Western Unions


DAY 10: Van had been asking me for days if I wanted him to arrange a Timbuktu tour for me—a “standard” three-day tour with a private car, where I’d go with a driver in a 4WD from Mopti to Timbuktu, meet a guide, stay one night, tour the city, then ride on a camel into the Sahara to sleep one night in the desert at a Tuareg bedouin camp before taking the 4WD back to Mopti.  For days I’d been telling him to wait until we got to that point for me to make that decision, and that time was finally upon us.

Hearing the stories from the others I’d met, a tour set up with Van, a guy I had come to trust, seemed to be the right thing to do, even if it was going to cost me much more than doing it independently.  As adventurous as I’ve been in the past, the thought of breaking down 31 times over 24 hours on the public transports through the desert didn’t sound like something I bared to do, so a private car was definitely in my sights.  One of the NYU girls even said, “If you can afford a private car, take it.” Boats along the Niger to Timbuktu were out of the question as well since the river was at its lowest levels of the year.

Butch (an Aussie I met in Egypt on a felucca tour) had once written me an email and mentioned that doing things on the super cheap was not “backpacking” but “slackpacking.” Knowing that I actually held steady work back home, I could perhaps do things the “better” way this time, and after doing the math and a little research, I settled on a price of about $700 for the three days (minus drinks)—most of that going towards the private car, driver, and gas for the day-long drives back and forth.

As for a guide I could trust, I had heard Timbuktu, like Mopti was filled with many not-so-reputable ones—like Ali Baba who had ripped off the U of Ghana girl—and I figured I’d go with Van.  However, for days he had increasingly been taking cold medicine and was trying to hint to me he wouldn’t be up for it as much as he wanted to, but knew a great guy up there named Hama that was like him.  To put my mind at ease, we called him up the night before on his cell phone.  To my surprise, Hama spoke very good English, better than Van perhaps, and I was sold.  I told Van that casual Sunday night I couldn’t make a solid deal until I knew I had money in my hands.

THE PLAN THAT MONDAY MORNING was for Van to take me to the BDM bank in town—the only place I could get a cash advance off a Visa card—quickly get cash and then ride the two hours to tour the famed mosque of Djenné on its big Monday market day, before returning back to Mopti that night.  I had learned my lesson in Zambia to never travel in Africa without a Visa card since MasterCard is nearly non-existent.  (American Express you can leave at home.) I had made sure I told my credit card companies that I was going to travel in Africa so there wouldn’t be any weird security flags that shut down the account.

The banks in Africa aren’t as customer-friendly as they are in the Western world.  There’s no air-conditioning, no free toaster, not even a security glass at the teller counter (only guys with guns).  It was pretty busy at the teller’s line, but luckily special matters only had a few people waiting in a little room.  Using broken French and some translations from Van, I managed to give a Visa card to the one woman who handled cash advances.  I asked for CFA 600,000 to cover me for the rest of my trip and she said the limit was 300,000.  Luckily I had two Visa cards with me.

I waited and waited inside the room while Van made some phone calls on his cell outside.  Old men in turbans, holding briefcases came in and out—some wearing mysterious sunglasses that made them look like spies.

“You got it yet?” Van asked me, checking in.

“I’m still waiting.”

Van waited next to me, but gave up his seat for an old man.  Then he went off to smoke another Dunhill cigarette.

The banker woman in traditional Malian garb came to me and said something in French that was too fast for me.  Something about “impossible” and “electronique.” Somehow I figured I had a problem, a major one.  Mali had been more expensive than I had anticipated and I was at the bottom of the barrel in terms of cash.  If I couldn’t get any cash, I would have no choice but to use my last two emergency travelers cheques to get a ride back to Bamako and go right back to New York.  The mission to Timbuktu will have failed.

In a panic, I ran out to Van to help me translate.  When we met the banker woman again, she was busy handling another African woman who didn’t know any French—all I heard was her saying “But I have money in the bank!”

“I think we have the same problem,” I told her.  She never gave me her name but her Visa card said “Gloria.” “Where you from?”

“Canada.”

“I’m from the States.”

“This is a nightmare!” she vented to me.

“I know, if I don’t get money, I’m stuck here.”

“I know!”

It was also her plan to quickly get cash off her Visa and go to Djenné to see it on the big Monday market day.  She was furious though, as she had been at the bank for two hours thus far with no progress.  I followed her as she barged in on the office of the bank manager, a mild-mannered guy in a suit that barely spoke English.  Van had to step in a couple of times to translate for us.

In the end, we had two different problems.  Gloria merely had a low cash advance allowance—only about $60—while my Visa cards were too “new.” According to the procedures of my Capital One and Chase cards, cash advances off my Visas couldn’t be made without swiping them through a reader.

“No, you don’t have to swipe it!” I said.  “You can just write down the numbers!  Look here… numbers [just like her cards].”

The manager laughed.  “No, c’est impossible.”

I didn’t know what to do but stood quietly and stared blankly into space, almost on the verge of tears.  “Are you good?” asked the manager.

