Annette had said she would be in the hotel by eight, so I made sure to wake up at seven. True to my old habit, I wanted to have breakfast before the day started, and also I didn’t want her to wait for me. That’s why I figured one hour was a fair estimate, both to her and to me.
I was the only one when I came down to the hotel restaurant. A few minutes later some guy showed up, brought me some jam and butter and a few pieces of French bread. He didn’t speak any English, and my French was so rudimentary that it would be a blasphemy to call it French at all. That’s what happens when your grammar school professor isn’t exactly the best in the world and when she is more motivated to catch who of the students is cheating on tests than to really teach them something. One would be tempted to think that students would have been less motivated to cheat if they had been better prepared. Or more to the point, better taught. Anyway, that was a long time ago. The bottom line now was that even after four years of French lessons in grammar school back then, my French was in a sorry state right now.
And for the first time in my life I had regrets about it. For the first time in my life I wished I had neglected whatever had bothered me about that professor years before, and studied French a bit harder instead. As I had not, I could now only pick up bits and pieces where I found some. Unfortunately for me, they were not just about everywhere, but rather far and wide in between.
The guy asked me if I would have coffee. I managed to explain him I would rather have tea. But that was the easier part. I wanted some milk to boot, too. And there he didn’t understand me. So I started straining my mental muscles until I finally squeezed out „lait“ from some of the dark corners of my mind. And that finally did the trick. This was obviously another part of the world where not everybody spoke English.
I was out in front of the hotel by eight. Annette was not. So what I did was I sat down on a bench, took out my camera and started taking pictures of what was unfolding in front of me. And right in front of me, just across the street, there was a small market around the intersection where a dirt road connected to the paved street the hotel was located in. It was still early, so it was not that hot yet and people had just started opening their shabby wooden shacks and stalls. But right from the start I was like under a spell. In my view, virtually every single character was so colourful that you could literally close your eyes, pick any person at random, transplant them onto any street in Europe, and they would be an instant sensation there. Without exception. What I was witnessing on what was probably merely an average African street in Ouaga, Burkina Faso, was a show like I’d never seen before.
Before my eyes paraded one motley collection of impossibly photogenic characters, each one seemingly more captivating than the previous one. There were lanky guys dressed in assorted football jerseys, elegant women in multi-coloured, bright African dresses, beggars, workers, passers-by, bicycles, „Mercedes“ limousines, babies wrapped into big cloths on their mother’s backs, and ridiculously tall piles of stuff of all possible sorts and sizes that people, both old and young, women and men, carried on their heads. And so I sat on that bench, never really moving from there, and yet got entertained as seldom anywhere before.
Being white, I immediately stood out and hardly a minute passed without someone approaching me. In short order I was joined on the bench by one or two guys who seemed to work in the hotel on undefined jobs. But even if it wasn’t all that clear to me what exactly their duty was, it was absolutely clear they were hardly overstretched. Time seemed to be a commodity they possessed in abundant quantities. Eventually our number was completed with an arrival of another neighbourhood character whom my both companions obviously knew, and who was dressed in a long grey - or dirty? - robe and a white fez on his head. I would have been very surprised if he had told me he was no Muslim.
And so the four of us sat on that bench, watched people pass us by, or stop by, and talked among ourselves. One of the two hotel employees claimed to know some English and together with my rich French we struck up an exciting conversation. Or so it must have appeared to the other two guys, at least. Judging by the intensity with which they were gulping down every word uttered with huge effort between us, that is.
And that was how I spent my time until Annette arrived, by taxi, around quarter to nine. She eyed us rather suspiciously, so when we went up to my room, she asked me:
„Do you know them?“
„I met them while I was sitting outside.“
„You must be careful,“ she warned me.
„Is that right?“ I looked at her. „And why?“
„You are white,“ she explained in a self-evident manner. „Some people are not good.“
When we were up in my room, I collected my things, packed everything up again and was now ready to go back to hotel „Belle Vue“, as originally planned. Outside in the street again, my companions were already gone. Annette and I hailed another taxi and it took us to the „Belle Vue“. This time they did have a room ready for me and I moved in.
„What is your plan now?“ Annette asked me.
