Maybe our choice of when to go to Koumi wasn’t exactly the most fortunate one. The sun was relentlessly glaring down from up above, burning everything in its way. Occasionally it felt as if whoever hadn’t sought a shelter in the shadow wasn’t altogether in their right mind. But then again, whenever you decide to venture out at these latitudes, unless it’s in the night, you may not be entirely yourself. So at least in terms of daily temperature, we didn’t have too much choice anyway.
Koumi is a village located to the west from Bobo-Dioulasso, on the road to Sikasso, a town across the border in Mali, where we planned to go in a few days. But that was yet to come. Right now, we wouldn’t go that far. Fifteen kilometres or so was all we would do today. So the taxi we took didn’t have to go exactly to the end of the known world to get us to our first destination. Before long, our driver pulled over by the roadside and the first sight we were treated to were a few red-clay huts amidst some parched yellow grass, and surprisingly many trees.
And a lot of red, dry, dusty soil.
A few villagers were there, idling by the road and we seemed to be a welcome diversion to all of them. They instantly gathered around and as soon as they established that we were going to visit their village, everyone seemed to be pretty happy. Of course, my cynical self had a strong feeling that the reason to this profound happiness was first and foremost supported by the fact that we had to pay an entrance fee. The structure nearest to the road, and the only one that at first sight didn’t look any traditional, served in fact as a ticket booth. One of the elders took his place inside and issued us two tickets. As a foreign visitor I paid twice as much as Annette. Two thousand CFA for me and one thousand for her. And on top of it one thousand more for a guide. A villager. Without whom we would have virtually been banned from roaming around.
Our drivers – for some reason two of them came along in the taxi with us from Bobo-Dioulasso – would be waiting for us at a clearing some fifty metres away from the road, where most of villagers seemed to be spending their time at this time of the day. Our guide even spoke some relatively decent English. That’s what tourism and revenues from it do. Anyway, he told me that in principle I should refrain from taking pictures of the people. That should be off bounds. According to him, they didn’t like it at all. They would even be offended. As for stuff, like houses and things I might see along the way, majority of them would be OK, but checking with him before I shoot would be mandatory.
But before we went off into the village and away from the road, I asked him if I cold take a picture of villagers on that clearing where our drivers would wait for us. They looked to be a colourful lot and I would have liked to have them photographed. He said he would ask. A minute later he returned and said:
„Pay one thousand CFA, and you can take pictures.“
So I did.
It turned out those one thousand CFA bought me far more than just one photo. I was allowed to shoot all I pleased. And not only that. Those „easily offended“ villagers gave out an impression of being more offended if I had not taken their pictures. After a few group shots, they started asking me to take individual photographs. Doing this and doing that. Sitting like this and sitting like that. And all that for those one thousand CFA. The guide’s story and facts on the ground didn’t exactly match. But that demanded a separate inquiry for which we had no time now.
And then we went into the village.
The guide was talking, explaining some thing or other, and Annette and I followed a step or two behind, listening. And I was taking pictures along the way, of course. Only in the stealthy way Annette preferred me to practice all along. And this time around it really seemed to be the most appropriate manner.
Koumi is as traditional as it can get under circumstances, I guess. Even if there’s always a question, and increasingly so, how traditional it really is any more. It inevitably gets polluted, as it were, by civilisation brought in by visitors such like me. They most certainly do try to maintain the aura of authenticity and as close an appearance of the village to what it once used to be as they can. Houses - or huts – are out of mud, or sun-dried clay, almost red in colour, the passages between them are narrow, the main square where they gather on social occasions is just a larger clearing, and there is one oversize hut which serves as village pub. Allegedly the villagers go there for a drink. We could, too. However, I declined, first and foremost on the grounds of dubious hygienic standards. Of course, I didn’t say so in as many words. But increasingly reticent Annette seemed to be happy with my decision. Occasionally, but only occasionally, we saw locals, and then those were mostly kids. Where the adults were, I couldn’t tell.
From time to time I asked if I could take a picture. Like a smokescreen, I’d say. The guide would usually give me a go-ahead. And the rest of the time, whenever I saw something truly interesting, I’d photograph it in secret. So everyone was happy.
