FEBRUARY 2008
The trip I knew was going to be a voyage that lasted an eternity, the writing I knew would take longer so thank you all for being patient as I put together this tribute to the first African road trip in my life (don’t know if I have it in me for another, but we’ll see).
FEBRUARY 5, 2008
We got to Cotonou a day early in anticipation of our journey out to Burkina Faso. We’re taking a night bus to save money on a hotel and to make the traveling easier (as in, if you’re asleep it goes faster, and a heck of a lot less heat in the bus at night).
Luggage packing for the bus took two hours. Then, when we finally are ready to get going we have a roll call onto the former Jacksonville Jaguar team bus. Just imagine what pandemonium ensued as the bus agents tried, in vain, to pronounce all the mysterious names and match them to poorly scribbled-out bus tickets. It took us a little while longer to actually get onto the bus. Good thing the seats were numbered. Too bad some lady thought she was in Liz’s seat (apparently the number 7 looks remarkably like the number 9). She’ll come into this later, but for now we’re finally all seated, even seat 7 who tried in vain to repeatedly seat herself in 13 after 9 failed. The Egypt v. Cameroon match comes on and for a moment we’re entertained. The driver arrives and we’re thrilled it is only an hour late (10pm instead of designated departure of 9pm). We start driving, lurching forward in our Jaguar bus with the midget leg room and not the anticipated coolers full of Crystal and Courvoisier, then stop abruptly in a zone of bad television reception so that even as we sat for the next 35 minutes we couldn’t even watch the game they had so considerately put on for us just a few moments before. The engine and the busload of people sat running, waiting for – what?
For the second time we take off again. Enjoying our apple dinner (Erin hits a male passerby with her core – bad karma to come?) we go approximately 0.5km before stopping again at the gas station. It’s at this stop where we see the true art of lacking in efficiency. While the bus driver leaves his engine running to get and pump gas, three more bus workers get off and stand around the pump, discussing how to best negotiate inserting it into the bus. Meanwhile, nothing else happens. When the gas has successfully been pumped (25 minutes later and four more ‘helpers’ jumping of the bus to lend a hand) the driver takes his time wiping down the windshield by hand with a little plastic teapot – again, something that could have taken place while the gas was being pumped? Also, has he never heard of windshield wipers? I guess not as I watched him swipe, back and forth with his hand and little plastic teapot until the entire, giant windshield was clean. Then we were off again. Still in Cotonou, four hours after we got to the bus stop. Well on our way to a wonderful journey in Africa.
But wait, not quite yet. It appears that seat 7, or was it 13, or wait, 9? Has too much luggage blocking the aisles where crew workers want to lay down. It is customary on every African bus to have one chauffeur, at least two luggage handlers, one guy to take the money from passengers who get on en route, and I suppose two or three extra to stand around should anything go wrong with the engine. It is also customary to never account for them when filling up the seat capacity. The woman refused to move her baggage and the crew members were forced to lie in the aisles along the bus. Fire hazard, what? My only prayer was that should the bus crash I be thrown safely from its burning carcass otherwise I burn inside it, unable to maneuver past the bodies wedged in the aisles. The evening ends with this: Can’t finish writing because the chauffeur turns off the overhead lights so we can watch a work of cinematic genius – Dead or Alive (seen it? It reminded me of Street Fighter but with primarily hot girls instead of equal sexes fighting it out). The next few hours before I finally crash from exhaustion are crap kung fu and the glowing cigarette butt of the driver on the longest chain smoking marathon I’ve ever seen in the review mirror and a crew member pushing my leg out of the way so he can sleep under my skirt.
FEBRUARY 6, 2008
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
We finally got into Ouagadougou at around 3:00pm (after spending 20 minutes at the border exiting Benin, another hour and 10.000CFA getting our visas upon entry to Burkina, then 2.5 hours sitting, waiting, bus unloaded for customs to stop by, look at our bags and say that we could go). We got in just in time to miss our shot at the Mali visa so we’re staying the night at the Cathedral (how fitting on Ash Wednesday).
Burkina has great produce – we went to their supermarket (open 7j/7 – what?) and saw so many types of cheeses, meats, fruits and vegetables! Strawberries, artichokes, red bell peppers and balsamic vinegar were some of the best finds (Snickers and Twix ice cream bars were pretty thrilling in their own right though I certainly didn’t partake)! It’s like being in a real big city! The buildings are newer, with more lights and decorations (a bit over done though, like someone on the city decorating committee got a deal at the Target after-holidays sales), less crowding and minimal diesel fumes. They have an air conditioned movie theatre playing Gothika and 300 (did those even come out at the same time in the U.S.? I don’t think so) as well as an outdoor one playing Jurassic Park (the Lost World one, not the real one) and American Beauty. There are no taxi motos here, only taxis cars (green ones that charge basically 600CFA for the car no matter where you’re going and an even bigger bummer if you’re traveling alone). More impressive is the terrain and wildlife. We cut through Benin’s Park Pendjari on our way up North and came out the other side in real desert (Sahel) with dry bush trees, parched earth and massive watering holes where one or two of the many herds
of cows are stopped to rest and drink. On the side of the road multiple donkey carts plod along with one, sometimes two, bodies sitting up top to give an occasional unenthusiastic stick thump on the donkey’s rear end. Neither of them wants to be working, but they’re out there in the heat nonetheless. There really is no alternative. They plod along for miles in one direction to fill up on sticks, or hay, or buckets of something else, turn around and trudge back for miles in the direction they came.
The restaurant we were so excited to visit was closed on Wednesdays of all days so we begrudgingly headed back to the familiar Lebanese cuisine to which we were so accustomed. There was a banana milkshake on the menu – something I ate a lot of every chance I got as a kid – and it wasn’t half bad, but not quite like we used to make at home. Ouagadougou was shaping up to be an okay place so far.
