…Thus proclaimed the heading on a brochure, sent to us by Joyce Klein of Post Haste Travel Services, our ubiquitous and nefarious travel agent, who usually gets us into strange and bizarre places where “no man has gone before”.

But this time was different. Neither of the Joyces, Klein or Kory, were the culprit…It was entirely ME!

My Joyce had already tossed the brochure in the trash when I retrieved it. It touted the virtues of this strange place - where I had never been – yet, which had always occupied a subliminal niche filled with adventures that lived only in my childhood’s imagination…

…A forbidden, secret and menacing habitat at the extreme southern end of the Sahara desert, heroically sought after over the years by countless intrepid explorers, many of whom never found the place and worse, for mysterious reasons, never came back!

The vision my Joyce had was quite different. Not a dreamer like me, she expected Timbuktu to be a “Peggy Lee” experience, inspired by the song “Is That All There Is?”

However, upon further and more thorough analysis of the brochure and some prodding from Joyce, the travel merchant, and after gagging a little at the cost (it can’t be bad if it costs this much!), her enthusiasm for the escapade grew, particularly when she was able to wrap the trip into a sandwich of a three day honeymoon in Paris at the outset and, upon our return from Timbuktu…if the fates are with us and we indeed return… a week-long recovery period, again in Paris.

The honeymoon in Paris lived up to expectations. The morning we arrived from Miami was Valentine’s Day. I had made reservations from the US for that very night at one of our favorite restaurants, La Truffière. The place specializes, as its name implies, in truffle-laden delicacies that Joyce adores. It had not occurred to me, however, that for this occasion they had limited their service to a very elaborate “Menu Fixe” paired with a correspondingly stiff, “Prix Fixe”. In fact, the only area of choice left for the guest was the selection of the wine. That turned out to be an elaborate ritual involving a huge iron-studded book, rolled to our table by two waiters, with a third helper to position the imposing tome on a stand, where I was allowed to carefully flip the pages, one at a time, under the inquisitively critical stare of his honor, The Sommelier. My eye drifted over the intimidating list of wines. I have always considered myself a bit of a wine maven, but the ceremony left even a blazėe soul like me somewhat flustered. Eventually, I found what I thought was a “modest” Grand Cru Pommard 2003 that seemed to fit the protocol of the occasion…it wasn’t until l’addition made its appearance, however, that my recovering banker wife turned white, as she caught sight of the wine’s contribution to the nearly 800+ Euro tab for the evening!

The lesson here is: beware, when in a Michelin star-rated environment, of any combination involving a Prix Fixe Menu and a Grand Cru vintage!!!

But it was worth it! The meal was endless and elegant, and the food - sublime.

It wasn’t until two days later that this extravaganza was actually topped by what proved to be the culinary climax of our honeymoon. With much pomp, including a special cab to deliver us with appropriate dignity, we arrived at the front door of “Guy Savoy”, the ultra famous and hallowed three-Michelin-star-rated restaurant. We were escorted past the reception into the inner sanctum of the eatery, where we met the Maitre d’Hôtel, who performed his act with a Teutonic inflection in the tone of his voice. Indeed, he was German, and that endowed him with just the right kind of aplomb to assure our good behavior. The Sommelier then made his appearance. He was, of course, as pure French as can still be found in this heretofore chauvinistic land that is now in the process of sinking deeper and deeper into the joys of multicultural ethnicity. The next ambush was unexpected. There was actually a bread steward who turned out to be Italian. Once these preliminaries were accomplished, including our ecstatic reactions to the amuse bouches, Guy Savoy, the Chef, impresario and owner of this distinguished menagerie, made his personal appearance and, quite modestly, chatted with everyone, exhibiting all of the qualities expected of a genial host for us and the other three or four tables that occupied this intimate room in this very special gastronomical venue.

For a mere 82 Euros, the artichoke soup was clearly the best thing that had ever brushed our palates. Unlike my dinner at Paul Bocuse in Lyon some years ago, I had the good sense this time not to suggest any modifications to the recipe! Needless to say, the rest of the meal wasn’t too shabby either. As it turned out, however, La Truffiėre was inexpensive by comparison!

