This notion about Essakane festival started nagging at me. So while Annette was having her lie-in, I made a decision to look for a travel agency here in Bamako, willing and able to offer me a deal which would include the things I wanted to see anyway, and add this Essakane affair to boot. I wouldn’t commit myself to anything yet. Besides, a lot would depend on the price tag. But now I was intrigued and was determined to at least explore the possibility. After all, as our stay in Bamako had slowed down and loosened up due to much more time we had on our hands in the wake of her father’s request for her to return home, we had to come up with things to kill time somehow. If I had been all by myself, I would certainly walk a lot more and see more landmarks. Annette was a different kind of tourist, though. I had to take that into account, knowing that once she left back home, I’d return to my own travelling habits.
So I considered a search for a travel agency, and a visit there, a handy cause to go out and have another look downtown.
When Annette emerged from the room out into the garden, I brought up my suggestion and she was OK with it. Having ascertained once again that she would have no breakfast, as soon as she was ready, we left.
And once again, David was there. Once again he said hello, but I guess by now nobody took him seriously any more. Even Annette wasn’t on guard when we passed him by. I was again all at ease and knew that now we could fully consign him to the past. He was not an issue any more.
According to „Lonely Planet“, there was a recommended travel agency near the Patrice Lumumba square, so we took a taxi and gave it directions to get us there. If I had had an opportunity to walk about the town more, I might have chanced upon something myself before. This way, though, I had to rely entirely on my travel guide book. So, off to the Patrice Lumumba square it was.
Of course, Patrice Lumumba was a familiar character in my country. I don’t think he was much of a hero in so-called capitalist world of the west. At least it was an impression that I had. After all, he was a guy who led a movement to shake off colonial yoke from his country, in his particular case the Belgian rule in Congo. Such fellows are recognised by history books, but hardly put on pedestals, at least not in countries with proud history of being colonial powers and shameless exploiters of their colonies. As opposed to that, former socialist and so-called non-aligned countries of Europe officially used to hold a much more favourable view of such characters. They were often mentioned in textbooks in schools there as shiny examples of struggle for freedom in their own respective countries, not entirely unlike the communist revolutions that official lines were so proud of and seeking to steep every heart and mind in. In the tenets of those teachings, freedom fighters against former colonial powers and post-World War revolutionaries of former European communist regimes were ideological soul mates and brothers in arms.
Well, Patrice Émery Lumumba was the first legally elected Prime Minister of the Democratic Republic of Congo after he had helped win its independence from Belgium in June 1960. His mandate, however, was pretty much short-lived as neither Belgium nor the U.S. were too willing to see him stay in power. I guess he smacked of communism too much for their liking. His cause in their eyes may not have been exactly aided by the fact that the former Soviet Union usually took his side. So those champions of democracy, who always honour the will of people and promote “free and fair” elections, except when the outcome of those elections doesn’t necessarily match their preferred results, found a way to get the young Prime Minister deposed, and few weeks afterwards sent to the hereafter.
Firing squads under Belgian command made way for the darling of the West, Mobutu Sésé Seko, to take over the power. The fact that in the process the guy embezzled everything in sight and appropriated whatever he could lay his hands on didn’t seem to bother champions of law, order and democracy in the west much. For as long as he was a declared anti-communist, his questionable moral values receded into the background.
If there is any comfort to the name of Patrice Émery Lumumba today, the guy continues to be seen as a significant inspirational figure in Congo as well as throughout Africa. Hence the Patrice Lumumba square in Malian capital of Bamako. I don’t think you’d be likely to find any Mobutu Sésé Seko squares around. Penitentiaries or mental institutions either, for that matter.
Anyway, when the taxi dropped us off there, we found ourselves on a spot surrounded by a number of streets radiating in all possible directions. There was a statue of Mr Lumumba in what to me looked like a life size, and two white-marble birds in front of it, which by the shape of their wings could be the pigeons of peace. Those birds were resting – well, kind of, because their wings were spread wide – on a large hearse-like marble block inside what resembled a pool, meter or so deep. Except there was no water in the pool. If it was supposed to ever have any, that is. But then again, under this scorching sun there had to be a constant water supply in order to keep it wet and stop it from succumbing to this intense evaporation rate.
We took a few pictures there and set off on the lookout for the travel agency.
