And to be honest, I can't wait. Tomorrow, after nearly four months of heat, dust, accounting, gorillas, dust, elephants, pygmy villages, dust, dust and dust I will be flying home tomorrow night.
For my last week I am being looked after by Isaac at Richbone and Madame Florence at the Sarfoa Memorial School. These are two organisations that had an AfID volunteer last year, and I'm here to see how they're getting on. So I've spent most of this week looking over accounting reports again, checking for errors, inconsistencies, and making any suggestions I can for how things could be done better. As always, I have been very well looked after. Food arrives regularly in gargantuan quantities though it is, as always, highly delicious. I am already searching out recipes for groundnut sauce, red red and the like for when I get home, though I don't know what I'll do about fried plantain or yam chips - suggestions welcome. I feel I'm going to have a second dose of culture shock when I arrive.
Perhaps strangely, after my family and my cat, the thing I am most looking forward to is having access to a washing machine. Ghanaians always manage to look immaculately turned out every day of the week, but sadly, my efforts at handwashing have not been kind to my clothes. It doesn't seem to matter how many times I wash them, once a layer of African dust is ingrained, no amount of soap seems to remove it. There were a few days in the Central African Republic / Cameroon where, quite honestly, I gave up. Although my socks have been soaped vigorously many times since, none of them have quite returned to their original colour. They may be destined to spend the rest of their days cleaning cars.
But, really, that's just about it. As the tears begin to flow, the final credits begin to roll, I would like to thank, oscars style, all those who made it possible. To YPWC, Kumasi Street Children, Richbone and Sarfoa School for looking after me and listening to my tedious accounts talk with good humour and patience. To Guy and Simon at www.fromhere2timbuktu.com for an incredible trip through Cameroon and the CAR. To AfID for giving me the excuse I needed to be here at all.
And finally, to you, my dear readers (reader?). It has been, after all, a most excellent adventure. I'll see you all soon.
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Talk to the hand
Travelling from Tamale to Bolga, I had arrived at the tro tro station when there was only one seat left. This had obvious advantages - as soon as I was boarded, the bus was ready to leave. However, it also meant that before we left, I hadn't had time to dash round buying water and provisions for the journey. After an hour and a half in the hot, dusty bus I was beginning to regret this, and had been looking out for any opportunity to buy from the roadside. As we approached a toll booth, therefore, I saw my chance. I could see that there were a number of vendors lining up our bus, and I was ready with my money.
Predictably, the tro tro was mobbed as it slowed down. Immediately we were within touching distance, a number of hands thrust themselves through the window, clutching hard boiled eggs, bananas, tissues and, thankfully, sachets of chilled water. But this wasn't a scheduled stop - once the driver had paid the ticket, we would be gone, and the trade therefore had to executed swiftly. There was no time here for protracted greetings, pleasantries, or even price negotiations. Without thinking, I snatched a sachet of water from one of the hands, and was surprised as I offered payment to see the hand disappearing from view. Undeterred, I held a 20 pesewa coin out of the window, and saw a hand, presumably owned by my water seller, reach up and snatch the coin. The hand then quickly came back through the window, holding a 10 pesewa coin - my change, which I snatched in return.
The whole thing was concluded in a couple of seconds, in true City of London fashion, clinically and anonymously. Almost. I had no idea which of the sea of faces outside the window I had bought from, but my counterparty - guided perhaps by the colour of the mysterious hand - had identified me, and as the van pulled away I saw a teenage girl with a huge pallet of water sachets on her head waving and beaming sweetly at me through the window.
Predictably, the tro tro was mobbed as it slowed down. Immediately we were within touching distance, a number of hands thrust themselves through the window, clutching hard boiled eggs, bananas, tissues and, thankfully, sachets of chilled water. But this wasn't a scheduled stop - once the driver had paid the ticket, we would be gone, and the trade therefore had to executed swiftly. There was no time here for protracted greetings, pleasantries, or even price negotiations. Without thinking, I snatched a sachet of water from one of the hands, and was surprised as I offered payment to see the hand disappearing from view. Undeterred, I held a 20 pesewa coin out of the window, and saw a hand, presumably owned by my water seller, reach up and snatch the coin. The hand then quickly came back through the window, holding a 10 pesewa coin - my change, which I snatched in return.