FEBRUARY 7, 2008
We breakfasted at a place called the “Four Seasons” (4 Saisons) but really should have been called One or Two Seasons based on their lack of available menu items. Though the first three items I tried to order were unavailable and I finally was reduced to settling on a hot chocolate and toast (but they ran out of jelly) the hot chocolate was the most amazing I’ve had in Africa! The roadside woman selling strawberries sweetened the deal and the refrigerator revealed a hidden jelly reservoir despite previously fruitless searches (I’m just full of the puns today), so breakfast turned out alright if not half-decent. Liz was pretty disappointed that their café au lait was actually just Nescafe and their espresso machine was broken so just went for the regular coffee treatment, but had an awesome omelet with potatoes. Erin’s “petit four” (which in America usually means some sort of assortment of tiny cakes or pastries) was a handful of cookies that tasted remarkably like pound cake so it was a win-win in all cases. Though the food was surprisingly pleasant, the abundance of street-side beggars was something I hadn’t yet been introduced to and found unpleasant as I tried to eat my food with four kids staring at me, eyes pleading and hands outstretched, their empty tomato paste can coffers full only with pointed blaming and my subsequent guilt. I got over that real fast, however, when a fully grown man came over to ask for money because he had just returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca. OOOOH!! I remember now. Muslims give alms. It tends to breed an underbelly reliant on the generosity (and piety) of presumably Muslim passerby and unsuspecting guilty white folk. Since I’m not Muslim and apparently cold-hearted and poor myself, I felt exempt from the guilt of not giving every single kid walking around with nice shoes and full outfits on money, but then my Catholic upbringing sort of swung it back around and I evened out with a general sense of crummy okie-dokieness.
Lunch must have been pretty uneventful because I can’t remember anything to write about. In fact, I don’t think we ate lunch. It pretty much went right from late breakfast to the grocery store and then looking for the restaurant we’d missed out on the night before. On the way there we hit up the Artisan’s Center where we could buy crafts without haggling over prices. Unfortunately we were instantly hit with the artisans who continued to insist that I was not American, but rather, Spanish hiding in an American’s body. I’m used to pushy salesmen but I can’t say I’ve ever experienced it to the degree we did upon leaving the center. For the next twenty minutes or so I was trapped explaining to one man why not spending time walking over to his shop to see the same exact crafts I just bought at the center and then politely decline to purchase them was not considered rude in my country, especially when I was late to go to dinner and getting increasingly angry from my state of empty stomach. At one point the bugger artisan literally likened my refusal to visiting the shop as to stepping on the face of his child. It was either that or his Friendship, I can’t really say I was paying much attention to his French at this point. I have selective French comprehension that comes in quite handy in these pestering instances.
Dinner, in contrast, was quite possibly my favorite experience of the entire trip (even in retrospect as I write this). It's called le Verdoyant and it is in a nicer part of town (near the Artisan's center) and is closed on Wednesdays... so sad. I started with a sweet taste of my past: Gin Fizz. Not quite up to Papa Mel’s par (a real man, not a bar, but now I’m thinking…), but it was a welcome treat. This carried over to a demi-carafe of what I presumed to be a Côte du Rhone red (never again; I’m so disappointed every time I spend more money trying to get a taste of the good stuff then find myself conspiracy theorizing that the restaurant just opened the same ‘ole box of Bonita and poured it into the carafe then charged double. I’d rather live without and have my memories of the better days of wine consumption). Luckily it
didn’t all end like this as my endive, hazelnut and Roquefort salad immeasurably pleased my depraved palette. I admit, I was never a real fan of the wedge salad (more my mom’s style) but in a meal tribute to memories of my family I gave it a go and was more than pleased with the selection. This was followed by lasagna. Wait, I didn’t do that right. It was Lasagna. Phenomenal! Lasagna that was worthy of a decent restaurant in the U.S. Maybe I’m biased being as I am from a cheeseless, practically beefless existence, but it really was an amazing batch of Lasagna, wood-fired oven and all. The restaurant obviously had what it needed going for it as by mid-meal I turned around to a sea of white folk. Normally I try to avoid the ex-pat crowd but I was on vacation and thus taking photos and hob-nobbing with the fairer skinned ones wasn’t as embarrassing as it can be in my own territory. The meal was so good we even tipped. I think it was the second, if not the first, time since I got here. Thoroughly sated, we all returned to our hotel with the comfortable bed, fan, but still-cold-showers and seatless, shared toilets.
FEBRUARY 8 2008
Almost nothing was the same as we got back on a bus to make our way up to Mali. We were royally ripped off by the bus. (NEVER TAKE S.T.B.F. IN OUAGADOUGOU). They said they went directly from Ouaga (Burkina) to Mopti (Mali) for 25.000CFA, but what they should have said was ‘direct from Ouaga to Ouahigouya for 2.500CFA then get out and wait four-six hours for another mini bus to take you from Ouahigouya (still in Burkina) to Koro for another 2.500CFA and to leave early enough to catch the one that leaves with enough time to get to the border before it closes and you’re stuck in Burkina, sleeping at the border, for another night.’ Oh well, lost in translation I suppose, or they were just thieving liars (more likely option).
While we were waiting for the second round of crap travel to Mali we were approached by one of those ubiquitous ‘want to speak the “small small” English’ guys who refuse to speak French to you although that’s the only language of theirs you actually understand. He persisted in demanding whether or not we were familiar with “Peter Stevenson” who ‘lived in Sector 2’. We repeatedly denied knowing any of the Burkina volunteers explaining that were from Benin and, amazingly, not all white people are of the same family and most probably don’t know all the other white people in their own village, let alone their entire region of West Africa. It took several frustrating attempts from our side to get him to speak French and on his part explaining just who Peter Stevenson was; a brand of cigarettes (have you heard of them?). Confusion cleared and we thought he would just go away, but four hours couldn’t end soon enough and he persisted in asking us other things in English that we just couldn’t decipher (except for the spit he projected with his English pronunciation; that was intelligible enough). Finally the wait ended and we piled into the next cramped bus that would take us on terre rouge through to the desert of Mali.
