189 - The Bag of Life (Nouakchott to Bamako)
THE BUS RIDE FROM NOUAKCHOTT TO BAMAKO was (is?) something of a crucible. All of our inquiries before leaving led to one inescapable conclusion. It’s gonna suck. And it did suck. A lot.
Safety was a definite concern. Online sources regarding potential danger ranged between “no problem” and “you’re out of your fucking mind.” I think it’s fair to say if you can’t determine whether safety is an issue, it’s safe to assume safety is an issue.
We had the option to fly, of course, but this felt like a cop-out. Grin and bear it, ya fucking pussies! It’s Africa, goddamn it! We couldn’t justify $300 each to avoid a shitty bus ride (under $50). Still, we were tempted. The clincher was Mauritanian Airlines’ safety record. At the time, it had been blacklisted by the USA and the European Union. So, we could risk getting kidnapped or crashing in the dirt at 500 mph. Potatoe. Potato.
We went with kidnapping. Were we really that worried? No. We'd spoken with folks who’d made the trip without incident. Other fellow travelers pointed out that on a bus full of passengers, no one was likely to have the balls to abscond with two foreigners… um, probably. Then again, I got the sense that as far as hostages go, Americans are the cat’s pajamas… meow. 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 5:00 a.m. for a 5:30 a.m. departure. He may have been fucking with us. Just to be safe, we had our taxi pick us up at 4:00 a.m. in case of traffic. There was no traffic. Nothing was stirring. Not even a mouse. We arrived at 4:30 a.m. and began waiting. We sat in silence and stared at the bus. Then each other. Then the bus again. People showed up around six. We got underway close to 7:00 a.m. Not such an auspicious start.
Like most buses we encountered in the region, ours appeared to be built with air conditioning in mind… theoretically. Perhaps, in the bus’s long, long history, it possessed it. Perhaps not. The windows didn’t 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’re constantly on the edge of suffocation, I recommend this journey. In one respect, we were lucky. It could’ve been summer. I can’t imagine the kind of hell this ride must be during July or August. “Hell” might be a refreshing diversion in that scenario. Hell for locals? It appears not. I was inclined to believe many found November temperatures “chilly.”
Although the journey took forty hours, we spent eleven sitting at the border of Mauritania and Mali with our thumbs securely up our asses. We arrived around 1:00 a.m. groggy and bleary-eyed. Before I knew what the hell was happening, I'd handed someone my passport and was shuffled off into darkness. After I regained my senses, I realized we were standing on the Mauritanian side with nary a clue. Two minutes after kicking us out, the doors closed and the lights went out. Allow passengers to sleep on the bus? Are you mental? Let them sleep in the filth, I say!
Outside, I found a long line of voyagers sleeping on the ground. This included my group and another from Mali that had been waiting since 4:00 p.m. Misery loves company. We had a lot of company.
Some guy skulking in the darkness asked if we’d like to change Ouguyias (Mauritania) to CFAs (Mali). At 1:00 a.m.? Seriously? I was in no mood. To add insult to idiocy, our larger backpacks (with my sleeping bag) were locked beneath the bus. We had the clothes on our backs and our smaller packs with valuables. Nada mas. We stood in disbelief and pondered our lot. Mr. Currency Exchange said there was an auberge close by, but it was not immediately identifiable. When I did manage to locate it in the distance, it didn’t scream salubrious. I figured it would be better to stick with the group. There was a small gaggle of young men with nowhere to sleep, no mats, no blankets, no nothing. They congregated around a modest 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 hot to nippy in minutes. We'd noticed this during our stint in the Mauritanian desert. Kooky.
Leslie and I huddled in the dirt with nothing but light clothing, a Tuareg scarf, a piss-poor attitude, and a towel a kind older gentleman loaned us when he noticed Leslie shivering. I may have nodded off for 15 minutes. Maybe.
The gentleman that kicked us off the bus told us the border would open at 6:00 a.m. 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 tomfoolery. 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 important business involving the bowl. At one point, he tore up small shrubs and tried to feed a few goats meandering about. The owner (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 wanted to communicate with us but met with limited success. I handed him a few coins left over from Mauritania. I don't normally do that but decided the ills of mass tourism have little chance of infecting the border region between Mali and Mauritania. Besides, they were useless to me. He was so pleased, he implored Leslie to take a picture of me giving him the coins.
Who likes sleeping in the dirt?
I appear to be on the verge of snarling.
At 10:00 a.m., we crossed the border (via taxi) to the Malian side. Buses don’t cross. Instead, you dismount, cross, and mount a different bus. This process takes eleven hours. On the other side, we waited for everyone else to pass through immigration and customs. The customs “procedure” is nothing more than barely audible grunts and a cursory luggage inspection. At noon, we were off.
