Africa 2006

There’s nothing like an evening with politicians…

After my one day of labour in Abomey, I headed (via a “quick” stop in Cotonou to collect the passports) to the village of Possotome, home of Benin’s mineral water, for a day of relaxation by Lake Aheme at Chez Theo, an auberge which someone had recommended.

While the day was quite pleasant, relaxing was probably not the best word for it, since the auberge was hosting a conference for the day with representatives from the mayor’s offices of four different Beninese cities. (In fact, the auberge had no rooms left, but the owner cleaned out his own room for me to use! – I have no idea where he slept, but at least 50% of the conference delegates assured me that if there was a problem, I could sleep in their rooms in the “extra beds”..)

A lot of the day was at the restaurant Les Yovettes (Yovo being the local word for a white person), sitting on stilts on the Lake. In the evening, the conference delegates invited me to dine with them, as they indulged in the local schnapps, a palm wine / vodka combo concoction from a long thin blue bottle. The German man who organized the day wryly assured me that the men were as rowdy with the palm wine as they were during the day’s meetings.

They were all very excited to talk to someone who was going to write articles about Benin (despite my emphasis that Iceland is a miniscule country and was not going to make them famous).

Conversation at the delicious dinner of spicy fish and pork, as it often seems to, centrered on why I was not travelling with my husband. Are you really married, they would ask. Show us your ring, they would demand cheerfully.

After convincing them that I was indeed married, then they would try a different tactic: ‘You know, if you spend long enough in Africa, you’ll fall in love with an African man. It’s unavoidable.”

Or from the other direction: “Of course you know your husband is seeing lots of different women when you’re away. It’s just normal.”

I explained that it wasn’t always “just normal”.

And then my favourite: “Well, your husband will definitely be seeing other people while you’re gone because I saw it on a European TV show on TV5 once.”

Well, who am I to argue with television?

Benin’s de-facto capital, Cotonou, (the official capital is Porto Novo) is a perfect example of a sub-Saharan African capital getting too big for its britches. It’s grown significantly over the past decades, and there is plenty of pollution, garbage, and unemployment to show for it. But most visitors to the country need to spend at least a day here – visas issued at the border are only valid for 48 hours and need to be renewed at Cotonou’s Directorate of Immigration.

Fortunately, having two passports comes in handy in situations like avoiding spending extra time in boring cities: I deposited the Canadian one at the bureau of immigration, and my UK one at the Ghanaian Embassy, where, after much discussion (apparently you now need confirmed hotel reservations before a visa can be issued!) and nit-picking, the stern official was won over by the fact that I said I lived in Iceland purely “for love”.

And so after a day in the capital I was off again, this time 120 kilometres north in a shared taxi (two in front plus the driver, four in back, as usual) to the town of Abomey, site of the ancient royal kingdom of Dahomey. (en route receiving a record three marriage proposals by noon – my average has probably only been one a day; perhaps it was my freshly washed shirt…?)

At my guesthouse, Chez Monique, I quickly met a group of volunteers from Switzerland and the US who were in town for two weeks to work on an orphanage which they had funded. Would I be willing to help them paint walls for a day, they asked?

And so after an afternoon of touring the old castle (where the tomb of one of the Kings has been made of walls lined with the blood of human sacrifices!) I spent my remaining moments in Abomey at the orphanage Peuple du Monde.

The three-storey building houses 120 orphans, and, despite constant improvements, still does not have electricity, running water, or enough mosquito nets for the children. It is thought that up to a third of them are HIV positive, although it was only on this visit that the group was finally able to make arrangements to have every child tested and to have a pediatrician visit regularly.

I spent my time painting the walls of the kitchen and two bathrooms – the smell receded once the first coat of paint had been put on. It was stiflingly hot and the sweat was pouring off my nose and into my eyes. – But at least now my husband will not be able to say that I can’t paint properly!

And that’s a lot more worthwhile that an afternoon at a museum.

PS: The orphanage could use a lot of help - and from what I saw, the people working on it, both locally and foreign, are putting a lot of heart and soul into the effort. For more information, visit their detailed website: www.peupledumonde.org

Burkina Faso means “Land of the Honourable”, accordng to my guidebook. So, for this honourable nation, here are my top ten favourite experiences:

1. The relaxed atmosphere - even the customs agent had to climb back on the bus to find me because he had forgotten to charge me for the visa!
2. An image of a young boy in in unbuttoned fuscia shirt doing a cartwheel down a dirt side street in Ouagadougou: everyone has somethng to be happy about
3. Finally buying a great souvenir for G, after extensive hunting.
4. Auberge La Pierredot and its delightful owners.
5. The pastries - pain au raisin and apple turnover - at a little patisserie in Ouagadougou.
6. Negotiating over the price of silver spoons at the SIAO fair.
7. Visiting the Ecole Christ-Roi
8. Visiting the mayor’s number 2 for great meal and great company
9. Feeding the huge ugly sacred fish at Dafra near Bobo-Dioulasso.