I sat uncomfortably between the bench and jump seat, knee to crotch with a man sitting across from me for the next six or so hours just pining for the border and the next place I could rest horizontally. We were finally getting where we were going, so what if my spine was slightly shifted as a result. That is, until we suddenly we weren’t going anymore. The chauffeur stopped and did what any normal driver (in Africa) would do – pile more goods and people on top of the van than he should safely do as there was no more space inside of the van. This would have normally been just a minor annoyance rather than the first skirmish in the full-scale war it became had he not chosen to do so a mere 15 minutes before the border was scheduled to close with three American girls on board who had already been ripped off once that day and were loathe to pay extra later upon exiting Mali for not getting an entry stamp first on their passports. Of course we complained (I threatened to drive away, but couldn’t figure out how he hotwired his car to get it going) but that didn’t stop him taking the next 40 minutes to load his new cargo and passengers. We eventually got going again while the sun was setting and my nausea started to set in. The beautiful stars
exploded into the desert’s dark black night as we drove past solemn campfires out in the brush. It was becoming magical, but my blood sugar level was still dropping from lack of food. Then, as if in final protest and in opposition-empathy to my nerves, the gas tank emptied and the van sputtered out simultaneously with my last nerves. At this point we’d already reached and passed the Mali bureau 40km inside the border and got our stamps by the light of their lantern, but now we were on to the next crisis of hunger and fatigue. I guess the driver had had enough of our complaints and tossed a 10.000CFA bill at us when we started to set in complaining again (I’m not proud of our actions, did I say I was tired and hungry and already ripped off once that day and had to wait for him to add more luggage despite our earlier protests? Not that it’s an excuse for my behavior) and threatened to walk the remaining 3km to Koro (the next town in) – which I guess must have been more of a relief than a threat to him at that stage of the trip. He took off at a brisk walk and as his glittering cell phone faded into the night I feared he just might not return for us. Luckily he must have forgotten his wallet or really liked his van because he did return on a moto and put enough gas to get us to Customs where they took down only ¾ of our bags on top to search so we were out of there just another ½ hour later. 
Koro was finally reached and Omar (the Dogon guide) came to get us. I threw up next to the telephone center as he kindly waited then we went on to a campement on the outskirts of town. We had an AMAZING family-style plate of salad with sesame oil (lettuce with oil), fries and spaghetti made with a really strange sauce and served cold. I could actually only eat some of the spaghetti, but Erin and Liz looked pretty pleased with everything else. I was out by 11, lying on a matt lifted up by wooden sticks, ready to put that day behind me.
FEBRUARY 9, 2008
I checked out my journal for this day and remembered why my dirty finger prints were all over the page, rather, why the finger prints all over the page were dirty. I had just woken up from a nap atop a mud hut bar (Tati Samba in Benin) under thatch covering protecting me from the broiling heat. Even after washing my hands, which left a thick line of distinction between my pale skin and the thick layer of dust mixed with sweat on the rest of my arm, it was difficult to keep the pages clean. My view from the rooftop was that of the ancient mud town of Dogon nestled high up into the carved rock while I rest below it in the new civilization of Dogon, created just as recently as sixty years ago. The path here was flat and sandy with the occasional drop through a ravine that marked the path of the dried-up riverbed. It’s so hot out on this cloudless day, but the breeze is constant and refreshing and sounds a lot like I’m sitting by the Pacific when it blows through the surrounding palms.
The people of Dogon are used to
tourists and became angry when I tried to take a picture of their horses without first giving away some Cola nuts I bought back in Ouahigouya just for this special purpose. We pass out 10 or so to the inhabitants to gain access to this relic of ancient Mali. Children cluster, chanting “calabash” or “coton”, hoping you will want to buy something. When you don’t they give up trying to sell you anything and start to beg cola nuts for free – children! Cola nuts!! Stimulants for Children (a new band name perhaps?)!
We got through town and hiked up rocky trails to the old town in the cliffs. This was just one of many settlements similarly situated in the face of the rock, but was the easiest for us to climb up. We saw their clay granaries; their mass cemetery of bones littered indiscriminately in a hole bored into the rock’s body; their water supply that ran down the face of a wall that millennia before was once an underwater abyss. We also saw their
‘courthouse’ with low ceilings so as to prevent fighting should the dispute not be resolved amicably. We saw where the “Hogon” lived (yea, I laughed and then repeated to the point of annoyance “Hogon of the Dogon”), the king of the Dogon people who wore neither shoes nor bathed except on every fifth day when a snake would come and lick him clean. I interjected my concern at whether or not it would take a full five days just to get that little tongue all over, but Omar just pondered my sanity and went on without response. I guess no response for me is sometimes the best response.
Luckily the view was so incredible or I might have continued to imagine snakes cleaning kings. We wandered through the abandoned houses and looked out onto the vast expanse of desert land, shielding our eyes from the brilliant sunshine to fully appreciate how it used to be a lush, fertile area until the Dogon people’s continuous tree-chopping devastated the terrain, leaving it subject to alternating droughts then floods.
After the rock village and several hours in Tely post-descent at the camp/bar we left at sunset for Ende, 4km away, where we would stay the night. We ate dinner at Campement Aly, one of only three buildings with electricity in the settlement of 3,000. After dinner we cleaned up and slept in one of the hottest rooms I have ever slept in so far. It had only one window and no screen door so we had to leave the door closed, until finally, fearing suffocation more than bug bites, we opened the door and were able to sleep a little at last. Breakfast did nothing to clear up the pain of the night past, the freeze-dried coffee grounds resembled the earth we had just trodden upon all of yesterday, the ants had our sugar on them, and the “pineapple” jam tasted like grandma’s perfume, but we ate and drank up in anticipation of the day (and our perceptions already slightly desensitized from being used to African conditions).
FEBRUARY 10, 2008
After our ‘delicious’ breakfast we took off for the other side of Ende, where it seems like every Tom, Dick and Nancy has a shop shelling some sort of “artisanal” creation. The walls of the town are laced with hand-painted, -dyed, -woven articles to buy and ship back in your luggage for Auntie, Mommy, Best Friend, Grammy, Favorite Hippy Professor and Sister. There was a group of women that grew, harvested, and made their own indigo in which to dye their hand-woven wool tissues. Who doesn’t do that nowadays? Everyone has one of those women’s groups in their town! It was easy to see these women weren’t used to being introduced to white people who knew what their goods were worth and were clearly agitated when we bargained for a real price on their scarves. Needless to say, we weren’t making friends, but at least we were making good deals, and that’s what really counts when on vacation, right? After the indigo girls (and boy), we walked over to “Carving Man” (trust me, this town had an artisan for every single type of African art, quite possibly including a medicine man who would have performed a scarification if we’d named the right price), who was in the middle of carving a cool staircase made from the branch of a tree. Crouched down in his work environment, surrounded by a plethora of wooden works of art, he posed like a natural used to being photographed. After the woodsman we saw the group of men who paint batique. Except they weren’t painting anything, but they were watching a little boy on the ground painting for them. Maybe they were on a break? I don’t know, but I got a good deal on a scarf that the Indigo girls never would have sold to me for the price. Funny thing is, it was probably the Indigo girls who sold the scarf to the Batique men in the first place so I imagine something is amiss with wholesale and resale in this town.
