Saturday, July 30, 2005
Kayes, Bush and Bamako. Mali.
Instead of touring Kayes in any desirable fashion, I spent four hours with Tuuli and a driver named Vieux trying to repair the car's electrical system and starter and then purchasing tires and inner tubes. This involved the enjoyable experience of driving up to auto workers in a vintage car that prompts whistling and pleasurable sighs and then several embarrassing hours of being joked about in Pulaar following the car's decision to crap out in front of everyone, also lots of pantomime and green tea. Hustling around in this manner during the hundred degree heat of midafternoon eradicated any motivation I had to explore the town later that evening and increased my joy when we departed for Bamako the following morning
Twenty was closer. After Tuuli burned forty liters of fuel at an average speed of eighty miles an hour in one well paved stretch of perhaps three hundred kilometers, I took the wheel for the decimated road (starring the washed out bridge) that constitutes the central third of the Kayes to Bamako journey. Mathematics indicates that I averaged about fifteen kilometers an hour and the odometer revealed dozens of miles beyond the official distance, which we accumulated by zigzagging on and off the road and reversing out of untenable situations to find alternate routes. The main road was washboard, which is absolutely miserable in anything that isn't enormous or four wheel drive, so I drove almost completely on the improvised and irregular paths that run below and alongside the main road. I absolutely love driving like this and feel that the car handled admirably, though the metal roof rack began to come apart at the seams from the stress of swaying and bouncing around as much as it did
As evening approached it became quite clear that we had no chance of reaching Bamako before dark so we scanned for a place to camp that was accessible from but invisible to the main road. We were fortunate to find an ideal spot behind a hillock with some softer ground to set beneath our tents. Miserably, Tuuli's tent was missing its rain jacket, which meant we would have to use the tarp of the roof rack as a sort of makeshift rain shelter when the thunder storm from which we had been running for the last ten hours finally caught up with us. We cooked tuna, sun dried tomato and soy sauce rice while the wind up radio iterated all of the latest explosions and something about a conference of harpists.
Just after dark, when we were finding the most comfortable positions in which to sleep, the powerful pre-storm winds destroyed the shelter we had prepared for Tuuli with their first blast, causing it to collapse noisily onto her tent in a manner that made her shriek in distress, claiming to have been "nearly impaled". Sean and I ran around in our boxer shorts in the pelting rain, removing the tires from the car's roof and using them to create a more securely anchored but less spacious shelter. Nobody was tired any longer so we decided to play gin rummy and drink brandy while the radio dramatized an ebola outbreak.
Aside from about ten minutes of paranoia when I stalked around our campsite with a bashing stick in a failed attempt to discover the source of soft but substantive nearby animal footsteps (independently feared and verified by tent number two), I slept wonderfully. (We heard and feared hyenas and know that wild cats also patrol the area.) The following day Tuuli drove the remainder of the dirt road, rendered even less passable by the night's rain. I sat completely gripped by Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, folded into the backseat of the car with no sense of being in Africa whatsoever.
We reached Bamako at noon and our Lonely Planet map wasted no time in failing us completely. Everybody gave us directions and nobody knew what the hell they were talking about, until somebody did and we got there. The Catholic Mission encloses a peaceful courtyard in the center of the most bustling, market stall dominated section of town, within easy reach of the major shared taxi routes. For about twenty cents these vehicles will violate your personal space, assault most of your senses and deposit you quite near to your destination.
We spent the afternoon productively, wasted the evening, ate delicious street food (couscous, okra, egg, onion and meat chunks) and then slept. Today (July 26th) was dominated by the task of acquiring visas to Burkina Faso. The Lonely Planet was kind enough to direct us three kilometers in the wrong direction, all of which we covered on foot through the heart of town. This is now my favorite West African city: partially because of the omnipresent and phenomenal street food, partly for its absurd human and vehicular density, largely because nobody here pays undue attention to the color of my skin and also for the variety and size of its neighborhoods. Taxis waited by the former location of the Burkina embassy to shuttle misdirected people to the opposite side of town where the building now resides.
