197 - Escape From Bamako (Mali, West Africa)
LESLIE AND I WERE BACK IN MOPTI ELEVEN DAYS before we were supposed to be in Timbuktu for the Festival in the Desert. Eleven fucking days. We were so mentally exhausted from gallivanting across Mali; we knew we’d never make it with our sanity intact. We genuinely wanted to experience the festival (it was the whole point of visiting Mali), but if we had to occupy ourselves for eleven days, we’d be so miserable come festival time, it would be pointless. The price of food and lodging in the interim would add up. Any way we sliced it, the enterprise felt like a lost cause. Pull the ripcord. Raise the white flag. Fuck it, sir.
So determined were we to leave, we sacrificed the $100 deposit we left with the tour operator (Hamma) to secure a spot. Seeing as he had time to find replacements, we thought he might refund our deposit. Yes, and synchronized acrobatic elephants might do somersaults outta my vagina.
Leslie made the call. He said we were required to make good on the remaining balance ($300 each), pointing out we’d signed a contract. Oh, no, not the fucking contract! The “contract” was a mostly blank piece of white paper scribbled on by Hamma's friend laying out all the terms, signed by us, and copied by hand in my notebook. Irrefutable. We’d experienced the “iron-clad contract” phenomenon in Mauritania. (Remember Ahmed.) There was a tendency to treat these informal documents as if written in blood and notarized by Jesus, Moses, or Mohammed. I wonder what would’ve happened if he’d screwed us and I showed up at a police station with nothing but the ostensible infallibility of the “contract” as ammunition. No way I could've forged that document. Ever. Leslie told him we'd be in touch (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). He made a hundred dollars for freezle, so we could live with ourselves for backing out… sniffle.
Our return to Bamako via the “supposed-to-be-air-conditioned-unventilated-blast-the-most-annoying-music-possible-I’m-fermenting-in-my-own-juices” bus was smooth for an eight-hour ride in Mali. It could’ve been worse. It can always be worse. We were overjoyed to arrive back at our hotel of choice, The Sleeping Camel. Home sweet home… sort of.
Now all we had to do was get the hell out of Mali. Easier said than done, grasshopper. We considered exploring other parts of West Africa but faced roadblocks. In Guinea, political and ethnic violence marred elections, resulting in closed borders. By the time we were ready to leave, it was possible to fly in, but we weren’t sure if the land borders would be passable, which might preclude us from crossing into adjacent countries. With Guinea as an impediment to onward travel, Senegal, Sierra Leone, and Liberia were out. Fiddlesticks.
We'd just come from Mauritania. Niger had Al Qaeda issues and isn’t such an easy place to breeze around in. How about Cote d’Ivoire, you say? This was right around the time Laurent Gbagbo decided any presidential election not ending in with his victory must be bullshit. He refused to step down. Civil war ensued. We eyed Burkina Faso only to discover its visa fee was over $100 for reasons no one seemed to understand. Just as well. The prospect of more long, drawn-out bus rides didn’t tickle our pickle. Land crossings were out.
Flying anywhere from Mali is expensive. Anywhere. We thought about Gabon, described by J. Michael Fay as “Africa's last Eden.” It’s insanely expensive, but we had the “once in a lifetime, look at this wild hair up my ass” attitude toward the country. Unfortunately, many of the eco-tour conservation efforts we were hoping to experience had fizzled. Due to a conflict with Gabon's regulatory aviation body, the premier eco-lodge (Loango Lodge owned by Africa's Eden) was forced to shut down. We flirted with Equatorial Guinea but learned the government wasn’t so keen on tourists. You have to buy a permit just to carry a camera ($80) and then be prepared for constant inspection of it, our passport, and who knows what else by every Tom, Dick, and Harry in uniform. We fantasized about the Congo and tracking down Lowland Gorillas but discovered it’s a logistical nightmare requiring more foresight. It could’ve taken weeks to organize. Also, we'd read reports a troop of gorillas had been hit hard by Ebola. Um, no thanks.
