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—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.
* posted by Nathaniel at 11:07 AM  —  2 comments

Tambacounda, Senegal and Kayes, Mali

We inaugurated a strategy in Tambacounda about which I have mixed feelings. Peace Corps has planted houses in many of the cities we will visit; these are used as meeting places and decompression chambers for their volunteers. They tend to resemble the collective university houses of the most liberal, communal and fringe inhabiting students during sparsely populated and attired summer doldrums (to be clear, they never quite resemble hippy houses, though occasionally they push the line). They reliably contain hundreds of movies, and thousands of books and, so far, the televisions have always been on—as a result of which I have re-watched several Hollywood movies instead of wondering around Kayes.

Since retired Peace Corps Volunteers along with a tiny entourage can often use them as the cheapest and safest form of local accommodation, they are likely to feature prominently amongst our places of rest. It simplifies finding the cheapest food, cheapest drinks and the speediest internet café; but it threatens to whitewash this experience somewhat—Tuuli and I are beginning to think that sometimes it might be preferable to be lodged in a grungy room from which we are forced to seek relief on foreign streets. But the ability to leave our computer, cameras, audio equipment and money unlocked and in sight without fear is a difficult one to abandon.

We'll work out a balance along the way. As an issue, it has probably risen to artificial prominence since we are stuck in Kayes. There are three roads out of Kayes, one of which we took to get here. The second one goes southward and arrives at Bamako after passing by a hydroelectric facility where we could have thrown ourselves from some cliffs into a man-made lake. We wanted to do that very badly. But on the first 10km of that 200km route (the 10km known as "the good part") we established an average speed of about 7km an hour and exploded a rally tire, discovered our primary spare had no air, that our emergency air pump wouldn't draw electricity from the newly disconnected cigarette lighter and that our tertiary spare would look better on a scooter. This alone would have necessitated a longer stay in Kayes since we have to fix both the electrical system and our spare shortage; but the delay was already necessitated by the third road out of Kayes. That road goes directly to Bamako and is an important artery for overland shipping between Senegal and Mali. Two days ago a bridge on that road was completely washed out by strong rains. The Malian army and soldiers from an Asian country are currently supervising the reconstruction of the road and the dubious river crossing attempts of the most impatient travelers. From what we have heard, our car is probably unable to ford the gap at this time. We will fix it today and try tomorrow.

This has given me the ability to pay more attention to Kayes and this is what I have noticed: the flies in Kayes often have a couple of bright red spots growing on them like puff lichen—as if their tendency to suckle on the most putrid and festering things before landing on my skin was not disturbing enough. In Kayes they also know how to make liver taste good. Judging by appearances, they let something chew it that might have had pepper in its teeth and then spread it around a sandwich with an equal part of mayonnaise and onions. These forty cent sandwiches are stupidly good. And of course we drink the water, which has also been deliciously pure in Gambia, in Senegal and in Mali—no hint of swimming pool—straight from the tap. If Kaye is anything more than a transit stop of 200,000 people, perhaps I'll find out this afternoon.
* posted by Nathaniel at 10:16 AM  —  2 comments

Sedhiou, Casamance, Senegal

We have not covered a shockingly large amount of ground. Our departure was delayed by an attempt to persuade the ambassador of Guineau Bissau to issue us passports from his country—something we did on the advice of confidential sources who usually merit trust. Success would have saved us thousands of dollars on VISA costs, since Africans do not pay for VISAS in Africa. The ambassador proved to be quite friendly and scrupulously professional. We learned that you can only get a country's passport if you are from that country. We had to learn that because we are venal and dense.

While Sean and I were originally eager to leave the Senegambia region in which we have lived for a number of years, the beauty and approachability of southern Senegal caused a change of plans. There was no evidence of instability anywhere along our indirect route through the region, the police and military were friendly and hands off while the people, especially of Sedhiou, were hospitable, affable and fair at all of the moments when we were accustomed to being most on guard. I like being disarmed. Most people do. So we stayed for a while and developed an understanding of Senegal's national program to fight AIDS, which is impressively organized (see the article "Concerning AIDS in Senegal").

In blunt contrast to Gambia, the infrastructure of Senegal has proven dependable. We spent a couple of hours driving on busted dirt roads for the very acceptable reason that new roads were actively under construction a few meters to the left or right. Whether or not, on balance, the self-contained and relaxed, low-crime villages along the way will benefit from being put within arm's reach of the rest of us, I am not really sure. The time warp effect of traveling around a developing country can easily result in reactionary thinking.

Also, for some reason it hasn't rained on us yet, which is good because we can't figure out how to work the tarp on the roof rack. When we open the hood of our car (as we did several times to reconnect the battery wires) I am filled with terror by the massive complexity of the thing. We are trying to feed it wonderful fluids as regularly as possible; but I know it will turn on us and perhaps prove stronger.
* posted by Nathaniel at 2:41 PM  —  0 comments

It's one thirty am on the day that I'll be leaving Gambia for good and the federal government is hooking me up with some free internet time at a twenty-four hour peace corps internet cell that feels a bit too much like college. I've spent two consecutive years in this country which is the longest stretch I've had anywhere since 1999 and it's time to go. Logistics have been dominating my mind for two weeks—since work ended—and it'll be truly refreshing to wash my hands of my possessions and concerns here.

Tuuli, Sean and I have been working on our team dynamic; we've figured out how best to irritate one another and when each of us will resort to violence. We've trashed my house twice, Sean poured gasoline on my face and we have become familiar with our limitations as dancers. So, we are pretty much ready to go.

After a Canadian paramedic who was granted "all of the rights, priveleges and immunities" of a police officer helps us to smuggle our illegal right hand drive car out of the country, we will be in the southern arm of Senegal, which is called Casamance. It is probably the dodgiest patch of Africa that we will hit before Togo and we are hoping to burn through as much of it as possible during the daylight hours. The map of land mine detonations at the Concern Universal office provides a fairly colorful connect the dots idea of our route and I have been preparing French phrases of rebel solidarity with which to charm any armed men who decide we are driving too fast. Independence pour Casamance! Les autre Senegalaise sont canards!
* posted by Nathaniel at 6:27 PM  —  0 comments