We passed the metal workers and then the old men who sit around asking for cola nuts to jump on a horse cart with a horse that looked as though he had seen a better lifetime. Surprisingly still full of spring, we pulled away with a little puff of dust, like a cm tall, in search of the next big adventure. Our guide, Omar, had left earlier in the morning to go back to Bankass and pick up his next tour, a triad of Peace Corps volunteers from Ghana, while we continued on with his brother, Mohamed. After an eternity on the horse cart (cool views of towns and rock settlements along the way – a constant source of wonderment as I questioned how did they DO that?) we reached a little, tiny town of about four houses and a pretty impressive marché constructed entirely out of sticks. We unloaded our beings and started hiking up the mountain face. It was about 45% as intense of hikes I’d done in the past, but felt about 275% more difficult than the sitting on my butt I’ve been doing for the past 7 months. Finally, with much huffing and puffing, we made it through the rocky/tree hill (which looked remarkably like some El Dorado Hills, California hiking paths) and emptied into a mini-Eden flanked by impressive stone sculptures that reached up to the sky in a protective enclosure. Children, a few women and a man were industriously carrying calabashes of water from the river that lazily dripped through the little fertile valley to their plots of onions, lettuce, tobacco and herbs in a picturesque little commune nestled up here in the hills. Walking through and to the other side for our final climb I felt as though we’d been introduced to a secret little society of the last unknown people (though I was fully aware that this is an extremely well-known and tourist-frequented location). I almost could see Veloceraptors flying overhead and Bracchiosauruses digging for watercress in the murky brown waters – yes, I imagine everything “untouched” as a scene from Jurassic Park, why don’t you?
One last rocky climb and we were on top of the rock formations enjoying a cool drink and taking in the scenery. We were in an interesting assortment of towns that form one collective village, separated by religious factions. We ate our lunch with the Ghanaian group in the Christian part of town (‘cuz there was booze) but then took a little tour of the Muslim one while getting a nice view of the Animist one in the distance. After fully stuffing ourselves with a bland concoction of couscous and corned, boxed beef (literally comes in a tin, felt like I was an Irishwoman during a world war) we left our little rockytop village and took the final stretch of our journey to the taxi that would take us to Mopti. One intense, hot climb left and we reached the top to discover that the taxi had gone. Two French ladies that we so graciously allowed to share our taxi (and the price of it) had up and commandeered the entire operation. Omar immediately got on the phone and stood atop a precarious rock to get reception in search of our driver. I took of my shoes. Within another thirty minutes we found the source of our frustration. The driver didn’t leave, at least not the one we’d hired, he was waiting a little walk away on the other side of field full of rocks for us with the same frustration we’d been experiencing waiting for him on our side of the terrain. Confusion finally over we got in the car and experienced a beautiful moving picture of dry scenery littered with rock formations and a periodic blooming garden of greens and palms to blot the arid landscape. Mopti was going to be wonderful.
LATER THAT DAY
Mopti was, for the most part, a great experience. We arrived in the evening and stayed at “Y Pas de Probleme” hotel, Liz losing her shoes in the taxi’s car as he drove away. The beds were comfortable, even if the pool was cold and dirty, and the price was decent. Finding food, after an exhausting day, proved to be more of a carnival than we’d bargained. Wandering around, walking and walking (after walking all day in the desert land of Dogon) with a random guy who had attached himself to our group as its leader through dark, dirty alleyways and past groups of street vendors whom we regarded with skepticism. My temper was quickly heating. We finally found a location and then approached the awkward business of discharging our unwanted guide when he sat down at our table. It was too delirious with hunger and fatigue to remember how it came about, but somehow he was gone and we were able to order our meal from the kindly Nigerian patroness.
In anticipation of our upcoming chow session I asked for a soap-and-handwashing station. I was directed to a back area where, to my chagrin, there was no soap. I strode out, yes it was striding, and called out for the patron to bring me soap. A man I hadn’t seen before and was sitting at the next table over called out to me to calm down and that the patroness was already fetching soap. There was no reason to “stalk” about angrily, he said. Feeling my “calm” questioned (I’m just going to assume that from my agitated state it was questioned with reason) I retorted back that I always walked in such a passionate manner and that I had no intention of fighting with our patroness. I’m pretty sure I also mentioned some fabrication about my family being military and learning how to walk like a Prussian before learning how to ride a bike. I didn’t like being called out in my frustration. We were in the middle of discussing this quarrel of fact when the patroness returned and the man started in explaining that I was coming on looking ready for a fight. My gang came in finger-snapping to my defense of naturally walking angry while the man asserted that I was looking for a rumble. I ignored him, thanking the patroness, and went to wash my hands. Upon returning to the table, the man continued to make comments and instigate conversation with us. To his query of my name I answered, Napoleon Bonaparte, much to his amusement and prompted him to address me as the “General” for the rest of our banter. When the patroness finally returned with our food I leaned over with great frustration in my voice and asked the offending man’s identity. To my great dismay and slight mortification she answered “le patron” (her husband and rightful owner of the restaurant where we were hoping to get some nourishment and relaxation). Instantly check-mated I calmed down my biting responses a little (as much as I could, which wasn’t much) and prayed for his immediate departure. My wish was granted and we sat down to a dinner without any further interruption.
FEBRUARY 11, 2008
Thought I’d give you a break. More stories to follow later when I get back to the internet.
LOVE,
The trip I knew was going to be a voyage that lasted an eternity, the writing I knew would take longer so thank you all for being patient as I put together this tribute to the first African road trip in my life (don’t know if I have it in me for another, but we’ll see).
FEBRUARY 5, 2008
We got to Cotonou a day early in anticipation of our journey out to Burkina Faso. We’re taking a night bus to save money on a hotel and to make the traveling easier (as in, if you’re asleep it goes faster, and a heck of a lot less heat in the bus at night).
