As a Postscript to my last missive in the "club" my visit showed the power, and the highly localised effect, of DEET as an anti-mossie repellant. In anticipation I had sprayed myself liberally (I don't go for all this covering up nonsense in 35°C with 90% humidity). I had missed a 1 inch square on one elbow. The only bites of the night occured right there - all 23 of them.
The Somatra Transport bus left 5 minutes early (!) and almost caught me out as I was just leaving the bus yard for a time-killing wander. No matter how much you think you are on top of things, Africa always stays one step laterally.
The road south is excellent until Bougouni when it gradually deteriorates to what I call "typically Africa" - namely with potholes that would take an Abrams tank by surprise. Five hours into the trip we came to an abrupt halt in the middle of nowhere, with a bad smell of burning and smoke filling the bus. As we captive audience rapidly de-bussed, the unphased driver and his assistants got underneath, came up with a diagnosis and with a clattering of tools set about tightening every joint and seal they could find. A couple of gallons of oil in the sump and we were underway within the hour. "In the middle of nowhere" - how often do we misuse the term? Travelling in Africa, where all around is "the bush", it is easy to think one is quite alone. Yet stop the vehicle for 5 minutes and one is suddenly the centre of attraction for a growing crowd.Apart from a very few areas of the Sahara and Kalahari, I can think of nowhere the term is appropriate on the whole continent.
The bus drew into Sikasso and a taxi whisked me off to the Hotel Tata in tile for a beer before four o'clock.
I took a stroll to stretch my legs and was completely astounded by the reaction I generated; - nothing! No calls of "Le Blanc!" or "Tu Bapu!" (both mean "Whitey!"), no demands for "Cadeaux!" During an hour of walking about, including the nearby market, I was ignored as a local. It's pretty obvious Sikasso isn't a tourist-orientated town. I like it already! (In fact this attitude prevailed through the 3 days of my visit).
The Hotel Tata was a pleasantly relaxing place, and popular with the regional heirarchy too, as I shared its ambience with the "Deputé" (akin to our Lord Lieutenent) and his good lady. The staff even rushed off by moto, at no extra cost, to buy me beers when I called (being Muslims, they don't stock it). Darkness brought out the bats, that dived beneath the low-hanging branches, mossie-hunting, and skimmed my hair in a marvellous display of aerial wizardry.
After dinner, as it was still early, I decide to check out a reputed supermarket to see how the expats fare. Flagging down a taxi I instructed him to take me to the "Hotel Touban!", this being attached to the shop and a large and well known establishment; or so I thought. After what seemed an inordinately long drive we drew up at the "Hotel Assaili";
"What's this? I said the Hotel Touban!" The driver muttered that he thought this one would do.
"This is the Assaili§ Take me to the Touban, ok!"
Off we went once more, back into the cdentre of town, where the driver stopped to ask a pedestrian for directions.
"I don't believe this! You are supposed to be a taxi driver, yet you don't know your own town!"
Looking sheepish he turned the car north once more until the Touban came into view. We had passed it twice earlier. A keen guardian rushed to open my door:
"Good evening sir! You want a room?" I disappointed him by asking for the supermaket. He looked puzzled:
"But there is no market here."
"Not marché, supermarché! La grande boutique!" I was getting a bit fed up. Light dawned in his eyes;
"Aah, the big shop! It is next door! But it has just closed for the night. Do you want a room?"
I slumped into the car and grumbled "No, just take me home". There was silence until I paid the driver:
"But the price is 1000 francs!" he tried it on, holding out the 500 I had given him. My answer was rather heated:
No it isn't you bloody thief! That's 200 each way plus 100 for you to buy a map!" I slammed the door and stormed off to bed. I have actually encountered this appalling lack of knowledge among taxi drivers right across the region. Driving and navigation skills mean nothing, many having gained their job purely on the fact that they have access to a vehicle that goes, after a fashion.
In the morning I got to the elusive shop to find the shelves almost bare; the expats seem to have deserted the town since the end of hostilities to the south. It was a couple of klicks back so I opted for some exercise. The main market in the centre of Sikasso is huge and sprawling and I enjoyed a good hour just wanderin' aimlessly around the stalls. Above hung the Mamelon, a 100-foot hill of mystical powers, that had once provided shelter in times of war. Well, you know me with hills - I just have to climb them. I asked a chap who was making rush matting for a good route to the top. Following his pointing digit I spied the kind of trail my daughter would gobble up in 2 minutes flat. After 10 minutes I had reached the halfway stage, sweat cascading from me and, for once, had to concede that logic was going to get the better of me. Any more and the soft, crumbly surface was going to dump me base over apex, and an accident is one thing I dread when travelling alone. I slithered to the bottom and slunk away, cursing my inabilities. Around the other side of the hill was a set of concrete steps that led right to the top. Once upon a time the views all round would have been stunning but the high growth rate of the surrounding trees now allowed only tantalising glimpses of Sikasso and its environs.
I tell you what I was surprised to find, in markets and shops all over this part of Africa - ring-pull cans of (mainly) Fanta and Coke. Remember when their introduction was considered a revolution? They seem to have disappeared so long ago from shops in the West that if I told my daughter of how we enjoyed them, she would consider me a dinosaur. Who remembers opening tins of Brewmaster with a can spanner?
