To Timbuktu : A Journey Down the Niger - Softcover

The fog came in the night, dampening the thirsty earth, stilling the howling cicadas. We were too tired to notice it. Dead atop our sleeping bags, insects gnawing at the netting, sweating in our sleep, dreaming murky, disjointed parables as all white people dream here. In the morning we crawled out of our tents and the river was gone. We squatted silently in the mud like the Africans and ate the last of our food. Then we broke camp, loaded our boats, and pressed them like scalpels into the flesh of the river.

At first we tried to paddle in formation--single file down the middle of the river, gunboats staggered. Me in front as point man, on the lookout for crocs and hippos, sidearm on my lap; Rick next, then Mike with his gun, John taking up the rear. But the mist was too thick. One by one we were swallowed.

No matter. We are all going down the same river together even if we are lost to each other.

There are no rapids in this section, only arcing ribs of current disappearing into the ghostly void. It is deceptive. The surface of a river is only the skin, the muscle is underneath. You can't know this from shore. You must be out in a small boat; then you know it because you feel it. We are in kayaks, the smallest of vessels. In a kayak you are not above the river, you are inside it, part of it. Water envelops you and carries you on your voyage.