Burkina Faso part IV: Domes

Karfiguela Falls

After a peaceful evening spent sipping Brukina beer – one of West Africa’s finest brews – and nibbling groundnuts in the gardens of Le Calypso, Hannah and I awoke slowly the next morning and ambled down to breakfast. After two years in Ghana, our body clocks were set to GMT – Ghana Maybe Time – so the pre-arranged 9.00am meeting time was treated as little more than a vague suggestion.

But Burkina Faso is not Ghana. On the dot of the hour, Metina, our tour guide, hurried into the hotel grounds to see where we were. Burkinabes pride themselves on punctuality; we had noticed already that the buses leave on time, rather than when they are full, when the driver wakes up, etc. We scoffed down the fresh baguettes and coffee while Metina chatted to the hotel’s owner – another of his contacts on Banfora’s informal tourism network.

Pools

July is the rainy season in this part of West Africa, the hot days interspersed with welcome bursts. But with few roads properly surfaced, many resembled a thick porridge after the heavy downpours. Metina guided us expertly through the worst ponds, over rickety bridges and through the numerous herds of cows being led to new pastures, waving to the herdsmen as we passed.

The recent rains also meant that Karfiguéla Falls, the next stop on our two-day tour, were at their most resplendent. We pulled into the car park and Metina introduced us to the group of young men who scratch a living guiding the region’s infrequent tourists to the nearby falls. Handshakes all round, and we set off along the mango tree-lined path.

Sugar cane

Our young guide was keen to show us the base of the falls first. “You must see the top and the bottom”, he said, without explaining why, exactly. But storms had brought down several trees, meaning we had to pick our way through fallen branches and leaves to get there. Unfortunately, soldier ants had wasted little time setting up camp in the foliage and objected strongly to us passing through their new home. I’m not sure if there is an international scale for measuring the painfulness of ant bites, but if there is, then these lads must be near the top.

Hannah and I retreated quickly but the guide was insistent: we had to visit the lower falls for the perfect photo opportunity. As the ants split up into two groups, one for each leg, more schoolboy French came flooding back: “Je ne veux pas un photo; je vais maintenant”. It’s amazing how much actually sinks in at school, even when you’re not listening.

The chocolate-brown water cascading through the upper falls didn’t look too inviting, but with burning ant bites to soothe, I stripped off quickly and slid in. The curved rocks, worn smooth with the water, provided handy entrance points, plus some underwater seats to lie back and admire the view.

Not as high as it looks

And we could admire it in solitude. This is one of the country’s most popular tourist attractions, but even on this weekend morning it was far from crowded. The few visitors – a group of American volunteers, a large family from Ouagadougou, and a local church group – spread out among the chocolate-filled pools, each finding their own private section to bathe and picnic. This is one of the benefits of visiting Burkina Faso – the country’s spectacular natural attractions have yet to become overcrowded or over-developed. Facilities rarely extend between a local person to show you the way and a few plastic tables and chairs for enjoying cold drinks and simple meals.

Domes

Metina has spent 20 years driving tourists around Banfora and he knows how to plan a tour. The car weaved through fields of bright green sugarcane, vibrant in the midday sun, until we reached the entrance to the best of all the sights around Banfora – the Domes of Fabedougou.

They are a truly remarkable sight. Over 1.8 million years ago, layer upon layer of sediment was laid down. These have since eroded to form a jumble of giant stone teacakes, all tumbling down a hillside with patches of forest clinging into the gaps. They demand exploration; even Metina eschewed his usual car-seat nap to come with us.

After two hours clambering about the domes alone (Metina had taken his nap on the first dome we climbed), we reluctantly descended. The heat was rising and there was a Brukina with my name on it waiting at the hotel. Tourism is coming slowly to Banfora, and in time its nearby attractions will get the visitor numbers needed to boost the local economy. But having had the rare experience of exploring this phenomenal natural wonder in solitude, I could only be thankful that they hadn’t come just yet.

Burkina Faso pt III: Peaks

Sindou Peaks

The Sindou Peaks in southwest Burkina Faso are an astonishing geological spectacle. Across the millennia, the elements have carved these giant columns into a stunning array of shapes and sculptures. Today, these dazzling maroon formations are a giddying sight, enough to send you head over heels – and straight down the rocks below.

