We’re in the heart of Africa. At the southern edge of the Sahara. Burkina Faso. Ouagadougou… as the locals fondly call it; Ouaga (as in Wagga).
0545 hrs on a Sunday morning, October 2016. Shall we get straight to the run? My guide & chauffeur this morning… 'C’est Paul'. Quick intros, in French, with Paul, confirms language will be a barrier. Merde, “Allons y...”
A storyline is far more romantic with a motorbike, or perhaps a submarine in the plot. Burkina is landlocked and OK this isn't a Harley, but it'll do the job. Remember, you are on this bike with me...
We splutter eastwards into the rising sun. My 'plan', such as it is; is a quick tour of Ouaga, then drop me (us) 4 or 5 miles away, and we'll jog back and take brekkie together in the 'Laisse Faire' Hotel (official name - Laico Hotel). This is my (our) third morning in former Upper Volta.
‘C’est Paul’ senses my foreboding, we potter along at a sedentary and constant 18 mph. To paraphrase Robert Shaw, 'we need a bigger bike'. I take a few photos of nothing, mostly Paul’s right ear. We ride for about 40 mins. Gradually, more motorbikes and bicycles join us, together with a sprinkling of mostly battered old automobiles. The temperature’s already a solid 24c. Paul glances intermittently over his right shoulder for guidance, a plan perhaps. Paul, we only need a start point, “Tout droit Monsieur…”
We're now near the airport and downtown and the Splendid Hotel. In January Islamist lunatics attacked this particular hotel, it was a Friday night. They also hit the well-known Cappuccino bar/restaurant over the road. 28 innocent souls were murdered, including 6 Canadians. I dwell briefly on the madness… completely senseless… “Tout droit Monsieur…”
I ask Paul to head to the Monument des Martyrs. Some might think, monstrosity. Some might say, futuristic. I say a feature picked randomly off the map about 4 miles from the hotel. I tap Paul on the shoulder…
“Monsieur…. la, la-bas… c’est bon.” Paul wants me to stay with him. He wants to deliver me safely back to the 'Lassiez Faire'. He didn't sign up for this.
I assure him, “Paul, c’est tout bon.” He reluctantly pulls our blue steed over; he looks fascinated as I stretch half-heartedly. The scene, a dusty roadside in Ouaga, at 0625 hrs on a Sunday morning is probably surreal to most passersby. I want to say to Paul, as a sign-off, "Quand le seagulls follow le bateau..."
Instead... "Paul, pour le diesel, merci beaucoup, mon ami. Vous sont un grand chauffeur." He smiles broadly, we shake hands… and, as quick as I can say ‘au revoir’, he’s spluttered off.
I wave rather lamely, looking ahead up the long straight and unwinding road. I begin jogging, I’m hoping, 30 to 40 mins back to the hotel. The streets are wide, flat, well maintained and mostly traffic free and safe. Some detail on Burkina Faso (which means 'land of upright/honest people') to pass the time?
Well, Burkina is a similar size to the UK, but with only a quarter of the population. The main export is gold, followed by cotton. 2 million folks live in Ouaga. Most folk in Burkina scratch a living from subsistence farming.
A former French colony, independence came in 1960. Renamed Burkina Faso in 1984. A poor country even by West African standards; military coups and droughts quickly became a recurring theme. Longstanding President Compaore was finally ousted, after 29 years, in a popular uprising in 2014. Since then things have been ‘fluid’. An attempted coup d’etat in 2015; followed, reportedly, by another in October 2016, as I’m putting this post together.
Back on the road. 20 mins done, about 20 to go. Get the flags out. In the words of Bon Jovi… ‘Whoa, we’re halfway there…’
Speaking of security... I checked into the hotel 2 days ago. I dumped my bag on the bed and began to wander. I wanted to be familiar in the event something went bang in the night, or we caught fire. As my old Drill Sergeant used to say; ‘never rely on the cavalry, they're always late’. I think you could probably include the Burkina Faso Fire Brigade.
We're arriving back into the Ouaga 2000 district. I suspect the Knightsbridge of Ouaga. I can see the Laico Hotel through the heat haze, also known as ‘The Libya Hotel’, apparently built by Gaddafi. Next door is a modern shopping centre which is largely empty. Seems out of place with the rest of Ouaga. As I close in on the hotel; whoa… there’s Paul, perched serenely astride his bike under a large Acacia tree, like a giraffe watching the rest of the zoo flood; he gives me a hearty thumbs-up and a massive smile. I feel instantly warm inside and run over, and high five him enthusiastically and kiss him on both cheeks…
The heat’s got to me. Paul’s not there (so much for loyalty); anyway, probably would’ve been an Anglo-Saxon type wave at best… went all Hollywood for a moment…
Several days earlier…
I ask Ravik, my regular travel agent in Freetown, “Are these fellows reliable?”
