Chapter IX: From Jenne to Timbuctoo

Re-installed in my yacht-canoe, I followed the accustomed path of the Niger in order to reach Timbuctoo. I hastened towards the mysterious city, hoping to find the sequel to that epoch of civilisation of which Jenne had accounted for the first half. I longed to raise completely the veil which has hidden the Sudan from us for so long, and caused us to look upon that country as the last refuge of barbarity, which was in reality an offshoot of the great Egyptian tree, the father of all western civilisation.

Tara, tara, Bosos! give way, my brave fellows! What a life that was during those seven days! We journeyed day and night, and I did not get two hours’ consecutive sleep the whole time. To find one’s way across the three deltas lying between Jenne and Timbuctoo is no easy task. I was obliged to navigate my little craft with compass in one hand and chart in the other, like a captain crossing the ocean. An ocean this country veritably is in January. When the floods are at their height, it becomes a region of navigable verdure, a labyrinth which extends a bewildering network of meandering tributaries, creeks, and channels along the course of the river. My imperfect chart and hastily recruited, inexperienced crew demanded an untiring vigilance. No moon! and the vague light of the stars only served to assist our digressions. One night in particular has left behind it the memory of an agonising nightmare. I was in the neighbourhood of El Oual Hadj, where two branches of the Niger, joining in one bed, form a small archipelago by their union. Entering this seed-plot of islands in the pitch darkness, I wandered about and up and down to such good purpose, that it was daylight before I succeeded in getting clear of them. The entire night was spent in wandering backwards and forwards in utter darkness. Every moment I thought I had at last found an opening, only to be confronted by another island. I seemed imprisoned in a labyrinth.... You know the anecdote of the tipsy man who guided his staggering steps by means of the railing of a monument, and ended by thinking he had been locked up? Allowing for an absence of wine and the presence of a great deal too much water, my sensations were precisely similar.

In seven days’ time we had cleared the region of the deltas, an actual distance of three geographical degrees; but, what with its bends and windings, we had made at least 311 miles of it. In the course of these miles I had watched landscapes from Normandy and scenes from Syria unfold before my moving dwelling. I had seen the ports of Korienza, Sarafara, and Dara-Salam, which unite with Jenne in supplying the markets of Timbuctoo, and I had passed, and met, many of those delightful ‘Jenne boats.’ They were sometimes solitary, sometimes in fleets of ten or fourteen, according to the old-time custom, when numbers were their only protection against the pirates of the Niger. I enjoyed a picturesque glimpse of one of these little fleets one evening. The boats were anchored in the shelter of a small creek, and the crews were camping out round the great fires they had lighted on the banks; they reminded me of the Phœnicians trading and living thus upon the shores of the Mediterranean.

Only two fortifications are set up on our route, viz. Sarafara and El Oual Hadj, both being so entirely different from any I had seen before that they deserve mention. It is only a year since we set foot in this region (lately the scene of Touareg pillage and exploitation), and it is easily understood that these posts (being valuable strategic points) are not simple centres of surveillance and administration, but have retained the character of forts. The gleam of bayonets is visible at some distance, and look-outs are posted on high places to keep watch on the horizon.

The military aspect of El Oual Hadj is particularly marked. It is a pioneers’ outpost, and was entirely constructed by a half-company of Sudanese tirailleurs. On an artificial hillock, in a clearing in the midst of palm-trees, two rows of sheds are set up. The trees which were cut down to make the glade formed the sole materials used for their construction. One row contains the whites, officers and petty officers, and the other the blacks. The embankment is surrounded by a palisade, clumps of dead thorn are scattered about its slopes, while iron wires are stretched across to guard against surprise. It has no walls or loopholes, its very rough-and-ready intention being merely to guard against surprise, and to permit the discharge of volleys of firing. Do you care to know what the fort has cost the nation? The formidable sum of forty-nine francs fifteen centimes, inclusive of an admirable _mirador_, from which the look-out signals suspicious arrivals by water or land.

