And then it was finally Ouahigouya. Whoever has never tried to undertake the trip from Mopti would undoubtedly find it hard to believe that it easily took me eight hours to cover the distance of… what? Some two hundred and twenty kilometres as the crow flies? Make it three hundred on the ground? If at all? Something that anywhere in Europe wouldn’t take more than three hours of a very conservative driving, border crossings included?
And those eight hours would’ve probably gone on if I had not twice played that „rich European“ trump in both bush taxis, buying off remaining empty seats to speed up the departure.
But this was Africa. Which besides all the good things you encountered every day on this continent also meant poor roads, inefficient traffic connections, slow customs officials. And graft. That was the reality on the ground. If you wanted to travel as locals do, then that was it.
When we arrived in Ouahigouya, somebody came up to our van after we had hardly pulled over and asked who wanted to continue to Ouagadougou. The young Burkinabe guy who was at hand whenever I needed help told me that there was a ride leaving very soon so I could just hop over and go on if I wanted. For a brief second I was event tempted to go along. But by the time I opened my mouth to answer, I had already decided I’d stay on in Ouahigouya for the night. I thanked him and wished him the safe journey and that was it.
I decided to stay in the „L’amitié“ hotel. „Lonely Planet“ clearly stated that it was the most expensive option in town and if I had really insisted, I could have found a cheaper kip around. But all my pores still full of sand from Sahara and with additional dose of dust picked up along the way through the Dogon country, I was in no mood for life on a shoestring right now. All I wanted was to pick up a taxi and check in the only place in town with a guaranteed and reliable hot-water flow.
Except there were no taxis in Ouahigouya. Ever. They just didn’t have them. So how does a dirty traveller, who is new in town, cover the distance with luggage in tow unless he wants to lug it on foot? First you ask around. Which leads you to this very information. That there are no taxis in Ouahigouya, that is. So what happens next? Well, the guy whom you ask where you can find a taxi offers you to take you to your destination himself. Which is very fine. The only hitch is that he isn’t offering to take you there by car. After all, proportionally, very few people in Burkina Faso possess their own rides on four wheels. What he’s offering is a ride on his bike, instead. And that particular bike is certainly not a „Harley“ or something. They don’t have any shiny hogs in these parts. If they do, then they had hidden them well from my sight and put them out of use for the time being. What he had was a thin, rickety contraption which seriously threatened to fall apart on the first road bump along the way.
At first I wasn’t sure whether to accept or not. I just wasn’t confident enough to sit on that bike and count the metres down, all in hope that we’d reach the „L’amitié“ hotel before we skidded and took a tumble by the roadside. The common sense told me that I wouldn’t be any worse off if I reached the hotel in one piece. But then again, all of a sudden, my bag didn’t feel like the lightest one in Burkina, and much as you try, when you’re away from home for planned five weeks, you just can’t possibly travel light. Certainly not light enough to hoof it all the way to the hotel.
So, even if without any excess enthusiasm, I finally agreed and let the guy take me for a ride. Thankfully, or horrifyingly – depending on how one views it - he grabbed my bag, held it in front of himself and kick-started his bike.
Well, to make it all short, I lived to talk about it.
Being back in Burkina, it really meant that effectively I had gotten the final leg of my trip to West Africa started. Mali was now behind me with its long and exhausting dirt roads. Basically they’d been the most difficult part of it all. Crammed, battered vehicles, as dirty as they can possibly get, and tons of dust, sticking to every single open spot of your skin and clothing every step of the way, are most certainly not for the weak, impatient and faint-hearted.
The cheapest rooms in the „L’amitié“ hotel had already been given away. The next best ones on offer were those that went for thirty thousand CFA francs a night. As dirty as I was, I couldn’t even imagine staying elsewhere. So without further ado I took a room and clambered up for shower.
My luggage was dirty as never before. Whatever I wore regularly got dusty so fast that I was seriously wondering if it made any sense changing it at all. So I did just three things when I entered the room. I locked it up from the inside. Then I went straight into the bathroom to let the hot water run. And then I undressed and left it all right there on the floor in one mess of a heap, my luggage and clothes.
And then I was back in the bathroom for a long, endless hot shower.
When one hour later I left my room, passing by the reception desk, I was given a paper with a message. The guy who had taken me to the hotel on his bike had obviously been quite happy with his foreign client. I was suspecting that one thousand CFA francs that I had given him for the ride were a handsome contribution to his budget. However, whenever you are new to a certain place, you can’t haggle much. You just don’t know the place and the relations. But the eagerness with which the guy had left me the note with the receptionist had confirmed my hunches.
