After leaving the cotton region behind, I have only a few days left to reach the border with Mali. Every day that I advance towards the Sahel, it is an even more arid day than the one before. If there was still some fertility left in the cotton plantations for the plants to grow, now there is nothing left but dry bushes without color and soil where nothing grows. I continue pedaling almost always in an eternal straight line breathing in the orange dust of the heart of the north of the country and very far from the main roads. I spend hours of solitude under the February sun that increasingly compresses me with its unscrupulous radiation.
Although remote regions are harsher, I feel more secure in them. It is almost a basic rule that the fewer people, the less possibility of conflict. I no longer feel the nerves with which I lived the previous days crossing bandit land, where being alone made me feel the anxiety of being exposed at all times to a possible attack. Now, the villages are increasingly distant from each other. I have several hours to listen to music, talk to myself, stop to nibble on food under a bush in silence. However, I am never really alone even though the moments with people are more relaxed as well. There is no longer so much military or police presence and I perceive better energy in the faces and walks of the locals.
The reception in each village remains sublime. They are caresses that soften the heart. For two nights in a row the heads of each village where I sleep not only take me to their homes to sleep, but they give me their own beds while they sleep on the floor. No matter how much I refuse, my arguments dissolve at the unwavering generosity of these people.
I arrive at Kounouman at dusk, the village where I spend my penultimate night in Ivory Coast. In this region of Africa where electricity is the exception rather than the rule, the son of the current head of the village welcomes me in almost total darkness. His father is too ill to see me. Soon heir to the position, Mohammed, takes me directly to his house while I walk pushing my bicycle alongside him. With the mettle and charisma of a great politician, along the way he makes an open invitation to me to consider the possibility of settling down in Kounouman once my bike trip is over. He shows me the availability of space in the village and the kind of land they might even grant me. He does not say it out of simple courtesy but with the firm conviction of one who feels every word he says.
After the 7 minutes it takes us to walk through half the entire village at a slow pace, we arrive at his house where he introduces me to two of his four wives, who are in charge of today’s housework. After the brief introduction, with the authority of a master, he orders them to prepare dinner and set a table for us. As we wait, sitting under the soft gloom thrown by a couple of solar lights and the fire, Mohammed asks me if I am married. After tell him that I’m still not, he doesn't hesitate for a second to elaborate on the vast benefits of having four wives. Following this, he goes on to develop on the functional dynamics with which they operate, alternating in pairs to work on housework and childcare. On the day that two work, the other two rest and vice versa. Within the same routine, there’s the day in which each of them spends time with him. At the end of his presentation, he concludes with absolute firmness, that without a doubt I could have my four wives whenever I come back to settle down here. Considering that until my almost 38 years of age I have barely been able to stay in a relationship for slightly more than 3 years at a time (and with great difficulty), Mohammed would be starting to make me believe that Kounouman could have the potential to be my promised land not to end-up alone in the world.
The morning after, the sun brings the light that reveals the image of the village that I could not see in the gloom at night. The dirt streets, the circular huts made of adobe and thatch roof, the little shops with 4 or 5 products. Clearly, it does not have the glitz of the glamor of Sydney, where I plan to live again after my bike trip is over, but it does not lack African charm and the cost of living is notably lower. The two women who had cooked for us and washed the dishes until late yesterday are resting today. Whereas the ones that were resting are now preparing breakfast and the rest of the meals of the day for Mohammed and his battalion of children. With a full heart and belly, I leave Kounouman. I say goodbye to Mohammed and all the rest of the village who came to visit me in the morning. I leave with the certainty of having an alternative place in the world to have a house and four women if I do not feel comfortable living in Australia again and do not get along with the Australians.
The last 140km to Téngrela, the border town with Mali, were a breeze. At the end of the day, under a splendid sunset blending a palette of oranges and pinks, my muscles are sore and my body is painted by dust but my heart is radiant. It is too late to cross the border. It is closed and I have neither the strength nor the rush, that is why once again I look for a place to stay at the local Catholic church. The Father in charge welcomes me with the same affection as all the Ivorians. It is my last night in Ivory Coast, and the dinner with Father Paul and several of his friends who came to visit, was the perfect farewell evening or rather, a mere warm-up for the beginning of the exit.