At some hundreds of feet from these fortifications, a solitary hillock rises from the banks of the river. It is obviously an artificial eminence, and here and there are found scattered about the bricks and stones which so puzzled Captain Philippe, the constructor of El Oual Hadj. The natives, upon being questioned, yield the information that several similar mounds are to be found on the left bank of the river, and a legend affirms that they were the dwellings, now fallen into ruins, of the chiefs of old.

This is not my opinion. I believe them to represent the tombs, and not the palaces, of these same chiefs. El Bekri, an Arab who visited this country towards the middle of the eleventh century, describes their funerals in these words: ‘Upon the death of a king these negroes construct a great wooden dome, which they set up in the place appointed to be his grave. They then arrange the body on a couch covered with stuffs and cushions, and set it inside the dome. Beside the dead they place his ornaments, arms, and the plates and cups from which he had eaten and drunken during his lifetime. Different kinds of food and beverages are also placed there, and they enclose with the monarch several of his cooks and the concoctors of royal drinks. The whole being covered with mats and cloths, the people assemble and throw earth upon the tomb until it forms a large hillock. These negroes sacrifice victims to their dead, and bring them intoxicating drinks as offerings.’

Unfortunately, I was not able to ascertain if these mounds still enclosed their ghastly remains. But better times are coming; and when the Touaregs are once more relegated to their real home, the desert, I hope that among the commanders of El Oual Hadj one will be found of a sufficiently enterprising turn of mind to claim its secret from the little mound.

* * * * *

After Sarafara, in addition to its varied pictures, the river offers the further interest of the enaction of one of Nature’s dramas--the struggle between the Niger and the Sahara, the battle of life against death. The rebuffs the giant river offers to the sand are plainly visible. The blows he has given are marked by patches of green meadows, stretches of cultivation, rice-fields and trees; those he has received shine and quiver in sandy whiteness under the brilliant sun. Across the vegetation the enemy traces now and again a path which dies abruptly on approaching the river-banks. The spectator is warned; the dominion of the waters is about to cease and the kingdom of the desert is at hand.

The Niger weakens as it draws nearer to Timbuctoo, and instead of pursuing its triumphant progress towards the north it gradually diverges to the east. The sands redouble their attack. Upon the left bank their masses grow in size and increase in numbers; and they follow the giant watchfully, approaching as they see his powers fail.

The last act of the drama takes place near Timbuctoo, where the Niger, finally resolved to yield the north to the desert, turns abruptly to the east and retires in the direction of Lake Chad. It is not a flight but a retreat, and he withdraws with all the honours of war, detaching a great arm to protect his rear. This arm, the Pool of Dai, offers a last resistance to the dunes. So valiantly does it defend the retreat of the river that we find it advancing into the midst of the sand, and its waters appear under the walls of Timbuctoo itself.

The kingdom of the sands is now our goal, for the famous town stands at its very gates. The river may pursue the dawn; we will part from him here and direct our steps towards the Pool of Dai. This month of January marks the highest moment of flood, and the waters carry their weeds right up to the foot of the dunes. A vast yellow-green expanse spreads to the distant fringe of trees that indicate _terra firma_. This border is abruptly broken as we advance, and a sandhill larger and whiter than any we have seen before is unmasked, dominating the horizon and arrogantly proclaiming the victory of the desert. It has reason to be proud, for directly behind it lies Timbuctoo.

Kabara, however, the landing-place and fort of Timbuctoo, is not there, but further away upon the horizon, where that round dark mass emerges. We make for it in a direct line, abandoning the pool to cut straight across the navigable green. As my boat advances, another sandy height appears beside the distant mass, and slowly defines itself into a square mass of walls. At one extremity a flag is floating (the fort, doubtless), and at the other, clearly cut against the sky, spread the sinister arms of a tall black cross. Below this strange apparition square earthen houses and round straw huts cover the sloping banks. It is Kabara.

We have now reached a basin of water in which a fleet of ‘Jenne boats’ are lying at anchor. The buzz of humanity rises from its large quay, and all the amusing bustle of a harbour reigns there. In miniature certainly. The port of Timbuctoo is a mere toy in comparison with Havre or Marseilles, but the first impression is the same.

