The bus station was full of buses, none anywhere near ready to leave. There were big heaps of luggage piled between the buses, and people stretched out on the ground sleeping. I found the bus for Bobo, and positioned myself next to it. Beside me was a little girl sitting on a heap of luggage labelled Niamey. The station master came by and told her and her father to move the pile, as they were nowhere near the Niamey bus. On the other side of me a young man was sleeping on a mattress, with the rest of the bed piled next to him. One of the men loading the buses was the spitting image of Will Smith. I saw a white woman pushing a bike, and a white couple got on the bus next to me.
I managed to get a window seat, but the bus was packed, so I had to ride the whole 5 1:2 hour trip with my pack on my knees. This time my seat mate was a young boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen. I think I may have taken his seat, as for the first time the tickets were numbered, but if so he didn't complain, although I'm pretty sure it was his first major bus trip. He was curious about everything. Once again the trip was actually fairly cool, and I was able to open my window. I persuaded one of my fellow passengers to take my picture.
When we reached the bus station in Bobo, I was mobbed by the usual swarm of taxi drivers, but when I said I wanted to go to Sikasso, a young man led me down the street to a much smaller bus depot where for 4500 CFA I purchased a ticket for Sikasso. The ticket seller told me the bus would leave at 3 pm, in two hours, and suggested I get something to eat. That seemed like a good idea to me. The young man, who told me his name was Ilyasa, led me across the busy street to a little local restaurant where we shared a plate of rice and peanut sauce, and draughts of icy cold water. Then he led me around the corner to a slightly more upmarket cafe where we had cokes while he tried to talk me into visiting various local sights (no time), and then told me about a charity he was connected to that had something to do with a children's dance troupe, if I understood him correctly. Apparently there were 15 children involved, but somehow there was something about African film in there as well.
After we went back to the bus station, I gave him 2000 CFA, which was all I could afford, and he stayed with me until 3. Of course, the bus didn't actually leave at 3! Around 4 o'clock, a man came and led me down the road to where a group of the most decrepit looking minibuses were being piled high with teetering loads of produce and other luggage. Of course, the bus for Sikasso was the most decrepit!
I was told it would be another 15 minutes, so I went and joined a group of women behind the bus in the shade of a large tree, who were making switches from sweet-smelling grasses. I took a few pictures, and soon my camera was being handed around from woman to woman as they all looked at the pictures and commented on them. After about fifteen minutes the passengers were sent across the street to wait for the bus, and a few minutes later we were on our way.
The bus was as decrepit inside as out, with badly tattered seats. My bag was shoved under one of the front seats, and by shoving a bit, I was able to get a window seat behind it. The bus was packed to the limit, with even the jump seats in use. This time my seat mate was a very large young man, who at one of the border posts bought oranges for all of the women, myself included.
It was a very cramped ride, but for the most part, I was impressed at how well the seemingly decrepit bus managed.
The border posts were repeats of the Niger/BurkinaFaso ones, with passport details being hand written in large ledgers. At both country's posts, there were trees full of weaver birds, but it was too dark to really get any pictures. The border town on the Mali side turned out to be Heremakono, where I would be coming on Monday to visit Diarah, my sponsored child with Save the Children.
It was at Heremakono that we encountered a problem - the bus' battery was dying, and therefore, so did our headlights periodically. With frequent stops, it was about 10 pm when we finally reached Sikasso. I found a taxi, who said he knew where the Maissa hotel was, although it turned out he had to stop frequently to ask directions. Like the taxi I'd taken in Ouaga, this one had to be hotwired to start. At least it did start - my English-speaking taxi driver in Ouaga had needed a push to get his taxi started.
I managed to get a window seat, but the bus was packed, so I had to ride the whole 5 1:2 hour trip with my pack on my knees. This time my seat mate was a young boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen. I think I may have taken his seat, as for the first time the tickets were numbered, but if so he didn't complain, although I'm pretty sure it was his first major bus trip. He was curious about everything. Once again the trip was actually fairly cool, and I was able to open my window. I persuaded one of my fellow passengers to take my picture.
When we reached the bus station in Bobo, I was mobbed by the usual swarm of taxi drivers, but when I said I wanted to go to Sikasso, a young man led me down the street to a much smaller bus depot where for 4500 CFA I purchased a ticket for Sikasso. The ticket seller told me the bus would leave at 3 pm, in two hours, and suggested I get something to eat. That seemed like a good idea to me. The young man, who told me his name was Ilyasa, led me across the busy street to a little local restaurant where we shared a plate of rice and peanut sauce, and draughts of icy cold water. Then he led me around the corner to a slightly more upmarket cafe where we had cokes while he tried to talk me into visiting various local sights (no time), and then told me about a charity he was connected to that had something to do with a children's dance troupe, if I understood him correctly. Apparently there were 15 children involved, but somehow there was something about African film in there as well.
After we went back to the bus station, I gave him 2000 CFA, which was all I could afford, and he stayed with me until 3. Of course, the bus didn't actually leave at 3! Around 4 o'clock, a man came and led me down the road to where a group of the most decrepit looking minibuses were being piled high with teetering loads of produce and other luggage. Of course, the bus for Sikasso was the most decrepit!
I was told it would be another 15 minutes, so I went and joined a group of women behind the bus in the shade of a large tree, who were making switches from sweet-smelling grasses. I took a few pictures, and soon my camera was being handed around from woman to woman as they all looked at the pictures and commented on them. After about fifteen minutes the passengers were sent across the street to wait for the bus, and a few minutes later we were on our way.
The bus was as decrepit inside as out, with badly tattered seats. My bag was shoved under one of the front seats, and by shoving a bit, I was able to get a window seat behind it. The bus was packed to the limit, with even the jump seats in use. This time my seat mate was a very large young man, who at one of the border posts bought oranges for all of the women, myself included.
It was a very cramped ride, but for the most part, I was impressed at how well the seemingly decrepit bus managed.
The border posts were repeats of the Niger/BurkinaFaso ones, with passport details being hand written in large ledgers. At both country's posts, there were trees full of weaver birds, but it was too dark to really get any pictures. The border town on the Mali side turned out to be Heremakono, where I would be coming on Monday to visit Diarah, my sponsored child with Save the Children.
It was at Heremakono that we encountered a problem - the bus' battery was dying, and therefore, so did our headlights periodically. With frequent stops, it was about 10 pm when we finally reached Sikasso. I found a taxi, who said he knew where the Maissa hotel was, although it turned out he had to stop frequently to ask directions. Like the taxi I'd taken in Ouaga, this one had to be hotwired to start. At least it did start - my English-speaking taxi driver in Ouaga had needed a push to get his taxi started.
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