The whole thing was concluded in a couple of seconds, in true City of London fashion, clinically and anonymously. Almost. I had no idea which of the sea of faces outside the window I had bought from, but my counterparty - guided perhaps by the colour of the mysterious hand - had identified me, and as the van pulled away I saw a teenage girl with a huge pallet of water sachets on her head waving and beaming sweetly at me through the window.
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Mount Cameroon
Mount Cameroon, an occasionally active volcano, is the highest mountain in West FArica at around 4100m. It is also, depending on which entry from my guidebook you read, the second or sixth highest on the whole continent. Personally I don't care which - all I know is it hurt my legs. Big time.
We climbed up via the so-called 'Guiness Route', a steep, direct trail that climbs through forest, passing a basic hut before clearing the treeline about half an hour's climb later. This first stage was hot, hot, hot, hot, hot and, even at this point I found myself struggling to keep up with the guides and porters. We spent the first night at hut 2, at around 2800m, where all the first timers on the mountain were obliged to perform a dance to appease the god of the mountain. This mainly involved jumping up and down and slapping yourself all over with branches - fortunately, it worked as he didn't erupt at all while we were on his patch. Following the dance, all the white men were given new Cameroonian names, and I don't think I'm the only one who promptly forgot mine.
We weren't the only inhabitants of Hut 2. Lying back in my sleeping bag, already exhausted after only the first (relatively short) day, I felt something scuttle across the top of my head, and flashed my torch down to see a fat brown mouse running away at the side of the luxurious plank and straw bed I was lying on. He was a bit fatter by the morning - not having closed my pack properly, I lost 2 Air Nigeria cakes and 3 bars of chocoltae that I had been saving for a celebration on the summit.
The second morning, we breakfasted early and were on the move shortly after 7.30. Once again I struggled to keep pace with guides and porters and, when Matheus had disappeared over a ridge and out of sight yet again, I fell in behind a Spanish / French couple who were on a self drive trip from Spain to Cape Town. They were moving at a more comfortable pace that I could probably have maintained for 3 days, but alas, it wasn't to be. As we reached hut 4, Matheus looked accusingly at me.
"I wait you," he announced.
"Quite right. I pay you," I thought, but diplomacy won the day and I was briskly parted from my new found, Steady Eddie climbing partners. By now, the first of my leg-foot ailments was beginning to trouble me - "up" blisters on the backs of my heels, caused no doubt by the steep incline, were becoming painful. They were later to be joined by "down" blisters on the front of my toes, so that, by the end of the climb, I could only find respite of any sort by walking on the flat, an opportunity that is all too rare on the side of a mountain.
We reached the summit shortly after 11 am and, having posed for a series of triumphant pictures beside the illegible summit sign, began our descent by another, less steep route. Tjhis, I thought, would be the easy bit. It wasn't. For the rest of the day, I picked my way across old lava flows, scree and sand while keeping a firm eye on my guide receding into the distance. By now I was a bit concerned, as the trail on this part of the route was anything but clearly marked, and clouds were sweeping across the side of the mountain with increasing regularity. I resolved to pick up my pace, and my thighs began to ache as I struggled yet again to keep up.
By the time we got into the camp at Mann Springs that evening, I was hobbling. One of my up blisters had started bleeding and I was walking in a ministry of silly walks fashion. Although we had made quite good time - the French Spanish couple arrived more than an hour after us, despite being on the summit only a few minutes later - I only wanted food, then bed. We had a shelter of sorts - no hut, fewer mice, and a thunderstorm to serenade us through the night.
On the final morning, we startedearly. This actually made quite good sense; although we had camped by the treeline, the first hour or two of walking took us across open ground, past views of Small Mount Cameroon and the sea, and we cleared this before the sun was too hot. Once back under the trees, my down blisters and thighs started to dictate to me. My lesg were now quite shaky, and I was apprehensive about even the most simple things - steeping over a log, and wondering whether my leg would give way when I landed. "keep going keep going' urged Matheus, who was now following me and, for the first time, not moving ahead after 30 seconds.
