Into the Heart of Lightness
© Kevin Moloney, 2008
NEAR NIAFUNKÉ, Mali, January 5, 2008 — Joseph Conrad must not have spent crystaline days and nights on the Niger River.
Long bright hours pass over an irregular parade of shoreline towns and villages of eagerly waving people. Crisp nights fall under a perfect dome of stars.
As we settled in to dinner I looked over the rail of the boat. The water was glassy calm and reflected all the constellations perfectly. Uninterrupted sky wrapped around our rustic little pinasse in every direction as if we had been tossed into the heavens.
If Conrad's darkness in the heart of mankind exists, it is not here with me now.
En route to mythical Timbuktu I climbed aboard this 40-foot canoe with a small outboard motor, thatched roof and wicker outhouse hovering over the stern. On the trash-strewn and muddy shore at Mopti I and six others had negotiated prices for the three-day ride. My companions include an English cinema art director, a British press agent working in Spain, a California organic fruit farmer and his local guide, a young Belgian home care worker and a German punk record producer.
We line rickety wooden benches padded more in spirit than in fact, bask in the sun atop the roof, read, and trade stories from our lives. All the passengers aboard have stressful careers. As the landscape of the Sahel rolls by we all let go of any need to do anything. Deadlines evaporate. Finance becomes barter. Cities fade to distant memory.
Being trapped on a small boat for three days is the most calming experience I've had in years.
To the rear, pilot Abdul guides the boat down the wide river as his wife Aisha barters with passing fishermen for their catch. From it she cooks each day's meals of fish, rice, pasta, and onions. Young boatman Atraman bails from the bilge, cleans fish, and stands at the bow to guide Abdul through an occasional narrow channel. We sleep along the sandy shore on mats, under tents and behind bug nets.
By the time the weather takes on a less comfortable tone in cold wind and rain, all aboard have shed any ability to complain. We huddle, smile and drink syrupy tea among the benches, giggling as we pick beach sand burs out of every piece of fabric among us.
As night falls on the third day, Noel the farmer spies an orange glow on the horizon.
"That's Got to be it! Timbuktu! We're in Timbuktu!"