Crossing an international border on foot somewhere in the middle of West Africa was fun. Only once in my life had I had an opportunity to do the same, and that was much closer home, between Austria and Liechstenstein. But this one was in everything different.
We were met by a Malian official, a police guy dressed up in blue, who lead us towards their station building. Being the only white guy among the whole bunch, I obviously had a VIP treatment so my passport and yellow fever vaccination certificate were processed first. Nobody seemed to complain and, ominously so, that almost started looking like a common practice. Three guys inside the building were very efficient and I was through with them almost as soon as I had entered. Except, on balance, it hardly made a difference. Back by the bus, I would have to wait until the last of the passengers were allowed through, no matter what. Be this as it may, in a minute I was out again and then the rest of the gang started filing in. Annette was among them, of course. As I couldn’t be of any use to her, I just roamed a bit around, apparently taking a look, and in reality taking pictures, strictly from my waist. I knew that wherever there was uniformed personnel in the vicinity, police, army, anything, tourists were strongly advised to refrain from shooting photographs. Many things might be OK to have pictures of, but such things were still out.
Anyway, I was strolling around for a while when, all of a sudden, everyone started calling me and waving my way. At first I had a brief scare that it had to do with my taking pictures. But it was not that. I was inconspicuous enough. Instead, Annette seemed to be in trouble.
So when I arrived back into the border police building, one of the police guys inside showed through the back window at a bunch of people, among them Annette, gathered just outside. He said something in French which, recognising „votre madame“, I realised was a question:
„Is this your wife?“
He was pointing at Annette, who was the first one in a row, right by the window sill. Something told me that going into details and explaining things as they really were wouldn’t be too productive and wouldn’t help anyone anyway. I had a feeling that the best way to deal with whatever was going on was to answer affirmatively.
„Yes,“ I said.
Well, that part out of the way, he went on rambling in French, but I was as clueless as to what he was on about as if he had spoken in Bambara, or whatever his native language may have been. So I leaned out through the window and asked Annette what the problem was:
„I don’t have the vaccination certificate,“ she explained.
Now I got it. This whole bunch outside were those who for some reason failed to produce their vaccination certificate. Annette among them.
„You lost it?“ I asked her.
„No, I forgot it at home,“ she said with a trace of shame in her voice. But, ashamed or not, there was no going back now. So I asked:
„What do we do now?“
„He wants you to give him three thousand francs and he will let me go.“
Ah, OK. So that was how it worked. A small graft in the form of three thousand CFA would grease the skids and everything would be fine. I looked at the official.
„Three thousand?“ I asked.
„Oui,“ he answered with a nod.
I took out three thousand CFA and Annette was bailed out. Of course, no receipt was offered and none given. Instead, Annette’s passport was returned to her with a valid stamp in it and, at the end of the day, that was all we needed. Whoever had witnessed this scene hardly popped an eyelid. It seemed perfectly normal to everyone, both fellow policemen and bus passengers, that the guy was on the take as he had an opportunity to be – almost as if it was his natural right - and I would bet that the moment Annette cleared out of sight, the whole thing evaporated from everyone’s mind, as well. It must have been that natural.
Once out, I asked Annette:
„And those other people? They don’t have the vaccination proof, either?“
„No, they don’t.“
„So what will they do now?“
„I don’t know. They’ll have to make some deal.“
Or they won’t be able to go into Mali. The problem was that three thousand CFA francs in all likelihood didn’t represent the same thing for me as they did for most of the people out there under the window. The equivalent of six dollars that I had given was nothing I was going to lose any sleep over tonight. But locals were not that fortunate. If they were, they wouldn’t be taking this bus now, I thought. Only dippy Europeans do, even if they can pay for a better transport. And even if the deal they would strike with the border police was cheaper than mine – it had to be – the sop to part with would still hurt them much more severely, I was sure.
„He was much more polite with me when they told him I was with you,“ Annette said.
„Really?!“ I was curious. „Why was that?“
„Because you are white,“ she said matter-of-factly.
„Because I’m white?!“ now I was surprised, and my surprise was quite unpleasant.
„Yes.“
„But what’s that got to do with anything?“
„That’s how it is in Africa. If you are white, they treat you differently than if you are black.“
„But that’s not right,“ I protested. „You can’t judge people based on their skin colour.“
„Yes, but sometimes it’s not wrong. Blacks are different than whites,“ to my utter astonishment, Annette seemed to even approve of such an attitude. I just didn’t quite get it. How could it be?
