Tire Tracks

news		photos
Mog FOR SALE Mog FOR SALE Go to http://www.tiretracks.org/mogforsale We are now back in London after a fantastic year in Africa. We have such wonderful memories of the people we met, the places we visited, the food we ate, the adventures we had. Our Unimog 404 is also back in London and ready for sale. Interested? Check out the For Sale website or send us an email. Looking for the Kids or Teachers website? Go to Schools. *** Want some tips on places we have been, road conditions and campsites? See Follow Us-Guide.

Journal
Burkina Faso, Tuesday, 5th September 2006 (Patrick) Burkina Faso Travel Advice Now that Corinne has finally beat her stomach bug - at least for now - and we finished most f our work, we're happy to be on our way again. Mali has been great, but we overstayed our visa (though not our welcome), and it's time to move on. The country that treated us so well in the past 5 1/2 weeks grants us one last streak of good luck. We got up at the crack of dawn (or actually about an hour before that), like we always do on driving days. Not my favourite time, but here it’s a must. At 45+ degrees, sitting next to an engine that steadily runs at over 100 C, driving after one in the afternoon is more or less impossible. Not just for us. Also Tiny, being designed for the sub-zero temperatures of German winters, has a hard time keeping up. We haven't switched the waterpump pulley to the smaller tropical version, so on late afternoons we often travel 'African Lorry Style': bonnet open for extra circulation. Especially with that extra cooling the engine's doing fine, but we're still waiting for the inevitable moment when the fuel lines overheat and develop a vapour lock. Switching tanks usually helps for another half hour or so, but usually this means it's time to give it a rest. Normally that's our signal to call it a day and look for a spot tom camp. Today is different. The roads are excellent, we're the only ones around, and with moving towards the greener, cooler South, the mercury, for the first in over 5 weeks stops it daily hike around 42 C. So with that good luck we think we can probably make it to Bobo, and decide to cross the border today. We're sad to leave this country, especially since it, unexpectedly, came a day earlier than we thought. But this mild melancholy is overshadowed by the excitement of what Burkina will bring. After some four months of travelling we're ready for a break. We had worked far more than anticipated. Roads had been good, but navigating the Mog around potholes and through busy African city centres is still very different from a quick drive to Paris. And dreams of having a drink at the back of our car, watching the sun set over wide African fields, were replaced by a slightly less romantic reality of uploading daily updates to the websites, while cooking a quick meal on the parking lot of a hotel. We're up for a proper travelling hangout, and from what we heard and read Burkina was just the place for that. Places to meet other travellers, beers for just over a dollar, waterfalls and hot springs, the best brochettes in the continent, and mountains where you can hike or days and leave your troubles behind. It may not be atypical African adventure, but to us it sounds like Paradise. The border crossing is as smooth as can be. We haven't been asked for a bribe since we left Dakar, and today is no exception. In less than two hours we're in. We're out of the desert now, and life is visibility easier here. The roads are good, the minibuses slightly newer, and newly donated mountain bikes ride along the roads. Tractors plough the fields. Rice fields, sowed by huge 'sowing machines', look green and cattle well fed. Truckloads of red, ripe tomatoes pass us by. And with the relative wealth returning to the landscape, so do the NGOs. No self-respecting aid worker would consider living in the north of Mali. You'll find some in Bamako and Segou, but north of there, life just becomes a bit too hard. But here the project signs are back, a strangely un-African feature of African roads. We hit Bobo around 4. The Lonely Planet map, as usual, is wrong, (that doesn't even surprise us anymore these days), so we have to rely on GPS. No navigational tool is more accurate and useful than GPS, but since in there regions they're not integrated with street maps (mainly because there are no street maps), all we get is a straight line between where we are and where we want to go. Pretty useless in a city, so we usually end up driving in slightly decreasing concentric circles towards the place you want to go. In the end we break down and accept the 'help' of a guy on a motorbike. It is getting late and the $1 we paid him was probably less than we would have spent in petrol driving around for another 20 minutes (or at least that is what I tell my stingy Dutch brain). Casa Africa, it is all it promised to be. A small, leafy courtyard with a couple of cars, a couple of reasonably priced rooms, a restaurant and a bar. Ten minutes away from the centre, but so laid back that you don't really need to go out. And we do finally meet other overlanders again. Vincent, a red-headed, or rather red-bearded Englishman, who made travel into an art form. We had previously 'run' into him in Dakar when we followed each other for about 2 hours in a