I took the piece of paper. It simply contained the guy’s name - Sonadair Hamade Pela – and his phone number.
„The man says if you need him, you can call him,“ the receptionist told me more or less in so many words. Either way, I got the point. Well, you could never know. So I put the paper in my wallet and went out.
I didn’t have any extraordinary plans in Ouahigouya. Basically, I was stopping by for the afternoon and overnight and that was all. It meant I wanted to find a bank where I could exchange some money, then find the STMB bus terminal to buy myself an onward ticket to Ouaga and finally eat something along the way. If I could locate a place to check my e-mails to boot, that would make a very successful conclusion to the day.
The street the „L’amitié“ hotel was located on was called Avenue de Mopti. As far as I understood, that was the main road in town and central to just about everything. So I figured that if I started looking for a bank, I couldn’t go way too wrong if I stuck with the Avenue de Mopti. Sooner or later, there had to be one. Provided it was still open.
While I was walking down the Avenue de Mopti, essentially concentrated on not missing the potential bank, I suddenly realised I had a company. Keeping pace with me, matching me step for step, there was a young lad, around eighteen at most, blabbing something in French. When I finally turned my full attention to him, I realised he’d been on a prowl, looking for potential source of income, and by the looks of it, it seemed as if in his opinion I was a promising game.
I didn’t remember that anyone had ever asked me what my opinion was on that. So I scowled and for starters tried the most polite approach to shake him loose:
„Sorry, I don’t understand you,“ I said, hoping that English would be enough to discourage him. But he was undeterred. He kept blathering, interspersing this time his natter with „help“. In other words, he was offering me his „help“.
„No, thank you,“ I said and pointedly sought to ignore him, looking entirely the other way. I was hoping that if English had not slowed him down, my blatant ignoring would. But this youngster obviously knew no shame. He just pressed on.
And then I saw the „Ecobank“ building. It was open and I entered. The mean-looking guard at the gate politely let me through, but for the pestering youth it was off limits. Well, it turned out to be relatively easy, after all.
I exchanged some money, and for that I took at least fifteen minutes. A bit of a queue, then a lot of bureaucratic formalities which had long been phased out in European banks, and you just couldn’t make it faster. But I was in no particular hurry, so I didn’t mind.
Except, the youngster whom I had left outside didn’t seem to be in any hurry either. Exactly where I had left him off, he now picked it up. And went on offering his „help“.
„No,“ I said, this time omitting all the „thank yous“ and other non-essential niceties. Just as before, it didn’t help. So I had no choice. I had to resort to big guns. I stopped. The guy stopped. I faced him. He was still going on. I interrupted him and clearly said:
„Look, I don’t need your help. Go.“
He tried to argue, but this time I decided to play it rude. I just didn’t know any other way with him:
„I said go. I don’t need your help,“ and I stretched my arm, pointing with my index-finger in a direction away from me.
He tried again. A really persistent and stubborn youngster. With the meanest face I could make, I interrupted him again:
„I said go! Now!“
Finally, the gush from his mouth was stemmed. He just stood there for a moment. And I added once more:
„Go!“
And then he left.
Finally on my own again, I was now free to look for the STMB gare de routière. It wasn’t difficult to find. Just off the main road – and apparently the only paved one – there it was. I bought my ticket for tomorrow and that was it.
There was a bit more daylight left, so for a moment I was undecided whether to go for a few pictures or to find a place to eat. If I first went for pictures, I might have to skip the meal as I never ate after sundown. If I first looked for a place to eat, I might be left without any pictures from here. I decided to go for a compromise. I’d just walk around and take pictures. And as soon as I found a restaurant, I’d stop.
And indeed, not long after that I stumbled upon a roadside place where it looked as if I could get a bite. It was completely empty, so I was not sure if they were open. But an awful, way too loud music was booming from third-class speakers there, and while I seriously wondered what kind of ear could find it even remotely entertaining, I entered to check the working hours. They were open, indeed.
I ordered myself something from the menu and then picked up a table which was farthest from the loudspeakers. I hoped that some kind of zen attitude would help me ignore the rest of decibels. And then I waited.
Not long after that, a young lad appeared at my table and started talking. I excused myself for not speaking French. He switched to the most basic of basic English languages, but enough for me to tell him that I’d like to order another coke. He nodded and turned to get it for me.
„And, by the way,“ I called after him. He turned.
„Could you please ask them to get the volume down? This music is too loud.“
He nodded and in just a few seconds I both had another coke and the music was much quieter. The guy, who I believed was a waiter, asked me if I was going to stay at my table.
