When we left the last inhabited spot in Mali, I expected to see some kind of mark or something, which would officially announce that we had entered Burkina Faso. However, there was nothing of the sort along the way. The first thing I noticed was a roadside milestone which told us that Ouaga was 240 kilometres away. So that’s how I knew we had definitely left Mali. But nothing official.
Instead of that, we were treated to a different kind of spectacle. Our van was speeding down the dirt road as fast as its engine and road conditions permitted. On a motorway it probably wouldn’t have amounted to a breakneck speed, but here on this provincial unpaved road at the northern edge of Burkina Faso, it was enough to cause a casualty.
As on most West African roads, cattle and all kinds of other domestic animals ever so often crossed our way as if both they and their herdsmen were utterly unaware of the dangers that motor traffic represented for them. The drivers obviously knew that and they all had had a tolerant and patient attitude all across the area I had travelled. But it was just a matter of time before I was going to see the first animal killed. It happened on this stretch between two border posts.
A herd of goats was crossing the road. Our driver slowed down and they did just fine. And then, when it seemed they were all safely on the other side, we picked up the speed, and all of a sudden, literally out of nowhere, a goat kid jumped back on the road, just in time to get under the wheels. A loud and dull thump was heard underneath and everybody got silent. The driver slowed down to a halt and left the car. Behind us, some distance back, the dead animal was lying.
In such a poor country as Burkina Faso is, a loss of a kid goat is a huge loss to most of the people. Nobody would deny that. So it was not a matter to drop so easily. The driver and the herder talked for a while. I don’t know what their arrangement was. I have no idea if there was any compensation for the loss. In any case, it took them a while until they had resolved it. And only then we resumed our trip.
For a while again there was nothing more to see. Except another milestone which this time indicated that there were 220 kilometres left to go to Ouaga. At that point I started wandering if there was any border control at the Burkinabe side at all. Was maybe that one in Kiri, on the Malian side, serving both countries?
But it was not. Finally, after almost thirty kilometres between them, we arrived at the Burkinabe outpost of Thiou.
This one felt considerably more relaxed. And next to that one back up in Kiri, with one lone, windowless concrete shack amidst an otherwise flat and empty clearing, this one looked almost like a time leap into the future.
Also, it appeared a bit busier than its counterpart on the Malian side. Two four-by-fours in addition to our van almost made for a traffic jam. As opposed to the Malians, the Burkinabe side didn’t make too much fuss about documents of any type. Things went pretty smoothly and soon we were released and free to go.
Except, we could not really go. Unlike with the Malians, but very much like borders at Koloko and Herenakono two weeks before, we had to go through two check points here. And this time the van went ahead on its own, and we the passengers on foot. But on the whole it took us less than what it had on the previous side of the border. And it was a bit more dynamic
Around half past three we finally arrived in Thiou, a small town – or a big village – right in time to hear muezzin call everybody to an afternoon prayer from the roadside mosque.