A long road to Bamako. #6
It is a sweltering hot afternoon and I am seated at the GSC Coach station in Bouaké, waiting for the coach to depart. Initially, I was informed it will leave at 2 pm, but then it moved to 4 pm. It was not a comfortable wait as the mosquitoes decided it was feasting hour. There was a washroom opposite the waiting area where people cleaned themselves before prayers. The occasional sour odour wafted in intermittently, signalling the toilets were not far away. I have a thing about using public toilets and prayed my bladder would hold still until I got to my hotel in Bamako. Yes, I would have to wait 18 hours but I was counting on the heat to drain all liquid from my body before my bladder could think of getting any credit to make a wee call. There was a big TV screen with grainy images hanging on the wall, running a French series. Some passengers were all wrapped up in it, but I could not focus as the sweat won’t let me. What kept me going were the discussions on a WhatsApp group on big data. It was an informative group discussion and the time passed by quickly as I chatted the minutes and then hours away.
At some point, I decided to look around at the potential passengers I will be travelling with and noticed almost all were Muslims. You can often tell from the dressing and make-up on this side of the world. It was a different group to those I had travelled with from Yamoussoukro. I spotted some Peulhs also known as Mbororos or Fulas depending on which country you find yourself in, the Mandinkas mostly from Mali and the Dioulas from the north of Côte d’Ivoire who also form part of this group. The Mandinka group in Mali includes many tribes with Bambara being the largest.
The languages that rolled off people’s tongues were decidedly different from what my ears were used to. It was not unusual to hear Arabic interspersed in a speech mostly with religious ties. Words like ‘Alhamdoulilah’, ‘Mashallah’ and ‘Wallahi’ became familiar. The cadence of speech reminded one of Wolof speakers in Senegal. I began to feel that I was indeed leaving the typical West Africa I was accustomed to and moving towards not just new territory but a significantly different cultural environment. The Sahel is remarkably different from the tropical rainforest of West Central and East Africa or the sub-tropical Southern Africa in terms of culture. I realised at the end of my stay in Mali that there was a remarkable difference in thinking, approach to life among others.
Our coach eventually arrived after 5 pm and parked in its bay. We were told boarding will begin when the other passengers from Abidjan arrive on the Burkina Faso bus. When the Burkina Faso coach arrived, the passengers for Bamako alighted and the few passengers for Burkina Faso boarded. When it came time for our bus to board, the passengers just arrived from Abidjan had to go first. By the time the boarding was completed, it was almost a quarter to 6 pm. Names were called out according to the order of ticket number and when my name was called, I almost failed to recognise it because the conductor massacred it. I suspected I might not get a good window seat as I was one of the last to be called.
Once I got on, I was hoping for a window seat as I find seating by the aisle to be interruptive. Fate smiled on me and I got one by the window. I thanked my lucky stars. I was travelling with a backpack, my tripod and another bag full of provisions for the travel. I went to put my backpack and tripod on the overhead luggage storage but was swiftly informed it was not allowed because it is only meant for the AC. It did not make sense that there is headboard space created for luggage but because the AC duct was attached to the front of it, one could not put up their hand luggage. I would observe this throughout most of my travel across Mali and Côte d’Ivoire. I had to put my bags under my feet and there was very little wiggle room to stretch on the seat. I wondered how I was going to keep my feet suspended in this manner for 18 hrs and still keep the blood circulation flowing. I took a deep breath and told my brain to trust fate on this one.
Before departure, the bus conductor welcomed all the passengers on board. He started by briefly speaking in French then switched to Bambara. I did not know this, but it was going to be Bambara to Mali and throughout Mali. The only respite I had was in Timbuktu where most spoke Koyra Chiini, with a small population speaking Tamashek and Arabic. Unbeknownst to me, not very many people speak French in Mali. At first, when I addressed people on the bus in French, it was met with nonchalance, which puzzled me. Did these people not speak to others, not from their countries or tribes? I could see them interacting animatedly with one another. I was at sea and a certain unease invaded me. At first, I did not understand that this nonchalance was due to their inability to speak French. This was later pointed out to me by a Malian acquaintance in Segou when I explained my confusion. How will I get around if most people in the country did not speak French? How will I communicate and bargain fares with the taxi drivers, ask directions on the streets, bargain with the seller at the market place etc? I was beginning to understand that this was not going to be straightforward. The bus steamed and honked as we crept out of the GSC coach station. This dragged me out of my reverie and at long last, we departed. I knew the empty seat next to me will not be free for too long. They will pick up some passengers on the way as I spotted other empty seats on the coach.
