The flow and depth of the Niger between Bamako toward the west of Mali and through the rest of the country past Timbuktu and Gao was erratic. During the dry season, entire stretches of the river bottom were exposed to the hot sun and people would grow vegetables there. Only expert boatmen would know which stream of the mighty Niger to take. But when the volume of water increased, it was an entirely different story. It was a most charming river with its own personality. The Thames, I must reluctantly admit, does not possess such colour; it is a civilized river—though rather anaemic— for a civilized people.
It seems perhaps the right time to make a few, brief observations of the people and the countryside which we passed on our boat. The objective of this book is not to constantly feed the appetite of the reader of The Strand who hungers for death, danger, and destruction on every page of a book. The wide variety of human endeavour must be acknowledged graciously, even if they are entirely alien to our thinking. Though the advanced thinking of the European is not in doubt, the character of the natives of the region deserves mention. The reader will benefit by being aware of peoples and cultures. Humility is a hallmark of our civilization, after all.
We passed by little villages where the women folk were busy washing clothes and attending to their household tasks. Most did not wear anything above their waists while holding on to their infants. There was no shyness—the embarrassment was only ours. A wave from Holmes or me would invariably get a smiling response. “Annisagai!” or good day was our passport to a friendly passage and goodwill. As a physician, I would easily see that the bloated stomachs of the young children splashing at the banks were often a sign of a constitutional ailment caused by a nutritional anomaly. But who would have gleaned that from their wide and innocent smiles and cheerful shouts?
The many tribes and ethnic groups that swirl in circles of varying radii around Timbuktu, and certainly along the Niger, are usually minimally Islamic in their religious affiliation. However, they continue to worship spirits and ghosts, and interpret events and the future based on, for example, the sounds of animals. The griot storytellers and historians are in demand and greatly respected for their knowledge. The observance of the tenets of Islam seemed to diffuse as the distance from Timbuktu increased.
All this is true of the Tuaregs, too, who selectively follow the precepts of Islam, but continue age-old traditions such as insisting that women not be veiled.
Witchcraft continues to be accepted without question and a witch-doctor is trusted implicitly, a matter that might raise the eyebrows of our finest physicians at Harley Street, products of the rational science that is at the foundation of the advanced European civilization.
Holmes was lost in thought, looking east as the boat moved along the Niger.
“Watson, there are two matters that I must tell you about. One, that we shall get off at Bourem instead of Gao. Hasso is aware of this. Only he and I know this. If he has passed through Timbuktu unscathed, he should be arriving at Bourem very soon. We deliberately spoke of going to Gao because it seems like a likely destination for anyone travelling to Yaounde, from where we could presumably find a way to travel to Europe, though of course, one of the large ports in the Niger Coast Protectorate is a more logical choice.
“I have studied the map of this region carefully with Hasso. If anyone is in pursuit, they can hope to cut us off by crossing the Niger at the point where we began our travels on this boat. Then they can dash east and reach Gao very quickly. Therefore, we decided that getting off at Bourem is best. From there, we travel east to Kidal, race across the desert to Abalessa and proceed east. Our objective now, broadly speaking, is to travel carefully through the French and uncharted territories, Watson, and reach Khartoum. From there, we must find the lost valley in the lower Nile and complete our journey. I expect it will take us at least two months, Hasso has made excellent arrangements and we shall be relieved of the heat of the desert once we pass Gao.”
I was dismayed. “Why Sudan, Holmes? Would that not delay our return to the Vatican?”
“Ah, but are we returning to the Vatican, Watson? Why should we?”
“But if you have successfully collected both parts of the manuscript, that concludes the mission!” I cried out.
“Does it, indeed, Watson? No. I have thought about the matter. The Vatican has no obvious right over this valuable piece of knowledge. It belongs to mankind. It is inconceivable that we should come all this way and not travel to the place marked in the map. There we ought to verify the facts. That was my second point.”
I was considerably chagrined by this change in plan. I had imagined that this adventure was at its logical end, provided we were able to slip away from the Guardians.
“And to answer your unspoken question, Watson, I have already made arrangements to recompense the Vatican for its expenses made toward my welfare all this time. I am not a crook.”
“I—I never meant to imply—,” I stammered in embarrassment.
“Think nothing of it, Watson. “
At Bourem, where we finally got off the boat, we were met by other Tuaregs who were also waiting for Hasso Ag Akotey to arrive. Holmes showed one of the senior Tuaregs a slip of paper in Hasso’s hand.
“What is that, Holmes?”
“I believe it reads ‘Kidal’ in Tifinagh, which is where they are to take us, perhaps, in case Hasso is unable to reach this place.”
While we waited, we were entertained by some griots who sang songs describing the history of the land, including the great feats of the Songhay kings, of wars where they always emerged victorious. Holmes took notes and engaged in long conversations with them using the Tuaregs as interpreters.
I was content to walk along the banks of the Niger, admiring the raw charm of the flora and fauna. I walked very close to a large rock python, and only knew about it after one of the Tuaregs called out excitedly and drew my attention to it.