Ravik laughs, not feeling my concern. Glancing at his laptop, “Over the past 15 days they've been on schedule, no delays.”
“Ravik, I’m thinking more maintenance of altitude, that sort of thing.”
I have a relaxed approach to airline safety, especially when you roll the dice. But, this upcoming sortie was quickening the pulse. I mean... and I've flown; Air Maroc, Air Niugini, Air Algerie, even Air France... now it’s time for... er... Air Burkina...
How did it go?
Well, the navigator distributed goggles, Red Cross parcels, even brown leather skull caps, ahead of the props being turned. My glasses misted up at one point. But, come on, we’re flying at 500 feet, sh*t happens. Any minor grumbles were quickly offset by the in-flight entertainment. The wing walker, Mahmoud from Khartoum, was just outstanding. Fortunately, his straps held firm even as we diverted to spray crops on the outskirts of Ouagadougou, close to our final approach…
Air Burkina, only joking. I’d fly you again tomorrow. Just as well, as I am heading to Mali, for the next leg of this road trip… tomorrow…
Reading back and editing and editing and editing the above, perhaps Ouaga’s not coming out so well? Yes, it's basic. Yes, it's dirt poor. However, the people? People make any country? The Burkinabe are among the friendliest I’ve met on my travels. One of the most fascinating places I've visited in Africa.
It's entirely different to the rest of West Africa. The West Africa I’ve lived in for 5 years. No-one bothers you here. There are no ‘entrepreneurs’ outside the hotel. The people seem to have a particular pride and humility.
People obey rules. There's order. In broader West Africa rules and laws are for everyone else. For instance, at traffic junctions here, everyone follows the signals. Where there're no lights, there's a fellow with a fluorescent bib and a red flag and a green flag and a whistle. 75% of the traffic appears to be motorbikes and pedal cycles; there’s a whiff of Vietnam, perhaps of communism, almost. At a junction there may be 200 bikes; when the green flag is lowered, the whistle sounded, off they go. Back in Freetown, there isn't a single set of working traffic lights. OK, there is a comedy set on Pedemba Rd, but they’re not plugged into anything. Divas, what can I say…
As I warm down and think about brekkie and noting it’s not yet 0730 hrs, I’m liking Ouaga. Maybe road warriors are reading this, and I guess I’m a road warrior myself, albeit West African style. From this perspective it’s different; the worst Internet I've experienced in 15 years. If you covet a good budget hotel, Netflix, iPlayer, browsing the Internet, email, WhatsApp, Skype, a decent cup of coffee, tasty chow, as part of your travel requirements… forget it. The pleasures are more straightforward; a book, a kindle, a podcast...
But, come on, when in life can you sleep in a city called Ouaga; a second city called Bobo… an episode of the Flintstones perhaps? Tomorrow, it’s onwards to Bamako. Air Burkina awaits...
After Mali, Khartoum. Khartoum is Casablanca without the heroes. My first job was in Sudan after leaving the military.
Feels these days I’m heading everywhere but Timbuktu. See you in Mali...
P.S. When one is running in Quaga, keep your eyes open and don't fall in any storm ditches...
The opening line is always the most difficult to write. Two possibilities.
“Now is the Winter of our Discontent / Made glorious Summerby this son of York…”
Alternatively, and my choice, “Mama Mia, here we go again…”
Sweden has thousands of coastal islands and inland lakes, along with vast forests and glaciated mountains. Stockholm spreads across 14 islands. It has more than 50 bridges, as well as the medieval Gamla Stan (Old Town).
Moreover, an exceptional guest runner this morning. Let me introduce her. Please meet Fernando. “C’est voulez-vous, and you have, er… adorable shoes Fernando…”
No snooze cycles. 0531 hrs. 13 degrees. The first day of September. The year 2016. Winter is coming.
“Good morning Fernando, you look bright and breezy this early hour.”
“Fernando, a name I’m not familiar with?”
Fernando laughs, “It’s not my real name, you said to use a codename, remember? You said link it to Abba.”
“Whoa, don’t let the readers know I've scripted this. I’m happy you’re my Stockholm Guide this morning...”
“Mark, we discussed all this yesterday. The sound, can you hear it. The music?”
“I can… what about you, can you hear the drums, Fernando."
Fernando smiles, “Haha… come on, let’s run…”
We’re planning for an hour this morning. ‘Fernando’ is from Helsinki but has lived here six years. She proposes a real smorgasbord, “Gamla Stan and then east to Djurgarden?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“What would you like to see, Mark?”
“Fernando, for me, culture all the way please.”
“Good, I have some treats… the Vasa museum, Sweden’s most famous ship from the 17th century. Sank 15 minutes into its maiden voyage. They say the Titanic of its day. Laid at the bottom of the Baltic Sea for 300 years. Now lovingly restored.”
