Sod off, 2011. You’re not Wanted any More.

New Year’s Eve with old friends. One has been a friend long enough to call me by my given name and that’s a rarity these days.

A new year brings its problems. Even for a self-proclaimed free spirit. Most importantly: what to do next?

2011 was the ‘books year’ when a deluded and misguided public decided they needed a book by Jake Barton on their Kindle or life wouldn’t be worth living. Just over 74,000 of them in the year. Bless their little cotton socks for funding my ramblings around the globe for the next year or so.

So, that was 2011. The Year of the Books.

An interesting year where I’ve met many new ‘people who live in my computer,’ enjoyed their company and the online banter that takes over one’s life and mitigates against any useful activity being carried out. The perfect arrangement for a lazy git.

What to do next? Having declined all offers to become rich, famous and be charmingly patronised on This Morning’s uncomfortable sofa, I’m taking stock.

Do I have to have a plan? Never really had one before.

We’re on the way to North Africa now. I’ve been to Morocco several times. I love the ageless cities of Fez and Marrakesh. Most of all I love the loneliness of the High Atlas,  the majestic deserts and the remarkable people for whom these inhospitable regions are home. This trip we’ll go to Algeria as well as Morocco and may even get to Libya, depending on advice from the Foreign Office at the time.

The Beast in repose. Sunny summer’s day at Blenheim Palace. Hardly ideal preparation for crossing the world’s largest desert.

Okay, so far, easy enough. Meandering through France and Spain is a trip I’ve made many times. Then, a short hop across the sea from fabulous Tarifa on the very tip of Spain to Tangiers. (Annoying side-bar: If you surf, or you’re a former hippy, or even better still retain ‘hippy status,’ you need to go to Tarifa. Along with Essouria, it’s the place every surfer or former surfer should go. Bohemian, packed with surf shops and bronzed faces, salt streaked hair and laid back attitudes. You need to go there. Trust me.)

Okay, into Africa. A different continent. What then?

I want to go to Timbuktou. I’ve also seen it written as Timbuctoo, Timbuktu, Timbuctoo, Timbouctou and Timbuktou and as the latter is the most common amongst French people, who have dominated its recent history, I’ll try and stick with that. It’s not an easy place to get to, deep inside the Sahara desert in the African state of Mali, officially classified as one of the poorest nations on Earth. It sits on the banks of the River Niger in the short-lived rainy season and the river is eight miles away for the rest of the year! A city of contrasts.

Timbuktou was a world centre of Islamic learning from the 13th to the 17th century, especially under the Mali Empire and the rule of Askia Mohammad the First. In the desolate wastes of the desert, a seat of learning was established whose fame spread across all the known world.

Timbuktou has always been hard to find. In 1824, the Geographical Society of Paris offered a reward of 7000 francs and a gold metal valued at 2,000 francs to the first European who could visit Timbuktou and return to tell their story of the mythical city.

Having researched this, I discovered the first man with a claim to the prize was a Scottish explorer Gordon Laing. He left Tripoli in 1825 and traveled for a year and a month to reach Timbuktou. On the way, he was attacked by the ruling Tuareg nomads and was shot, cut by swords, and broke his arm. He arrived in August 1826, was unimpressed with what he described as a salt trading outpost filled with mud-walled homes in the middle of a barren desert. Laing remained for just over a month and two days after leaving he was murdered. Didn’t get much chance to spend his winnings, then!

So, why Timbuktou? Partly because the very name has fascinated me since childhood. Partly because it’s where it is. Its inaccessibility is a strong attraction. The salt and spices caravan route between Marrakesh and Timbuktou has been in existence for a thousand years. In 2008 a Swiss adventurer named Andrea Vogel walked the entire 3,000 kilometres, that’s 1,800 miles, from Timbuktou to Marrakech on foot. I read about this at the time and a seed was planted. Not that I intend to walk there! It took Vogel 71 days to cross the Saharan route on foot. I hope to do better than that.

I’ll be travelling through Morocco and the Western Sahara, through Mauritania into Mali and my destination is in the far south, on the banks of the Niger. The rainy season is a mere 4-5 weeks, in late December to January when the river expands to the city, but it will be bone dry by the time I get there.

I tried to get to Timbuktou two years ago and had to turn back after a weeklong sandstorm obliterated any trace of what passes for a road through the Sahara. This time, vehicle and inhabitants of said vehicle permitting, we’ll get there.

Okay, that’s a plan. Of sorts. What else?

Well, I’ve never been to Scandinavia. Shameful as it’s on the doorstep compared to Timbuktou. The North Cape, perhaps, in the summer.

I could ‘come out,’ I suppose. It’s fashionable. I’m not gay, but I’d relish the attention such a declaration would evoke. No, probably not. Too confusing. Forget that idea.

Being on the road brings fresh challenges, new vistas, every day. I like meeting new people. Chatting. Especially when we know we’ll almost certainly never meet again. That allows a certain freedom in a conversation. We can converse naturally. I like that.

New places. Different countries. It wouldn’t suit everyone, this rootless aspect of my life. I accept that. I’ve given up attempting to justify the reasons we do what we do to people who see us as ‘odd.’ The same people think my decision to forego the blandishments of a publisher promising me fame, fortune and as many material goods as my heart desires is madness.

Ah! They may be right there.

I’ll take photographs this trip. Just for myself. Not for outsiders. Photography interests me. It’s a different creative outlet from writing and in a digital age there’s none of that faffing about with film and developing. One of my ‘friends who live in the computer’ wants me to bring her back a stone from the Sahara. Not just any stone, but a friendly stone. I’ll know it when I see it. Apparently. Right then; yet more ‘stuff’ to worry about!

So, that’s travel, exploration, deserts, mountains, find a stone and take a few ‘snaps’ along the way. What else for 2012?

No idea. Que sera, sera.

I could always write another book, I suppose.