I’ve been to Mali. Oh, yes. We went overland from the east, 23 of us in the back of a Bedford truck, via the Congo, Cameroon, Nigeria and Niger. And even after that succession of astonishing countries, Mali stood out as having a unique flavour of its own.
The first intimation that we ain’t seen nothing yet came at the border. Border crossings were usually surprising or infuriating, one way or another. At the one between Niger and Mali, the Malian authorities surprised us by stipulating an extraordinary condition of entry. This was that we must take on board our truck a representative of the Mali tourist board who would ride and live with us for as long as we were in the country. So after much argument, this thin, black, ulcerated leg duly appeared over the tailgate, and then this tall, ragged, unofficial-looking individual with grasses stuck in his hair heaved himself aboard and shyly introduced himself to the company as Dorro.
The road to Timbuktu was cut by an overflow of the river Niger, so we couldn’t go.
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