Sandstone may be the perfect material for allowing Mother Nature to get creative, but the small pile of dust and blood at my feet proved that its structural qualities are less noteworthy. “Some of the rocks are not very strong”, confirmed Paul, our guide, in French. Helpful advice, especially when delivered before you start climbing them.

Ow

Once my cuts were cleaned and I’d checked my ego for bruising, Paul continued our walk. He led us nimbly through the crevasses to the best vantage points from which to appreciate the surrounding Senoufo villages and lush farmland, vibrant with tall stalks of sugar cane. Looking out, he explained how entire villages trek into the hills for religious ceremonies. Tourists used to be allowed to attend these, and even camp on the plateau, but visits are now limited to day treks. “The campers left too much rubbish”, Paul said, solemnly. “People didn’t respect the importance of this place.”

Hiking through the peaks

After two hours of exploring, we descended back to our car. Hannah and I had been a little daunted about heading out into rural Burkina Faso. It’s one of Africa’s poorest countries, and there is little in the way of organised tours. But an unofficial grapevine exists between the excellent hotels in the southwest region. The manager of the Villa Bobo hotel in Bobo Diolasso had made all our arrangements in advance, and Metina, our affable driver, had met us at Banfora’s scruffy bus station.

The haggling for our two-day tour around the region had been simple. Metina had typed a figure into his calculator – 50,000 CFA (around £65) for two days including petrol – and we had quickly agreed.  He used the calculator because he couldn’t read or write, and later told us that he used the money from his tours to pay for his grandchildren – 37 and counting – to go to school so they could learn.

Hippos

After the morning’s rock-climbing-and-falling excitement, the second stop on Banfora’s tourist circuit was far more leisurely: a trip to see the hippos on Tengréla Lake. As at Sindou, the facilities for tourists were basic but well organised. Metina introduced us to the owners of the small guesthouse on the lake shore. Five minutes later, we set off in a hand-carved pirogue for the northern end of the lake, while he kicked back with a coke.

For anyone used to safaris in East or Southern Africa, wildlife watching in West Africa is a remarkably health-and-safety-free experience. We glided silently through the water lilies resting on the lake until we could see the hippos right in front of us. Then we went a bit closer. Then closer still.

Now that's a hat

With our boatman showing little sign of stopping, I urgently recalled enough French to ask, as calmly as possible: “Is this close enough?”

“It’s ok, the hippos are happy today,” replied our guide nonchalantly.

I’m not entirely sure how you gauge the mood of a pod of hippos just from their ears, which were all that showed above the water’s surface. But my French definitely wasn’t up to asking, so instead, we watched the huge beasts from just a few metres away. I divided my time between taking photos and calculating if I could paddle to the shore faster than a hippo could swim, should something snap one of them from his good humour.

Hours drift by peacefully at Tengréla. Herons waded through the shallows, competing for the lake’s fish with the local men. Hornbills peeped loudly from the trees overhanging the lake. Children waved frantically as they made their way home from school – white tourists are still a novelty here. The sun pounded down relentlessly. After two hours, it had become too hot and we turned back for a cooling drink. The hippos had barely twitched so much as an ear; perhaps that’s how you tell that they’re content.

A cow

Burkina Faso pt II: Films

The film poster

As a geeky teenager, Ouagadougou was my barometer. I would ask new acquaintances what the capital of Burkina Faso was; if they knew the answer, I was confident that this was a chap with a solid grasp of useless geographical facts, someone I could get along with. (And it was always chaps; I quickly learnt that this sort of thing didn’t impress girls. At all.)

Visiting the quirkily named city as a geeky 35-year-old, I was slightly underwhelmed. Not disappointed – it’s a friendly place and less stressful than other African cities I have been to – but it doesn’t take long to realise that there’s not much to it. The owner of the Tiandora Esperance hotel in Po had said Accra was “like America”. I had laughed at the time (perhaps a little too loudly) but I could now see his point. No sleek cars, no high-rise buildings, no smart cafes; it all felt very sleepy compared to Ghana’s rapidly expanding capital.

Kids in Ouagadougou

One thing for which Ouaga is famous is its film festival and cinematic outputs, regarded as the best in West Africa. Not that this is a huge accolade; the region’s most popular films come from Nollywood and are, without exception, complete and utter shite. The typical Nigerian film – and I have had to sit through many on long bus journeys – is a poorly shot, badly acted story of domestic violence, devils being cast out, ridiculously bloody murders, and usually contain a good smattering of comedy dwarfs, wizards and diabolical special effects. Throw in the ubiquitous pisspoor sound quality and shaky cameras and you have two very long hours to endure.

