Gao: A Return to the Underdeveloped
Summary: We arrive in Gao, not 10km from our final campsite and experience PCV life in Eastern Mali.
After surviving the river hurricane, we were all wholly ready to be back on solid ground and sleeping in relative shelter. We left our final campsite as soon as day broke and after visiting another dune for 20 minutes, we continued on to our off-loading point. Very close to Niger in Eastern Mali, Gao was no more than 10km from our final campsite. Had we had any modicum of additional luck on the boat, we very likely would have made it the night before and been hunkered down inside a house rather than tents and straw mats. Tired and sand-blasted, we pulled into Gao and began to offload our bags and put them on a cart. In Mali, it’s easy to get someone else to do your heavy lifting for you. For about 60 cents each, our bags were wheeled in front of us the mile or so to the house where we’d be staying for the night. PCVs have become accustomed to a further variant of pawning off labor which is known as “cheeing”. Although occasionally occurring within the group, the practice almost always involves local children and entails the kid running off to get you a packet of cigarettes, some sugar, or to tell someone something in the next village. For the effort, they are sometimes, but not always rewarded financially with the equivalent of a penny or two. Many of the locals take pride in the fact that the whites select them for the task and gain a boost of self-value.
It wasn’t even midday yet and even without having to lug our belongings the walk was a warm one. With sweat dripping from our brows and sliding down the smalls of our backs we entered through the gates of one of the largest houses in the neighborhood. Non-descript apart from its size, the brown mansion was home to a PCV named James. Amongst others, Josh had been hugely excited about the prospect of taking a shower and watching 300 on the laptop that he knew was up at the house in Gao. Sadly, we learned that house was without both electricity and running water. Despite having spent a week with PCVs on the Niger, I was mildly surprised about how nonchalant James and most of the PCVs were about not having what most Westerners consider essential elements of a domicile. With a quick phone call, James found us an alternative location in the local bar/hotel. After some time unpacking, organizing laundry and sitting around fanning ourselves, we made a move to what sounded like an oasis in the undeveloped, hot desert of Gao.
Walking through the streets of Gao after a river hurricane is a memorable experience, even by Malian standards. Dirt roads had become muddy bogs; a foul mix of rubbish, plastic, soap, kitchen run-off and sewage. Entire intersections had become small lakes and we were forced to take a number of detours in our trek to a shower and a cold beer. Foolishly, many of the PCVs had brought nothing but flip-flops and were now realizing that the developed world’s usage of shoes certainly has its place. The walk was supposed to take 15 minutes, but with the detours, took just over 25. Sweaty, once again, we arrived to electricity and cold water sachets – we could want for nothing more in the whole world. After calling dibs on showers, we ordered some food and made an attempt with the VCD player; sadly they really won’t play DVDs and I was once again reminded of how inferior they are. With one beer in, it was my turn to shower. The combo toilet-shower was built of mud and straw with a big metal door and one had to be extra careful now to stick a foot into the poo pit while soaping up. With the sun shining strongly from above, I relished the non-Niger cleaning which took at least a few ounces of sand off my body, out of my hair and from in between my teeth and came out feeling truly refreshed.
The food was simple that night; goat brochettes with red onion, fried potatoes and some haricot verts. It was hardly enough to cover us for a night of drinking and after 3 beers, I was feeling both woozy and mildly ill. Not wanting to be a Sally, I pushed on a darkness fell and a deck of cards appeared. I’m not a particularly good Texas-Hold-‘Em player, but at a CFA2000 (about $4) buy-in, who could resist? After two stellar hands, my luck was gone and I was the first out after about an hour of play. By then, Aaron had arrived. You may remember Aaron from a previous entry as the hairy shouldered chap who introduced me to “elaborated” whisky and left me a pool of vomit as a morning wake-up. I’d long forgiven him for the transgression, though and we got to talking about our experiences on the river. I had thought that a river hurricane would have ranked rather high on the tales meter, but Aaron easily topped the story with his tale of what happened when he argued with a Malian taxi driver about a fare that Aaron didn’t believe was fixed. Aaron’s staunch refusal to pay the driver what was rightfully his had earned Aaron nearly 2 whole days in a Bamako jail cell. With no water or food, Aaron sat in a cell with a number of other Malians who eyed him suspiciously and whispered in Bambura, “I wonder what the toubob did”. Retelling the story with a big smile, he told me he had responded in Bambura “You know, I speak Bambura.” The Malians recoiled in fear – if these people are afraid of lizards, a Bambura-speaking toubob must bring the fear of God.
The night finished with a number of us wanting to call it a night at around 9pm. I had wanted to leave even before the Tuareg music had began, but not wanting to be rude, I’d stayed and drank a glass of wine. As a little souvenir of toughing out the night in the front of the boat while being blasted with wind and rain, I had picked up a sore throat that had now developed into a full-fledged ulcerated mess. The alcohol almost certainly didn’t help and the nausea I was feeling was likely a product of illness, exhaustion and poor nutrition over the past number of days. Quite simply, my body was telling me to cut it out and I was ready to listen. The walk back was an even bigger challenge than the journey to the bar as in Gao there are no streetlights. Imagine walking down your street at night, but remove all the cars, all the streetlights and houselights and add a number of foul puddles as well as a couple of massive lakes and you’re still not really going to be rocking it Gao-style. I’ve made my way through some treacherous locations in my life, but the walk home from Shaka’s bar in Gao rates right up there with one of the more unpleasant ventures.
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