Along the road on our way up north to Dori there were several roadside stops in some to me completely unknown small settlements where in those few minutes locals swooped down on our bus from all sides in an attempt to sell some food or beverages to passengers. I often wondered how often in a day buses were pulling in, but however many times it might have been, whatever income those people earned, it was a meagre living indeed. I guess, for all of us who ever complained about the way we lived back at home, coming down to Africa should be a must. Only here an average, grumbling western citizen could clearly see how privileged they are to have been born where they were born.
And along the way they would get a free lesson as to how to be happy in spite of all those hardships.
And then, almost four hours after we had left Ouagadougou, we came to a small town of Tougouri. But first, just outside of town we had another stop-over, this one pretty much inexplicable, though. Apparently in the middle of nowhere, without even food hawkers in sight, we pulled over. For as long as we were there, I was trying to guess the purpose of this break, but it eluded me.
However, one of the guys from the bus didn’t seem to be bothered much with such thoughts. Unfazed, he got off the bus carrying a small rug under his armpit. He slid off the road, onto the bare, dusty ground and unfurled his rug for an afternoon prayer. From my point of view, this had already become a normal thing. People seemed to do it regularly in these parts and I got used to it by now. But what caught my attention this time was the fact that the guy had taken off his shoes before the prayer. I mean, I know about that custom, too. But here, on this dusty soil, his feet were bound to get only dirtier.
Only rational explanation that I had was that it was not about being „dirty“ or „clean“ at all. OK, inside some founding principle it must have been. But to me it looked like it was now merely a manifestation of reverence and humility. So dirt or no dirt, shoes had to go off.
Less than five minutes from that inexplicable spot, we arrived in Tougouri itself where we could get off the bus and exercise leg muscles if we wanted to.
I did.
Tougouri came across as a one-road town with little to show. There allegedly was a catechist school in the town and a lycée. And a police station, too. But I couldn’t see much from where we stopped, so I could only believe it. During those ten minutes the traffic was almost non-existent so that goats freely and without slightest concern crisscrossed the road any way and any time they pleased. People were teaming around the bus, trying to peddle to passengers whatever they could. Even to me it gradually became a common sight.
And that was it. I walked around a bit, took a few pictures and then we were ready to move on.
