The Wild, Wild West

By 7 p.m., I was standing on the street waiting for my bus to be packed and loaded. It was a crazy mash of people, all with too much stuff, most fighting the baggage fee and all looking bored and tired. There was a baby in our midst who cried and cried and cried, until people actually complained to the mother. The only eventful happening was an older woman who crumpled to the ground after getting beaned by a stack of plastic tubs. That set off this big wave of consternation, mostly because I was standing next to her at the time and although I was completely unhurt, the porters chewed me out for being in harm’s way. After three hours of waiting, they finally loaded the second bus and turned the key on our bus only to discover the battery was dead. Excellent. They fiddled and fixed things for the next hour, finally packed us on the bus and took off. We made it to a gas station about 15 minutes away then waited another hour. Another 20 minute drive and more repairs. Repeat until ready to tear your hair out.

By first light, we had reached the police stop where the other bus had spent the night. Apparently bandits are a real problem in Western Mali, so the police simply close the roads after sundown and you roadside.

We got back on the bus after a brief pee and prayer, then headed for breakfast. Where I met Nathan, an organic farmer and ex-Peace Corps, who had been traveling for five months. He was wearing a turban and sported a long red beard. I like him immediately and he was great company at the rest of the rest stops and customs breaks. At Kayes we descended and sat for another three hours for what I hoped was the definitive repairs. Atone point, having developed blisters on my bum, I braved the convection oven that was the bus and doled out candies to the others foolish enough to bake.

At about 5.30 p.m., we all piled into the bus again and it seemed like we would finally leave. But no. It was a just a sick, cruel joke. We drove through town to the customs office, then parked. The minutes stretched out and then came word that we would be spending the night in Kayes on the roadside as the previous night a sheep and goat farmer had been robbed of 11 million FCFA on his way back from the abattoir. (Sounds a bit high to me, but what’s the point in arguing?) Now, normally at this point I would be in a flood of tears. I was tired, hungry, thirsty and due for my period. And I was supposed to have reached my destination at noon, not the next day, and by my calculations, we were only two hours from Kidira. But Nathan really kept me sane, cracking jokes as we searched for soft drinks in Mali’s unfriendliest town, arranging matelas for our night outside and then teaching me a 2-person card game called “cinq-cinq” that was a welcome distraction. Nathan is writing a book about West Africa, one with religious themes that sounds like it could be interesting. He gave me hope when he said he lived in Togo for two years and found nothing that inspired him, but woke one day in Niger with a fledgling idea.

IN the morning, by first prayer, we were all ready to depart again and it was a bumpy, dusty ride through a baobab forest before we reached the border, where the officious officers had too much power and not enough manners. We pulled into Kidira around 10.30 a.m. and I had one last omelet with Nathan , then grabbed my sack, hopped on a mobylette and headed for a taxi brousse station, where I waited only a few minutes before the wagon was loaded with a comfortable seven passengers and we pulled away for Bakel.