Rain and The Daily Telegraph

No work on the cub today, rain stopped all progress. Friday tomorrow, hopefully we will get the chance to look at putting the air filter back and looking at the choke cable and the brakes.

I discovered that The Daily Telegraph has been running a weekly competition, accepting submissions from travel writers. I managed to keep a blog during my recent trip to Timbuktu with my brother Tony. I threw together the 500 words necessary and sent to the appropriate email address. My submission is posted below:

Tea for Timbuktu

Following in the footsteps of the explorer Mungo Park, my brother, Tony, and I set off from Portsmouth hoping that things had improved in the 207 years since his fateful voyage. Our 6000 mile drive, in an elderly Peugeot, across Europe, Morocco, Western Sahara and Mauritania finally saw us arrive at Timbuktu in North-eastern Mali three weeks later.

Hours after arriving we found ourselves walking in the dark, struggling to keep pace with our guide. 'Bebe' was a loquacious, urbanised twenty-something Tuareg who spouted endless facts, in passable English, about his beloved city. He stopped at a door within a high, mud-brick wall and knocked, grinning as he waited for us to catch up. The door was opened by a figure dressed in the traditional indigo robes of the Tuareg. Although only his bright eyes and broad smile were visible amidst the folds of cloth we recognised him.

Earlier in the evening our guide had introduced his cousin, Ibrahim. After purchasing some Tuareg jewellery I offered him some of our equipment, as we needed a lighter load for the return journey. Ibrahim gratefully accepted everything, from ration pack meals to ropes and blankets.

He now stood gesturing for us to enter his home. We found ourselves in a courtyard with a large tent erected in one corner. Ibrahim disappeared through a doorway into the brightly lit room beyond where happy female voices could be heard. Beneath the tent canopy a single paraffin lantern hung from the low ceiling illuminating a comfortable interior where thick colourful rugs covered the floor. Bebe sat and began to relate the nomadic traditions of the Tuareg, explaining that this building, including the tent, was a communal living space open to all members of his caravan. Ibrahim reappeared carrying a large tray laden with tea, couscous and two plates of meat. Squatting, he poured the tea. Holding the teapot high above the small glass, the hot aromatic liquid cascaded and foamed as it struck the receptacle. He returned the tea to the pot and repeated until satisfied. We drank in a single swallow, Ibrahim smiled approvingly. I pointed at the plates of meat and raised an eyebrow enquiringly. Evidently one was sheep, the other camel. I balled a slice of camel with some couscous and ate. The delicately spiced meat was slightly gamey but delicious. As we devoured the food Ibrahim produced a rudimentary stringed instrument and began playing, until, his wide repertoire finally exhausted, the stringed instrument fell silent. I sensed that it was time to leave. Amidst our farewells, Ibrahim invited us to join his caravan in the desert when we were next in Timbuktu. I gratefully accepted, promising to return soon.

As Tony and I walked through the sand choked streets to our hotel, we talked about the drive to Bamako and our flight home, but I was already planning my return to this friendly, slightly alien city and meeting up with our new friends once more, to take tea in the Sahara.