In Koubri, we meet Boston’s good friend Abdalai. He lives in a small one-room, one-bed house. Jean and I camp outside in my tent – we pitch it on the ground in front of the house. Next to the entrance door – a corrugated iron sheet – stands a small wooden bench. We spend most of our time there by the house, practice djembe for hours at the time. Over by the road, a café sells rice with peanut sauce for 100 CFA (about 20 US cent) and another café makes sandwiches with omelet for about the same price.

The wind swirls up dust that fills the air; dims the sun. For much of the day, the light is not much stronger than the of a full moon during the night. There are barely any shadows. It is the harmattan – a yearly northeasterly wind in West Africa, which occurs from December to February. The wind carries with it dust and sand from the Sahara desert towards the Gulf of Guinea.

Cinema

“There are two TVs in the same village – two cinemas,” Abdalai tells us with great enthusiasm, as if it is unusual for a village to house more than one TV. He shows us to the one he regards as the better one. We pay 50 CFA each in entrance to the small room. Eight rows of mud benches rise from the ground, as if natural parts of the mud floor. The walls, too, are made of mud. Above us a thatched roof. A 28 inch TV glows from one short side of the room. Playing tonight is a quite terrible karate movie – the movie constantly skips and the colors are reddish throughout. The volume is turned up as loud as possible; the sound is shrieking harsh.

For most people the audience though, the movie is a rare opportunity to see something new and possibly unknown – the quality is not very important. I and Jean leave after some half an hour – discover the village instead, which is new and unknown to us.

New Year’s Eve

The kids roam the streets; burn off firecrackers. In the evening, I visit the village’s church. Some kids rehearse for a stage play they’ll do later the same evening, but they let me butt in and try one of their four locally made electric guitars. Jean also comes by, and together we play and sing for a while. Later, we return to watch the show, but it’s played in their local language, so we don’t understand much.

Half an hour or so before midnight, we fall asleep at home and don’t wake up before the following morning. It is the first time that I’ve overslept a New Year’s. New priorities here as compared to in Sweden.

I on the bike – Boston and Jean in a taxi. We keep much the same speed thanks to some heavy traffic jams in suburban Ouaga. By dusk we’ve reach just the outskirts of town, and overnight at a house belonging to one of Boston’s friends. We will continue to the village the next day. Boston translates Quartier Le Tremplin D’Accueil – the name of the suburb – to: “The place to where you are welcome before you reach.”

During the past few days, I and Jean have been given djembe lessons by Boston and others at Nayac. We practice for maybe three hours each day – fun at first when progress is quite fast. Tomorrow, Boston, Jean and I will travel to small village Koubri, thirty kilometers south of the capital. We plan to stay there for maybe a week and continue practicing. From there, I will continue cycling towards Ghana – only little more than 150 kilometers further south.

I’ve experienced Ouagadougou as the best major town so far on the journey: relaxed atmosphere, numerous pleasant bars and kind people. Far form what one guidebook described as “an overgrown village with way too many goats.”

Things have really calmed down now – life seems to continue as usual. I change the gunshots of recent days for the chanting beat of djembes (traditional drums). Frenchman Jean, who stays at the same hostel as I, takes me with to local organization Nayac.

Nayac’s objective is to enable people from all over the world to see and learn African culture – music, dancing and painting. They also arrange daily classes through which they teach traditional instruments to local children, so that they in turn will be able to pass on the tradition. We stay for hours, listening – first to when the young boys are taught, and then to when the teachers jam together. Great atmosphere!

Yesterday another curfew. Officially from four p.m., but the streets were empty only by dusk, and even then there was no problem to move around. When all the other guests went to bed by midnight, I was so restless that I was able to persuade one of the hostel staff to join me out on a jog. Just a few blocks away and then back again. Some stray dogs made us company; a group of men sat in a street corner watching a small TV. We didn’t see any military or police, and there was no gunfire at all during the night.

In the morning, I go for a walk; have a coffee at one of the cafés nearby. I meet a French guy who lives in town, and get to hear more stories about the day before. The military destroyed the prison wall using tanks; three or four prisoners escaped. There has been a dispute between the police and military for a long time, about who has the most power, and yesterdays’ conflict was sparked by a military being shot dead by police. The president, whom was yesterday at a conference in Mali, has probably returned by now. What seems certain is that the military feels as if getting too little respect from the police, and that they simply roamed town yesterday evening to demonstrate their power.

I walk past Avenue Nkrumah again, and then down to the police station. Bullet holes are scattered over the whole façade; there has been fire from inside, sooting the wall above. Loads of police men stand outside, below the plastic “Police Commissariat”-sign, which has also been shot into pieces. Their posture clearly expresses a loss of pride following the past nights’ events. A burnt out car stands across the road; cartridge cases lie scattered over the street.

Anyway, most people seem confident that things will be calm tonight. Some ministers have urged for restraint, says BBC News. And in either case we now have Christmas lights at the hostel, which one of the guests has bought, and we can always stock up with food and drinks for another late evening would there be another curfew.

