In terms of Christmas, arrival in Bobo-Dioulasso changed nothing. Yes, some shops were closed, but not any of those selling things in the streets. It was banks and Marina Market that closed up and I think I can safely claim that it didn’t change the life of most of local population in the slightest. They hardly ever set foot in either of those anyway. So for them a day off there probably went largely unnoticed. Everywhere else it was just another regular day.
Annette and I were not up to much. The only really important thing we needed to do was to purchase bus tickets for the next stage of our trip. Next morning we were leaving Bobo and heading for the border. After a week or so in Burkina Faso, it was now off to Mali for us. Most of the people going from Burkina Faso to Mali, and also the other way around for that matter, took connections that usually linked Ouaga and Bamako, the Malian capital, passing through Bobo along the way, but also through the town of Ségou in Mali. It was a long ride, easily taking ten hours, but I suspected, and rumours seemed to bear it out, that it routinely stretched to twelve. Even fourteen. And no one considered it much of a delay. Also, looking at the map of the area, it seemed that this particular route wasn’t exactly the short cut. If the map was to be believed, then the shorter way, even considerably so, would be from Bobo to Bamako by way of Sikasso, another town on the Malian side, but just beyond the border. On top of it, I did plan to pass through Ségou in a later stage of my trip. So it made perfect sense to me to take a different route now and see a bit more of the country. And if I would cut some corners along the way, all the better. So that was our plan.
The thing we did first, though, was to check in the hotel and leave our things there. „Le Cocotier“, where we had stayed on our first night in Bobo, wasn’t fully booked any more, so we took a room there again. Then, as soon as we were through with formalities, we went out. Annette claimed not to be hungry as she had been munching on some stuff in the bus. So we decided to first get those tickets out of the way and only then go look for a place to eat. On the face of it, our task seemed pretty straightforward. „Lonely Planet“ guide had two bus terminals clearly marked on its Bobo town map, so basically we were going to pick the one with better buses, maybe TCV in this case, buy those tickets and that would be it.
Except it wasn’t going to be that simple.
TCV was there all right, exactly where I expected it to be. A bit uninspiring in appearance with the ticket window more fitting town jails in old western movies than its present purpose, they did sell the tickets to Mali. However, not to Sikasso. We could buy tickets to Bamako, but via Ségou. And Sikasso? No way. And who was selling tickets to there? The lady inside the dark, unlit office behind the iron window bars calmly shrugged. She had no idea.
In truth, the reason why I picked TCV first was very pragmatic. It was simply closer to our hotel than the other one listed in „Lonely Planet“, the STMB. I figured why walk more if we could have just a relatively short, leisurely stroll up the Avenue de la République and pack this thing in there. TCV was, namely, in a block literally just off the Avenue itself. Now, this new turn of events forced us to go to the STMB. As a matter of fact, I didn’t mind. I always liked walking and just because I was now in Africa where temperatures were higher didn’t change a thing. Annette was a bit less overjoyed, but tickets had to be bought, so it wasn’t like we had a lot of choice anyway.
Also, it gave me an opportunity to see a bit more of Bobo. Not that any of the streets and avenues we passed were distinct in any particular way. Yet, after a while we came upon this Place du Paysan with a roundabout and an African-style sculpture of a guy on top of a square frustum, smack in the middle of it. The guy was standing up there on this truncated pyramid, his back turned towards the direction we had come from, holding what to me looked like some agricultural tool in his right hand, maybe a hoe. And in a country where squares with monuments were only a bit more frequent than spells of cold weather, Place du Paysan certainly deserved a few pictures. But other than that, all those other streets, Avenue de la Liberté and Avenue du Gouverneur Binger, hardly offered anything other than what I had already seen in Burkina Faso. It meant many colourful characters and a continuous outdoors market, but that about wrapped it up.
Well, yes, STMB bus terminal was on the Avenue du Gouverneur Binger. But much as by now I placed all our hopes on it, the STMB had no connection to Sikasso, either. To Bamako, yes, but same as TCV, only through Ségou. Suddenly, we had a problem on our hands. The third bus terminal I knew about, the Rakieta, didn’t even go over to Mali. So who did?