After we completed our paper work and paid fifty dollars each, we were instructed to clear out and return two hours later. We wondered off toward a restaurant we had noticed on the way in and stumbled upon a gem of a place. The Bar De L'Air, adjascent to the Monument de la Paix, was a compound dominated by militaristic mural paintings and dozens of relaxing soldiers, police, and uniformed men. There were no seats under the bantabas outside and nobody gave a damn that we were standing awkwardly at the center of everything so we slunk into the Bar Climatisse that filled the compound's corner in order to enjoy the air conditioning and find chairs. It was the darkest ashtray of a bar I have ever set foot in in my life. I couldn't see a thing for at least four minutes. The seedy and naked red bulb in the far corner of the room did not shed enough light for us to identify the sources of all the human noise around us and all of the noises were close. We remained on principle, blundering into the leopard print slouching couches closest to the door and ordered the smallest beers available with the intention of staying just long enough to prove that we weren't afraid of the place.
However, the television proved too magnetic. The pan African entertainment channel began broadcasting a program that had been filmed at the exact location where we had been hassled by the military for taking photographs earlier that afternoon. The host, attired like every emulator of inner city, black American culture, explained that he was going to offer a look at Malian hip hop. On the whole, hip hop has been exploding all throughout West Africa and probably everywhere else. Tuuli, Sean and I intend to collect recordings of hip hop artists in all the countries through which we pass and we were eager to watch the videos of B.U.B.A, Babu, Adek and others. Eventually it became clear that the other inhabitants of the bar were officer types, not particularly interested in the television, generally occupied with eating skewered goat cubes and occasionally throwing puzzled glances in our direction. We stayed for about two hours, watched many entertaining videos, ate some good food and walked back to the embassy, by which time our visas were completed.
Now it's time to fix the roof rack and make some telephone calls.
Instead of touring Kayes in any desirable fashion, I spent four hours with Tuuli and a driver named Vieux trying to repair the car's electrical system and starter and then purchasing tires and inner tubes. This involved the enjoyable experience of driving up to auto workers in a vintage car that prompts whistling and pleasurable sighs and then several embarrassing hours of being joked about in Pulaar following the car's decision to crap out in front of everyone, also lots of pantomime and green tea. Hustling around in this manner during the hundred degree heat of midafternoon eradicated any motivation I had to explore the town later that evening and increased my joy when we departed for Bamako the following morning
—having been given estimates of the journey's duration ranging from seven hours to twenty.Twenty was closer. After Tuuli burned forty liters of fuel at an average speed of eighty miles an hour in one well paved stretch of perhaps three hundred kilometers, I took the wheel for the decimated road (starring the washed out bridge) that constitutes the central third of the Kayes to Bamako journey. Mathematics indicates that I averaged about fifteen kilometers an hour and the odometer revealed dozens of miles beyond the official distance, which we accumulated by zigzagging on and off the road and reversing out of untenable situations to find alternate routes. The main road was washboard, which is absolutely miserable in anything that isn't enormous or four wheel drive, so I drove almost completely on the improvised and irregular paths that run below and alongside the main road. I absolutely love driving like this and feel that the car handled admirably, though the metal roof rack began to come apart at the seams from the stress of swaying and bouncing around as much as it did
—I do not intend to be a member of the delegation that visits welders in Bamako to correct this problem.As evening approached it became quite clear that we had no chance of reaching Bamako before dark so we scanned for a place to camp that was accessible from but invisible to the main road. We were fortunate to find an ideal spot behind a hillock with some softer ground to set beneath our tents. Miserably, Tuuli's tent was missing its rain jacket, which meant we would have to use the tarp of the roof rack as a sort of makeshift rain shelter when the thunder storm from which we had been running for the last ten hours finally caught up with us. We cooked tuna, sun dried tomato and soy sauce rice while the wind up radio iterated all of the latest explosions and something about a conference of harpists.