They even had some sort of sacred place. Or ritual place. With sturdy poles driven into the ground, branching off on top, and some sort of gourds or something, hanging off them. It had something to do with spirits, all along the lines of local animist traditions. Not wishing to violate whatever they held sacred here, I asked if I could take a picture of that, too, fully prepared to get refused. To my mild surprise, the guy said yes without a blink
And so, on it went in more or less similar fashion until we made a full circle and returned to the place where our drivers were waiting for us.
„Are you OK?“ I asked by now the almost completely silent Annette as we were out of the maze and almost left the village altogether.
„Yes,“ she answered but went to no further lengths to explain what was going on with her. And something obviously was. I left it at that and decided to look ahead to our next stop, the Guinguette forest instead.
But it wouldn’t go that easy. All of a sudden, our drivers brought up some complaints. As they spoke no English, I didn’t understand what was afoot, but you could clearly tell by their faces and the way Annette was talking to them that there was a disagreement in the air. And not a small one at that. She was frowning in frustration, and they too looked quite unhappy. The villagers gathered around, pitching in in the good African manner, not for a second considering the fuss other people’s affair. And why would they? In this lazy and hot day we were the best show around. So why not take part in it?
„What’s going on?“ I asked Annette, still at a loss as to what it was about.
„They want more money,“ she said.
„Why?“
„They say twenty thousand is not enough.“
„But we have agreed on that in Bobo,“ I stated an obvious fact.
„Yes, but they now say it’s too little.“
I started boiling over. At first I tried to be reasonable and joined the fray by repeating the fact that we had agreed on twenty thousand even before we had started. But this was now falling on deaf ears. We all knew what I said was true, but at this point the drivers were convinced the deal was to their disadvantage. However, the way I saw it, it was a clear case of „let’s milk this foreigner of more money“. Maybe I was doing them an injustice, but that was my impression and no argument they presented – in fact they presented none apart from simply repeating „twenty thousand is not enough“ – would convince me otherwise. To their credit, villagers were conciliatory most of the time, even slightly leaning to my side. But drivers wouldn’t budge. They refused to move on unless I promised to pay more.
And that sent my cork popping off the bottle. There are times, maybe most of the time, when diplomacy and patient persuasion is the way to handle things. But my patience was spent there. In a manner typical of what I am when I am pissed off, I dropped my voice, turned it into ice on this hot Burkinabe day, and said to Annette:
„Tell them they can go.“
She looked at me not catching my drift. But there was no drift whatsoever. I was simply exasperated by what I perceived as a sheer impudence and wouldn’t tolerate it. For me, a deal was a deal. Even in Africa.
„What do you mean?“ she asked.
„Tell them they can go,“ I repeated.
„And what about us?“
„I don’t care. We’ll find something. Even hitch-hike if necessary.“
She was all confused, but eventually she told them what I had said. Now it was their turn to get stopped in their tracks. They too didn’t quite get me. Same way as Annette hadn’t. And I was already busy taking out my wallet, counting twenty thousand CFA and sending them off, back to Bobo-Dioulasso. Or to hell, for all I cared.
I handed those twenty thousand to the guy who was behind the wheel and dismissed him with a gesture of my hand, full of disdain:
„Take it and go.“
But things turned around. I don’t know what happened. I guess it would have involved some loss of face or something on their part if I had paid them off and sent them away. That’s the only explanation I have. The thing is, however, at that point, they just buckled. And refused to take the money. Maybe they realised I wouldn’t be played for a sucker, I don’t know. Either way, they changed the tune and now wouldn’t go without us.
„They won’t go,“ Annette said.
„I don’t care,“ I was not nearly at the point yet where my anger would start ebbing away. It was now my turn to press on. „I don’t want to go with them.“
„But what shall we do?“
„I don’t know. But I don’t care.“
And it was true. I just didn’t give a toss at the moment as to what would happen with us afterwards. I was just not prepared to let them make a fool out of me. About the consequences, I’d think later.
„We’ll find something,“ I added.
