Africa 2006

West Africa is where old cars and buses from Europe go to die and a journey on one of them is always a mini-adventure all to itself. My 7-hour trip from Segou to Sevare is a perfect example.

The “gare routieres” (bus stations) are always milling with people. I arrive at 7am – the earlier one leaves, the better the odds of arriving before dark when the driving gets really crazy - buy a baguette with fried bananas and freshly grilled brochettes of beef for a quick breakfast, then make my way to the ticket booth to purchase the 5500 CFA (about 9 Euros) one-way to Sevare, 350 km away.

I chat to the driver and the other bus employee on the trip, in case I need their help later on. One passenger offers to send 60 camels to my husband in Iceland in exchange for me remaining in Mali; I scoffed and he upped the offer to 80 – waddya say, G?

The Sumatra bus is typical of most: the front windscreen is cracked in several places and an A3 sized posted of Amadou Toumani Toure, Mali’s President, is taped to the right-hand side, adding a further obstacle to the driver’s field of vision. West African pop music blasts from the speakers.

My small talk with the Sumatra staff pays off and they assign me an aisle seat in the middle of the bus (safest) and by one of the small “sunroofs” – the windows don’t open, so the main door and the sun roofs are kept open to provide a small amount of respite from the heat. The colour scheme of the bus is based on a palette of “dirt” with “dust” accents.

The aisles are full of sacks of onions and bottles of local beer. There is a large yellow container, presumably full of gasolene. The kaftan-wearing man across the aisle from me is muttering quietly to himself with his prayer beads. Does he know something I don’t?

The 9am bus to Sevare leaves promptly at 9.50, tumbling east along Mali’s main tarmac road, the driver honking frantically to announce when we are about to overtake a slower van with people on the roof or a donkey and cart.

I have a good view of the driver in his tye-died shirt from the rearview mirror. I can see when hi picks his nose and his ears and when he yawns and rubs his eyes. I can see when he leans forward to pick something up off the floor or turns around to talk to his friends.

We stop at most of the villages along the way, usually small communities with mud houses and a mud mosque. Women and children climb onto the bus to sell their wares – everything from sunglasses to sacks of unfiltered water to oily clumps of dough or fresh peanuts. I buy some dough balls and give a couple to a little boy sitting near me. He smiles shyly and accepts. 

The landscape is Sahelian. It’s dusty, like seemingly all of Mali, and flat, dotted with baobab trees, huge termite mounds (a couple of metres high), shrubs, and fields of thin ripe millet, looking like anaemic corn stalks.

I can feel the sweat trickling down my back.

Mohammed, the Sumatra employee not driving, regularly climbs over the sacks in the aisle to inquire how I am. I am too tired? Am I not too hot?

Nope. Everything’s great, Mohammed. I’m lovin’ every minute.