By day three we were ready to forge on. We had a scrumdiddilyumptious breakfast at a little restaurant we found the previous night. The food was the best I’d had in a long time, and the service impeccable. To top it off, they served bissap, a popular African drink made from frozen hibiscus flowers. It’s oh so awesome, and oh so good.
With our bellies full, we purchased our tickets for D’Jenne and waited at the bus station. Hours passed, but the bus was nowhere to be found. We had starring contests, took turns with my Kindle, paced back and forth, and watched the clock go tick-tock, ever so slowly.
It was mid-afternoon by the time our number rolled on the lot. Unfortunately, the bus had come from Bamako and was already full. The seats, aisle, cargo area and roof, all filled to the brim. When I inquired about our seats, a man boarded the bus, moved some things around and found two tiny crevasses to squeeze us into.
I couldn’t do it. No way, no how. I looked at the back of the bus and felt my anxiety level rise, as I tried to catch my breath. The bus rides are bad enough on their own, but the thought of enduring it without adequate seating, separated – me surrounded by several large men, drowning in a pool of their sweat, after spending hours waiting in the blistering sun, was just too much to handle. Rich agreed (not that it mattered).
If you know me well, then you know that I have a high tolerance for just about everything, but this is a recently discovered weakness of mine. I would have far rather emptied out my bank account by hiring a taxi than get back on that bus. Sad, but true.
I left Rich with our belongings while I scoured the streets, looking for a place to stay and a reasonable rate to D’Jenne. Most people I talked to wanted somewhere between 70,000-85,000 CFA for the journey, which is ludicrous. After several failed negotiations, I ran into Abraham, the nice young man who offered me a fair rate on his motorbike. I explained my dilemma and he took me to meet his brother, Van, who has a car and driver. He agreed to give me a significantly lower rate, but it was still more than I wanted to pay.
After humming and hawing, we made the deal and decided on 8am the next morning. I would later learn that while the rate I received was probably the lowest I’d find, it was still far too much. It’s just the way of the world, or at least Mali.
Later that night, Abraham and Van stopped by the hotel to pitch their services for Dogon. I listened to their presentation, but still wasn’t ready to pull the trigger. Little did I know, this was just the beginning; guides would soon be hounding us left and right, and with so many options, it’s hard to choose.