„I first need to exchange some money and then I would really have to go to the Malian Embassy,“ I said. „After that, I don’t have any specific plans.“
„My father asked me if you could visit my family today.“
„Today?“
„Yes.“
It was a bit unexpected. But then again, I couldn’t get around paying a visit to Annette’s folks anyway. She really wanted me to do it. And they were expecting me. So today was probably as good a day as any. Therefore I said:
„No problem. When we’re done in the Embassy, we can go.“
Right away, she reached out for her mobile phone inside her bag and in a mixture of French and Bissa notified her father to expect us soon. The Bissa are one of the ethnic groups living in Burkina Faso. Not only there, of course. There were Bissa in Ghana and Togo, too. Perhaps even a few in Côte d’Ivoire. Same as almost everywhere else in Africa, geopolitical boundaries not even remotely matched ethnic ones. Annette and her family ended up in Burkina Faso. Statistically, they say that predominant religion among the Bissa is Islam, but Annette and her folks claimed to be Catholics. African style. Which means with more than a visible influence of African animist religious traditions. Both Annette and her father, each one in their own way, were constantly consulting „them“ before every major, or even not so major decision. „Them“ being whoever they are. Annette was never able to fully explain to me who they were, but as an arrogant westerner who takes the word of white anthropologists for granted – and whites always know best, right? – I assumed that „they“ were some kind of ancestral spirits.
Anyway, hotel „Belle Vue“ was in Rue de la Palestine, on the corner of Avenue Kwamé N’Krumah intersection, one of the busiest, if not the busiest drag in the city. And quite conveniently, almost every self-respecting bank in Burkina Faso had an office just a stone throw away from the hotel. So we merely crossed the avenue and got into the nearest one. Some fifteen minutes later, now stuffed with enough CFA francs to last me a while, we could go to the embassy.
Here at the Avenue Kwamé N’Krumah it was absolutely no problem for us to get a taxi if we chose so. The thing is, one guy who was working as some kind of a driver in the hotel offered to take us by his car, a „Nissan“ or something, to the Malian Embassy. It was more than evident that his car was at least two or three classes in a better condition, and consequently more comfortable, than any taxi around. But he asked three times as much. Which was three thousand CFA francs, local currency in all francophone countries of West Africa. After all, again, I was a white man, a fair game to overcharge in these parts. Annette asked me what I thought. I remembered that last night, from the airport, we had paid only one thousand. So clearly this would be a rip off.
„No, it’s too much,“ I said. She translated it to the guy. He tried with an argument that his car was more comfortable. He was right there. But I didn’t care about comfort. After all, I was now in Africa and I didn’t expect exactly a five-star service every step of the way. Quite on the contrary. Besides, I was determined to experience real Africa to the extent it was possible. And that included battered vehicles in the condition of near disrepair.
The guy offered a ride for two thousand.
„Look,“ I said to Annette. „Tell him I’m not paying more than one thousand. Let’s go get us a taxi.“
I was really in no mood for haggling. I wanted to get to the Malian Embassy, right away, and I didn’t care how uncomfortable it would be. The driver must have realised I was serious. So I guess he reasoned that even one thousand CFA francs was better than no francs at all, even if he was in all likelihood convinced that he was justified in asking more. Well, when he said one thousand, I said OK and we got started on our way.
This Kwamé N’Krumah was a guy who wasn’t even a Burkinabe, but rather a Ghanaian. One of the very few university educated Africans back then, and in the US at that, he ended up being the first president of the independent Gold Coast, the country that preceded Ghana when it emerged liberated from the British colonial rule. It was under his rule that Gold Coast transformed into Ghana. However, he had grander visions and one of them was the dream of Pan-Africanism. Besides, you couldn’t accuse him of being a blind follower of liberal capitalism. He was more in favour of socialism with an accent on welfare state. But for some reason his idea of a welfare state wasn’t exactly shaped after Scandinavian model. More in the mould of eastern European communist ideas, he was increasingly leaning towards one-party system and authoritarian approach to governing. Which eventually cost him his power. Because in the best tradition of their understanding of democracy - where democracy is when the things are the way I say they should be, and if you don’t agree, then I topple you – the Americans lent a friendly hand to N’Krumah’s opposition and covertly helped organise a military coup, deposed the guy and overthrew his government while he was on a state visit abroad. But regardless of how Americans saw him, the fact that he was the leader of the first country that had emerged from colonial rule in Africa, along with his dreams of African unity made him an all-African hero for good. So those were the merits that had set him apart to such an extent that here in Ouaga they had named arguably the most important street in the city after him.
