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Merry Christmas from a little piece of paradise in south west Burkina Faso called Banfora.

Though I have not been able to fulfill muy usual christmas traditions of Chinese food and a movie, I am toughing it out and just finished reading pool-side on a perfect day. Trust me when I say I deserve the relaxation after the experience that was getting to Banfora.

Landing in Bamako at night is equivalent to landing in the middle of montana at night due to the utter lack of lights or other signs of civilization as the west defines that precipitious term. I was met by my companiable tour agency and made it to the hotel without incident.

Yesterday (though it already feels like ions ago) started at 6:00am, after a few hours of sleep, with my “alarm clock” (AKA: Bernard, the hotel’s night watchman) banging on my door. I flagged down a cab, corssed to the south of the Niger river, and hopped a bus headed to Burkina Faso’s second city, Bobo-Dioulasso. I got on, sat down comfortably in a row to myself and thought: “this is easy; too easy…” and boy, was I (regrettably) right.

The scene: a coach bus from twenty years ago, blasting West African music, no AC, and in each village we pass though, more people got on.

The result: approximately 60 or 70 people in a bus made for 40. Keep in mind that many of the women were dressed in traditional West African clothing, which takes up a lot of room, in addition to the babies on their laps and bags of produce and jugs of water. The sheer number of people (including the dude sitting on/next to my feet) combined with one of the only paved roads in the country (with potholes that can (and do) swallow whole cars), no one wearing deoderant, innumerable stops, continuos and rapid honking at everything blocking our progress (including but not limited to: donkey pulled carts, goats, dogs, birds, pigs, children, bicyclists, mopeds, and road blocks), and many many hours of flat bush secenery passing made for a long day.

Summary:
1: the # of casualties from road accidents we passed sprawled in the middle of the road in a pool of his own blood.
1: the # of road kill victims on our journey; a young pig. The number is shockingly miniscule considering the number of close calls.
4: the # of border crossing checkpoints we passed through; each one involving a complete baggage and passport inspection.

On the malian side of the border I was treated sumptuosly; I skipped the line, was escorted to a shady bench where the policemen were relaxing and reading (porno mags were tucked under the radio), was given tea, conducted an impromptu English speaking lesson the only policeman who spoke it (centered on the difference between “shade” and “shadow,” and generally relaxed.

On the Burkinabe side of the border I was treated like a freqk (persumably for not speaking French). It started when a border gaurd qsked to see my passport then spent long mintues looking incomprehnisbly at it. I gathered from the sheet of rough graph paper in his hand that he was keeping track of which country people were from and until that point everyone was from either mali or Burkina Faso. He treated me saying “America” as if was telling him “I’m from yo momma’s house,” and after some time increduosly added “America” to the list of approximatemy 20 countries already on his list. It was not any easier after that, but I made it though.

14: the #of hours the bus ride  took.

15: the # of official road check points we crossed through.

Once in Bobo the night was dark and I hurridly engaged a taxi to take lme to the bus staging gound (ie: parking lot) for Banfora (my ultimate destination). By the time I got there the remaining busses were sold out, and my options were thus severely limited. Had anyone, even just one person spoken English I would have trie dto negotiate my way onto a bus or at least purchase someone else’s ticket. Robbed of the ability to communicate, I hired a taxi to drive me the final 120km, and in doing so started a scholarrship fund for his childrens’ college education (note: I would use an exclamation point but the key is not functioning on this keyboard).  The taxi driver, madi, was an older gentleman who required a bathroom break after each check point. That, combined with his limited night vision and grandma-like driving made for a long drive. One of the bathroom stops was pretty cool though, as it was next to a field on fire, the farmer clearing the way for the next planting.  Seeing rivers of flames snaking their way through the dense night was captiviating.

You don’t realize how much we rely on electricty until you pass through rural Africa after dark, to see groups of people walking in the pitch blach along the road, communities gathered around small fires, and are utterly blinded by on coming headlights.  It was after one such blinding that madi pulled to the side of the road and got out. We had… you guessed it, a flat tire. By itself not a huge problem, but the fact that his spare tire was flat as well (though relatively, not as flat), greatly concernet madi. No matter, after jacking the car, replacing the tire, and packing up everything, all by the light of lighter, we were off again en route to Banfora.

I chose to go to Banfora based on its reputation as Burkina Faso’s loveliest town, and the sterling reputation of la Hotel Canne a Sucre, a local gem owned by a Frenchman. I walked into the lushly gardened courtyard to the sight and sound of a 20 member accoustic band celebrating Christms Eve with the gathered tourists (read: white people) sitting at white linen tableclothed tables sipping beer and wine and clapping merrily along. After being greeted at the reception desk with “Ah, you must be mr. Daniel,” I quickly was seated at a table of my own in the midst of a little slice of paradise.

The band was made up of 20 local male musicians, all playing handmade indigenous instruments (mostly percussion), and was riotously singing, dancing, and engaging tourists (mostly chubby older white women) to dance along with them. In the midst of this spectacle I sighed happily, knowing that the schlep of all schlepps had been worth it, then eagerly dug into my excuisite filet followed by a crepe and a papaya. Not too shabby for rural Burkina Faso.

my room is the most spectacular I have ever stayed in. It is a traditional circular mud building, with a conical thatched roof (exterior shot: http://www.hotelcanneasucre.com/resources/coin+case.jpg). Inside could not be more charming with all the conveniences of home (TV and AC included), white stucco-like walls seperating the toilet and shower rooms, and mosquito nets hanging above the beds. If I ever disappear without a trace, you will be able to find me at la Hotel Canne a Sucre (zho would’ve thought?).

After sleeping 13 blisfful hours and exploring the town a bit, I lounged by the pool, book in hand, in a hammock being lulled by a seductive breeze. I intend to stay here as long as possible, explore the region’s sites via moped, then make my way to meet the ladies in Djenne, mali on the 2nd of January.

THIS IS WHY I TRAVEL.

Observations:
-The French have a presence in West Africa, decades after the end of colonization, that cannot be matched anywhere. Whereas, for example, the British left many signs and legacies in East Africa and the Italians in Eritrea, French culture still dominates here. The most noticeable sign of this is the language; even in the far flung rural villages I vhave visited, locals address each other in French. I realize that there are still at least hundreds of local languages being spoken in the region, but the fact that French is the main one even in the bushed surprised me greatly, all the more so because absolutely NO ONE speaks English. No one.

-Chinese and Indians so defined my experience living in East Africa that I am accutely aware of their absence here. In their place: Libya’s money and Lebanease merchants.

-I excel in craftin unnecessarily long, needlessly wandering, sometimes convoluted run on sentences that often times end in an entierly different place whence they began, without purpose or perscription.

-I wish you all could be here with me, experiencing the rhythums of life under the Afican sun. Is it heaven? Hell no. But is there truth to be found? Absolutely.

°°°°°note: I am without spell check, capitalization for “m” and exclamation marks. I shall overcome.