Africa 2006

Of course deciding to take only one bottle of mineral water, rather than my standard two, and finding my first air conditioned bus of the trip meant my luck would have to turn…

The Burkinabe bus company STMB’s slogan is “le professionnel”. The back of the a/c bus from Bobo to Ouagadougou, Burkina’s capital, had a dangling flap under the bumper proclaiming “vive la fraternité et l’amour”. (Long live brotherhood and love.)

We left only 10 minutes after the scheduled departure time of 10am, after relaxing in an a/c waiting area - I should have known it was too good to be true!

At 11.10am, with Canadian band Great Big Sea’s cover of “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” being piped into my ears by my MP3 player, the bus drove into deep mud grooves caused by the last dregs of the rainy season.

The bus stuck fast and, thanks to the speed at which it had approached the track, very nearly tipped over onto its left side.

Leaning at a dangerously precarious angle to the left, we all clambered off the bus to wait in the mid-day sun. A crowd gathered from a nearby village to stare. How many hours would it be before we left?

Finally someone went to collect shovels to dig us out. Everyone clapped when the bus backed up and out of the quagmire and we were back in business - all in an astonishing 25 minutes.

I popped my earphones back in and two songs later, Great Big Sea appeared again - this time, “Sea of No Cares”.

Ah, nothing like a little R&R at the half-way point of a trip. And the auberge La Pierredot in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso’s second largest city, was the perfect place.

For the second time on this trip, I was met upon arrival by a man with a sign bearing my name. After a long day’s journey from Ségou in Mali I was whisked away to the auberge - not only the prettiest place I have stayed so far, but the cheapest. It was opened only last year (I found it in my excellent 2006 Bradt guide to the country) and has only three rooms.

The auberge is run by a French couple (they tell me they have lived here so long they are now African) who are in their 60s. They gave me a rather strong aperatif when I arrived, and fixed me some vegetable soup, a welcome change from my normal diet which has often been consisting of bread and Coke. On my second night, I tucked into a huge beef steak and frites while Pierre and his mates sparked up several enormous joints at the table to discuss the predicaments of the African continent.

Day 1 of my Bobo sojourn was spent wandering around the town, trying fruitlessly to avoid all the touts and, after several hours of negotiation, finding, if I do say so, a fantastic souvenir for my husband (shh, it’s a surprise what it is).

Day 2 was reserved for excursions from Bobo: to a touristy village which reminded me of Dogon Country and to a murky pond with sacred fish - huge ugly catfish with long whiskers and enormous mouths who appear at the surface only to gobble up chunks of break I threw at them.

As I was walking back, my guide, Siaka, (the pond is virtually impossible to find without a guide) noticed a discarded square of plastic on the ground. He stopped to pick it up and folded it with his own piece. Ah, I thought, someone who is finally not littering - in fact he even picks up other people’s rubbish! Then Siaka carefully rolled the plastic into a little ball and wedged in a crack between two rocks: “Voila,” he said, happy with his handywork.

And on we walked.

PS: Burkina Faso itself is a pleasant and relaxed place (even the customs official had to call me back from the bus because he had forgotten to charge me for my visa!) and refreshingly cheaper than Mali.

After just over two weeks in dusty but lovely Mali, I’ve arrived in Burkina Faso. Posts to follow; in the meantime, enjoy the top 10 for Mali (in no particular order):

1. Breaking the fast with a local store owner and friends on the street in a Bamako neighbourhood. “We’ll always remember this evening because you stopped and were friendly,” they said - but I will not forget it either.
2. The malaria scare. Odds I had it: I had textbook symptoms and the treatment worked immediately. Odds I didn’t: I had hardly been in Africa and was taking precautions. I’ll never know, but if it was malaria, it was the mildest form I’ve ever heard of.
3. Hanging out with other travellers I met: Jumana and all the locals in Ségou; Brenna and David in Mopti and Timbuktu; Chris and Les for the trip back from Hotel California; the American exchange students I met and played cards with in Dogon Country.
4. Relaxing at the friendly auberge in Ségou, and taking a pinasse trip on the river there.
5. Speaking Icelandic for an evening at Mac’s Refuge in Sevaré and enjoying a huge brunch there the next morning.
6. Pays Dogon - Lots of time to reflect while walking and the concert of waking up on the rooftops of villages.
7. The road to Timbuktu - Eating sardines on a sandy spit in the dark while waiting for the ferry across the Niger.
8. Timbuktu - All the people in dressy clothes for the end of Ramadan festival and negotiating over souvenirs with Tuareg nomads.
9. Finally leaving Hotel California, as I re-named Timbuktu - and in retrospect secretly enjoying all the protracted negotiations on how we could escape (only in retrospect though!)
10. Friendly people everywhere, despite some touristy areas.

Timbuktu is the Hotel California; you can check out any time you like but you can never leave.

Brenna, David (the Ottawa couple I had met a few days earlier) and I met two Americans on our final morning in Timbuktu. They were looking for transport to leave and agreed to share the pinasse back along the Niger River with us to save on costs.

