Burkina Faso
The perpetual state: waiting. Not to be confused with the other perpetual state: confused but resigned to let the pull of persuasion, hustlers and circumstance dictate where I go, when and sometimes even how.
Sitting in the Sitarail waiting area, a gorgeous breeze ripping through the grates. My belly full of Burkina beef steak and pomme frites, feeling quite content and relaxed.
Burkina has so far lived up to the adage that it’s best no to have expectations in Africa. I expected poverty and begging and hassles and hustling and there are all of those things, but not in the measure I feared. Better yet, there is wonderful food, enjoyably relaxed people, courtyards with shade in which to enjoy a Fanta while muddling through another French conversation about my fictional husband, and beautiful vistas – empty, dusty and yellow – rolling past the window of the bus or train.
Leaving Ghana felt unfinished, and yet I’m reasonably certain I won’t be back for any real length of time anytime soon. Being back in the JHR house without my workmates made me realize there’s not enough there to make me happy. The stores, while good, are not in unending supply and I fear I would slip into a sort of sloth that would ruin me, not to mention the boy situation. I left feeling incredibly frustrated, the Daniel situation having petered out to nothing, in some ways less than nothing.
Having missed Tara by an entire town (I searched and search in Navrongo, enlisting the help of a small boy home from school and a village elder with a motorbike, but it didn’t change the fact she was in Bolga, not Navrongo.) I climbed in a bush taxi headed for Paga and after joking with the border guards about exporting Akpeteshie (traces of it were no doubt still swimming through my system) I walked across to Burkina and onto the slow bus headed for Ouaga. The landscape was a little bleaker than Northern Ghana, but the mudhuts were painted with fantastic geometric designs using a dark shade of charcoal.
In Ouaga, I hopped in a taxi and paid four times the going rate to reach my “hotel,” the dormitory of the local convent, where I did laundry in the sink, ate a rather pathetic dinner of spaghetti and omelet’s, then collapsed into bed. It was so hot and dry, my laundry was dry by the time I got back from dinner. Unfortunately, that also meant I was hot and dry: my nose was red, my eyes stung and it felt like I was breathing through a straw. I got up a couple times to splash water on my face before finally settling in under the fan. My dreams were mostly anxious. I’m worried, as usual, about being alone, about making my money stretch and about making it to the end. It’s going to be a long haul.
The next morning I was up and out early, perched up on a rickety stool eating an omelet and baguette and listening to the voice of America. I trudged around downtown Ouaga with my pack on my back finding the bank and the tourist office and grocery store. I couple hours was really enough. By 9:39 a.m., it was already 39 C, albeit dry. So I bought a bus ticket and rode out to Koudougou, a far more laid back town. I find the pace of African cities overwhelming to the point of exhausting. It’s just so much frenzy, honking horns, speeding mobylettes, careering bicycles, water vendors, street side hawkers, boys selling watches or ball caps or balls and girls with pineapples, oranges or avocadoes on their heads. It’s too much to watch and watch out for.
Not to mention the hustlers and touts, who make themselves really irritating with their non-stop drone of “how are you, my friend” in whatever language they think you might speak. Morocco has made me wary of men in general and Lome made me wary of Rastas in particular and Ouaga has its fair share of both. My tactic, which has had mixed success, is to simply stop, wave my arms and explain with finality that I don’t want anything from them and can get by without their assistance. Sometimes it works, sometimes they need to be encouraged by a gathering crowd to move on. Sometimes it just seems like I’m some hysterical white girl, but frankly, I don’t care. I’m learning slowly it’s better to stop and just deal with them than try to shake them. I invariably end up getting lost.
So, Koudougou. Arrived on the bus, walked to the pharmacy and asked for directions. “It’s tricky,” the said. “Why don’t we just take you?” So, back on the back of a mobylette, where we zipped over dirt roads to a quiet courtyard at the end of a metal worker’s alley. The room was somewhat expensive -- $22 – but worth it for the air conditioning and the profound silence and darkness. (I realized in the morning I had gone two whole days without hearing a corn broom! Yay!)
