I was watching Michael Palin on TV last night. The BBC are repeating his program, Sahara, and last night he was in Senegal and Mali, two countries I have never visited but would dearly love to. About half way through the show he caught a train from Dakar to Bamako and it took everything in me not to grab a bag and jump on the first plane to West Africa.
It wasn’t the scenery that got to me in particular. It was more the train journey itself – a hot, dusty trip that took twice as long as it should have. It all came back to me – the flickering lights in the carriage at night, the crowds of hawkers clambering at the windows at each stop, the inappropriate velvet lounges in 1st Class, soaking up sweat like super-soppers. It left Michael Palin shattered and when he got off the train at Bamako at 5.40 in the morning he looked like he wanted to hit somebody. Man, how I envied him having that moment!
Sadly, I’m in writing mode at the moment and can’Â’t just jump on a plane to Timbuktu. So I’ll just put on a couple of Ali Farka Toure CDs, maybe the new one with Toumani Diab (the bloke Michael Palin got to hang out with last night), turn a few lights on and off and get the guy from the local kebab shop to start rapping on my window.
Somehow I don’t think it will be quite the same.
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