Same as at the TCV, the guy at the STMB had no idea. And didn’t seem to care much, either. He even floated a proposition that there were no buses going to Sikasso from Bobo whatsoever. Now, that claim ponged to me. Annette was even halfway ready to buy it, but I wasn’t going to be sold on it. Cynical part of me waved the red flag right away, saying „this guy just wants to sell you his tickets“. So when Annette translated to me what he had said, I shook my head and said with indignation:
„That’s not true.“
She translated my answer back to him. He didn’t argue. Of course. We both knew he was thinking things up. But it also meant that now he wasn’t interested in the slightest in offering us any clues as to where else we could go. As far as he was concerned, we were a closed chapter in his life. A footnote on a page he’d already leafed over.
Well, not everyone is helpful. Some people prefer profit over friendliness, even if that profit in all likelihood wouldn’t end up in their own pockets. But for every character like that, there are at least five who are more than happy to lend you a hand. So even here at the STMB in no time we had a lively public panel with a number of locals as to where one could really buy a bus ticket to Sikasso. Each one of them claimed to know the best and, as expected, each one offered an entirely different suggestion. As Annette and I couldn’t offer our two cents’ worth on the subject – what we could contribute was worth even less than that - we basically just waited for one of the guys to muscle his way out of the discussion and claim the parliamentary victory. When one eventually had, and he conveniently turned out to be a taxi driver – was it entirely by chance? – he even offered us a ride there. Wherever „there“ was going to be. Again, we didn’t seem to have much choice.
And just before we got into his car, we had a small incident. I had, in fact. Nothing serious, but enough to drive me up the wall in an instant. The thing is, all along I had my camera hanging off of my neck. Just as usual. So that I could take a picture should I see something interesting. But you can’t really do two things properly at the same time, so now while we were on about finding a bus company to take us to Sikasso, I didn’t think about pictures much. They were simply not on my mind. My camera was just dangling on my chest. That was all. However, it didn’t stop one local guy from feeling himself called and, totally unprovoked, getting down on me, kind of protecting... what? I had no idea. Some kind of non-existent regulations, I guess. Either way, he was for a while standing at the sidelines, no one even paid any attention to him, and then he angrily and pretty rudely started demanding „authorisation“, or asking whether I had one. To take pictures, I mean. For a moment I just couldn’t connect the dots. My mind was elsewhere and what this guy was driving at simply made no sense at first. Not only because he was speaking in French.
But then, after Annette had translated it for me and his self-righteous initiative of upholding an imaginary „law“ settled in, and especially after – for a change – in this particular case I hadn’t even been taking any pictures, I went spare at him. After less than a successful search for bus tickets so far, this ridiculous thing just didn’t sit all that well with me. Inevitably, I cut loose on him – fortunately or unfortunately in English and Croatian – saying things which are sometimes best left unwritten. I’ll only say you won’t necessarily find any of them in textbooks on good manners. I explained him in no uncertain terms where I’d be all too happy to stick up both him and his „authorisation“ at this very moment. In cases like this you don’t need to speak someone’s native language to make your point clear anyway.
He was taken aback. I guess he just didn’t expect a reaction like this. But clearly he caught me in a wrong moment. So I couldn’t help it.
The guys who had been discussing with us where we could find a bus company to Sikasso up until a minute before were still there and intervened. They were all aware that this time around there was absolutely no reason to tell me off in any way and that this was a completely needless provocation. So they sought to calm me down and to keep that self-proclaimed guardian of public law and order at a safe distance. He was trying to argue some, this time with them. But I had a strong suspicion that by now it was only an attempt on his part to save some face. And while they were at it, our taxi driver opened the doors for us and we left.
He was shaking his head, commenting on the incident, almost offering apologies for that guy over here. Annette got another confirmation that people shouldn’t be trusted. And I was just seething for a while longer. But by the time we reached another bus terminal, this one called O.Tra.F., whatever it stood for, he had evaporated from my thoughts.
Now, when you are in Africa, you should always keep in mind that standards are different here than back at home, wherever your home may be. But even by African standards, this O.Tra.F. bus terminal was pretty much at the bottom of the ladder. Dirtier than any I’d seen so far, ticket offices located in disorderly placed, run-down concrete shacks, rickety, battered and rusty mini buses being only vehicle fleet to show for, that was O.Tra.F. Annette was frowning. And me? Well, I would certainly have preferred a bus giving out an impression of a reliable transport means. At least on the face of it. Which was nowhere near the case with those few we could see there. But I wouldn’t shrink back. This was Africa, I’d come to see it and, after all, wasn’t I in principle always making it a point to get as close to the local life as I possibly could as a foreigner? I was. So this was a good chance to do it.
„Shall we buy tickets here?“ Annette asked me. For a moment I had a feeling she wouldn’t mind if I suggested we go back to STMB or TCV and buy one of those through tickets to Bamako.
