Here is the continuation of our photos from Mali. Enjoy!
https://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/20110328MaliSenegal#5589145085287959650
Monday, March 28, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
New old post...
Just completed a story I wrote at the start of our journey ... http://ghanaandbeyond.blogspot.com/2011/02/wa-wa-wahnsinn.html
We're in St Louis, Senegal and will be heading to Dakar, our final destination in West Africa tomorrow. Hope you're all well, M&T
We're in St Louis, Senegal and will be heading to Dakar, our final destination in West Africa tomorrow. Hope you're all well, M&T
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Photos - Ghana Burkina Mali
Finally some photos from our trip through West Africa, though only a small preview plus new blog entry (below)...
https://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/2011030BurkinaMali#5582094033472733138
https://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/2011030BurkinaMali#5582094033472733138
Il n'y a pas de problème
Tiebele, Burkina Faso, 40 degrees in the shade. We are sitting slouched back in the shade of a thatched roof marquis in the beautiful garden of a little resto-cafe we found on the roadside. After walking up Naouri peak, at a couple of hundred meters the highest mountain in Burkina, and riding our motorbikes on dirt roads in the heat of the day we are exhausted and hungry. I ordered riz with sauce arachide and grilled chicken, which I assume constitutes two meals, but after a small French breakfast with baguette, confiture and café, I am ready to devour a whole chicken. The garcon takes my order and returns to the kitchen. Two minutes later he reappears from the kitchen, starts his motorbike and disappears from the courtyard. As the noise of the engine fades away and the dust settles I listen to the sounds of the nearby village. The women pounding maize provide the background beat. I can hear kids playing and laughing in the distance, the gentle hum of motorbikes, birds singing in the trees, roosters communicating with each other across the village and the occasional goat complaining about the midday heat. I watch a donkey pulling a cart on its way to the next village and wonder if it will ever get there at the speed it is travelling. I fear the guy on the cart will have to hit the animal a lot harder to make sure it moves at all. The more donkeys I see the more I like them. They are so docile and placid it is hard to tell if they are alive at all. Sometimes they just stand there without blinking and I am inclined to push them to see if they will fall over. Maybe a lot of them are actually dead and nobody has bothered to check. But then, about once a day, every donkey has its moment of madness, when it starts laughing like a deranged old maniac and starts galloping through town at 100 miles an hour. The whole show lasts about 30 seconds before the donkey comes to a complete standstill and pretends nothing ever happened. I assume the guy on the cart is waiting for this very moment of galloping, laughing madness to see him through to his destination.
The other interesting thing about donkeys is that the number of donkeys on the streets seems to be inversely related to a country's economic development. Hardly a revolutionary discovery, but so obvious that it could almost serve as an indicator of economic prosperity. It seems like the humble donkey is the cheapest way of moving things from A to B, followed by the horse, the motorbike and finally the car. In Burkina Faso it is all donkeys, women carrying things on their heads and the occasional moto. But then it is hard to imagine what this place would look like with lots of cars and motorbikes, for the pace of the donkey seems to perfectly match the rythm of life in Burkina. The noise of an arriving motorbike abruptly ends my donkey ponderings. The kitchen hand reappears on his motorbike with a live chicken hanging upside down on a string attached to the handle bar of the motorbike. Despite its protestations the chicken is removed from the bike and, still upside down, taken to the back of the house. I order a coke hoping that the combination of sugar and cool bubbles will give me enough energy to stay awake until lunch arrives. 'Il y'a pas de problème' the garcon says as he takes my order. I did not think there was a problem, but am thankful for the clarification. 'Il y'a pas de problème' is the Burkina equivalent of Australia's 'no worries' and just as we have few worries, the Burkinabe seem to have few problems, for despite the obvious poverty I see more people with smiles on their faces here than I do in most prosperous developed countries. If there is anyone with a problem here and now it is Mrs Chicken who reappears with her head cut off and feathers plucked, still upside down, to drain the remaining blood. Looking at the scene Steph, our French friend, tells me that he is not so hot on the grilled chicken anymore, but as the staunch omnivour I reassure him that the chicken he is about to eat had a happier life than any chicken he will consume back home - apart, obviously, from the terrifying last ten minutes of its life. After discussing the topic for a few minutes hunger and the smell of grilled meat triumph over vegetarian rationalism as Mrs Chicken reappears from the kitchen, cleaned, dried and beautiful and languidly spreads herself out on the BBQ. We spend the next half an hour debating the state of transportation in West Afirca and conclude that based on our problems in the morning and our experiences with buses, mini-buses, taxis and hired motorbikes generally, there is a 50% chance of something breaking down on any given journey. Furthermore we conclude that it was rather foolish of us to bargain down the price of the motorbike before knowing what bike we were talking about. In the end half price meant half the functionality and while a missing indicator is not a problem on African roads, one wheel is not enough. So we spent a fair chunk of our morning fixing punctures and cleaning sparks with the help of self appointed Burkinabe mechanics and a fair bit of African ingenuity.
