imposed a strict Sharia law, including killings, amputations, and other atrocities. We’re traveling by road to Timbuktu, on a humanitarian mission to establish the needs of the local hospital. Apparently, the few foreigners that have visited Timbuktu since the liberation, mainly journalists and a humanitarian first responders, have traveled by air, but the airport is now close and it’s impossible to get on the limited flights. (The multinational mission from the UN will not officially land in Timbuktu until July 1st.)

As we drive north, we’re also getting closer to the dessert. The strong, hot winds are so sandy, it looks cloudy. It’s about 107 Fahrenheit, 42 Celsius. The landscape is drier and the density of population has fallen dramatically. We finally reach Douentza, a town on the skirts of some beautiful rocky mountains. 

And here is where the most dangerous part of the ride starts. To go from Douentza to Timbuktu, we must drive 195 kms (120 miles) through something that resembles more a path than a road. 

The photos don’t do justice to how bad the path actually is, because we didn’t think it was safe to stop to take video or photos, and we couldn’t risk to waste a minute and arrive too late to Timbuktu. But most importantly, the path to Timbuktu is deserted and too wide-open, and we have been warned against bandits and the possibility of kidnappings.  Our man in Mali cautions: “No matter what happens, we can’t stop, for nothing, for nobody.”

We were warned also that the “road was not good”. I would call that the understatement of the year. Considering that for many refugees and displaced people from Timbuktu, this was the only way out, or back, makes my heart sink. 

For the first 100 kms (60 miles) we don’t see anything or anybody, other than another 4X4 from the Red Cross driven by one Malian man. No people, animals or cars. The isolation of Timbuktu becomes more and more clear.

Our 4X4 barely can make it on this road. Last night, it rained, which made the soil more dangerous and unpredictable. We have a couple of near misses. One in particular is pretty scary: we have to speed and jump over a bump that was much higher than expected on the other side. We have a dramatic landing, but we’re not hurt. We inspect the car and it seems to be OK. Needless to say, this is the last place on Earth where we need to be with a broke-down car.

Half way down the road, we encounter semi-abandoned mud villages and we see people for the first time since Douentza. The worse of the trip is yet to come in the second half. We run into several trucks and vans stranded in the muddy potholes, or with destroyed tires. The vehicles seem to be driving back displaced people. There are also some abandoned cars of people who never made it.

We finally get to the Niger River. Timbuktu is on the other side of the river. There is no bridge. “The no-road to Timbuktu” followed by “the no-bridge to Timbuktu”. 

We understand now the frustration of the people in Northern Mali, while in the South, the Capital Bamako spends millions in infrastructure projects: highways, parks, bridges… many of the towns in the North continue to be isolated, even those with the strategic, historical and potential touristic importance of Timbuktu.

We will have to wait two hours until the next ferry to cross the river. We are now at the receiving end of the famous Malian hospitality, in one of the tents, we discover something of a local restaurant, a place to eat and rest. We eat with our hands some fish and lamb innards. Those who miss the last ferry to Timbuktu can also spend the night in these tents. People are happy to see us. Maybe they think our presence is a sign that things will soon return to normal.

The owner of the tent tells us how hard is to even survive. Practically, no vehicles are coming this way anymore. In Songoy, one of the local languages, he tells us about the atrocities committed by the jihadists. I record the interview. Almoustafa will translate for me later. For now, all I need to understand doesn’t require words: the sadness in his eyes and his profound sense of desperation.