The honeymoon was further enhanced by our hotel - A “Demeure-Class” Sofitel called: “Le Faubourg” almost adjoining the American Embassy between Place de la Concorde and Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honorė. We particularly enjoyed our stay there, even more than at our pricier former Paris stays at the Meurice, because we were exposed to a special treat. We had noticed when we went to bed, that it felt like we had fallen into a cloud, with the bedding wrapping itself magically around us on all sides. This effect, we found out, was created by a feather mattress cover which created a whole new layer of feathers below the feather duvet so that you literally sink into an environment surrounded on all sides by feathers! Getting up in the morning became a major challenge. Naturally, Sofitel is selling the stuff and, naturally, Joyce has already ordered it!

Since we had decided that our “Hurricane Evacuation” destination this year would be Capetown, SA from July through September, we wanted to spend the tail end of hurricane season in Paris and experience ordinary life there in November. Thus, it made perfect sense to devote our West Africa trip recovery period to the task of finding a 30 day apartment rental in central Paris. This proved to be a bear of a task, but that’s a different story. So, with the end of our Paris honeymoon, it was time to turn to Africa!

The three West African Countries we visited - Mali, The Gambia and Senegal - are all former French colonies which represent a vast region of West Africa. These countries share similar histories and cultures with which Joyce, despite her many visits to Africa, had never been exposed to. For once, we both had a first-time experience in the Third World - together. This time, she could not claim to have “been there, done that, and bought the T-shirt”!

Mali is land-locked, habitually flooded by the Niger River, abuts the Sahara on its North (where Timbuktu is located) and enjoys a rich cultural heritage. Senegal has a broad exposure to the Atlantic Ocean and important aspects of its history hail from its maritime trade activities – including the slave trade to the US and other countries. “The Gambia” is a tiny country which bisects Senegal where the Gambia River meets the ocean. Its maritime economy seems to depend extensively on land/sea transshipment operations in Banjul, its Capital and largest port.

We arrived in Bamako, the Capital and principal city of Mali, well after nightfall, and were ushered into an airport lounge (to wait in air-conditioned comfort while the tour manager took the necessary 2 hours to complete the immigrations/customs/baggage drill). We were then piled into to a couple of busses that took us to the Hotel Sofitel L’Amitiė, so named to acknowledge Muammar Qadhafi’s gift of the hotel to Mali… surprises will never end!

This process gave us a good chance to “meet the relatives” - our fellow tour members and tour staff. They couldn’t have been nicer and we found that we all had a lot in common. Most were well to do Americans, professionals and dynamic elders. The tour was staffed throughout with a tour manager to enforce schedules and discipline, a naturalist to keep us aware of the wonders of the new environments we were encountering and, the piece de resistance, Rod McIntosh, the Yale/Rice anthropologist/archeologist who discovered Djenne-Djenno, the UNESCO World Heritage Site in Mali which we would visit. In addition to guiding us through the site, he kept us riveted throughout the trip with five lectures. Based on the announced titles and subject matter, no one would have guessed that he could hold our attention for more than a few minutes, but each lasted 2 hours and we still begged for more! Both the tour manager, Lyn Mair, and the naturalist, Sandra Fowkes, were from Capetown. As an added benefit, we agreed to meet there later this year, in the course of implementing our Hurricane Evacuation Plan.

The hotel was quite large and modern and, while not as luxurious as its Paris counterpart, we found it suitably comfortable. We were on a high floor and couldn’t see a lot of the hotel’s property, particularly with the dusty air that chronically permeates everything in West Africa. In the morning, however, we were delighted to see the hotel’s pool area from our window. It was charmingly heart shaped, perhaps borrowing from the spirit of Good Will inspired by Qadhafi’s role in the existence of the hotel, and reflected in the hotel’s name, “Amitiė”, namely “Friendship” in French.

Before plunging into any details of the tour, a word about the complex relationships between local cultures and tourist behavior may be of interest. In our case this was characterized by my one and only leash-less shopping experience during the first day of the tour in Bamako. We had visited an “Iron Market” -ploughs, seeders and other colorfully painted farm implements on display at the edge of the road like luxury cars in a showroom, several crafts shops, endless jewelry stores and mask emporiums so that, by mid-day, we sat exhausted in a charming rustic restaurant - San Toro. They just happened to sell Mali-styled tunics which I found enticing. So, while Joyce was yakking away, doubtless about matters of weighty import, and everyone was lulled into complete relaxation by the mellifluous sounds of a lovely indigenous live band, I ambled to the exposed rack of tunics, bought one and paid the asked-for price of $60.00.

