The First Casualty

39

Smoke puffed from the tires of the Air France Airbus A330 as its wheels smacked onto Runway 06. The flight from Paris had been a little over five hours, not counting the time spent on the ground at Casablanca, the sole intermediate stop. Passengers stretched. Several lifted the window shades, squinting in the brilliance of the West African sun.

Despite the warning coming over the electronic speakers in French, English, and Bambara, most of the 300 passengers stood in the narrow aisles before the aircraft came to a stop beside the modern glass-and-steel terminal. They waited with the impatience of weary travelers for a pair of tractors to push twin air stairways against the forward and aft doors of the aircraft.

The four men of varying races remained where they sat with the assurance of experienced flyers that their business-class seats provided far more comfort than would the standing mob. As the lines in the double aisles began to shuffle toward the exit, each of the four stood and removed a single bag from the overhead bin.

The terminal was a single unairconditioned room, filled with shoulder-to-shoulder lines, a babble of a dozen languages and dialects, and the smell of sweat. The quartet joined the line at the far end of the building to exchange currency for West African CFA francs and paid the arrival fee to an official in camouflage army uniform and reflective sunglasses before presenting entry forms, passports with visas, and proof of yellow fever inoculation to his twin.

The latter spoke in French to one of the group of four who smiled and shook his head slowly. “Je ne parle pas français.”

The official scowled with the ill-concealed hostility third-world officialdom display toward the more affluent. He turned his gaze to the next of the four, the only black man in the group. He noted the scar that divided the face from right to left, the muscles that strained the short sleeves of the khaki shirt, the shaved head. Then he spoke in French, a question. The black arrival replied and was answered with another string of French.

“What did he say?” Jason wanted to know.

Emphani flashed a bright smile. “Other than wishing upon us the peace of Allah, it seems he is having a hard time understanding exactly what of geographic interest we might find at Timbuktu.”

“You told him we are researching the city’s Askia Period on behalf of the National Geographic Society?”

“Of course. That explains why we each have passports from different countries.” He lowered his voice “Even if the names are… er… um… faux.”

Another question and answer in French.

“He wants to know if we will need to be in the country longer than the three days the visa permits.”

For reasons known only to the Maliese, the only visa available outside the country was for three days. Any extension had to be granted while in country. Jason suspected the practice generated additional income and more jobs for bureaucrats.

“Tell him I doubt very much we will need additional days this trip. If we find something of interest, we’ll be back.”

Emphani rattled a line of French and received another question in response.

“If we are from National Geographic, where are our cameras?” Emphani translated. “He says National Geographic always has pictures, color pictures.”

“The cameras are with the rest of our equipment,” Jason improvised. “It should have arrived this morning.”

After another exchange in French, Emphani said, “He will come to the freight depot with us. He would like to have his picture taken.” Then, in a lower tone, “Hope you have a camera. It would give much, er, er… How do you say prestige in English?”

“Prestige.”

“It would give him much prestige to have his picture in National Geographic.”

“Tell him if he will expedite our equipment through customs, I will see what I can do to put his picture on the cover.”

Viktor and Andrews were watching the three-way exchange with growing impatience.

“Artiste,”’ the latter said. If you can’t—”

Jason silenced him with a wave of the hand while Emphani translated the offer into French. A broad smile spread across the official’s face, and all traces of animosity disappeared as the man gave Jason a brotherly hug.

“He says he will give us a ride to the freight depot.” Emphani said. “There will be no customs fees or…” Emphani rubbed the fingers of one hand together, the international sign a bribe was expected.

In this part of the world, a waiver of any fee plus the accompanying pot-de-vin was rare.

Twenty minutes later, one of the green minibuses that serve as taxis in Bamako was into the fifteen-kilometer trip into town. There had been so many crates, boxes, and bags addressed to the National Geographic expedition, there was no room for anyone other than the driver and his four passengers.

Andrews, seated next to Viktor in the second row of seats, leaned forward. “Artiste, was that a Canon AT-1 you used to take that man’s picture?”

In the front seat between the driver and Viktor, Jason nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Not digital,” Andrews persisted, “Film, right?”

Again, a nod.

“Didn’t know anyone even made film anymore.”

“They don’t.”

“But how…?”

“Let’s just say when the May issue of National Geo comes out, we would be wise to avoid the Bamako airport.”

Viktor snorted a laugh. “You carry an old camera with no film?”

“Let’s just say I’ve dealt with officials in this part of Africa before.”

All four were silent as the minibus wove through increasing traffic — automotive, human, and animal. Loose cattle wandered at will among trucks, scooters, bicycles, and cars. The road sloped gently downward as mud-brick buildings became more numerous. A woman riding a donkey was dressed in a brilliantly colored pagne with matching turban. Another on foot, a basket of fruit balanced on her head. Although largely Islamic, Mali had not adopted the hijab or other Islamic dress. Men largely wore a boubous, full-length tunics made from rough cloth and dyed with patterns of varying colors of mud.

By Lumumba Square, the town’s skyline was dominated by the minarets of the Grand Mosque towering above three or four stories of mud brick. The main feature of the city, and the reason Jason had chosen to enter the country there, was the seasonally flood-swollen Niger River. Dividing Bamako, its muddy waters swarmed with watercraft ranging from the multi-decked ferry to dugout canoes. At near seasonal flood stage, it was about a mile across here. Along its banks, fishermen haggled loudly with women over their catches while others mended their nets. Men stripped to the waist, ebony skin gleaming with sweat, loaded cargo into a pinasse, a twenty-five- to thirty-foot, high-prowed, canoe-like craft powered by outboard motors with a tentlike structure serving as a cabin at the stern. Nine or ten months of the year, Jason and his comrades would have had to travel slightly further to Mopti, where the river was always deep enough for commerce.

It was upstream of the traffic-clogged King Fahd Bridge and alongside one of these craft that Jason ordered the driver to stop. The four passengers quickly transferred the contents of the minibus into the slender craft, declining help from any of the native longshoremen. When they finished, they climbed aboard and the ship backed into the eddies of the current and headed north.