 OK, this is only nine things - not that Burkina wasn’t worthy of more, but I forgot a number when I wrote this down!

COMING UP: I have a small hassle getting the Ghana visa, get three marriage proposals in one morning (a record!) and agree to volunteer at an orphanage in Abomey.  Don’t touch that dial…

I arrived early in Ouidah, Benin after an uneventful shared taxi from Togo. I was the only guest at the Hotel Oasis in the centre. After settling in, I collected a few things and left the room to find some lunch.

There was a group of people loitering around a restaurant at the hotel - “Ici, madame!” they gestured to the restaurant, obviously crowded forsome function. There was a police officer guarding the entrance; even he was inviting me in.

And that is how I crashed the gala lunch commemorating the investiture of the Supreme Chief of Vadoun Religion,the Daagbo (Majesty) TOMADJLEHOUKPON II METOGBOKANDJI.

There I sat during a great three-course meal (with free beer!!) and chatted about this new supreme leader. One of the guests at the table,an engineer named Rodrigue, invitedto accompany me tovisit the supreme leader the next day.

There was lots of singing and dancing in the supreme leader’s compound the next evening. The man himself was seated in a largish receiving room, with plenty of well-wishers surrounding him, as well as an (empty) bottle of whisky.

Rodrigue introduces me as “an adventurer” (which, as spmeone who is too scared to ride a bicycle, I find ironic) who was going to write about the trip.

So the supreme leader invited me to come and have a chat with him in a smaller receptionroom.

He asked me what I thought of Benin and I said I was fortunate to have had the chance to meet him on this auspicious occasion. “Yes, you are,” he replied (!).

Then he asked for my email address so I could have a little correspondance with the “King”.

My first brush with royalty …

PS - I did other things in Ouidah besides mingle with the high classes; visited the sacred temple of pythons (where I gotmy photo taken with a huge python around my neck) and saw various sites associatedwith the slave trade - most of the slaves from this region were sent to Brazil and the Caribbean.

PPS: I will write a more interesting,”proper” version of this story later, with better descriptions ofthe dancing, but the internet cafe where i am writing has a horrible keyboard so further work will haveto wait! 

All’s well that ends well. But, boy was it a long day… (and, strangely enough, another one involving public transport).
My next stop from Burkina Faso is Benin, but it’s a 1100 km journey from Ouaga to the de facto capital, Cotonou, on the coast, about a 20-hour bus ride. In my quest to avoid having to take public transport at night, I came up with a cunning plan: take the bus as far as Natitingou, a large town in the north of Benin, and then continue on early the next morning to Cotonou. Flawless.
So I called and reserved my ticket for NATITINGOU. Then I arrived at the station and purchased the reserved ticket for NATITINGOU. Then I put my bag in the bus storage, clearly marked with masking tape for NATITINGOU. I showed my ticket for NATITINGOU at the door of the bus, and again to the conductor when the journey started.
And then 2-1/2 hours into the trip the chauffeur announced he was going to Togo.
I wasn’t the only one heading for Benin (although the only one for the north). Everyone else for Cotonou, who would now add at least three hours to their 20 odd hour journey and would have to cross another border (and maybe pay other “taxes”) was pretty pissed off.
I was given another option: the chauffeur told me I could disembark at the small Burkinabe village where we were and that another “bus” would be along “any minute” which would take me to Natitingou, in fact probably “even faster” than the initial estimates. Yeah.
So of course I continued on to Lome, Togo’s capital. So much for the plan to avoid driving late at night.
The journey continued with no problems, and it’s only really when we started the daily “race against the sunset” that I started to get nervous:
1) Who knew Togo has hilly parts? All along I’ve been taking these journeys in the comfort of knowing that if the driver did fall asleep or run over a donkey, we’d just careen off into a nearby millet field. Here the picture postcard scenery meant lots more big trees and, as the sun showed us tantalizingly before slipping away, lots of hairpin bends in the road and steep drops. I hoped the hills would end before the sun.
2) After a brief supper stop (tinned sardines squished on a baguette for me), we stopped briefly just down the road where a big discussion ensued with some youths at the side of the road. Turns out they were our mercenaries and the chauffeur was negotiating their fee to accompany us on the bus, in order to protect us from possible bandits at roadblocks – that’s when I noticed the machine guns slung over the shoulders of these kids. In the end, a suitable price wasn’t reached and the youths stayed on the road – I wasn’t sure if that was good or not, but there was really no time to dwell on the threat of armed robbery because I began to realize that….
3) The driver must have been exhausted. He had been driving straight since 7am (and anticipated arrival time in Cotonou was at least 4am) and everyone else on the bus was sound asleep (except me – rigidly looking out the window).
But we arrived safe and sound in Lome at 1am. Then I had to face a throng of taxi men who saw the lone foreign face get off the bus. I agreed a price with one and followed him to what turned out to be an unmarked taxi. Then his “friend” jumped in with him – for “security” I was told. They told me my hotel was 15 km away outside of town.
Although they seemed friendly enough, I was thinking I should ditch and get another ride, but I babbled to them about how I knew the owner of the hotel and he was waiting up for me to arrive and would already be expecting me. And my instincts felt that they were legit people and the “security” was to protect them against rogue clients. A police officer who stopped us at a checkpoint soon afterwards and confirmed the distance of the hotel made me feel even better.
And when I finally arrived at 2am, the taxi drivers really wanted to wake up the owner to confirm that I really had been deposited safely! For the first time in my life, I actually paid them more than I had initially promised – and even threw in a couple of those little Canada flag pins as bonus.
That was the last time (well, never say never…) I’ll be taking mammoth transport like that on this trip. Even better, the hotel where I’m staying has a pool, so it’s all good. And that’s where I’m going right now….