Evetntually we walked into the village of Bokwanga, to the sound of Sunday choirs coming from the churches. As I dropped my pack by the side of the road, I didn't bother to ask if this was the end. There was tarmac, and taxis. Whatever, the plan, there was no way I was walking any more.
We climbed up via the so-called 'Guiness Route', a steep, direct trail that climbs through forest, passing a basic hut before clearing the treeline about half an hour's climb later. This first stage was hot, hot, hot, hot, hot and, even at this point I found myself struggling to keep up with the guides and porters. We spent the first night at hut 2, at around 2800m, where all the first timers on the mountain were obliged to perform a dance to appease the god of the mountain. This mainly involved jumping up and down and slapping yourself all over with branches - fortunately, it worked as he didn't erupt at all while we were on his patch. Following the dance, all the white men were given new Cameroonian names, and I don't think I'm the only one who promptly forgot mine.
We weren't the only inhabitants of Hut 2. Lying back in my sleeping bag, already exhausted after only the first (relatively short) day, I felt something scuttle across the top of my head, and flashed my torch down to see a fat brown mouse running away at the side of the luxurious plank and straw bed I was lying on. He was a bit fatter by the morning - not having closed my pack properly, I lost 2 Air Nigeria cakes and 3 bars of chocoltae that I had been saving for a celebration on the summit.
The second morning, we breakfasted early and were on the move shortly after 7.30. Once again I struggled to keep pace with guides and porters and, when Matheus had disappeared over a ridge and out of sight yet again, I fell in behind a Spanish / French couple who were on a self drive trip from Spain to Cape Town. They were moving at a more comfortable pace that I could probably have maintained for 3 days, but alas, it wasn't to be. As we reached hut 4, Matheus looked accusingly at me.
"I wait you," he announced.
"Quite right. I pay you," I thought, but diplomacy won the day and I was briskly parted from my new found, Steady Eddie climbing partners. By now, the first of my leg-foot ailments was beginning to trouble me - "up" blisters on the backs of my heels, caused no doubt by the steep incline, were becoming painful. They were later to be joined by "down" blisters on the front of my toes, so that, by the end of the climb, I could only find respite of any sort by walking on the flat, an opportunity that is all too rare on the side of a mountain.
We reached the summit shortly after 11 am and, having posed for a series of triumphant pictures beside the illegible summit sign, began our descent by another, less steep route. Tjhis, I thought, would be the easy bit. It wasn't. For the rest of the day, I picked my way across old lava flows, scree and sand while keeping a firm eye on my guide receding into the distance. By now I was a bit concerned, as the trail on this part of the route was anything but clearly marked, and clouds were sweeping across the side of the mountain with increasing regularity. I resolved to pick up my pace, and my thighs began to ache as I struggled yet again to keep up.
By the time we got into the camp at Mann Springs that evening, I was hobbling. One of my up blisters had started bleeding and I was walking in a ministry of silly walks fashion. Although we had made quite good time - the French Spanish couple arrived more than an hour after us, despite being on the summit only a few minutes later - I only wanted food, then bed. We had a shelter of sorts - no hut, fewer mice, and a thunderstorm to serenade us through the night.
On the final morning, we startedearly. This actually made quite good sense; although we had camped by the treeline, the first hour or two of walking took us across open ground, past views of Small Mount Cameroon and the sea, and we cleared this before the sun was too hot. Once back under the trees, my down blisters and thighs started to dictate to me. My lesg were now quite shaky, and I was apprehensive about even the most simple things - steeping over a log, and wondering whether my leg would give way when I landed. "keep going keep going' urged Matheus, who was now following me and, for the first time, not moving ahead after 30 seconds.
Evetntually we walked into the village of Bokwanga, to the sound of Sunday choirs coming from the churches. As I dropped my pack by the side of the road, I didn't bother to ask if this was the end. There was tarmac, and taxis. Whatever, the plan, there was no way I was walking any more.