Having scoped out one of Ouaga’s outdoor cinemas earlier in the day, Hannah and I were surprised to find it locked up and in darkness when we turned up for 7pm, when the film was supposed to start. But on the dot of the hour – people are very punctual in Burkina Faso – the curator toddled up on his bike, smiled at us and unlocked the doors. Silently, he set up the projector, slipped in the disc and we were off. No popcorn, no trailers, no fuss.

The big screen

And the film was good. Despite being in French, I managed to get the gist of the plot. A wife makes a love potion for her elderly husband, to put a bit of lead into his drooping pencil. But rather than reaping the rewards herself, he uses his new ‘powers’ with a string of younger, prettier women, at the suggestion of his best friend. The wife, understandably, is a bit upset and the friend feels a bit guilty.

Then, husband’s new ‘girlfriend’ is mugged in the street (by a man who, for some reason, is dressed like Noddy Holder). A brave mechanic working nearby rescues her, and she falls in love with him.

Sunset in Ouaga

At this point, it got a bit confusing. The husband and his friend have an argument and, possibly with an eye on their potential Nigerian audience, there is a random dwarf with magic powers who vanishes into thin air. But by the end, the husband is sorry, the girlfriend marries her mechanic boyfriend, and then comes to apologise to the older man’s wife for sleeping with her husband (as is only polite, after all).

The cinematography was excellent, the acting was good and it didn’t go on too long. No one screamed, no one died and no one went mad with a scythe. And it was all enjoyed beneath the stars on a clear night in Ouagadougou. It may be faint praise, like being crowned the prettiest slug or most talented Spice Girl, but there is little doubt that Burkina Faso’s films are far and away the best in the region.

Burkina Faso pt 1: Nazinga

Elephants

Safaris in West Africa are different to those in East or southern Africa. There are no big cats in the reserves (none that you see, at least); the camps tend to be basic concrete rooms rather than luxury tents; and there is a wonderful disregard for health and safety.

A ground hornbill

Finding elephants on a safari in Kenya a few years ago, our driver kept his vehicle in reverse, ready to make a swift retreat if necessary. But when we discovered a small herd in Burkina Faso’s Nazinga Game Ranch, our driver simply parked up and got out; I half-expected him to pull out a picnic rug.

Hammerkop

They had taken a bit of finding. Nazinga is rarely visited, so there is no network of guides radioing each other with sightings; it’s just a question of luck whether you see them or not. After two hours’ rattling around dirt roads in a decrepit 4x4 (doors held on by string, cardboard for the rear window), we had seen hammerkops and bizarre-looking ground hornbills, but no sign of the elephants.

Our transport

I was thinking we were going to be unlucky; the elephants tend to head into the bush during the rainy season. But then our guide spotted them. He led Hannah and I slowly through the trees to get a better view as they trudged slowly towards a nearby water hole. One of the larger females eyed us warily as we approached, and a couple of them turned ominously towards us.

Our guide led us quickly onto the road; were we sensibly returning to the relative safety of the vehicle? Not a bit of it: we crouched down on the open road and watched, from no more than 10 metres away, as the giants thundered across before us, more than 20 animals in total. It was a brief encounter, but one well worth the effort of travelling to this remote corner of Burkina Faso.

Why did the elephant cross the road?

Logic

It's not all bad

After nearly two years in Ghana, I have seen a lot of the country, learnt a few words of Twi (about five), and tasted all that Ghanaian cuisine has to offer me – not much, being vegetarian. But I could live here another 20 years and still not master Ghanaian logic.

The taxi journey last night was a prime example. Walking to pick up a takeaway at Noble House, an Indian restaurant near the local A&C shopping mall, I heard the familiar parp of the horn. I said where I was going.

“You are going to A&C mall?”

“No, a restaurant near there.”

“OK, 6 cedis to the mall.”

“Fine, but it’s not actually the mall. It’s nearby. OK?”

“You know the way? I don’t know it.”

“Yes, I know, let’s go.”

He asked directions all the way, and then pulled up at the mall. No, I repeated, I’m not going to the mall; it’s a restaurant nearby.

