Bamako, Mali
May 3rd to May 6th, 2009
Where were we again? Oh yes, Sunday May 3rd Sam and I boarded the 6:30 am, 12-hour bus from Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso to Bamako, Mali.
A short history of our ever-changing travel plans for Mali follows.
During long afternoons at the EDYM farm and out of our mammoth Lonely Planet Africa guidebook, we originally planned a rather exhaustive tour of the southwestern part of Mali, spanning the spectacular cliffs of the Dogon Country, along the Niger River, and down to the bustling metropolis of Bamako. From there we planned to board the train, the Bamako to Dakar “Express”, whenever that happened to arrive and continue on to Senegal, from where we would fly a few weeks later to Morocco.
In early drafts of this adventure the latter train journey, described as “an African epic” by our guidebook, was thought an experience not to be missed. (Highlights include guessing when the train will get there with correct answers varying from 45 hours to 60 hours to never, keeping a close eye on your belongings while Africa speeds by the grimy windows, and enjoying fitful sleeps in your custom-sewn, $5 Joe Fresh sheet-bags.) Some family and friends may remember us optimistically enthusing about the excitement of leaving “whenever” and romantically bumming around Bamako until the train was ready to go.
However, even before leaving the sweaty clutches of those afternoons at the farm, we had already started to change our plans. If you’ve been following the news of late, maybe you’ll also know that Mali these days is not the most ideal travel destination. Despite meeting travelers who had had recent positive experiences traveling the country (and later more who intended to keep on trucking), we were starting to feel wary of the reports of Tuareg fighting making its way out of the desert, not to mention the recent kidnappings of Canadian diplomats and European tourists. By the time our sub-Saharan fatigue was setting in the Canadian Government was advising against non-essential travel to the country, and we were dreaming of another trip, another time when we would take that slow ride up the Niger River to Timbuktu.
That being said, we weren’t ready to abandon our dream of agony-on-rails and so we continued westward from Burkina Faso, for a quick pop into the country to book the train and go.
Enduring the long, un-air-conditioned ride from Bobo, our resolve was tested as we watched strange new terrain unfold around us. Mali’s landscape is fascinating, and huge, smooth boulders defying gravity in dark stacks by the highway hinted at what is surely a spectacular, mountainous landscape in the Dogon. Luckily we were tired and grumpy enough (and possessing just enough common sense) to stick to our new plans and arrived in Bamako with our singular purpose in mind.
The capital city, heretofore only existing to me in the pixilated illustrations of the circa 1990 computer game Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego (current rank Ace Detective, thankyouverymuch), was our biggest city yet. Crossing the street (a whole day’s activity), proved inconceivably more perilous than in cities past, as Bamako traffic combined all the speeding cars of Accra with every dense and weaving moped army of Burkina Faso. For us, the city’s sights didn’t have much to recommend them and so Monday morning we hit the streets on foot to find breakfast and the train station. We reflected on how confident and acclimatized we felt, and how we were really adjusting to this hectic but exciting life on the road.
Our intelligence told us the train should leave Bamako around Wednesday, arriving in Dakar Friday or Saturday from where we would begin our truncated tour of Senegal. (Travel fatigue and Canadian government websites advised against touring the southern Casamance region of Senegal and so we had similarly edited our itinerary for that country.) However, arriving at the train station we found out that the train had left Bamako last on Saturday, was scheduled to leave Dakar on Wednesday, and would
peut-être leave Bamako only the following Saturday. To two weary travelers, in no mood for
peut-êtres, this was the worst possible news. We could wait for the train, take another train to Kayes further North in Mali and then a 48-hour bus to Dakar, or find another means of transport out of Mali. The irony of this being
exactly what we had dreamed about three months ago but now
exactly the worst possible scenario was certainly not lost on us. Finding a quiet-like place a few blocks from the station, we sat and discussed our options. Quickly it was decided that we had only one – we weren’t as young as we were three months ago and so Tuesday we’d book flights to Morocco.
For all of our complaining, we had prepared ourselves for another two weeks of this adventurous brand of travel and our new plans sent us into a bit of shock. I started to feel the twinges of regret – that perhaps we hadn’t seen or done enough, that maybe we hadn't taken full advantage of the unique opportunity of being so far from home, or at least that we might have been too busy wallowing in our suffering of late to enjoy ourselves – all of which I agonized over to Sam back at the hotel. Sam, for his part, felt suddenly that he hadn’t eaten enough mangoes.
