The vessel I’d been sitting on since Ségou was in such a sorry state, so deformed, that it looked as if I had been chewing it, instead of sitting on it. I realised that I wouldn’t be able to use it as a seat any more, and I doubted anyone would be able to use it for anything else after this trip, for that matter. I didn’t know how long it would take us to reach our final destination, but however long it would be, sitting on that squelched container was out of question by now.
So I said bye to my French friends and the view through the front window, and retreated into the rear part of the bus. In an overcrowded vehicle like this, I didn’t even think I would find a place to sit, much less that someone would stand up for me. And why would they? But I hoped that with time somebody might get off and then if lucky, I could just grab a seat after a while. The air back there was quite funky and stale, and whereas my legs and butt were now much better off, my nose felt as if it had slid down the luxury ladder quite a few rungs. I knew that no matter how pongy the air might be, eventually your nose activates self-preservation system and olfactory senses go numb. It always is like this.
Except, at first, at least while I was waiting for it to happen, it was of little comfort. But true enough, my nose soon performed with great success what was expected from it, and I could at last join with all the abandon and to the full extent the tightly knit and cosy bunch of my fellow passengers and enjoy the warm rear-section atmosphere. I had an excellent opportunity to first hand witness and experience all the advantages of taking the local transport in Mali. After the wheel break-down two days before in Ségou, this seemed to be a sequel.
As for eventually getting a seat, I was not that lucky. Everybody else standing, and there was a whole line of us up the aisle, had the same idea in their mind. As you couldn’t possibly jump over people in a bus crowded like this, your only hope was that a place would open up where you’d be the nearest person. Well, the card I had drawn obviously wasn’t the right one, so one by one, eventually everyone got themselves a seat until I was the only person still up.
After two and a half hours, for that was the time I spent on my feet, I tried to shift the weight of my body from leg to leg, but the longer I was up, the less it helped.
Finally, after those two and a half hours we reached a small town of Somadougou. By now we were not even far from Mopti. But when I finally got my seat, I felt I had really busted my hump for it and thoroughly deserved it.
I dropped my knapsack on it, to claim it as my territory in the manner dogs piss on traffic signs and car tyres, and then used the opportunity to stretch my legs properly for those few minutes that we stopped.
Somadougou was by now a typical African roadside settlement with a row of low makeshift shacks and sandstone houses, where the biggest show of the hour was a passage of a bus to and from Mopti. In a flash, what seemed to be the whole population of the town swarmed around us in an attempt to sell the weary passengers a thing or two to drink or eat. As ever, a few bought something and majority didn’t. And as always, people looked at me with cautious, but friendly curiosity.
I had no idea what Somadougou had to offer to a western tourist and what would a time there look like. It always depends. Either way, though, I was never going to find out. It was time for us to finally set off on the last leg of our trip.