In addition to the school visit, I was fortunate to attend another event in Ouaga: the SIAO festival is held over a 10-day period every two years and is the largest handicrafts festival in Africa. Room after room is filled with handicrafts of all varieties – I could visit the continent under one roof. I enjoyed the bargaining process very much here – and at one point agreed to up my offer for some Tuareg spoons if they could name the capital of Iceland (a cunning bargaining tool I will have to keep up my sleeve for the future, since no one ever knows the answer to this).
Patrick bought me a beautiful cotton Burkinabe coat of arms here as a gift (of course I am the one who should be giving gifts because he was so hospitable – but that’s how generous everyone in Africa seems to be). He also took me to visit his home and his family in a neighbourhood across town – he spends one hour each day commuting on his motorcycle.
Thanks to a contact of Patrick’s, I was also invited to an afternoon meal at the house of M. Kabore, the Number Two to the Mayor of the district in which the school is located. (The district has about 400,000 people, and he really liked it when I told him that was bigger than all of Iceland and therefore it was a similar rank to Vice-President of Iceland – if that position existed).
Monsieur Kabore has been helpful regarding dealings with the school. Patrick and I visited his home in Ouaga where his delightful wife prepared traditional to (like a white starchy polenta) with beef sauce, and roasted chicken pieces. At the beginning of it all, my host even came out with a bottle of very sweet sparkling wine! Such a treat!
We were also privileged to be in the company of the chief of this quarter of town, a man given the authority to mediate disputes and to be a sort of moral leader in the community. He has three wives (but is Catholic) and ten children.
In the 10 square metre room (I’m guessing, but it wasn’t big) we dined on this fantastic food, chatting about our different countries and drinking tea cups of the champagne.
In the end my host made an eloquent speech to me, saying that he hoped we could stay in touch and that people who helped the school like me (although I don’t feel I’ve done much yet!) did so not because we have the means, but because we think people should share in life. I was touched.
Then he presented me with a beautifully wrapped gift of some Burkinabe cloth.
Yet another unforgettable evening.

Before I left on this trip I made plans to visit two organizations I had been put in touch with through contacts. One of these is the Ecole Christ Roi, a private (and non religious, despite its name) primary school in Ouagadougou (pronounced WAGAdougou), Burkina Faso’s beautifully named capital city.
The school was founded by Patrick Nitiema, a local teacher. It expanded after the involvement of a group from the Netherlands who have established a charity to support the school. The low sandy coloured brick building in one of the city’s poorest neighbourhoods now has six classrooms which accommodate over 200 students in Grades 1 to 6.
Patrick, a soft-spoken and earnest man of 38, took me took the school last week to meet the students and the teachers and the visit has been one of the highlights of my trip.
The students of Ecole Christ Roi may just be the politest I have encountered. Each time I entered one of the classrooms they all stood to attention and recited “Bonjour, Madame” in perfect unison. With each presentation of a little gift, they would even bow or curtsy a little and say merci.
The oldest class has six pupils and I asked each what they wanted to be when they grew up. Their answers were varied – doctor, businessperson, priest, police officer, journalist (this by the lone female student) – and with the same childhood aspirations that everyone has at this age. I hope they all have the opportunity to realize those dreams, but I don’t know how realistic that is.
I will only do this once more on this blog, which is just little travel ditties rather than social commentary, but for this entry I would like to point out a few things: as a privately funded institution, the students of Ecole Christ Roi are expected to pay some tuition, which covers the running of the school, including the teachers’ salaries. Normally, this is equivalent to 91 Euros per month, but at the moment the school is only able to pay them half of this. There are only two toilets (holes in the ground) for the over 200 students, and they hope to construct a set of latrines as well as expand the building. Like the rest of the neighbourhood, there is no plumbing or electricity.

The foundation which has been established in the Netherlands has set up a program of sponsoring a child at the school. A donation of 100 Euros will cover the costs of the child’s tuition and books, as well as make a contribution to the teachers’ salaries. The child will write letters a few times a year to go over his or her progress.
If anyone is interested in sponsoring a child at this school (note to the Icelanders: this is about the cost of one hair cut with highlights), please contact Mieke Rietveld at g-m(dot)rietveld(at)planet(dot)nl. It would help a lot.

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.