Pink Dune in the Black Hole of Mali

After waiting all morning and part of the afternoon for transit out of Douentza, I finally got into a very crowded tro-tro heading east. The road wasn’t too bad, but the driving was terrible, with the driver pulling the wheel all over the place so we were often swaying between shoulders. At the rocks between Douentza and Hombori, the car emptied for dusk prayers.

The ride was excruciatingly long, longer than I’d realized because when we finally reached the ferry to Gao it was 2 a.m., well after the last ferry had run. The guidebook warned this would happen, and yet I wasn’t prepared. I just assumed I would be able to reach my bag – and I was anticipating riding the bus, where so far I’ve been allowed to keep my bag with me. Anyway, I had a Mexican standoff with the mate, who decided it was far too difficult to get at my bag, people would accuse him of being a thief and well, I should have known and prepared. I found it infuriating that he would laugh and switch to Bambara or Songhai with his buddies while I was trying to speak to them. At one point, he told them while chortling that I just didn’t understand French. I told him I understood very well that he was just being difficult and eventually I asked if it would make a difference if I told him I had to take my medication and my medication was in my bag. He reluctantly climbed on top of the roof and threw down my bag, then they literally locked me in the van, where I had a bit of a cry and a few hours’ sleep.

In town, a sprawling dusty place, the van was met by a kind of hustle I would expect from a much larger and more touristy place. I collected my bag, wearily dragged it to a cab, and paid three times the going rate to get to the campement, which was, to be honest, a bit of a hike. Everything in Gao is a bit of a hike, mostly because there’s no building larger than one storey and yet the town has about 38,000 people.

At the campement, I ran into Jonas, the German guy I’d met in Douentza who was on his way to Niger. We ended up going to get breakfast, then headed to the bank and the Artists village, before I became so tired it was all I could do to trudge back to the campement. The heat in Gao was the most intense of anywhere and by 2 p.m., I swear it was upward of 45 C. I couldn’t get enough water, particularly cold water. At the campement, I had the most satisfying shower of my life, standing under the sun as the cold water poured over me,. I was a mess of dust and grime, bruises and cuts. I took a small nap and did some laundry, then re-arranged my bag so I could lose a few things and fit my souvenirs all into one sack. Surprisingly, by the end I was down to only my pack, my bag and one plastic bag attached to my pack. But I had to say farewell to my sneakers, a pair of pants, some underwear and some used pages of my guidebook. I had been planning on buying a few more souvenirs, but frankly, I’m not sure I want to carry anything, even if I can’t find it in Accra.

I headed out with Jonas in the afternoon for a pirogue trip over to the Rose Dune, a heap of sand by the Niger that changes colour with the position of the sun. our guide, Arouna, had the worst teeth I’ve seen on an adult, and brought a small cassette player that blared tinny Malian rap al the way out to the dune. To get to the pirogue, we walked away from town for maybe 20 minutes, including stepping through some sticky water used by animals and man alike for everything from washing to bathing to toilet.

The pirogue ride was quiet – except for the music – and rather uncomfortable but the children we passed were delightful, offering very sweet hellos. It was the first time since Burkina I’ve been approached by children who wanted nothing more than a handshake. It was so refreshing because the poverty is really wearing me out.

We climbed up into the dune, me falling behind so I could snap photos and enjoy the scenery in peace. I asked Arouna to just enjoy the silence and he agreed to turn off the tape player. The views were spectacular and the sand was beautiful. The whole way back, I daydreamed while Jonas and Arouna talked about guides and tourism and Mali’s children. It would become the theme of the evening, really, as I got into a good discussion with a Dutch/American couple about it when I got back to the campement. Arouna couldn’t understand why we would choose not to have a guide, as they’re so good at giving background and history to a place, yet when I asked him about the formation of the dune – how and why it came to be – he had no idea. My big problem with the guides is that they tend to just complicate things and I find it off putting to be told what to do all the time.

At the hotel I ordered the best meal I’ve had by far in Mali and sat down for a good chat with this couple, who live in Uganda. The woman made a good point about Mali’s tourism industry: it could easily go the way of Egypt or Ethiopia, where all the interactions with locals are hostile and demanding, where the children have no pride, but also no fear and no respect. The only people who speak to you are guides looking to gouge you and the extra money absolutely everyone charges is just laughingly referred to as “tourist tax.”