„But why would they be different?“ I pressed on with my correct tenets and convictions. „People are same everywhere, regardless of race, faith or nationality.“
„They know that Africans will always try to cheat you if they can. White people don’t do it.“
„Well, my dear,“ I said. „Not every white man is honest. And I am sure there are many black people who are good. You can’t consider them thieves just because they are black.“
But Annette calmly maintained her point of view and, same as entire bunch out there, saw nothing wrong in it that I, as a westerner, was treated in a privileged way. It was not that she was trying to suck up to me in any way. You sense that. She simply seemed to genuinely believe in what she’d just said. And that shed some light on her unease and apprehension whenever I engaged in a closer contact with anyone. It looked like she was always half expecting that some kind of a cheat or a thief was lurking in any person that whished to talk to me. Like sooner or later they were bound to drop their mask of friendliness and flash their werewolf teeth on me.
Of course, my beliefs were different. If nothing else, then my travels indeed taught me that people can’t be classified on the basis of their race, faith or nationality. They can only be classed geographically. Or statistically. But that was all. And in most ways insignificant.
Anyway, the whole thing with the sorry crowd without the vaccination certificate below the window of the border police building dragged on. Much more than I would’ve liked it. At one point I realised that there would be nothing of our sightseeing in Sikasso. If I wanted to see the town, we’d have to stay on for a day longer than planned. The sun was well on its way down when the police finally released the last person. Not everyone looked happy, but at least we could now move on.
However, it didn’t exactly mean we were now free to move on to Sikasso. We merely walked from this check-point to another. Same as on the Burkinabe side earlier.
And then the long wait started. Half an hour. An hour. Then half an hour more. Apparently, nothing happened. We were just sitting around waiting for any clue to give us an idea what was to come next. I hardly took pictures any more. Much as the whole crossing was interesting and colourful, same as on the Burkinabe side, there comes a time when there’s just nothing else to take pictures of. And so Annette and I followed an example of most of other passengers and sat by the roadside.
Occasionally a vehicle would pass in either direction, and we would with envy watch them cross the border while we seemed hopelessly stuck. Then at one point we realised that the reason for all this was the fact that entire cargo – luggage and whatever else the bus was carrying – had to be checked. Every single item. And only then we would be able to go. But no one seemed to be in particular hurry to have a run at it.
„They want more money,“ Annette maintained.
„Who?“
„The police,“ she explained.
„So?“
„But the driver won’t give them.“
Ah, OK. So that was it? If he had added some more sop, we would have already been through? Now, that was gradually becoming irritating. I mean, it’s funny to read about it. And in a way, it makes for a nice anecdote to give an account of how you had to pay three thousand CFA in order to get Annette through because she had forgotten her certificate. But that whole incident took us mere three minutes. This thing now, though, was not that funny at all. Having a greedy border official on one side and a poor bus driver with probably very little money on the other, either of them refusing to give ground, was a clear recipe for a stalemate that could theoretically go on forever like that.
After a while Annette was simply too tired and went back into the bus to sit back more comfortably. She was beginning to feel cold, too. Quite a few people had done the same already. I decided to stay out. Somehow, the smell inside the bus wasn’t the thing I was yearning for most in the world. And as by now it was completely dark, I could finally enjoy the air more suitable to my metabolism.
Annette was sitting by the window. So at one point I grabbed my camera, got right to her from the outside and had her picture taken. As it was dark, the flash went off. The preset mode my camera was on had set it automatically off. And virtually the moment it did, there was a general consternation and uproar. For a moment it appeared as if police, army, everyone who wore any kind of uniform within the circle of at least five kilometres from the border swarmed around me with an intention of holding me accountable for the greatest felony committed, i.e. taking a picture of Annette while she was in the bus.
OK, this was a sensitive zone. At least by African standards. Obviously, you don’t take pictures openly at border crossings in Africa. But also, this was a nice diversion for everyone. Except me, that is. With this border crossing showing no signs of getting completed any time soon, everyone seemed intent on seizing on the opportunity to entertain themselves a bit. And maybe earn some extra dosh to boot.