Our pinasse and driver finally showed up at 4pm on the scheduled day of departure, effectively ensuring that we would not be able to leave for another day. Then he demanded twice the already agreed price for “extra fuel”.

We argued and debated but he wouldn’t budge. And neither would I (especially since we had found two extra paying people for him). So we had to abandon the romantic option of leaving Timbuktu.

A search ensued to find alternative transport back to Mopti. Then we discovered that our friendly guide, Kalil, is some sort of Godfather of Timbuktu - once you’re working with him, nothing gets achieved without his approval. So offers for 4×4 were recalled when people found out we were connected to Kalil.

Eventually, after many hours of protracted negotiations and debates (at one desperate point, and to lighten the mood, I said we would pay 5000 less per person if David promised not to sing in the car), we found a driver to take us back to Timbuktu.

The five of us spent our last night it Hotel California sleeping on the roof (we were all short on cash and the banks were all closed for the end of Ramadan), listening to the sounds of the all night party commemorating the festival.

After two flat tires en route back, we finally escaped back to Mopti.

It may not have been the romantic option, but we certainly had the effort that seems to be a pre-requisite for visiting this fabled city.

“For some people, when you say ‘Timbuktu’, it is like the end of the world, but that is not true. I am from Timbuktu, and I can tell you we are right at the heart of the world.” - musician Ali Farka Toure, 1939 - 2006

I took the 21st century version of the ancient camel trains to Timbuktu – a 4×4, windscreen beautifully intact and air in all the tires. My plan is to return the romantic way – by pinasse (like a large covered canoe) on a three-day trip along the Niger River. The reason is a very un-romantic one: it’s much cheaper to return by pinasse that to go.

I also have companions for this leg of the journey (another non-romantic financial reason, but also because they’re nice people): Brenna and David live in Ottawa (so they must be great, right?) and – they just got engaged on the beginning of their trip!

The 4×4 ride up to the fabled city was much prettier than I had imagined. As we bumped along to music by Djeneba Seck, another one of Mali’s great talents, the plains got sandier and sandier and we caught glimpses of dromedary camels being herded by Tuareg shepherds in azure turbans. There were even beautiful rocky formations like in the US South-West.

It was dark by the time we drove over the narrow, sandy (and therefore scary) spit to the point on the Niger River where we caught the car ferry across. We dined in the dark on tinned sardines and peanuts so fresh they taste like peas, and danced with local women while we waited to the ferry to shuttle us across in the dark (rather nervewracking) to the other side. The journey time from Mopti was 10 hours.

Approaching Timbuktu was a little bit like any North American city – first the gas station, then several “Welcome To..” and “We’re Twinned with…” signs, then the African equivalent of mini-marts and chain stores. There is only one paved road; the rest are lined with sand.

The full day we had in Timbuktu was possibly the best one – it was the festival to celebrate the end of Ramadan. Everyone wandered the streets dressed in their finest colourful turbans and kaftans. Even little girls had makeup and high heels on (how they walked through the sand I don’t know!). Happily, it also meant we were left virtually undisturbed by the tourist touts who are legendary for clinging to tourists during their stay.

We walked around the city to visit the homes of the first Europeans to visit this city, and to the three mud mosques of the town. We had tea with Tuareg nomads and scrambled up some sandy hills; Timbuktu is literally on the fringe of the desert.

The town is much more interesting that I was led to believe; the only disappointment is all the garbage, especially discarded black plastic bags which seem to float around everywhere.

We ate traditional toucassou last night at the Poulet D’Or, a huge bread ball with beef pieces and a tomato and onion sauce. I am so deprived of vegetables at the moment, I consider onions a valuable contribution, and Coca Cola a nutritional addition to my diet.

On to the pinasse this afternoon, if all goes well, back to Mopti by Wednesday and then on to Burkina Faso!

In Dogon Country I slept under the stars, so clear I could see the murkiness of the Milky Way and the sharp silouette of the escarpment. I hoped for a breeze – even in the darkness it was hot.

In the morning, it’s not the visual sunrise that’s most impressive; it’s the aural one.

Waking up is a gradual crescendo, like peeling layers off the onions the Dogon region is famous for growing. Just as the air starts cooling in the pre-dawn, a symphony of sounds begin slowly. (I think I just mixed metaphors, but I have no time to fine tune this writing!)

The first sounds are the constant throbbing of the crickets and other insects. Then the other animals contribute: first the sharp insistent crow of the rooster, then the bleating of the sheep and the occasional bray of a donkey – an incredible sound almost like the spluttering of a car engine when it has trouble starting.

The next layer is provided by the laughter of children and the occasional baby crying. And just before the sun comes up the call to prayer, delivered by a person rather than a recording, echoes across the town. The final element of precussion is provided by the women who start rhymically pounding the millet in huge mortar and pestles, trying to complete the most trying work before it gets unbearably hot. 

It’s a dilligent, but not a loud, awakening, nature’s little orchestra, each component a small but vital part making up the symphony.

By 5.30 am, I’m up and ready to go.

