Azalai- le carovane del sale

on the road to Taudenni

"Once upon a time, a boy had to go to Taudenni to become a man," a young friend from Mali confides in us. "And would you go?" we had asked. The boy burst out laughing: "Are you crazy? That trip is a hell!" Mali north of Timbuktu, Arawan, Taudenni: names that evoke an unknown and fascinating world, united by a common denominator, the desert, with its oases, its caravans, its nomads and the Tuareg. A mysterious and seductive world, but also terrible and severe, with the implacable sun during the day and the biting cold of the night. "It is the law of the desert - the Tuareg pass down - You have only to turn your forehead to the sky to receive the sun and then the stars. And you will be content." In Mali they call them Azalaï.

Once there were two most important ones: one, that of "Alâwa", took place in the cold season, between November and December; the other, that of "Tifiski", in the hot season, between April and May. Even today, on the eve of every departure, the mythical Timbuktu, the "Mysterious", city of mosques and libraries, which with its university and its gold trade entered legend before yielding to an inexorable decline, comes alive with the preparations of the caravans, ready to cross the desert to head, about 700 kilometres further north, towards Taudenni. A compulsory stop even today for the caravans coming from the desert, Timbuktu remains one of the most told and dreamed-of myth-cities of the world. Thanks to its splendid and enlightened past, when, true queen of the sands, it was the most important and wealthiest cultural, commercial and religious centre of the regions bathed by the Niger.

The salt trade preserves a prehistoric flavour. A raw material, used just as it is harvested, it requires no expensive plants, but elementary tools: hands, feet, hoes, ropes, mats, hollowed-out logs. It is sold in slabs of thirty kilos, and the seller often receives goats, sugar, tea, vegetables or sacks of millet in exchange.

For thousands of people (miners, owners of the salt flats, caravanners, traders) and for their families it represents the only source of income. The value of the salt extracted annually from the Taudenni mines was, in the Eighties, just under two billion lire, equivalent in Mali to the average annual income of over five thousand people.

"Vous êtes fous, you're crazy," the locals kept repeating to us: "it's too hard for two "toubab", two whites: forty days of harsh life, without drinking water, without villages, only sandy plains and the possibility of never coming back."

The caravan, in fact, is as implacable as the territory it crosses. Every day it covers forty to fifty kilometres. It doesn't stop if someone has sore feet, it ignores headaches, stomach cramps, attacks of diarrhoea. At the end of each day the camels are unloaded. In the morning the animals must be rounded up and loaded; to do this you have to get up at dawn and then set off and stop long after sunset. There's no question of stops for lunch. While walking you gulp down the "crème", a paste of water, millet and powdered baobab fruit. The caravan leader prepares tea sitting on his camel. In the evening, but more often at night, you wait impatiently for the rice to be cooked, seasoned with vegetable oil. You drink Chinese green tea, left to boil for a long time and with an abundant dose of sugar.

First, though, you have to worry about gathering an abundant supply of dry camel dung, which is often the only fuel available.

Water is a precious and rare commodity. Often there isn't enough to wash: it's used to quench thirst, to prepare tea and to cook.

In the caravan season, in winter, the nights are freezing. The nomads sleep next to the fire, covered with everything they have available.

To complicate things, often the camels get involved too. Their apparent solemnity hides a stubborn, temperamental and rebellious character. The camel spends a lot of time protesting, and does so bellowing, shouting, rearing, trying to bite and kick. During the march the younger and less docile animals try to free themselves of their loads, and often succeed, forcing the men of the caravan into double the work. Sometimes, to bring them back to reason, you have to throw a handful of sand in their mouths or land a well-aimed punch on the head. Walking past them, moreover, it's always useful to speak out loud, so as not to be mistaken for a dangerous and repugnant animal and thus end up with a good kick.

Taudenni - "Tau", arrival, and "Denni", departure - already condenses in its name the sense of its inhospitality. The landscape is unreal, without a trace of vegetation: a mineral kingdom unsuited to any living being and probably one of the saddest places on earth. Originally, there was a saltwater lake there where, about six thousand years ago, the layers of salt were deposited. The exploitation of the mines began in the 16th century. For years the "Caid", the traditional chief, was responsible for the safety of the workers, the defence against raids, help for the sick and all links with the rest of the world. In exchange, he received a percentage of the salt slabs. Taudenni was also the site of a penal colony, and for this reason the mines were forbidden to foreigners until 1992. Today about three hundred people work there, recruited in Timbuktu and Arawan.

