Janet's diary. Travelling with Ollie in Africa
Mali Saturday 3rd January 1998 from the border with Senegal to Bamako.
Leaving Senegal behind it was with some excitement that we headed for the Malian border and then, after crossing the bridge over the Faleme River, we completed our Customs documentation before entering the town of Diboli. We visited the police station and completed the required paperwork then paid out 2,000 CFA. The official who was dealing with us told us that our insurance wasn't valid for Mali, I was sure it was but didn't argue (it never helps). I asked if we could get insurance in Diboli, he said this was not possible, but that we could get insurance as soon as we reached Kayes. We thanked him and shook hands, he wished us a good stay in Mali.
We drove through the town until we were stopped again at a police post on the outskirts. I got out of the truck and took the paperwork down a steep embankment to a little hut. Next to the hut was an open shelter under which lay, by the amount of gold braid, was probably the chief of police, asleep on a bunk. Another policeman met me in the doorway of the hut and I handed him our Passports, he glanced at these and then asked for the vehicle documents. He looked at our insurance and then shook his head and said “this is not valid for Mali”. I explained to him that the police in town had told us that we could get insurance when we got to Kayes. He wandered over to consult the police chief, now awake but still reclining on the bed, this guy was beginning to irritate me. He returned and informed me that we could not drive to Kayes without insurance, what must I do I asked, If I cannot get insurance here. “You must go back to Senegal” he said - Now I was really getting cross and beginning to see red. I was sure that this was just a trick to get money from us, so I pulled myself up to my full 5ft 2inches and told him that I would “not go back to Senegal” “and as you will not let us drive to Kayes, then we will pitch our tent out side of your hut, sleep the night here and then tomorrow morning, I will walk the hundred kilometres into Kayes and return with the insurance”. With this he seemed quite taken aback and once more went to speak with his chief, still lying on the bed. At this point Steve came down from the truck to see what was happening to keep me so long so I quickly told him what was going on. The policeman returned, I waved the insurance document under his nose and pointed out that it said in the small print that it was valid in Mali. He gave up, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders he rolled his eyes at Steve as if to say you poor chap, and waved us out of his sight. He must have realised that he was not going to get any money out of us. We quickly climbed into Ollie and drove off, at speed.
We were now driving along a reasonable gravel road flanked by a forest of huge Baobab trees. Villagers walking beside the road, waved and called out greetings,
as we drove by. Malians seemed friendly, even if their police were corrupt.
We drove for about half an hour, then realising we would not make Kayes before Sunset, we looked for a place where we could pull off the road. We drove
well into the forest until we came to a huge old hollowed out Baobab tree and tucking Ollie behind it we made camp. After organising our bedding inside
the truck I cooked our dinner, rice and a tin of Marks and Sparks cream of chicken from our store cupboard, accompanied by tomatoes, onion and pepper salad,
with melon for desert.
It was quite spooky sitting drinking our coffee, in the moonlight underneath this ancient old tree. We sat listening to sounds of insects, frogs and owls and
in the distance, hyenas. Now I felt that we really had arrived in Africa. It had been a very eventful day and we were both feeling very weary, turned in at
half past eight.
Day 1. Mileage 193.
Sunday 4th January.
I had a very good nights sleep, I only woke once at around two am, a really peaceful camping spot. We got up at half past seven to a lovely sunny morning. We sat under our huge old Baobab tree eating a leisurely breakfast and enjoying the surroundings. When we had finished eating and I had washed up, we packed the truck and were heading for the town of Kayes by half past nine. It was a dirt road, but in quite good condition and we reached Kayes an hour later. At the outskirts of the town we encountered the usual police checkpoint. The Policeman was a very friendly chap who scrutinised our papers but made no indication that our insurance was invalid in Mali. He managed to wheedle a pen out of me and then said that we must report to the police station in the centre of town. This was no surprise as we had been told that, in Mali, we would have to present ourselves to the police in each town that we went through.
