Thinking about Time en route to Timbuktu

Time in Africa is fluid. It meaders lazily towards some unknown destination at such an imperceptible pace that I become acutely aware of the present moment. I am looking at the wide Niger River in Mali, West Africa, a river that will take me to Timbuktu in another five hours, or so the captain says. After living in Mali for a month with seven other classmates on a study abroad program, we’ve unofficially changed our majors to “Waiting” (a fine and subtle art that is all but lost in America). Consequently, we take the captain’s predictions with a bit of skepticism.

You see, the ferry was to arrive in Mopti on Thursday at 8pm but didn’t emerge from the darkness for another three hours. So under yellow street lamps and the flitting shadows of moths and mosquitos, the group entertains ourselves and the ever growing crowd of enthusiastic locals: a walk-off of our recently purchased clothing, a traditional dance routine we had been clumsily learning, and drawing time with coloring books and crayons that had been brought for the local children but oddly enough, are most popular among the adult males.

The boat finally arrives and, weary from the day’s travels, we are shown to our third-class room: four bunk beds that each sleep three, crammed into a room the size of a walk-in closet. Thick foam pads that could harbor everything from fleas to the Ebola virus wait for us and promise a night filled with hot and restless sleep. I pride myself in laughing off such traveling situations, but I’ve also realized that my breaking point is when I’m prevent from adequete sleep. With this attitude, we explore the ship in hopes of finding a place to stay up all night, where we can get so drunk with fatigue that we will be willing to return to our 12-person cabin.

Our first stop is the mess hall/bar. Technically, it’s reserved for first and second-class passengers, but since we’re obviously foreigners, nobody objects. For the first time in days, I feel the wonderful chill of air conditioningm though somewhat stale from cigarette smoke. The decor amuses us thoroughly: imagine an eighty year-old woman living in a trailer who visited Africa thirty years ago and still has the faded posters to prove it. Bugs hurl themselves mercilessly at the flourescent lights and ricochet off into our glasses of Coca-Cola and Castel beer. When Shakira plays for the 300th time, I retreat with a friend to the narrow deck and watch the moon and stars reflect in the river. We whisper until 3am and I fall asleep between two other passengers. I wake once to a baby crying and soothed back to sleep by the nearby women and once more to return to our room. I crawl up to my top bunk and am careful not to hit the ceiling which is 8 inches above my head.

The next morning, we learn that two of the three engines have stopped working. Instead of arriving in Timbuktu on Saturday morning, we will remain on board for an extra 24 hours. Later, rumors push that estimate to Monday. I feel myself inwardly withdrawl, as if I am conserving and rationing my mental energy for three days on a boat whose length can be walked in 30 seconds.

I have a new appreciation for goldfish, hamsters, or any other caged animal. The world moves by and is both fascinating and painfully out of reach. Tiny villages of mud brick houses dot either shore, children swim and splash around happily, waving to us and our cameras while their parents pause from crushing millet or tending a fishing net. We see our first hippo who lumbers relatively quickly into the water until all we can see are his nostrils, eyes, and ears. Fishermen in long and narrow canoes navigate through rice fileds, pushing themselves with poles the length of the boat itself. We pause at a floating market where women haggle over fresh produce and live chicken carried upside down. The world is wide and flat and the sky is a dusty blue. All of this I observe from my limited vantage poitns, moving wherever I can find shade and a breeze.

On the boat, the day passes without any of the usual time accelerators like work, class, or Facebook. And so I tan. I read an entire novel. I play Spades (and win). I nap. I listen to CDs. Every action is down with deliberate slowness in an effort to fill the void of too much free time. Well, everything except for trips to the hole-in-the-floor bathrooms. Those I try to do in under the time I can hold my breath. The best way to pass the time, we discover, is to just sleep. I curl up on the deck for an early night, my arms tucked in so I’m not stepped on by walking passengers.

I am woken around midnight by a friend who’s found a way onto the roof and suddenly I’m in a heaven that is blessedly cool and quiet. I can feel my mood rise to the height of the constellations above me, leaving my sweat-soaked day in the decks below.A strong breeze blows over the boat and for the first time in weeks, I remember what cold feels like. I wrap myself snugly in the blanket I’ve “borrowed” from Air France and fall in to a much needed deep sleep.

I wake up with the sun burning hotly on my face. It’s Saturday morning and I am well rested, finally. As I chew my morning breakfast of French bread and NesCafe coffee, we pull into another port and I hear the best news yet. This will be the last stop until Timbuktu and are only five hours awake (theoreticaly anyway). There is an excitement in the group as we realize that we won’t be stuck on the boat for another 48 hours. Funny how heavily the future can weigh on our present minds. Now that my endless time has become suddenly limited, I’ve sat down to write this letter (physically written in my notebook). Eventually I’ll find a cyber-cafe to type this up as an e-nmail, but I’m not sure when exactly. It’ll happen when it happens and I’m in no hurry. Back in the States, we bealive that we have control over our time, that an appointment 6 months from now will occure precisely at that date and time. But in reality, we only have control over the present and our attitudes.

I am impossibly far from home right now (as Timbuktu should be) and my notion of time is no longer steadfastly western. I’m not sure what this means or how this will affect my life when I return in December, so it’s something to think about some more. But I’ve got time, right? Five hours at least, or so that captain says.

Thanks for reading! Up next, Timbuktu!