As I leave the Ivorian border post, all of a sudden I need to stop for a couple of minutes to allow my eyes to readjust under the midday sun. It seems as though I’m coming out of a dark room after four days. Some soldiers have also come out to say goodbye to me since, after all, I have spent the last 5 hours with them and we are pretty much like brothers now. As if we hadn’t had enough time, we continue chatting like old women on a suburb corner, while I put my passport back in its place, arrange my things and prepare to get on the saddle. At that moment, a minibus that is just arriving from Mali parks in front of us. As it stops, I can hear the engine agonizing more than the people decompressing after getting off.
This SAVIEM gives me a first notion of the country that I am about to enter. Its state reveals the condition of the roads (or the absence of them) that await ahead of me as much as is a testament to the durability and robustness of French mechanical engineering. Since SAVIEM is a truck and bus brand that ceased to exist in 1978, this model is at best, a minimum of 38 years old. It is an eye-opening fact, because if I did not know that the company began operating in 1955, I would not hesitate to wager all my money that this van-turned-minibus was used to fight in World War II. The bodywork appears to have been massaged by half a century of daily hail. Its bumpers are shaped like a paper we just stretched out after squeezing it with our fists, and its silky smooth wheels wobble from side to side as it rolls. Painted in duck yellow, light blue grill and headlights, green upper luggage rack, red rims and the Malian flag painted on each of its review mirrors, this is a vehicle straight out of a children's cartoon.
As the Ivorian border post fades in the horizon behind me and I move through no-man's-land, I reflect on the fate of my ‘bodywork’. I am not referring to that of my bicycle but to my body. I wonder if it will end up in the equivalent state of that SAVIEM if I continue to pedal around the world in this way. After riding less than 1km, the end of the leveled dirt road snaps me out of the reflective state. I am stopped at the foot of the sandy tracks in between bushes lying in front of me and I smile thinking that this is the reconfirmation of my idea. It is at this point where I sense that I have reached the imaginary boundary line between the two countries. I don't have the GPS to determine it precisely, but sometimes the divisions between countries become clearly visible according to the point in which the quality of the road changes drastically.
I do not hesitate for a second to dive into the sand as I have done so many times before. I do it trying to follow what I suppose are the SAVIEM tracks, but before long, the wheels sink in the sand and I need to get off to push. The problem is that the straps of my sandals are already so torn that the sand enters from all sides until my feet start to burn. I need to get my bike out of here before I start to get blisters so I decide to move through the thorny bushes and loose rocks. For a moment, I look around me and have another strong reminiscence, this time of the odyssey I experienced when crossing the tribal south of Angola through the bush 9 months ago. After 5 km of trails of loose rocks and dry bushes, trying not to stray too far from the tracks of the minibus, I arrive at what looks like a ghost village.
Villages in Africa are always full of life regardless of the harsh climate, but this one seems to be deserted. However, I need to do some inquiry before pushing forward, lest the border post is actually here and I pass it by without stamping my passport. While I look around to make contact with someone, I only see some brave chickens pecking the floor in search of some organism that could perhaps survive under the oppression of the unforgiving sun. I keep pushing my bicycle between huts under the protecting shade of large mango trees until I run into a villager who confirms that the police are indeed only a few meters away. It is difficult for me to understand his broken French but I am guided by his hands pointing to a small adobe house located between two huts behind a well.
Right next to the little house, I see two men lying belly up on hammocks that hang from the wavering wooden beams of a thatched shed. One of them snores like there's no tomorrow. The other one, wards off the flies that buzz in the stiffling mid-afternoon air with one hand, while texting with the other on a mobile phone that disappears in the size of his palm. I see him concentrated on the task of typing on a keyboard that in its entirety is smaller than the phalanx of his thumb. He doesn't seem surprised when I arrive, but he struggles to get on his feet, trying to achieve balance around his belly of epic proportions so as not to fall out of the hammock. Once he manages to stand up, I can hear the wooden beams creak in gratitude as he mutters -"Bonjour Monsieur"- in the voice of someone who is just rising from a slumber that lasted a thousand years.
As I show him my passport from a few feet away, he grabs the sides of his shirt to force the buttons on one side to reach the buttonholes on the other, in a decisive gesture to get into his character of a man of law. When he finally manages to button it, it looks more like a straitjacket than a police shirt. At that moment, he approaches me and takes my passport confirming that this is indeed the immigration office. After examining it at the speed relative to the pace of life in this forsaken corner of oblivion, he leads me inside the house where my pupils need to expand for at least two minutes in order to see something in there. It's the same amount of time it takes him to rummage inside his desk's drawer to pull out a vast collection of stamps. He takes all the time in the world to turn over one by one to see which one is each. When he finds the right one, he proceeds to look around for a pad that still has some wet ink on it. He's out of luck, but at least he has a spare bottle of ink that hasn't evaporated yet. After adding two drops with the clear intention of rationing the reserves as if thousands of people crossed this border every day, he stamps my passport and concludes: ‘Welcome to Mali!’