Moreover it is interesting how well foreigners seem to have been treated by both the military and police. We were told about some who were stranded in town yesterday when the shooting begun, whom were kindly escorted to their hotel by police/military.

External links

BBC News: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/6199983.stm
Alertnet: www.alertnet.org/thenews/newsdesk/L20701982.htm
Alertnet: www.alertnet.org/thenews/newsdesk/L21835180.htm
Alertnet: www.alertnet.org/thenews/newsdesk/L21835037.htm

On my way back to the youth hostel from having been at the post office, walking through town down Avenue Nkrumah (named after Ghana’s first president), I meet people running in the other direction. One of them quickly halts and advices me to also turn back, “The police is beating people with batons.” I start walking back, but at the same time get curious to see what’s happening. I walk down to the closest parallel street below Nkrumah. I every crossing, people have gathered to look at what’s happening at Avenue Nkrumah. But what looks like military soon moves down these streets too, trying to scatter the crowds and keep them from watching.

Back at the hostel, everything is calm as if nothing has happened. But come afternoon, the staff urges all guests not to move around town during the evening and night. At dusk, the radio confirms that the government has decided to impose a curfew from 7.30 p.m. The staff helps us in buying some necessities so to get a good evening anyway: bread, beer and cigarettes from a nearby shop – still open despite the approaching troubles. Even until an hour or so past curfew, we can hear vehicles and people moving about on the streets outside.

Then, we begin to hear the dull sound of gunshots from far away. As the evening moves forward, the rounds of gunfire come closer and closer, and grow in intensity. The rumors are many throughout the evening and night, and what is true and not is difficult to know. We are told that it is the military and the police that is fighting with eachother following an earlier dispute. Someone says that it all got started when a military who tried to enter a show with a false ticket was turned away by the police. When he then started a fight, he was arrested and put in prison for three days. He was released only a few days ago, and quickly gained support form the rest of the army. Another rumor claims that three soldiers in civilian clothes were recently shot dead by police at a road block; the latter unknowing of shooting military. New rumors and news keep coming from the occasional passersby, and through phone calls to the staff:

20:49: All inmates at the city’s main prison have escaped.

20:52: It is ‘only’ the small prison.

21:00: Four people dead, but no civilians.

The gunshots can now be heard more loud and sharp, as if fired just around the corner.

21:15: Loud bang, long silence and then continuous shooting.

I stand by the entrance to the youth hostel, a man passes by outside and we have a short conversation:
– Bonjour! How are you?
– Great! And you?
– Good. But it’s a bit bad tonight uh?
– Nah, It’s the music! The music to scare the mosquitoes away!
Then laughter, and somehow this conversation sums up how most locals seem to take it: with calm and humor. But on the other hand that is how most problems are dealt with here.

21:30: Another loud bang, then more gunshots.

21:37: The airport has closed.

23:00: A boy passes by and tells us that there are mostly military on the streets, and that they’re just shooting in the air. The police had been forewarned that the conflict would escalate in the evening, and been able to retreat. The boy had also seen people walk the streets handcuffed – escapees from the prison.

Ten minutes later, the police robs the small boutique nearby. We go to bed around midnight; gunshots still ringing out over the city.

In the morning, Clemont sets off to the market fifteen kilometers away to sell medicine from China. “Does it work?” I ask him. “A little!” he replies, making the expression that business is business. I continue towards the capital Ouagadougou in company of a Burkinabe that is heading the same way. Never before have I met a local whom cycles with me so far – moreover quite fast. We reach ‘Ouaga’ by five or so, and Lina is still around. She will be flying to Senegal the following morning, so we have a last beer together at a nearby drinking hole.

We stay at Foundation Charles Dufour – one of the cheaper hostels in town: 3,000 CFA per night for a bed in the dormitory. The institution was founded by a French soldier with the same name, who recognized the need of help to the town’s many street kids. He started off by helping eight kids – current manager Adama one of them. The main building of the youth hostel now lies in what used to be Charles Dufour’s private home. A cramped dormitory, a couple of double rooms, a kitchen and a cozy, small inner yard.

Just before Koudougou, I meet rastafarian Clemont who invites me to stay at his home. It is a small house with only two rooms. In there, the walls are decorated with posters of Bob Marley, Peter Tosh and Barça. It smells welcoming from incense.

I invite him to share some pasta with vegetable sauce for dinner, and he makes tea afterwards. We cook the pasta in one of his sooty cast iron pots over a charcoal fire. We sit until late at night outside, chatting with some friends of Clemons. Tea, and then again more tea. Clemonts own recipe: the first round very strong, the second one with peanuts to it as snacks and the third one with fresh lemon juice in it.

I made a really delicious lunch this day – a good pasta with a sauce of tomatoes, onions and okra. Vegetables here taste so much more – tomatoes feels like eating for the very first time. The ones at home (usually imported from Spain or the like) tastes like water in comparison.