Almost as soon as we left Avenue Kwamé N’Krumah, we slid onto some dirt roads. This was a city, all right, but pavement evaporated. OK, the area did seem under heavy construction, but right now, on not so early Friday morning, there were neither workers nor machinery in sight. Through the car windows I was taking in every single detail that I could see. Clearly fascinated with something entirely new to me, I didn’t know which direction to look first. At one point we passed by a mosque. Three or four guys were standing, pretty idle, in the shadow in front of it. I took a picture and one of them yelled something after me.
„He says he’ll break your camera,“ Annette translated for me.
„Really? Why?“
„Because you took the photo.“
„Is it so bad?“
„He doesn’t like it.“
I said nothing. I understood that I might have wounded his sentiments by taking a picture without previously asking. Even if asking if you may take a picture from a moving car is a bit impractical. But OK, there are places where people react like that. I was aware of it. But if what Annette had told me that he’d said was true, and she had no reason to think things up, then I liked what he had said as little as he liked what I had done. Perhaps even less so. If ever I could have felt a remorse for taking that picture, after what he had said, I only felt anger.
Some time later we re-emerged onto a paved street and soon got to the Malian Embassy. I paid the guy one thousand CFA francs and we entered the embassy building.
Inside there was nobody except the two of us and some lady in one of the offices. She spoke only French, so even if in other circumstances, one way or another, it would have fallen on me to explain what I wanted, now it was obviously far simpler if Annette told her why we had showed up. In short order I filled an application form, gave her two passport photos, parted with my passport temporarily and twenty thousand CFA francs for good, and was told to come back in the afternoon. Then I would collect my visa.
And now we could go to Annette’s parents. Except, having had no breakfast this morning, she was suddenly hungry, and we decided to have a bite at a nearby eatery first. Only when we were done with that, did we take a cab which would take us to where she lived.
The place where she lived was pretty far from the hub of the city. Located in a north-western Ouagadou suburb, if you take a so-called shared taxi, invariably painted in green, you can easily count with one hour to get there. And if you hire a taxi only for yourself, then twenty minutes at least. Annette and I were in a shared taxi this time, meaning we pooled our money with other passengers and the driver didn’t take the shortest possible route. But it gave me an opportunity to see more of the city. And in turn I realised that I was staying in the very heart of the downtown. Because very soon I got an impression that Ouaga basically looked just like one huge slum with million people. I know, this impression is highly unjust, because regardless of its looks, Ouaga is a capital and as such it does have things and institutions that capitals everywhere have. But paved streets there are still relatively few there, dwellings are too often merely run-down wooden shacks and even what is out of concrete has long seen its heyday.
On the other hand, perhaps precisely for that, I found so many things fascinating. I tried to take pictures from the taxi, but whenever I did that, Annette visibly winced. I asked her why, and she could never give me a proper explanation, but it was clear that she was unable to hide her anxiety over that.
On our way to her family we passed a spot, a square, really, with a large roundabout and a huge paved clearing next to it. The paved surface was chained off and in the middle of it there was some kind of a monument, like a torch on top of a white obelisk or something. The premises could be entered through a metal gate stylised and coloured in the shape of Burkinabe flag, in red and green, complete with a yellow star. Provided the gate was open. Which it wasn’t right now. It was the Place de la Révolution, by the way.
I said I wanted to take a picture here on our way back as this particular spot looked urban and such places seemed to be in distinct minority in Ouaga. Annette was terrified.
„If you do, police might arrest you!“ she warned me emphatically.
„Really? Why is that?“
„It is forbidden to take pictures here,“ she explained.
„But why?“ I could see nothing that merited such a ban.
„They just won’t let you do it.“
The taxi driver confirmed what she’d said. Puzzled, I took their word for it. But in truth, I just couldn’t understand why. The only thing she offered was:
„This is not Europe.“
Clearly, it was not.
In order to get to Annette’s place, we left the main road, which was paved, and again got off to a maze of dirt roads which were getting increasingly narrow, the farther we went. On our way there, pretty close to where she said she was living, I noticed an Internet café and told her I’d like to stop by there on our way back. But she told me that one was „not good“. When I asked what the problem was, she only told me she’d take me to another one.
Finally, we ended up in a small side street lined on either side with a long concrete wall roughly of an average human’s height. Each of those walls was hiding a row of residential compounds, African style, and in one of them was Annette’s home. She opened one of iron gates in the wall to the right and we entered her family’s courtyard.