As soon as we leave the little house, he begins to unbutton his shirt again to free those poor buttons from strangulation and tells me that he has been serving at this end-of-the-world border post for 8 years now. I ask him with a smile if he was sent here for punishment, but he tells me that he doesn't mind because it is near his village where his family lives. When he flops back into the hammock, the beams wail again and I'm afraid the roof will crumble. I think it's time for me to go now. I thank him for his kindness and I apologise for disturbing him at siesta time, although I am certain that in this village every hour of the day is siesta time. Pas de problème! (no problem). I would have liked to say goodbye to his partner but I suspect that he will not harbour any resentment since he continues to snore and never found out about me actually having been here at all.
When I continue pedaling, I am officially in Mali, a country that I have dreamed of visiting for as long as I can remember. Because Mali is one of those countries that beats in the heart of every adventurer. Timbuktu, Djenné, Mopti, Dogon Country are some of the names that transcend in the books of the great explorers of Africa, from Leo Africanus in 1550 to Ryszard Kapuściński during the second half of the 20th century. They conjure up images of neuralgic trade centres in mystical lands along the Sahara connected by ancient trading routes. They are portals to the past that I always wanted to visit, but I have not arrived at the best time. Today, Mali suffers from poverty, terrorism and desertification of its already deserted land. Just three months ago there was a terrorist attack at the Radisson Blu hotel in Bamako. 20 out of the 170 hostages, the vast majority foreigners, were massacred. This situation forces me to avoid the most legendary places in the country and move discreetly throughout the southwest.
On a daily basis, throughout the villages that I pass through, people make me feel absolutely safe. They comfort me with the affection I receive and their friendly looks. You can tell at first glance that their lives are not easy, but life was never and never will be easy in the Sahel anyway. In my opinion, it is what gives them the resilience that allows them to survive carrying those smiles that reflect more peace and serenity than suffering. So every time I arrive in a village, I am immediately surrounded by curious adults and dozens of smiling children in dusty rags. As I continue my journey, they follow me like a trail of water, accompanying me and cheering behind the bike.
Despite being a quiet region, I am surprised by the bustle and traffic in the center of the towns through which I pass. There are no SAVIEMs here, but there are Mercedes-Benzes of identical ages and characteristics: they all seem to have survived several bombings by the Third Reich, but they keep going. The local police have the same spirit as the two officers who opened the doors of the country to me. Every time they see me go down the main road where the station is usually located, they stop me. They always treat me with respect and invite me to go inside so we don't have to tolerate the pressure of the sun on days when the maximum always rises above 40C. They ask me for my passport and they ask me where I come from and where I am going. They write down everything I say and then they let me go. In general, the more unnoticed I pass through a place, the safer I feel, although that is obviously never an easy thing being white on the black continent. However, in the case of Mali, knowing that the police are vigilant and concerned gives me hope that if I am kidnapped, my parents will at least find out someday.
The truth is that I do not fear such a thing at any time, because it is almost impossible for me to think that something like that could happen to me here. I do not feel it out of a false sense of security but because of the personal encounters that I hold in each village that I go through. After mid-morning, I take refuge in them under the shade of the mango trees that line the roads. There are hundreds of them lined up next to one another. They are the blessing of these lands, providing food but also protection from the heat more effectively than the roofs of the huts. My only regret is that I am only a couple of weeks ahead of the season. The trees are already full, but the mangoes are not yet ripe enough to start falling, so I can only take advantage of their shade together with the villagers. Sitting on mats on the floor, we chat during the worst hours of heat. The soft tone and rather slow flow of their words, transmit so much peace to me that they help me slow down. That is the magic that many African countries have and Mali is no exception. One comes vibrating with the exaltation caused by the high levels of adrenaline and reaches these villages where people help to restore internal stability. It is a cycle of resounding ups and downs of energy that results in an average of full harmony.
Alas, there are times when that harmony falls apart. These days I receive news that break my heart. My dear friend Alby, who was one of the most valuable people that this trip has brought to my life last year, died in an accident with his motorcycle. Having known Alby very intimately in the days we spent together in Mozambique and South Africa, it is clear to me that what happened was not an accident but an ending that Alby was looking for. During the following days full of sadness, I decide to camp away from the people, in solitude, under the stars and around the fire that I light every night. There are times when I need company but now I need to be on my own to say farewell to Alby in private.
The trails I go on loosen every screw on my bike but the main road is in even worse condition. That puts extra wear and tear on me, but the reward is the humanity of each remote village I visit as well as the necessary solitude for a time like this. When I reach the junction with the asphalt road that will take me to Bamako, I am emotionally sensitive and my body is exhausted. I realise that it has been 1200 km without taking a single day off, and between the overwhelming heat and the infernal roads to which sadness is now added, what I miss the most is a shower, a comfortable bed, a haircut and a few days off in good company.