As we eased out of Bouaké, I realised many lorries and trucks were heading towards the same direction. There were heavy goods vehicles headed for Burkina Faso and Mali. We stopped at a petrol station after about 15minutes on the outskirts of Bouaké. The GSC bus heading to Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso came to a stop next to our Bamako bus to refuel. Both buses left the petrol station at the same time. There was a junction where the road split into two. We took one turn and the Burkina bus took the other, It was time to say goodbye.
Further stops were made along the way at Katiola, Ferkessedougou for more passenger pick-ups. We stopped a few other times but I could not ask where we were, as I was aware most did not speak French. Besides, I was too tired to try. I had been asleep when we arrived Katiola and the coach stopped to allow passengers to get down and say prayers at a mosque next to some petrol station. This was new. In all my travel across different African countries, I had never encountered this. Perhaps, it is because I had not travelled to the majority of Muslim African countries or areas where the mostly Muslim population lived.
I was able to know this because the passenger sitting next to me told me after several attempts in broken French. Some guy behind us saved me from my misery and explained what he was trying to say. I caught a few French words but did not understand. I ended up asking a series of questions for clarity but it got unintentionally long-winded. My neighbour had come on board with other passengers at one of the stops after Bouaké. He was a Peulh lad and I would later realise, did not speak French either. He asked me if I did not speak Bambara each time I tried to ask him a question in French or he tried to say something but used mostly Bambara. I got this a lot in Mali and wondered how it was not considered that I had my language too. No offence to the non-French speakers but how exactly were the Bambara and Dioula speakers expected to interact with other Africans who did not understand their languages? When a Bambara person speaks, a Dioula can understand and vice versa. Their languages are cousins so to speak. But for non-Dioula or non-Bambara speakers, the expectation would be that in a Francophone country, they can at least speak some French.
I was too tired to stay alert and get to know where we were each time and gradually drifted off to sleep after we had gone past Katiola and Ferkessedougou. I was dead to the world but had a rude awakening when my Peulh neighbour woke me up abruptly. ‘Qu’est-ce qu’il y a? (What is it?) I asked. He rattled a few words which I could barely understand and all I heard was Bamako. He was translating what the conductor was saying but all was lost in translation. When I heard Bamako, I assumed, they were asking if I was going to Bamako and I responded:
“Oui, je vais a Bamako.”
The whole bus erupted into laughter and I was not sure why. I got annoyed because I did not see what I said that was wrong. I soon found out that we had reached Pogo, the Côte d’Ivoire border immigration post and I had to hand over my travel documents (passport & yellow card vaccine). This was then given to a police immigration officer stationed by the bus who then takes it to the immigration office. I had not gotten the memo and everyone on the bus was awake and all had handed their documents. I was the last one to do so. I reluctantly handed over my passport and was not comfortable doing that. How will they know to return it to me? There were a lot of buses stationed outside from what I could see. But I was soon going to find out.
We were all told to alight from the bus and head to the immigration office with our yellow card vaccine. Most people had national identity cards and the few of us with passports were called to a different section. We had a facilitator who took us through the check with the health officers, which was a breeze and then we proceeded to the immigration officers. We went to see the officers who were stationed under a tree but with a sort of makeshift tent around it. In the tent, there was a bed that looked well slept-in which was covered by a mosquito net. I suppose with the late-night shift, it was a good area to snooze before continuing the work of policing the borders. The officers wore a blue version of the military cargo attire.