Luggage packing for the bus took two hours. Then, when we finally are ready to get going we have a roll call onto the former Jacksonville Jaguar team bus. Just imagine what pandemonium ensued as the bus agents tried, in vain, to pronounce all the mysterious names and match them to poorly scribbled-out bus tickets. It took us a little while longer to actually get onto the bus. Good thing the seats were numbered. Too bad some lady thought she was in Liz’s seat (apparently the number 7 looks remarkably like the number 9). She’ll come into this later, but for now we’re finally all seated, even seat 7 who tried in vain to repeatedly seat herself in 13 after 9 failed. The Egypt v. Cameroon match comes on and for a moment we’re entertained. The driver arrives and we’re thrilled it is only an hour late (10pm instead of designated departure of 9pm). We start driving, lurching forward in our Jaguar bus with the midget leg room and not the anticipated coolers full of Crystal and Courvoisier, then stop abruptly in a zone of bad television reception so that even as we sat for the next 35 minutes we couldn’t even watch the game they had so considerately put on for us just a few moments before. The engine and the busload of people sat running, waiting for – what?
For the second time we take off again. Enjoying our apple dinner (Erin hits a male passerby with her core – bad karma to come?) we go approximately 0.5km before stopping again at the gas station. It’s at this stop where we see the true art of lacking in efficiency. While the bus driver leaves his engine running to get and pump gas, three more bus workers get off and stand around the pump, discussing how to best negotiate inserting it into the bus. Meanwhile, nothing else happens. When the gas has successfully been pumped (25 minutes later and four more ‘helpers’ jumping of the bus to lend a hand) the driver takes his time wiping down the windshield by hand with a little plastic teapot – again, something that could have taken place while the gas was being pumped? Also, has he never heard of windshield wipers? I guess not as I watched him swipe, back and forth with his hand and little plastic teapot until the entire, giant windshield was clean. Then we were off again. Still in Cotonou, four hours after we got to the bus stop. Well on our way to a wonderful journey in Africa.
But wait, not quite yet. It appears that seat 7, or was it 13, or wait, 9? Has too much luggage blocking the aisles where crew workers want to lay down. It is customary on every African bus to have one chauffeur, at least two luggage handlers, one guy to take the money from passengers who get on en route, and I suppose two or three extra to stand around should anything go wrong with the engine. It is also customary to never account for them when filling up the seat capacity. The woman refused to move her baggage and the crew members were forced to lie in the aisles along the bus. Fire hazard, what? My only prayer was that should the bus crash I be thrown safely from its burning carcass otherwise I burn inside it, unable to maneuver past the bodies wedged in the aisles. The evening ends with this: Can’t finish writing because the chauffeur turns off the overhead lights so we can watch a work of cinematic genius – Dead or Alive (seen it? It reminded me of Street Fighter but with primarily hot girls instead of equal sexes fighting it out). The next few hours before I finally crash from exhaustion are crap kung fu and the glowing cigarette butt of the driver on the longest chain smoking marathon I’ve ever seen in the review mirror and a crew member pushing my leg out of the way so he can sleep under my skirt.
FEBRUARY 6, 2008
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
We finally got into Ouagadougou at around 3:00pm (after spending 20 minutes at the border exiting Benin, another hour and 10.000CFA getting our visas upon entry to Burkina, then 2.5 hours sitting, waiting, bus unloaded for customs to stop by, look at our bags and say that we could go). We got in just in time to miss our shot at the Mali visa so we’re staying the night at the Cathedral (how fitting on Ash Wednesday).
Burkina has great produce – we went to their supermarket (open 7j/7 – what?) and saw so many types of cheeses, meats, fruits and vegetables! Strawberries, artichokes, red bell peppers and balsamic vinegar were some of the best finds (Snickers and Twix ice cream bars were pretty thrilling in their own right though I certainly didn’t partake)! It’s like being in a real big city! The buildings are newer, with more lights and decorations (a bit over done though, like someone on the city decorating committee got a deal at the Target after-holidays sales), less crowding and minimal diesel fumes. They have an air conditioned movie theatre playing Gothika and 300 (did those even come out at the same time in the U.S.? I don’t think so) as well as an outdoor one playing Jurassic Park (the Lost World one, not the real one) and American Beauty. There are no taxi motos here, only taxis cars (green ones that charge basically 600CFA for the car no matter where you’re going and an even bigger bummer if you’re traveling alone). More impressive is the terrain and wildlife. We cut through Benin’s Park Pendjari on our way up North and came out the other side in real desert (Sahel) with dry bush trees, parched earth and massive watering holes where one or two of the many herds
of cows are stopped to rest and drink. On the side of the road multiple donkey carts plod along with one, sometimes two, bodies sitting up top to give an occasional unenthusiastic stick thump on the donkey’s rear end. Neither of them wants to be working, but they’re out there in the heat nonetheless. There really is no alternative. They plod along for miles in one direction to fill up on sticks, or hay, or buckets of something else, turn around and trudge back for miles in the direction they came.The restaurant we were so excited to visit was closed on Wednesdays of all days so we begrudgingly headed back to the familiar Lebanese cuisine to which we were so accustomed. There was a banana milkshake on the menu – something I ate a lot of every chance I got as a kid – and it wasn’t half bad, but not quite like we used to make at home. Ouagadougou was shaping up to be an okay place so far.
FEBRUARY 7, 2008
We breakfasted at a place called the “Four Seasons” (4 Saisons) but really should have been called One or Two Seasons based on their lack of available menu items. Though the first three items I tried to order were unavailable and I finally was reduced to settling on a hot chocolate and toast (but they ran out of jelly) the hot chocolate was the most amazing I’ve had in Africa! The roadside woman selling strawberries sweetened the deal and the refrigerator revealed a hidden jelly reservoir despite previously fruitless searches (I’m just full of the puns today), so breakfast turned out alright if not half-decent. Liz was pretty disappointed that their café au lait was actually just Nescafe and their espresso machine was broken so just went for the regular coffee treatment, but had an awesome omelet with potatoes. Erin’s “petit four” (which in America usually means some sort of assortment of tiny cakes or pastries) was a handful of cookies that tasted remarkably like pound cake so it was a win-win in all cases. Though the food was surprisingly pleasant, the abundance of street-side beggars was something I hadn’t yet been introduced to and found unpleasant as I tried to eat my food with four kids staring at me, eyes pleading and hands outstretched, their empty tomato paste can coffers full only with pointed blaming and my subsequent guilt. I got over that real fast, however, when a fully grown man came over to ask for money because he had just returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca. OOOOH!! I remember now. Muslims give alms. It tends to breed an underbelly reliant on the generosity (and piety) of presumably Muslim passerby and unsuspecting guilty white folk. Since I’m not Muslim and apparently cold-hearted and poor myself, I felt exempt from the guilt of not giving every single kid walking around with nice shoes and full outfits on money, but then my Catholic upbringing sort of swung it back around and I evened out with a general sense of crummy okie-dokieness.