„What do you mean?“
Indeed, I was not so sure what he meant.
„I am waiting for my food to come. I’ll eat here.“
He nodded again and said:
„I will now go to pray. And then I would like to come back.“
No problem. I found it a bit amusing that a waiter would go to pray during his working hours, but apart from Bosnia, this was probably the first country with so many Muslims that I had visited. Mali was the second one. And Bosnia, mostly secularised as it is, is by no means a standard to go by when it comes down to Muslim countries. So what did I know? Maybe that’s what Muslims did here all along?
In the meantime my food arrived and while I was at it, the young guy returned. He was glad to still see me and sat at my table.
„I would just like to talk to you,“ he said. „I would like to see what tourists search here. I would like to learn what things they want to see.“
In other words, he wanted to meet an average tourist. Well, OK, why not? He was nice, he wasn’t imposing in any way, I didn’t have any particular plans I wanted to see through, so there was no reason why I couldn’t be the one who would initiate him in the world of foreign travels.
Little by little we talked and suddenly, to my embarrassment, I realised he was not a waiter at all. By all his behaviour when we’d first met, I’d been led to believe exactly opposite. I was certain he was working there. I told him so and I apologised. He dismissed it light-heartedly, making no bones out of it.
„I am an electrician,“ he said. And proudly added, showing the sound system:
„I made that.“
He probably meant he had installed it. Or wired it.
„So you do work here, after all?“
„No. Only when they need me.“
I felt awkward, having earlier sent the young guy to fetch me a coke, as if he was a servant. But it was obvious that I was the only one who felt bad about it. He didn’t even see it as an issue. So we kept talking. His name was Abdulaziz. He asked me about my plans. I said I didn’t have any particular plans any more. I’d just find an Internet café if possible and then I’d go to bed. By the time I finished my meal, it was already dark outside.
„I want to have your number,“ he said.
He meant my mobile.
„No problem,“ I told him. „But that’s going to be too expensive for you, I think. Intercontinental calls are awfully expensive. Do you have an e-mail?“
He didn’t have one.
„Why don’t you open an account?“ I asked him. „Then we can exchange addresses and stay in touch.“
But apparently he had no idea what I was talking about. OK, not entirely, but to a large extent. So I said:
„No problem. I’ll teach you what to do.“
So when we decided we talked enough, I paid and we left. On our departure I realised that the place I’d just eaten in was called „Maquis Kadiami Plus“. Or something. Just for the record.
Abdulaziz claimed he knew where I could find Internet. It was not going to be in any café or similar, but rather in a local high school. After a short walk up the Avenue de Mopti in the direction of my hotel, we reached lycée Yadega. There we entered through the gate, found ourselves in a wide yard surrounded on three sides by low, long buildings, similar to those in Tombouctou, and Abdulaziz took me towards one lit door. A row of tables with computers was there. Just as in any cyber café, as they call them here, there was a guy at an entrance desk selling time. Exactly what I needed. I took one hour. Enough to check my mails and teach Abdulaziz the basics of staying in touch through the Net.
One hour later, we were back out on the almost completely dark Avenue de Mopti. Apart from occasional weak lights from some small shop or other which was still open, there was almost no other lighting.
„I would like to see you tomorrow,“ Abdulaziz said.
„Well, it’d be great,“ I said. „But I am going to Ouagadougou tomorrow.“
„Then before you go.“
„I wake up early. I must also find someone to get me to gare de routière,“ I said.
„I can come with my bike,“ Abdulaziz said.
„You can?“
„Yes.“
Hmmm. Well, this bike or that one, it made no difference to me. So why not Abdulaziz? At least I knew him a bit, while I wouldn’t as much as recognise the guy who’d given me a ride to the hotel any more. According to local customs, I knew I had to be at the bus terminal at nine. Because my bus was scheduled to leave at ten. But also according to local customs, I knew that appointments and schedules are a very fluid concept here. Whereas it wouldn’t be much of a problem if the bus ran late – after all, it wouldn’t be the first one – but what if Abdulaziz showed up late? Now, that might be a problem. So, just in order to be on the safe side, I said:
„Can you come at eight?“
„Yes.“
„Are you sure? It’s not too early for you? Because if you don’t come on time, I’ll leave.“
But he assured me that eight o’clock was fine. So we left it at that. I felt that it was still OK if he wouldn’t show up for, say, half an hour. I could tolerate such delay. And in case he wouldn’t be in the hotel even then, I would still have enough time to look for someone else.
So that was the final deal.
I wished him a good night and retreated to the hotel.