Kayes was a very dirty dusty African town with narrow streets flanked by open sewers. There were people and animals everywhere and by its architecture and narrow streets it was still very much a town of the Muslim north. After a bit of a search, we found the Police station located in an old French fort opposite a very old and run down railway station. I gathered up our paperwork, crossed the dusty street and climbed up the stairs to a Veranda, where the usual little cluster of officials and their acolytes were sprawled around talking and drinking tea. One of them detached himself from the group and glanced at my Passport, he then directed me to a small dark room. The room contained a wooden bench in front of an old desk. It was cool and refreshing after coming in from the harsh sunlight. A few minutes later another policeman entered the room he was carrying a live chicken under his arm. He sat down placing the trussed up chicken on the desk beside him and gestured for me to sit on the wooden bench. I handed him our papers which he proceeded to examine. The chicken gazed up at me with his little beady eye as the official asked me some questions, the same questions asked by every other official so far, where had we come from, where were we going. He appeared satisfied with my replies and put another stamp in our Passports. After wishing me Bon route, I thanked him and left.
We made our next stop the nearest fuel Station; here we generated a great deal of interest with the locals especially the children. A very helpful young man on the pumps also filled all our water cans for us. As with most of the fuel stations in West Africa, the forecourt was awash with spilt fuel and god knows what would happen if someone dropped a lighted cigarette.
So far, most Malians that we have encountered have been helpful and friendly and there seems to be less hassle from street traders than in Senegal. At a roadside stall I purchased oranges and bananas and then in a small modern shop I brought bottled water. There was a television set located on a shelf behind the counter, and the proprietor, a large gentleman of Lebanese appearance, didn’t take his eyes off the screen while he served me.
We drove slowly through the narrow streets, in places, only just wide enough for Ollie to get through. I spotted a shop with crates of beer stacked outside. Steve parked Ollie and I went in and purchased a few bottles of Malian beer and half a dozen cokes at great expense; at the moment most of our daily budget is spent on drinks.
Driving out of town we searched for the road to Bafoulabe. We had to ask directions as there were several tracks leading off from the main road and we were unsure of the right one.
Someone, back in Senegal, had advised us that when looking for directions, to ask four different people and if three came up with the same direction then you could be reasonably sure it
was the right road.
We were directed to a very rocky track running parallel with a railway line and bumped our way across rocks and boulders, wondering if we were really on the right road.
After about an hour we started to climb quite steeply and at the top of one hill we came across the ruins of an old fort and stopping to investigate we discovered it
to be the ruins of the French fort De Medine It was an important site, but was in a very uncared for condition. Steve was quite fascinated by the condition of some
old cannons that were placed around a granite monument. This monument was engraved with the names of French soldiers who, presumably, had perished in this wild place.
The cannon were in as good condition as when they were made, absolutely no rust on them whatsoever. We wandered around looking into decaying rooms overgrown with
vegetation and came across the old prison cell. Here the bars on the window were as clean as the day they were fitted, not a spot of rust again, the air up here must
be very pure and dry. Some youngsters appeared and tagged along beside us, asking questions in French and admiring Ollie. It was a very picturesque
and peaceful spot overlooking the river.
The country side all along this road was very beautiful, for most of the way running alongside the river. There were huge rocky outcrops overhanging the road and thick bush. In places the road was no more than a cart track. We came to the “chutes de Felou”, where river rapids led into a hydroelectric dam, built by the French many years before. Here the road petered out completely and we had to find our way across huge round granite boulders until the track redefined itself again. We continued on past little villages of mud huts. Adults and children ran from their huts calling greetings and waving to us.
At around 4pm we found a small rough track and drove off into the bush. Scraping Ollie’s flanks on branches we twisted and turned bumping over rocks until we were satisfied that we were concealed from the “main road”. Here we made camp for the night. While Steve did some Maintenance on Ollie I cooked a veggie omelette, just for a change! By now the sun was setting and we decided to have a shower and wash our hair. Over the past few days we had managed only brief washes and we were both feeling pretty mucky. Steve rigged up the shower bag from the branch of a nearby tree and here, in the gathering dusk, we stood in turn, in the washing up bowl, under a trickle of water. There we were in the altogether hoping no one was going to pop up out of the bushes but it felt so good to wash the dust from our bodies. After dark we sat at our table drinking coffee and eating dried fruit and nuts while listening to the BBC world service on the radio. We have certainly become more confident in our bush camping than when we first set out. We turned in about nine pm.
A little about our sleeping arrangements inside the truck. Although we have a very good roof tent, we always feel more secure sleeping inside the truck, when rough camping. Back in Jersey, when he fitted the truck out Steve incorporated a flat sleeping platform in the back. I made curtains to go all the way round and we have very fine metal mesh grills that fit in the two rear door windows. These coupled with the sunroof that is also covered in mosquito proof mesh, provide plenty of ventilation. Once mattresses and bedding are in there is only about 2 feet of headroom and this makes for some interesting contortions whilst getting undressed, but it is very cosy and comfortable. Day 2. Mileage 110.
