In December, when we were still traveling with Susan, my Lonely Planet West Africa guidebook had gone missing. Accusations about who had had it last could be thrown around, but there would be no point in that. Somebody had left it somewhere, and it was gone for good.
Then in the middle of February, I got a text from Susan, that she had found my guidebook and if I came back to Bamako I could get it. Although we loved traveling in Morocco without a guidebook, this thing was like gold in West Africa, where information was sparse. Obtaining one locally would be nearly impossible without stealing it from another traveler (which had crossed my mind on a ferry in Djenne). We had not heard from Susan since we had parted ways in early January, so we had no idea what she was up to.
It was settled that I would be going on a mission to Bamako, to retrieve my book and to obtain visa extensions for all three of us, as well as pick up some specialty items such as coffee and soy sauce.
I wanted to do it quick, so I would only have to spend one night in Bamako. This would be tough, and it would require me getting to the visa office before noon to get our visa extensions processed. On Monday morning I left home with a nearly empty backpack at six am trying to hitch a ride to Bamako. Taking the bus was too slow and unreliable if I really wanted to get to Bamako in time before the visa office closed. Right after getting to the main highway, though, several other locals, including a couple soldiers had assembled to try and get rides. This ruined my chances, so at 8, I went back home to try the next day.
Again, at six am I hit the road, this time getting the first passing car to pick me up. It was in a beat-up old Mercedes, driven by an even older man with the last name Kone. He was in Segou to visit family, but was going back to Bamako where he lives and works. He was a sweet man, and I liked his presence. I was glad because we were making good time and I was sure to make it to Bamako in time to hit the visa office.
After an hour, though, the car broke down in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t understand the problem, but he seemed to. He said there was a town a few km away where we could go to for help. So we started walking. When a motorbike came, Kone started waving and flagged him down. He explained to the man, who happened to be a photographer, what was going on, and told me to get on the bike, and he would take me to the town. Halfway to the town, though, the bike got a flat tire, and we had to walk it to a nearby village, where he could get it fixed. I hung out with the guy as they fixed his tire, while the curious kids began to amass around me. It was taking a long time, and I was getting worried as I had left my backpack in the man’s car. Eventually, though, I saw Kone pass on a motorbike, and I waved to him to let me know where he was. Thirty minutes later, he came back in another man’s car, picked me up and we headed back to his car.
We made it to the mechanic in the next time, but we had lost at least an hour. This is travel in Africa, though, and none of this felt bizarre, or even like an out of the ordinary inconvenience. Kone told me it might take a while so if I was in a hurry I should go look for another ride. I should have done this the moment the car broke down, actually.
So I walked through the long town bustling town that hugged the highway tightly. It was surprisingly crowded for a town that probably existed mostly because of the highway and was conveniently halfway between Segou and Bamako. I walked the entire length of the town with my thumb out, and just as it was starting to peter out and cars started to resume highway speed, a car with dark tinted windows stopped for me.
I hopped in the front seat as the man’s two kids moved to the back seat. This man, whose name I regret forgetting, was extremely warm. I could tell that he had a kind soul simply through the way he interacted with his two sons. Like Kone, he was coming back from Segou where he was visiting family. His name, however, was not Bambara, and his origins were actually in northern Mali. He was a devout Muslim, which probably explained his wonderful hospitality and generosity to everyone he came in contact with.
At my feet were a few black plastic bags. Every time we passed somebody walking along the road, who looked poor or hungry, he would pull over, grab one of the bags and hand it over to them. He did it with little fanfare, and I had to ask him. He just explained that the bags were full of food, and it was his duty to help those traveling. This man, who worked in the government’s department of agriculture, had a comfortable life, but he truly loved to share it and he was not showy about it.
Since he knew that I was trying to get to the visa office before noon, he drove extremely fast. When we hit traffic, he would turn on a siren (not sure of the legality of this, but as a government worker, I am sure he had some leeway) and cruise past everyone else on the road.
Even though he lived in a neighborhood about 8 km away from the visa office, he insisted on taking me all the way there so I was sure to make it in time. We arrived at the visa office at 11:50. I asked him if there were buses to Balkasambougou, the neighborhood I would be heading to after visiting the visa office to meet with Susan. He told me to take a taxi and handed me 10,000 francs ($20). I tried to refuse, but he shoved it in my hand, and jumped in his car before I could even thank him for his generosity.
I ran into the office, which was empty by now, and the grumbling woman in charge coldly told me it was closed. I pointed out that it was only 11:54 and I needed to submit my forms now. I knew she wouldn’t budge. I had dealt with her before, and she does not move a finger for anyone if she doesn’t have to. I asked if I could at least get the paperwork so I could prepare it for the next day. No dice. She said they were out of them.
So now I needed to get in touch with Susan. She had told me to meet her at some school near the gendarmerie station in Balkasambougou, a neighborhood I was unfamiliar with. There were no buses in this part of town; not that I would know which one to take anyway. All I knew was that I needed to get to the other side of the river. So I put my index finger out in hopes of getting a ride to the other side of the bridge. After fifteen minutes, a man in an old burly SUV (the kinds that are actually meant for rough terrain) stopped for me. He was a Tuareg man, from the Timbuktu region, dressed in a long robe and turban. His name was Intazoume Moussa and he seemed extremely skeptical of me. He didn’t understand why I would be hitchhiking (which was completely reasonable), but he said he was heading to his office in the neighborhood I was going to and that he would drop me off near the gendarmerie station.
He grilled me about why I would be hitchhiking when I obviously had the money for a taxi. I gave him the usual responses about how I find the experience riding with random locals was an important learning experience different to going with a taxi driver who simply wanted to charge you as much as possible to get from A to B. I also had to explain that all my money would eventually be spent in Mali, and the less I spent on transportation, the longer I could stay in Mali, and simply inject my capital into other aspects of the local economy. Anyway, he proved my first point completely. He revealed that he was the grandfather of a prominent Tuarage rebel leader (who he was surprised I hadn’t heard of). The Tuareg rebellion has been an on and off conflict in the north of the country for over twenty years. Moussa told me about an NGO that he ran to help the Tuaregs in the conflicted region. He had a tough exterior, but by the end of our ride, I could tell he was a truly compassionate man underneath, who had probably been through a lot of hard times in his life. He invited me to his office, which I would have liked to have seen, but I was still in mission mode and did not want to spend a moment in Bamako that I didn’t have to.
It is crazy how much I loved this city when I first arrived, and how little I wanted to be in it now. The peace of Segou had really grown on me, even though there was very little to do. The crowds, traffic, pollution and speed of the city that I had originally found so exhilarating, was just obnoxious at this point.
I walked around Balkasambougou for a couple hours looking for the gendarmerie station being pointed in different directions by everybody. When I finally found it, I realized I was actually in Magnambougou, a neighborhood I had stayed in for four days in December.
I found the school that Susan had mentioned and gave her a call. I still had no idea what she was doing here, but started to piece it together as I waited. When she met me, she said she didn’t have much time to explain, but we arranged to meet up later that night. She handed me the guidebook, which was still a miraculous recovery that she said she would explain later.
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