Word of my transaction filtered back to our table (I was wearing my new tunic!) and, while I was preening in front of a mirror basking in the joy of my purchase, shrieks of outrage emanated from the travel companions at our table and I was made to realize that I had created a scandalous and irreparable black hole of hopelessly bruised cultural relations that would bring humiliation to all who associated with us… I had bought at the asking price without bargaining!!!

The consequences of this crime were dire. I had paid way too much; the seller was writhing in painful remorse for bilking an innocent tourist; on the other hand, the ease of the sale made him feel that he must have undervalued his merchandize. Lastly, a bad example had been set for all world travelers by the damage I caused to the universal sport of Third World bargaining. Joyce was draconian. She confiscated my money and banned me from making any further purchases…FOR EVER!

Moving on beyond Bamako…

The terrain throughout Mali is unremarkable and largely flat, except for some picturesque escarpments settled by the local Dogon tribes. Islam is the dominant faith and the mosques, all made of mud bricks, emerge as the architectural idiom. No wild life here; only goats and lots of donkeys. Women are beautifully clad in what looked like magnificent silky fabrics. In Timbuktu, nearer to the Sahara, they wore flowing veils and the men sported beautiful white and robin’s egg blue wraps worn in conjunction with elaborate head and face protection to keep sun, dust and wind at bay. The colors of these desert attires, coupled with the earthy hues of the mud bricks that dominated the man-made environment, was simply magic. Our encounters were extremely open and friendly, but there was little doubt that we were in an abysmally poor area of the world.

Leaving Bamako, Mopti is the next strategic stop. Now, Mopti is clearly not Paris, and even Bamako is quite large and important by comparison. Our accommodations at the Sofitel “Le Faubourg” in Paris were rated five stars; the one in Bamako might stretch to four stars; Mopti did not even have a Sofitel. We stayed at the “Hotel Kananga” on the Niger River and enjoyed a much more basic kind of hospitality. But Mopti is the jumping-off point to ride “Pirogues” (which are the French version of home-made canoes) on the Niger and Bani rivers, for the long ride to visit the Grande Mosque of Djenne (a truly remarkable Islamic cathedral made of mud) and to become an archeologist for a very hot day (by traipsing around a huge expanse of land studying pottery chards at Djenne-Djeno), and an even longer drive to see the Dogon Villages and partake in their Mask Dances.

First, to Djenne-Djenno. Prof. Rod McIntosh accompanied the tour. He is a truly remarkable Rice and Yale university scholar who has made Djenne Djeno his significant life’s work. In the last 30 years of excavation, he has uncovered 3,000 years of Djenne-Djenno’s history. The remnants hint at the probability that the place may have been a City-State, and may even be part of a heretofore lost civilization of Mesopotamian significance. Professor McIntyre has advanced a fascinating theory borne from the fact that none of the extensive digging had yet uncovered the slightest evidence of temples or other monuments or artifacts suggestive of organized religion, kings, armed conflict or the draconian exercise of governmental or military power. Was this a completely unique civilization which, unlike all others, succeeded in creating a culture imbued with a spirit of supreme egalitarianism? What a treat it was to hear speculations about the nature of this civilization from the man who made the discovery of its remnants – and nurtured its finds all these years!

On to the Dogon Region, where we spent the following day in the land of the Dogon tribe, visiting villages, being entertained by colorful and spectacular masked dances and a lot of time haggling in marketplaces while holding overaggressive street merchants at bay.

Finally, at long last, on the morning of the third day in Mopti, we boarded a chartered plane to Timbuktu and, upon landing, were piled into four wheel drive vehicles of mixed vintage for an incredibly dusty ride to the portals of West Africa’s version of the Forbidden City. Indeed, on a nearly deserted, unpaved dusty road, a remarkably modest 2×8 foot sign unabashedly proclaimed - in bright hand-painted red letters - that we had reached TIMBUKTU!