Lunch must have been pretty uneventful because I can’t remember anything to write about. In fact, I don’t think we ate lunch. It pretty much went right from late breakfast to the grocery store and then looking for the restaurant we’d missed out on the night before. On the way there we hit up the Artisan’s Center where we could buy crafts without haggling over prices. Unfortunately we were instantly hit with the artisans who continued to insist that I was not American, but rather, Spanish hiding in an American’s body. I’m used to pushy salesmen but I can’t say I’ve ever experienced it to the degree we did upon leaving the center. For the next twenty minutes or so I was trapped explaining to one man why not spending time walking over to his shop to see the same exact crafts I just bought at the center and then politely decline to purchase them was not considered rude in my country, especially when I was late to go to dinner and getting increasingly angry from my state of empty stomach. At one point the bugger artisan literally likened my refusal to visiting the shop as to stepping on the face of his child. It was either that or his Friendship, I can’t really say I was paying much attention to his French at this point. I have selective French comprehension that comes in quite handy in these pestering instances.
Dinner, in contrast, was quite possibly my favorite experience of the entire trip (even in retrospect as I write this). It's called le Verdoyant and it is in a nicer part of town (near the Artisan's center) and is closed on Wednesdays... so sad. I started with a sweet taste of my past: Gin Fizz. Not quite up to Papa Mel’s par (a real man, not a bar, but now I’m thinking…), but it was a welcome treat. This carried over to a demi-carafe of what I presumed to be a Côte du Rhone red (never again; I’m so disappointed every time I spend more money trying to get a taste of the good stuff then find myself conspiracy theorizing that the restaurant just opened the same ‘ole box of Bonita and poured it into the carafe then charged double. I’d rather live without and have my memories of the better days of wine consumption). Luckily it
didn’t all end like this as my endive, hazelnut and Roquefort salad immeasurably pleased my depraved palette. I admit, I was never a real fan of the wedge salad (more my mom’s style) but in a meal tribute to memories of my family I gave it a go and was more than pleased with the selection. This was followed by lasagna. Wait, I didn’t do that right. It was Lasagna. Phenomenal! Lasagna that was worthy of a decent restaurant in the U.S. Maybe I’m biased being as I am from a cheeseless, practically beefless existence, but it really was an amazing batch of Lasagna, wood-fired oven and all. The restaurant obviously had what it needed going for it as by mid-meal I turned around to a sea of white folk. Normally I try to avoid the ex-pat crowd but I was on vacation and thus taking photos and hob-nobbing with the fairer skinned ones wasn’t as embarrassing as it can be in my own territory. The meal was so good we even tipped. I think it was the second, if not the first, time since I got here. Thoroughly sated, we all returned to our hotel with the comfortable bed, fan, but still-cold-showers and seatless, shared toilets.FEBRUARY 8 2008
Almost nothing was the same as we got back on a bus to make our way up to Mali. We were royally ripped off by the bus. (NEVER TAKE S.T.B.F. IN OUAGADOUGOU). They said they went directly from Ouaga (Burkina) to Mopti (Mali) for 25.000CFA, but what they should have said was ‘direct from Ouaga to Ouahigouya for 2.500CFA then get out and wait four-six hours for another mini bus to take you from Ouahigouya (still in Burkina) to Koro for another 2.500CFA and to leave early enough to catch the one that leaves with enough time to get to the border before it closes and you’re stuck in Burkina, sleeping at the border, for another night.’ Oh well, lost in translation I suppose, or they were just thieving liars (more likely option).
While we were waiting for the second round of crap travel to Mali we were approached by one of those ubiquitous ‘want to speak the “small small” English’ guys who refuse to speak French to you although that’s the only language of theirs you actually understand. He persisted in demanding whether or not we were familiar with “Peter Stevenson” who ‘lived in Sector 2’. We repeatedly denied knowing any of the Burkina volunteers explaining that were from Benin and, amazingly, not all white people are of the same family and most probably don’t know all the other white people in their own village, let alone their entire region of West Africa. It took several frustrating attempts from our side to get him to speak French and on his part explaining just who Peter Stevenson was; a brand of cigarettes (have you heard of them?). Confusion cleared and we thought he would just go away, but four hours couldn’t end soon enough and he persisted in asking us other things in English that we just couldn’t decipher (except for the spit he projected with his English pronunciation; that was intelligible enough). Finally the wait ended and we piled into the next cramped bus that would take us on terre rouge through to the desert of Mali.
I sat uncomfortably between the bench and jump seat, knee to crotch with a man sitting across from me for the next six or so hours just pining for the border and the next place I could rest horizontally. We were finally getting where we were going, so what if my spine was slightly shifted as a result. That is, until we suddenly we weren’t going anymore. The chauffeur stopped and did what any normal driver (in Africa) would do – pile more goods and people on top of the van than he should safely do as there was no more space inside of the van. This would have normally been just a minor annoyance rather than the first skirmish in the full-scale war it became had he not chosen to do so a mere 15 minutes before the border was scheduled to close with three American girls on board who had already been ripped off once that day and were loathe to pay extra later upon exiting Mali for not getting an entry stamp first on their passports. Of course we complained (I threatened to drive away, but couldn’t figure out how he hotwired his car to get it going) but that didn’t stop him taking the next 40 minutes to load his new cargo and passengers. We eventually got going again while the sun was setting and my nausea started to set in. The beautiful stars
exploded into the desert’s dark black night as we drove past solemn campfires out in the brush. It was becoming magical, but my blood sugar level was still dropping from lack of food. Then, as if in final protest and in opposition-empathy to my nerves, the gas tank emptied and the van sputtered out simultaneously with my last nerves. At this point we’d already reached and passed the Mali bureau 40km inside the border and got our stamps by the light of their lantern, but now we were on to the next crisis of hunger and fatigue. I guess the driver had had enough of our complaints and tossed a 10.000CFA bill at us when we started to set in complaining again (I’m not proud of our actions, did I say I was tired and hungry and already ripped off once that day and had to wait for him to add more luggage despite our earlier protests? Not that it’s an excuse for my behavior) and threatened to walk the remaining 3km to Koro (the next town in) – which I guess must have been more of a relief than a threat to him at that stage of the trip. He took off at a brisk walk and as his glittering cell phone faded into the night I feared he just might not return for us. Luckily he must have forgotten his wallet or really liked his van because he did return on a moto and put enough gas to get us to Customs where they took down only ¾ of our bags on top to search so we were out of there just another ½ hour later. 
