Timbuktu

Let's just call it the third pole. Timbuktu was one of those places of legend that it was impossible to get to. That is until the turn of the 19th century, when French and British explorers finally set foot in the place.

Then there was the great disappointment the golden city in the middle of nowhere turned out to be made of adobe and dust. It wasn't even a city, just a largish town with the great river Niger on the one side and the great Sahara desert on the other. The caravans from the salt mines brought the valuable edible rocks to the boats waiting on the river in exchange for other goods.

The glorious city of treasure was a myth, or so it seemed to the west.

The true treasures of Timbuktu are the ancient manuscripts that the locals have preserved since the demise of the great University centuries before, and there is, of course, the river, without which, the town could not exist, and yes, the salt which is brought in trucks and not on camels, and the river irrigates vast rice paddies, which from the air looks extremely strange, a green finger reaching into the desert.

The rice feeds the local population, and the price of salt isn't what it used to be and the Toregs, the tribe indigenous to the area has lost most of their camel's drought and disease, not to mention a rebellion against what was then a dictatorial government a few decades …

The past of Timbuktu past is more glorious than its present. Now it is a little town on the edge of the Sahara, with sand-covered streets and souvenir selling Toeareg. The mosques are worth a visit, as are the old houses in the center of town with their beautiful manufactured doors.

My most remarkable moment was that when I arrived on Friday afternoon, its male inhabitants with their colourful robes just left the mosques. They made a wonderful contrast with the sandy streets and buildings.