I was the paying guy, so mine was the final one on the matter. Everyone knew that. So when Annette translated for them what I had just said, their faces grew even more desperate. They almost started begging to have us back. Seeing that, I started to mellow. But for the sake of good form, I had to once again say:
„No way.“
Annette begged me to back down. Which was perfect. Because when I did, it appeared as if I’d done it only because she’d asked me. And would have otherwise kept the hard line on the drivers. So I said:
„OK then. But twenty thousand it is?“
She nodded.
„Fine, but tell them I want no more bullshit. Otherwise, I’ll leave the car on the spot.“
She conveyed them my final decision. Everyone seemed to be relieved. The drivers eventually saved their face even if they didn’t earn more money. Annette and I managed to stay with the original agreement. And villagers witnessed a happy ending to a short soap opera unfolding for a few minutes in front of their eyes.
So we got back into the car and started for the Guinguette forest.
To their credit, I must admit that the drivers behaved as if nothing had ever happened between us. Which merely served as an additional evidence to me that what they had tried to pull off was really just a ploy to possibly rip me off. But it hadn’t worked and now they were as friendly as ever. No hard feelings.
On their part. And as for me, as no one is perfect, it took me a lot longer to cool down.
Le Guinguette forest was not far away. Just a few minutes from Koumi, along some dirt road, we arrived at a place with a small makeshift car park and a drab, concrete building, which served as the ticket office, warden’s office and whatever else. I paid the ticket, Annette – as Burkinabe citizen – could go in free of charge and that was it. They asked us if we wanted a guide, but we declined. I just wanted a taste of the forest. That was all I needed. And for some reason, Annette too felt more relaxed when we were alone.
And so, alone we went in.
Her spirits soared as soon as we lost the sight of the entrance.
„Are you OK now?“ I asked her again.
„Oh, yes,“ she answered much more convincingly this time around.
„What happened back in the village?“
„Nothing.“
„But you were not OK there. I could clearly tell something was wrong.“
She made a short pause and said:
„You know, I don’t trust those people in the village.“
„Why not?“
„Sometimes they eat you for lunch.“
I cracked up in laughter. So that was the problem. She was afraid of ending up in the chief’s cauldron as the main course of the village feast.
„That’s true,“ she added emphatically, seeing my reaction.
Well, that thought had never occurred to me. In fact, I don’t think there are people anywhere in the world any more whose cook book still includes recipes about how to best prepare a wayfaring human. I was really amused, and Annette still suspicious. But this was now Le Guinguette, there were no humans in sight, particularly those of the cooking trade, so she was again fully relaxed. From her point of view, the worst was behind us. Very much alive, and still in one piece, we could now for a while enjoy cool shadows of green trees around us.
In fact, to be precise, Le Guinguette is not a forest at all. That’s the name of a water spring inside a forest called „Foret Clasee de Kou“ in French. But everyone seems to use the name Le Guinguette for all of it, so it was simpler for me that way, as well. Anyway, that particular water spring is cracked up to be so clear that people regularly come swimming in it and in a country as hot as Burkina Faso it would have to be a treat. But Annette couldn’t swim. And as for me, I am a swimmer but you can’t exactly call me an addict. Born and raised on the coastal Mediterranean, water has always been a part of my life. People like me learn to swim as naturally as they learn to walk. But for some reason, swimming was never a big factor in my life. So all in all, neither of us was so crazy about that water spring. If we found it, fine. We’d take a few pictures there. If not, just as well.
Eventually, we did find some water. But it was more like a shallow and muddy, lazy stream. Nothing of the sort you would yearn to have a dip in. It was more like an environment for frogs and snakes. So I think it was a safe guess that it was no Guinguette. We descended down to it for a few minutes and then went back up to the forest path.
Our stroll was cosy. Had it not been for a huge, grey lizard, the biggest one I’d ever seen, which at one point suddenly darted out of the bush, crossed our path and startled Annette into a fit of racing heartbeat, I’d have said it was uneventful, as well. But all in all, the hour or so that we’d spent in the forest was very pleasant.
And then we decided to return to our taxi drivers and head back to Bobo-Dioulasso.
