Articles > Beer and Bamako

If you listen to travel’s good judges they will tell you that immersing yourself in a foreign culture is the essence of travel. And, yes, lingering at a footpath ‘restaurant’ sharing a bench seat and simple table with locals is one way to undress Ho Chi Minh City, while in Nepal a long journey on a perishing bus swollen with passengers affords chance encounters and moments to cherish.

But sometimes on solo travels I have found myself bumbling about a souk or tramping about a park feeling hopelessly lost, muttering to no-one in particular and, in general, hankering for a little company. Someone a little familiar. And never have I hankered more than on arrival in Bamako, capital of Mali.

It was near midnight when the train pulled in to Bamako’s station to end the journey from Dakar. The 1200km ride in the cramped sauna of second class had taken almost 35 hours. While I admit to a certain naivety when it comes to experiencing the affects of the cat-o’- nine tails, any debate about which is the more deleterious, a flogging or the Bamako train, would have me spiritedly championing the train.

The Bamako station was unlit and crowded and I was not prepared for the chaos (In fact I was not prepared for this journey to finish having long resolved it would go on forever). Fortunately one of the companions I had met on the journey, Seydou, slipped his arm through mine and hurried me from the train. Despite my poor French, the lingua franca of hereabouts, something of a bond had formed between me and Seydou and his group of university friends in the crowded compartment. We had exchanged food and bottled water and, in an attempt to keep cool, shared paper fans.

“Otel,” said Seydou and guided me through the station’s throng before bundling us both into a waiting taxi. As we made our way through a part of the city it was clear that few people would ever be moved to describe night-time Bamako as welcoming. The streets were the preserve of litter, dust and occasional groups of men. Pushed for a one word description ‘dangerous’ was a far more appropriate fit. Mischief seemed to lurk on every unlit corner. If there was any joie de vivre in the capital of one of the world’s poorest countries the absence of light kept it well secret.

We stopped out front of a hotel that differed little from the concrete buildings it was sandwiched between. If it had a semblance of a bed, anything flat, and a trickle of water, enough to wash away one of the layers of sweat and dirt, I would consider it wonderful. Seydou rushed inside. “OK, OK,” he said on return indicating, I presumed, that he had found me a room. I shook hands with my guardian, offered some worn notes which were refused and Seydou left in the taxi.

Inside the hotel’s dimly lit foyer a towering man stood at the reception desk. If he was familiar with the concept of cheer it was not apparent. I offered my passport and a smile. “C’est complet (full),” churled the guardian of my bed and cold water without further explanation.

Tired and long bored of sweating, I shuffled back to the furtive street. The chances of it giving up a taxi were as remote as a swimming pool in the nearby Sahara. Fear began its creep accompanied by thoughts so dark it was hard not to think of more pleasant places – like home for instance.

Then on that dark and empty street there was hope. About 200 metres away a single light cast a limp glow over a group of people sitting, al fresco, by the road side. Would they be friendly? Helpful even? I hoped desperately they would be.

Resisting the urge to run I found my way to the light where four men, wonderfully oblivious to the machinations of the night, sat around a table. Beer bottles and glasses spread before them. “Excuse me, do you speak English,” I asked with a good dose of pathetic. “G’day, mate. . . sit down. . . join us for a beer. . . Where you from?” A g’day in Bamako? For a moment it was too surreal to process.

Before planning this trip Bamako was a place I had rarely heard of and, for the most part, is one largely neglected capital. Now, on a street that seemed deserted the only people around were Aussies. The four were London based and travelling overland across Africa. Such was their bonhomie I could not have been more excited had I sashayed across an oasis with lavish tents, chaise lounges and palm frond waving Cleopatra-types who dexterously offered grapes.

My four new and familiar friends offered me a night in their room. The beer they were drinking was cold and, as it turned out, we didn’t have much use for the room. We spoke long into the early morning, sharing West African tales and comparing notes about the trails yet crossed.

Of course, giving yourself over to other worlds is one of the true delights of travel and perhaps my yearning for something familiar is an admission of failure. Perhaps, in some quarters, I am a failed traveller. But, then, what do judges know - amid discovery there will always be a place for g’day and cold beer encounters.

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