Each worker must extract, according to the contract stipulated, between four and eight slabs a day, an extremely hard job for which he uses only small hoes. The pay is about 150 thousand lire a month, plus board and lodging. These men, wrapped in rags and worn coats, completely covered in dust, welcome us cordially. One of them prepares tea for us, but the water here is inevitably salty. He has worked here since 1958. "Taudenni is nothingness - he says - it's just a big name." When night falls, the people move like ghosts under the pale light of the moon: the abandoned mines covered in sand look like enormous tombs. In the distance, a radio switched on and the voices of the miners reassure us that even in this circle of hell one can live.

After three days' stay in Taudenni, we take the road back: still long hours of walking under the blazing sun, the tiredness, the hunger, the thirst, before seeing Timbuktu again. The salt caravan stops, but the slabs continue their journey towards the markets of Mopti and Djenné. We accompany them along the Niger on an old "pinasse", a large barge, that glides over the wide and lazy river. It feels as though we can't abandon that salt, which we have followed on a long journey, begun in the desert and ended in the heart of black Africa. No special equipment, sophisticated food, water supplies, technical clothing, satellite phone sustained us on this journey. This gave even more value to our experience, to this deep identification with the daily life of the Azalaï: same pace, same food, same water, same hardships.

Only in this way have we been able to know and fully appreciate the men of the desert, their tenacity, their dignity, their sense of life and death. To the point that, at the end of this great human adventure, we feel like making our own the words of Ibn Battuta, tireless Arab traveller of the 14th century: "He who does not travel - he writes - does not know the value of men." Our travel experiences with the caravans are collected in a book AZALAI - Il tempo delle carovane, the proceeds of which support projects in Niger and Mali of the association Les Cultures 0341-284828

On the way to Taudenni

"Once upon a time, a boy had to go to Taudenni to become a man," a young friend from Mali confides in us. "And would you go there?", we had asked. The boy started laughing: "Are you crazy? That journey is a hell!". Mali north of Timbuktu, Arawan, Taudenni: names that evoke an unknown and fascinating world, united by a common denominator, the desert, with its oases, caravans, nomads and Tuareg. A mysterious and seductive world, but also terrible and severe, with the implacable sun during the day and the biting cold of the night. "It is the law of the desert - the Tuareg hand down -. You have only to turn your face to the sky to receive the sun and then the stars. And you will be content." In Mali they call them Azalaï.

Once there were two most important ones: one, that of "Alâwa", took place in the cold season, between November and December; the other, that of "Tifiski", in the hot season, between April and May. Even today, on the eve of every departure, the mythical Timbuktu, the "Mysterious", city of mosques and libraries, which with its university and its gold trade entered legend before yielding to an inexorable decline, comes alive with the preparations of the caravans, ready to cross the desert to head, about 700 kilometers further north, towards Taudenni. A compulsory stop even today for caravans coming from the desert, Timbuktu remains one of the most told and dreamed-of myth-cities in the world. Thanks to its splendid and enlightened past, when, true queen of the sands, it was the most important and richest cultural, commercial and religious center of the regions bathed by the Niger.

The salt trade retains a prehistoric flavor. Raw material, used just as it is harvested, does not require expensive facilities, but elementary tools: hands, feet, hoes, ropes, mats, hollowed-out logs. It is sold in slabs of thirty kilos, the seller often receives in exchange goats, sugar, tea, vegetables or sacks of millet.

For thousands of people (miners, owners of the salt flats, caravan leaders, traders) and for their families it represents the only source of income. The value of the salt extracted annually from the Taudenni mines was, in the Eighties, a little less than two billion lire, equivalent in Mali to the average annual income of over five thousand people.

Joining a salt caravan, knowing that ahead of you there are many hundreds of kilometers to travel mainly on foot, is a choice that can only be made by forgetting - with a pinch of madness - everyday common sense, which often forces us into physical and mental immobility.