In a few hours, we spotted a caravan approaching from the west. Yes, it was Hasso Ag Akotey and his group! There was a sense of relief amongst us as greetings were exchanged.
The news was not encouraging. “The Guardians are certainly chasing us and hoping to intercept us at Gao. They have guns too. The matter could be quite serious. We must leave immediately for Kidal.” Hasso was tense but clear about what to do next.
Without much ado, we continued our journey north east to Kidal. The caravan now consisted of about fifteen, with a few of the original group having returned toward Tangier in the original bid to confuse our pursuers.
***
The report of Omar Al-Bidisi, a senior Guardian of the Letter. It was found as a diary entry on his person many months later.
The journey from Tangier to Timbuktu had been very stressful for our master. He had no experience travelling long distances on camels in such hot and dry conditions. As we raced after the Tuaregs who were with the Father, we were constantly held back by his problems. We had started a week after them, but a week is not much. Our group was small but agile, and there was a possibility that we could catch up especially because their caravan was twice as large. Unfortunately, the Master pulled us back unintentionally.
He could not handle the sand and heat for long periods and we had to stop after every two hours. Alas, he found his camel uncomfortable. The food did not agree with him quite often. He frequently panted for long periods in the heat and even became unconscious once near Taghaza. We were very concerned and thought we would lose him. He was eventually revived, and then we wondered momentarily if it might not be better to return to Morocco. But we really had no choice. The mission was clear. To catch the Father, kill him and his companions if necessary, and retrieve the missing part of the manuscript. This was the command of our leader, as well our advisor in Paris. Once both parts of the manuscript were safely in the hands of the Master, we would take him back to Tangier. We hoped to then serve him for the rest of our lives.
But he was otherwise cheerful and kept us happy with his stories about the strange people of India. We had some vague idea about the Hindus, but his description of their peculiar religious beliefs was confounding. We sometimes laughed loudly when he talked about their many gods and the strange things they would do to idols. The fact that they cremated their dead was quite horrifying. It had indeed been mentioned in Al-Rihla, as someone reminded us. The great Ibn Batuta had been right, after all.
The Master also talked about the heavy rains, their unimaginable vegetables and languages. He had brought some spices with him which he generously gave to all of us. Even though we had spent several months in his mansion in Casablanca, we had not known this side of him. Truly, it is said that only when you travel with a man do you really know him.
He said that the journey across the desert seemed, somehow, seemed familiar. Perhaps the memories of Ibn Batuta were within him, and he could sense the presence of that great man who must have walked on the very same path hundreds of years ago.
We were attacked by a group of bandits shortly after Taghaza. They probably thought we were merchants. They had not known who we were, and within half an hour we had killed three of them and sent the others away. We captured one and took him with us to Timbuktu to alert us of other possible bandit groups who might be waiting to ambush us. Once we reached Timbuktu, we killed him. Despite our difficulties, we had managed to move quickly and completed the journey in about fifty days, which was slightly better than most other journeys over this path.
When we reached Timbuktu, we heard at the abaradiou that the group ahead of us had left just a day earlier. Some said a few had returned to Tangier and others said they had gone east. The situation in Timbuktu was not good, with the French harassing travellers and strangers at random, and other political forces active. We were advised to finish whatever work we had come for and leave Timbuktu as soon as possible.
The Master, Boughaid Arroub, and I proceeded to the Sankore Mosque. After some initial inquiries, we were escorted in to meet the Imam, whose name was Haji Al-Kaburi. We bowed low as we entered.
“I welcome you to Timbuktu and to our madrassah. How can we help you, travellers?” The Imam was very polite and gracious.
“We have just arrived from Tangier, Haji, and have a matter to discuss.” Boughaid Arroub bowed respectfully.
“That is a coincidence! We just had a visitor from Tangier, though he was from Uzbekistan. We feel happy when so many visitors come here. First, I must insist that you have some refreshments!” The Haji called out to a slave, and within a few minutes we were seated on thick rugs, drinking mint tea.
“Haji, we are on an important mission. Our Master here is from India and has come all the way to meet you.”
Haji Al-Kaburi was very pleased. He beamed. “All the way from India? Al-Hind! Wonderful! Wonderful! Our madrassah’s fame has spread so far! And what is your name sir?” he said, beaming at the Master.
“My name is Thalassery Vatoot Mohammad Koya and I am a descendant of the great traveller Ibn Batuta,” said the Master in his accented Arabic.
Haji Al-Kaburi put his cup of tea down abruptly, spilling some on his spotless white dress. “What?”
The Master repeated what he had just said.
The Haji stared at us. His mouth was open and his eyes were wide, displaying immense shock and confusion.
“I—I—don’t know what to s-say,” he stammered after several minutes.
“Wait, let me call my colleagues,” he finally said, struggling to find words. He called out to some slaves asking them to get Haji Toumani Kouyate and Haji Mohammad Yahya Wangari. He was told that they were teaching.
“Tell them it is very urgent. They must come immediately!” His tone was quite vehement.