Dogon County is the most visited region of Mali. It’s a 250 km long escarpment near the border with Burkina Faso which has been home to the Dogon people since the 13th century (but don’t quote me on that date – I don’t have my guidebook here!). The Dogon speak their own language (and many dialects) and are primarily animist. The entire region is a UNESCO listed heritage site and it is popular to undertake a trek along the bottom of the cliff, walking the few kilometres between villages in the early morning and late afternoon (it’s too hot midday) and staying on the rooftops of village huts at night, gazing at the stars (there’s no electricity in the villages so the star gazing is pretty good).

I trekked (well, walked is more like it) with a guide and a porter – yes, the good life again – from Tuesday until Friday last week. We awoke with the sun, had a sugary Nescafe and baguette for breakfast, and then walked to the next village where I would relax for lunch and read for a few hours.

On the second day, my guide, Barou, and I were charged by a bull – briefly anyway. The big horned creature, of which there were many en route, gazed at us briefly before stamping his feet and making a run for it. Barou disappeared faster than I could blink, and I ran behind a tree, before the laughing owner of the beast came up and tamed it. Yikes.

The scenery is stunning, with an orangey glow shining off the 200-300 metre high cliff on the left-hand as I walked northwards. The right-hand side are sandy dunes dotted with shrubs. People I met on the way sort of sung their extensive Dogon greetings, which require questions and answers on family, health, children, the day, before moving on.

Walking up and down the escarpment (the main towns of embarkation are at the top) is a bit more of an adventure – I was a sweaty mess after scrambling up huge boulders to reach the top, gripping my camera and tourist Tilly hat with me. After one particularly challenging section, I reached the crest of a hill and saw a woman my age gracefully pass me with a baby strapped to her back and about 50 kg of millet in a pottery jug balanced on her head.

Remind me to visit the gym again when I return home.

Mac’s Refuge in Sevare prepares a nightly sit-down dinner for guests. A three-course meal is served around a long table so everyone gets a chance to meet and get to know each other. My companions for the Moroccan meal last Monday were 10 American missionaries based in various African countries on a retreat (the owner, Mac, is a lapsed missionary himself), and one more former missionary from – the Faroe Islands! He was also born in Reykjavik and so I had a bizarre dinner with a group of missionaries practising my Icelandic. You just never know who’ll you meet on the road ….

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.

Segou is a relaxing city on the Niger River, with a population of about 100 000, although it feels much smaller. It was once the main city for the Bambara Empire and the old Segou town, 17 kilometres away, still houses the city’s oldest mud mosque.

I am staying at the Auberge, a Lebanese-run facility with – luxury of luxuries – a swimming pool!

I arrived on Friday afternoon and met two other foreigners at the hotel: Bart, a Dutch tour guide taking a day off before collecting his next group in Bamako, and Joumana, a Montrealer on vacation who used to live near Segou. They invited me to go dancing with them later that evening and I happily accepted – when I’m travelling alone I don’t usually go out at night!

But shortly before supper, I started feeling a bit unwell – general malaise, headaches, aches and pains, chilliness. It got worse after dinner and I decided to cancel the evening out in favour of trying to get a good night’s sleep. Ever paranoid about getting a serious illness, I looked up the symptoms for malaria in my guidebook. I had all of them, except the most important – a fever. The guide said to see a doctor promptly if there was a fever over 38C. So instead I slept.

The next day I felt no better, but I did a day of sightseeing with a guide Bart had recommended (named Gaston, and I recommend him too for anyone visiting this way!). We visited the old Segou town and then took a break for lunch (during which I managed a few spoonfuls of soup and slept for an hour). In the afternoon we took a pinasse (a long covered boat) on the Niger River to a town where women create beautiful pottery (one gave me a small plate as a present) and to a Bozo fishing village.

We returned at sunset and I did not feel well at all. Just to make sure, I asked the hotel management for a thermometer to check my temperature – turns out it was 39.3 (guess it’s hard to tell in the warm climate!). Even though I have not been in Africa very long, and have been taking anti-malarials and preventative measures, I thought best to be on the safe side and so we called a doctor.

Dr. Zoumana Traore arrived promptly within 15 minutes to examine me. He first checked to see if I had appendicitis (NOT something I would like to get here!) but after I explained everything he prescribed me Coartem as a malaria treatment, explaining that the clinic to test for malaria would not be open until Monday and it was better to treat rapidly than to wait. If it wasn’t malaria, then the drugs do no harm anyway. Dr. Traore assured me that I should be feeling better overnight – “inshallah”.

I’m happy to report that I do feel much better today – my fever and headache are gone, and I’m just a little tired. I’ll probably never know whether this was malaria or not (the doctor said I don’t need to be tested now unless the symptoms return) but if I’m feeling better then it doesn’t matter! (it strikes me that it must be unlikely since I haven’t been here very long and took all the precautions; on the other hand, I have never been ill with these symptoms before when travelling).

Off to Sevare tomorrow and then on a three-day trek through Dogon Country. Stay tuned!