DANTE'S INFERNO

Bobo Dioulasso and Ouagadougou, (pronounced “Waga – doogoo), and known locally as “Bobo” and “Ouaga” respectively, are to Burkina Faso what Minneapolis-St. Paul are to Minnesota.   Well, almost.

According to the United Nations, Burkina, its shortened term, is the 3^rd poorest country in the world.     Ouaga , the capital, is about 85 km  north of Bobo,  the country’s second largest city.   "Burkina Faso" in the  local tribal  langugage means dignity-nobility-integrity and homeland, and is translated as “Land of the Honorable.”   The Rough Guide travel book writes that  “few countries are as unlucky as Burkina. . . . It is desperately and famously poor, with an almost total lack of  raw materials or natural resources.”    To add to its misery, it is also landlocked.  

It has mostly lived up to its reputation.

The tree-lined streets and colonial buildings (in varying states of extreme disrepair), afro-beat nightclubs and fresh-baked pastries from its many patisseries, make central Bobo a magnet for travelers and ex-pats.   But the veneer, in my opinion, is marred by the reality I experienced.   Life for the locals seems incredibly desperate and sadder than in many African cities I’ve visited thus far.

Young boys wandered the streets carrying old, empty, rusted tin cans of coffee, begging for money.   We later learned that the schools require them to spend a portion of their day accosting locals and tourists alike for donations to pay for their education.  Without the requisite quota, education is denied.

Hawkers followed us everywhere waving trinkets in our faces, pleading with us to buy their hand-made dolls, bead-necklaces and small bags of water.   One woman tried desperately to sell the 3 strawberries in her hand. 

But it was the Old Quarter that made my heart break.

Only viewable by paying a guide a negotiated $2, our 13-year old fearless leader, clearly a member of the local mafia who controlled this section of town, did his best to present the place in the best light possible.   But even he could not disguise what my eyes and ears were telling me.

Imagine a shantytown of lean-to’s made of mud brick, hot as hell with nary a tree or blade of grass in sight, no place to shelter one’s head from the blazing sun.    No sidewalks, no roads, only bone-dry hardened dirt and mud between the crowded houses.   No running water, electricity, or sewers, trash littered the streets. There was only one small, locked classroom in the Quarter’s school, code-named  “Paradise,” by officials in a miserable attempt to fool the locals.  Beggars, both old and young, wandered about, some obviously insane, talking to whomever would listen – as well as those who would not.  We’ve seen quite a lot of young children with hernias in Burkina.   These hernia are recognizable as large, long, pointed growths protruding outward several inches from near the belly button.    We were told that the hernia are created by incorrectly tying or cutting the umbilical cords at birth.    As long as the hernia did not rupture, the child would merely be deformed.   But if it did rupture, death would surely result.  Women, with babies on their backs, and babies on their hips, were pounding the cassava (manioc) into maize, while making millet beer on stoves that increased the intensity of the already oppressive heat to temperatures that can only be known in hell.  Unemployed men sat on corners with nothing to do and no hope of ever finding work.  But perhaps the most depressing sight was the “Sacred Fish River.”  Polluted with sewage, plastic bags, rotted fruits and vegetables and the trash of life, gold fish in the river were fed chickens by the residents in honor of their religion and were the size of small dogs.  While the women attempted to clean the family’s clothes in this filth, children washed and splashed about.

Residents tried their best to survive in this misery.  The hardened dirt ground in front of each hut is meticulously swept clean on a daily basis.   I saw two girls sitting on a 2 x 4  in front of a makeshift blackboard,  learning math from a third girl, not much older than themselves. While residents do their best to keep their homes and bodies clean  and  teach basic math and reading to their young, only the government can rid the public areas of massive mounds of trash, install water and sewer lines, traffic lights and walkways, and provide for the old, infirme, insane and lonely.  This government, as in most of Africa, is nowhere in sight.

I am not a good-enough writer to adequately describe the wretchedness of Bobo’s Old Quarter, but suffice it to say that I am still, three days later, haunted by it.  It was a trip to hell.

Ouaga, though, in my opinion, (which happens to be contrary to that of most other travelers), is Bobo’s better- half.   A typical African capital, there are lots of old cars and motorcycles spewing polluted fumes, streets lined with vendors and (relatively) many Europeans and other westerners working in Embassies and businesses throughout the city.   The vibe here is much more upbeat.  There are street lights at some intersections (“Pedestrian Beware” at others), several large modern buildings and sewer-lined walkways covered with blocks of cements placed in such a way that if one is not careful a foot can get caught in the spaces between the blocks.  But hey, at least there are sewers.  There is the requisite Grand Mosque and a large, modern supermarket.  We had dinner last night in a quiet, hidden garden restaurant run by nuns who also serve the food, and who, at exactly 9:30 pm, sing the “Ave Maria.”

Most of West Africa is French-speaking, so I am managing quite well here.

Tomorrow we begin our 4-day ride to the Mali border.