traffic jam, both hoping that the other one knew where he was going. This is the first time we really meet. The moment we get in, he's all over the car. Having living in one for a year in Lesotho, he is probably the biggest Mog fan ever. The guy has more stories than a library. This is exactly what we need. People to talk to, some good stories, a beer and a laugh and the best brochettes in town. Welcome to Burkina! The next morning we wake up late and have a bloody for breakfast. It is a wonderful feeling to wake up and know you don't have to do anything. We snooze, watch a South Park on the laptop and get ready for lunch. The daily delights of travel if you if you have nothing to do. The city is small and the traffic is low. It is a village with a city vibe. Bars fill up around noon, and for the first time in Africa, we finally hear music coming from windows. It is a place we should love but there is something strange. People sit in bars but don't talk. There's music around but nobody dances. Not even a sway of the head. We philosophize about this over lunch. Why do people go out and not interact? Why eat and not enjoy? But while we talk about this, we discover an uglier truth. People seem to treat each other like shit. While we had lunch, at least three people had to jump away to save their life from a car or motorbike running them over on the pavement. But hey, it is not Mali, there is a lot more traffic here, so maybe we just aren't used to that anymore. We drop the subject and ask for the bill, which turns out to be about 50% more than we expected. The big lunch and 2 beers in the early afternoon have made me mellow, but Corinne wants to know the details. When we ask about it, the waitress walks off with a sigh to make up the bill, which 5 minutes later she smacks on our table. The bill is slightly lower than the original amount, but she still double-charged some things and all prices are inflated. We point this out to her and ask if she can explain the difference. Not the least bit apologetic, the waitress explains the bill: "the prices on the menu are wrong and the charges there are for the salad and chips." "But the salad and chips are part of the 'brochette with salad and chips." She shakes her head. "The menu is wrong. The 'brochette with salad and chips' doesn't come with salad and chips. So I charged you separately for the salad and chips." The discussion goes on for awhile and the end of which, I am still completely puzzled why the 'brochette with salad and chips' is twice as expensive as the 'brochette', which also appears on the menu, since apparently they are exactly the same. We end up somewhere in the middle, with both parties pissed off. Oh well, shit happens. As we walk out, a car comes speeding around the corner, squeaking tyres as it accelerates up onto the pavement. Together with other innocent bystanders we jump to the side, hugging the building to avoid getting hit. When we have recovered from this 'near death experience', we notice that all other victims have moved on as if nothing had happened. Apparently to them this is normal. In the distance I see the dust clouds of the car continuing on its killer track. What in the fuck is wrong with this country? We decide not to give that any more thought and instead browse Bobo's huge market. One of those places where you can get anything, and anything you can't get, can be ordered or made. It's busy, hot and humid. The scent of ripe fruit is so sweet it feels like honey is dripping from the air. I inhale it with every breath. Hawkers hellos (or rather 'Bonjour, mon ami, ca va?' echo around us between the market stalls. 'Hello, my friend', in whatever language is a giveaway and so every salesman knows that after that you need to charm the prospect into paying attention, whatever else you have to say. Most hawkers know that, and many of them are so good at it, that they could probably make a better living as stand up comedians than selling wooden parrots. But not here (or in most West African countries for that matter). The frivolous banter that occasionally charms even this notoriously cheap Dutchman into buying something is absent here. Selling is considered serious stuff. And although generally polite, (except in Ouaga where we've repeatedly been called racist for not buying knickknacks or giving alms), usually it is not a lot of fun. Or at least not in the way it is in South America, Asia or East Africa. Late afternoon we return to Casa Africa for a beer, a snack and a game of cards in the courtyard... not too bad. Later Vincent drops by to - also have a beer and - talk about what our Mogs can do (after a few beers, pretty much anything), exchange experiences on our journeys so far, complain about the incompetence of banks worldwide, and give us his list of GPS locations of beer depots in West Africa. "Now there is kind of stuff you want to find in guidebooks", he says while pensively stroking his braided red goatee, "Maybe I should write one, one of these days". The next day is equally lazy, but then we have to repent for our two days of idleness with a full day of work. It isn't until 7:30 we finally emerge from our room, and climb on the roof of the Mog to get a satellite signal for our Inmarsat. Frustrated about a day of work, we open up a box of wine to relax... yes a box! The