However, Mali had a few more adventures left in store for us as we headed off Tuesday morning to find our flight. Negotiating the treacherous streets once more we visited no less than four different travel agencies. Our preferred booking method would have been the very fast internet around the corner from our
auberge, but every search engine we tried had the frustrating habit of refusing to search for flights originating in Africa. On our way to one agency recommended by our guide we stumbled into a very busy and tout-full market area where – tired, hot, and frustrated – I committed the cardinal sin in dealing with hustlers and not-so-nicely asked some very persistent ones to leave us alone, for which Sam earned some insults and shoving around before we extricated ourselves to the nearby post office.
A little shaken we continued on, now to the bank to withdraw the necessary cash to pay for the flight. We discovered this to be another charming aspect of booking flights from developing nations – you’ll have to do it in cash, even if that means withdrawing close to $1000, or in many cases surely more. Our guidebook had warned us that we wouldn’t find any working ATMs within the country and so we’d dutifully withdrawn all the cash we expected to need before arriving in the country. The problem was, of course, that what we’d planned to spend on the train tickets was a fraction of the cost of even our cheap flight.
Taking stock of what we had on hand, we toured four different banks to try multiple ATMs with no luck. We tried the undesirable option of withdrawing money from our credit cards to no avail, either because we didn’t know our PIN or because the machine accused us of trying to withdraw too many bills. (What’s $1000 in fives?) Defeated and starting to get worried, we returned to the hotel to gather our emergency cash. (If needing to pay for the last available means of transport out of the back of beyond Africa doesn’t constitute an emergency, what does?) Stashed in money belts, secret pockets, hidden flaps and, in some cases, sewn into the seams of clothes, we gathered everything we had and went back to the bank. Gouged in the exchange we still mercifully eked out
just enough CFAs to cover the flights and, exhausted, went back to buy our tickets for the next day. When we were handed the tickets – on the first pieces of glossy paper we’d seen in months, even advertising in-flight duty-free shopping – our shock went into overdrive.
As a sweet goodbye to this region of Africa we spent the rest of Tuesday and Wednesday morning doing what we always did – ducking through the constant noise of people and traffic, grabbing the least dodgy side-of-the-road skillet fare to eat, enjoying a really cold bottle of coke to drink wherever we could find it, and sweating through one last sleepless night in the oppressive heat. Wednesday at check-out time we hauled our bags over to the fast internet, and then headed to the airport, only 12-plus hours early, to wait for our 3:00 am flight to Casablanca.
Arriving in Casablanca around 7:00 am we took our soiled packs and selves through the shiny airport to the sleek city train into downtown. In the Medina, the old walled town, we walked the sunny, tiled hallway of the youth hostel, took hot showers and lay down in our cool room to nap. Upon awakening we walked out past the cruise ship port into mild Atlantic breezes and ate sandwiches on a quiet street, followed by coffee and ice cream in a restaurant built into the old city ramparts, where large white canopies covered crawling trellises and tinkling tiled fountains. Knowing neither the fitting allusion nor the grim prediction he was making, Sam leaned over to me, smiled and said, “If it all goes sideways from here, and there’s no conceivable reason it should, remember we’ll always have today in Casablanca.”
A fountain in the wall of the Hassan II Grande Mosque in Casablanca.
An orange tree in the courtyard of a sublime Casa cafe.
What we did a lot. These are at the train station.
The medina wall in El Jadida dividing the old fortified Portugese town from the new.
Sam performing calisthenics during a paddle in the Atlantic, also El Jadida.
Birds circle the fish grills by the seaside in Essaouira.
Vendors sells freshly squeezed orange juice into the night in the Djemaa el-fna in Marrakech.
Hundreds of food stalls dish out quick meals (if you can manage to grab a seat) in the Djemaa el-fna, Marrakech. This one was serving up sausage links with tomato salsa and bread.
The landmark of Marrakech, the minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque.
Laterns sparkle in a packed stall in the labyrinthine souqs of Marrakech.
Sam enjoys train travel Moroccan-style from Marrakech to Fes.
A tannery worker pulls hides from the dye pits in Fes.
Anne was there too. Enjoying the mountain air in Chefchaouen.
Wheat fields and tourists dot the mountains around Chefchaouen.
Sam and Granma enjoy an English pub lunch in Chistlehurst.
Local teens race horses along the Giza Plateau during our sunrise camel ride.
Some rock piles near Cairo.
Some of what remains of the Avenue of the Sphinxes, which once connected the temples of Luxor and Karnak, Luxor.
The Funerary Temple of Hatshepsut on the West Bank of the Nile River, Luxor.
