WAW 14

I had a pleasant 9 hour ride to Bamako courtesy of Bittar Teansport - even slept a few hours! Having checked into the Catholic Mission once more I spent the evening on the upper terrace of the Carrefours des Jeunes, nursing a Castel and watching the lightning flashing over the Presidential Palace perched on its rocky promontary above the city's pollution. It was pleasantly cool too, at 35°C, after the 40°+ of the last couple of weeks.

Aprés le deluge, a taxi splashed through the pleasantly clean air (that lasted until the first hour of "rush hour" and deposited me at the embassy of Cote d'Ivoire, where I wished to see their amazing Basilica. The staff were havung a lie in _ Akuna Matada.

Well. I'm used to things going wrong, but what happened next rather p**d me off somewhat. When all was up and running at last the consular minion who interviewed me continued to frown as I answered all his demands. Yes, I have an onward ticket, yes I have more dammned funds than he ever will, I can get all the photocopies of passport, yellow fever card, hotel reservation (this is the first time I have ever been asked for such details) but it all fell off the rails when I reiterated I wanted the 5-country visa touristique entente. "It doesn't exist. We have never issued one". Despite my having obtained said visa from this same office 2 years ago, he wouldn't budge. He also refused to allow me access to the Ambassador to discuss the problem. That's bloody Africa!

In the market I couldn't find the shorts I wanted but a walk through the nearby rail yard proved suitably distracting. The decrepit sheds that once held the massed produce from the pride of French Soudan for export around the world are falling apart, their holed roofs barely conering the nefarious deals that now take place within. Alongside, a line of boxcars , wheels welded to the rails with rust, are home to some of the Malian state's failures. No Guthrie and his hobo chums making everlasting Blues music here; these hopeless cases await their own end of the line in pitiful silence.

The famed Buffet de la Gare, venue of so many class musical bands of yore, is still open; just. I inveigled a cold beer from a girl who dragged her flip flopped heels in obvious reluctance to raise herself from the corner bench on which she reposed. Of the handful of other patrons, all were Muslim, hiding their alcoholic cravings from the Grand Mosqée, a piece of crass, Saudi architecture that looms at the end of the street. The great music, for which this bar was justifiably proud, comes now from a tv.

I think I'll head south for a couple of days, to Sikasso. I don't know what the town has to offer - I've never been there - but it must have cleaner air than Bamako.

Dave

Keep going, and we'll keep reading!

Happy wandering.

I am now addicted to your reports. Keep them coming, please.

Another junkie here ...