Week 9. Monday 5th January.
A very peaceful nights sleep, got up at 7.30 and by 8.30 we were on the road to Diama. The road from Kayes, thus far, had been unpaved and quite difficult. On our map we found a
small piece of “red road” indicating tar and we joined it at 9.20, it was a tar road but in a poor state, it had been a long time since any maintenance had been done to it. We came
to the end of the “red road” and the “tar” but then we somehow managed to miss a left hand turn that Andreas had told us to look out for. We found ourselves climbing a steep hill up
a narrow winding track. Halfway up we were waved to stop by a lorry driver, he told us that this road was a dead end and we could go no further. We backtracked and found the
turning that we should have taken.
For a time the road was quite good, but then deteriorated. Huge holes, soft sand and rocks made it lots of “fun”. The countryside was quite stunning, hilly and rocky and the bush was very thick with lots of trees and wonderful bird life, not at all as I had imagined Mali would be. We saw lots of beautiful Senegalese blue rollers and Little Green Parrots, we were also treated to an aerial display by a Wide Tailed Whydah. At about 14.30 we came to a spot that would have made an excellent bush camp, but Steve said that it was a bit early to stop and we should push on for another hour. At 15.30 we arrived at small village on the riverbank. Here we would have to cross the river to get to the town of Bafoulabe. We could see the ferry on the opposite side of the river and spoke to a couple of guys who said it would soon return, so we settled down to wait. At this moment another local wandered over carrying a large Paw-paw, which we ended up paying a 1,000 CFA for! They certainly see us coming. The little ferry came back across to our side of the River. It was just a small pontoon capable of carrying two vehicles, with an outboard motor for propulsion. The only other vehicle waiting to cross was an old Land rover full of locals. We drove Ollie down a sandy beach and onto the Barge. Then after we had got out of the truck I enquired as to how much it would cost, the ferry man said he wanted 30,000 CFA and I said “you must joking”. There was no way that we would pay that much; he then went down to 20,000. Definitely not, I said, he dropped it again to ten thousand and I said that the most we would pay was 5,000, he asked for 7.500. At this point I threatened to take the truck off the ferry, so we finally agreed on 5,000 CFA. These guys certainly know how to try it on when they see a white face and at 5,000 I think he still did very well out of us. We pottered slowly across the river the journey taking about 10 minutes.
The village of Bafoulabe was situated on the riverbank and after enquiring the way to Mahina we were directed to a road running next to a railway-line. The road crossed over the railway line and round the back of the station. From there it was a three and a half kilometre drive down a beautiful tree lined road. The trees looked like huge Mango trees. Mahina was a large dusty town with a bustling market place. We had been told that here we would have to ask the Station Master for permission to drive across the railway bridge, as this was the only way to get across the Bafing river. At the station Steve stopped Ollie and went to look for the Chief, he asked a couple of people before finding the right man. Steve asked him if we could go across the bridge, the chef shook his hand with a smile and waved us to the bridge. Before going across we visited a nearby garage and filled up with diesel. The bridge was an iron construction with just one railway track across. Steve drove Ollie up to the railway lines and made sure no trains were coming, or cars, from the other side. He drove across with the wheels astride one of the rails. As I looked down from the bridge I could see small boats and pirogues passing beneath us while in the shallows women washed clothes and children splashed about in the shallows. Upon reaching the other side we drove through another village and then took the road to Manantallis. On the map this road was shown as a white road impassable in wet weather but in actual fact we found a brand new all weather gravel road! The time was now 4.30 and we did not think we would reach Manantallis before dark, as it was another 93 k’s to go. Driving along we looked for suitable camping spots but due to the close proximity of the river, the area was quite heavily populated and an hour later we had reached the police post outside the town of Manantallis. We gave our papers to the policeman and asked where we could camp. He told us that we should be able to find a camping place after we had passed the barrage (dam), beyond the town. As we drove along through the town, we could see the huge barrage in the distance.
