Some three hours into the trip to Bamako, we had a stop-over in a small town of Bougouni. It is a settlement of approximately 20000 people, first established as a hunting camp a few hundred years ago. Some say that as recently as forty years ago you could bump into an odd friendly lion casting about for a company around Bougouni. Nowadays the lions must find the town rather uninspiring, I guess, because they have given way to the only paved road connecting Bamako to Sikasso and retreated elsewhere, well out of reach for us commuters to and back from Malian capital.
In truth, lions must be onto something, because clearly, unless there’s more than meets the eye, Bougouni is hardly anything more than a bus-and-lorry stop with a number of rundown shacks on the side. But I welcomed the opportunity to stretch my legs, roam around a bit and take a few pictures.
As every provincial gare de routière in the countries of West Africa I had visited so far, this one was also brimming with people who clustered around buses, seeking to peddle something or other for some trifle sum of money, usually a coin or two. Colours they wore were ubiquitously as bright and glaring as Van Gogh’s palette and if the design of local outfit was any standard to go by, the people here surely led a lively existence. There were ladies with bananas, cold drinks and sweets. There was a spot or two where the food was cooked on burning wood for those who preferred it hot. There were people who just moved up and down without any visible purpose. There were no lions, but a number of goats roamed freely around, often right among buses, and made their best to fill in for them. Albeit creating a bit less of a splash than lions probably would.
Next to where the buses were, there was a large clearing that stood in for a football pitch, even if not a blade of grass was in sight. Well, yes, the place was colourful. But it was most certainly one more of those settlements that is of interest only to those who live there.
Annette never left the bus. She contented herself with watching the scene through the bus window and staying safely away from me while I was busy with the camera. But the crowd was cool and friendly and, even if I exercised restraint and took most of my pictures from the waist, you couldn’t fail to notice my camera, at least hanging off the strap round my neck. However, nobody cared to pester me with that authorisation rot. I was routinely followed by curious look no matter where I went, but I am sure it was because I am white. Nothing more.
