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Published: March 12th 2006
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NIAFUNKE: crossing #1:
it was worth the haggling and the $10 to get across the Niger River...as we thought the 'new' road awaiting us on the other shore was our ticket home... Our ‘last’ few hours of adventure:
Well, we thought we were quite the stuff, the first 20 kilometers out of Tomboctou on our Michelin-mapped road. Smooth, loose gravel road. Decent weather. New stocks of water and biscuits in our daypack, to last us the few hours we thought we had ahead of us.
We made our first turn-off uneventfully, the road right where Mister Michelin told us it would be. We even stopped and had a quick look around, got some gas, drank some water. Commented on the scenery. Took a few photos. Bought some more high-quality biscuits, ‘just in case’.
Then the road got a little sandy, a little washboard, some more sand, villages disappeared - and by the time we needed to make our next turn-off, the ‘road’ had all but disappeared, and we swung our left judged by the odometer and a somewhat distinguishable path leading off into the grey, barren bush. It was still smooth-going for a bit, packed dirt…and then the dreaded SAND started encroaching - it wasn’t too devastating, though, because we were so close to the next village - we could see its electric tower.
Arrive: Niafunke
***Now,
are you kidding me???
one of the pirogues the locals wanted to hoist us, and our 600, into to cross the tributary when I had been writing this weeks ago, I would describe Niafunke as a mid-sized village with some amenities (a campement, some small local ‘boutiques’ and ‘restaurants’, and a metal barge to cross once again, the Niger River), but mostly a no-name place which we came to realize was the edge of nowhere.
***HOWEVER, I stand corrected, for there is something of great importance about Niafunke --- what to my surprise when on BBC’s homepage the other morning, it was in the headlines! The beloved, amazing musician, Ali Farka Toure, had passed away - but not before having dedicated much money and work to improving his hometown…Niafunke! So, there you have it. Everyone is from somewhere.
We pulled up to the riverbank, gleeful at the sight of the large, metal, German-constructed and funded barge. Then got into the haggling of how much we would pay to cross the river. Lounging in the shade with some buddies under a tree - the bargeman knew he had us for whatever he wanted, but I wasn’t going to go down easy. In the end, we ended up paying exactly double - in other words - paying for an ‘aller/retour’ (roundtrip) ticket
fellow traveler
hard to tell what exactly was all piled onto this cart...but i'm sure this guy was just as happy as us to have the barge option... even though we just needed the ‘aller’ part…or, so we thought.
In discussion with our now humble and friendly bargeman, he tried to talk us out of our route we had plotted on the Michelin map - telling us that the next river crossing on that road would be just a ‘pirogue’ (small, wooden boat) - and that he should drop us further downstream at a town which was NOT on our map. He jotted down our course - five town names, with arrows inbetween indicating ALL river crossings - but assuring us it was the way to go. Great. Thanks, but no thanks. We’d take Michelin’s word.
Across we went - this time a little more relaxed, soaking in the nostalgia of it all. The Niger River.
That was crossing #1 (not including the day before’s crossing into Tomboctou).
Then ensued, crossings #2, 3 and 4 (all within two hours of #1) - ON THE SAME RIVER, AT THE SAME SPOT.
How does that happen?
Let’s just say, after arriving at the opposite riverbank, then driving a victorious 25 kilometers on a brand new road (SO new that the work teams had not yet removed dirt piles from the middle of the road), we met our pirogue that the bargeman had warned us about. It was ‘just’ a small jaunt across this tributary…the locals were ready to hoist the bike into what they were trying to pass off as a floatable transport device.
Craig and I just looked at one another, swarmed by local boys wearing eye make-up, smiling and trying to communicate in their local language, no warm proprietor to help us, no familiar Wolof-speaking Senegalese in sight…then looking back and forth from our 600 Tenere to this already half-sunken wooden plank contraption -
well, we lost it. We doubled over laughing at our predicament.
The sun going down, we about-faced - only to arrive on the opposite bank of our favored, Niafunke. Failing to get the attention of the bargeman, we left the bike, crossed on pirogue, and convinced him to go back, pick up the bike, and take us back to Niafunke to sleep for the night.
Are you following?
If you are, you’re seeing the ridiculousness of this. If you aren’t, you understand the stupor we were in. It only got worse/better? At the mercy of the locals…
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