The road took us to a point just before the barrage and here we came to a crossroad. A sign beside the road said stop, it was about 30 yards from the junction. Steve drove just beyond it and stopped. On the left hand side of the road there was a police post. I went over to ask for directions and there, under a shelter, sat a surly, fat, scruffy policeman, he had one trouser leg rolled above the knee and was wearing rubber flip flops. He couldn't have looked less like a policeman if he had tried. I greeted him and asked for the directions to Kita. He got up walked over to the halt sign and beckoned me to follow. He pointed to the sign and asked me why we had not stopped before the sign, I could see that this guy was looking for trouble, so bit my tongue and apologised. He begrudgingly told me to turn left when we reached the barrage. We set off up a hill and for some reason Steve got it into his head that we were going the wrong way and turned right. The next minute we realised that we were driving along the top of the Dam, a big mistake. The road was too narrow to turn around so we had to carry on going across. A few moments later we heard hooting and our fat friend appeared alongside Ollie, riding an ancient motor cycle, his face contorted with rage, he was shouting and waving his fist at us. Steve stopped the truck and he pulled up alongside my window. We could only just understand what he was shouting about, our French not being that good. But we could understand that he was demanding our Passports and camera, accusing us of spying and taking photographs. We both apologised and said that we had just taken a wrong turning but he wouldn’t listen. He took our Passports and told us to follow him back to his post. As we were driving along I was frantically trying to hide the cameras. Once we had got back to his hut he continued to rant and rage, but made no more demands for the camera. We had a lot of trouble understanding his French but gathered that we had made an infraction of the law and we would have to go with him to the police station in the town. We said that we would go with him but first he must return our Passports as he was committing a contravention of international law by keeping them from us. He refused to return them and went back to his shelter. At this moment a car with four men in it came from the direction of the hydro electric plant. The car pulled up and the driver got out and came over to see what was going on. He spoke quite good English and we explained our predicament to him. I told him that this man had taken our passports and was refusing to give them back to us. He walked over and spoke to our fat tormentor for a few minutes and then returned. He explained to us that we could have our Passports back and he would let us go if we would pay him some money. I’d had a feeling that this was what it would come to this. We asked how much he wanted. Our friend then went back to consult with Fatso again and came back saying that he wanted 2,000 CFA (about 2 quid). The policeman came over and I handed him the money, his greedy little eyes lit up and he returned our Passports, I thanked our new friends for their help and we made a very quick exit up the right road this time or should I say, the left.
By now it was after six and starting to get dark, we were in a very hilly area and drove into the gathering gloom for about a further five kilometres. Noticing a track that led off into the bush, Steve left the road and drove for about 700 metres until he was able to park Ollie behind some trees next to a huge flat granite rock. Then it was all systems go to get us a meal prepared and the beds made up before it got too dark. We were both feeling a bit traumatised by the events of the day but we were soon sitting eating our meal and listening to the good old BBC world service aided by the sounds of chirring Nightjars, chirping crickets and all the other night sounds and we were soon able to laugh about the predicament we had just got ourselves out of. It had seemed pretty awful at the time and could have been a lot worse if the “fat policeman” had set his sights a bit higher and demanded a lot more money than he had. But then perhaps he was swinging the lead, in accusing us of breaking the law. Perhaps it was perfectly legal to drive over the Barrage, in Africa your never quite sure. We finally crawled, exhausted into bed at nine o’clock. Day 3. Mileage 83
Tuesday 6th January.
I awoke just before dawn, not a bad night’s sleep, considering it had been so late when we’d found this place; it had turned out to be a good one. Dawn is about 6.30 now and by 7.00 it was light enough to get up. I started to fix our breakfast, Paw- Paw, banana and bread with Jam, while Steve brewed the Kelly for our tea.
We were just about sit down when all of a sudden a young chap appeared from nowhere out of the bush, wheeling a bicycle. He was carrying an ancient rifle and had a bandoleer of shells across his chest. On the back of his bike he had a water bottle covered in animal skin. By its shape it was a plastic one litre bottle. Traditional craft! With a broad smile of surprise on his face, he greeted us with “bon jour, Comment Sava”. We returned his greeting as he gazed around at our truck for a few moments before wandering off into the bush. These little encounters certainly make one speculate on our vulnerability. We have very little defence and certainly no firearms. If one of these guys decided he would murder us and take our truck, which must represent great wealth, one wonders how long it would be before the outside world would know about it. As we’d had such a long day yesterday we were in no hurry to get going and sat for a while listening to the radio before spending some time exploring our immediate surroundings. It is quite different to where we have just come from, a lot more Thorn-trees. There are also signs of a recent bush fire with large blackened areas and burnt trees.
