When I last wrote, I had been maxing and relaxing in lovely Banfora in southwest Burkina Faso. The country’s name literally translates fromÂ
Moré and
Dioula, the major local languages, to “the land of upright people.” Without exception I found Burkinabes to be friendly, welcoming, and sincere.
My time in Banfora could not have been a better start to my discovery of West Africa. I made some friends, and spent a good part of each day hanging out at the neighborhood coffee stand (a few benches under an awning of sorts). I previously wrote as to just how taken aback I was by the French’s continuing cultural and lingual influence, and this observation took on new depth every day. My favorite discovery was that of the baguette.
Every morning boulangeries fire up their ovens and turn out bread that is incomparable to the mixture of flour, yeast, and water that we so generously call ‘bread’ back home. The stuff is so good that I would have it plain or just with some butter each morning at the coffee stand. One of the dudes I met, Yakuba, worked as a guide and spoke English; one day I hired him and some mopeds to explore the surrounding countryside.
Having had some of my most enjoyable travel days atop a moped (Rhodes, Greece and Goa, India come to mind), I had highly anticipated the experience in and around Banfora; I was not disappointed in the least. Over the course of the day we went to the Domes de Fabedougou:
and Lake Tengrela:
Lake Tangrela is famous for its hippos, and with seeing them up close as the goal I piled into a leaky wooden rowboat with 7 or 8 fat Dutch tourists and two oarsman. Each time someone leaned, even a smidgen in one direction, the entire boat and everyone in it tilted precariously in that direction. This was particularly concerning given that more people die in Africa each year from hippos than any other animal and that our ‘boat’ was sitting no more than four inches above the water line.
I couldn’t understand a word of what the Dutch families were saying as the boat gingerly marauded through the reed clogged and lily pad dense areas along the shore as we sought out the hippos cooling themselves in the shallows to escape the mid day sun. After a significant amount of time spent holding our collective breaths and everyone grimacing at the slightest ripple in the water, I heard a name in the Dutch conversation that I knew well and was aptly fitting of our predicament: loch-ness! We did not see any hippos. The whole thing could be a giant and genius tourist scam; one that just might work in the tidal basin in front of Thomas Jefferson’s memorial in DC. Can’t you see it… tourists in paddle boats scoping out the water for hippos, all framed by the famed cherry blossoms?!
While I still had the moped, Yakuba and I set out through the sugar cane fields of Burkina’s bread basket, during the magic hour, and I went on a photo binge of beatific proportions.
Though I got my new pro-sumer camera over Thanksgiving, I hadn’t the chance to really play with it and put my skills to the test prior to leaving for Paris a few weeks back. Since then I have delighted in taking many gigs worth of pictures and have accurately captured some moments and faces that I will not soon forget. Note: the pictures in this blog post are NOT mine, but rather whatever google images turned up. I plan on sorting through, editing, and posting my pictures upon my return. I assure you that the wait will be worth it.
Riding through the sugar cane fields at sunset was pure joy. Gliding past farmers returning from their fields, women defying the laws of physics with the bundles they carried on their heads, and the children, as always, laughing, smiling, and waving. In one small village we stopped off for a millet beer, served in a half of a calabash shell, amidst the village elders. We capped off the evening by watching the sun set from a high vantage point overlooking Banfora.