Friday, 1 April 2011
Shakin it down with the pygmies
I've heard it said about the Ba'aka that they tend to enjoy anything that intoxicates them. That's possibly true - we were constantly followed around with requests for "monsieur, un cigarette, un cigarette", and they have many interesting brews and concoctions of their own. They also love a good party. A few days ago, the night before the net hunting excursion, one such party took place. It seems to be a tradition that the celebrations are held the night before a hunt to ensure success and, having stood a round of drinks for the village, that night we were the guests of honour.
Things kicked off early. That afternoon, local election hustings had been held in Bayanga, the town a short distance from our village. We couldn't really understand what the candidates were saying, but it was clear that beer had been a key part of the proceedings. On the way back from Bayanga, we were overtaken by a group of Ba'aka women who had clearly been 'enjoying' the political debate and, having heard that there was a party tonight, were now, like most of the surrounding villages, coming along to join the fun. "Danser, danser!" we were encouraged as we walked along the path, and we were given several demonstrations of how to swing your hips, pygmy style.
By around 7pm, shortly after dark, the music had started. Everyone was gathered around the fire in the centre of the village, and the drums started first, setting up a steady rhythm against which the singing, chanting, clapping and general merriment lasted until dawn. Central to all this was the dancing - in a slow steady line around the fire, and the white guys, several feet taller than their hosts, joined the line.
The drinks on offer were not to my liking. I had a flagon of some kind of brew that we had paid for - it tasted of vinegar and dishwater and, despite my generous serving, didn't feel particularly alcoholic. I also had a smaller serving of something, definitely stronger, which tasted of old bootlaces. I decided I'd leave them to do the drinking, and just enjoy the atmosphere - this was, after all, no half hearted traditional dance display put on for tourists. Gathered around the fire, men, women, young and old were singing, dancing, drinking and smoking together. Everyone was invited, and many had walked great distances to be where it was all happening.
Tonight, our village was the place to be.
Things kicked off early. That afternoon, local election hustings had been held in Bayanga, the town a short distance from our village. We couldn't really understand what the candidates were saying, but it was clear that beer had been a key part of the proceedings. On the way back from Bayanga, we were overtaken by a group of Ba'aka women who had clearly been 'enjoying' the political debate and, having heard that there was a party tonight, were now, like most of the surrounding villages, coming along to join the fun. "Danser, danser!" we were encouraged as we walked along the path, and we were given several demonstrations of how to swing your hips, pygmy style.
By around 7pm, shortly after dark, the music had started. Everyone was gathered around the fire in the centre of the village, and the drums started first, setting up a steady rhythm against which the singing, chanting, clapping and general merriment lasted until dawn. Central to all this was the dancing - in a slow steady line around the fire, and the white guys, several feet taller than their hosts, joined the line.
The drinks on offer were not to my liking. I had a flagon of some kind of brew that we had paid for - it tasted of vinegar and dishwater and, despite my generous serving, didn't feel particularly alcoholic. I also had a smaller serving of something, definitely stronger, which tasted of old bootlaces. I decided I'd leave them to do the drinking, and just enjoy the atmosphere - this was, after all, no half hearted traditional dance display put on for tourists. Gathered around the fire, men, women, young and old were singing, dancing, drinking and smoking together. Everyone was invited, and many had walked great distances to be where it was all happening.
Tonight, our village was the place to be.
My smelly, smelly towel
Possibly the least useful purchase I made before I came away was a 'travel towel'. These are often highly recommended, folding into a remarkably small size, and I have frequently heard them praised for their marvellously absorbent qualities. Personally, though, I think that a cotton t shirt does the job just as well, if not better, and has the advantage of having more than one use. The worst thing about the towel is that it needs constant washing, tending to fester and stagnate rapidly when wet. Even if hung on a washing line immediately after each use, it can render a room uninhabitable after only a couple of days without being washed.
