Burkina Bound

It was a meditative cruise to Sikasso. This was the last reasonably-sized Malian town before the Burkina Faso border crossing. "This too shall pass" I thought to myself as I rode along. I was referring not to any nearby cow, shrub or man on a bicycle but the deep sense that I didn't know who I was or why I existed.

I hit Sikasso at lunch time. Low-rise buildings lined the main road like livestock jostling at the trough of prosperity. A bright pink shopfront demanded my attention. Bold, hand-painted livery identified it as a Senegalese restaurant. My kind of place, I thought (anointing myself honorary Senegalese citizenship having spent only ten days there).

I hungered not only for Yassa Poulet but also for familiarity—an anchor of known substance to throw out in uncharted waters. In I stepped. I smiled at the waitresses like a patient, overbearing grandmother smiles at her grandchildren grumbling out of the car. Sitting at the table I stared maniacally at a group of white-collar workers who had come in for a jovial work lunch. "My people", I projected with an unrequited grin.

The Burkina border post was about fifty kilometres east of Sikasso. Like all Malian locations of strategic interest, it was a juxtaposition of heavy fortification and a relaxed work ethic. The only extortion attempt was by a cheeky nut seller wanting outrageous compensation for a "cadeaux".

I was the only tourist in sight and a bit of a novelty. "I love Austaria. The best contray!" proclaimed a policeman after labouring to decipher my documents. I pinballed between buildings, stepping around concrete-filled 44 gallon drums. These were the Malian equivalent of the Australian screen door. In this case keeping the pestilent car bombers out rather than the flies.

Passing through the border gate was like falling off a developmental cliff. On the Malian side (a country not renowned for its level of development) civilisation dammed up against the territorial line. Just over that line the ground was sparsely populated with man-made structures. From the border it was another 130 km to Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina's second-largest city. Assuming the road didn't deteriorate and the punctures were few I'd be able to get there for dinner.

As always, it was reassuring to have some known entity to be moving towards. As a nervous climber above the abyss of the unknown it helped to have an emotional foothold to stick a toe in. In this case, the foothold was Bobo Guesthouse, recommended by Phil from The Sleeping Camel, and I hoped it would be a comfortable one.

Bobo felt safe and friendly. Unlike Malian cities it was free from the ominous presence of anti-terrorist barriers and razor wire. It wasn't clear whether this was because they weren't needed or were unaffordable. Along the wide streets of dark red dust tamped by a recent wet season people moved with a spring in their step. Men and women in equal numbers enjoyed alfresco after-work beers on a warm evening, sitting at plastic tables at casual corner bars.

My host Sita welcomed me when I arrived at Bobo Guesthouse. Her Slovenian husband Andrej was away on a sneaky mission to import appliances "duty free". He flew to Eastern Europe periodically to kit out "camper vans" with a "kitchen" and "laundry" sparing no expense on the appliances. Then, he'd drive them all the way home to Bobo where the appliances were stripped from the vehicle, and each were sold separately.

In undeveloped countries annual income tax revenue barely funds the president's staff barbecue. Governments resort to alternative funding models such as exorbitant duties on imported goods. This strategy further isolates citizens from global spoils and sprouts ingenious black-market tactics like the one Andrej had adopted. You could hardly blame him with duties of over 50% of the price of an imported vehicle and a yet-to-materialise Burkinabe auto industry.

After getting cleaned up I sorted out the arrangements with Sita. We stumbled collaboratively toward consensus without the convenience of a common tongue. She was going to make dinner for me and would need a bit of time. In the meantime I wandered up to the corner bar to sample one of the oversized bottles of lager distributed jovially by equally oversized ladies through their tuck-shop window.

While I scanned for a perch a couple of slovenly expats sitting at one of the wobbly tables gestured for me to join them. They didn't want to miss the opportunity to show off their jaded superiority to a naïve newcomer. One of the pair of scraggly, old cats gave me the elevator pitch. They were both employed by French organisations and were paid their salaries in Euro at French market rates. Cat One was a teacher and his compatriot a researcher into the human use of native trees. Both had their families with them in Burkina and their children had been born there—the ethnicity of their wives wasn't revealed to me.

Cat Two (the tree counter) shared a few anecdotes about the time he'd spent living on the French island of Réunion between Madagascar and Mauritius. He'd owned a few bikes that he was nostalgic about. Any rider will be familiar with being dragged down memory lane by a long-retired motorcyclist 20 years their senior. They will beat into you the important fact of how impressively or recklessly they once rode a bike you've never heard of. I look forward to when my turn comes to inflict such stories on polite, young victims.

Finishing our beers meant that it was time for us all to be fed. I farewelled my momentary drinking buddies who I'd just met and would never see again. Tree Counter groaned his way into an unexpectedly flashy car: an immaculate, yellow FJ Cruiser. This was the local equivalent of watching your average academic hopping into his Bugatti and doing a burnout in the Uni parking lot.