The road out to my hotel is busy. To my left a roaring river of rubber and metal was highly distracting and I was forced in to the very edge by my inability to see them and concern they were about to hit me. Just below my right side the stream of sewage was stagnant, save for the grey-green gas bubbles that burst from the depths of its damnation. Those and the poulets, paddling and pecking at floating tidbits. The disgusting mess made the Manchester Ship Canal of my childhood seem almost swimmable and I was sickened to see two women nattering away (the sewer forms the open-plan boundary to homes and shops alike) as a toddler balanced precariously on the edge, dribbling sand through his fingers to splash into the mini Styx. I enjoyed a lazy fternoon chatting with the hotel staff and nursing a few beers. After dark I had a wonderful meal with real chips! By that I mean no modern, namby-pamby fads here, these chips were cooked in animal fat, as they were in the good old days when school dinners tasted great, all vegetarians had 4 legs and kids didn't become obese. Days of fun, enjoyment, tolerance and innocence.
My final day dawned and before the heat had kicked in I hired a taxi to take me to see the Grottes de Missirikoro, a cave complex within a limestone outcrop that rises from the surrounding farmland. The caves, formed by water action over millenia, are said to possess magical powers and provided security in time of war (in an uncanny parallel to Malima mountain in Gouria). They are still used today for religious rites by Christians, Muslims and Animists.
In the towering shadows within, bats chitter angrily at my intrusion while the few human residents who live a troglodyte existence here, contemplate or read in silence. Divorced from the reality of the world beyond the rock confines, the tranquility is at one with the rustling of the leaves and the muted birdsong. As I stop to photograph an ancient tree that has insinuated itself into the living rock, a Barn Owl slips silently onto a perch only yards from my face, unperturbed. A beautiful view of a beautiful bird. From the buttresses above, Fox Kestrels wheel on the lookout for any small rodents. All conversation, such that there is, comes out subconciously softly, as in some awe-inspiring church. My morning is complete.
Whilst chillin' for the afternoon I was joined in the shade by a group of government minor officials who checked in, followed shortly after by 3 rather pretty young ladies. Chemistry created its attractive reactions and soon the girls had grouped themselves around a table and the lads, complete with the requisite tape player pushing out Malian love songs, were sat close, but not too close. Conversation flowed at times, but when it lapsed each group was sufficiently seperated that one could sing to the music and the other discuss football; look but don't touch; yet - I I want to interact but I'm not yet sure how. Aaah, the memories of when we were young kids demonstrating the same confident-yet-shy attitudes to the other sex.
Eventually one couple paired off and went off, another sat talking too long before taking the plunge, and the third couple sat staring into space, occasionally speaking, till their mates reappeared and all three girls departed. It reminded me of a blind date in my early teens.
Have you bought a tin of sardines recently? These are a staple in W Africa and jolly useful when on the road. Only last year I could but a tin that was packed solid with 3 fish. Twice on this trip, in different sources and caught in different areas, I have opened a tin that contained 6 fish and still had room to spare. What better example of over-fishing?
Bittar Transport had my custom for the return to Bamako (on the basis that they are the only ones who haven't yet broken down on me) and we arrived early following an uneventful, 7-hour journey. I was welcomed back at the Carrefours des Jeunes for a couple of sundowners before retiring early.
At 0800 I set off to commence a journey I have wanted to do for some years, one of the last Great Railway Journeys of the World - Bamako to Dakar. I had checked previously and, yes, the Wednesday train was running every week.
"But how many days late does it run?" brought an indignant reply from the man at the Gare.
I marched into the old Colonial frontage of the station and saw that the ticket office was open:
"Good morning, I would like a couchette on this week's train, please"
"Certainly Sir, that is no problem"
"And what time must I be here on Wednesday?"
"You may come here any time on Wednesday Sir, the train this week departs on Saturday". His deadpan answer floored me. No reason for the sudden change was given, none required; this is Africa.
Ordinarily I would have accepted the delay as part of life's rich pageant but, unfortunately, it would have meant arriving in Dakar Monday, and the next, most important, phase of this year's West African Wanderings commences on Sunday. This is when my wife and daughter arrive in Dakar to see what it is that keeps on dragging their crazy husband/dad back to the Dark Continent. I am not going to jeopardise our reunion for anything. I am a little disappointed, of course, but my mind is already racing ahead to ensure the girls enjoy their two week "sampler" of West Africa.
I depart Bamako tomorrow morning on what is "scheduled" as a 36 hour bus journey.
Time will tell.
Dave
Great report...Love to try that continent some time, but seem to be stuck over in Asia, and more specifically Hainan. You let me visit vicariously though through your great reports....Xie xie, thank you.
From what i hear about that train journey, i think the Gods, (animist, christian, muslim, whatever) were actually looking out for you and you didn't take it. Another similarity with my recent journey to Churchill is a train that never arrives on time.....EVER...
Hahahahaha - reminds me of missed transport in Solomons; there they often depart a day ahead of schedule, but no-one bothers to tell you.
Great report Dave.
But yoweee - 23 bites on one patch of arm! Get yourself some oil of cloves [the stuff used for toothache]
and annoint every major joint with one drop only + one at the throat. You'll smell a little like a dentist's waiting room, but thereafter the mossies will avoid you like the plague.
trusted partner