We are no sooner disembarked than my attention is arrested by two things which stay by me until my departure, viz. the sand and the Touaregs. The sand, because you have no sooner set your foot on shore than you flounder about in it as if it were a mire, and it pursues you everywhere, in the country, in the streets, and in the houses.

The Touaregs are impressed upon you, because, though you never see them, everything recalls them. You notice the unaccustomed luxury of sentinels posted about the approaches to the fort, and that its usual garrison of infantry is supplemented by cavalry and several cannon. All are still on the alert, although a year has expired since our occupation. The stern lesson of the Bonnier disaster has been taken to heart, a lesson which has been recently enforced by the not less tragic episode of the massacre of the midshipman Aube, at a place some few miles distant from the fort. His gunboat was anchored at the foot of the green mound, and, being attacked by the veiled men of the desert, he allowed a rash pursuit of them to draw him into the midst of the sands. The foolhardy young man and his nineteen companions now lie on the crest of the hill under the great cross which stretches its arms towards the serenity of the sky.

* * * * *

Kabara, like Segu and Sansanding, suffered cruelly under the prolonged anarchy which reigned in the valley of the Niger, and her misery was further aggravated by the exactions of the Touaregs. The town is in ruins, but for all that the dominant impression is not one of poverty. The wretchedness of the town itself is overpowered by the life and movement it encloses. The quays are astir with lively bustle, and encumbered with bales, jars, and sacks in the process of loading or unloading. Boatmen and passengers economically camp out in parties everywhere.

Through the streets stream a perpetual coming and going of dock-labourers, donkeys and camels, convoys arriving from Timbuctoo in search of merchandise, and nomads from the desert bringing their cattle in exchange for fresh provisions. These two figures may help to give precision to the details: with twelve hundred settled inhabitants, the town contains a floating population of a thousand strangers.

Kabara is not the only port of Timbuctoo. She shares the honour with two others, being herself only able to play the part during a limited period (November to March) of each year. When the waters are at their maximum (in January) they encroach upon and follow the course of two depressions at the extremity of the dune of Kabara, passing behind it and penetrating some six or eight miles into the midst of the sands. One of these branches, the smallest, turns to the west and is navigable. It is called the Pool of Kabara, and they say that in years of unusual inundation (such as in 1894) large boats of thirty tons can go, by its means, right up to the gates of the town. Otherwise their cargoes have to be considerably lightened, but, for six weeks or so, canoe lighters ply regularly between Kabara and Timbuctoo by means of this pool.

The level of the Niger being considerably lowered in April, the great plain of navigable grass dries up and becomes a stretch of cultivation which reaches to the quays of Kabara; and the town, ceasing to be a harbour, becomes an agricultural centre.

From April to June the great boats stop at Dai, two and a half miles from Kabara, and canoes carry the cargoes between the two places by means of a small canal. Later on, in July, the vessels are stopped at Koriouma-Djitafa, situated upon the Niger itself at a distance of six miles from Kabara.

Timbuctoo has therefore three ports, the inconvenience of which did not fail to attract the attention of Askia the Great when he concentrated his fleet at Kabara. He it was who cut the canal from Dai to Kabara, and at that time it probably assured the permanent circulation of lighters and made Kabara the sole port, Dai and Koriouma being relegated to the position of mere places of trans-shipment. The canal has silted up now, however, and is useless at the fall of the river.

* * * * *

Timbuctoo is only separated from Kabara by five miles of overland route, and I could have reached the mysterious town a few hours after landing at its port. But I was in need of rest to restore my mental balance before I could quietly, sanely, and fully enjoy the sight of the town that I had travelled all these miles to behold. To see Timbuctoo! I had dreamed of it as a schoolboy, and now my dream was about to be realised. I determined to be epicurean, and rush into no rash gluttony. They tell me I can see the town from the height of the fort, but I will not go. I wish to taste the first impression in its entirety, without destroying its bloom by a bird’s-eye view.