At around 10.00 we set off for the town of Kita, the route was a very well graded dirt road and looked as though it had been remade since the previous rainy season. We passed through lots of little villages which were all very neat and tidy, the villagers waving to us as we drove by and for a change we weren’t being pestered for “Cadeux”. In the centre of each village there was a raised platform with a thatched roof. These, we learned, were meeting places where the people could sit and talk in the shade.
About mid morning, just before a road junction at a place called Tambaga, we came to a small village. In the centre of the village we discovered villagers, pumping water from a capped well. These Wells have been built by foreign aid agencies and being capped supply clean water. We stopped and asked the people gathered there if we could speak to the chief. The chief appeared and by his dress and manner, obviously a man of importance. Steve asked his permission to draw water, of course he said, with a smile. Steve then passed the Jerry cans down from Ollie’s roof and I carried one to the pump. The young girls gathered around the pump handle made way for me with a good deal of giggling and banter. I started to pump some water into one of the cans but I wasn’t making a very good job of it as most of the water was going over my feet, this caused fresh bouts of giggling and now the girls insisted on doing the job for me. We soon had quite a crowd around us as we were obviously a bit of novelty. Our cans filled, willing helpers then carried them over to Ollie and passed them up to Steve, on the roof-rack. I got the camera from the truck and pointing to it, I asked the chef if we could take a photo of them all, this produced more excitement as they gathered into a group in front of the Well, the women looking shy and the men posing like mad.
Before we left I gave them five empty water bottles a plastic box and a packet of biscuits, for helping us, they were absolutely delighted. It was so nice to be among genuine people who didn’t treat us like a meal ticket. We thanked them and they all waved to us as we continued on our journey. It had been a refreshing change.
At around 1pm we arrived at the outskirts of Kita and the police check point. We handed over our paper-work and were once again informed that we must take our passports to the town police station. After the usual search we managed located it and today it was Steve’s turn to take the paperwork in, while I looked after Ollie. He returned grinning broadly, because a policeman had asked him if we were in the Paris Dakar rally, I said chance would be a fine thing, with Ollie. Apparently they were also much taken with Steve’s Vari-Focal specs and all wanted to try them on. The Bank was now closed for the day so we made the decision to drive beyond the town, find a camp for the night and then return to the bank in the morning. It took some time to find a suitable spot, where we could get away from human habitation. We were now on the road that we would be driving to Bamako the next day. It was a brand new graded road, but with steep banks, which made made it difficult to get off and into the bush. As we drove along we speculated that with such a good road we were only a few hours drive from Bamako the capital city of Mali.
Finally after about 10k’s we turned off onto a donkey track that probably went to a village. After driving along this track for a couple more kilometres, we came to a large area of open grass and at one side of this we were able to conceal ourselves behind some trees. Having set up camp, I started to cook and Steve went off to collect firewood for the Kelly kettle.
The whole area was criss-crossed with pathways and we could hear children’s voices quite close-by, but no one came to see us. We ate early and this gave us the opportunity before dark to wash and put on clean clothes. Steve worked on the news letter for home and I caught up on my diary. We turned in around a quarter past eight; we don’t like to keep our lights on too late in case we attract unwelcome visitors, although most Africans don’t venture far at night. Day 4. Mileage 149.
Wednesday 7th January.