only affordable thing around here. The quality can best be described by what the label says, 'made of wines from various countries in the EU.' Any self respecting bottler/wine-mixer would have at least said something like 'a selection of the finest European wines.' You would still know you are drinking crap, but you can do it with your head held up high. These guys however made it instantly clear that they mixed whatever they could scrape off the bottom of a wine barrel anywhere in Europe and couldn't afford to double their cost price by hiring a marketing executive (or even someone who could spell those words for that matter), to make it all sound and look slightly better than it is. Hey, it costs a dollar or less per litre, and we haven't had real wine in 4 months so we are happy... Don Garcia!! As we are about to sit down for dinner, a sturdy girl and a skinny guy with greasy hair walk in (for Dutchies: a typical Hein de Kort couple). The girl with here extroverted charm waves to everyone, the guy cringes at everything that even resembles a look in his direction. I put the salad on the table and we simultaneously go, 'odd combination'. We usually analyze everyone and everything to bits, but this time we don't have to. "Y'all speak English here?" We have all night, so we have no way of denying it. "I, here, am Angelique. Y'all mind if I sit down now?" The stereotyping part of my brain tries to make sense out of all the inconsistencies I see, but short circuits in the process. 'Hi, y'all, I'm from Texas'-Angelique doesn't wear boots, jeans or a cowboy hat, and isn't the pale-faced blonde you'd expect from her voice and accent, but is a rather big black girl in travel gear. Her friend, greasy hair parted to one side, a gelled curl, combed over his right eye, and as skinny as my arm, isn't her boyfriend but a colleague. They're PeaceCorps volunteers. To me, PeaceCorps has always been something like Freemasons. It is a special group of people, they are always around, and it is never quite clear what they do. Big differences of course is, that with Free Masons you aren't really supposed to know what they do (or if they are supposed to do anything) and that PeaceCorps is obviously is there to do something. I turn out to be very wrong about the PeaceCorps. "Yeah, I'm in Sindou", she pronounces it in the American way, SIIN-DO. "You know for tourism improvement. Now, you guys, y'all been on the road for some time, here, so y'all must know a thing or two about tourism and all." "Well, yes but..." We actually do a bit about tourism - we've travelled the world, worked in the industry and are actually thinking about setting up a tourism related consultancy. So when we get the question, a tiny bit of professional conditioning slips in. "So what exactly are you supposed to achieve? What is your project?" "Well, ye know, I'm just supposed to be there, so I thought you'd maybe just give me some advice, ye know." "Yeah, but on what? I mean what were you sent out to do here? Isn't there something you are supposed to do or improve?" "No, not really. I am just working on tourism because that is all they got there. I don't know anything about tourism. Heck, I never left the country before. Ye know, us PeaceCorps workers sit around and read our books. But I would like to do something, to help them guys, ye know. So if you know anything about tourism... " "It's true..." The skinny guy with the greasy hair finally joins the conversation. I am not proud of it, but he is really hard to talk to, he's just so ugly. "It's true... all we need to do is just be here. It's the PeaceCorps. We are an army without guns. All we have to do is be there so maybe people will like us. Everything else is a bonus." I am silent for longer than I realized. What did that guy just say? My voice is squeaky with disbelief: "So the only reason you are here is, not to improve anything, but just sit around for 2 years and hope people will start to like you?? And then by affiliation will like Americans?" "Yep, that's it. It's a whole lot cheaper than a tank." I have heard that phrase at least 5 times after that, so it must be part of their training. That's it? That's the master plan? We are going to be there, and sit on our asses, so they will like us? We just bombed your capital, and raped your women, but you will all forget about that because we have this really nice guy who lives in your village and reads books all day. You must really like him, so you must really like all of us us. No wonder people in Africa (or in all developing countries) think Americans are filthy rich. Apart from holidaying, spending a year's local salary on a night in a hotel, and aid workers whose white Land Cruiser could feed an entire village, they also send what should be their most productive workers - young graduates, out here to live in a remote village for two years. Doing fuck-all, being paid to just be around, and living like relative princes in a village of paupers. All this nonsense could make sense if you would think it would have originated in the brain of George W. Bush C.S., but as I recall, it was Kennedy who came up with this fantastic plan. Really? The great JFK - this is what he came up with? Maybe Lee Harvey Oswald, with his magic bullet or the man behind the grassy knoll did us all a big fat favour. Hypocritical as I am, I don't confront them on the spot (well just a little bit then), but rather wait for more interesting remarks. We get more than we could wish for. Grease- hair admits that the only reason he joined the PeaceCorps was because he couldn't get a real job and as payback for volunteering with the Corps he would be guaranteed a government job. All I can say is, sitting on your ass for two years, without getting bored, actually probably is the best qualification you can have a government job. While I am still recovering from this one, Angelique tells us her biggest dream. We all have our dreams when we're away from home for a wile (though in all of the French colonies, our dreams of fresh bread and good cheese are always close to fulfilment) but this one I couldn't even have come up with in my sickest imagination. She would like to have a minor injury or illness so she could go to the PeaceCorps hospital in Ouaga for a week and watch movies in an air conditioned room. We met Angelique 10 days later in Sindou. I like the girl. We had dinner with her in town. I don't think anyone there particularly liked or disliked her. The only thing that keeps ringing in my head is that she could have done something. Instead of this narcissistic obsession to make people like their country, they could actually try to make a difference. Allocate people with the right skills to the right areas. Hold people accountable for their two years of volunteering. They could actually make a difference, and as a bonus maybe, just maybe, people would like them - for who they are, for the skills they taught and the things they did. I'm probably just being simplistic. This evening of entertainment forms the perfect grand finale to our stay in Bobo. The next day we are on our way to Banfora, and from there to the Karfiguela Falls, one of the highlights of the country. It's getting towards the end of dry season, so we don't expect too much, but Lonely Planet assured us (not the most reliable source but you have to go with something) that "though better in rainy season, the falls are impressive year-round." When we get to the parking/campsite we can hear the water rush down in the distance. Cool! What's strange is that though we can hear the water, there's nothing that resembles anything like a mountain. Then again, waterfalls don't have to be high to be impressive. A 5-minute walk brings us to the spectacular falls. When we turn the corner, we both start to laugh. Seriously? That is it? They must have forgotten to turn it on. A stream of water, comparable to a leaking shower, trickles down slippery rocks into a murky green puddle... spectacular! Oh well. Nothing is lost yet. If the falls are crap, the rock pools are probably nice. We climb to the top and spend a relaxing afternoon in the natural Jacuzzis... not too bad. The evening brings thunderstorms and lightning that create waterfalls around the Mog that are more impressive than the falls of the day, so we still get what we came for. When the rain stops, we throw some meat skewers on the barby. It is the toughest meat I have ever ate. I marinated it for a half a day and grilled it until it was almost black, but it still has a texture of a tyre. Even our sharpest knife can barely cut it, so the best thing to do is chew and suck on it for a while to extract some of the flavour and the spit out the inedible piece of thick rubber. We later find out that everywhere outside Ouaga, that is pretty much the standard, which explains why except for mince, meat isn't very popular. The Sindou Peaks are a similar experience. The other highlight of the country- a paradise for hikers- turns out to be good for about a three-hour walk including a one-hour picnic lunch. The highlights of the country would be worth a detour, or as a nice place to have lunch while driving by, but hardly deserve merit as a destination in itself. All of this wouldn't have mattered of course, if the people were great. But that is exactly what the problem is. The people are probably the biggest disappointment in the country. People display inexplicable aggression and disrespect. But not just to us, but also, or maybe even more so, to each other. We have a hard time believing that they all can be such assholes. But o matter how much we try to like the people here, they each time prove us wrong. We probably shouldn't have spent more than 5 or 6 days in the country, but we are so stubborn in trying to like it that we end up spending 3 weeks. Of course, it wasn't all bad. The elephants near Boromo were fantastic, Ouaga is a really nice town (unfortunately inhabited by assholes), and the small piece of 'Little America' (including pool, American TV, burgers and fries and chilled beer mugs) at the US Embassy Rec Center, was bizarre to say the least. But all in all, the best travel advice anyone could possibly give about Burkina is: Don't Go!

Angola
Benin
Botswana
Burkina Faso
Cameroon
Central African Rep.
Chad
Côte d'Ivoire
Dem. Rep. of Congo
Djibouti
Egypt
Eritrea
Ethiopia
Gabon
Gambia
Ghana
Guinea
Guinea-Bissau
Kenya
Lesotho
Malawi
Mali
Mauritania
Morocco
Mozambique
Namibia
Niger
Nigeria
Rep. of Congo
Senegal
South Africa
Sudan
Swaziland
Tanzania
Togo
Uganda
Zambia
Zimbabwe
- countries we will skip because of a drastic change in plans
We haven't visited the countries in grey yet