I nod, “Um, OK.”
“The Royal Palace, see over there?”
“Also, Parliament perhaps, again over there in Gamla Stan?”
I nod, “OK.”
“We'll see the Skansen museum featuring 500 years of Swedish and Scandinavian history?”
I nod again, “Interesting.”
“You must know of the famous author, Astrid Lindgren, one of the most famous children’s authors in the world. She wrote of Pippi Longstocking. She sold millions of books all over the world.”
I half nod this time, “Um, vaguely…”
Fernando is on a roll, “What about the Alfred Nobel Museum, who funded and began the Nobel prizes?”
I nod, “Top fellow.”
Fernando sighs, “Of course, and I suppose… there’s always, the Abba Museum…”
“That's more like it, come on, let’s go…”
Joking aside, Stockholm is beautiful. Lakes, paths, forests, history, islands, boats, trams, bridges, the water; has everything and more, stunning.
Following a quick stretch, it’s north, a short distance, into Gamla Stan. We run past and around the Royal Palace, Parliament and the historic streets.
We head back south. Fernando is sprightly and enthusiastic, “You know of the ‘Stockholm Syndrome?”
“I have a good ikea,” I reply, “It’s when everything costs a fortune and the price of watery beer beggars belief.”
Fernando ignores me; we deviate over to the square where forty-three years ago the term was first coined at the end of a bank siege. Four workers were taken hostage after a messy robbery. Six days later when the stand-off ended, the victims had formed some positive relationship with their captors.
We run south-east along a cobbled street with commuter boats, to serve the islands, on our right; to our left some expensive real estate. Oh, and a pink truck with a gorilla heading to Rwanda.
Over the bridge into the park village, a village within a city. A blue tram crosses towards us. Fernando tells me autumn is here and how she loves the sound of leaves beneath the wheels of a tram. We reflect on the first day of Sept being symbolic in this part of the world. Was another summer gone?
“Do you watch Game of Thrones, Mark?”
Fernando hasn’t stopped talking since we began stretching 30 mins ago.
“I’ve heard of it.”
Fernando informs me, ‘Winter is Coming’, was the title of first episode/series. The motto of the ‘House of Stark’. People in the north always strive to be prepared for the coming of winter. As a metaphor, make the best of the good times (summer) the bad times will come around (winter), and we must be ready.
The pace remains healthy as we pass, in close succession, the Skansen Museum...
… the masts of the ill-fated Vasa rise through the trees and the roof of the building housing it.
Fernando is patient and jogs on the spot while I take the snaps. A bright red Viking ferry comes into port as we discuss famous Swedes born in Stockholm. I need three. I settle on… Alfred Nobel, Ingrid Bergman and Benny from Abba. Then...
… bang... THERE IT IS; it emerges nearly 40 mins into the run. No words are necessary.
We run along the water, all of which runs into the Baltic Sea. A magnificent sunrise rises above the park… I reflect on how much I’m liking Sweden. A world leader in many areas. Given the population is only 10 million?
The best place to grow old. Third best country to be a mother. Second best country for youths. An unsurpassed record of success in the Eurovision Song Contest. The fifth happiest country in the world. One of the first countries to ban smacking children. Three years off for maternity/paternity leave. Some say the best healthcare in the world. Environmentally advanced. The shortest working days in Europe, outside of the naturally idle southern Europeans (& France). They seem to start work about nine-ish, and finish about three-ish, earlier if they've a boat to catch to the islands; and Fridays, well, anything goes. Ten week’s annual holiday, the list goes on.
OK, some 'facts' might be tongue in cheek… I mean France isn’t completely idle for starters. So, how do the Swedes pay for all this? What’s the secret? Must be more to it than just tax and prohibitively expensive alcohol?
I think, and to their credit, have they figured out the work/life balance thing? Perhaps they work to live; maybe they’re less materialistic and utterly happy with their lot?
We leave the village and start the push back to the hotel. We complete the run in under an hour. Fernando seems as fresh as a daisy and still chatting away. Brekkie time with a local treat - cinnamon buns. Put good coffee and these buns together, magic.
In Sweden one only works four hours a day, meaning plenty of time for navel-gazing. I'm a method writer; so I sit around for 10 minutes reflecting on work/life balance. Instead, my mind wanders over to West Africa. I'll soon be back at the other end of the economic scale following this little jaunt…
There's a saying in Freetown, ‘lack of money means a lack of friends; that if you have money at your disposal, every dog and goat will claim to be related to you’. I’ll be flat broke by the time I arrive back… I'll miss the goat.
Fernando, you’ve been special, a real pleasure, the best guest runner ever.
My number one city run is now Stockholm. An enjoyable experience. I recommend visiting if you've never been.