Of
course, we had the option to fly but decided against this for two
reasons. For one it felt like cheating and we could not justify
spending an additional $300 to avoid the inconvenience of a shitty
bus ride. And, more importantly, the safety record of local airlines
is less than stellar. In fact Mauritanian Airlines has
been blacklisted by
the USA and European Union. So our choices were to either risk
getting kidnapped or crashing into dirt at 500 mph. Potatoe. Potato.
We
went with kidnapping. Were we really that worried about this? No.
We'd spoken with some folks that had made the trip and others that
told us that on a bus full of passengers no one was likely to have
the balls to abscond with two foreigners.....probably. In the end we
had no problem, at least with religious radicals or kidnappers.
We
bought our tickets for the Magical Mystery Tour the previous day. The
gentleman at the ticket counter told us to be there at 5 am for a
5:30 am departure. Our taxi driver picked us up at 4 am but as there
was no sign of traffic (or life for that matter) we arrived at 4:30
am and began waiting. We sat in silence and stared at the bus. Then
each other. Then the bus again. People finally started to show up and
we got underway close to 7 am.
Like
most buses we've encountered in this region ours appeared to be built
with air conditioning in mind. Perhaps at one time in the bus's long,
long history it actually possessed it. Perhaps not. The windows do
not open leaving only two roof slits for ventilation, unless you
count the doors or the driver's window (which never seemed to be
open). If you enjoy feeling like you are constantly on the edge of
suffocation then I highly recommend this journey. In one respect we
were lucky. It could have been summer. I cannot even begin to imagine
the kind of hell this ride must be during July or August. 'Hell'
would probably be a refreshing diversion in that scenario. Hell for
locals? It appears not to be the case. I am inclined to think many in
the region even find November temperatures 'chilly'.
Although
the journey took 40 hours 11 of those were spent sitting at the
border (Mauirtania/Mali) with our thumbs securely up our asses. We
arrived around 1 am in the morning and before I knew what was
happening I'd handed someone my passport and was shuffled off the bus
into the darkness. When I finally regained my senses I realized that
we were standing on the Mauritanian side of the border with nary a
clue. Not two minutes after kicking us off the bus the doors were
closed and the lights were out. Apparently allowing passengers to
sleep on the bus (as opposed to in the dirt) is simply out of the
question. Before me was a long line of folks sleeping on the ground
in anticipation of the border opening. Not only did the group include
those on our bus but there was a group that had come from Mali that
had been waiting since 4 pm. I guess we were all in it together.
Misery loves company. We had a lot of company.
Some
guy skulking in the darkness asked us if we wished to change ouguyias
(Mauritania) to CFAs (Mali). At 1 am in the morning? Seriously? I was
in no mood. Our larger sacks (mine containing my sleeping bag) were
beneath the bus. We had the clothes we were wearing and our smaller
packs with valuables. Nada mas. So we stood there in disbelief and
pondered our lot. Mr. Currency Exchange told us there was an auberge
close by but it was not immediately identifiable. When I did manage
to locate it in the distance it did not appear to be all that
salubrious. I figured it would be better to stick with the group. It
included a small gaggle of young local men with nowhere to sleep, no
mats, no blankets, no nothing. They congregated around a small fire
for warmth. I thought maybe it was overkill (fire in the desert?) but
was happy to have a source of light. And then it got a bit brisk. The
desert has a way of going from zero to nippy in the course of
minutes. We'd noticed this during our stint in the Mauritanian
desert. It's just downright kooky.
So
Leslie and I huddled in the dirt with nothing but light clothing, a
Tuareg scarf I'd purchased in Mauritania, and a towel a kind older
gentleman loaned us when he noticed Leslie shivering. Not exactly
like sleeping on a Sealy Posturepedic mattress. I may have nodded off
for 15 minutes or so. Maybe.
The
gentleman that kicked us off the bus told us the border would open at
6 am. Nuh-uh. We arose in the morning light, fantasized about finding
a chiropractor, and began waiting…again. We passed time by watching
an eccentric Ghanaian engage in bizarre acts of Tom Foolery. He
approached carrying a plastic bowl filled with live puppies,
presumably the offspring of the two canines following him around. He
deposited them on the ground and walked off to conduct some kind of
important business involving a plastic bowl. At one point he tore up
some small shrubs and tried to feed a few goats meandering about. The
owner (at least I think it was the owner) was none too pleased and
let Mr. Ghana know. He then removed the bushes from the hungry goats.
Junk food?
Mr.
Ghana Man spent some time attempting to communicate with us but met
with limited success. I handed him a few coins I had left over from
Mauritania. I don't normally do that but they were useless to me. I'm
fairly certain the ills of mass tourism have little chance of
infecting the border region between Mali and Mauritania. He was so
pleased he implored Leslie to take a picture of me giving him the
coins.
 |
| Where's Waldo? |
|
| Nice ass. |
 |
| Who likes sleeping in the dirt? |
 |
| I appear to be on the verge of snarling |
At
around 10 am we finally crossed the border (via taxi) to the Malian
side. Buses do not actually cross the border. Instead you dismount,
cross the border, and mount a bus waiting on the other side. This
process takes eleven hours. On the other side we waited for everyone
else to cross through immigration and customs. The customs
'procedure' is nothing more than barely audible grunts and a cursory
luggage inspection. At noon we were finally off.
More
sweltering. More dehydration. Oh, the simple pleasures. At one of the
many, many stops along the way we purchased water from one of the
ubiquitous vendors that frequently entered the bus for a sales call.
Water in a sealed pouch. Cold water in a sealed pouch. Our dearth of
local coin forced us to avoid the rich man's bottled water. So
bourgeois. First I placed the soothing bag of life gently across my
brow for a moment of refreshment and then I tore the corner with my
teeth and tasted the sweet elixir of the gods. I had water in my
bottle but it was room temperature (i.e. 2 million degrees). This was
pure divinity. I could not possibly exaggerate the pleasure derived
from sipping this delicious H2O in a bag. And I had to sip, as
opposed swallowing the bag hole. A full bladder on a bus with an
erratic time table for rest stops is almost as bad as dehydration.
Sipping required a Herculean caliber of restraint. It was just so
fucking yummy!
We had
a flat tire to break up the monotony. Actually, it was not so much a
flat as a catastrophic tire failure. It was shredded. I suppose this
is a sure fire way to guarantee you get the most out of your tires.
As we sat by the side of the road waiting for the repair operation to
be completed a smiling man approached me and handed over a small
bird, a live bird. He put it in my hand and seemed sure I would: (a)
know exactly what to do with it and; (b) be really excited by my new
travel pal. Of course I set it free. I wonder how you say 'Thank you
sir for the bird' or 'No thank you, I already have two Mocking birds
and a Morning Dove living in my backpack' in local dialect?
Others
used the delay to knock out a few prayers. Lay mat on road. Stand,
kneel, bow, repeat. While they praised Allah we sat in the dirt and
watched an episode of Dexter.
Different strokes. We arrived in Bamako in the evening, found a place
to sleep and passed out. Character building exercise completed.
 |
| Enough to make the Michelin Man shit himself. |
 |
| With insufficient Malian CFAs I was forced to ignore the irresistible call of fresh watermelon. |
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'Love me or hate me, but spare me your indifference.' -- Libbie Fudim