This all became more than a little vexing. We decided it was time to get out of West Africa. Since it was expensive to fly anywhere, we concluded we should get the most bang for our buck. So, South Africa won the day. First problem solved. The next problem was buying the ticket. We went to a travel agent, but they’d just closed for the weekend. It was New Year's Eve weekend, so…
We tried going online but had a problem using our credit cards. It can be difficult to do so because banks find purchases from West Africa inherently suspicious. The owner of the hostel said he had a friend in the UK buy the tickets online so he could avoid the hassle of faxes or bank transfers. We could not purchase tickets. No way. No how. We tried Opodo, Edreams, Ethiopian Airlines, Etihad Airlines, Kenya Airlines, and so on and so forth… fuck.
I thought I was going to lose my shit, but on New Year's Eve around 8:00 p.m. we managed to get tickets at the eleventh hour from… drumroll please… Expedia.com on Ethiopian Airlines for a flight leaving early the next morning. We couldn’t buy a flight from their website, but Expedia.com, based in the U.S.A, was no problem. Um, ‘kay.
We had extra cash (around 25,000 CFA - $50 US) but figured we’d buy food at the airport and exchange the rest. When we arrived for our early morning flight, we discovered nowhere to buy drinks or food and no place to exchange money… at an international airport. Dude? Excellent. I could use the CFAs to wipe my ass or as souvenirs. I went with the latter.
We had an overnight delay in Addis Ababa, believing we were in for a long night. Nope. Ethiopian Airlines had other plans. They arranged for a room and provided transport at no charge. No charge? No charge. Fuck, yes. What a refreshing change from the constant headache shit show that was travel in Mali. There was something so undeniably soothing about our brief experience in Ethiopia. Everyone we met (airport, immigration, hotel, etc.) was welcoming and friendly. We’d erred by overlooking this country, but it was too late to change. Regrets, I’ve had a few…
“Mali was beginning to feel like a vacuum, sucking the life out of us, ever so slowly. With our patience wearing thin, we started to reconsider our trip to Timbuktu for the 3-day ‘Festival in The Desert’, still ten days away.
We mulled. We hummed. We Hawed. In the end, we decided its Bamako or bust. We signed a chicken-scratch contract with a tour operator for an all-inclusive package, so by doing this, we kissed our deposit goodbye. I attempted to get a refund, but as you can imagine, that didn’t go over very well. Instead, I was told to make arrangements for the balance. Not going to happen. My favorite part was when he said, “This isn’t some contract we signed in the streets”, when in fact, that’s exactly what it was. Oh, the irony.
So, with our bags packed, we boarded another bus for Bamako. This time we were treated to Mali’s Top 40. Ear plugs, anyone?”
Leslie Peralta, “Back To Bamako” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels
“…I believed in superstitions. Wait. I’m sorry. That’s a Jack Johnson song. I get carried away sometimes.
Back in Bamako, we tried to plot our course. Want to go to Guinea? Sure, why not. Oh, wait – borders are closed due to civil unrest. Hey, let’s go to Cote d’Ivoire instead! Wait – can’t do that either, because the country is on the brink of civil war due to recent elections. Alright, land borders are out, so we’ll fly somewhere. Seems easy enough, right? Wrong.
After doing a little research, we had our sights set on Gabon. Getting in requires a prearranged visa, which means we’d have to make a pit-stop in Togo, and by pit-stop, I mean fly into Liberville, take a ferry deemed ‘dangerous’ to the mainland, cross our fingers that the embassy officials grant us more than a week, take the same ferry back, and then fly out. All of this without any guarantees or a price tag. It was a risk we were willing to take, though.
Gabon is home to a large population of unhabituated lowland gorillas; gorillas that we desperately wanted to see. Sadly, after all of the planning, our hopes were dashed. It turns out that the research camps were forced to close due to government issues. Bye-bye Gabon and neighboring Equatorial Guinea; maybe next time.
Feeling slightly discouraged, we moved onto the Congo. That idea didn’t last long, though. In order to see the lowland gorillas on that side, we’d have to fly into the capital and attempt to piece something together on our own. It could take days, maybe even weeks, with the possibility of hiring charter planes, boats, and a whole slew of other things. I could literally feel my bank account dwindling, just talking about it.
We contacted a few organizations on the ground with little success. So, what do you do when you can’t do anything in West Africa? You get out! South Africa, here we come!
We purchased tickets on New Year’s Eve for New Year’s Day. With less than 24-hours to go, we made last minute preparations, packed our bags, and said goodbye to twenty-ten while knocking back a few gin & tonics.
Another year, come and gone…”
Leslie Peralta, “Sitting, Waiting, Wishing” — Soledad: Notes From My Travels