Timbuktu or Tombouctou, tombutto, tumbutto, tumbyctu, tumbuktu ... if you prefer,
no matter how you write, what fascinates is the
knowledgeable beyond the reach in the footsteps of the first Europeans who arrived in the nineteenth century, the Englishman Gordon Laing who did not return, the legendary René Caillé, French who came disguised as a poor Arabic and wrote back to an end on that veil of mystery and wealth which was surrounded, and even the famous German explorer Heinrich Barth who went to Tripoli after starting to cross the Sahara and reach the Gulf of Guinea.
I read somewhere that there are two Timbuktu, the first is a quiet desert town with narrow streets full of dust and sun, the second
identify the other hand, with the idea of \u200b\u200bthe journey that everyone is to achieve something ... unattainable, or that sign
the output of Zagora, in the deep south of Morocco, on the outskirts of the desert, put there to warn the traveler who takes 52 jours de chameau to reach it - and the imagination soars.
following the road that runs from Mopti to Gao, Douenza reached, we leave the asphalt and, to the north, we begin to follow the trail, at first easy to Moud Barbara, and then the desert. The mind flies back in time, one thousand nine hundred, we had to climb on Main de Fatima, from there we focused directly on Timbuktu, five friends, an old toyota bj, the crumbling of Gourma Rharousse barge, the Tuareg with the toy cassé in the desert, the remains of the helicopter by Terry Sabine ... but that's another story.
here all of a sudden, after all, the Niger, the ferry, the first houses, and after a few kilometers the mysterious Timbuktu; hundreds of years ago stood on the banks of the Niger, now is 15-20 km and the desert continues to advance. On the right the airport, we happened down there in '88 to coincide with the Paris-Dakar, the old Paris-Dakar, the race for gentlemen drivers, where the important thing was coming, and the premium for all was the legendary beach of Lake Rosa.
turn to the different lanes, it all seems like then, I make friends with Kalil, I'm from driving during the usual few things: the beautiful wooden doors, the three mosques, the houses where he lived the early explorers, the source (well) Tin Boutout that gives the city its name, the sign, each year more faded, that says a city of 333 saints ; Deeper into an internet point: The third millennium has arrived here. The next day, still
around the alleys, and the market, I am writing a postcard arrives?? Kalil
greeting, he asks for his services a few francs, we exchange the mail, it's been five years but his wish bonne année arrives on time, every January.
write and think, dream ... they said that those who dream with open eyes traveling twice ...