“Oh, I have to pick someone up and I’m late. You said you knew the way.”

“I do, just take the next turn right.”

“Left?”

“No, right.”

“Right?”

“Yes, right.”

“OK, right.”

We turned left. Past an enormous, garage-sized ‘Noble House’ sign with a bright red arrow pointing the other way.

“It’s the other way.”

“No, nothing is down that road. It’s this way.”

“But you said you don’t know where it is.”

“I know it’s not that way. Nothing is that way.”

We got there eventually. I had to pay him eight cedis; not only did I not know the way, I had made him late for collecting his passenger. Taxi drivers in Accra drive a hard bargain.

***

Where are the spuds?

New arrivals are just as easily caught out. Our friends Lilly and Ole came for two weeks last year, and after a dusty trip to Mole, we retreated to relax at Till’s No.1, a beach resort just outside Accra. Owned by a German, the menu has a better-than-average selection. After a week of yam chips and fried rice in the north, Lilly spied the fresh green salad – lettuce, tomato, eggs and boiled potatoes.

One hour later (the standard waiting time for food in most Ghanaian hotels), out came the meals, including her salad ­– minus the spuds. She asked where they were; “Oh, coming, coming,” came the reply from the hurried waiter.

A further 20 minutes, and the salad devoured, but still no potatoes. As the plates were cleared, Lilly asked about them.

“Oh, please, no potatoes with salad,” said our smiling waiter.

“But the menu says potatoes”, replied Lilly (the chips I had eaten proved they weren’t ‘finished’).

“No, this salad doesn’t come with potatoes.”

“It says on the menu, though – lettuce, tomato, egg and boiled potatoes.”

“Oh, please, everyone here knows this plate doesn’t come with potatoes. You can ask my friends.”

Sunset at Tills

Simple logic: why on earth would a guest expect potatoes when the staff all knew the menu was wrong? To be fair, the waiter probably had the stronger case this time; most Ghanaian menus are as grounded in reality as the average Noddy story. “It is finished,” is a refrain common to anyone eating out. It’s difficult to believe some dishes ever ‘started’.

***

The moment I knew I would never get my head around the Ghanaian way of thinking was in Shoprite, Accra’s low-cost, poor-quality South African supermarket in the city’s main shopping mall. It had been a stressful Saturday morning, full of typical expat problems: the air-con was broken; the waitress brought the wrong coffee; it was too damn hot, again. Sweating and in a bad mood, I went to buy the week’s groceries before retreating home to watch Coronation Street on Youtube.

Vegetables are weighed and priced by a bored-looking shop assistant, but when I handed him my mango, he gave it back: “It must be in a plastic bag”. Refusing bags for single items is my own futile gesture towards reducing Ghana’s phenomenal plastic waste, but I knew it wasn’t worth arguing.

In between me getting a bag and returning, a Chinese couple had sneaked into the queue with half a trolley’s worth of veg. Swearing quietly and trying to stay calm, I impatiently waited my turn, then unloaded my basket of veg … only to find an unbagged avocado at the bottom. Swearing quite loudly this time, I went to get yet another bag, only to be stopped.

“That doesn’t need a bag”, said the assistant.

“Why did the mango then?”

He gave me the smiling, ‘what’s he on about?’ look that is a common Ghanaian response to irate obronis making a fuss about nothing. I tried again, this time with props.

“What is the difference between this (holding up bagged mango) and this (holding up unbagged, similarly-sized avocado)?”

“That one is a mango… and that one is an avocado” he answered.

Beaten again by Ghanaian logic.

Spot the difference

Hawkers

What connects mobile phone credit, 500 ml sachets of purified water, and a framed hologram of Christ on the cross? Answer – they can all be bought on the streets of Accra. Along with bush meat. And fried plantain chips. And huge maps of Ghana. And Chinese-made neck massagers. And sliced papaya. And self-help books, bottles of fresh coconut water, new windscreen wiper blades, frozen yoghurts…

The capital’s street traders, known as ‘hawkers’, sell these myriad items at every set of traffic lights and traffic jam that slows cars down long enough for a transaction. Sometimes only just long enough; a hawker running alongside a car, one hand collecting change through the window, is a common sight.

Chasing cars isn’t the only hazard the hawkers face. They must dodge quickly out of the way when the traffic starts moving: not easy with an overflowing basket of oranges balanced on your head. And spending 12 hours a day amid the city’s vehicle fumes can’t be healthy.