Bureaucracy of ivory
The next day when I arrive at the migration post 15km north of Téngrela, before 8 am, the officer in charge examines my passport and refuses to stamp my departure from the country. Just like days before when the gendarmerie officer stopped me, he tells me that he cannot authorise the exit of foreigners through this border crossing and that he needs to consult with his superiors. In fact, his main confusion stems from never having seen a foreigner cross into Mali here, let alone by bicycle. As in Burkina Faso, we are on an orange alert for the presence of jihadist activity in the region. It's 8 am and no one in the office wants to take responsibility for stamping my passport or even thinks that has the authority to do so. Once again I need to apply social engineering to persuade them to let me out.
As time goes by, I am making it clear, using all kinds of arguments, that I will not leave from there until I can cross into Mali. I have learned the easy way, but also the hard way, that the most important thing in these situations is never to lose patience, never get violent and always, at all costs, maintain a dialogue with humor and on good terms. You have to sustain an unshakable state of calmness when the answer is 'no' again and again because a 'no' in Africa is rarely a resounding 'no' but rather full of nuances. Almost always, the 'no' arises from not knowing or from laziness rather than from some strict law. Therefore, the trick can be described in the most cheesy way possible saying that the key is to find the point where to touch their hearts. I need to put them on my side, I need at least one or more to empathise with my cause and for that, I have an arsenal of arguments.
First, they tell me that I have to go back to Téngrela and see such a person in such an office to get a special permit. This task would involve pedaling 15 km back to find people and permits that I am sure I will not find. After getting requests like these, showing the bike and lamenting for what the entire enterprise would entail is often a surefire card. Almost everyone in Africa empathises with me especially when they see a bicycle as fully loaded as mine, because not even in the wildest of African fantasies do people imagine doing something like traveling like this.
After at least an hour of arguments back and forth, I finally get them to pick up the phone to start making calls. My dad always says “the phone always arrives first”. They don't do it so much for understanding me but because they are tired of listening to me. Of course, we are in Africa and things never flow as one would imagine. The unpredictable is what can actually be predicted, and all the people who should be available in their offices during working hours are not there, nor do they leave a note saying when they will return. Everything takes time, a long time. By trying one and not finding him or her, they try another. When they find that one they tell them that they need to talk to another, but that other is not there and the alternative person refers them to another. From the authorities of Téngrela, they indicate that they need to call a commissioner in Yamoussoukro, who obviously is not there so they get diverted to another. That other says that he cannot authorise the exit, so he suggests that it is best to call some Abidjan office, but when they call it is already noon and the commissioner has gone out for lunch and will be back when destiny allows it. For every call they make, they need to repeat the whole story of the white man on a bicycle trying to cross the border plus a description of all steps taken so far. It is true that the whole day is going by wasting it with this soap opera, but the reality is that since I am not in a hurry, I'm having a lot of fun and I must cut these slackers some slack (pun very intended) for putting so much effort to get me out of the way. Africa never ceases to amaze me.
About five hours later, after 1 pm, the verdict is positive and they decide to stamp my passport. It is important to note that the result has little to do with the precise application of any law and a lot to do with exhaustion and lack of answers, betting that everything will be fine if they let the white dude out of here. After having spent the entire morning at the post, I feel that the police and military personnel posted to this corner of oblivion on the edge of the Sahel and I, will be brothers forever. I celebrate our bond by taking a selfie of all of us smiling together. I say goodbye to this wonderful country and start riding across no man's land.
Ivory Coast in the heart
After Ghana, Ivory Coast turned out to be a balm for the heart. Not because, as I said before, the experience in Ghana would have been bad, but because the one here has been so good. It marked the return to the great moments of sublime African hospitality. The Ivorians were kind to me. Generous and protective. Friendly and simple. Every time I remember this country, I will remember the colours of the markets, the long orange dusty roads and muted bushes stretching around indefinitely, where people walk barefoot and carry huge basins on their heads while having pleasant conversations at the same time. Even more so, I will remember Mohammed with his serene smile wrapping my hand around his and I will feel ticklish for the affection with which that man and his family received me in their village. I also leave knowing that in Konouman, the other Mohammed is waiting for me there with a piece of land and four wives ready for me. They will be some of the most beautiful memories of a country that has little to highlight in the aesthetic sense but a lot in the human sense. I’m leaving carrying the Ivory Coast in my heart.