Which was nowhere in sight. I looked in all directions within reasonable distance from what should have been its spot according to the map provided by „Lonely Planet“. But to no avail. So we had no other choice but to take a walk, hoping that this area would yield another agency elsewhere. After all, it didn’t matter much which agency I’d go to if it would offer me what I was looking for.
We followed our nose. Or our inner thermometer, more to the point. Which in this particular occasion meant the street in the deepest shade we could find. And indeed, we didn’t have to look too long before we spotted one bureau. It had a lot of Arabic characters above entrance door and seemed to talk about Mecca and Medina a lot, but so what? I didn’t see it as an obstacle to possibly finding what I was looking for.
However, it was. Not that people inside were not friendly and helpful. They were. Very much so. They went out of their way to help me upon hearing what I was after. But their particular agency seemed to have specialised strictly in organising hajj trips to Saudi Arabia. They were just not doing their own country.
But they dug out an address somewhere in town, even if not exactly around the corner, where according to what they claimed I would be able to find an agent who might help me. We thanked them, reluctantly left the pleasant interior of this air-conditioned place and came out back into the searing Malian sun. It was so hot, I guess you could fry an egg on top of your head. Scrambled or sunny side up, just name it.
Annette didn’t seem to be that wrong about not wishing to walk much, it seemed.
We flagged down another cab and went in search of the place whose name we’d been given. I’ve got no idea where we were going. Taxi drove us around for a while, but as he didn’t exceed any reasonable time, we didn’t question his sense of orientation. Or his knowledge of the city. On our way to... wherever... we did pass through one or two unpaved side streets, ruled by goats and chicken, generously covered with garbage, and a few characters taking a chill pill in the deepest shadow of this less than metropolitan setting. In any event, after we had some time later emerged back onto what again resembled a business area, the taxi driver dropped us off in front of one building that looked more like a bank than a travel agency. But how can you know what it is if you don’t ask?
It was neither of it. But friendly people inside knew about the agency we were looking for, so they were able to give us exact directions. It was across the street in what looked like a small private house which you enter through a tiny yard. When we got in, it didn’t seem to offer much in terms of looks. It certainly couldn’t measure up to that agency for hajj travel just off the Lumumba square. But you always had to keep in mind that this was Africa, and at its lowest end at that. So different standards applied here. Maybe the guys were simply not rich enough to buy glossy and fashionable stuff, and design their office in a fancy way. It still didn’t mean, though, that they wouldn’t diligently apply themselves to whatever would be asked of them. I felt they deserved a chance.
If for no other reason, then because I knew no other place open to look for. It seemed that the fact that we were only two days away from the New Year gradually caught up with the city life. Not counting places like Grand Market, and ever humming tourist restaurants, it was increasingly difficult to find businesses still willing to trot it over into the 2009 on a busy note. And why would they? Back in Europe we all observed that. So why wouldn’t the Africans?
We didn’t take long. The boss himself attended to us and I told him what I was interested in. I explained that I was a bit restricted in terms of time and whatever would possibly be organised, had to be on a relatively tight schedule. I pitched in Mopti, Dogon country, Timbuktu and Essakane. He took it all duly down and promised to get back to me through an e-mail later today. He gave me his contact info, then we shook hands and Annette and I left.
Now the hunger caught up with her. So we decided that the first thing to do now would be to find a place for her to eat. The first taxi in sight, we hailed it and it took us back to the area we knew. Or the area the „Lonely Planet“ covered, more to the point. We were now just south of the Grand Market and I started consulting „Lonely Planet“ for eateries available in the neighbourhood. However, for some reason or other, Annette seemed to be in a picky mood today and she turned down first one or two places I found. I didn’t quite follow her cues and were pretty much at a loss as to what was there that didn’t seem to sit so well with her. But she said „non“ and no it was.
Well, her obstinacy, if I may put it like that, had its limits, too. At some point the hunger really got the better of her and, just as expected, as it grew, whatever objections or reservations she may have had, with every new minute they grew progressively less significant. Until at one point she was so starved that she would have settled for whatever you could put onto a plate, even raw rocks with the side dish of parched grass, I’d say.
Having exhausted all options listed in my guide book, and with her – maybe on principle – still opposing my suggestion of returning to one of the options she had already discarded, there was nothing else left to do than wander the area at random and hope we’d find something. We were on the Avenue Modibo Keïta, named after the first president of Mali, and then delved into a maze of overcrowded and busy unpaved side streets, lousy with people, cars and motor-cycles. In one of them, Rue Gouraud, which carried the name of Henri Joseph Eugène Gouraud, a French general who had fought all over the place, including Mali, we stumbled upon a tiny, nameless joint, with just two or three tables indoors and as few outdoors. One of those indoors was unoccupied and, as Annette’s standards were now considerably lower than only half an hour before, we took it and placed an order for a lunch for her.