Several women, men and children trade at the end of my road in the suburb of East Legon. While buying phone credit one morning, I asked the seller, John Abatey, how much he earns. “I get four cedis (about £1.30) for every 100 cedis of credit I sell. Most days, I sell around 500 cedis.”

My surprise at such a meagre living must have shown, as he quickly explained that this was a good living. “The water sellers earn much less,” he told me proudly. Water sells for 10 pesawas per sachet (around £0.03), with a seller making 1 or 2 pesewas per sale. Buying one always leaves me with mixed feelings: the empty sachets are one of the mains culprits in Accra’s wave of plastic pollution, but there’s no denying that they are instantly refreshing on a scorching day.

How much longer John and co. can stay there remains to be seen. The Accra Municipal Authority is stepping up efforts to clear the streets of hawkers. Their stated aim is to clear the streets to reduce congestion; the suspicion among the hawkers is that the authorities see them as an untidy blot in a rapidly modernizing city.

If they do disappear, I will miss them. Not least because of the convenience they offer: I know I don’t have far to walk whenever I need phone credit. Or some grilled maize. Or a box of Man Utd tissues. Or a carved wooden mask, a dead rat, a school lunchbox, a slice of watermelon, a game of Scrabble…

Togo

Nous jouons au babyfoot

Education experts claim that schoolchildren in the UK should spend more time learning languages to bring them up to European standards. Personally I think we should forget the whole thing; we only end up embarrassing ourselves.

A storm over Lomé

Having just crossed into Togo from Ghana, Hannah and I were instantly surrounded by moneychangers and taxi drivers, all yabbering away in French. Maybe due to the excitement of walking across a national border for the first time, the 50 words of French I learnt at school instantly flooded back. Where I didn’t know the French word, I chucked in random bits of German and the odd smattering of Spanish. The gathered Togolese looked thoroughly bemused, as if faced with a low-budget version of C3PO – fully incoherent in three languages. Luckily Hannah’s French course paid off and she managed to get us a taxi to the Hotel Napoléon Lagune.

Le petit dejeuner

A weekend is long enough to get a taste of Togo, and that taste is fresh cheese, crispy baguettes and freshly brewed Togolese coffee. I ordered for breakfast the next morning while waiting for Hannah: “Je voudrais mon petit dejeuner” – I was back in full flow after a good night’s sleep. Togolese breakfasts are a marked step up from Litpon tea, rubber omelettes and sugary stodgy bread served in Ghana’s hotels. It went down very well as we sat overlooking the Bé Lagoon in the hotel courtyard. Togo grows on you very quickly, especially at mealtimes.

"...and smile..."

Less appetizing was the city’s major attraction, the fetish market. If you visit a market where they sell animal parts for traditional medicine, you can’t really complain if that’s what you find. But while initially fascinating, the piles of monkey heads, dried chameleons, dead vultures and many more besides were fairly gruesome; the wicker basket of kitten heads was particularly stomach turning. The smell of the market was even more overwhelming; it’s hard to describe in words, but probably not that difficult to imagine the stench produced by hundreds of dead animals lying about in 35-degree heat.

Not sure what these cure...

Our guide assured us all the animals had died of natural causes – yeah, right – but Hannah and I were quickly going off the idea of a fetish market as a good day out. When he asked if we wanted to meet the fetish priest and be ‘cured’ with our choice of animal, ground and brewed with “over fifty traditional herbs”, it was our cue to leave. Quickly.

Some carving or other

La Musée International du Golfe de Guinée (that’s the international museum of the Gulf of Guinea, non-linguists) was a far more relaxed and less pungent affair. Located in a house on Lomé’s urban seafront, it contains statues and artefacts collected from across West Africa. A good selection of wooden penises was on show for fans of the genre, as well as some particularly ugly carvings.

Unfortunately, once you have visited the fetish market, nothing can distract you from the need for a shower. We headed back to the hotel and I threw away my fetid T-shirt, which still smelt of the elephant thighbone* I had been persuaded to pick up for a photo. Only after two scrubbings, a swim in the pool and a few Togolese beers did I start to feel clean again.

An elephant's thighbone. Heavy.

* The T-shirt was nearly 15 years old and regularly used for hiking, so the elephant cannot be held fully responsible for its aroma.