For centuries, Timbuktu was the destination of camel caravans bearing salt from the Sahara in exchange for gold, jewels, and precious ivory. Only in 1928 did the first European traveler return from Timbuktu. Almost nowhere else is there a place so fabled in history and myths, yet so isolated from the rest of the world!

There was nothing dramatic or even noteworthy to be seen as we crossed the portals into the city. No gate, no threshold, nothing but a street flanked by an imposing mud mosque and clusters of flat roofed structures made of mud and mud brick. Virtually no vegetation, and more than a few camels with their drivers, animated the unpaved streets…and yet the place was magic! The first impression was that of an abandoned town in America’s Wild West, but this one was far from abandoned. Buildings were being maintained; goats, donkeys and camels - as well as their owners – were cared for, and there were merchants waiting to display their wares.

The dust was overwhelming, and permeated all our openings. I could identify with the characters of Frank Herbert’s great sci-fi novel “DUNE”. When I asked our guide for my “Still Suit” he thought, of course, that I had lost my mind (as will any reader not familiar with the Dune Cult). I was instantly inspired to get wrapped into one of the spectacular blue Touareg head and face covers that makes a man one with the great Sahara Desert! The deed was done, but this time under the scrupulous supervision of my spouse, who had bargained the hapless vendor to a point of utter frustration, until I finally suggested (in French) that if she didn’t settle he should simply deck her…this sent the vendor rolling on the floor in laughter! Even with benefit of her recently acquired French lessons, Joyce didn’t get it! Finally, being unusually persistent, the vendor, in utter desperation even proposed to swap my valuable “Great White Hunter” wide brimmed hat for the veil-like turban head gear. Joyce had to physically restrain me from consummating this trade, which actually had great appeal to me, as I hate hats.

Beyond the dust, one cannot help but sense the immensity of the desert that lies beyond this speck of habitation. It’s probably more Kasbah than oasis, as water and greenery are not evident. What is evident, however, is the pattern of wooded support studs that festoon the walls of the building and are used as scaffolding for the re-application of new mud to replace that which melts after every rainfall. These wooden projections look like cloves on a ham, and endow the spirit of the place with a totally unique character.

But these are all surface perceptions. Timbuktu is, more importantly, a significant reference point in the Islamic Culture of the broader region. The city houses the famous Djinguereber Mosque on its main street. Within short distances, one finds other mosques and several quite active museum displays and plaques related to Islamic lore. One of the greatest legacies of Timbuktu’s former glory is the wealth of Islamic literature. Traditionally, families wrote their histories in Chronicles. One of the most important ones was known as Tarrikh es-Sudan, written in the seventeenth century and providing invaluable information about the scientific, legal and social practices throughout the region during the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. Our group had the opportunity to visit an atelier which was part of the university and imbedded amidst the adobe brick structures. We saw and chatted with four or five veil-clad workers, busily restoring these ancient and sometimes sacred manuscripts that are part of Timbuktu’s bridge with modern times.

Next, our guide drove us into the desert a short distance from town, where an incredibly colorful grouping of dancers and ululating performers entertained us with a wide variety of martial arts-like numbers accompanied by drums and flashing swords…all, of course, available for sale at a modest price right after the show. Then it was time for a camel ride. Joyce, naturally, went at it with her usual enthusiasm. I, on the other hand, recalling my last encounter with these miserable beasts, resisted the temptation of making like Lawrence of Arabia.

For weeks before leaving for Timbuktu, I desperately tried to recall this “poem” which, fortunately, one of our tour participants just happen to have available for our pleasure. It goes as follows:

William Shakespeare and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow approach the pearly gates of heaven and are greeted by Saint Peter who tells them he can only admit one of them to heaven. “In order to decide which of you will enter, come back to morrow with a poem that contains the word Timbuktu. In my judgment whoever composes the best poem will get into heaven”

Both supplicants step back from the gates and scratch their heads. They come back the next day and Longfellow recites first:

“I dream of a far and distant land,
A desert sea of burning sand.
A caravan was passing through.
Its destination…Timbuktu”

“Very good” says Saint Peter, “Now how about you Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare recites:

“Tim and I a-hunting went.
We spied three maidens in a tent.
They being three and we being two,
I bucked one, and Tim-buk-tu”

“Shakespeare, come on in” says Saint Peter.

