one long day

I sure am glad to be back in Burkina. There were times I honestly wasn't sure I was gonna make it.

As I said, I got up at 5am to make it to the bus-stop, and things were going relatively smoothly. About 2pm, the bus slowed down suddenly and came to a stop behind a long line of other buses, trucks and private cars. It was the kind of scene you come across when a bridge is out and people are waiting for it to be fixed before crossing. We all got off the bus and started asking what was going on. It turns out that we were only a few kilometres from Bouaké where the Rebel forces are based. Basically all land from here-North is controlled by the rebels. Anyways according to the hundreds of people standing on the side of the road (better to stand in the breeze outside, than sit in the hot, not-moving bus) the rebels have blocked all traffic into the city. No one is getting through - not busses, cars, motorbikes, people on foot; no one.

At first, the people on our bus were just glad for the chance to relieve themselves and stretch their legs, but this quickly gave way to concern as we realized the seriousness of the situation. The line of vehicles was so long that we couldn't see the front of it. I decided to walk down myself and have a look. The line of vehicles stretched out for over 500 metres and when I got to the front vehicle I could see the checkstop up ahead another 500 m away. I was gonna count on the way back, but when I got up over two-dozen busses and 50 private vehicles, I stopped counting. Suffice to say: LOTS.

People were everywhere - it was like a refugee camp. We took shade where-ever we could and settled in. I found a bit of dry ground under a big tree and sat down, content to people watch again. They weren't saying much, which surprised me. One guy was saying - "We're goin' back to Abidjan" and another, "We'll be through soon", but mostly I just read the sad, resigned faces of people who know there is nothing to do but wait. No one seemed to know why, or to care much. This was the painful reality of their country and they could only keep trying to survive.

At first, I didn't see much evidence of rebels, but then every once in a while some soldiers would come down the road yelling away, then make their way back. I call them "soldiers", but they were sauntering more than marching and their "uniform" usually consisted of one article of army issue - either a vest or a beret; a cammo jacket or a pair of black boots - or even an arm-band. Some of them were wearing the traditional Dozo warrior cloth, but most look like they had raided a army surplus store and got to choose one peice each for a party. Most didn't have guns, but were armed with knives and big sticks. I heard things like "We've waited long enough. I've got family that died for this war, and I've fought hard. Now it's time." or... "You people think we're bluffing, but this is serious."

No one new what they were talking about and no one seemed to be taking them seriously so I didn't either. Instead I watched the women spread out their cloths on the pavement and sit in the shade of the bus, beginning to eat whatever it was they had brought or bought, and the men who layed out their prayer mats and bowed to the East as their lips moved fast repeating words and phrases in a language they don't know or understand. Later on, those spicy beans I had for breakfast began to have a party in belly. Actually, I think it was more of a labour strike. They wanted out and they wanted out NOW. Being the good unionist that I am I told them that a solution was on the way and I went back to the bus to get a packet of tissues (Hint: Never travel without them!). Having retrieved some paper, I made my way to a small village that was just off the road a little ahead. I had seen it there earlier, while walking, and now decided I should see about finding myself an outhouse.

As I came in the "main road", I was scanning to see which courtyard might have something to offer. I was looking left when a voice called to me from the right. "Hey whiteman, are you gonna say hello?" I turned, but didn't register what was being said for a second. Then it hit. Oh yes, I know this language. Not French or English, but Anyi. Turns out that the language was actually Baoulé, a language related to Anyi well enough that I could understand most of what was being said. I answered back in a joking Anyi tone, "My name is Kouadio and of course I'm going to say hello. Are you going to offer me a seat?" They were a little shocked, but laughed away.

I told my stomach to be patient for a minute - I was getting close. After all the traditional greetings and news givings and lots of laughter, I cut to the chase and asked if I could use the toilet. The man of the house said yes, then got up and took a bucket of water into the house, asking me to follow him. Now this had me a little worried. Many nicer houses have indoor showering rooms, but few Africans can stand the concept of defecating in the middle of ones house, so even very rich people often have their toilets in a seperate block outside. The anyi word for "shit" which I had just used to politely express my needs is "bié" and the anyi word for shower is "bia", so I thought there might be some confusion : either my prononciation, or from language differences.

Turns out the house must have been built by a European because there was, in fact, a toilet inside (albeit without a seat or a water tank). The beans were happy, I was happy, my host was happy to have been of service, so all was going well. It turns out that my host, a man in his mid 40s and relatively well off used to work for the Mayor of Bouake before the war (2002). He told me that the rebels had the road closed since early in the morning and were on strike, revindicating their payment for the war. They were promised lots of money to fight and now that the war is basically over, they want to be payed. They said no one would pass until their chief came in person to pay them. Their chief has now been given the position of Prime-Minister (2nd in command after the president), so I reckon it was pretty unlikely that he would come. My host just shrugged his shoulders and said "who knows what will happen - all we can do is wait and see."

At around 6pm, there was a sudden rush of people running everywhere with lots of shouting. Apparently SOMETHING had happened and we were going to be going through. Everyone scurried onto the bus which the driver already had revving up waiting for the last person to hop on. As soon as we were there, he took off, passing other busses and cars not yet ready, and speeding towards the barricade. That didn't last long as others got going and soon it was an all-out traffic jam. People were cheering and thanking God and yelling into their cellphones "We're through, we're through". I was a little more pessimistic knowing that we still had to get 5000+ people through a single checkstop all at the same time.

After about 800 metres of deisel fumes and crazy traffic manoueveres, we ground to a halt. I thought to myself, this is gonna be awhile. The motor went off and we all piled out again. By this time it was dark and the road was 3 buses wide with traffic. Again, I walked to the front (not nearly as far now) and had a look. There were lots more "soldiers" now, and many of them sporting a near full uniform. They were guarding the line and vowing that no one should cross. "The line", it turns out, is just a make-shift barrier made from branches. The real barricade is 5km away at the entrance to Bouaké. We were all sandwiched in now so there was no turning back. Once again, people spread out, finding ways to relax. One guy had a portable TV with a screen of about 3 inches. He took the headlight out of his truck, used the wires to hook up to the battery nodes and proceeded to get reception for "Marianne" the most famous soap opera in the country. A small crowd formed to watch while other groups just sat down and chatted. By this time all the food and water was gone. "Surely they wouldn't keep us here all night" queried a Lebanese buisnesman driving a truck full of cosmetic supplies. I had to admit, I didn't think we were gonna get to go through.

But what do you know; about 8pm, a big group of rebels came marching down the hill from Bouaké and within minutes we were back in our bus whizzing in and out of traffic at 7 km/hour. First gear whined like a sick dog while the driver pushed it around slower moving vehicles, using the entirety of the roadway to his advantage. This lasted for most of an hour as we made the distance with eyes and throats stinging from the deisel fumes. The real barricade didn't take that long to cross once we got there. They weren't checking papers or requiring money, so it was just the pushing of 3 and a half lanes of traffic into one that slowed us down. I still don't know what happened, but I'm glad we got through. Again, people hooted and shouted victory into their cell phones, but when we got to the other side of Bouake, the gates to leave were still firmly closed. The rebels there had heard by phone, but refused to open till someone came in person. I think that means that they were waiting until actual cash arrived. Anyways, at around 11pm, the same group of soldiers marched up and opened the gates. Another traffic jam ensued, but by midnight we were on open road. I made it to Korhogo by 3:30 and to Fereke (near the border) by 5:30am (a little later than the 6pm that I had hoped for) but I was glad to have made it. I layed down on a sack of peanuts to sleep for about an hour and then got up to find a way to get across the border and into Banfora. But that, as they say, is another story.