„Yes,“ I said.
Well, that was it, then. It turned out we could find a connection to Sikasso here, indeed. So, even if everything looked absolutely seedy, and quite a bit questionable – if I wouldn’t use a heavier description here – I decided to go ahead with it. After all, it was my vacation. I couldn’t get too lost, no matter what. So Annette took over with her French and in an obscure company called „Diarra Trans“ finally bought us two tickets for tomorrow. What time? In the morning. When?
„Ten,“ the guy said. And then added:
„Maybe.“
Maybe? What was that supposed to mean? Was it ten? Or not?
It was pretty clear he had no idea. But it was also obvious we had no way of obtaining any more reliable information for the moment. All we could do was show up early enough tomorrow and count on God to help us along with some good luck.
Well, at least we had those tickets. And that too was something.
Some kids gathered around us asking me for a „cadeau“, or a present. After all, I was a white foreigner there, wasn’t I? However, you can’t give a present to one kid – or adult, as in general they were not above asking me for it, either – and tell others you have nothing for them. And in order to give everyone something, you’d have to be a walking ATM. Which very few of us are, no matter how „blanche“ – or white – we are. Besides, whoever travelled around a bit has long learned that begging shouldn’t really be encouraged. It may appear callous, but after you give it a thought, it makes sense. So I had to ignore those kids and we left the station.
And now, it was finally time to eat something.
Taxi got us back downtown. As I have already said, neither of us was particularly interested in exploring the local restaurant scene. We had eaten in „L’Entante“ once, so it was perfectly OK for both of us to go there again.
But before that Annette wanted to get changed. So we first returned to the hotel. I knew by now that it didn’t take exactly the same amount of time for her to get changed as it did for me. In other words, I now might have as long as an hour off. And not far from the hotel, five minutes on foot at most, there was the Grand Mosque of Bobo. As Annette wasn’t precisely dying to visit it – even if, to be honest, I knew she wouldn’t mind to join me if I suggested – it was a perfect opportunity to go there without bothering her. She asked me to „be careful“ and when I promised I would, I also promised I wouldn’t take too long. After all, this Grand Mosque was so near to the „Le Cocotier“ hotel that I couldn’t imagine anything to keep me away that long.
Practically as soon as I was out on the Place de la Révolution that the „Le Cocotier“ hotel is located on, I could see the conical towers of the Grande Mosquée of Bobo-Dioulasso. The mosque was situated just down the Rue du l’Imam Sakidi Sanou, a street connecting directly on the Place de la Révolution. Really just a stone throw away.
This mosque was the first building I saw that was a representative of sub-Saharan, or Sahel style mud architecture. I had seen pictures of a few and I was expecting to see some of them later into my trip. This one in Bobo was the first one.
Built out of mud, its entire façade was full of protruding wooden struts. In a way it looked almost like a hedgehog with its spines ready to fend off an enemy attack. Except they expected no attacks any time soon there and those spines were never meant for that in the first place. This being a mud structure, the Grande Mosquée is supposed to routinely undergo new plastering every now and then in some regular intervals. So whenever they do it, those struts serve as scaffolding during the works. However, from what I could see, the most recent outer layer didn’t quite look like mud. It was more like cement to me. I would think that somebody decided this was the way of progress. I’m not entirely sure they were right, and I am absolutely certain they were wrong in terms of authenticity and cultural and architectural value.
The mosque was built in 1893, so it was a relative newcomer, but even as such it looked older than the Catholic cathedral we had seen several days earlier.
When I got there, the sun was about to go down and a handsome crowd of locals gathered around. I suppose they were preparing for their evening prayer. I took my pictures unbothered and no one pestered me with those ridiculous “authorisations”. The people were friendly and well-behaved in every manner. There were scores of motor-cycles there, quite a few parked cars and all in all it looked as if a good deal of social life was revolving around this particular spot. There were no women around. Some of the guys took out their mats, or carpets, and were about to go down on their knees in the typical Islamic fashion.
Knowing that, as a rule, non-Muslims were not allowed into mosques in these parts, I didn’t even try to go in. The outside was more than interesting anyway.
A few friendly youths in their twenties approached me, asking where I was from. They didn’t speak English much, but the few words they knew, and what little French I had been picking up during my week in this country ensured that we still had a nice chat and several good laughs along the way. One of the guys, with a rastafarian hairdo, offered to take me for a walk in the Kibidwe district, historical area of the town, just across the street from the mosque. I was really tempted to go, but Annette was waiting for me in the hotel. Or maybe wasn’t waiting yet, probably still being busy with her make-up and stuff, but would be waiting soon if I hung out with local guys for too long. Besides, knowing her, she’d get worried in no time, as well. And knowing me, I might really get stuck longer than planned.