“I’ll be good if you give me money.”

To prove to me it was impossible to get a cash advance, they pulled out the one credit card swiping machine they had, stored in a box, in the closet.  It wasn’t hooked up to anything and there were no immediate plans to do so.  Van told me they probably didn’t set it up because if anyone made a mistake, they’d probably lose their job—plus there was no real demand for cash advances anyway amongst the regular Malian patrons.

Gloria tried to make some progress with a much lower amount than she needed—it would be better than nothing—while I remained on my wit’s end.  “What about Western Union?” I asked the manager.  There was a Western Union sign outside.

“Western Union work perfectly,” he said.  “No problem.”

I took a breath.  “I have to call New York right now.”

Van handed me his cell phone.

FOUR THOUSAND MILES WEST, in Teaneck, New Jersey, the phone rang at my parents’ house.  I lucked out on time zones; they were just waking up to go to work.

“Ma,” I said.

“Hello?”

“Ma.”

“Hello?” The connection was getting increasingly staticky.

“It’s Erik.  Can you hear me?”

“Hello?  Erik!”

“I’m stuck in Mopti...”

I heard nothing, and the phone went dead.  Van hadn’t had a full charge on his battery since our trek to Dogon Country.  I tried calling back several times, but it wouldn’t connect.  I worried that my mother would think I’d been kidnapped or something.

Van and I ran off to a cybercafe/calling station where I was able to use a land line.  “Ma, I’m stuck in Mopti.  My Visa cards don’t work here,” I finally told my mother.

The whole money wire transfer thing was new to either of us but we gave each other enough information to figure it out.  “How can I reach you?” she asked.

I gave her a number.  “It’s Van’s cell phone.  He’s taking care of me.” And that he did, paying for my land line call to the U.S.A.

There was nothing to be done but just wait for my mother to call.  We walked back to the hotel, so Van could charge his phone.  On the way, Van stopped for cigarettes and a tout tried to sell me something.

“I told him to leave you alone,” Van told me.  “‘He has money problems.’”

At the hotel I was served some breakfast, although it was hard for me to eat anything.  An hour went by and nothing—but then the phone starting ringing with nothing showing up on the caller ID.

“I think it’s for you,” Van said, handing me the phone.

“Hello?”

“Van?”

“Ma.”

“Van?  Is this Van?”

“Ma, it’s Erik.”

“Oh Erik!  Okay...”

We worked it all out and realized that Western Union was surprisingly really easy.  She had called in the nick of time too; the bank would close at noon for a three-hour siesta, and it was already almost 11:30.

BACK AT B.D.M., I had to fight a line at the Western Union counter.  A uniformed man claiming to be the Minister of Tourism checked to see if I was okay in case Van was an unfavorable tout.  I told him he was with me.

It took a little time and patience, and for me to rewrite my cash form since I messed up the first time, but in the end, it paid off as I soon became a millionaire (in local currency); my mother had sent me more than enough to handle the Timbuktu trek and further travel just in case.  Having over a million CFA in my hands I was worried I’d be robbed, but I tried to remain discreet about everything when I counted the bills.  I was definitely happy to have Van watch my back.

“I think we can forget about Djenné today,” Van said.

“Yeah, I know.  It’s okay.”

THE REST OF THE DAY wasn’t as stressful.  We worked out the Timbuktu deal, and Van organized the car and driver—surprisingly from the guy at Mali Voyages I had spoken to four days before.  It seemed everything was falling into place, and I’d be on my way after one more day of rest to do nothing in Mopti but catch up on Blog duties.

That afternoon and evening, I just wanted to chill out with Van, especially since it would be the last I’d see of him since he was desperate to get back to Segou the next morning to go to the hospital to get his cold checked out.  We hung out at Coloumby’s tenement apartment in the suburbs and watched a couple of movies dubbed in French, including The Player’s Club and Three Kings— I thought it was funny that Van and his friends were concerned with me that we were watching a movie that put Americans in a bad light.

“No, it’s okay.”

We all split dinner together, fried fish, fries and bread, over Cokes and teas until Van drove me back to the hotel that night, where we made sure we were on the same page with the Timbuktu tour.  I hoped that the people he was sending me to were as good-hearted as he was.

“You come back to Segou, okay?” Van asked of me.  “You are my brother.  You don’t worry about money.  You stay with me for free.  We’ll make a big party, eat food, I will be the D.J.... And we can play the Playstation all night.  The FIFA!”

“Okay,” I said, shaking his hand, knowing his home was on the way back to Bamako anyway.  “Thank you for everything.  I will see you in Segou.”

“Okay.  See you later.”

“A bientôt,” ("See you later,") I said.

Van rode off into the night to ride out west in the morning, leaving me for the first time since Segou, alone again.


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This blog entry about the events of Monday, March 27, 2006 was originally posted on March 28, 2006 on the blog, "The Global Trip: Trippin' To Timbuktu," hosted by Blogger.com. It is one of eighteen entries that chronicled a trip through the West African nation of Mali in March/April 2006.




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