Back at Bobo Guesthouse I relished Sita's home made tagine of potato and fish tails. After dinner I retired to my room to WhatsApp/Google Translate with Fatim, hijacking Sita's mobile hotspot for the purpose. Fatim sent me photos of a couple of English text books she'd sourced and I cringed a little. I was uncertain how comfortable I was with her unfounded high hopes for our future (and her undeserved high opinion of me). I pondered the future she may have been visualising. I tried on for fit the identity of the men I had met at the corner bar and wondered whether I could live out the rest of my days as an old dog in a small pond.

Our Western, romantic indoctrination tells us that we should be loved for who we are, not what we have. We are taught to be suspicious of those who value us because of our station in life (earned or otherwise). But is there something so wrong about two people coming together because of what practical things they can offer each other? Is it not arrogant to demand that you are loved because you exist?

From Bobo-Dioulasso I made my way to Burkina Faso's capital city, Ouagadougou—its name easier to pronounce than to spell. "Ouaga" (as in Wagga Wagga) was another one of those chaotic and characterful African capitals that some travellers avoid. I found it invigorating to take in and be taken in by. I love seeing each region's take on how to tackle the problem of crowding millions of people into a small patch of land. The architecture, the transport, the colours, culture, humour and food.

I had no particular reason to go to Ouaga other than that it lay on the road between me and the Nigerian border. The looming deadline of my last legal entry date into that country kept me moving east under the shadow of existential sadness. I knew I'd have a lot to reckon with when I finally landed back in Sydney, not just a big, unprocessed break-up but an entire identity that had been put on hold. I had kicked the cans full of questions of love, life and work down the road. In the meantime I was distracting myself with the buzz of Burkina and the Malian fantasy on the other end of my phone.

Chloe, the maternal and militant administrator of the West Africa Travellers WhatsApp group, had recommended a hotel to head for: Le Pavillon Vert. I found my way there easily thanks to the surprisingly organised layout of the streets on either side of the N1 which had brought me into the city's belly.

At Pavillon Vert the big steel gates were opened to welcome me. I wheeled my big steel mule into the tranquil fortress of terracotta walls and tended greenery. The concierge/porter/barman showed me a lean-to under which I could park my bike amongst a throng of its diminutive Indonesian cousins. My room was well appointed with not one but two fans (mosquitoes be damned). It had plate-steel doors and windows—prison-quality and Africa-proof to boot.

Despite the challenges I'd volunteered for on this trip I always felt indulgent in more luxurious (by local standards) accommodation. It felt as though I was cheating unless I was taken in by an obscure local tribe or camping naked and afraid in the remote wilderness. But in the grand scheme it was easily affordable and offset the overall level of adventure with a bit of comfort and security.

I was able to enjoy my comfort and security for about an hour before I was spotted as a potential target by of one of those who take advantage of seekers of comfort and security. Until a drunken local invited himself into my personal space I'd been enjoying sipping beer and smoking joints with the barman. I'd just put in my order for the day's special: Noix du Porc au riz au curry.

The local, Omarou, accosted my attention and smothered a fledgling good mood with his unsolicited bragging. He spoke English quite well but with a malformed drawl. He sounded like a third-world phone scammer impersonating American law enforcement. In fact, he may very well have been such a scammer. In his ranging attempts to impress me he appeared to impersonate a number of different figures. He identified as a gold miner, gunslinger, school teacher and spurned divorcée. He was very keen on getting me to stay at his house so he could give me an all-stops tour of Ouagadougou and seemed to have too much time and energy to invest in me. Although I'd shared my phone number with him earlier I had begun to regret the allowance.

Omarou was starting to get under my skin and was clearly after something. I'd much rather have been chatting to Sali, the down-to-earth barman, but for some reason he was deferential to Omarou and wouldn't intervene. It made me wonder whether Omarou had some kind of underworld clout that made Sali unwilling to risk crossing any lines.

I had been hardened (arguably not enough) by my experience with Ibrahim the "policeman" in Mauritania who had also befriended me as he stalked unchallenged around someone else's hotel. I played it safe and revealed little about myself and my plans. If I did, I was vague about exact times or locations, giving him nothing solid to latch on to. Jens, the Norse wizard, had warned me to never tell anyone exactly where I was going, and he'd turned out to be right.

Despite a very good dinner and refreshing beer Omarou left a bitter aftertaste. I cut my evening short and retreated to my cell. I resented Omarou for spoiling my time in and impression of Ouagadougou. I had just started to feel secure enough that a quiet inspiration to go out and explore the city was emerging from within me. Ouaga felt like the kind of place I could've got to know a little better and he had quashed that potential.

Omarou could just as easily have been a bullshitter as a bandit but the awareness of someone watching you and not knowing why was unsettling. As statistically slim as the chances of kidnapping or serious extortion were, these were the circumstances under which they would happen. I decided I'd move on from Ouga the next morning.