33

The next day, I got behind the wheel of my loaned Land Cruiser and hit the road. It was dawn, but the night was lingering. Stars were still twinkling high in the sky as the sun rose. Heading north, I crossed Martyrs Bridge and drove up Avenue Modibo-Keïta and then Avenue de la Liberté. Following the curves that snake along the Koulouba hill, I could see the beautiful and sleepy city down below. Street lamps were going out one after another. I passed the presidential palace on my left and headed toward Kati, which I crossed through after passing its military camp. I turned west and drove all the way to the town of Kita with the windows down and a cigarillo hanging from my mouth. There, I stopped at a service station to fill up. I didn’t know if I’d be coming across another one before reaching Keniéba, and I didn’t want to risk getting stranded in scrubland. I made a second stop at a small grocery store to buy mineral water and mangos. I put everything in the back, next to a foam mattress, which I had brought as a precaution. After stretching my legs, I got back on the road. To the north, the Mandingues Plateau and its sandstone cliffs towered over the road with their violet and rocky walls.

By late morning, I had reached the town of Bafing Makana, the capital of the Bafing National Park, south of the Manantali Reservoir. There were no tarred roads beyond this boondock town. I had to take a rough road full of fech fech—a white sand so fine, you could sink into it if you took your foot off the gas. I drove through a thick forest and arrived at the gravelly bank of a wide river. Some kids were waiting there for cars to come by. They surrounded the Land Cruiser, claiming they knew how to ford the river. I gave a one-thousand-franc bill to the boy who was clearly the oldest, and he led me into the current, which came up to his thighs. Thanks to them, I was able to cross without issue and head toward Kenieba. The temperature, which was comfortable at the beginning of the day, was now spiking, so I turned on the AC. I passed several heavy-equipment vehicles and SUVs with mining company names on them, but none sporting Cartagena’s logo. As I drove, I observed the huge holes that had been dug into the sides of the Bambouk Mountains—gold mining exploits.

I arrived in Keniéba by midafternoon. I got more supplies and stopped at a dibiterie, a meat stand on the main street, to buy some greasy roasted goat. I ate it quickly and then went to the police station, where I asked an officer for directions to Cartagena’s mines. The cop thought long and hard. Unable to answer my question, he went outside and asked an old man on the street, who was also stumped.

“Do you have an address?” the cop asked as he came back inside.

I recalled the name Dioulafondou from the Cartagena website. The officer’s face lit up.

“Yes, I know that town. It’s about thirty kilometers northeast of here. You have to take that dirt road over there,” he said, pointing to a miserable path meant for donkeys and carts.

“That dirt road? Is it suitable for cars?”

The officer assured me it was. I thanked him, climbed into the Land Cruiser, and started down the dirt road. My cracked ribs were immediately begging for mercy, but I clenched my jaw while keeping my eyes peeled for obstacles. An hour and a half of ball-busting bumps later, I arrived in Dioulafondou. It was nothing more than a miserable cluster of twenty or so banco huts. Again, I asked how to get to the Cartagena mine. Few of the villagers spoke my language, but one old man was able to tell me in choppy French that he didn’t know the mine. I thought quickly and asked if there was a landing strip close to the village. The old man nodded vigorously and pointed west.

“Over there! The white men—they’ve made a site for small planes.”

The man confirmed that it was possible to get there by car. I thanked him profusely and drove off. The sun had begun its descent. I checked my watch; it was almost five o’clock. I had two hours of sunlight left, tops. Driving in the dark on a road as bad as this was suicidal, but I was in an adventurous mood. I drove a good hour, jostled in all directions. Finally, I arrived at the landing strip, which was no more than a field that had been cleared with a pickax. Humbert had been a damned good pilot to land his old crate on this makeshift plot of land.

I stopped the Land Cruiser and got out. Walking along the runway, I saw that it ended at a forest. At that point, a path began. I returned to the SUV and pulled my gun from my bag. I slipped it into the holster under my safari jacket. I walked a short fifteen minutes through the trees, listening to the songs of tropical birds and the warning cries of monkeys. I arrived at a rocky overhang above a vast crater. The path ended in front of a hut made of shoddy planks and topped with a rippled tin roof. Under a small lean-to, there was a generator that looked perfectly maintained. I called out, my hand on my Glock. The door of the hut creaked, and an old man appeared. He was wearing shorts but no shirt. The man was thin, with a washboard-like chest and black as pitch. He resembled Drissa.

“Ani oula,” I said.

“M’ba, ani oula,” he replied, squinting.

“I’m looking for the Cartagena mine.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “It’s here.”

I looked around.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t see any mine.”

He pointed at the crater down below.

“That’s the mine.”

I walked up to the edge.

As I peered over the rim, I could tell that the crater was man-made. Much of it was covered with vegetation, but I could still make out the tracks left by heavy vehicles.

“How long has it been since they’ve done any mining here?”

The old man scratched his head.

“To be honest, I can’t remember. Must be a good twenty years.”

“And what about you? What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Me? I watch over the mine, and I pass mail along to Bamako when the plane comes once a month.”

~ ~ ~

I kept talking to the watchman without paying attention to the setting sun. When I noticed the old man’s shadow stretching to infinity like a Giacometti sculpture, I realized it was time to go. I thanked him and started hurrying back to my car. When I got there, night had fallen. The forest echoed with nocturnal animal cries, and the trees felt as though they were swaying. I had the sensation of being on an old ocean vessel. I debated getting back on the road but quickly abandoned the idea. I had a fifty-fifty chance of breaking something important. So I got out the foam mattress and set it up on the roof of the SUV. I unrolled my sleeping bag. Above me, the nighttime sky was covered with a fiery carpet of stars. Under the shooting stars, I savored juicy sweet slices of mangos, which I ate right off the blade of my pocket knife, ecstatic as a kid.