I had an undisturbed night and awoke about 5.30. After breakfast we packed up and then returned to Kita, we had to re-fuel, find a bank, and change money. Steve went into the credit Agricole Bank, an odd little place and more like a little wooden bungalow than a bank. They would not change traveller’s cheque here, so Steve changed 500 French francs which after commission gave us 49,000 CFA. Steve returned to Ollie and I walked down to the Market to obtain some provisions. Wednesday was Market day in Kita and on our way in we had seen lots of people bringing their produce from the outlying country side. Some were walking, carrying huge loads on their heads and some with donkey carts loaded to overflowing, how those poor Donkeys manage to pull these overloaded carts is amazing. It was a wonderful and colourful sight in the centre of town. The dusty streets lined with stalls and crowds of people milling around. It had a super laid-back feeling and I just wandered around with out being hassled at all. I purchased 2 kilo’s of tomatoes from some young lads for 200 CFA, then wandered along and from another stall brought a big Paw-paw and a dozen bananas for 600 CFA and lastly a kilo of Potatoes for 400 CFA. It was wonderful not have everyone trying to rip you off as in Senegal. No one really seemed to take much notice of me at all, even though I was the only white person in sight. I returned to the truck and we set off around the streets in search of the shop selling tin trunks that we had seen on our way through the town the previous day. We found the shop again, outside on the dusty roadside were piles of tools and household goods, it’s amazing the things you can buy here. We inspected the trunks,, they were nicely painted but rather crudely manufactured from flattened petrol cans. We picked out one of about the size that we thought would do for us and asked the price. The young shopkeeper requested 7,500 CFA. Steve said this was far too much and after a bit of consideration he offered him 6,000 CFA. His little face lit up and he accepted this price immediately, his hand shooting out to seal the deal, Steve still has a lot to learn about bargaining. As the buyer you can go up, but you can’t go down in price. Still I suppose we all learn. Steve paid up, shook hands with the guy and they loaded it onto the roof rack for us. I think that was the best and quickest sale he had made that day. As we drove away with our new trunk lashed on the roof they all lined up grinning from ear to ear and waved us off. In the town centre we parked Ollie next to a large decaying old grandstand overlooking a dusty square. In the middle there was the usual monument to the “brave French patriots”, now broken down and neglected. Here I set off in search of eggs, water and onions; I found a small shop where I managed to purchase six eggs and three bottles of drinking water. The young lady who served me, very carefully added up the prices, on a little calculator, 2,500 CFA.
Up till now I had not found any onions but after walking a little way, I turned a corner and found myself in a narrow street with another open Market place, here traders were selling all sorts of things from clothing to dried fish. The stalls were packed together tightly along the pavement and I had to pick my way carefully but I still did not feel at all out of place as I wandered around. I finally found a woman selling little piles of small onions. I asked the price, I thought that she said 500CFA. I was thinking that this was a bit expensive but then they were the only ones I had seen and assumed they were scarce here, I gave her a 500 CFA note and thanking her I picked up the onions and walked away. The next minute she ran after me and tapped me on the shoulder, handing me back the note, she held out a coin to show me and I then realised that she only wanted 50 CFA. Such honesty to a “Tubab” was most refreshing so I took another small pile of onions, gave her a hundred CFA making my way back to Ollie I brought some bread, always easy to find in any small village or town.
At the first garage we stopped at they were out of diesel but we managed to get some at another garage only a short distance away. While he was filling up Steve went and chatted to some Germans travelling in a Toyota Land-cruiser. He never misses the opportunity to chat to other overlanders.
We were heading for Bamako on a brand new graded road and bowling along at 80k’s an hour when twenty kilometres from Kita it abruptly ended into something worse than a goat track! Our speed was immediately reduced to about 15 k’s an hour. There were so many tracks going in all directions that we had no idea if we were on the right road and just kept heading east, asking the villagers as we went along if this was the road to Bamako. At a few places there were signs that the new road would eventually be coming through, the odd survey marker and a few culverts under construction, but when?
By now the driving conditions were pretty awful and it was hard to believe that this was a main route to Bamako. In places it was just wide enough for Ollie to get through between the trees, in others there were patches of deep sand. Where the track went downhill, rain and erosion had cut away the soil leaving behind exposed boulders and deep channels to drive over. We seemed to have been going for ever and now the compass was showing that we had turned South West. We came across some men building a culvert and worrying that we were on the wrong road we stopped to ask where we were. They said that we were about 18 kilometres from Sebekoro, a village on our route. On consulting our map we discovered that we had taken a much longer route to Sebekoro, 91 k’s instead of the 33 k’s route that ran next to the railway. We battled on for another hour and reached Sebekoro around 3pm. We knew that about here we should cross the railway line. We had also seen a national park on the Map that we thought we might visit.
We drove alongside the railway for a while and then came across a smart building, quite out of character to rest of the town’s buildings. I got out and went over to ask directions from three men that I could see standing on the veranda. I don’t think that they understood me, but one led me inside the building to an office where a very tall prosperous looking gentleman, in long robes, greeted me. I explained that we were looking for the road to the National park De la Boucle du Boule. He spoke quite good English and came outside with me, to explain to Steve the direction we must take. He told us to look for the village of Kassaro and there we would find the turning to the Park.