Koro was finally reached and Omar (the Dogon guide) came to get us. I threw up next to the telephone center as he kindly waited then we went on to a campement on the outskirts of town. We had an AMAZING family-style plate of salad with sesame oil (lettuce with oil), fries and spaghetti made with a really strange sauce and served cold. I could actually only eat some of the spaghetti, but Erin and Liz looked pretty pleased with everything else. I was out by 11, lying on a matt lifted up by wooden sticks, ready to put that day behind me.
FEBRUARY 9, 2008
I checked out my journal for this day and remembered why my dirty finger prints were all over the page, rather, why the finger prints all over the page were dirty. I had just woken up from a nap atop a mud hut bar (Tati Samba in Benin) under thatch covering protecting me from the broiling heat. Even after washing my hands, which left a thick line of distinction between my pale skin and the thick layer of dust mixed with sweat on the rest of my arm, it was difficult to keep the pages clean. My view from the rooftop was that of the ancient mud town of Dogon nestled high up into the carved rock while I rest below it in the new civilization of Dogon, created just as recently as sixty years ago. The path here was flat and sandy with the occasional drop through a ravine that marked the path of the dried-up riverbed. It’s so hot out on this cloudless day, but the breeze is constant and refreshing and sounds a lot like I’m sitting by the Pacific when it blows through the surrounding palms.
The people of Dogon are used to
tourists and became angry when I tried to take a picture of their horses without first giving away some Cola nuts I bought back in Ouahigouya just for this special purpose. We pass out 10 or so to the inhabitants to gain access to this relic of ancient Mali. Children cluster, chanting “calabash” or “coton”, hoping you will want to buy something. When you don’t they give up trying to sell you anything and start to beg cola nuts for free – children! Cola nuts!! Stimulants for Children (a new band name perhaps?)!We got through town and hiked up rocky trails to the old town in the cliffs. This was just one of many settlements similarly situated in the face of the rock, but was the easiest for us to climb up. We saw their clay granaries; their mass cemetery of bones littered indiscriminately in a hole bored into the rock’s body; their water supply that ran down the face of a wall that millennia before was once an underwater abyss. We also saw their
‘courthouse’ with low ceilings so as to prevent fighting should the dispute not be resolved amicably. We saw where the “Hogon” lived (yea, I laughed and then repeated to the point of annoyance “Hogon of the Dogon”), the king of the Dogon people who wore neither shoes nor bathed except on every fifth day when a snake would come and lick him clean. I interjected my concern at whether or not it would take a full five days just to get that little tongue all over, but Omar just pondered my sanity and went on without response. I guess no response for me is sometimes the best response.
Luckily the view was so incredible or I might have continued to imagine snakes cleaning kings. We wandered through the abandoned houses and looked out onto the vast expanse of desert land, shielding our eyes from the brilliant sunshine to fully appreciate how it used to be a lush, fertile area until the Dogon people’s continuous tree-chopping devastated the terrain, leaving it subject to alternating droughts then floods.After the rock village and several hours in Tely post-descent at the camp/bar we left at sunset for Ende, 4km away, where we would stay the night. We ate dinner at Campement Aly, one of only three buildings with electricity in the settlement of 3,000. After dinner we cleaned up and slept in one of the hottest rooms I have ever slept in so far. It had only one window and no screen door so we had to leave the door closed, until finally, fearing suffocation more than bug bites, we opened the door and were able to sleep a little at last. Breakfast did nothing to clear up the pain of the night past, the freeze-dried coffee grounds resembled the earth we had just trodden upon all of yesterday, the ants had our sugar on them, and the “pineapple” jam tasted like grandma’s perfume, but we ate and drank up in anticipation of the day (and our perceptions already slightly desensitized from being used to African conditions).
FEBRUARY 10, 2008
After our ‘delicious’ breakfast we took off for the other side of Ende, where it seems like every Tom, Dick and Nancy has a shop shelling some sort of “artisanal” creation. The walls of the town are laced with hand-painted, -dyed, -woven articles to buy and ship back in your luggage for Auntie, Mommy, Best Friend, Grammy, Favorite Hippy Professor and Sister. There was a group of women that grew, harvested, and made their own indigo in which to dye their hand-woven wool tissues. Who doesn’t do that nowadays? Everyone has one of those women’s groups in their town! It was easy to see these women weren’t used to being introduced to white people who knew what their goods were worth and were clearly agitated when we bargained for a real price on their scarves. Needless to say, we weren’t making friends, but at least we were making good deals, and that’s what really counts when on vacation, right? After the indigo girls (and boy), we walked over to “Carving Man” (trust me, this town had an artisan for every single type of African art, quite possibly including a medicine man who would have performed a scarification if we’d named the right price), who was in the middle of carving a cool staircase made from the branch of a tree. Crouched down in his work environment, surrounded by a plethora of wooden works of art, he posed like a natural used to being photographed. After the woodsman we saw the group of men who paint batique. Except they weren’t painting anything, but they were watching a little boy on the ground painting for them. Maybe they were on a break? I don’t know, but I got a good deal on a scarf that the Indigo girls never would have sold to me for the price. Funny thing is, it was probably the Indigo girls who sold the scarf to the Batique men in the first place so I imagine something is amiss with wholesale and resale in this town.