More sweltering. More dehydration. Oh, the simple pleasures. At one of many, many stops along the way, we purchased water from one of the ubiquitous vendors frequently entering for a sales call. Water in a sealed pouch. Cold water in a sealed pouch. Our dearth of local coin forced us to forego the rich man's bottled water. Too bourgeois. First, I placed the soothing bag of life across my brow for a moment of refreshment, and then 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. two million degrees). This was pure divinity. I couldn’t possibly exaggerate the pleasure derived from sipping this delicious H2O in a bag. I had to sip, as opposed to swallowing the bag hole. A full bladder with an erratic timetable for rest stops is worse than dehydration. Sipping required a Herculean caliber of restraint.
We had a flat tire to break up the monotony. Actually, it wasn’t so much a flat as a catastrophic tire failure. It was shredded—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 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. 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 Mourning Dove in my pack” 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 hit Bamako in the late evening, found a place to crash, and passed out. Character building exercise completed. Fun.
“Have you ever wondered what hell would be like? Well, Sonef Transport is the best in the biz. For under $50 you’ll get the all-inclusive package, giving you a firsthand look at every level of the fiery inferno. This isn’t just a sneak-peek either. They want you to get your money’s worth, so come prepared to hand over 40 precious hours; yes, that’s four-zero, as in FORTY. This is the real deal, folks.
In the weeks leading up to this joyride, we received an earful regarding safety concerns. For the most part, everyone we talked to was adamantly against it, but every once in a while we received a thumbs-up. After looking into flights and private transportation, we decided to take our chances with the bus. It turns out that the local airlines have a crash-and-burn record, and driving in a private vehicle would make us a moving target, both literally and figuratively.
Our day started long before sunrise. We arrived at the bus station around 4:30am for our 5:30am departure. Like usual, we played hurry up and wait; our favorite game. Upon arrival, it was obvious we could have pushed snooze a few times. We were first on the lot, so we dropped our bags and made ourselves comfortable, while we waited for the remaining passengers to shuffle in, and the sun to shine upon us.
With the bus filled to the brim, we rolled off the lot shortly after 7am. We took two seats in the back near a small vent on the rooftop. We had hoped to catch the drift seeping in, but that was short lived, as the hatch was no match for the wind; it came slamming shut within a few hours. With no ventilation and opening windows, we were trapped in an oven as the temperatures soared.
We sat there in silence, drifting in and out of consciousness, as the sweat poured out of our bodies, hour after hour. The air was thick, muggy, and stagnant, with a stench to match. After 18 very long hours we were woken up and forced off the bus around 1am. Apparently we had reached the border, but it was closed. Instead of letting us sleep on the bus like civilized people, we were told to sleep in the dirt, and that’s exactly what we did.
Our main packs were locked underneath the bus along with Rich’s sleeping bag and liner. Is all we had in our possession was our small bags containing valuables and the clothes on our backs. By this time it was freezing out. We huddled together trying to keep warm, but it was no use. An older gentleman noticed me shivering and draped a towel around me; I was beyond appreciative.
A few of the men gathered around a small fire close by. It didn’t provide warmth, but the light was useful. The hours painfully passed as we lay in the dirt beneath the towel. I might have gotten 15 minutes of sleep at best. We were told the border would open around 6am, but it was at least 9am before we could cross.
We had a slew of interesting encounters while waiting. The most notable with a man (pictured below) wearing a red scarf and blood stained draw. His face was covered in black charcoal dust, which only added to his creepiness. He appeared from beyond the border with a pack of dogs, carrying a bowl of puppies. They were tiny, squiggly little things, no more than 3 or 4 weeks old. He dumped them on the side of the road and I can only imagine what he intended to do with them later. Puppy stew perhaps? I tried not to think about it.
We got stamped out of Mauritania, made the 2km stretch to the Malian border, and then waited to board the bus again. It was almost noon by the time we departed for Bamako, and day two provided more of the same suffocating, coma-inducing, miserable heat.
As we approached another evening, one of the tires on our bus practically disintegrated; the cherry on top of our Sunday. While they swapped it out, most passengers used this time to pray. We found a spot in the bushes, pulled out my laptop, and watched an episode of Dexter.
Sitting there, getting sucked into the plot, a man approached us with a ‘gift’. He extended his hand to reveal a baby bird. We’re not sure where the bird came from or why he wanted us to have it, but we obviously couldn’t keep it. As soon as he walked away, we let the little bugger hop off into the great unknown. I’d like to think he found his way back to his nest, but I seriously doubt it. It was sad and strange all at the same time.
We finally landed in Bamako around 10pm. We quickly found a place to stay, drank an ice-cold beer, and crashed. What a day… make that two.”
Leslie Peralta, “Hell On Earth” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels