Water was always scarce. Food choices were limited. A 65 litre backpack was enough for my travel. We planned our own route. Cleanliness was relative. I stunk only if others did not. Natural spring water off the ground was source of showers.

Beaches were places where you could naturally pick oysters and muscles to feed yourself.

No one spoke the same language as you did. I was always developing a new way to express and communicate.

Only when you travel you realize that there are uncountable stars and they appear every night.

When you travel you enjoy the one meal of the day you cooked for yourself.

When you travel, you realize the joy of finding a place after being lost for hours.

If you travel, you could meet different people and experience different cultures.

They recognize you by your country. When you travel you have the opportunity to represent your country. You are watched, observed and perceived by your actions. You are now the ambassador of your country.

You have the opportunity to communicate and explain what your country stands for. Because for them, you are the country. The impression you leave with them becomes the impression of your country. No newspaper or news channel can change that.

Only when you travel, you are reinforced the value of money. Earning money is important, but valuing what you earn is even more important.

When you travel alone, you realize how valuable are the important people in your life. It could be your parents, sibling and friends who have accompanied you throughout. Travelling opens doors for new thoughts, accept people, respect their opinions, experience local customs.

Only when you travel, you understand the joy of giving and giving up.

When you travel, you feel the world is much much bigger than you think.

Only when you travel…

- Kunal

Photographs – Team Last Responders

We parked the ambulance in front of the main building, next to the chairs neatly lined up for the press conference. The gathering crowd consisted of doctors, journalists, and people affiliated with the hospital. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that I would be surrounded by Malian journalists explaining the Team Last Responders story.

Salif Keita eventually arrived, as well as our new friends from the ICS. A couple doctors started the conference with introductions in French. Naturally, I had no idea what they were saying. They all seemed pretty eloquent and educated so I’m sure it was well delivered. When we got the signal, Mike and I strode up to the front. Leading up to this moment, I didn’t know if I was going to feel nervous or not. Taking account all that we had experienced getting here, I’d have to say that the feeling of accomplishment and completion trumped any nervousness. Besides, the audience probably didn’t speak English. Any mistake i made would have been corrected by our trusty translator.

I started by introducing our team and from where we came. I pointed out that the Salif Keita Foundation was the only organization that went out of their way to help us find a home for the ambulance. I thanked the organization and all the Africans that helped us along the way. That was pretty much the gist of my 3 minute speech. The conventional belief is that important people in the audience sat in the front like Salif Keita, the doctors, and TV cameras. I found myself looking toward the rear at those familiar Team Last Responders T-shirts we had given out. In my eyes, they represented a lot of what our journey was about. Meeting new people, forging new connections, lending support to new people – plus there were seven pretty girls back there.

I passed the microphone to Mike and he delivered a couple words as well. The microphone was passed around to a couple more important (presumably) people. After all the talking was done, everyone gathered around the ambulance. There I handed the ambulance keys to Mr. Keita. To the sound of loud applause, he in turn delivered the keys to the hospital.

The two drivers who would be taking care of the ambulance drove us back to the Hotel la Plage one last time. I didn’t feel a rush of emotion or anything like that but I knew this was a special moment that would burned into my brain for the rest of my life.

Monday’s challenge was to find the Mali Health Organizing Project field office at the Sikoro district in Bamako. Devon, the Programs Director, told us over the phone that an address wouldn’t be helpful at all. Sikoro isn’t the sort of place with street signs, addresses, or even pavement. It’s a developing neighborhood located in the northern edge of Bamako. Devon gave us instructions that looked like something out of a treasure hunt: “when you see the red gas station, drive 50 ft and take a left after 2 buildings. Drive 300 feet until you see a busy market. It won’t look like it, but there is a road there. Drive up the hill…” Markets and gas stations are pretty common sights here in Bamako, almost as common as the roving bands of goats – I was pretty sure we were going to get lost.

Amita is one of several local Malians who help MHOP do the work on the ground.  Her house sits atop a hill up the road from the office, about 20 minutes away by foot. Never one to miss an opportunity to showcase our ambulance, I suggested taking the ambulance up for the visit. Devon insisted that we walk because the road isn’t very suitable for wheeled vehicles. I was only mildly disappointed. But when I saw the road conditions that we would have been up against, I understood.

After a strenuous trek up the rocky hillside, we arrived at Amita’s house. By western standards, Amita’s house was be pretty run down. But by African standards, the place was awesome. It was spacious, trash free, and constructed using concrete and solid wooden roofing -  sturdier than the flimsy aluminum shacks we came across on our way over.  Amita greeted me with a soft and caring smile, offered a firm handshake, and beamed at me with fierce Africa-tough eyes. This person cared deeply about her community, and worked relentlessly to get the right things done. Devon described Amita as a well respected matriarchal figure for both the community and MHOP itself, on top of that, she raised 14 children behind these walls (WOW). Her relationship with MHOP reached as far back as the founding of the organization and she mentored just about every staff member who has walked through MHOP’s doors. She had been a guiding force behind many of MHOP’s initiatives, most notably the construction of a much needed clinic for the neighborhood. We spent the time talking about the sorts of issues that Sikoro faces and work she did for MHOP. Amita and the MHOP field workers primarily check up on the families enrolled in the MHOP “Action for Health” program and educate them on matters relating to child healthcare. Each worker carries a kit that included a scale, a tape ruler, a thermometer, a notepad, and a stop watch to collect health metrics for children. MHOP tracks these metrics and with the assistant of a resident doctor, would recommend visits to the local clinic. The intention was to catch health problems early and prevent minor issues from escalating into serious problems.

With the ceremony scheduled for Tuesday, we had one last weekend together with the ambulance before the journey home – except Dennis. Earlier in the week, officials assured us that the customs issue would be resolved quickly and the hand over would happen by the end of the week. Dennis gambled that everything would go according to “plan”, so he had booked a flight home for Saturday evening. Sure enough, customs took all week to clear and the official delivery would take place the following week. Dennis was going to miss the ambulance ceremony.

Personally, I was looking forward to spending the weekend unwinding from rally, and getting over a head cold i caught in the Nioro. I was all set to spend the next 48 hours relaxing on a lounge chair by the Bamako Hotel Plage pool, when Mike floated the idea of taking one last road trip to the Segou Music Festival. Apparently the Segou Music Festival was a big deal here. Just about anybody who’s anybody was going to be there, people from around the world reorganize their lives to find ways to checkout this annual event and fate just dropped it on our lap. Mike pointed out that Segou was only 300 km away, and we had an ‘in’ with the headline performer, Salif Keita. All that was nice, but putting the ambulance back on the road and exposing it to more unknown African obstacles made me really nervous.

On February 18, 2012 Dennis Liaw became the second Last Responder to head home from Africa. Although he was going to miss the ceremony and the meeting with the Mali Health Organizing Project, he wasn’t too broken up about it. I can’t blame him. After all that’s happened, it’s tough to not put “returning home” at the top of the priority list. His flight would be stopping in Casablanca and arriving in JFK. We wished each other good luck and parted ways. Dennis was off to the airport. Mike and I hopped in the ambulance and drove toward Segou.

In the end, i convinced myself that even if I wasn’t feeling 100%, this may be my one and only chance to see the festival. Sure there was some risk to the ambulance, but so long as Mike was in the driver’s seat, i could always blame him if something happened. The drive took about 5 hours, 2 hours longer than expected. By the time we had arrived in Segou, the party had already started. In fact, we were catching the tail end of a week long party – “Last Responders” once again. Segou was packed with locals, tourists, and plenty of security. Despite the large volume of people coming and going, they checked each and every person for festival passes before letting them in. I saw one young kid who couldn’t have been more than 15 yrs old get caught trying to sneak in. A soldier grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, pulled him aside, and smacked him in the back of the head.

The festival was divided into two areas. The stage was on a barge anchored along the Niger River. Bleachers and chairs were setup along the bank facing the barge. Behind the wall of seats, the second area featured a giant 100 foot wide screen projecting a live video feed of the stage. The screen faced a row of cafe/restaurants, where patrons could enjoy food and drink during the show. When Mike and I arrived, we tried to make our way toward the stage where Salif and his crew were hanging. We didn’t get very far with that. After about 30 minutes of standing shoulder to shoulder with shouting Malians, we decided to split up. I went off and found myself an open seat way in the rear cafe area. Mike hung around the stadium, searching for a way forward.

Salif Keita took the stage about an hour later. He started his performance with a forceful Bambara speech that fired up the crowd – minus me because i had no idea what was said. Once the band started playing and Salif began singing, the crowd erupted. Every single Malian in the stadium was singing and dancing along. I slumped on my plastic chair and rested my face against my right palm looking like a total party pooper. I sat silently in peaceful contemplation until I was disrupted by the familiar sound of British-English coming from three girls sitting on a bench nearby. The three girls were trying hard to converse with a Malian urologist about the ubiquity of black sauce in Malian cuisine. I knew he was a urologist because earlier he was trying to diagnose the cause of my fatigue. I think he came up with some diagnosis but I didn’t understand much of what he said. If you asked me, I had just caught “Too Much Africa Syndrome”.

Felicity, Jemma and Rachel were working for the UK NGO International Citizen Service. Their project involved helping disable children manage their lives, integrate into local societies and they had a 3 month contract. I was aghast. I made it abundantly clear to them my feelings that 3 months in Africa sounded like the most miserable thing in the world. Here were three young, chipper, upbeat girls on their great African jaunt, and i was raining down on their parade by telling them that I couldn’t stand Africa. I was enthusiastically looking forward to my flight home and i missed my life of running water, fast internet, and ice cream. They all seemed a bit turned off by my negativity. Mike eventually found his way back to my area. He introduced himself as the teammate from Philadelphia and the positive force in the team. All three express their condolences to him in having to deal with a crabby teammate like me for the past nine weeks. At the end of the evening we exchanged numbers and mike promise them we could give them a ride back to Bamako.

The following morning we got a call from Felicity about a ride back to Bamako. It was only proper for us to help fellow English speakers in a foreign land – and of course we wanted to show off our ambulance one last time. Rachel introduced us to Fran, Bridie, and Megan, the other half of the ICS Bamako team. With me on driver duty, Mike had the “difficult” task of entertaining six attractive young girls in the back of the ambulance under our disco ball blasting Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild”. By the time we got back to Bamako, we secured 6 more Facebook ‘likes’ for Last Responders page.

We left Nioro Customs station the morning of February 17. Aside from the poor bird that Dennis ran over, the drive down to Bamako was utterly uneventful. For once, we had a smooth drive, free of mechanical and bureaucratic obstacles. We arrived in Bamako at 2:00 pm. By 3:00 PM the ambulance parked at its new home, the Center for Development of Vaccines.

Several doctors were at the entrance waiting for us when we pulled up to the main building. We gave them a brief tour of the ambulance and they were all utterly impressed with the made-in-USA, Wheeled Coach workmanship.  The doctors invited us into the office for celebratory bottles of cold water and instant espresso. Dr Keita explained to us some of the work they did, including the treatment of leprosy, albinism, and skin cancer. The region that the center covered included Ghana, Burina Faso, and of course Mali. With such a large area, reaching out to remote villages is really tough. We are all hoping that this ambulance will be able to help the doctors deliver care to remote areas more effectively.

Next Monday, the team will be visiting the Mali Health Organizing Project. Tuesday, the ambulance will be handed over in a ceremony attended by officials and of course Salif Keita himself. Each Last Responder will be going their separate ways by Wednesday. This weekend, Team Last Responders would be taking one last road trip out to the Segou Music Festival before saying goodbye to the Timbuktu Challenge.

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For once, the prospect of spending a night at the Nioro customs parking lot did not make me want to stick a needle in my eye. We did have the option to drive through the night to Bamako. That option wasn’t even discussed. The last thing we needed was a midnight collision resulting in a donkey head lodged in our windshield.

When we first drove through Nioro du Sahel, I remember being amazed that even here in the middle of nowhere, the most visible structures at town center were banks – just like New York City. I guess Nioro being a border town, banks recognized it as a prime location for semi-functional ATM’s. The first ATM I visited didn’t work at all. From the second ATM, I requested 100,000 CFA (200 dollars). I received 40,000 CFA (80 dollars). On top of that, it dispensed four barely recognizable bank notes that looked worse than used toilet paper.

Aside from banks, convenience shops can be found in the town center. Some shops offered drinks proudly displayed in well lit, clear glass refrigerators. I was always a sucker for that. Every time I opened up one of those things, I’d reach in expecting an ice cold drink, simultaneously hoping to be blasted by a cloud of cold air. The refrigerators were always broken, the drinks were always luke cool.

We returned to the Nioro town center for one final meal.  As usual, children  carrying shiny tin cans flocked toward us the moment we exited the car. The youngest ones (8-9 yrs old) jumped in front of us and overtly asked for “gateau” or “cadeau”. The older ones (10-12 yrs old) silently hovered. They always met eye contact with sorry looking eyes followed by inaudible whisper for help. The children followed us to mike’s favorite food stall and hung back about 3 meters away.   I felt their eyes on us as we ate.

At the front of the food stall, there is a hook nailed to the wooden post supporting the awning. On that hook, hung a thin crooked metal rod a quarter inch wide. The metal rod was the reason the children hung back from us. I hadn’t noticed it until the children inching closer to us scattered like flies when the assistant cook reached for the rod. One patron, annoyed at the gathering children, also reached out for the stick yielding same effect. Apparently the rod isn’t “staff only”. McDonald’s provides complimentary ketchup, mayo packets, and napkins. Chinese take out joints offer soy sauce and chopsticks. Nioro food stalls provide metal rods to shoo away begging children.

One child managed to grab a plate of left over beans and dump its contents into his can. The child promptly returned the plate on the stack of dirty bowls before getting forcefully shooed away by the assistant cook with the stick. I can’t imagine what would have happened if the child tried to run off with the plate. The other children gathered around him to share the spoils: a mouthful of beans. These kids led hard lives.

Compared to Nioro Hotel Customs, the Bamako Hotel Plage was a completely different planet. Not even the daily trash burning next door changed my opinion that this was absolute paradise. Our rooms had electricity, air conditioning, and hot running water – something I hadn’t seen since Rabat. The hotel offered wifi, a spectacular view of the Niger River and, best of all, Italian food prepared by real Italians. The Salif Keita Foundation had generously prepared these accommodations for us and I must say that I’m really thankful. I’m also glad to report that I took my first modern shower in Africa. That’s right, I hadn’t taken a shower since December 20th, 2011, Tarifa. The black water streaming down the shower drain was pretty impressive.

I had hoped that all the paperwork would get sorted out on Monday as cited on Friday, but deep down I knew it wasn’t going to happen. I have yet to see bureaucracy in Africa get anything done in a timely fashion.  We sat around the hotel Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday waiting for news that we were good to go back to Nioro. It’s amazing how every step forward  seemed to reveal a new arbitrary complication. This was all mind boggling frustrating, but at least we weren’t waiting at Niroro.

Thursday morning we received the shocking news that we were good to go and a car had been prepared for us. After all we’ve been through, good news was hard to swallow. The drive back to Nioro was a completely different experience from the drive down on Feb 10. First of all, the car was a 4×4 Toyota HiLux. Secondly, the car wasn’t held together with rope and rubber cement. Thirdly, the car was equipped with air-conditioning. And finally, everything was prepaid. We didn’t have to wonder whether we were getting ripped off by some insidious coalition of Malian taxi drivers bent on squeezing every last dime out of foreign travellers.  Amazingly, the drive was actually uneventful – no car switching, no break down, no stopping to check up on the car’s engine. Not only that, it took half the amount of time it took to come down. We departed Bamako at 1:30 and arrived at 6:30, a mere 5 hours as compared to 10 hours – amazing.

At 6:30 PM, February 16, 2012, Team Last Responders reunited with the  ambulance at Nioro, stamped customs paper in hand.

The King

The chief is a tall built man with an air of arrogance thicker than Beijing smog. The man struts around the customs office like he’s the man of the hour, and the lord of the manor. He makes everyone at the station wait for his regal arrival at 12:30 pm and demands a tithe from vehicles passing through his fiefdom. In his office you can see all sorts of contraband skimmed from travelers including electronics, cigarettes, and alcohol. The king is sometimes benevolent. Last Friday, as we waited for the taxi, he dropped 10,000 francs into our hat as if we were starving paupers. Even though we probably looked and smelled like the vagrants scrounging around the station, we still called him an ass. We spent the money on pasta and pizza.

The Queen

The queen sits at a desk in the office and pushes paper. When there is electricity, she is either playing solitaire or web browsing. Twice a day she’d get up off her chair and take slow walk to inspect the day’s turnout with an upturned nose. One day, she found me sitting atop of a small broken refrigerator. She pointed to the refrigerator, and she asked in French “Is that a chair?”. I gave her a blank look and shrugged my shoulders. She repeated herself. I have her a blank look. She repeated herself again. Even though I had shamefully forgotten 4 years of high school French, I knew full well wtf she was saying. It was too bad I didn’t speak enough French because I really really wanted to rip a sarcastic remark. I couldn’t believe I was being told to “sit on a proper chair” here of all places. The lady had dubbed herself the enforcer of all things correct and proper here. With the goat shit strewn about the lot and bands of goats rummaging through the trash piled high, she’s doing a great job.

The Jester

Every morning, Ali would mysteriously appear and look for “photo man mike” to say hello and chat. He didn’t seem to be selling anything so I had no idea what it was that he did and why he kept returning to the parking lot. At a glance, he seemed to speak coherent English, but as I conversed with him, I discovered that 90% of his words are mumbled jumbled garble. I found myself asking him to repeat himself, but that never cleared things up. Every time I speak to him I fight hard not to laugh at the strange nonsensical conversation. So far I’ve been able to gather that he wanted me to watch him drive a Jeep in San Francisco. He spoke Japanese, Spanish, Italian and German. He is father of the Jackson 5. Dennis thought that the man suffered from Dementia. I just figured his name was Ali Jackson.

The Villain

This guy speaks very little English. We had already given him a photo cadeau as a gesture of good will earlier in the day. Rather than be appreciative, he insisted that we delete his photo off our camera and print his personal photographs off his usb drive. I was pretty reluctant, but after 20 minutes of his begging and pleading like a baby, I gave in under the condition that he bought our team 3 cans of coke in return. I printed the photographs. When I asked for the cans of coke, he laughed and said it’s coming. For the next couple days, every time I asked, he said the same thing. Later on, he took Mike aside and declared himself to be an evil villain. Neither Mike nor I could decipher what was trying to say. We conjectured that it’s his way of communicating to us he’s a badass gangster thug of some kind and ripping me off for 3 cans of coke made him a tough guy.

Our first day in Bamako. Time to get out and see some of this city we’ve been working so hard to reach. Cities fascinate me, so after having spent so much time in the desert I was looking forward to finding out what this place was all about, since like just about every other place we’d visited I’d had no real preconception of it.

Unfortunately Bamako’s public transit system consists of taxis alone. Instead of a bus system the streets are filled with these old Mercedes vans, many brightly hand painted in green with different designs, windows cut out of the sides, a chain closing the space where the side door used to be, and people spilling out of them. These are Sotramas, taxi vans; and hell if I’m going to be able to navigate the city in one of these without speaking the language. Then there are your regular yellow taxis. Without a meter in them the price is agreed upon up front. None of us being french speakers, Christian set us up with a driver and gave him an itinerary for us. We’d pay him 5000 CFA an hour for how ever many hours we wound up spending. After hitting a bank for some cash we drove past the National Museum on our way up to see the Presidential Palace, but were stopped at the top of the hill. We were not allowed to go any further. This is the only evidence of the recent unrest that we’ve seen or heard of. Going back down the hill we stopped at the National Museum and Botanical Gardens this time and did the most touristy thing we’ve done in the past two months. We went up to a kiosk and bought tickets to enter the Gardens and the Museum. I had to laugh; it seemed very out of place on this trip.

The Botanical Gardens basically make up a beautiful public park. Literally as soon as we stepped past the ticket collector some guy was on us, asking us where we’re from, trying to play tour guide. He’d been hanging out just inside the entrance, blatantly waiting for a few tourists just like us to enter. No sooner did I enter the park than I was aggravated. I just want to walk around a damn park; I don’t need someone to tell me which direction to meander in, and everything that’s in the pamphlet that I just got at the door. Yes, I can see that’s the tea house. Yes, I know the museum is over to the right. So after making the usual small talk I politely told him we’d just like to relax and wander around the park. But he just kept walking with us. I felt like I was stuck on a track, being pushed along, so I suggested we all split up and just meet back at the museum later. Stephen said he was going to go sit in the cafe and enjoy coffee and wifi, and as Dennis and I walked on this guy was still with us. What got me was he showed us where the path was that goes high up the hill, Point G it’s called, where you can get a panoramic view of the city, which is what I was hoping for. So I lightened up and followed him. It was a bit of a hike, and we’d essentially left the park, but we got the view, I took some photos, and the guy said we could keep walking and come down the other side, closer to the museum, which is where we wanted to end up. So ok, we follow.

As we’re walking he wants to know do we smoke, do we like beer, do we like women. He says he’s a musician, and he can show us where we can see some good live music tonight. He’ll give us his phone number and we can call him and he’ll come to our hotel on his motorbike and lead our taxi to the venue.

I’d considered the possibility of him robbing us once I realized we were isolated outside the park, but these kinda guys are more scammers than literal thieves. He said he didn’t want money as compensation, he just wanted a Coke. But as we walked around this hill we weren’t descending, we were only getting further away from the park. And then my camera battery died and I’d forgotten to carry a spare, so I was really in a foul mood. Dennis was happy as a clam, telling him all about our trip, and the ambulance, and Dakhla. I was looking down at the fantastic view of this crazy market we were heading towards and wishing my camera worked. His agenda obviously included taking us to this market, and eventually we walked far enough that I remarked that we’d have to take a taxi to get back to the museum. And this guys says, “Oh, you’re tourists, you have plenty of time!” So I explained to him that we did not; that we were paying for a car that was sitting outside the museum waiting for us; that our friend was there waiting for us as well. This was no leisurely stroll either. We were hiking in 90 degree heat, high above the city.

Finally we start descending, and we’re dropping straight into this gritty open air market. A woman balancing a giant bowl of some cargo on her head ascends the hill past us, now just steep rocks. We’re passing massive piles of trash, piles of plastic bottles, people busily toiling away amongst filth. We get to the bottom and everything is covered in a greasy blackness. A deep trench gutter runs between the roadway and the ramshackle stalls, and it’s filled with all manner of refuse. Wooden planks bridge the gap between the stalls and the road. The rear one third of a car body serves as an ottoman for one shop proprietor.

Our guide is now pointing to restaurant that has real authentic food, it’s very good he says, and he suggests if we’re hungry we can go there now. Again I explain to him why we can’t. I offer to buy him his soda now, only the soda he requested has now become a beer, and you can’t find one here. But he tells me things are cheap here, and if I want a water or something it will cost a lot more at the museum, which of course is true of any museum. I was dead thirsty by now, so I said ok, show me. He leads us to a stall and indeed a liter of water is only 400 CFA. And it’s cold too.

It had long since become clear to our guide that I was not keen on the tour, but he’d become extra buddy-buddy with Dennis by the time we finally began the long trek back to the museum. The road that takes us there runs behind the stadium, and on one side you have the trash trench gutter, and on the other a long row of empty abandoned market stalls, some literally filled to the top with garbage. Once we get to the park entrance he has to explain to the guards how he took us out and all the way around so we can get back in. He acts like he’s cool with all of them and leads us right past them, but one of them follows us in to examine our torn tickets. You could tell they’re not down with this but obviously we don’t know any better, we’re tourists.

So ok, now let’s get this guy his beer and be done with him. We start to head toward the cafe to get Stephen and I say we’ll get him his beer there. But I realize there’s no reason both of us has to go. I told Dennis I’m gonna go ahead to the museum to save time while he takes care of this guy and gets Stephen at the cafe. Nonsensically this guy suggests that I give him the money for the beer and Dennis can give me my change later. I said, “Dennis, you can take care of it, right?” He says sure, and I trot off to the museum.

It was now nearly a quarter to five and I was worried that the museum would close soon. Fortunately it was open until six. Inside there are three exhibits: archaeological, fabrics, and masks and carvings. Sadly, a fourth exhibit of photography is closed. I was perusing the Dogon masks when my former guide appeared beside me. There was a problem. The cafe can’t make change, so he needs 5000 CFA from me and afterward he’ll give me the change, or some such bullshit, and he was talking fast like this was very urgent you know because the guard let him in to find me and Dennis obviously was still at the cafe.

I was fuming. The balls on this guy. Stonily I said, “You’re telling me the cafe can’t make change?”

He confirmed, and repeated his story with the same urgency. I turned and walked past him, heading toward the exit. He says, “Wait, where are you going?”

I said, “I’m going to the cafe, we can settle it there.”

“No no no no no!” he says, “Stay here, enjoy the museum!”

“It’s no problem, it’s not far,” I said, “we’ll settle it there.”

But no, now he’s adamant that I stay at the museum, don’t worry about it!

I imagined that Dennis was with Stephen waiting for this guy to come back, and that he was gonna pull some similar shit with them, but let them handle it. I was sick of this asshole. So I went back into the museum and tried to relax.

After a while Stephen walks in and I tell him the story. He says he didn’t see the guy and he doesn’t know where Dennis is. That was strange, I thought. But we took our time and made our way through all of the exhibits before setting off to find Dennis. By now we were going on four hours with the taxi. We looked out front for him, and checked the cafe. While in there I tried to by a Fanta, but they couldn’t change a five thousand. Made me actually wonder if maybe the guy wasn’t lying after all.

I figured if Dennis wasn’t at the museum he must’ve let this dude drag him someplace else. We were heading back there to check when he came running over from across the grass. I told him how the guy came looking for me in the museum for money and that I thought he was lying to me, and Dennis was able to confirm it.

“How much did he get offa ya?” I said.

“Twenty-five,” he says.

He started to offer an explanation, and I said, “Wait, do you mean twenty-five thousand?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Twenty-five thousand?!” Stephen says. “You gave him fifty dollars?!”

Well you can imagine Dennis felt pretty bad about the whole thing. He’d gone against his instincts and placed cash into a stranger’s hand for nothing. We tried not to push the subject, but neither of us could imagine handing over that kind of money to someone, especially since you would’ve had to do it at least three times to equal that amount.

We hopped into our taxi and headed off to our next stop for a late lunch at a Lebanese owned patisserie/restaurant aptly titled “Le Relax”, that appeared to be popular with other out-of-towners. Dennis tried to write off the fifty dollars as a pricey learning experience, and we all reflected on how far we’ve come. Getting lost in London seems like ages ago, and we’ve weathered much to get here. It’s a lot to take in, and it’s not easy to put it all into perspective, but one thing that was key still rings true; You have to take things as they come, one step at a time.

Thursday ended with the promise that the authorization phone call from Bamako to the Nioro customs post was imminent and would happen first thing Friday morning. I woke at the crack of dawn to wait for the customs office to receive the call. Watching the office, I discovered that the doors opened at 7:00. Travellers and office workers began the trickle in at 9:00. I didn’t realize this before, but nothing started without the chief. He arrived at 12:30 pm. “Friday morning’s” didn’t actually exist at the Nioro customs office.

At 1:30PM, our charity contact in America called to warn us about the looming possibility that the phone call from the Bamako official may not come by end of day. Cumba didn’t have that much visibility into the situation from Washington DC, but she pointed out that Saturday and Sunday were off days. If the call didn’t happen by 5PM, there wouldn’t be any movement until Monday. Cumba suggested finding transportation to Bamako and spending the weekend with the foundation.  Facing the prospect of another 3 mind numbing nights at the parking lot, we called a car service to take us to Bamako.

The price quote for the taxi was 100,000 Francs (200 dollars). The rate seemed high but they dangled an assurance that we would be the only 3 passengers in the car. Having seen how Mauritanians packed into a cars, we unanimously agreed that spending five hours in a car like tinned sardines should be avoided at any cost.

At 4:30, a 30 year old, rickety Renault came sputtered into the parking lot. It reeked of car exhaust, and looked like it’s been through hell. On our way out, the man who brokered the taxi service told us that the driver had been told not to allow extra passengers into the car. With a giant grin on his face, he shook our hands and waved us goodbye. He was either wishing us good journey, or thinking to himself “There goes a bunch of suckers.

I had hoped for an uneventful, 5 hour journey to Bamako. I figured taxi services all around the world operated on the same principle. I hire a car and they take me to my destination – simple. Not only did the journey unfold into a huge headache, it was 10 hours long, and our assurance evaporated in a poof. 60 km in, the transmission started to slip out (we’re very familiar with that sensation now). The driver pulled over to inspected the car’s underside. He came back up and explained to us using a lot of hand gesturing that something was broken and we’d have to stop at the next city. So much for an uneventful drive to Bamako. He coasted the car to Diema, and stopped among a crowd of cars parked along the side of the road. There, he unloaded our bags, found us another car, and sped off.

The second car was in pretty sorry shape too. Once again, the car reeked of nauseating car exhaust. The windshield was cracked, and the door was broken. The driver stopped the car every hour to pop up the hood and check the engine. Every now and then he’d open his bottle of motor oil and fill up.  The first car driver neglected to mention our agreement to be the only 3 passengers in the car. Mike and Dennis spent the next 8 hours crammed in the back with an extra passenger in complete misery.

The drive down to Bamako demonstrated to me why night driving in Africa was highly discouraged. The hazards we encountered included speed bumps, pot holes, and road kill. I watched our driver evade donkey carts, animals, and broken down trucks in pitch black darkness, on a one lane highway, without the aid of lamps or signs. With the constant high beam from incoming cars one lane over, the driver was basically blind half the time. Night driving on an African highway for the inexperienced is suicide.

We reached the city limits of Bamako at 1:30. The second driver didn’t want to drive into city center so he off loaded us into a third taxi parked at the top of a slope. Once we loaded in, he released the parking brake to give the car a rolling start before starting the engine. I didn’t get a good look at the car in the dark, but I’m sure it was also a prize .

At 2:00 AM, 50 meters from the hotel, our cab was suddenly forced to stop by a motor scooter and a Toyota HiLux loaded with armed men dressed in black. The whole thing happened so fast that Mike and Dennis thought it was a robbery. Half sleep, I was completely oblivious. All I saw was a skinny, dopey looking kid about 15 yrs old, knocking on a passenger side window asking for my passport in basic English – it was the army. The whole incident was pretty ridiculous.

Welcome to Bamako.