Taghaza, March, 1324, Dusk.
This is a city made of salt. That's about all there is to Taghaza. Trade of gold for salt. Though Khalifa was confused as to why people would want to live in a world where the natron of the ground mummified and preserved miners' hands alive, I knew the answer.
"They get gold for this salt," I told him, feeling much like his step-in mother.
His look of initial confusion faded, but he still didn't like this place. I didn't either.
Giant slabs of salt sulked below the surface of the ground, as if they were dirty white stokes of paint across the dry, arid, monochromatic landscape. The buildings were of salt also, instead of mud or adobe, with roofs of camel skin. The living camels dotted the horizon, dragging broken bits of the paint.
A bit like Walata, I could see the Sudans trading with these Northerners, salt for gold. A trade that at once, seems ridiculous and untimely unbalanced, until you think about it. Salt preserves meat. Meat gives food in the dry season. Food gives people. People give labor. Labor gives infrastructure and the ultimate success of Mali. Gold only gives something pleasing to the eye; a measure of status via useless jewelry and trinkets.
But despite the intelligence of these Northerners, there are many disappointed members of the Hajj--paticularly from the scholars, teachers, musicians, doctors, and fellow griots: the people who have no training of the life of actual problems. They always have everything traded, imported, grown at their fingertips. They don't have the experience as that of the slaves, soldiers, guards, or flag-bearers, who actually experienced labor and work. I feel ashamed of those complaining who share my specialty of a keeper or stories and history. There was not one hero in the tales who could succeed without sweat and blood put into their work. Surely, there are some things decided by the heavens, such as this route (no matter what entity is up there) that is simply mandatory. There must be suffering. Otherwise, there would be no inspiration of the tale to come when this matter is completed.
"They get gold for this salt," I told him, feeling much like his step-in mother.
His look of initial confusion faded, but he still didn't like this place. I didn't either.
Giant slabs of salt sulked below the surface of the ground, as if they were dirty white stokes of paint across the dry, arid, monochromatic landscape. The buildings were of salt also, instead of mud or adobe, with roofs of camel skin. The living camels dotted the horizon, dragging broken bits of the paint.
A bit like Walata, I could see the Sudans trading with these Northerners, salt for gold. A trade that at once, seems ridiculous and untimely unbalanced, until you think about it. Salt preserves meat. Meat gives food in the dry season. Food gives people. People give labor. Labor gives infrastructure and the ultimate success of Mali. Gold only gives something pleasing to the eye; a measure of status via useless jewelry and trinkets.
But despite the intelligence of these Northerners, there are many disappointed members of the Hajj--paticularly from the scholars, teachers, musicians, doctors, and fellow griots: the people who have no training of the life of actual problems. They always have everything traded, imported, grown at their fingertips. They don't have the experience as that of the slaves, soldiers, guards, or flag-bearers, who actually experienced labor and work. I feel ashamed of those complaining who share my specialty of a keeper or stories and history. There was not one hero in the tales who could succeed without sweat and blood put into their work. Surely, there are some things decided by the heavens, such as this route (no matter what entity is up there) that is simply mandatory. There must be suffering. Otherwise, there would be no inspiration of the tale to come when this matter is completed.