At the end of our day, the same charter plane that delivered us to Timbuktu landed us in Dakar, the Capital of Senegal, where we boarded the “Callisto”. Callisto is a 170 foot, very luxurious, 34-cabin recently renovated Greek yacht on which we were to live during the next 7 days while we visited Senegal, The Gambia and some of the rivers that flow through these lands.

The comforts of the yacht were a welcome relief from the accommodations in Mopti. Our visit to the rivers of West Africa began by cruising the Casamance River, with its spectacular oyster-laden mangrove full of pelicans and other aquatic bird life. This might have been an impressive attraction were it not for the similarities it bore to what we have at home in the South Florida Everglades. The forests and wildlife of The Gambia proved more interesting, with its well maintained riverine forest, its baboons and its beautiful rust colored Colaba monkeys. In general, we were impressed with the fact that the children we encountered everywhere - in Mali, The Gambia and Senegal - were handsome, intelligent and had an excellent sense of humor. All spoke excellent French, plus they had at least one year of English study. In the streets and markets, however, we found them to be indefatigable hucksters and negotiators.

Among our many stops during the Senegal/Gambia trip, four require special mention.

The first was an open air “museum” where the local witch doctor, curator and feather-clad guide/performer used humongous Baobab trees as props for the exhibits of artifacts showing the indigenous icons of the culture and religion. This was a unique experience combining museum, culture and entertainment in the open air. Where is Frank Gehry when you really need him!

Another interesting stop was a bizarre “garden” which combined well cared for and ordered rows of vegetables and flowers, mango and other fruit trees, all coexisting next to a huge, nightmarish crocodile farm with its denizens sprawled next to their pond, waiting, without any discernable motion, to be fed. This garden was quite large, with all kinds of animals, even a lonely otter the owner had adopted. It was clear that the farm and garden was the expression of one special man’s dream.

I found the third stop particularly interesting. It was the headquarters of the Franco-Senegalese Alliance. The colors and ornamentation of the building was based on local customs and mythologies. The bright primary colors and the Mondrian-like patterns of the designs that covered all the surfaces in the building were truly remarkable. Yet the real surprise lay in the architecture of the building. The structure was configured like a Roman Impluvium where a two or three story circular space is built like an inverted cone, acting like a funnel to catch the rain, which drains down the center of the building.

Finally, our stamina was challenged on the last day before disembarking, when we were piled into some very unstable dugouts and ferried to three islands in the face of fairly stiff winds. The first was built up with a series of huts on stilts used to store grain and feed. The second island, known as “Shell Island”, was completely made of shells and serves as a cemetery for both Muslims and Christians. Seems this small fishing village in a remote section of West Africa has achieved accommodations that are difficult to fathom here. Finally, the last island housed the ubiquitous artisan market, but everybody was pretty well shopped out and I was, of course, banned from the sport.

We finally reached Dakar, our port of disembarkation. The agenda, on this last day, was a visit to Goree Island, a UNESCO World Heritage Site famous for its museum devoted to the history of the African slave trade. Joyce and I eschewed the visit, as I was suddenly in the throes of intestinal spasms, fever and related discomforts. Only the dayroom at the Dakar Sofitel gave me a prayer of getting patched up sufficiently to survive the brutal treatment that awaited us later that evening at the Dakar Airport for the flight back to Paris.

To summarize the Senegal/Gambia portion of our trip, the days on board usually started with cool temperatures in the morning, and became painfully hot in the afternoons. The days were very crowded with sightseeing agendas that were oftentimes not terribly interesting and involved sitting forever in sun-soaked, dust saturated cars or canoes. This eventually afflicted virtually everybody on the tour with some sort of cough. While all of the stops were not interesting, we couldn’t have asked for a friendlier and more competent staff. We would recommend a lighter agenda and a bit more time to take advantage of the luxuries provided by the lovely ship Callisto.

Thus, unlike so many hapless travelers, we did return from Timbuktu…but it was certainly not a triumphal end. Nonetheless, we felt much enriched by the experience, and Timbuktu will forever remain with us as an icon of mystery and high adventure. I’ve got the T-shirt to prove it…but I can’t wear it, as it shrank to a size that would fit a four-year old after its first washing.