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.
[Illustration: A COMMERCIAL FLEET UPON THE NIGER]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: THE FORT OF EL OUAL HADJ]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: THE ARRIVAL AT KABARA]
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.
[Illustration: THE QUAYS OF 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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: KABARA: THE GRAVES OF THE AUBE EXPEDITION]
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.
[Illustration: ON THE QUAYS OF KABARA]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FORT OF KABARA]
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.
[Illustration: THE CONVOY]
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.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DWARF FOREST]
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.
[Illustration: FORDING THE STREAM ON THE WAY TO TIMBUCTOO]
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.
[Illustration: ‘OUR’ OUMAIRA’]
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:--
[Illustration: OUR OUMAIRA·ON N’ENTEND PAS
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.
[Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF TIMBUCTOO]