I waited for my turn patiently and tried to make no sudden movements. When it came to my turn I approached and was asked to seat down on a low wooden bench. The officer who was assisted by a lady officer asked where I departed from before entering Côte d’Ivoire, and I said London. He asked what I did in London and I told him about my job. He then asked why I wanted to go to Mali. I responded that I have always wanted to see Mali just like I had done with Côte d’Ivoire. He then asked why a woman ‘like me’ would be travelling alone? Did I not have a husband to take me as it was dangerous? I knew the drill, he was fishing to see if I was married and I had a story on the ready. I explained my rehearsed story that I had left my fiancé in the UK and he would be joining me later as he was caught up with work. So, I decided to go ahead. I was wearing a fake engagement ring, so he could not doubt my story. I had thought about this and decided I would go with married or affianced depending on the situation.
It was the heart of harmattan and the evenings and mornings get very cold. I had a very light cardigan, deep blue which I had bought from Zara years ago. It did not adequately protect me from this cold. The AC on the bus had made it worse. I shivered and my arms betrayed I was cold by all the goosebumps pop. The officer and some other soldiers who were sitting on a bench to the right in the tent were bemused. They asked if I was going to cope in this weather and I responded in the affirmative. One said:
“La pauvre. L’Afrique n’est pas l’Europe hein.”
I understood that they thought I was struggling with the African weather because I had come from Europe. I told them that I understood African weather perfectly and that I did indeed feel cold because I had made a poor choice in not getting a thicker cardigan for the evening weather. I did not need it during the day as it was often too hot. They were very friendly and one of them rubbed my back as one does to generate body heat. He meant well but I did not want to get familiar. I trod carefully and made no sudden movement.
The main immigration officer seemed happy with my responses, stamped my passport and wished me a safe journey. I thanked him for his time and wished him including the others a good evening.
We got on the bus and I realised some passengers were not on board. I asked around and learnt the Malians would join the bus after the Zegoua check. It was not long before we reached the Malian side of border immigration at Zegoua. I knew the drill this time and was ready. I had my passport and yellow card vaccine and duly handed them over to the police/immigration officer. All the passengers from the other buses joined us to assemble before the immigration office for Mali. It was a building at least not like the tents used by the Ivorians. But the verandah was cemented and it was clear had not seen a mop in a while or it could be the consequence of too many footfalls and a lost battle against the dust. They called out your name and then you went in to see an officer. It felt like a secondary school assembly roll-call.
There was an Ivorian young man who was called in but he was on his phone and told the officer he wanted to finish up his call. The police officer asked him to get off the phone and he tried to wrap up the call. The officer got impatient and manhandled him by his neck and asked who he thought he was. The young man responded that he had a right to answer his family’s call, who was checking to see if his journey was going well. The officer insisted that there were clear signs of no phone use around the building and that the young man wanted to prove he was tough. The police officer pulled the man roughly by his trousers and pushed him around. The gentleman tried to resist the manhandling and the officer banged his head against the wall.
Without noticing, a scream tore out of my lungs before I could control myself. Becoming more self-conscious, I looked around to confirm if in that confusion no one had heard me. If they did, they certainly all pretended not to have heard it but I was relieved. I realised everyone around me was not paying attention to what was going on with the police immigration officer and the boy. It was a possibility they chose to ignore it for self-preservation. This was my introduction to Mali and it was uneasy. I made a note to myself to always address the officers in a low and steady voice, not speaking more than was necessary. The gentleman whose head was bashed told the officers off. He said he had no intention of going into a country where people were treated so poorly. He collected his travel documents from the officers, had his luggage taken down from the coach and left. It was whispered that he took a bus returning to Abidjan. This was a rude awakening.
After a long wait, my name was finally called and I went in to see the officer. I walked up the verandah and turned immediate right into a room as directed. There was a wooden desk at the centre of the room that had seen better days. It was laden with files and heavy books. There was a bed behind the desk, covered by a mosquito net. Another snooze corner. The officer was a Traore but I did not want to be seen trying to read his full names. I avoided staring as assumed it might bring attention to myself. He had this massive ledger in front of him which I saw contained the details of numerous travellers who crossed this border throughout the year. He asked me where my visa was and I pointed out the page where it was affixed. I received my visa from the Mali Embassy in Abidjan. He took down my details and asked me how long I intended to stay and the purpose of my visit to Mali. I informed him I was a tourist and intended to stay for at most 3 weeks. He proposed that if I did not already have a guide, he could provide a name and number of a trusted one. Not wishing to offend him by rejecting it, I told him I was not sure I needed a guide but he could give me the details as one never knew when it will come in handy. He provided the details and with the registration complete, wished me a safe journey.
