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(Timbuktu is an ancient town on the edge of the Sahara in Mali. It is slowly being overtaken by the sands of the desert.) Stars still shone above first-light in the east as I walked out the hotel gate. The night watchman, a Tuareg nomad out of the Sahara working in town for the season, hailed me quietly. I nodded good morning, but I didn't linger to chat. Roosters in town were already crowing. So was the bugler in the military garrison, although with far less skill and resolve. A shadowy figure glided over the sand near the old well. The wind ruffled his dark robe and whipped up the dust from each of his steps, then he was gone. I was pleased to be alone with such a mirage on the crepuscular streets of Timbuktu. I walked slowly to observe the waking rituals of the Senegal Fire-Finch, cheery little red birds that live among the drab mud buildings. They gathered in animated flocks, pecking at the sand for insects. Twittering among themselves, they flew off in a rush. I sat to rest on a pile of freshly-dried mud bricks. A rare Barn Owl made two passes over the courtyard, then disappeared into the morning haze. Every living thing makes but a brief appearance at this hour. The day dawned rosy and the town briefly took on saturated hue that would be seen by few. Around the corner a crone pulled her first aromatic loaves of bread from the fire of her mud-oven. Reminiscent of the ancient mosques in town, the outdoor oven was a 4-sided truncated pyramid, six feet tall. The fire inside burned with an intensity equal to that of the mosque faithful, an intensity surprising to the uninitiated. I asked her how much for a loaf. She coughed "cent francs", a hundred francs, about 12 cents. I had no coins, only a 500 franc note, for which she had no change. Placing the rumpled note on the woven mat next to the growing collection of round puffy pitas, I took only four of them. The first one I bit into, sending a geyser of steam surging up my nostrils, scalding them. It was strangely comforting on this chilly morning. The second loaf I handed to a little girl who had appeared next to me. She had large innocent eyes and perfect olive skin. Her expression made a quick change from curiosity to glee as this foreign stranger bought her breakfast. Only after the crone cackled a few rough words of support did the girl turn slowly for home, holding her fresh loaf with two hands. Her uncertain smiling eyes met mine, and held my gaze for only an instant. I stuffed two more loaves into my bag, one for the Tuareg watchman, another for the finches. The last one I left for the crone, then turned and wandered on... Cool morning turns to daytime. Loaves of bread are eaten and forgotten, but the gift remains. We can't close our eyes to memories. © Copyright Skip Horner, All Rights Reserved. |
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