Saturday, August 13, 2005
Boromo, Burkina Faso
The Stingray had been spitting out noxious black fumes from the exhaust since we had left the sprawling urban metropolis of Bobo at noon. Refusing to keep a constant speed, the Stingray, our lifeline, was acting erratically, randomly speeding up and slowing down without sense or reason. Fuel was being consumed faster than fish balls at a Mandinka wedding ceremony. The sky, cluttering with dark and imposing clouds, must have figured this to be an opportune time to bless us with a torrent of water. Nate quickly said a prayer to Geebus, patron saint of busted cars and little square pegs. After successfully pulling off the two-minute tarp drill, we were back on the road with our overhead baggage protected from the elements. It seemed that at least in Burkina Faso, Geebus was on our side. However, Tuuli, insanely driving like Dale Earnhard Jr hopped up on bitter cola nuts and attaya, in the process of guiding the Stingray into the transit town of Boromo ensured that our tarp would be in tattered ruins upon arrival.
Famed for its elephants, we were sure Boromo also had to have a decent mechanic or two in town. We happily puttered into the first hotel we saw and, removing the plastic scraps that remained from our shredded tarp, unloaded our soaking wet bags from the roof rack and arranged for a mechanic to meet us in the morning. After surveying the hotel premises, which consisted of a spacious out-door patio surrounding a senseless cement platform, we hung our clothes out to dry and fell quickly into bed.
The next morning we were awoken early by the mechanics that we had ordered the night before. They fiddled with the engine a bit and finally decided that the spark plugs were the problem and needed changing. They removed the sparkplugs one by one, sanded the corrosive soot that had accumulated on the tips, and put them back into the engine. Upon restarting the car, the black smoke vanished quicker than a World Bank loan. Sure that the Stingray was only temporarily fixed and that this was a symptom of some even greater problem, I nodded in agreement with the mechanics, confident that my second grade level auto-mechanic suspicions would be validated in Ouagadougou, only a few hours away.
However, still in Boromo and with what we were told was a wonderful opportunity to see elephants by a twelve year old budding guide, we headed into the bush once again in the Stingray. Under the circumstances, this seemed a completely sensible decision. Obviously, how could one expect a vehicle to hold up on properly paved roads if it could not handle a 15 kilometer half submerged muddy trail through dense bush. Even the young guide understood this and repeatedly informed us that with his ten years experience guiding a donkey cart around this very same bush, he was clearly the best person to drive the Stingray. As right as he was, we still declined the offer and made it without incidence to the lodge that would undoubtedly be swarming with elephants. The central part of the lodge, consisting of a long covered terrace built locally out of wood with a bamboo bar in the corner overlooking a sizable river, was empty when we arrived, save for a small child intently fixing a dilapidated refrigerator. During the next hour, we sat and waited. The river flowed, the child continued to natter with the refrigerator and the bush continued to remain elephantless. This droning spell was finally broken when an elderly man from the lodge appeared to inform us that no elephants would likely be seen anywhere in the area at this time of year. We packed back into the Stingray, dropped our young guide off in Boromo and headed to Ouagadougou.
The Stingray had been spitting out noxious black fumes from the exhaust since we had left the sprawling urban metropolis of Bobo at noon. Refusing to keep a constant speed, the Stingray, our lifeline, was acting erratically, randomly speeding up and slowing down without sense or reason. Fuel was being consumed faster than fish balls at a Mandinka wedding ceremony. The sky, cluttering with dark and imposing clouds, must have figured this to be an opportune time to bless us with a torrent of water. Nate quickly said a prayer to Geebus, patron saint of busted cars and little square pegs. After successfully pulling off the two-minute tarp drill, we were back on the road with our overhead baggage protected from the elements. It seemed that at least in Burkina Faso, Geebus was on our side. However, Tuuli, insanely driving like Dale Earnhard Jr hopped up on bitter cola nuts and attaya, in the process of guiding the Stingray into the transit town of Boromo ensured that our tarp would be in tattered ruins upon arrival.
Famed for its elephants, we were sure Boromo also had to have a decent mechanic or two in town. We happily puttered into the first hotel we saw and, removing the plastic scraps that remained from our shredded tarp, unloaded our soaking wet bags from the roof rack and arranged for a mechanic to meet us in the morning. After surveying the hotel premises, which consisted of a spacious out-door patio surrounding a senseless cement platform, we hung our clothes out to dry and fell quickly into bed.
The next morning we were awoken early by the mechanics that we had ordered the night before. They fiddled with the engine a bit and finally decided that the spark plugs were the problem and needed changing. They removed the sparkplugs one by one, sanded the corrosive soot that had accumulated on the tips, and put them back into the engine. Upon restarting the car, the black smoke vanished quicker than a World Bank loan. Sure that the Stingray was only temporarily fixed and that this was a symptom of some even greater problem, I nodded in agreement with the mechanics, confident that my second grade level auto-mechanic suspicions would be validated in Ouagadougou, only a few hours away.
However, still in Boromo and with what we were told was a wonderful opportunity to see elephants by a twelve year old budding guide, we headed into the bush once again in the Stingray. Under the circumstances, this seemed a completely sensible decision. Obviously, how could one expect a vehicle to hold up on properly paved roads if it could not handle a 15 kilometer half submerged muddy trail through dense bush. Even the young guide understood this and repeatedly informed us that with his ten years experience guiding a donkey cart around this very same bush, he was clearly the best person to drive the Stingray. As right as he was, we still declined the offer and made it without incidence to the lodge that would undoubtedly be swarming with elephants. The central part of the lodge, consisting of a long covered terrace built locally out of wood with a bamboo bar in the corner overlooking a sizable river, was empty when we arrived, save for a small child intently fixing a dilapidated refrigerator. During the next hour, we sat and waited. The river flowed, the child continued to natter with the refrigerator and the bush continued to remain elephantless. This droning spell was finally broken when an elderly man from the lodge appeared to inform us that no elephants would likely be seen anywhere in the area at this time of year. We packed back into the Stingray, dropped our young guide off in Boromo and headed to Ouagadougou.
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