Our return to Banfora in effect meant saying bye to Oumar and continuing our stay in town on our own. It was still quite early in the afternoon, so the first thing we decided to do was to have a lunch. In „McDonald“ again. I was never big on experimenting with food and exploring places to eat. So as far as I was concerned, if „McDonald“ was fine once, it would certainly be fine again. And Annette didn’t mind, either. So „McDonald“ it was.
After lunch, during which we took time, we decided for starters to return to the hotel. As it was expectedly quite hot, and we’ve seen a good deal, it made sense to take it easier a bit. Therefore we decided to chill out in the shade of the hotel garden until the air cooled off somewhat. We chatted and played some board games, mostly Burkinabe version of „Mensch, ärgere dich nicht“ which Annette liked a lot and at the same time it was very similar to the version I knew. The dice clearly favoured her this afternoon and she thrashed me soundly to her utter delight. I saved some face in circles and crosses, but truth to say, Annette hadn’t cottoned on to the rules completely. So beating her was not that much fun. In fact, the greatest fun was seeing how much fun she had beating me.
While we were in the garden playing our games, a young black lady, elegant and attractive, her skin dark and shiny as ebony, entered the yard. She cast a look around, glancing briefly at us while she was passing by and then disappeared somewhere. It was impossible not to notice her, particularly as she was really a looker. But the moment she disappeared from our sight, she disappeared from our minds too.
However, an hour or two later, when Annette and I were only sitting and chatting, she emerged from the room of the old Frenchman whom we’d seen the day before, hanging off his arm. Well, the geezer was certainly busy. I tried not to jump onto any conclusions even if it was pretty difficult not to. In fact, more to the point, I tried not to give them any thoughts, apart from admitting that she was really pretty. Even prettier than the one the day before. I sought to draw the rest under the common denominator of none-of-my-business. But Annette didn’t have such qualms. I guess that as an African, she was touched in a different way than I was. I would say she was more sensitive to it than me.
„She came here for money,“ she said flatly.
„How do you know?“ I asked. Even if I had guessed as much myself.
„I can tell,“ she marched on. „African girls often do it.“
„But not all,“ I attempted to rise in defence of local ladies.
„No, not all,“ she agreed. „But some do. This one did.“
And then, an obvious question was how much they charged it. OK, obvious to me. I hoped Annette wouldn’t get the wrong idea and think I was seeking info on local price list. I was honestly only curious to hear how much – or little – a local girl could be desperate to sell herself for. Well, my curiosity was stronger than fear of being misunderstood, so I said:
„I wonder how much she asks for it.“
„Maybe ten thousand,“ Annette said without hesitation. Now, it really surprised me:
„So little?!“
Ten thousand CFA were twenty dollars. Fifteen euro.
„Yes.“
„Are you sure? I mean, that’s really noting.“
„Oh yes,“ she assured me. „In Ouaga they may be more expensive. But if a girl lives in a village, and this girl is probably from a village, then ten thousand for her is much.“
„But how do you know this one is from a village?“ I asked. I mean, it wasn’t exactly written on her forehead.
„She is,“ Annette stated with conviction. I left it at that. All I could say was:
„That’s really sad.“
It was indeed.
Ten minutes or so later, the old Frenchman returned. Without his black beauty. This time he looked our way and said hello. I greeted him back and then, very amiably, he came up to our table. Interestingly enough, he seemed to be in a chatty mood. So he struck up a conversation.
„You don’t speak French?“ he said in a relatively good English, but as almost every French native, with a clearly audible accent.
„No, I don’t, unfortunately.“
So English it was. The old guy asked me usual questions like where I was from and if I’d ever been to Africa before. And then he started telling us how he was a regular in these parts, having already been all over the area several times. For a while he veered off into a description as to where he’d been and what he’d done in West Africa and the two of us politely listened. In fact, he was friendly. Being on his own, I guess he craved for a company sometimes. Other than the kind occasionally provided for an hour or two, and for ten thousand francs CFA, by those young local beauties, that is. It appeared pretty natural, as well. So we chatted like that until he decided it would be good manners to leave Annette and me alone again. We wished each other all the best and that was the last I saw of him.
When it was almost dark, Annette and I decided to take a walk. She had to call her father, as she regularly did every day at least once, and I wanted to find an Internet café and send a message home. It was Christmas Eve, but I hoped we would find something anyway. Streets were pretty empty, and the town seemed quite deserted. But eventually we successfully solved both things.
As there was not much to do in town on Christmas Eve, we returned to the hotel for our last night there. As tomorrow we were leaving for Bobo and had a bus to catch, knowing local inclination to take timetables and deadlines in a rather lax manner, I asked at the reception if it was possible to order a breakfast to be ready by eight next morning. They confirmed and I asked them to please do so. I told them we had a bus to catch. So it was a deal. I hoped it would hold.
Here in Banfora I was finally bitten by mosquitoes like you kind of expect it in Africa. Relentlessly and in more places than I cared to count. So I was now bracing myself for another night like that. For all my efforts to protect myself with the net, I hadn’t accomplished much and mosquitoes had comfortably found its way to my skin. At the same time Annette hardly reported a bite. Which inevitably brought up an obvious question. Why do some people get bitten by mosquitoes more than others? I didn’t have an answer to that. All I knew was that I was in for another scratching night. I could only hope that my net would protect me better this time around.