Just after dark, when we were finding the most comfortable positions in which to sleep, the powerful pre-storm winds destroyed the shelter we had prepared for Tuuli with their first blast, causing it to collapse noisily onto her tent in a manner that made her shriek in distress, claiming to have been "nearly impaled". Sean and I ran around in our boxer shorts in the pelting rain, removing the tires from the car's roof and using them to create a more securely anchored but less spacious shelter. Nobody was tired any longer so we decided to play gin rummy and drink brandy while the radio dramatized an ebola outbreak.
Aside from about ten minutes of paranoia when I stalked around our campsite with a bashing stick in a failed attempt to discover the source of soft but substantive nearby animal footsteps (independently feared and verified by tent number two), I slept wonderfully. (We heard and feared hyenas and know that wild cats also patrol the area.) The following day Tuuli drove the remainder of the dirt road, rendered even less passable by the night's rain. I sat completely gripped by Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, folded into the backseat of the car with no sense of being in Africa whatsoever.
We reached Bamako at noon and our Lonely Planet map wasted no time in failing us completely. Everybody gave us directions and nobody knew what the hell they were talking about, until somebody did and we got there. The Catholic Mission encloses a peaceful courtyard in the center of the most bustling, market stall dominated section of town, within easy reach of the major shared taxi routes. For about twenty cents these vehicles will violate your personal space, assault most of your senses and deposit you quite near to your destination.
We spent the afternoon productively, wasted the evening, ate delicious street food (couscous, okra, egg, onion and meat chunks) and then slept. Today (July 26th) was dominated by the task of acquiring visas to Burkina Faso. The Lonely Planet was kind enough to direct us three kilometers in the wrong direction, all of which we covered on foot through the heart of town. This is now my favorite West African city: partially because of the omnipresent and phenomenal street food, partly for its absurd human and vehicular density, largely because nobody here pays undue attention to the color of my skin and also for the variety and size of its neighborhoods. Taxis waited by the former location of the Burkina embassy to shuttle misdirected people to the opposite side of town where the building now resides.
After we completed our paper work and paid fifty dollars each, we were instructed to clear out and return two hours later. We wondered off toward a restaurant we had noticed on the way in and stumbled upon a gem of a place. The Bar De L'Air, adjascent to the Monument de la Paix, was a compound dominated by militaristic mural paintings and dozens of relaxing soldiers, police, and uniformed men. There were no seats under the bantabas outside and nobody gave a damn that we were standing awkwardly at the center of everything so we slunk into the Bar Climatisse that filled the compound's corner in order to enjoy the air conditioning and find chairs. It was the darkest ashtray of a bar I have ever set foot in in my life. I couldn't see a thing for at least four minutes. The seedy and naked red bulb in the far corner of the room did not shed enough light for us to identify the sources of all the human noise around us and all of the noises were close. We remained on principle, blundering into the leopard print slouching couches closest to the door and ordered the smallest beers available with the intention of staying just long enough to prove that we weren't afraid of the place.
However, the television proved too magnetic. The pan African entertainment channel began broadcasting a program that had been filmed at the exact location where we had been hassled by the military for taking photographs earlier that afternoon. The host, attired like every emulator of inner city, black American culture, explained that he was going to offer a look at Malian hip hop. On the whole, hip hop has been exploding all throughout West Africa and probably everywhere else. Tuuli, Sean and I intend to collect recordings of hip hop artists in all the countries through which we pass and we were eager to watch the videos of B.U.B.A, Babu, Adek and others. Eventually it became clear that the other inhabitants of the bar were officer types, not particularly interested in the television, generally occupied with eating skewered goat cubes and occasionally throwing puzzled glances in our direction. We stayed for about two hours, watched many entertaining videos, ate some good food and walked back to the embassy, by which time our visas were completed.
Now it's time to fix the roof rack and make some telephone calls.
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