Her entire family was there. A large African family, maybe not so unusual in this part of the world, but quite numerous in any event. Her parents and six brothers and sisters, they were all there. All of them pretty shy, except for the father who was kind of expected to handle the situation with authority. It was clear they didn’t have guests from abroad every day and Mr Fofana, Annette’s father, took a day off from work because of my visit. I was humbled. He was a high-school teacher and as such probably educated above average in Burkina Faso. His wife was a housewife and it was up to him to make living for the nine people of his household. Mr Fofana even spoke some English so we were able to communicate directly and didn’t need Annette as a go-between. No one else in the family spoke English. It was either French or Bissa. But by the looks of it, they were all too shy anyway, so even if they spoke English, they would have stayed away most of the time. But they were all smiling and very friendly all the time.
I was treated royally. For some reason, they believed they would show me respect if my band’s DVDs were played on their DVD player. On Annette’s request, I brought those DVDs – clips from occasional TV appearances - from home as a present to her. So now everyone gathered in front of TV, sitting all over, on chairs and barren concrete floor, and watched the clips I’d seen many times before. I felt a bit awkward and embarrassed, but they gawped at it with utmost interest. I even had a feeling that in their eyes those DVDs created an impression that they had some kind of European celebrity over for a visit. Which might have added additional weight in their minds to my presence.
Luckily, my visit there was not all about watching those DVDs, much as I like my band. After a while, Mr Fofana and I ended up in the yard, having a drink together and chatting, slowly, but rather successfully. His English was not fast, but better than you’d guess at first. He was telling me that he planned to take his family and move to Ghana. When I asked him why, he explained:
„Life in Ghana is much better.“
„Is Burkina so bad?“
„Yes, Burkina is bad,“ he nodded. „Ghana is better.“
It seemed he didn’t only hope to escape economic hardships of Burkina Faso, but also distance himself and his family from the rest of their family and neighbours. I didn’t quite understand why. Or more to the point, I didn’t really ask specifically. I felt it was none of my business to pry into their affairs. It simply felt too personal. But it looked as if they had a thing about something in their own country. Whatever it was, there was a common belief among them they would be better off in Ghana. I wished them luck.
All in all, I spent several lazy and pleasant hours there, until the time came for me to collect my passport at Malian Embassy. Mr Fofana made me promise to come again tomorrow. I said I would. And then Annette and I left.
But things in the Embassy didn’t go so smoothly at first. For some reason, some guy, who had not been there in the morning, told us that I couldn’t get my visa before Monday. When I asked why, he offered no specific explanation. Now, come to think of it, I’d heard that entire procedure did take several days and I shouldn’t have been surprised. But the lady in the morning had clearly told us to return this afternoon. If I had to wait until Monday, my entire travelling plan would be pushed back for at least two days. Even if from philosophical point of view you can always ask what significance two days hold, and the answer will always be „none whatsoever“, I wasn’t exactly in a philosophical mood right now.
But the guy wouldn’t budge at first. Although he couldn’t be accused of rudeness or arrogance at all.
Then, miraculously, the lady who I had submitted my application to earlier in the morning appeared, as well. Like on a cue, both Annette and I pointed at her right away. Then there was some exchange going on between her and the guy, and he finally relented. Things turned to my favour at last and they eventually put the stamp in for me just before the closing time. Few minutes later, Annette and I were out in the street and I was a proud owner of Malian entry visa in my passport.
„You were lucky,“ Annette said.
„Was I?“
„Yes,“ Annette answered. „The man says they don’t usually give visa on the same day.“
I winked:
„I was not lucky. It’s that only good things happen to me on my trips.“
Annette looked at me. She appeared less then convinced of my argument.
„You’ll see,“ I grinned.
Night falls fast in these parts. So it wasn’t too long after that that it grew dark. That was a sign for Annette to go home. We returned to the „Belle Vue“ and she took a taxi. Before she left, she said she’d come tomorrow morning. I wished her a good night and retreated to my room with my first full day in Africa now behind me.
I had to own up that Ouaga was a fascinating place, indeed. So many colourful characters and scenes like I’d never seen before. So far the most impressive of all of my trips in that respect had been Uzbekistan. But Ouaga beat it with its left hand. If Annette hadn’t been restricting me, and if I had not spent a few hours at her place today, I guess I’d have taken at least twice as many photos as I had. Maybe the fascination and novelty would wear off after a while, but right now on my first day here, it was a scene upon scene, and you didn’t know which one was better.