Anyway I made a little bit too much food and after finishing I still have some left in the pot. I don’t like throwing food away, so I keep it in the pot and let it balance on my steering and handlebar bag as I continue cycling carefully. Then, just a few minutes later, two boys come walking along the road in the other direction. It turns out that they are carrying each an empty metal can, actually looking for donations of food. So they are really happy for my spaghetti with tomato sauce. After I’ve put it in their cans, one of them takes my pot and washes it for me. There is no water, but he picks up a small piece of paper from the roadside, and uses it as a dish brush. Never before and never since have I met people along the road begging for food, so the fate of meeting them today when I had some food to share really gave me a smile for the rest of the day!

I once again stay at a Catholic mission, this time in Dédougou. A man, also on bicycle, makes me company during the last half hour. Past the big cotton factory just before town, where pieces of cotton lie scattered; cover the ground and the surrounding bush. Cotton is one of Burkina Faso’s main export products. The mission in Dédougou is a bit eerie. I get a three-bed dormitory to myself; rats in walls and roof keep me awake till late at night.

After some fifteen kilometers, the tarred road ends and a dirt road, which will continue for another 300 or so kilometers, begins. The border to Burkina Faso is very quiet. I even have to instruct the Mali official to put an exit stamp in my passport – he first thought that it wasn’t necessary. “Is this one OK?” he asks me as he fumbles through a pile of stamps; showing them for me one after the other. I choose (!) a stamp and then continue to cycle the ten kilometers of no man’s land that lies between the two border posts. In the very first town of the new land, I make my way to the police station where I get my entrance stamp. I had already obtained the visa at the Burkina Faso embassy in Bamako.

In Bomborikuy (Bombourkuy), a huge cathedral attracts my attention. I stop to chat with some locals outside, and one of them – active in the church community – invites me to stay the night at their mission. I get a private room with a shower and a sink, and a mosquito net above the bed. In the evening, a play is arranged on the steps in-front of the entrance to the cathedral. The church’s youngest members invites everyone to watch them play drums, sing and dance in the moonlight. Inside the church, the sharp, cool light from a bare strip lamp shines up the empty interior. For the occasion, they’ve carried the church benches outside and lined them up on the sandy yard in-front. There are mostly children from the village in the audience. The love, laughters and joy is just overwhelming. It fills me, too. Beautiful!

They still play when the priest and two of his colleagues from the church invites me to dinner: sweet potato chips and a salty soup of tiny fishes from a nearby river. When I finally go to sleep, I can still hear the drums over by the church. It’s beautiful beyond description. Imagine if all the children in a Swedish village would come together in the evening to dance and play drums?

The next morning, I’m invited to breakfast. I donate 2,000 CFA as a thanks for everything before I continue.

In the afternoon, Lina takes the bus to Ouagadougou. She will fly from there to Senegal, where she’ll meet her parents for a three week long vacation together. Later, she’ll also spend some time with a friend in Ghana. I continue by myself, and we plan to meet again somewhere southeast of Burkina Faso. My first night alone is in small village Somo, next to some bike mechanics’ home and workshop. Early sleep.

Summary Mali
Mali – a huge country in the very centre of West Africa, both geographically and historically. The country is famous for towns like Djenné and Timbuktu, classic African musicians like Salif Keita, Tourmani Diabaté and Ali Farka Touré and modern ones like Tinariwen and Amadou et Mariam. Truly, the country can carry the conception amongst some, that it contains the essence of Africa in one single nation. From its music to its calm and respectful people.

But as huge as Mali is, as difficult is it to give the country a fair description from ‘just’ having passed through from west to east. For us, it was quite monotonous and boring. Long distances, and midway through the country the worst capital yet to visit. We had difficulties enjoying Bamako – a traffic jammed city split in two by the Niger River. It didn’t feel safe enough to stroll around at night, and besides didn’t have much city life except for the somewhat bigger shops. There were few open-air cafés and bars – the kind you appreciate as a visitor, with the possibility to observe people and environment around you.

Despite the rather dull experience of the capital, and the environment in general, we experienced some memorable meetings. Amongst them Paul – an Australian gold miner with roots in Zimbabwe. He sponsored us with a four-night, four-star hotel stay in Kayes. The four stars didn’t matter as much as did Paul’s warm humor and good company. Late nights in the bar playing pool; Creedence Clearwater Revival in the stereo.

I hope to be able to see more of Mali’s huge land next time. Despite a few less interesting days, each such is worth those on which you end up sleeping under the stars. With the fresh air, gently breezing you through the night. Where silence is so complete that you can hear it, and where people are so predictably human that you’ve got nothing to worry about. The definition of peace.

Moussa, a young man also on bicycle, takes us with to a friends compound in Yangasso, where we get to camp.

Eight kilometers before the village Tunah (Tonah, Tuna), right next to the road, is an open compound of about a dozen clay huts with thatched roofs – seemingly scattered at random. We arrive around five in the afternoon. There are only a few children and a woman. Nobody speaks French. An hour later, a few men and women arrive on a moped. They allow us to camp on the ground in-between the huts. They give us water to filter, drink and boil pasta in. The atmosphere is very quiet, but kind.