Le Prefet
After seeing Sori Keita’s son, we set out for the long drive back to Faranah. We’re feeling deflated. So near but yet so far. Then again, I tell myself (probably not for the last time), this is Africa. Stuff like this happens all the time.
It’s Sunday, but we decide to try to find the prefet as soon as we get back to get his all important signature. We ask around, and are directed to the only vaguely smart looking part of Faranah. We’re shown into his home, where we’re met by a large, important looking men in a red jelabia. I explain the situation – that we went to Koubikoro en route to the source but were turned away by the sous prefet for not having the right papers.
“You got all the way there?” the Prefet laughs in disbelief. “Oh, I am sorry.”
He looks anything but. In the end, probably mainly because we look tired and pissed off, he agrees to take us over to his office and sign the necessary papers. He indicates for us to follow, and shambless off to the next building.
He takes us into his office and we wait while he puts the crucial stamp and seal on our ordre de mission. All this just to go and see a puddle of water trickling out of the ground. Is it really worth it? I keep telling myself it will be.
Tags: Travel
djnorwood