By
the time you read this, we’ll know how much of Timbuktu’s priceless heritage
has survived; latest news is that thousands of irreplaceable ancient
manuscripts, some dating from the 13th century, may have been burned
by the retreating “Islamists”, and historic shrines have been brutally
demolished. The manuscripts have a value far, far beyond that of just their ink
and parchment; they hold nine centuries of West Africa’s cultural and
intellectual history, and the people of Timbuktu are intensely proud to be
their guardians. Resourcefully, they seem to have smuggled some into safety
before the insurgents struck; but the destruction of others is a great tragedy.
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| Bread Oven and Mosque |
I
was there in 1975. My memories of Timbuktu and its people evoke words like
dignity, history, pride, grace, intellect, wisdom, honour and tradition; and recalling
the immensity and emptiness of the surrounding desert still tingles my skin.
“Salt comes from the
north, gold from the south and money from the
white countries; but
the word of God, wisdom, history and the telling of
good tales come only
from Timbuktu.” (Sudanese saying, 16th
century)
A
long straight sandy road stretched southward from the town, mud-brick buildings
on either side giving way to a straggle of beehive-shaped huts made from woven
mats attached to wooden frames. As I walked down this road at dusk, small fires
or braziers glowed red in front of the huts and my mouth watered at the spicy
smell of cooking. Children played and women crouched over their pots, preparing
the evening meal. African music throbbed into the twilight from a transistor
radio.
A
kilometre or so to the west, a canal built by USAID carried water from the river
port of Kabara to the edge of Timbuktu; the busy little market at its terminus
was known as the place “where camel meets canoe”. All manner of market-garden
crops – tomatoes, beans, gourds, pulses and leafy vegetables – grew on the canal’s
steep sandy banks. I remember the plump juiciness of the tomatoes, and piles of
colourful produce on market stalls.
On
a street corner, a wonderful smell of fresh baking wafted towards me from one
of the town’s domed bread ovens. A woman was extracting flat loaves with a long
spatula. I bought one, dusted off the ash and bit into it: tough, tasting of
wood-smoke, and my teeth crunched on the desert sand that invades every aspect
of life in Timbuktu.
Walking
on sand is like walking on snow: footsteps are deadened and sounds don’t carry.
Timbuktu’s streets, with their mud-brick buildings, distinctive mosques and
heavy studded doors, echoed the silence of the surrounding desert. Men’s robes
swished up flurries of dust as they walked, and their leather sandals scuffed
through the sand. Tarmac hadn’t yet arrived. I visited a workshop where the
doors were made, using hardwood imported from Ivory Coast. The smell of fresh
wood-shavings is universal! Doors in various states of completion were stacked
on the sand. I’m comfortable speaking French (it’s necessary in Timbuktu), so
got chatting. The grizzled maître of
the workshop grumbled benevolently: “You can’t get serious labour nowadays, these
youngsters just want to be off having a good time. And as for the price of
wood...!”
There
weren’t many organised tourist activities back then, although the tall and
impeccably robed tourist-board representative for Timbuktu, Mr Moulaye Sidi
Yahiya, was full of plans. He was so proud of “his” town, and had painstakingly
typed out information for visitors. Five houses that had been used by explorers
(Laing, Caillié, Barth, Lenz and Berky) were marked with plaques. Several traditional
houses with their characteristic architecture (decorative pilasters, oddly
shaped windows, heavy wooden doors with metal studs) were on the “tourist
trail”. Some say (although others don’t!) that the style dates back to a Muslim
architect of Spanish origin brought to Timbuktu by its ruler Kankou-Moussa in
1325. There was just one “hotel” – a plain and rather bleak building crouched
on the edge of town, with a breathtaking view over the desert. Looking out into
the space and silence of the dunes at dusk, I felt no bigger than a grain of
sand.
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| 'Gold' Straw Necklace |
In
the narrow streets of the old town I found traditional craftsmen – jewellers
working intricately in gold and silver, tailors clacking away on old manual
sewing-machines, weavers with hand-held wooden looms, and makers of various
decorative items (bracelets, amulets, masks, sandals, carving...) in bone, wood,
leather or metal. One style of sandal had a strip of leather at the toe like
the prow of a boat, for cutting through the desert sand. I was intrigued by the
straw jewellery: necklaces, bracelets, anklets and rings made of straw, sometimes
dyed yellow, on a base of wax. In olden times it was said, from a distance, to
look like gold, so that visitors approaching Timbuktu, and seeing women wearing
it, would be impressed by their wealth.
