When at four thirty in the morning my alarm startled me out of my sleep, at first I had no idea where I was. Only gradually the realisation kicked in that I was in Mopti and going to Djenné. What the night before had fallen into the „no problem“ category, right now inexplicably shifted into the „oh, shit“ drawer. But there was no way out of it. The moment I recalled that I planned to go to Djenné, I also knew I had made arrangements with the French couple. So I got up, hastily washed myself, had a quick snack and went out. Right on time. It was five o’clock – and completely dark and quiet – when I emerged outside.
Mopti seemed in deep slumber. Not a soul was anywhere in sight. But it was pleasant, cool and for once the weather was fine even for someone like me. I sat down on a stone outside in the street, right by the hotel gate and waited.
To his credit, the French guy appeared almost on time. He too looked as if he might have used more sleep. And – he was alone. We said good morning to each other and then he said they decided not to go to Djenné after all.
„We changed our plan,“ he explained. „We will take a boat to Timbuktu straight away.“
He told me that, yes, they had slept on the „Ya pas de problème “ roof terrace, and even if he never said so in as many words, he gave me clearly to understand that both decisions – of spending the night on the terrace and throwing up the Djenné day trip – was basically „his friend’s idea“. He obviously felt guilty about the latter part. But I assured him that everything was fine, wished him all the best for the rest of his strip and he went back to his friend.
So now I was on my own. Hardly speaking any French, and having no idea where bâché gare, i.e. taxi station, was, I went to the hotel reception in hope that someone might be up at this ungodly hour and explain me how to get there. And true enough, the big guy who had booked me in the night before was exactly where I had left him. And awake to boot.
I tried to tell him that now I was all alone with my plans to go to Djenné, and since the French wouldn’t be coming along with me, I asked him to instruct me how to get to bâché gare. A bit of my French and a bit more of his English were enough for him to get what I wanted. Without much ado, and not saying much, he motioned to me to follow him.
I did. We went back out in the dusty street, he led me to his motor-bike, jump-started it and – took me all the way to bâché gare. For the first time in Africa, I was happy to be on a motor-bike.
Few minutes later we were there, on the Route de Sévaré, next to the Mopti water tower, still somewhat ahead of the first dawn light, but the first people were already there. Some of them colourful, turbaned, long-robed characters, some in western-style outfit, they were all wrapped well up, obviously not sharing my enthusiasm about the freshness of the morning. In one low, derelict concrete house, with plaster pealing off in buckets from the walls, there was a guy sitting at a wobbly wooden table, a dog-eared and dirty notebook in front of him, and he was taking down names of passengers. To go to Djenné. The big guy from the hotel told him to put my name down, I gave them 2500 CFA francs for the ride and now all I had to do was wait until we set off.
„When do we go?“ I asked the hotel guy.
„When the car is full,“ he said.
I nodded pretty unhappy with the answer. What does it mean? When can it possibly be full? But the nice hotel guy apparently read my thoughts, so he said of his own accord:
„It won’t be long.“
I smiled, thanked him for everything and he left back to the hotel. And I stayed.
Bâché gare is just a clearing by the Route de Sévaré, across the road from the seasonal swamp that divides Mopti into the old and new town. Overnight it served as the car park for a fleet of battered, rickety taxis which had clearly seen better days. And I would bet those days had not been here in Africa. More likely Europe. Back home, those cars would have long been thrown into scrap or at best resold for second-hand spare parts. But here they had a new lease on life and for as long as the wheels kept on rolling, nobody cared if the paint was all there or not.
True enough, people did gather pretty fast and the notebook kept on filling. Except that there was a rub. What qualified as a full car in Europe, six people in case of cars modified in the way of the shared taxis here on bâché gare, made only a half-empty vehicle in Mali. Only when we were ten, not counting the driver, did they announce we were ready to go.
Another French guy arrived. He too was going to Djenné and I didn’t mind at all, to say the least. Of course, not for the fact that he was white or European. That thing didn’t matter at all. But he spoke some English and it was always good to know there was someone who might help things along a bit if needs be.
We squeezed into the car and I could swear the sardines in a can didn’t feel any less cosy than the eleven of us did. And so, still a bit ahead of the first morning light, in a wonderful atmosphere of closeness and bonding that only so tight a pressing of human flesh can elicit, we finally started for Djenné.