After a few days in the rainforest, with no running water, the towel was an unwelcome companion in my tent, and so I draped it over the top of the tent in the sun - firstly so I could breathe inside the tent, and secondly because I hoped it might prove marginally less offensive when properly dried out. Coming back from the net hunting trip, however, I found that it had gone. Noticing me looking for something the Ba'aka, who had maintained a 24 hour vigil over our tents since our arrival, were greatly concerned. We were here as honoured guests, and for something to have disappeared or, unthinkably, to have been stolen, was a matter of the utmost importance. The Ba'aka, in my short time with them, I found to be some of the friendliest, gentlest people I have met, and I knew from my conversations with Simon and Louis that they don't steal, they simply don't. Personally, I wasn't overly fussed about the towel, but this was not now important. Returning my property so that everyone's honour could be restored was all that now mattered. Sure enough, within the half hour, one of them emerged from the forest holding a crumpled blue square. It turned out that a dog had dragged it away into the forest, and if it smelled bad before, now it was truly, truly repellent. Trying not to let my revulsion show through my gratitude, I buried it deep within my rucksack.
If our belongings had been carefully guarded before, they were doubly so now. Returning later in the day, I found that a soaking wet pair of striped underpants had been hung on top of my tent. The lessons of the towel had been fully learned, and I would not be given the chance to report my pants missing. Not wanting to seem ungrateful by pointing out that I'd never seen those pants before and didn't really want them on my tent, I left them there to continue drying. Later I noticed that they had been hung above the seating area of the village as a sort of flag, and sometime after that, they were gone altogether.
I hoped fervently that no little helpers had packed them in my bag for me.
After a few days in the rainforest, with no running water, the towel was an unwelcome companion in my tent, and so I draped it over the top of the tent in the sun - firstly so I could breathe inside the tent, and secondly because I hoped it might prove marginally less offensive when properly dried out. Coming back from the net hunting trip, however, I found that it had gone. Noticing me looking for something the Ba'aka, who had maintained a 24 hour vigil over our tents since our arrival, were greatly concerned. We were here as honoured guests, and for something to have disappeared or, unthinkably, to have been stolen, was a matter of the utmost importance. The Ba'aka, in my short time with them, I found to be some of the friendliest, gentlest people I have met, and I knew from my conversations with Simon and Louis that they don't steal, they simply don't. Personally, I wasn't overly fussed about the towel, but this was not now important. Returning my property so that everyone's honour could be restored was all that now mattered. Sure enough, within the half hour, one of them emerged from the forest holding a crumpled blue square. It turned out that a dog had dragged it away into the forest, and if it smelled bad before, now it was truly, truly repellent. Trying not to let my revulsion show through my gratitude, I buried it deep within my rucksack.
If our belongings had been carefully guarded before, they were doubly so now. Returning later in the day, I found that a soaking wet pair of striped underpants had been hung on top of my tent. The lessons of the towel had been fully learned, and I would not be given the chance to report my pants missing. Not wanting to seem ungrateful by pointing out that I'd never seen those pants before and didn't really want them on my tent, I left them there to continue drying. Later I noticed that they had been hung above the seating area of the village as a sort of flag, and sometime after that, they were gone altogether.
I hoped fervently that no little helpers had packed them in my bag for me.
Not goodbye, only au revoir........
So a couple of days ago, I bid farewell for now to the Kumasi Street Children project. I have spent a few fantastic weeks with them. Over the last four weeks, I have helped them with their budgets and analysis, as well asspending some time seeing the projecys and witnessing many of the comings and goings from the drop in centre where the children come to rest during the day.
At lunchtime, we had a small farewell gathering in the office. Everyone was there, and as Sister Jospehine opened with a short prayer giving thanks for my time with them all and praying for my safe onward travels, I actually felt a bit choked.......to put it simply, the warmth, the welcome and simply the total goodness of the people here is something that can really be a bit overwhelming. And to be honest, that isn't something I've always associated in my mind with accounting - it definitely wasn't in my BPP textbooks.
As a parting gift, they gave me a traditional African shirt which immediately and permanently became my favourite item of clothing. As you will see from the pictures, I am now officially the coolest obruni in town - please take note.