"Vous êtes fous, you are crazy," the locals kept repeating to us: "it is too tiring for two "toubabs", two whites: forty days of hard life, without drinking water, without villages, only sandy plains and the possibility of never returning."

The caravan, in fact, is as implacable as the territory it crosses. Every day it covers forty to fifty kilometers. It does not stop if someone has sore feet, it ignores headaches, stomach cramps, attacks of dysentery. At the end of each day the camels must be unloaded. In the morning the animals must be rounded up and loaded; to do this one must get up at dawn and then set off and stop long after sunset. There's no question of stopping for lunch. While walking you gulp down the "crème", a mixture of water, millet and powdered baobab fruit. The caravan leader prepares tea sitting on his camel. In the evening, but more often at night, one waits impatiently for the rice to be cooked, seasoned with vegetable oil. One drinks Chinese green tea, left to boil for a long time and with an abundant dose of sugar.

First, however, one must worry about gathering an abundant supply of dried camel dung, which is often the only fuel available.

Water is a precious and rare good. Often it is not enough to wash: it is used to quench thirst, to prepare tea and to cook.

In the caravan season, in winter, the nights are freezing. The nomads sleep next to the fire, covered with everything they have available.

To complicate things, the camels often join in too. Their apparent solemnity hides a stubborn, capricious and rebellious character. The camel spends a lot of time protesting, and does so by mooing, shouting, rearing up, trying to bite and kick. During the march the younger and less docile animals try to free themselves of their loads, and often succeed, forcing the men of the caravan into double the effort. Sometimes, to bring them back to reason it is necessary to throw a handful of sand in their mouths or give them a well-aimed punch on the head. Passing beside them, moreover, it is always useful to speak aloud, so as not to be mistaken for a dangerous and repulsive animal and thus get a good kick.

Taudenni - "Tau", arrival, and "Denni", departure - already condenses in its name the sense of its inhospitality. The landscape is unreal, without traces of vegetation: a mineral kingdom unsuited to any living being and probably one of the saddest places on earth. Originally, there was a saltwater lake there where, about six thousand years ago, the layers of salt were deposited. The exploitation of the mines began in the 16th century. For years the "Caid", the traditional chief, was responsible for the safety of the workers, the defense against raids, aid to the sick and all contacts with the rest of the world. In exchange, he received a percentage of salt slabs. Taudenni was also the site of a penal colony, and for this reason the mines were forbidden to foreigners until 1992. Today about three hundred people work there, recruited in Timbuktu and Arawan.

Each worker must extract, according to the contract stipulated, from four to eight slabs a day, an extremely tiring job for which he uses only small hoes. The salary is about 150 thousand lire a month, plus board and lodging. These men, wrapped in rags and worn coats, completely covered in dust, welcome us with cordiality. One of them prepares tea for us, but the water here is inevitably salty. He has worked here since 1958. "Taudenni is nothing - he says - it is only a big name." When night falls, people move like ghosts under the pale moonlight: the abandoned mines covered in sand look like enormous tombs. In the distance, a radio turned on and the voices of the miners reassure us that even in this hellish circle one can live.

After three days in Taudenni, we take the road back: still long hours of marching under the scorching sun, tiredness, hunger, thirst, before seeing Timbuktu again. The salt caravan stops, but the slabs continue their journey towards the markets of Mopti and Djenné. We accompany them along the Niger on an old "pinasse", a large barge, that glides over the wide and lazy river. It seems to us that we cannot abandon that salt, which we have followed on a long journey, begun in the desert and ended in the heart of black Africa. No special equipment, sophisticated food, water supplies, technical clothing, satellite phone supported us on this journey. This gave even more value to our experience, to this profound identification with the daily life of the Azalaï: same pace, same food, same water, same hardships.

Only in this way could we get to know and fully appreciate the men of the desert, their tenacity, their dignity, their sense of life and death. To the point that, at the end of this great human adventure, we feel we can make our own the words of Ibn Battuta, tireless Arab traveler of the 14th century: "Whoever does not travel - he writes - does not know the worth of men."