Transport

                Okay, I’m currently in Ouaga for a GAD meeting (Gender and Development volunteer committee, of which I am now Co-Chair/VP), and I’ve got a computer and basic Internet connection, so I’m going to try to throw a blog up.  I figure a good topic could be transportation here in Burkina.  This thought was triggered by my encounter Thursday night, during which I experienced my most epic bus-boarding while in country:

                I gave an exam to my students in the afternoon but didn’t want to take the night bus into the city, so I bumped up the testing times and left myself about a 20 minute window to rush home, grab a few necessities, and head to the bus station.  This meant that I ended up leaving my house about 5 minutes before the bus’s departure time, but I only live about a 3 minute bike ride from the station, and transportation here is always, always late.  So, I figured no problem.  However, as I was heading up the incline towards the bus station I saw the giant STAF bus paused in the station like a horse in the gate, waiting for the gun.  My site is home to a fairly large bus station, or gare, but the easiest way to know where a bus is going is by which direction it’s pointing in.  There is only one paved road going between Ouagadougou and Ouahigouya, a large city just north of Yako, so if the bus is heading south, you know where it’s going, and vice versa.  All told, I knew this was my bus. 

                I sped up to the door and hopped off, sweat trickling past my ears.  “Ouaga?” they asked.  “Yep, but not with the bike,” I replied.  Some of the bigger stations have guys who will watch your bike or moto while you’re gone, but you have to pay.  He was off halfway across the station lounging in a chair, so one of the bus workers started whistling and yelling to grab his attention while I yanked my bag off the back.  The bus, in the meantime, had started moving, so another onlooker banged on the side a few times to let them know that they weren’t quite finished boarding.  Just as I thought I’d have to leave my bike and hope for the best, someone shoved a bike ticket in my face (meaning the guard must have sprinted over from his post) and I hopped on.  This entire interaction took place over the course of about a minute and a half.  I then got to lounge on the bus for an hour and a half, shoved shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh with my neighbor and sweating like I was in menopause, until we reached Ouaga where, upon entering the bus station, we actually wedged ourselves against another bus that was leaving, and had to sit tight while the driver slammed on the gas and forcibly (and audibly) removed it from our side. 

On the plus side, I got to learn a bit about traditional Chinese and Indian medicine during my sojourn.  Oftentimes, buses are used as marketing platforms here in Burkina (and in West Africa in general).  For instance, on a bus ride down to Bobo, Leigh and I got to listen to a local man spouting the benefits of another medicine he was promoting, and in Ghana I sat on a bus where a man conducted an awareness raising campaign that involved waiving a wooden penis wildly to and fro.  This time was much more subdued, since my promoter forgo the usual lecturing and shouting that accompanies the production pitch and opted instead for a congenial “hey, how are ya?” while he handed out candies and a short strip of paper discussing the medicinal benefits of his products.  Unfortunately, I decided halfway through my reading that I wouldn’t be investing in any of Mr. Shoo’s merchandise because I honestly don’t believe that the same product can prevent both malaria and premature ejaculation (do they even share any overlapping triggers?  I can’t imagine so.). 

Hmm, what else about transportation here?  I suppose there’s really no end to what I could discuss, given that it’s all so different from what you see at home.  For starters, there are no traffic rules.  Well, there are, but really there aren’t.  They have street lights, but it is always a question of whether they will actually be followed (and the answer is usually no unless the cross street has a formidable amount of cars lined up in it).  Cars and motos are plentiful in the capital, but outside the preferred form of transportation is the moto, accompanied by bush taxis and buses that are ferrying travelers.  Speed has no specified limit but is determined by the driver’s comfort level, which results in being stuck behind motos that I can bike past and being overrun by those whose tailwind nearly knocks me over.  Accidents, as you can guess, are plentiful, and when they happen they rarely involve only two people.  That’s because people load people, animals, and goods onto transport until there rests literally no room for movement, and then they add a bit more.  It’s very common to see bush taxis careening through traffic with an overhead capacity comprised of leaking foodstuffs, furniture tied on at rakish angles, and screaming livestock, whose overall square footage rivals that of the actual vehicle on which it rests.  At the larger bus stations in Ouaga, buses sit awaiting their charges with labels across their fronts, such as “Ouaga-Kaya,” which presumably tell you where the bus is headed.  Beware: this is a lie.  In fact, that bus could be headed anywhere, so you better check with a station worker to find out its true destination.  And forget about getting on it.  There are no such things as lines here, so even if you have a reservation, once the bus opens its doors half the bus station swarms them pushing, jostling, and generally trying to displace one another to gain a foot.  When your name is called, you better yell out your presence, and even then it’s a fight to the front.  God forbid you don’t have a reservation during prime travel time!  The reason for the crowding is that once all the reservations have been read through, the workers will allow others that are waiting to get on until the bus is full.  In an otherwise polite culture, the transportation system is one of the only lasting safe havens for assholes.

Regardless of what you may think, the system works.  It’s frustrating and seems to lack any system of rules or regulations, but in the end they’ll usually get you where you’re going – even if it takes all day.  There is a method to the madness!  But it is probably one of the most frustrating aspects of living here.

I could go on and on about travel here, but it seems a bit overwhelming to cover all the aspects in one entry.  What if I miss something!  I’ve also realized that, after living here for nearly 8 months, aspects of the culture and lifestyle that at one point would have seemed incredibly different or shocking or confusing have become normal.  So, as much as I love all of your encouraging comments (you can still send those!), I have a request: write to me about what you want to know!  What facets of the culture are you curious about?  Are there things you do at home that you wonder if and how they are done here?  Rumors or stories you’ve heard that you would like clarification on?  As much as this blog exists to tell my stories and experiences, it is equally here as an outlet for me to share this culture with all of you, so let me know what you want to hear about.  And thank you for all of your words of support and kindness – trust me, they are much appreciated.  Here’s looking forward to your ideas…cheers!