I mostly wandered Koudougou’s streets; big wide boulevards with trees reaching up over top to form canopies. Kids and the occasional adult would swing by to shake my hand and ask me: “Ca va?” but I was mostly left to my thoughts. Breakfast was a pain chocolat and yogurt at the local patisserie and after more walking and packing, I headed to a spot for lunch, where a local bought my meal and drinks, then offered a lift on his mobylette. The bus to Bobo turned out to be an hour and a half late and was a completely uneventful ride. I managed to follow some guy looking for a commission from the hotel to a nearby hotel and was initially put out by my arrival in town, which seemed big, loud and dirty in comparison to Koudougou.
The next morning seemed no better, as there was a cacophony in the courtyard early and then some young punk followed me for three blocks going on about guiding me through the market or Banfora or whatever. Maybe it’s too extreme to simply stop and say “laissez-moi!” loudly while flailing my arms, but I find these guys seriously irritating, not to mention slick.
I spent the mid-morning wandering, then went back to the hotel for a nap and then to the rather pathetic local museum after lunch. I was expecting great things, but most of the statues were simply labeled “Statue. Used for religious ceremonies.” The traditional houses out back looked like the Tat Somba style, so I was underwhelmed by it. I stayed to have a drink in the courtyard, then returned to the hotel for a shower. By 6 p.m., with my stomach growling, I went out to Les Bambous, a place recommended in the guide for local music. I was so early, the cook hadn’t yet shown up and the sound guy was still setting up. We spoke for a bit – me in my muddled French, him with quite a serious stutter – and somehow made ourselves understood. After my dinner was cleared away, the band arrived with their djembes and balafons, the big xylophones that use gourds to regulate the sound and pitch.
One of the band guys sat down and we talked for about an hour – he told me he was very sad to hear of my husband – and then the band finally began in a whir of hands and sticks and thunderous sound. They were lovely. The only downside was a gum smacking Rasta who sat down behind me as the show started and kept tapping me on the back to make some profound statement until I finally asked him none-too-politely to shut up and leave me be.
When the concert ended at 11:30 p.m., I thought it best to head back to my hotel and started out on foot, but quickly hitched a ride, again on a mobylette. When we arrived, the driver went on about how he wanted to be my friend, but I feigned uncomprehension (not such a stretch of my acting skills) and headed off to bed.
The train is two hours late. This does not bode well.
Sitting in the Sitarail waiting area, a gorgeous breeze ripping through the grates. My belly full of Burkina beef steak and pomme frites, feeling quite content and relaxed.
Burkina has so far lived up to the adage that it’s best no to have expectations in Africa. I expected poverty and begging and hassles and hustling and there are all of those things, but not in the measure I feared. Better yet, there is wonderful food, enjoyably relaxed people, courtyards with shade in which to enjoy a Fanta while muddling through another French conversation about my fictional husband, and beautiful vistas – empty, dusty and yellow – rolling past the window of the bus or train.
Leaving Ghana felt unfinished, and yet I’m reasonably certain I won’t be back for any real length of time anytime soon. Being back in the JHR house without my workmates made me realize there’s not enough there to make me happy. The stores, while good, are not in unending supply and I fear I would slip into a sort of sloth that would ruin me, not to mention the boy situation. I left feeling incredibly frustrated, the Daniel situation having petered out to nothing, in some ways less than nothing.
Having missed Tara by an entire town (I searched and search in Navrongo, enlisting the help of a small boy home from school and a village elder with a motorbike, but it didn’t change the fact she was in Bolga, not Navrongo.) I climbed in a bush taxi headed for Paga and after joking with the border guards about exporting Akpeteshie (traces of it were no doubt still swimming through my system) I walked across to Burkina and onto the slow bus headed for Ouaga. The landscape was a little bleaker than Northern Ghana, but the mudhuts were painted with fantastic geometric designs using a dark shade of charcoal.
In Ouaga, I hopped in a taxi and paid four times the going rate to reach my “hotel,” the dormitory of the local convent, where I did laundry in the sink, ate a rather pathetic dinner of spaghetti and omelet’s, then collapsed into bed. It was so hot and dry, my laundry was dry by the time I got back from dinner. Unfortunately, that also meant I was hot and dry: my nose was red, my eyes stung and it felt like I was breathing through a straw. I got up a couple times to splash water on my face before finally settling in under the fan. My dreams were mostly anxious. I’m worried, as usual, about being alone, about making my money stretch and about making it to the end. It’s going to be a long haul.