Finally, I was done and could breathe. I went to find my coach as it had moved and was relieved they had not gone without me. Not that it was the practice but you never know was my thought. The bus drove for about 15 minutes and parked at a car park where some lorries were down for the night. The Malians were already waiting. I got the impression they got here ahead of all the other passengers because their check was quick at the Zegoua Malian Immigration post.
Other police stops were punctuating the journey. I had a multiple entry visa for Mali and this spared me any problems with immigration and the police. On the other hand, I learnt that those in the ECOWAS (Economic Community of West African States) had free travel around the zone. In Mali, even Malians when presenting their ID cards were asked to pay 1000–2000 frs cfa to the officers. The Malians were complaining about having to pay to enter their own country and some ECOWAS citizens chimed in with the same complaint. The free movement into Mali for those qualified for it was not free after all. Overall on a single journey, a passenger would have to part with between 6,000–12,000 frs CFA to pay police officers along the way.
When we arrived Sikasso, a lot of people alighted from the bus and my Peulh neighbour also left. For almost an hour into the journey, I had room to stretch but only so much. The passengers came and left, but their trash did not. It cluttered the floor. I looked out the window and saw the change from a tropical topography to Sahel — dry, white dust and I spotted some mostly millet fields wherein tropical climate one finds maize and/or cassava. The vegetation was sparse and the round mud houses were a pleasant surprise and a sight for sore eyes.
The coach made a few stops at some villages that I cannot recall for passengers to have a break and have some food. I noticed that most of the snacks were on the sweet side. There were a lot of young girls mostly below 16yrs of age hawking these madeleine-type cakes which were round, put in quantities of 6 and 8 in plastic bags. They shouted out as the coaches came to a stop and followed passengers seeking patronage. I realised that my options were biscuits, fizzy drinks and the fruits available were not palatable to travel for me — whole watermelons and sometimes oranges when lucky. The latter were scarce as we moved further into Mali. I did try to explore my taste buds and tried this melon that had the shape of very small papaya. It had a mellow taste of melon, more on the watery side with a hint of watermelon flavour. It was green on the outside and white on the inside with seeds that followed the pattern of papaya seeds.
I would have sprung for my grilled beef (suya) and baguette but in Mali mutton was prefered to beef. The bread was not baguette but a dry loaf in the shape of a small baguette with an opaque taste. I am not big on mutton but it was in Mali that I got to see and experience being around sheep. I did see some sheep two years ago on the streets of Dakar but had limited interaction with them. I think sheep are culturally favoured in the region and have a religious significance as all Sahel countries are Muslim.
My attention was arrested by how Malians constructed their homes. It was different from what I was used to seeing in other West African countries. They favoured the Sudano-Sahelian round mud houses style, roofed with grass in the villages or for those who had a bigger budget and in the towns, there was always the roof terrace for when it gets really hot during the dry season, which peaks in April. I liked the simplicity of the building. The huge mansion trend that one might see in Côte d’Ivoire, Nigeria or Cameroon was not big in Mali, I observed.
Between the towns of Bougouni and Ouelessebougou could be found much light manufacturing industrial areas. Most of these were food processing plants and there were signs of individual commercial farms in the making from the signposts in front of large fences built to surround hectares of land. By the time we arrived Bamako, it was a little after midday on Wednesday, 13th November 2019. I was not ready for the arrival and was informed by a fellow traveller that this was Auto Gare de Sogoniko. Sogoniko was in Commune VI, one of the six municipalities that make up the city of Bamako. I had been cushioned by the AC in the bus. As my feet stepped out of the bus, the heat that slapped my entire body was one I had never encountered in my entire life.
To be continued in the next blog — ‘Bamako at its grittiest.’
