Reading “To Timbuktu”

Timbuktu – the name of the Saharan outpost is synonymous with any far-flung destination. For centuries or, more likely, millennia, the town stood at the intersection of two ancient highways – one, a watery path to the sea; the other, a trail only visible in the memories of those who have traveled it, into the sand and across the desert. And yet photographs of signs outside the city (I've never been there) unceremoniously spell out "TOMBOCTOU" in block letters. No flourish, no attestation of the role the settlement has no doubt played in history countless times throughout the ages. Just a simple indication like any other for travelers, put in place by a government that has more pressing issues to worry about, like feeding its citizens.

Perhaps the city itself is like many icons – a bit hollow unless you take into account the getting there. I've been reading Mark Jenkins's book, To Timbuktu, which is about just that. So far it's a great read, as he takes the reader through an expedition to find the source of the Niger River in Guinea, and then follow it to Timbuktu in Mali. Aside from the action and anecdotes from both Jenkins's experience and the annals of African exploration, we readers are treated to a few spot-on riffs – observations in which Jenkins draws on his experience as a traveler and his time as a stringer in East Africa. This one's admittedly a generalization, but in my experience it's true for almost all expats:

"Like all expats in Africa, the Olafsons (a couple he stays with in Guinea) don't quite live in Africa. They live inside a walled compound with guards and guard dogs and gardeners, servants and chauffeurs, flush toilets and air conditioning. The Olafsons aren't typical though because they don't whine about it. They openly admit they have chosen exile. They are in Africa to make money, plain and simple. They plan to retire twenty years before everyone else. Most expats, when they go back to their own country (twice a year, expenses paid), find it too tame and talk ceaselessly of the drama and wildness of their life in Africa. But then back in Africa they take every precaution to make their lives just as they would be if they lived at home-except for the servants and the cases of expensive liquor and the very good money (hardship bonuses and all).

"Even foreign correspondents are like this. That's something I learned in East Africa. People have this image of foreign correspondents out there on the edge getting the tough story for the betterment of mankind, but most of them are just expats. They live behind walls of money, drink like fish, and spend all their time with other soused white people. They send their stringers out to get the story." (p. 50-1)

A few pages later, again taking a step back to see the differences in perspective on the human experience, Jenkins makes an astute observation, ahead of its time: "Places with no roads and no wires are bigger than other places. Distance hasn't been distorted. People claim the world is getting smaller, as if it were some green and blue balloon leaking air. Africans don't buy this. To most Africans the world is enormous. Why? Because they walk. They have no choice; they are poor. If you must use your own legs--your own blood, bone, and sinew--to travel from one place to another, a mile is a mile and the world is boundless." (p. 56)

Interesting that this story was published in 1997. Certainly at the time, people were talking about the shrinking world, but I don't think "global village" had yet entered the lexicon. Again, he rightly attributes that sentiment to a question of perspective.