We passed the metal workers and then the old men who sit around asking for cola nuts to jump on a horse cart with a horse that looked as though he had seen a better lifetime. Surprisingly still full of spring, we pulled away with a little puff of dust, like a cm tall, in search of the next big adventure. Our guide, Omar, had left earlier in the morning to go back to Bankass and pick up his next tour, a triad of Peace Corps volunteers from Ghana, while we continued on with his brother, Mohamed. After an eternity on the horse cart (cool views of towns and rock settlements along the way – a constant source of wonderment as I questioned how did they DO that?) we reached a little, tiny town of about four houses and a pretty impressive marché constructed entirely out of sticks. We unloaded our beings and started hiking up the mountain face. It was about 45% as intense of hikes I’d done in the past, but felt about 275% more difficult than the sitting on my butt I’ve been doing for the past 7 months. Finally, with much huffing and puffing, we made it through the rocky/tree hill (which looked remarkably like some El Dorado Hills, California hiking paths) and emptied into a mini-Eden flanked by impressive stone sculptures that reached up to the sky in a protective enclosure. Children, a few women and a man were industriously carrying calabashes of water from the river that lazily dripped through the little fertile valley to their plots of onions, lettuce, tobacco and herbs in a picturesque little commune nestled up here in the hills. Walking through and to the other side for our final climb I felt as though we’d been introduced to a secret little society of the last unknown people (though I was fully aware that this is an extremely well-known and tourist-frequented location). I almost could see Veloceraptors flying overhead and Bracchiosauruses digging for watercress in the murky brown waters – yes, I imagine everything “untouched” as a scene from Jurassic Park, why don’t you?
One last rocky climb and we were on top of the rock formations enjoying a cool drink and taking in the scenery. We were in an interesting assortment of towns that form one collective village, separated by religious factions. We ate our lunch with the Ghanaian group in the Christian part of town (‘cuz there was booze) but then took a little tour of the Muslim one while getting a nice view of the Animist one in the distance. After fully stuffing ourselves with a bland concoction of couscous and corned, boxed beef (literally comes in a tin, felt like I was an Irishwoman during a world war) we left our little rockytop village and took the final stretch of our journey to the taxi that would take us to Mopti. One intense, hot climb left and we reached the top to discover that the taxi had gone. Two French ladies that we so graciously allowed to share our taxi (and the price of it) had up and commandeered the entire operation. Omar immediately got on the phone and stood atop a precarious rock to get reception in search of our driver. I took of my shoes. Within another thirty minutes we found the source of our frustration. The driver didn’t leave, at least not the one we’d hired, he was waiting a little walk away on the other side of field full of rocks for us with the same frustration we’d been experiencing waiting for him on our side of the terrain. Confusion finally over we got in the car and experienced a beautiful moving picture of dry scenery littered with rock formations and a periodic blooming garden of greens and palms to blot the arid landscape. Mopti was going to be wonderful.
LATER THAT DAY
Mopti was, for the most part, a great experience. We arrived in the evening and stayed at “Y Pas de Probleme” hotel, Liz losing her shoes in the taxi’s car as he drove away. The beds were comfortable, even if the pool was cold and dirty, and the price was decent. Finding food, after an exhausting day, proved to be more of a carnival than we’d bargained. Wandering around, walking and walking (after walking all day in the desert land of Dogon) with a random guy who had attached himself to our group as its leader through dark, dirty alleyways and past groups of street vendors whom we regarded with skepticism. My temper was quickly heating. We finally found a location and then approached the awkward business of discharging our unwanted guide when he sat down at our table. It was too delirious with hunger and fatigue to remember how it came about, but somehow he was gone and we were able to order our meal from the kindly Nigerian patroness.
In anticipation of our upcoming chow session I asked for a soap-and-handwashing station. I was directed to a back area where, to my chagrin, there was no soap. I strode out, yes it was striding, and called out for the patron to bring me soap. A man I hadn’t seen before and was sitting at the next table over called out to me to calm down and that the patroness was already fetching soap. There was no reason to “stalk” about angrily, he said. Feeling my “calm” questioned (I’m just going to assume that from my agitated state it was questioned with reason) I retorted back that I always walked in such a passionate manner and that I had no intention of fighting with our patroness. I’m pretty sure I also mentioned some fabrication about my family being military and learning how to walk like a Prussian before learning how to ride a bike. I didn’t like being called out in my frustration. We were in the middle of discussing this quarrel of fact when the patroness returned and the man started in explaining that I was coming on looking ready for a fight. My gang came in finger-snapping to my defense of naturally walking angry while the man asserted that I was looking for a rumble. I ignored him, thanking the patroness, and went to wash my hands. Upon returning to the table, the man continued to make comments and instigate conversation with us. To his query of my name I answered, Napoleon Bonaparte, much to his amusement and prompted him to address me as the “General” for the rest of our banter. When the patroness finally returned with our food I leaned over with great frustration in my voice and asked the offending man’s identity. To my great dismay and slight mortification she answered “le patron” (her husband and rightful owner of the restaurant where we were hoping to get some nourishment and relaxation). Instantly check-mated I calmed down my biting responses a little (as much as I could, which wasn’t much) and prayed for his immediate departure. My wish was granted and we sat down to a dinner without any further interruption.
FEBRUARY 11, 2008
Thought I’d give you a break. More stories to follow later when I get back to the internet.
LOVE,
Allison
Things I Could Use if You Want to Send:
- hot chocolate
- trail mixes
- dried fruits
- jerky
- food bars
- make-up
- tank tops/t-shirts
- brownie/cake mixes
- letters and photos. I long to hear from you.
- as always anything from my amazon list is appreciated
- anything else you want to send that you think I would enjoy here in Afrique.
Mail to (with sufficient religious paraphernalia):
Allison “The Coolest” Henderson
B.P. 126
Azovè, Benin
Afrique de l’Ouest
PAR AVION
You could technically leave out « The Coolest » but I can’t guarantee it will get to me without it since that’s how my people at the post office know me.
- anything else you want to send that you think I would enjoy here in Afrique.
Mail to (with sufficient religious paraphernalia):
Allison “The Coolest” Henderson
B.P. 126
Azovè, Benin
Afrique de l’Ouest
PAR AVION
You could technically leave out « The Coolest » but I can’t guarantee it will get to me without it since that’s how my people at the post office know me.
.JPG)
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