The road to Forokonia
Thursday, November 30th, 2006
We arrive at Koubikoro for the second time in two days. Today the sous prefet looks every part the street sweeper in brown Gap dungerees and a wool beanie. The day before he’d looked immaculate in a white robe and skull cap.
This time he waves us through without question. The prefet’s signature, it seems, is worth its weight in gold. But as a precaution, he orders a soldier, complete with AK47, to accompany us and Sori. “You’re going close to the border with Sierra Leone,” he explains. “It can be dangerous there. It’s for your safety.”
Before we strike out, I try to raise the subject of a price with Sori. “Not now,” he says. “We’ll discuss it when we’re out of the village and there’s no one around to interrupt us.” Grudgingly I agree, but I fear I may regret this.
We head out for Foroknia, the next major village along and our base for finding the source. Sori and the soldier agree that instead of taking the main ‘road’ to Forokonia (in reality, just a very steep rocky track), we’ll go on a shortcut over rather than around the mountains in between.
The going is tough. Sori and the soldier have each just brought along a small overnight bag. Dan and I are both staggering under huge packs stuffed with tents, stoves, cameras, water, food and a pair of large machettes. Typical ‘blancs’. All the gear, but no idea…
But we’re both feeling fresh and strong, and it’s good to be out in the bush and stretching the legs. The scenery we’re passing through is magnificent: wooded hills rolling into the distance; huge, exotic trees hung with Tarzan creepers; vast granite boulders balanced precariously like they’ve been placed there by giant hands. And everwhere is absolutely still and quiet, the only sounds the occasional stream or goat bleating in a field.
We’re making good ground, but the going’s getting hotter and tougher. Sori tells us more about his grandfather. “He was a great king of many villages around here. He planted trees along the border with Sierra Leone to keep people out from there. They wanted to come and take water from Djoliba (local name for the Niger) but he fought to keep them out.”
Later we see some of the trees his grandfather planted – huge bamboo thickets that soar up and over to create a canopy that resembles the pillars and buttresses of a Gothic cathedral. As we stand admiring them, Sori drops into the conversation the fact that the little river winding its way beneath the canopy is the Niger.
It hardly seems possible. Only about 70km away in Faranah, it’s a big, soupy swollen thing. Here it’s only just a stream, dark and smokey in appearance, mysterious beneath the bamboo canes. We’re still some way from the source, but I suddenly realise why the locals consider it to be a sacred place; even here it has a certain mysticism about it.
Soon after, we make Forokonia, a large, peaceful village set in a fold between two hills. Sori arranges an audience with the chief, which actually turns out to be an audience with most of the villagers, who gathers to have a good gawp at the two red-faced white men with stupidly large backpacks.
Sori’s a performer, alright. Out comes the book, and he slips into his well rehearsed routine. We exchange kola nuts with the chief, an ancient tradition in Africa when meeting a chief for the first time. I can’t understand why kola nuts; they’re vile, bitter things that taste of bleach. But if that’s all it takes to please them, who am I to argue.
The chief is very welcoming and offers us a hut to stay in for the night. It’s a simple structure, part of a larger compound of identical dwellings belonging to the village ‘secretaire’. He’s a toothless fellow in a worn woollen hat, who I suspect is a lot younger than he looks judging by the age of his children.
Inside the hut is gloomy and sparse. There’s a bed, but it’s hard. Our host’s wife comes in to tell us there’s hot water ready for washing. Hot water! All the way out here. Luxury. The shower is a fenced-off area in the back garden of the hut. The floor is made of lengths of bamboo, which makes it slippery, but it proves an effective drainage system.
While I’m washing Dan tells me a chicken is slaughtered for us – an honour given that the diet mainly consists of rice and spicy tomato soup around here (though, an honour we naturally have to pay for). It arrives a couple of hours later in a huge dish with piles of rice and sauce, and we – Dan, Sori, our soldier friend Mahmadou and me – fall on it.
After we’ve eaten our fill, Sori brings up the subject of the fee. In this as in all negotiations we’ve seen him undertake so far, he’s the consumate preformer, spelling out his credentials – his grandfather, his knowledge of the area, his expertise in helping others before us find the source. Then he names his price – too large and outrageous to repeat here. We argue. He steps up his act, throwing himself on the floor in an impressive display of contorted histrionics.
We have to admit the old rogue has us over a barrell. He’s brought us this far, and now we’re in no position to ditch him as our guide; we’d be totally stuck then. But neither are we prepared to pay what he’s asking for. “Other people before have paid this much,” he insists. “I have their phone numbers here, you can call them if you want.” He pulls out a wadge of cards with random European sounding names and phone numbers on. I point out that the nearest phone is about 50km away. In the end, after more playacting and arguing, we agree on a price – a lot lower than the one he wanted, but still more than we’d bargained on.
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djnorwood