The next morning I was up and out early, perched up on a rickety stool eating an omelet and baguette and listening to the voice of America. I trudged around downtown Ouaga with my pack on my back finding the bank and the tourist office and grocery store. I couple hours was really enough. By 9:39 a.m., it was already 39 C, albeit dry. So I bought a bus ticket and rode out to Koudougou, a far more laid back town. I find the pace of African cities overwhelming to the point of exhausting. It’s just so much frenzy, honking horns, speeding mobylettes, careering bicycles, water vendors, street side hawkers, boys selling watches or ball caps or balls and girls with pineapples, oranges or avocadoes on their heads. It’s too much to watch and watch out for.
Not to mention the hustlers and touts, who make themselves really irritating with their non-stop drone of “how are you, my friend” in whatever language they think you might speak. Morocco has made me wary of men in general and Lome made me wary of Rastas in particular and Ouaga has its fair share of both. My tactic, which has had mixed success, is to simply stop, wave my arms and explain with finality that I don’t want anything from them and can get by without their assistance. Sometimes it works, sometimes they need to be encouraged by a gathering crowd to move on. Sometimes it just seems like I’m some hysterical white girl, but frankly, I don’t care. I’m learning slowly it’s better to stop and just deal with them than try to shake them. I invariably end up getting lost.
So, Koudougou. Arrived on the bus, walked to the pharmacy and asked for directions. “It’s tricky,” the said. “Why don’t we just take you?” So, back on the back of a mobylette, where we zipped over dirt roads to a quiet courtyard at the end of a metal worker’s alley. The room was somewhat expensive -- $22 – but worth it for the air conditioning and the profound silence and darkness. (I realized in the morning I had gone two whole days without hearing a corn broom! Yay!)
I mostly wandered Koudougou’s streets; big wide boulevards with trees reaching up over top to form canopies. Kids and the occasional adult would swing by to shake my hand and ask me: “Ca va?” but I was mostly left to my thoughts. Breakfast was a pain chocolat and yogurt at the local patisserie and after more walking and packing, I headed to a spot for lunch, where a local bought my meal and drinks, then offered a lift on his mobylette. The bus to Bobo turned out to be an hour and a half late and was a completely uneventful ride. I managed to follow some guy looking for a commission from the hotel to a nearby hotel and was initially put out by my arrival in town, which seemed big, loud and dirty in comparison to Koudougou.
The next morning seemed no better, as there was a cacophony in the courtyard early and then some young punk followed me for three blocks going on about guiding me through the market or Banfora or whatever. Maybe it’s too extreme to simply stop and say “laissez-moi!” loudly while flailing my arms, but I find these guys seriously irritating, not to mention slick.
I spent the mid-morning wandering, then went back to the hotel for a nap and then to the rather pathetic local museum after lunch. I was expecting great things, but most of the statues were simply labeled “Statue. Used for religious ceremonies.” The traditional houses out back looked like the Tat Somba style, so I was underwhelmed by it. I stayed to have a drink in the courtyard, then returned to the hotel for a shower. By 6 p.m., with my stomach growling, I went out to Les Bambous, a place recommended in the guide for local music. I was so early, the cook hadn’t yet shown up and the sound guy was still setting up. We spoke for a bit – me in my muddled French, him with quite a serious stutter – and somehow made ourselves understood. After my dinner was cleared away, the band arrived with their djembes and balafons, the big xylophones that use gourds to regulate the sound and pitch.
One of the band guys sat down and we talked for about an hour – he told me he was very sad to hear of my husband – and then the band finally began in a whir of hands and sticks and thunderous sound. They were lovely. The only downside was a gum smacking Rasta who sat down behind me as the show started and kept tapping me on the back to make some profound statement until I finally asked him none-too-politely to shut up and leave me be.
When the concert ended at 11:30 p.m., I thought it best to head back to my hotel and started out on foot, but quickly hitched a ride, again on a mobylette. When we arrived, the driver went on about how he wanted to be my friend, but I feigned uncomprehension (not such a stretch of my acting skills) and headed off to bed.
The train is two hours late. This does not bode well.
posted by Palmer in Africa at 10:23 AM
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