War in Mali

Transport in Mali has lain siege to me. Like the Tuaregs in the north they seem to have mobilised and launched a well-coordinated and vicious guerrilla strike on our touring party. Hitting us where it hurts most: in our morale and in our stomachs. It all began not long after we entered Malian territory – incognito and savage as it was. The tar road quickly degenerated and soon everyone was being hurled around the bus looking like the possessed child in The Exorcist. So our crafty slave-driver of a captain decided the best road to travel was the road never travelled. He veered off the designated route to try his hand at rally-driving. This was of debateable success. Tough Guy and myself had secured seats right at the back of the bus meaning all the dust kicked up by the front wheels billowed in from the broken rear doors and coated us in a fine layer of Malian off-road sand to accompany our whiplash and impending sense of doom.

Respite came but was fleeting. At last, after ten hours without a break, we pulled up to a road-side bus stop for some food and a good dusting. After literally scrumming our way through hoards of rabid cassava sellers and children who slap you in the face with packets of E.Coli-laden water, we settled in a cheap and cheerful roadside restaurant named Chez Ali. My contentment was short-lived, however, as the wrenching sensation of guts outgunned by local organisms was matched only by the sheer panic of knowing that this particular bus-driver was a) not the next Sebastian Vettel and b) not known for his frequent pit-stops. We stopped briefly to drop off a patron by the side of the road and I made my move. I set off in a wild, gut-twisting panic into the countryside. It was the flattest, most open piece of land in all of Africa, of this I’m sure. Then, an oasis. Donkey stables. Even the donkeys themselves – known to tolerate the most savage of lashings without batting an eyelid – were unprepared for what followed and violently tried in vain to escape the enclosure. You would be forgiven for thinking the place was an abbatoir. It was around then that I noticed the bus pull off. Slowly at first and then picking up a good head of steam until it disappeared into the horizon. I had no toilet paper. And the only leaves for kilometres were those of acacias. So after a particularly degrading wipe with an empty cigarette carton found trampled into the dirt, I began the very ignominious hobble up the road to try and catch-up to the bus. When it finally stopped and I climbed on board the conductor simply shook his head and said “Chez Ali?”. I nodded. “No good” he said. This intel was infuriatingly belated and woefully understated.

So it was with some trepidation that I climbed aboard our next Malian bus a few days later to set off from the Libyan hotels and dried monkey-heads of Bamako to the pirogues and veggie gardens of Segou. The fact that our bus seemed to have lowered suspension and half of the side-panels were made of wood instead of metal didn’t help matters. When our initial take-off required half the passengers to get off and try push-start an eighty-seater bus, we should have fled. But like a deer in headlights we remained. It wasn’t long after that, at the hearty speed of 100kms/hour that one of the wooden side panels suddenly – and rather unsurprisingly – came free. The woman sitting adjacent to it began screaming, wind began billowing in, a carpet fell on Tough Guys head and generally all hell broke loose. The driver was refusing to stop incase the vehicle wouldn’t start again so his conductor, after a brief attempt at carpentry suspended above the whirring asphalt, was resigned to simply holding the panel closed for the remainder of the trip.

Fortunately for him, this was not long. The inevitable happened and with the changing of a gear, the whole engine cut out and the bus slowly drew to an undramatic halt. It was around then that we realised that the one constant through all of the misdemeanors of the morning was a particularly distressed “Blaaaaah!” coming from within. On investigation, it was revealed that someone had checked in a goat as his luggage. This creature was having the journey of its life being thrown around the buses hold, periodically nibbling on our backpacks. The drivers were unperturbed by this and proceeded to open up the buses engine to gaze at it. Why this was done no one could understand as no attempt was made to repair anything. They just sat and looked. All the while to the soundtrack of “Blaaaaah! Blaaah! BlaaaaAAAAeeerr!”

Eventually we managed to jump on a truck that essentially ferried people like cattle into Dogon Country. I had two buckets of fish at my feet and the little baby next to me was wearing a nappy soiled so many times over she looked like she had been wading through mud. But we were unperturbed and, unlike the Malian army, persisted in the face of the onslaught. We came out the other side wounded and with many casualties. My dignity, for example. But on this day, ultimate victory was ours. There are, however, many more skirmishes lying ahead.

 Yes, it seems this war has only just begun.