And so, I caught the bus down to Accra, ready for my next trip to Cameroon. On my last evening with YPWC, Ma Boampong baked me a farewell cake, and left me with another one to eat on the bus the following day. And, as an extra special treat, I was given a bowl of lettuce leaves and Heinz Beanz with already substantial final breakfast. Naturally, I ate everything.
I'm going to miss Kumasi. It's a town with great energy and life - the markets, the street traders. The drivers in the tro tro station who know where I need to go and wave me over to the right car as soon an I approach. The taxi driver who still tries to persuade me to part with 10 cedis for a private car when there's a share taxi right next to him, leaving in a few minutes.
Above all, this is somewhere where I have made many good friends. I'll be coming back to Kumasi sometime in April, and then will be going home....that will be difficult. But for now, I'll be seeing them all again soon.
At lunchtime, we had a small farewell gathering in the office. Everyone was there, and as Sister Jospehine opened with a short prayer giving thanks for my time with them all and praying for my safe onward travels, I actually felt a bit choked.......to put it simply, the warmth, the welcome and simply the total goodness of the people here is something that can really be a bit overwhelming. And to be honest, that isn't something I've always associated in my mind with accounting - it definitely wasn't in my BPP textbooks.
As a parting gift, they gave me a traditional African shirt which immediately and permanently became my favourite item of clothing. As you will see from the pictures, I am now officially the coolest obruni in town - please take note.
And so, I caught the bus down to Accra, ready for my next trip to Cameroon. On my last evening with YPWC, Ma Boampong baked me a farewell cake, and left me with another one to eat on the bus the following day. And, as an extra special treat, I was given a bowl of lettuce leaves and Heinz Beanz with already substantial final breakfast. Naturally, I ate everything.
I'm going to miss Kumasi. It's a town with great energy and life - the markets, the street traders. The drivers in the tro tro station who know where I need to go and wave me over to the right car as soon an I approach. The taxi driver who still tries to persuade me to part with 10 cedis for a private car when there's a share taxi right next to him, leaving in a few minutes.
Above all, this is somewhere where I have made many good friends. I'll be coming back to Kumasi sometime in April, and then will be going home....that will be difficult. But for now, I'll be seeing them all again soon.
Checkpoints
We were driving across Eastern Cameroon, heading for a remote and obscure crossing point into the Central African Republic. As we drove, the landscape, scenery, roads and people gradually changed. The buildings became more basic, often using no more than materials taken from the rainforest. The concrete and corrugated iron constructions of Bertoua and Batouri, the last two sizeable towns we passed, were replaced, first with mud and thatch houses then, increasingly, by the thatch, leaves and grass houses built by the Ba'aka, or "pygmies". Across this ever changing landscape, two things remained constant - the logging trucks, stirring up thick clouds of choking red dust which lingered in the air long after they had passed, and the police or security 'checkpoints'.
At each of these checkpoints, some attempt was made, with varying degrees of subtlety and guile, to levy 'fines' for incorrect paperwork. Each time we were greeted by a military official and heard the request for 'les papiers personels', the passports were handed over and the rigmarole began. Many of the guards, poorly trained and seemingly barely literate, clearly had no idea what they were looking at. One officer, noticing a photo attached to the visa in my passport, carefully checked this photo against my grimy face peering out of the car window, and made sure that I knew I was under scrutiny. Satisfied that the bedraggled, filthy specimen in the back seat was indeed the subject of the visa photo, he handed the passport back, apparently now happy that the visa was valid. The fact that he had diligently been checking an expired Tanzanian visa from 2006 appeared not to have been noticed. I wasn't going to point out his error.
Further on, another official sat scrutinising with great care a Malian visa from a little over a year ago. When Simon tried to point him to the correct page in the passport, he jabbed at the visa page with his finger. "Bamako!" he insisted, with wide eyed indignation. True, Bamako is the capital of Mali, and also the name of a village we had passed through some 30 minutes before - possibly the source of the officer's confusion. We left him carefully running his finger down the page on behalf of the Malian authorities. As he did so, a female officer walked past, greeting us all with a hi-5 and a click of the fingers, an interesting new variant on the 'finger snap handshake' I became familiar with in Ghana. Here was a new tactic.