I remember the buzz and activity at the river
port of Kabara, about 8km south of the town: pirogues loading and unloading,
traders bartering, fishermen bringing home their catch. Long-legged Malian lads
in patched shorts and faded t-shirts, white-robed merchants, turbaned Tuareg
tribesmen, the smell of fish, the cacophony of chatter, sunlight bouncing off
the water... Among the crowd were also tall, graceful Malian women, like gaudy
desert butterflies in their multicoloured boubous and stylish headdresses; their
enforced drab clothing during the recent months of Sharia incursion must have been
a bitter pill.
“These people have very singular customs, the
men are not jealous of their
wives,
and the wives do not seem to be embarrassed by the presence
of
other men.” Ibn
Batuta, writing about Timbuktu in 1350.
Out
in the desert (I was on a camel!) a Tuareg boy of about 12 was trying to sell
me some silver bracelets; I said that I’d think about it and let him know
later. He drew himself up to his full height. “That’s quite right Madame, I
know one should always reflect before taking action!” I said: “That’s very good
– where did you learn it?” “I learnt it at school, Madame. In Morals.” In
Timbuktu, so many of the people I spoke to showed the same dignity and intellectual
poise.
The
history of this sand-choked, desert-coloured town is extraordinary. It started
in the 11th century as a Tuareg campsite, a stopping-place for
merchants and caravans crossing the Sahara, and by 1300 was a market town with
several thousand inhabitants. Under various rulers it prospered and expanded.
By the early 16th century it had up to 180 Koranic schools and an Islamic
university, teaching literature, theology, Koranic jurisprudence, history,
maths, geography, astrology... Its fame
spread to Venice, Geneva, Cairo, Rome and Spain. Students and scholars flocked
to the town; one scholar had a library of several thousand books, while in
Europe most could rise to only a few dozen.
“More
profit is made selling books in Timbuktu than from any other
branch
of trade.” Leo
Africanus, 1525.
But – a wealthy town is coveted: it becomes a
prize for marauders. Timbuktu had already known many rulers, and in 1591 a
destructive Moroccan administration seized power. The town’s glory began to
fade; its scholars and students drifted away. Further destructive régimes
followed and by the 19th century it was in a sorry state, full of
sand, dilapidated buildings and an impoverished population. When the French
explorer René Caillié reached it in 1828, he spoke of “a mass of ill-looking
houses, built of earth”. Timbuktu’s inhabitants, however, have remained
immensely aware – and proud – of their early history.
*********
Twenty-five
years after my visit, I edited the first edition of the Bradt Guide to Mali (by Ross Velton, published in 2000) – and
discovered how much had changed. Ross’s Timbuktu was very different from mine. It
had more hotels and restaurants, more shops, more stretches of tarmac, more
libraries and museums, more tourist facilities and attractions (and thus more
hassle from tourist touts) – but less water. The desert was creeping in. The
“camel meets canoe” canal from Kabara to Timbuktu had dried out two decades
before; and Kabara itself had been unusable as a port for several years, until
the silted-up 3km canal linking it to the River Niger (originally built by a
benevolent emperor in the 15th century) was dredged and reopened. The
straw jewellery no longer exists, and there are fewer traditional craftsmen.
On
my first visit, in March 1975, I was accompanying the MD of a Belgian charity
whose husband didn’t like her travelling abroad alone. The charity (Iles de
Paix; www.ilesdepaix.org) subsequently set up nursery schools, women’s co-ops,
health teams and agricultural activities in and around Timbuktu – which in 1994
were handed over to Malian management. It has since had smaller projects elsewhere
in Mali. Then in December the same year, captivated by the town and wanting a
responsibility-free visit, I returned to spend Christmas with friends who were
working there – and that’s when I fell under Timbuktu’s extraordinary spell. I
so badly want it, its people and its amazing heritage to survive.
First published in VISA 107 (February 2013)
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