The road deteriorated even more and we were feeling pretty tired. Finally arriving at the village of Kassaro we asked for directions again and were told that the “Piste” leading to the park was in very bad condition, we didn’t think that it could be any worse than what we had already experienced. By now it was getting late in the afternoon and deciding not to risk it today drove for about another half an hour before leaving the main track. Finding a place to camp, well hidden amongst a stand of trees we set about our usual routine on making camp and cooking and eating our meal. Then feeling very dusty and sweaty from the long days drive, we used some of our precious water to wash our most important bits. After listening to the radio and doing some writing we turned in at about half past eight. Day 5. Mileage 106.
Thursday 8th January
Apart from the occasional lorry crashing through the bush in the middle of the night and itchy legs where I have been bitten up to the knees by Sand flies, I slept reasonably well. Got up at seven had
breakfast and were on the road to the town of Negala by 9.15, the road showed no improvement.
We had been going for an hour or so when we came upon an old railway Station, Steve stopped Ollie and went to investigate. It must have been an attractive building once, but now the stucco facade was crumbling
away and it was all overgrown with trees and creepers. There were no longer any railway lines and as we explored we wondered what it must have been like when it was thriving, as it was such a remote and eerie
place now. Steve took a few Photos’ and then we pushed on.
By now the temperature was hitting the 30’s centigrade and rounding another bend came upon a couple of large Lorries parked by the road. Thinking that they had just stopped to brew up we passed them and went
down an incline towards a river and then discovered why they were parked. There were another three Lorries stuck in the river. One on our side was in the middle of the road with his gearbox removed,
obviously a long job. The other two were on the opposite bank, halfway up a steep incline and blocking the exit. The one on the left hand had a broken prop shaft and about eight men were bashing away, with
hammers and spanners up to their waists in the water, trying to fix it. The lorry on the right, it appeared, had tried to get up an even steeper incline, carrying a full load of peanuts. This had proved too
much and the vehicle had expired halfway up the bank. It was now wedged in place with rocks under the back wheels and men were now unloading sacks of peanuts from the back and stacking them on higher ground.
The two Lorries on the far bank were effectively blocking our way across. We parked alongside the first lorry and Steve waded across the river to check out the situation, returning, shaking his head he said
that he thought we would be here for some time so for now we did the only thing you can ever and are always doing in Africa, we sat and waited.
After some more bashing, banging and kicking the guys on the far bank decided to have a brew up they then all sat around discussing the situation. At this point I produced the camera hoping that I could get a few shots. At first they were not keen, shaking there heads and looking cross, so I started to put the camera away, then they changed there minds and said I could go ahead, of course they did the usual African male thing, striking all sorts of macho poses.
We sat and waited for another half an hour while everyone drank their tea and discussed the problem some more. It had been decided that they would make a way through for us. Firstly, they knocked away the rocks holding the lorry on the right hand side this allowed it to roll back down into the river and make an exit for us, up the bank. Then after removing some of the bigger rocks in the river bed from our path, they all went and sat on the bank signalling for us to drive across, we decided that after all Malian lorry drivers are very helpful people.
Climbing back into Ollie, Steve engaged the low gear box and selected bottom gear. This was going to be Ollie’s biggest challenge so far. We both took a deep breath, silence fell on our audience and we crawled down the bank and into the river. Once past the first lorry we had to do a left right turn in the river bed to take us between the other two vehicles and then climb an even steeper muddy bank to reach the high ground again. Ollie went through without a hitch, grinding up the other side we made it to solid ground once more. We both breathed a sigh of relief and received applause from our audience. They gathered round and patted Ollie’s sides, exchanging the odd “formidable”. We thanked them all for their help and gave them two packets of cigarettes before waving farewell and setting off down the road to Bamako, leaving them, once more, to their own problems.
We reached Negala at around 1pm and from here there was also a route into the National park De la Boucle du Boule. We talked about going there but we had been bush camping for eight days, we were tired and needed a shower and a rest so pushed on towards Bamako. We reached the outlying town of Kati about 2pm; the condition of the final fifty kilometres of the road had been appalling.
We stopped by the road and had a quick snack before casting ourselves into the mayhem of another city and somehow we had to find the camp site that our friend Andreas back in Senegal had recommended.but that's another story.