From Banfora I went to Ouagadougou, Burkina’s capitol city, which easily has the best nomenclature of any capitol city the world over. It pains me to report that the city’s name was the beginning and the end of the highlights for me, and I left after spending just one full day there. It’s not that the city was unwelcoming, but rather unexceptional from a touristic point of view. I say that unapologetically, as when I travel to travel (not for work or with a particular purpose beyond discovery) I want to relax and/or see or experience something unique; Ouaga did not fit the bill, though it certainly lightened my wallet.From Ouaga I got on a bus (with rows having 5 seats in the space usually used for 4). I, of course, was stuck sitting in a middle seat between 2… voluptuous women. I was not all that worried as the ride to Ouahigouya (Burkina’s 4th largest city and gateway to the north including the border crossing with Mali) was scheduled to take but 2 hours on a smooth road. Oh naivete, how it can be so sweet and reassuring when you need it to be; though that always results in reality’s slap being that much harder. Needless to say, the 2 hours quickly stretched to 5 before we arrived and I descended into the gloriously free and informal market economy that generally involves every tout and ‘business man’ with something to sell surrounding the white guy in a frenetic mob as soon as I got off the bus. I found my way to a mini-bus that was headed to Mopti, Mali’s second biggest city and a necessary stopping point on my way to Djenne to eventually meet up with the ladies. The smaller buses do not have fixed departure times, and instead, only leave when full (full being more of a literal expression than figurative in this context).
I rode in relative comfort, having carved out a foot of bench space and a place for my feet below. The going was tough, as it was all dirt roads rarely traversed by significant traffic. In fact, the whole way to the border saw us pass but two or three cars. To cross the border we did the traditional dance, stopping every few thousand meters to fill out a form, have our passports inspected, and wait at the whim of the commanding officer (and usually the only one present). Once in Mali we did the same, though I was sorely disappointed as I had been looking forward to some duty free shopping, and must have missed the mall en route.Arriving in Koro, the first town on the Malian side of the border, was an experience full of competing emotions. I had been looking forward to being there as my good friend Lisa spent several years living there during her time in the Peace Corps 10/15 years ago, and she was a big inspiration for this trip. I had wanted to hang out there, track down some of her old friends, and fill her in on the scinitilating gossip accrued over the last decade.
Despite my good intentions, as dusk settled over the dusty hamlet and I, covered in the fine red grime of dust and sand after almost 12 hours on the road, the last thing I wanted to do was wonder around in some small town where no one spoke English, knowing that I still had hundreds of kilometers to go on that leg of the journey.The touts surrounding our little bus as it came to a stop sealed my decision, and I decided to continue on to Mopti. The only problem was that the bus driver decided that he (and the bus) would not be continuing on, thus taking the town’s lone bus out of the equation.
Luckily there was a French couple there who negotiated a private taxi (a 1970’s Peugot station wago that was literally beiing held together by rope). The ensuing drive was incredible. With one working headlight we drove hundreds of kilometers through unforgiving mountain terrain at Nascar worthy speeds. Around gorges and up steep inclines we sped, all nodding our heads and surrendering our bodies to the cacophony of road sounds and barrage of bumps, humps, and dips on our midnight run.
Charging up and down steep single lane embankments made of a local mix of concrete and rock, under a full moon was as enjoyable as it was arresting. At one point, having broken down mid way up a steep stretch, we glided back down the incline and got out to stretch as our driver/mechanic/Evil Knievel impersonator went to work on the under body. The night was still, the moon was bright, and the vultures watching us from the enormous trees lent a spooky feeling to the ordeal.
When hope had long since departed and my rear end could take no more, we arrived in Mopti to great relief. I spent two nights there, before leaving for Djenne, from where I am writing this today. I can summarize my journey from Mopti rather succinctly: I sat on the floor in the back of a station wagon turned bus surrounded by 19 people. Yeah…
I am healthy, happy, and definitely hot in this midday sun, as I prepare to be swept into the warm embrace of those I know and love. Elisa and Victoria should be rolling into town this evening after arriving in Bamako last night. We hope to meet up with Katie tomorrow, as her flight to Bamako yesterday was canceled, and she is currently stuck in Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire. I cannot wait for the days ahead as the main part of this long planned adventure gets underway. I look forward to posting dispatches from the Sahara as we make our way north to the fabled city of Timbuktu…
wow.
amazing how a lot of your time spent “travelling” has been spent literally travelling- moving through the land.
its true that there is something memorable, powerful about moving through the land. i still remember one specific bus ride I did in Costa Rica, about 7 years ago. And, I remember our hitch hike on the back of the jeep, on our way back from the beach, with Santana playing!
enjoy your travels,
Y