Taylor's Travels: Mali Road Trip

Lonely Planet lists travel times between West African cities as follows:

Dakar to Bamako—1-3 days
Bamako to Djenne—8-12 hours
Mopti to Timbuktu—10-24 hours

I read this and make a mental note, “Road travel unreliable, be patient.” But I largely ignore the extensive and varying travel durations. In my optimism (read naivety) I assume that between the publishing of the guide book and my arrival, West Africa will have sufficient time to pave their roads and patch their tires, and I’ll be skipping between destinations like I was on the autobahn. I obviously forgot the fun little word play on “assume” my mom taught me as a kid.

I’m in Djenne to see its famous Monday market and giant mud Mosque, but I’m heading to Sevare in the afternoon; the trip is meant to take just under two hours. Seems easy enough. I do laps through the busy market in the morning then head to the group taxi stand and buy a ticket. I ask the driver when we are leaving.

“When the car is full,” he says.

Not exactly what I was looking for, but OK. I find a patch of shade and I sit. An hour and a half later the car is full, and 11 of my new buddies and I pile into a dilapidated station wagon and are on our way. On the dirt road out of town, I can feel the scraping of the car floor on the ground as we waddle through holes in the road, the car seeming to buckle under the cumulative weight of the passengers and their bags of rice. At least we’re moving though.

We’re moving until the river crossing, where we just miss the ferry. The midday sun makes shade a rarity, but I find a thin patch near the car and I sit. 45 minutes later we are across the river and onto a paved road, “its all downhill from here,” I think to myself.

Not that it’s going to be a comfy ride. It’s 100 degrees, my shirt sticks to me like duct tape, and the hot wind blowing through the open windows can’t seem to find a passage between my seat mates and me—the car is packed beyond belief. But at least we’re moving.

Within five minutes we get our first flat tire. Damn it. I find a tree that looks lonely and plop down underneath it, ready to wait. But to my surprise the driver has the thing changed before I can even get my book out, and we’re back in the car. NASCAR pit crews beware if this guy ever makes it stateside.

I drop the ball when I sit back down. The locals who flank me, in their infinite crowded car experience, establish superior leg and shoulder positioning, and I’m left leaning forward with my knees glued together, trying to find a happy place. It may be cramped, but at least it’s hot. And at least we’re moving.
Around the time both my legs have officially fallen asleep, we make a curious turn 90 degrees off course, into a village with a funny name. Another flat. 15-20 minutes, max, the driver assures us, and disappears into the village with the mangled tire.

I’m a pro at this point. Shade. Sit. Bring it on. The quick fix of the first flat is but a distant memory, not to be replicated this time. I rest near the car with my back against a mud home, and spend an hour enjoying the harmony of the metal workers shaping cookware (TINK! TINK! TUNK! TINK!) next to me and trying to recall the meal that could have caused my churning belly. When the 250 pound woman on my right begins nursing her toddler, I take a destinationless walk. I return some 15 minutes later, and, like coming back from the bathroom with your food waiting for you, the driver is attaching the repaired tire and we are again moving.

I know better than to have any hopes at this point, so I’m not disappointed or surprised when the driver turns into a town to “pray” (I mean come on, you can’t argue with Allah), and then backs his car into a service station. The good news is the sun just set so shade is not an issue, and the red African soil and I are now well acquainted.

In a half hour the service boys have our chariot laced up and ready, and we depart on what would be the final crawl to the Sevare finish line. We arrive in one piece. Total time—just under five hours.

Of all the virtues I hope to acquire through travel, patience is the one I am perfecting in West Africa. Unscheduled stops and flats, rivers and roadblocks; I’m learning to take deep breaths, relax, and sit—cause this could be a while.