mali 7: timbukthree
i left off (ages ago) as we departed by camel into the sahara north of timbuktu, led by tuaregs in midnight blue robes. the sawing of the camel saddles chafed uncomfortably. in a way, i was glad we were only doing 2 of our promised 10km. flies swarmed around the camels ears, around your feet propped crosswise in the crook of its neck; its head yaws left and right and you creak back and forth abruptly in the saddle.
when we get to the encampment (a solitary dome in amidst the dunes) we shuck off our camels (i as quickly as possible) and repair to plastic mats that have been laid to receive us. slowly it dawns on us that we will sleep on these same plastic mats "under the stars". our host prepares tea:
we can still see the city lights as a red line on the horizon once the daylight goes but it is quite dark; the tuaregs have led the camels off elsewhere. as we sip the three teas {bitter like life, mild like death, sweet like love}, some traders wander out of the desert and spread their wares on the ground. we are trapped, and commence to haggle, trying to get out without purchasing the whole lot. there are camels teeth inlaid with brass, knives with molded leather handles, necklaces, bracelets, curious silver pipes (long, fluted) that the tuaregs use to smoke their particular brand of tobacco. i seize upon a trio of knives with leather handles and matching leather sheathes. the traders separate us so that we cannot easily compare the prices we are getting with each other. because it is dark, they illuminate their goods with the backlight form their mobile phones. my trading partner is relentless, informing me that tuareg tradition is to have three rounds of trading: the first is to throw out your most ludicrous offer (perhaps just to break the ice; he is nonplussed when my offer is "i don't want to buy those knives" whilst his is about $10 per); second, you raise and he lowers. the third bid is meant to be your final offer - i went in at about 20% of his first ask, which meant (he informed me) that his children would starve. but he would take it, ultimately, because of the special bond we shared as participants in the tuareg trading ritual. i pocket the knives, fork over the cash, and we share tea. the traders leave; a short distance from the encampment, a land rover roars into life and drives back to timbuktu. ladies and gentlemen, the tuareg claw.
we are fed a bowl of rice with thin sauce that barely makes it around the 6 of us; when we ask for more food, our host serves us from his own family's meal, which is a much better type of rice basking in butter and topped with small pieces of succulent lamb.
we settle in for the night, stretched out on the plastic mats; all around us, the clattering noise of large beetles and locusts and the scurrying of the tuareg's kittens as they guard the perimeter, pouncing on anything that moves. once i realize what they are doing (keeping away the scorpions, in addition to the larger sand beetles), i stop kicking them away and one curls up next to my face.
posted by Jon @ 08:02
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