While we waited, Haji Al-Kaburi continued looking at us in a strange way. None of us spoke. We felt uneasy and nervous. The atmosphere was tense. We looked at the walls, the drapes, the floor, and the windows.
In a few minutes, both the Hajis rushed in, perplexed by the unusual summons.
Haji Al-Kaburi asked them to sit. He was very nervous. Both looked surprised to see him in such a state.
Then he asked the Master to introduce himself to the two new Hajis.
“My name is Thalassery Vatoot Mohammad Koya and I am a descendant of the great traveller Ibn Batuta,” said the Master, bowing low.
The reaction from both the Hajis was identical to the one previous. They were completely taken aback. They looked at each other. One of them spoke. “We are very surprised.”
He paused. “We have only the day before said good-bye to another descendant of the late Ibn Batuta!”
It was our turn to be surprised.
“How is that possible, Hajis? We have a letter of introduction!”
“And so did he. Please show the letter to us.”
We handed it over and all three read the letter carefully. Then they again looked at each other. They put the letter on a small table.
“Well, you will have to excuse our confusion,” said Haji Toumani Kouyate, agitated. “Over the past few days, we met another man who said he, too, was the descendant of Ibn Batuta. He, too, had a letter of introduction that seemed genuine.”
“Can you please describe him?” asked Boughaid Arroub, leaning forward.
“He was tall, quite slim, a slightly hooked nose, sharp features. He spoke broken Arabic and said he was from Uzbekistan.”
We looked at each other and nodded. He was certainly referring to Father Bąkiewicz, the man we were pursuing.
“And he said he was a descendant of Ibn Batuta?”
“Yes. As I mentioned, he had brought with him a letter of introduction.”
“May we see it?”
“Certainly. Let me go and get it.” Haji Al-Kaburi got up from his seat with the help of his slaves. He walked to a room at the back, trembling noticeably. In a few minutes, he returned with some papers and sat down again. He looked at his colleagues, seemingly to get their approval for what he was about to do. They nodded.
“Here is the letter,” he said, offering it to us.
The three of us looked at the letter with the seal of Osman Beg. The letter looked authentic. Anyone could have been fooled. I could sense it was a brilliant forgery—the script, the folds, the smudges, the dirt, the delicate nature of the paper itself, the seal—someone had taken a lot of trouble. The matter was very serious.
“This is a forgery, Hajis. We have no information of the existence of a son in Uzbekistan who might have had a descendant.”
“A forgery? Well, you may be right, but how do we know who you are?”
“What exactly did this man do here, Hajis?” inquired Boughaid Arroub, ignoring the question.
“Unless we know who you are, there is no need for us to give you any information,” snapped the definitely upset Haji Toumani Kouyate, taking back the letter from Boughaid Arroub.
“We have a letter of introduction.”
“And so did this man Yaqub Beg Batuta. He had a letter of introduction, too, and he said the very same thing to prove that he was a descendant.”
“Have you read Al-Rihla, Haji?”
“Yes.”
“Was there a mention of a child in the Maldives?”
“Implicitly, perhaps, I think so.”
“Was there a mention of one in Uzbekistan?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“Well?”
Haji Toumani Kouyate was getting more and more annoyed. “This is not an examination. Yaqub Beg Batuta convinced us about this seeming gap. I do not know why we are having this talk. I see four possibilities. One, that he told us the truth and you are liars. Two—”
“We are NOT liars!” Boughaid Arroub shouted. He was upset and tried to get onto his feet. The Master and I restrained him and pulled him down.
>
Haji Toumani Kouyate continued. “Two, that he was a liar and we were cheated—though cheated of what is the question since we did not and even now have no idea of the value of what was inside. It was not our business. And therefore, that you are telling us the truth.”
“Yes, clearly!”
“Three, that both of you—you and Yaqub Beg—are liars. Or, four, that both of you are telling us the truth, and perhaps both, this man and Yaqub Beg, are descendants! That is quite possible because it is quite unlikely that anyone but the descendants would know about the existence of a buried box at Sankore. But that question is not of relevance.
“Is it not odd that after almost six hundred years, two men claiming to be descendants of Ibn Batuta come to our Sankore Mosque and present letters of introduction, asking for documents that we did not know existed? And all this happens in the space of a few days! There is something peculiar here, but we will not allow ourselves to be taken advantage of and made fools of!
“And do not try to be violent here,” he wagged his index finger angrily at Boughaid Arroub, his eyes red. “This is a madrassah, a place for learning. We are not fools. All my slaves are armed and others will be summoned in seconds! In this holy place, all who visit must be humble and be calm and respectful.”
I intervened.
“Haji, we are sorry. We did not intend to upset you. Now you see, this matter is very serious. We are the keepers of the heritage of Ibn Batuta. This man here is indeed the descendant of Ibn Batuta. We will do our best to prove it to you.”
Haji Mohammad Yahya Wangari, who seemed the most calm and thoughtful of the three, intervened.
“Whether you prove it or not, the question really is, why? How will it help you or us? What difference does it make to you or to us?”
“Haji, as the letter has said, we have come to request you for whatever Ibn Batuta left behind in your safekeeping.”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 19