Finally, after one and a half hours our lunch arrives and the feast begins. As with most places in Burkina the food is delicious and with my hands, arms and mouth covered in grease, a greasy smile on my face and a repaired moto waiting outside for the ride back in the setting sun I conclude:
Burkina, il y'a pas de problème.
The other interesting thing about donkeys is that the number of donkeys on the streets seems to be inversely related to a country's economic development. Hardly a revolutionary discovery, but so obvious that it could almost serve as an indicator of economic prosperity. It seems like the humble donkey is the cheapest way of moving things from A to B, followed by the horse, the motorbike and finally the car. In Burkina Faso it is all donkeys, women carrying things on their heads and the occasional moto. But then it is hard to imagine what this place would look like with lots of cars and motorbikes, for the pace of the donkey seems to perfectly match the rythm of life in Burkina. The noise of an arriving motorbike abruptly ends my donkey ponderings. The kitchen hand reappears on his motorbike with a live chicken hanging upside down on a string attached to the handle bar of the motorbike. Despite its protestations the chicken is removed from the bike and, still upside down, taken to the back of the house. I order a coke hoping that the combination of sugar and cool bubbles will give me enough energy to stay awake until lunch arrives. 'Il y'a pas de problème' the garcon says as he takes my order. I did not think there was a problem, but am thankful for the clarification. 'Il y'a pas de problème' is the Burkina equivalent of Australia's 'no worries' and just as we have few worries, the Burkinabe seem to have few problems, for despite the obvious poverty I see more people with smiles on their faces here than I do in most prosperous developed countries. If there is anyone with a problem here and now it is Mrs Chicken who reappears with her head cut off and feathers plucked, still upside down, to drain the remaining blood. Looking at the scene Steph, our French friend, tells me that he is not so hot on the grilled chicken anymore, but as the staunch omnivour I reassure him that the chicken he is about to eat had a happier life than any chicken he will consume back home - apart, obviously, from the terrifying last ten minutes of its life. After discussing the topic for a few minutes hunger and the smell of grilled meat triumph over vegetarian rationalism as Mrs Chicken reappears from the kitchen, cleaned, dried and beautiful and languidly spreads herself out on the BBQ. We spend the next half an hour debating the state of transportation in West Afirca and conclude that based on our problems in the morning and our experiences with buses, mini-buses, taxis and hired motorbikes generally, there is a 50% chance of something breaking down on any given journey. Furthermore we conclude that it was rather foolish of us to bargain down the price of the motorbike before knowing what bike we were talking about. In the end half price meant half the functionality and while a missing indicator is not a problem on African roads, one wheel is not enough. So we spent a fair chunk of our morning fixing punctures and cleaning sparks with the help of self appointed Burkinabe mechanics and a fair bit of African ingenuity.
Finally, after one and a half hours our lunch arrives and the feast begins. As with most places in Burkina the food is delicious and with my hands, arms and mouth covered in grease, a greasy smile on my face and a repaired moto waiting outside for the ride back in the setting sun I conclude:
Burkina, il y'a pas de problème.
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