Collection 6: "The Cruelest Journey: 600 Miles to Timbuktu" by Kira Salak

In the beginning, my journeys feel at best ludicrous, at worst insane.

Thunder racks the skies and pounds the earth like mortar fire, and every living thing huddles in tenuous shelter, expecting the world to end.

He told me that the people of Old Ségou think I’m crazy too, and that only uncanny good luck will keep me safe.

I gaze at the Niger through the adobe passageways, staring at waters that began in the mountainous rain forests of Guinea and traveled all this way to central Mali—waters that will journey northeast with me to Timbuktu before cutting a great circular swath through the Sahara and retreating south, through Niger, on to Nigeria, passing circuitously through mangrove swamps and jungle, resting at last in the Atlantic in the Bight of Benin.

I gaze at the Niger through the adobe passageways, staring at waters that began in the mountainous rain forests of Guinea and traveled all this way to central Mali—waters that will journey northeast with me to Timbuktu before cutting a great circular swath through the Sahara and retreating south, through Niger, on to Nigeria, passing circuitously through mangrove swamps and jungle, resting at last in the Atlantic in the Bight of Benin.

Bent and plied by Saharan sands, it perseveres more than 2,600 miles from beginning to end through one of the hottest, most desolate regions of the world.

And when the rains come each year, it finds new strength of purpose, surging through the sunbaked lands, giving people the boons of crops and livestock and fish, taking nothing, asking nothing.

It humbles all who see it.

I used to avoid stripping myself down in search of motivation, scared of what I might uncover, scared of anything that might suggest a taint of the pathological.

And would it be enough to say that I admire Park’s own trip on the river and want to try a similar challenge? That answer carries a whiff of the disingenuous; it sounds too easy to me.

I value the privacy and integrity of my trips, and I don’t want my journey turning into a circus.

The Niger churns and slaps the shore, in a surly mood.

I balance my gear, adjust the straps, get in. And, finally, irrevocably, I paddle away....

Waves higher than my kayak, trying to capsize me. But my boat is self-bailing and I stay afloat.

I wonder what we look for when we embark on these kinds of trips.

And where is the river of just this morning, with its whitecaps that would have liked to drown me, with its current flowing backward against the wind? Gone to this: a river of smoothest glass, a placidity unbroken by wave or eddy, with islands of lush greenery awaiting me like distant Xanadus.

And where is the river of just this morning, with its whitecaps that would have liked to drown me, with its current flowing backward against the wind? Gone to this: a river of smoothest glass, a placidity unbroken by wave or eddy, with islands of lush greenery awaiting me like distant Xanadus.

The Niger is like a mercurial god, meting out punishment and benediction on a whim.

The Niger is like a mercurial god, meting out punishment and benediction on a whim.

It is as if I’ve entered a very lucid dream, continually surprised to find myself here on this river—I’ve become a hapless actor in a mysterious play, not yet knowing what my part is, left to gape at the wonder of what I have set in motion.

It is as if I’ve entered a very lucid dream, continually surprised to find myself here on this river—I’ve become a hapless actor in a mysterious play, not yet knowing what my part is, left to gape at the wonder of what I have set in motion.

“This river will never end,” I say out loud, over and over again, like a mantra.

I keep up a cadence in my head, keep my breaths regular and deep, in synch with my arm movements.

As the sun gets ominously low, burning a flaming orange, the river turns almost due north and I can see a distant, square-shaped building made of cement: the harbinger of what can only be Korioumé.

As the sun gets ominously low, burning a flaming orange, the river turns almost due north and I can see a distant, square-shaped building made of cement: the harbinger of what can only be Korioumé.

I unload my things to the clamor of their questions, but even speaking seems to pain me now.

And was the journey worth it? Or is it blasphemy to ask that now?

I see the weeks on the river, the changing tribal groups, the lush shores down by Old Ségou metamorphosing slowly into the treeless, sandy spread near Timbuktu.

Nothing seemed to change; nothing took on new variety. It had felt like a stagnant life.

Outside, barely discernible in the darkness, the crowd of onlookers continues to discuss what I’ve done.

Rémi has gone onshore and tries valiantly to get us a taxi into Timbuktu, but the driver of the only car available at this late hour demands an exorbitant sum of more than $150 to drive 30 kilometers.

It is the first time I’ve seen Rémi get so blustering and assertive, and he argues passionately for a lower sum.