Niger River Project

Several uncomfortable hours pass. On one side I’m being slowly squashed by my oversized fellow passenger; on the other, I’m fighting a desperate battle for limited shoulder room. This involves tactical wriggling to maximise the amount of space I have to lean back against the seat. Any weakness shown by your opponent, the slightest hint of a readjustment of position, must be leapt upon without mercy. In this game, there are no prizes for second place; it’s him or you.

After what seems an eon, we reach Kouriame, the border post with Mali. We all shuffle out of the taxi, into the hut that doubles as the Guinean border control. The formalities are swift, and we’re ushered through to the Malian side, where the next checkpoint is customs. The official here eyes up our huge canoe, no doubt sensing the opportunity for a bribe. He points at it, demanding it be taken down; grumbling, our moody driver obliges, hefting the big bag down off the roof of the taxi.

We try to explain what it is. “C’est un bateau, comme un petit pirogue,” we explain. Pirogues are the local style of canoe used by all the local fishermen.

A pirogue in a bag? The official looks perplexed and bored. We try to make him understand, but he loses interest, the possibility of a bribe probably seeming like too much hard work. He shuffles back to his seat in the shade and waves us on our way.

One more checkpoint, this time on the Malian side, and we’re through, into country number two of the trip. Nothing looks any different. The landscape is flat and scrubby, occasionally broken by solitary rock escarpments. The villages are identical to those in Guinea - clusters of round huts, with conical thatched roofs.

This is the beginning of the Sahel, that belt of semi arid land between the Sahara to the north and the more verdant rainforests of the tropics to the south. ‘Sahel’ quite literally means ’seashore’ - the sea in this case being the Sahara, that great ocean of sand that smothers much of northern Africa. We’re arriving at the tailend of the rainy season, so things are relatively green. But as we’ve already seen from the rapidly dropping level of the river, drier times are fast approaching and the locals are already busily burning back the fields they have just harvested in preparation for the lean months ahead.

It’s getting dark now, and all the passengers in the taxi have had enough judging by the sullen silence that has fallen. To make things worse, the good road we’ve had until now suddenly disappears, giving way to a dusty, bumpy track. The taxi’s weak headlights struggle to pierce the gloom and dust, forcing the driver to slow right down. Bamako seems like a long way off.

No, not a strange African dance, but Guinea’s second city - its Birmingham, I guess, though the local accent isn’t noticeably more annoying than elsewhere in the country.

This is our goal after Kouroussa, and the staging post for getting transport for Mali where we’re headed next. Like most places in Guinea, it’s very dillapidated and everything is coated in a fine patina of the pervasive red dust that makes Africa Africa. But the town has a bustling feel, and the people are friendly. More importantly, we manage to find somewhere to have our first cold beer for almost two weeks; fizzy, pishy lager never tasted so good…

Next morning we hire a boy and his hand-pushed cart to help get us and all our gear to the gare voiture, where we’ll find transport across the border. We’ve missed the first bush taxi of the day to Bamako, but are assured that another one will leave shortly, as soon as enough people arrive to fill the car up.

Four hours later, it’s clear not many people are going to Bamako today. The car (a knackered looking Peugeot) is almost full, but we’re one passenger short. Finally, after what seems an age, she arrives. And true to that African stereotype of the passenger you always end up squeezing yourself next to on public transport, she’s a whopper. What’s more, it’s me she’s going to be sitting next to - or rather, on - for the next few hours. This could get ugly.

In all the driver manages to cram 11 passengers in a car made comfortably to seat probably no more than 7. Dan’s wedged in the front with another guy, his big long legs somehow wrapped around the gearstick. I’m on the middle row of seats along with two normal sized men and Big Mumma, who’s sat half on me, half on the guy the other side of her. In keeping with her size, she spends much of the journey grazing on the contents of various bags of food she picks up along the way - nuts, oranges, bread, goat meat. Then there are four more wedged in the back row of seats - three adults and a small child. It’s going to be a long journey.

Soon we’re off. The Peugeot creaks and groans under the combined weight of passengers and their baggage slung on the roof. The road we follow to the border weaves along the Niger, crossing it once. It’s good to see the river again; we’re both missing it. And compared to the sardine-like way we’ve all been shoe-horned into this taxi, the discomforts of the river - the hard seats, the biting flies and threats from lurking hippos - seem like a holiday.

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Since leaving her gluttenous, muddy banks, the river hasn't been a visual presence in our lives, yet she has remained at the forefront of our minds. The canoe trip was an endurance event which suited me fine. I'd been suffering ... [Continue reading this entry]

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Our first day on the river is bizarre. Suddenly there are no people. It's a crazy thing about Africa, that even when you think you're ... [Continue reading this entry]

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