A huge soldier came up to me, wildly gesticulating, probably seeking to scare me shitless first. I suppose that was how it should have worked. First you rattle the foreign tourist to the point where he is more than happy to pay his way out of trouble. And then you collect what you can. The soldier was closely followed by what at first looked like whole company of comrades armed up to their teeth. And passengers looked on.
I tried to keep my cool.
He spoke no English. I spoke no French. Even if I had, I believe it would have gone down the drain right there. Anyway, we couldn’t communicate much in terms of sensible conversation. But I knew what he was aiming at.
All I could do was show him my camera display. And on it, the last picture taken, you could clearly see Annette sitting behind the bus window.
„This is my wife!“ I protested. „I took no pictures of the border. I just took a picture of my wife!“
Well, I assumed that if she had been my wife before, and it had helped her out of trouble, the whole thing might serve the purpose again, this time for me. The soldier was clearly interested in the display screen on my camera. Whether out of sheer curiosity about the camera itself, or he really agreed to check the latest picture, I can’t know. But the thing is, he leaned over my shoulder and had a look at it. That was all I needed.
„You see!“ I insisted. „That’s her. Sitting inside.“
Then I zoomed the picture a bit in and out for the good impression and the storm seemed to be passing as suddenly as it had blown in. A minute later, things calmed down enough for me to realise that the whole unit of armed forces that had come to attack me in fact consisted of two guys only. Also, seeing the fuss, Annette decided to come out again, as well. But by the time she joined me, the soldiers were gone. While leaving, they just admonished me not to take pictures in the border zone, for the sake of good form, I guess. I promised I wouldn’t, and they left. And that was it.
However, Annette didn’t entirely trust me with my promise, I think. So she stayed with me, I suspect at least in part to keep an eye on me. But I decided to make good on my word to the soldiers this time. If nothing else, then for the reason that it was completely dark. And if you cross the border in West Africa after sundown then the only light you get is the starlight that we had. Or moonlight. Which we didn’t have. Or headlights of occasional passing vehicles. That was all. No electric lights. Not really the best conditions to take any pictures, no matter how enthusiastic you may feel about it.
And when we had already been on the Malian side of the border for more than two hours, and no progress in the crossing business was in sight yet, a minibus from Burkinabe side pulled in. It turned out it too was on its way to Sikasso. Its passengers got out and its luggage, mysteriously, was being checked in short order. What secret did its driver share with Malian border police that our driver did not, I can’t say. I can only own up to it that I looked at them with an increasing envy.
Some of the passengers noticed me and, friendly and communicative as Africans usually are, particularly upon seeing a white European tourist stranded in the middle of nowhere, they started chatting with Annette and me. And so, word by word, one young guy suggested we leave our bus and join them aboard their minibus and cut short our ordeal on the border. I liked the idea immediately. But Annette, for her part, harboured another one of those peculiar fears, this time against vans and minibuses as a species on the whole. Why exactly, I didn’t know, except she „had bad experiences“. Well, what can you say to that? That many people went through car crashes – which she had not, by the way, as her experience must have been of a different sort – lived to talk about it and, well, got in cars again? Yes, but there would always be another „yes, but“ from her. So even if I gently tried to persuade her to seize this unexpected opportunity, I was nevertheless half prepared to stay on if she couldn’t bring herself to overcome that fear.
However, this time, when she weighed things against one another, even she conceded that her fears should give way to pragmatism. At least tonight. Therefore she reluctantly agreed to let the young guy inquire with the minibus driver if he would be willing to take us on. The minibus was full to the brim. But this was Africa. Even when the passenger vehicle is full, it doesn’t mean that it can’t be fuller if it would bring in some more cash. So after a nod from the driver, Annette and I hastily retrieved our luggage, tossed it into the minivan and somehow squeezed our way in.
Nobody inside complained much. It had been crowded before the border. Two more people, not the fattest ones in the world, wouldn’t make the situation much worse. A European bunch would have raised the hell, I know. But Africans took it in stride and gracefully. The driver pocketed two thousand unexpected CFA francs and soon we were headed up on our way to Sikasso.
Leaving the hapless „Diarra Trans“ bus on the border. Once in the minibus, neither Annette nor I would trade our newly acquired patch of floor inside the smaller vehicle with any of the passengers of the bus we had left still standing for anything in the world now.
