the long road to Ouagadougou

The road to Ouagadougou is a lesson in economics, culture, patience and faith.

Ouagadougou is the capital of Burkina Faso, one of the poorest countries in the world. We wanted to visit Burkina because there are some interesting fair trade projects there with shea butter, but mostly because I (Beth) have an old friend, Hamidou, who is from Burkina Faso and I wanted to see him and meet his family.

Hamidou is really a part of my family. Hamidou met my parents-in-law in Cote d'Ivoire after he left his village at age 18. African notions for family are much looser and more inclusive than Western notions, and in this tradition he became a part of the family and came with them to the US for a while after they left Africa. He became a world traveler, living in the US (with me and my partner for a while) and in Mozambique and Thailand. He speaks about seven languages: Bisa, his mother tongue; Mossi, another African language used widely for trading in Burkina Faso; Bambara, an African language used widely in Mali; French, the colonial language in Burkina Faso; English, which he perfected in the US; and Spanish and Portuguese which he learned in Mozambique. Hamidou is Muslim, although not very devout, the same way that I grew up Christian but don't find myself in church often. He is now back in his home country and has always invited us to meet his family there. This was finally my opportunity to see his home.

Hamidou divides his time between two homes: one in the capital city, Ouagadougou, where he sells mosquito nets and other imports, and the other in the village where he grew up where he is a rice farmer and seller. Polygamy is a long tradition in West Africa, and Islam allows for a man to marry up to four wives as long as he can provide for them. Hamidou has two wives: Rasmata, who lives in Ougadougou, and Fousena, who lives in the village. Each of his wives has two sons, and Hamidou also has another son by a wife whom he later separated from.

Hamidou came to pick us up in Kumasi on the bus so that he could escort us to his country himself. He brought us to the Kumasi market to take the night bus north. We had been to the marke thte day before withour friends in Kumasi, but being in the market with Hamidou was another world. He brought us to the part of the market where his fellow Burkinabes were preparing to travel north with us. Muslim sunset prayers were chanted from loudspeakers, men washed their feet and spread their prayer mats on the ground. Traders finished their shopping at the market and loaded the bus with bags and bags of oranges, hair products, cloth, and other things they would trade. There was so much that our luggage wouldn't fit beneath the bus and was piled on seats in the back of the bus.

Hamidou said the bus was scheduled to leave at 6 pm, but assured us that it wouldn't leave until at least 7. In fact, at about 8 pm the bus finally pulled away from the station and we began the next part of our African adventure.

For a block. Then the bus broke down and we sat on the bus for a half hour until they got it running again and we were on our way. We rumbled north over red dusty roads, full of potholes from the rains, and we rumbled and we rumbled. The windows wouldn't open and the airconditioning was broken, so we sweated through the night, which helped in the toileting aspect of the trip (there were no toilets but we just sweated everything out anyway). We made it to the border at about 9 am. We went through immigration, and we waited at customs for the traders to declare their goods. We waited and waited and waited. After about three hours it became clear that one of the traders had not declared all of her goods, and the entire bus was unloaded for a full inspection. After another hour we were finally cleared with customs, and one of our fellow passengers pleaded with the police, "please, I am an old man, please let us go." The customs officer took offense at this, yelled, "who is an old man?! I am the old man here!" and out of fury forced the passengers to again take off their luggage and open them up for a second inspection.

Finally finally we were on our way. About an hour later the bus broke down on the side of the road, in a dangerous strip known for bandits. Hamidou flagged down a mini-bus and as many of us as could possibly fit piled into the vehicle-- there were about 17 of us in a bus designed for nine. My leg kept falling asleep because my circulation was cut off, but we finally finally made it to Ouagadougou at about 5 pm, almost 24 hours after we began.

Hamidou walked across the street to get his car and I began to see the life he lived here: he couldn't walk for two feet without shaking someone's hand, bumping fists, doing the special handshake with the snap at the end, and waving greetings to everyone. He knew the entire city! We loaded our things into his car and he waved at everyone all the way to his house. We were tred but joyful at finally arriving at my old friend's home.