Charade in the Sand

[Martin Hash]

The Knife.JPG

My wife, Gwynne, and I had already been in Africa for six weeks, and taken a three day dugout ride up the Niger River to reach Timbuktu. Timbuktu lives up to its reputation, and simply learning such a place really exists outside the realm of nursery rhymes is satisfying. After touring the city, finding a place to eat (more difficult than you might think), and sleeping on the roof of a rundown hotel, next on the agenda was the evening camel ride.

I’m as much a fan of a good camel ride as the next fella, and for the equivalent of only $15, who can complain? I would suggest that forty minutes at a time in the saddle is adequate experience, especially for men, and more so for men who wear boxers. I’ll also say the ambiance of native guides, the locale, and riding in the immediate aftermath of a dust storm made the experience truly memorable.

Once arriving at the “village,” a single dome tent in the desert whose view of civilization was entirely obscured by sand dunes, a blanket was laid out and we were offered very strong mint tea. First, we were regaled with fantastic stories of 52-day camel caravans journeying into the desert to buy salt; how at twenty the young men made their first trek; at thirty they were seasoned travelers, and; at fifty an experienced nomad could even tell when he was by tasting the sand. After advantaging ourselves to this hospitality, we were vulnerable to the surprise sales pitch that followed. Our guides, the children that ran alongside us, and three women who presumably occupied the tent with their young babies, all rolled out colorful carpets onto the sand on which to present their wares: cheaply made, mass produced, “authentic” Mali artifacts.

It’s not that I was immediately suspicious of the circumstances but consider that the aspiring merchants were all young, under thirty and showing no visible injuries or signs of physical trauma that camel journeys probably entail; their brightly colored clothes were without blemish, neither faded or worn; and the camels appeared to be very old (but I’m no judge of camels). Most telling, by listening to us they knew we spoke English and replied in kind, apparently fluent – some amazingly so. I can easily assume they were accomplished in German, Spanish, and Italian – certainly French and their native language, and probably Arabic too. Plus, considering the effectiveness of their sales pitch, the fact that we were captive, beholden, and exploitably polite – sales must have been good. How could hauling salt on the backs of camels over the desert for months at a time possibly have been more lucrative?

I’m simply speculating, however, because though the contrivance was of Disneyesque proportions, I was singularly entertained, and so was everyone else in our group. So-be-it there was an additional $5-10 expense, no one was so foolish as to purchase “old jewelry in my family, good deal - $100!” and whether-or-not we rejected their offerings, and despite the intensity of the pressure, they seemed to harbor no hard feelings because the ride back was equally enjoyable. However, there was that business of insistent demands for tips before dismounting…