"Monsieur, mon frere," she began, looking me in the eye in a manner which I found a little unnerving, "pensez de moi. Vous pouvez aider moi, n'est-ce pas? N'est-ce pas? Monsieur, mon frere."
This was a new one on me. Hearing this kind of wheedling, whining plea from a uniformed official doesn't often happen in Essex, and I wasn't sure how to respond. Asking her what sort of 'aider' she had in kind could have been construed as opening negotiations, and simply refusing could have been awkward - however inappropriate her behaviour, she still had a police badge after all. In the end I settled on the tourist's best line of defence - blank incomprehension. My french is pretty rubbish you know.
The most blatant and useless example of cheating, however, came from one of the few officers who actually managed to find the right visas in our passports. Handing one passport back through the window, he played what he imagined would be his trump card. "Le visa, c'est fini!" he declared hopefully. This was so pathetic I actually felt quite sorry for the guy and almost dashed him a few thousand CFA out of pity. Almost. From where I sat, I could clearly see the visa page - "Delivre le 21 fevrier 2011. Validite 3 mois". The visa still had two months to run.
"Non, monsieur, le visa n'est pas fini. Vraiment, c'est pas fini." The gendarme turned away from the car, his shoulders slumped with disappointment and, with a "merci monsieur!" and a cheery wave, we drove off into the afternoon heat.
At each of these checkpoints, some attempt was made, with varying degrees of subtlety and guile, to levy 'fines' for incorrect paperwork. Each time we were greeted by a military official and heard the request for 'les papiers personels', the passports were handed over and the rigmarole began. Many of the guards, poorly trained and seemingly barely literate, clearly had no idea what they were looking at. One officer, noticing a photo attached to the visa in my passport, carefully checked this photo against my grimy face peering out of the car window, and made sure that I knew I was under scrutiny. Satisfied that the bedraggled, filthy specimen in the back seat was indeed the subject of the visa photo, he handed the passport back, apparently now happy that the visa was valid. The fact that he had diligently been checking an expired Tanzanian visa from 2006 appeared not to have been noticed. I wasn't going to point out his error.
Further on, another official sat scrutinising with great care a Malian visa from a little over a year ago. When Simon tried to point him to the correct page in the passport, he jabbed at the visa page with his finger. "Bamako!" he insisted, with wide eyed indignation. True, Bamako is the capital of Mali, and also the name of a village we had passed through some 30 minutes before - possibly the source of the officer's confusion. We left him carefully running his finger down the page on behalf of the Malian authorities. As he did so, a female officer walked past, greeting us all with a hi-5 and a click of the fingers, an interesting new variant on the 'finger snap handshake' I became familiar with in Ghana. Here was a new tactic.
"Monsieur, mon frere," she began, looking me in the eye in a manner which I found a little unnerving, "pensez de moi. Vous pouvez aider moi, n'est-ce pas? N'est-ce pas? Monsieur, mon frere."
This was a new one on me. Hearing this kind of wheedling, whining plea from a uniformed official doesn't often happen in Essex, and I wasn't sure how to respond. Asking her what sort of 'aider' she had in kind could have been construed as opening negotiations, and simply refusing could have been awkward - however inappropriate her behaviour, she still had a police badge after all. In the end I settled on the tourist's best line of defence - blank incomprehension. My french is pretty rubbish you know.
The most blatant and useless example of cheating, however, came from one of the few officers who actually managed to find the right visas in our passports. Handing one passport back through the window, he played what he imagined would be his trump card. "Le visa, c'est fini!" he declared hopefully. This was so pathetic I actually felt quite sorry for the guy and almost dashed him a few thousand CFA out of pity. Almost. From where I sat, I could clearly see the visa page - "Delivre le 21 fevrier 2011. Validite 3 mois". The visa still had two months to run.
"Non, monsieur, le visa n'est pas fini. Vraiment, c'est pas fini." The gendarme turned away from the car, his shoulders slumped with disappointment and, with a "merci monsieur!" and a cheery wave, we drove off into the afternoon heat.
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