Going to the Desert to Take a Shower?

My last note seems to have worried more than it amused, so here's a second one, hopefully not as "scary," before I take off for the great north, early tomorrow morning.

Yesterday afternoon, as running water drizzled down on my head for the first time since my arrival in Mali, I couldn't quite get over the paradox of undertaking a 20 hour journey to arrive in a desert town in order to take a shower!

But indeed I journeyed, I arrived (safely), and I showered too, in one of Mali's largest cities, Gao. One of the many things that the US State Department does not tell you about Gao is that the city used to be one of the western Sudan's most important commercial and cultural centers. It is easy to see why Gao once thrived, as it spreads out from a strategic position on the Niger river into the vast Sahara, with its trade routes and romantic lure.

Today, history has left Gao with little but its size -- very limited importance, wide sandy streets with rectangular architecture, and only half of the population of its glory days.
Coming here was long but surprisingly easy. We set off on time (15:03) in an old, but durable, and crowded, bus. The road stretched, like the view, and pulled together in smooth curves, and stretched again. As the bus rattled through the fallen night, I could feel the desert draw nearer. The trees grew further and further apart, and began hugging the earth, as though they were afraid that one day gravity would abandon them and they would have to hang on for their lives.

In the headlights of the bus, I could see the earth near the road turn from ochre dust to copper rocks to sandy off-white.

During the first part of the drive, we must have stopped every 15 minutes, to allow swarms of girls and women squeeze into the aisles to sell oranges or cookies or slices of papaya. At some stops, men in thick winter jackets sold meat that they sliced with long knives, and afterwards the smell of grease and mutton and lazy contentment lingered.

As we got further north, the powerful soundtrack that the driver had been providing got shut off, and most passengers dozed with full stomachs. At stops now, less and less of the would-be passengers' faces showed, the rest hidden behind colorful turbans, and I don't think I just imagined the increased tension among the security guards or whatever they were. I didn't even know we had security guards until Bamako had drifted far out of sight. Then three of the passengers began getting off in camouflage clothes at every stop, one of them carrying a gun that he carefully displayed.

I don't know if the gun was mainly a show of strength to demonstrate his own importance and manliness, or if it was a response to some perceived security threat. In any event, the people who climbed on board were every bit as kind and friendly and civilized a those already seated, in my eyes very unlikely bandits indeed.

A woman who sat down behind me covered beautiful thick braids and a baby boy under a dark blue veil. By the time the road led us into Gao, her little boy dared to peak out at me, and even smile. I took it as a good sign, just like the welcoming committee on the bridge across the Niger: a herd of camels smilingly blocked our way across, as if to say Be patient, you're almost there; be patient, because this is the desert. It all seemed very appropriate.

Early tomorrow I head north, north. I look forward to telling you all about it.