So, much as I was sorry to do so, I had to decline the offer. I could only hope that one day I’d get another opportunity for it. I had another round of handshakes with the guys, and then got back to the hotel.
Annette was ready to go. As already agreed upon, now we went to the „L’Entente“ restaurant.
While we were waiting there for our meals to arrive, a guy selling some local handicraft products came to our table. There was no one in the restaurant but us. So we were the only possible target of his efforts. He showed us some neat figures and masks and I must admit that they all looked great. I meant to buy one or two souvenirs anyway, one for me and one for my sister, and those elegant and beautiful things the guy was showing us were probably as good as any I would find during my trip. So why not buy them right away?
I picked a mask and an ebony figure. Naturally, the guy first tried to charge me some ridiculous price. In the minds of local people you’re a white man and as such you’ve got all the money in the world. So the way they see it, you’re a legitimate game. But you know it and you haggle to the extent that you can. Of course, it was all taking place in a very friendly atmosphere and I guess we both had fun along the way. After a while I came down to ten thousand CFA francs for the two items. The guy agreed, but eventually asked me if I could give him two thousand more. The way he asked me that, I just had no heart to refuse him. He was either such a good actor or needed those two thousand CFA francs so badly that it showed on his face. Whatever it was, in either case, he deserved them. I guess my heart’s sometimes simply soft. Besides, it was Christmas and I thought to myself „two thousand in local money is nothing for me“. I just couldn’t be that hard on him on Christmas.
Or maybe I wouldn’t have been anyway. Well, be that as it may, I paid him twelve and he happily went away, joining his companion who was waiting for him until we closed the deal. They chattered with big smiles on their faces and disappeared into the night.
„Do you know what he says?“ Annette asked me.
„No. What did he say?“
„He told his companion that because of Christmas, the business was dead. But the God sent him a customer and now they’ll be able to eat today.“
When I heard that, I really felt humbled. All I could do is I thank God myself for helping me have a good sense to know the right moment when to buy these two figures. If two people were now able to eat because I had bought a mask and a figurine, than it was as much of a blessing for me as it was for them. It was good to know I had made two people happy on Christmas.
But some news was good, and some less so. After the dinner, Annette made her regular phone call home and the moment she was done with it, I could clearly read on her face that something had gone wrong. When I asked her what the problem was, at first she hesitated to answer. But I insisted to know, and she couldn’t keep it from me forever anyway.
„My father says I must return home on January 2.“
„Why?!“
„I don’t know.“
„But he said you could come with me,“ I protested.
„Yes,“ she nodded. „But he says „they“ told him I must come back.“
„They“. Hmmm... It was difficult to argue with „them“. As „they“ seemed to have given her permission to join me, they were now revoking it. Honestly, I felt as if I had just had a surprising cold shower. But Annette took it much harder then me. When we returned to the hotel room, she started to cry. So the natural optimist in me had no choice but to seek to paint the picture in rosier colours.
„Why must you go back?“ I asked her.
„I need to go to Ghana,“ she said.
Yes, they planned to move to Ghana in March. The whole family. They had told me as much. But I was not of an impression that it was so urgent that she would have to cut her trip with me short and rush back home. So I simply asked:
„But what’s so urgent about it?“
„I don’t know,“ she still looked inconsolable.
„Look,“ I said. „I think that whatever you need to do in Ghana is not so urgent that you need to rush headlong into it.“
„I know. But my father says they told him so.“
„OK,“ I tried. „But we still have one week to go until then, right?“
„Yes.“
„So why don’t you ask your father when you next call him to ask „them“ if you could stay longer? I am sure they will say you can stay.“
„I don’t know.“
„Well, you can ask, can you?“
„Yes, I can.“
No one knew at this point what „they“ would say. Least of all me. I had no idea who „they“ were in the first place, and let alone how her father got his answers and directions from them. But this idea of asking them again soothed Annette and she stopped crying. She even fell asleep like a baby while I was writing my diary and taking stock of the day. So if nothing else, even that little could be termed as a minor success.
She was a great company and a great help with her French. It was certainly simpler having her along. And much more interesting. I was hopeful she’d stay all the way.
But come what may, life would go on just the same.
