Ouch, ouch ouch all the way to Ouaga

I am STILL finding bruises a week later. Never taking a camion (large truck) again!! It was 36 hours from Gao to Ouagadougou, Burkina, ten of which were spent in the back of an open-air semi truck. Our bus to Boni, Mali to catch said truck went smoothly. The men were their usual harassing selves, but one of us PCVs handled that coolly saying "Don't call me Anasara (what they call foreigners in the North)!" "What should I call you?" A man asked. "Wayma (sister)." "Okay then, you must call me Arma (brother)." If only all Malian men would treat us like this, the way they treat their fellow Malians!
When we got to Boni, we sat down by the side of the road under a hangar (one of only three structures there) and wondered, "Why Boni??" But people were asking us in a Sonrai dialect closer to that of Timbuktu if we were going to Burkina. Good sign. We placed bets as to when the other PCV who coordinated the trip would meet us. I was stuck with between right then and noon. We would have never found him if it weren't for a PC car zooming by on their way to Gao who told us Boni was 2 km up the road. We found the camion scheduled for 6pm and went winding through the streets looking for the other PCV. A PC staff member was leading us through the mess and maze of donkey carts and temporary stalls. It was market day. We were feeling like we were going in circles when he exclaimed, "I'm NOT lost." Right. We got directions to where we could wait together for the day. I won the bet, and therefore a pizza upon arrival in Ouaga :)
One member of the family where we were waiting brought us chicken and "alfinta" small crumpet like pastries. Delicious. I started rounds of tea, and we amused ourselves with the women in courtyard.
At 5:30pm we went to find bread and figs and got our tickets for the truck. The two of us women declined the offer to ride in the cabin with the driver. Bad idea...
I was beginning to be afraid as they were loading more and more into the truck. Every square inch on top of the cargo was a body. Even once they closed the doors people were coming in over the walls and perching on the metal frame over top. One of us got clobbered with a tea kettle, and another got in a slap-fight with a hilarious woman sitting next to us. No language necessary, only gestures and laughing. Over the course of the ride, I slept periodically, but the jostling along the non-road and the branches pelting us meant none of it was restful. Plus my limbs would fall asleep, and I swear I wet pants from laughing so hard. We were giddy over the ridiculousness of it all.
Getting off in Djibo, Burkina Faso I felt like a bruised peach. Mostly we survived. The gooey leaking bag of peanut butter, nearly getting clotheslined by branches while standing to stretch, too many groping men, cramps, cold...mysterious boarder crossing...it was all too much. When we got off, the driver told us to be quiet and shuffled us over to some mats in a courtyard where we collapsed and slept until curfew was lifted at 6 am.
We all exchanged stories of the ride, the one who got out to pee when we changed a tire and realized it wasn't a wall he was facing, but a sleeping camel, won first prize for ridiculousness.
We were so impressed by Burkina and its fresh tomatoes with omelets, irrigation, rock lines in fields, gardens...it was beautiful. When we got to Ouaga that evening, I peeled off my once blue shirt (now greyish-brown), took a hot shower in the mansion of the PC Ouaga hostel, and got me some pizza. Yay for vacations!!

Songhoy Festival

Every two years people of the Songhoy ethnicity descend on Gao to dance, sing, peddle wares and art, and be merry.
The festival was delayed a day to accommodate the guests from France who were to come. So Saturday we went and saw our very own Fatimata Maiga (a PCV) ride her horse, leading the parade. Dressed up in a "tungu" too. The hunters of the region paraded as well, showing off skins and snakes. Creepy. I enjoyed all the women in ornate head dresses and completes.
After hours of introductory speeches, the theater acts performed "ballets" of Sonni Ali Berr, the former Songhoy King.
On Sunday there was a horse race and a camel race. Fatimata entered her horse "Zin" (devil) and placed 11th. Everyone was talking about the white woman who raced. On the radio and even the national TV! The men all wore turbans while riding, but poor Fatimata got mouth fulls of dust and sand.
One of the more entertaining parts of the festival was a crazy woman who was cursing people and blessing them nearly simultaneously. She was bold enough to take the governor's coke from him, and also prance around in a scary mask. Really, she stole the show. Even from the favorite guest of the festival: a donkey dressed in boubou, turban, and pants with a sword tied around his girth. Ridiculous.
A frightful episode occurred when walking back to get our bikes the kids kept outside the festival grounds broke free over the ropes and all chaos broke loose. We had to get behind a tree to avoid the trampling! I lost a shoe, but when the dust cleared I retrieved it.
A UNESCO sponsored dance and poetry contest was going on near the festival grounds, yet due to costume mishaps, it was a bit shocking. Too much booty dancing for our tastes...
I much prefer the mellow "takamba" we had later in the week: sitting, you wave your arms and pulse your head in time to the guitar and calabash drums played with ringed fingers. The Kora, a stringed instrument sounding much like a harp can also join the band. I hope to find recordings of all this great music I experience here!

Doughboy

Doughboy, smiling Doughboy
sat on my bed
Frank, skulking cat
scratched up his head
All of Jo's threads and all of Jo's mends
Couldn't put Doughboy back together again.

Tear!