As soon as she was full, her spirits soared again and we were now ready to go on, wherever going on would take us. With her hunger soothed and out of the way, my say gained on importance again and so I used the newly acquired clout to suggest a bit of good old-fashioned sightseeing. Right after the lunch, which seemed to have gone down a treat with her, Annette was ready to indulge me on this one. It certainly did no harm that what I wanted to check – the Bamako Catholic cathedral – was literally around the corner, so we didn’t have a ways to go to see it.
The cathedral itself, appropriately located at the Rue de la Cathédrale, was a colonial edifice, having survived all the way from French times. Even if Catholics make only just above 1% of total population in Mali. But Malian Muslims must be the most friendly and tolerant religious bunch in the world, so it obviously never occurred to them to raze the cathedral in the name of religious purity. They seemed to be unfazed and untouched by the presence of a building that would be considered an eyesore - even a blasphemy – in some other corners of the world, and went ahead with their lives just fine. It was reassuring to know.
Rue de la Cathédrale was busy with traffic and full of street vendors, peddling everything from pirated CDs and DVDs in front of an electronics retail store to soccer balls right by the cathedral. Then right in front of it there was a park, as is often the case with cathedrals, and inside there was a kind of monument, again obviously designed to contain a lot of water, maybe even a fountain or two, but dry as a gunpowder, same as the one on the Patrice Lumumba square. This particular monument featured three crocs, maybe in line with Bamako’s Bambara name. Just to make sure, in case it snows one day here, that you don’t get confused and forget you’re in Africa.
Still taking advantage of Annette’s good mood, I suggested that we next find a post office. According to the „Lonely Planet“, the main post office building was relatively near. I do have a habit of sending off a few postcards from my travels to some people who have proven over the years they really care to get them. Being first time in Mali, I wouldn’t disappoint them. Again, Annette didn’t mind. So we headed in a pleasant and leisurely stroll there, and sure enough, the post office was exactly where it should be. I bought my postcards in a small and neat stationery shop in front of the post office building and then we entered its cool and air-conditioned interior, not being in any hurry to leave.
But sooner or later we had to. Much as I was taking my own sweet time writing postcards, almost as if I was practicing the art of writing itself, at one point I was done and we eventually left. Then we worked our way slowly up north to the Grand Marché, by now gradually familiar with the area.
Maybe Annette had not eaten enough during lunch. Maybe she had just been burning more calories with me than she usually does. It is also true that again we did not set any world records making it through the Grand Marché. On the contrary, it seemed you just couldn’t get around taking it long once there. Or maybe, as they say, her eyes were simply bigger than her tummy. In any event, she decided to buy some fried fish near the Grand Mosque and take it along for a late afternoon snack in our room. Only then did we take a cab and returned to the hotel.
It had become a habit of ours, evidently, to take it easier in the afternoon. Besides, this leafy garden in the „Tamana“ hotel was so pleasant that, since we were paying for it all anyway, it would have been a shame not to enjoy it a bit. And so we did. We didn’t swim in the pool today. I guess the novelty of the bikini had worn off a bit on Annette, so she didn’t harbour any burning desire to dip in the water any more. Or at least not today. We spent time playing those games as we occasionally tended to, she devoured her fish in the best fashion of those Bamako crocs and when it grew dark, we went out again. She wanted to make her daily phone call to her father and I wanted to find an Internet café to check if there was any news from the travel agency.
The agency had sent me an offer, sure enough. But with the price of their offered package soaring up to well in excess of two thousand euro, I knew in short order that this offer would go the way of dustbin. By the looks of it, my last-ditch attempt to still make it to all the places of interest in Mali in the time I had on my disposal had run aground. I had to resign myself to the fact that, after all, I wouldn’t be able to avoid sacrificing something. What exactly, I didn’t know yet. I resolved to think about it when I arrived in Mopti. Wherever you go in Mali, it seemed, it has to be Mopti, anyway. So I decided to put it off until then.
Maybe by the time I was there, my guardian angels would show me the way and give me some signs to make my final decision easier.