One afternoon I bestride a first-rate mule, a regular walking arm-chair, and my traps augment the humps of several camels. Three o’clock. A bugle sounds, and the town shakes off its drowsiness. A medley of people, donkeys and camels, stream towards the little parade in front of the fort, while from it emerges a picket of twenty tirailleurs with rifles on their shoulders.

It is the hour of departure for the daily convoy. These few five miles of road are not to be traversed at will, as are the three hundred separating Kayes from the Niger. We are obliged to travel under escort here, for, short as it is, the road is not safe. You divine the reason? Touaregs--always. Only ten days ago these brigands attacked some solitary travellers, and duly pillaged and killed them.

‘To the front for the Sahara!’ The crowd for Timbuctoo advances. Each one carries or drives something. Children worry unfortunate little asses, which are so loaded that only their ears are visible, and they look for all the world like walking bundles. Men armed with spears and guns accompany the camels, and women, placidly smoking their long pipes, are perched upon small donkeys, with their screaming progeny on the crupper. The whole thing has less the effect of a caravan than of the emigration of an armed people carrying the very uttermost of their household goods with them.

* * * * *

The borders of the desert were a surprise to me, for I had fully expected to find them a sudden expanse of bare, shining sand. Nature’s moods are not so abrupt, however; she prepares a transition. We are in the midst of hot, soft sand certainly, but it is not bare. Only the road, or rather track, is of the expected shining whiteness. The rest is covered with a peculiar vegetation which is neither wood nor thicket. It is a dwarf forest containing a rickety growth of scrubby palms, mimosas, and gum acacias. They are a pale, dusty colour, an anæmic green, with such trivial branches and leaves that the shade they give is anæmic too, the phantom shade of a phantom forest.

The watercourse which we meet and meet again, and yet a third time, is equally unexpected. Water in the desert! It is the Pool of Kabara on its devious way to Timbuctoo. God be praised, they have not yet made a bridge across it. Imagine the Sahara with bridges! The water cuts straight across the track, and escort and escorted have to ford it, to the great joy of the spectator.

The water is fully breast high. The tirailleurs carefully remove their uniforms, and the men take off their ample draperies; so do the women, but they imperturbably retain their pipes. They carry their most precious possessions, arms, clothes, and goods, on their heads. It is now the turn of the animals, and the donkeys make the most ridiculous scenes. As soon as the water has so shallowed that swimming is unnecessary, they sit down in it, apparently bent on suicide. Indescribable barbarities now take place. Men, women, and children fling themselves upon an unfortunate animal. One seizes it by the ears, another by the legs, and a great many by the tail (the lever _par excellence_ on these occasions). The animal calmly allows itself to be drawn to the bank, while its zealous rescuers charge into the absent-minded, and cause many an involuntary bath.

I pictured a party of Touaregs arriving in the midst of this hubbub. Right and left of the track the undulating ground and scrubby thicket could well mask a surprise, and equally well cover a retreat, the attack being once made.

The road half-way between Kabara and Timbuctoo bears a sinister reputation. The natives have given it the tragic name ‘Our’ Oumaira’ (They hear not), meaning that neither at Timbuctoo nor Kabara can the cries of the victims be heard. The place has bitter memories for us also. A cross, sister to the one that gloomily dominates Kabara, is set up in one of these valleys. A little leather placard is nailed to it, bearing the following inscription:--

ICI
_périrent en attaquant une armée de
Touaregs et d’Arabes_

_AUBE Léon enseigne de Vaisseau
LE DANTEC 2^e M^{tre} de Timonerie_

_et les laptôts fidèles Isaac N’Diaye
Cantara Taraouéré Diakounta Soumaré_

_et quinze autres encore partis de Kabara_

Tombouctou entendit, accourut

_LES VENGEA AUSSITOT_
]

After reading this inscription one casts suspicious glances right and left into the undulating and woody landscape. A little prudence is decidedly advisable. This preoccupation is so increased by the uproar of the picturesque medley of people crowding round the escort like chickens round a hen, that the thought of the approaching vision of the town is forgotten.

At a given moment, however, the mass gathered round the escort opens out, the track rises to climb a bare dune, and when we have followed it to the top--Timbuctoo is spread before our eyes.