38

I threaded my way along Bamako’s congested avenues. Without an Internet connection, I wouldn’t be able to check the tracker until I got to the next town. But I wasn’t worried, because in the direction the tanker was heading, there was only one route, and it led to Segou. I’d reassess the situation there. I smoked a cigarillo as I dodged the deep potholes and the squabbling kids. The air outside was already filthy and burning hot, like the gray cigarillo smoke filling the inside of my Land Cruiser. Finally I reached the suburbs on the other side of Bamako. I passed the bus station and the police department at the city limits and hit the gas, making the bleak Sahel plains slip out of sight more quickly.

I reached Segou in the late morning and stopped at the Auberge, a hotel-restaurant owned by an old Lebanese Christian. The place had excellent food. An employee pointed me to the lobby where I could get an Internet connection to check the tanker’s location. I saw that it was also in Segou and I stopped on the main street about a quarter mile away. The driver was probably having lunch at the Indépendence, a competing hotel on the Rue Nationale. I settled into a chair by the pool and ordered shawarma and a refreshing glass of rosé. When I checked on the truck again, it was already on the move, heading southeast on the road leading to San and then northeast to Mopti. It was foolish to get on the road right away, at the risk of winding up directly behind my target, so I booked a room in the Auberge annex to play tourist for the rest of the day. I spent the afternoon wandering along the picturesque promenade that followed the Niger River. When nighttime came, a tremendous sunset hugged the horizon, painting the dark waters and mud homes shades of ocher and purple. I happily took in the calmness that fell upon Segou while I watched seamen unload sacks of rice and coal, pottery, red meat, and dry fish from their fishing vessels and carry them to the riverbank. As the sun disappeared into the calm waters of the river, I thought of Farah.

~ ~ ~

In the early morning, my eyes still heavy with sleep, I checked the GPS app. The tanker trunk was moving. The driver was leaving Mopti and heading in the direction of Douentza. After a quick shower, I ordered some coffee and fresh bread with baobab honey. After paying the bill and saying one last good-bye to the hotel owner, I got back on the road, feeling the tinge of heartache I experienced every time I left Segou. I drove all day, dodging the ruts in the road and the suicidal goats and giving wide berth to the packed buses traveling at breakneck speed. By noon, I had passed Djenne, with its distinctive adobe architecture. Situated between two branches of the Bani, a tributary of the Niger River, it was once an important trade center, but that was many centuries ago. I stopped in the small town of Sofara, where I replenished my supply of mineral water and purchased sardines and some white bread at a roadside stall. I ate directly from the tin as I sat beneath the shade of an old tree with a knotted trunk in a small square. I remedied my dehydration by drinking an entire bottle of water. I quickly became the object of attention of a group of idle kids and gave them the empty bottle. They thanked me in Bambara, convinced I was one of them.

By midafternoon, I had reached the crossroads town of Sevare, with Mopti to the west and Bandiagara and the Dogon region to the south. I took the route heading northeast, toward Douentza, and hit the gas because I was counting hard on reaching Hombori before nightfall.

I was entering the northern part of Mali, which the French embassy had declared a red zone. Expats were strongly discouraged from traveling in this unstable region, ruled by jihadists and traffickers of all sorts of contraband—cigarettes, weapons, drugs, and even humans. When it came to this modern-day Far West, Mali’s security forces had no choice but to grin and bear it. Although they were expected to crack down, they didn’t stand a chance against the gangs of traffickers who were better equipped and more driven. How could a few men in beat-up pickups go up against hundreds of well-armed thugs in brand-new SUVs? The few men who had the risky job of protecting the region were paid next to nothing anyway, so who could blame them for closing their eyes and taking a contemptuously offered wad of bills?

On the road, I passed a French military convoy of armored tanks in tactical formation. It made me think of Mad Max. These were special forces units with ultra-modern weaponry. They had been based in Sevare since the rise of al-Qaeda terrorist kidnappings in northern Mali. The elite French soldiers were offering the Malian army logistical aid and training, but no one was fooled. The French forces would be gone one day, and in all likelihood, the jihadists would sweep away the Malian forces like so much debris carried off by the Harmattan winds.

The Sahelian wasteland had ceded its place to a turbulent landscape of dangerously steep sandstone cliffs and scrubby scree. Vehicles were becoming sparser. Now I was passing caravans of indolent camels and the settlements of the Fula people, West Africa’s nomadic herders who lived in domed grass dwellings that could be easily set up, taken down, and transported. Kids along the sides of the asphalt road waved enthusiastically at passing cars as they tried to hawk their meager supplies of charcoal, salt, and small toys that they had fashioned themselves. I stopped at a café in Douentza, the crossroads town between Gao and Timbuktu. I ordered tea and haggled with the owner, a money-grubbing Songhai man. His tiled cafe had the only Wi-Fi in town, and using his connection wound up costing me a thousand francs. I had no trouble tracing the route of my truck. It was heading in the direction of Gao.

By dusk I had reached Hombori, a village surrounded by mountains in the Gourma region. In the distance, I saw the silhouette of the Hand of Fatima, a massive rock formation with five fingerlike peaks. I found a hotel. A simple fan in my room did its best to keep the air moving and dry the sweat on my skin, but it wasn’t up to the task. I spent the better part of the night standing in my doorway in boxers while chatting with some French rock climbers who had ignored the red-zone travel warning and were planning to scale the Hand of Fatima at dawn the following day. We drank beers and smoked some weed supplied by their guide.