Togo or not Togo?

Surprise!  I’m in Togo!  Betcha didn’t see that one coming!

Well, neither did I, really.  I’m looking back on these last two months wondering what the hell happened.  I am supposed to be writing you from the heart of Congolese Rebel country, or somewhere similarly hard-core-sounding, but in the end, West Africa refused to let me go.   I’m here to tell you that kidnapping is a real threat in Mali, but it’s not Al Qaeda, like everyone thinks.  It’s just Mali, itself.

I arrived back to Bamako, saw my friends off at the airport and settled in at a little Auberge to see what would happen.   Hmmm, ok.  Not much happened.  So I rang up Miguel, the captain of the famed flight to Timbuktu, who immediately offered me a room in his apartment, which he shares with another pilot, Nabil from Italy.  So, as I had been lodging in what could be aptly described as the Far Rockaway of Bamako, I happily accepted his offer to take a room in Niyarela, close to the action.  It was a big place with no running water from morning till night, but we had air conditioning and a nice little man named Gilbert who cooks chicken that could (no joke) rival Marlowe & Sons, and does laundry better than anyone (sorry Dad, this guy is amazing).

After a while, I reestablished contact with some folks from the festival and things started to get exciting again.  I spent most of my nights in Mali running around with my friends Mohamed, Moribo, Mohamed, Mohamed, Abdoulaye and Mohamed.  Many Castles and Flags were drunk, many brochettes and plates of riz gras were eaten, dancing was done, motos were ridden and much fun was had.  It’s safe to say that Mali - and more so, Malians - have stolen a little part of my heart.  

But now, it’s time to bid a fond farewell…  So, goodbye, Mali, to your desert dunes, your sleepy river villages, your dusty, tree-lined city streets, your Tuareg camel drivers, your Bambaran chain-smoking alcoholics, your couscous, gounday and Timbuktu Secret Sauce, your Castles (grande et petite), your music (OH your music!), your art, your style, and most of all your people.   I will see you again, Inshallah, and not in the too-distant future. 

And now, my friends, it’s time to head south.  And I do mean SOUTH, about as far south as one can get on this great dark mysterious continent, to South Africa, where the children are laughing, the birds are singing, the impala are lowing and the soil is so furtile you can grow oysters and chardonnay right in your own back yard… South Africa has always held a special place in my heart, thanks to the generosity and enthusiasm of my “grand-frère”, Pieter and his family.  I can’t wait to see them, in just a few days.

But first I have to get there, which brings me to why in the world I’m in Togo!?  The plan was to travel by land from Bamako, through Burkina Faso and down through Ghana, arriving conveniently the day before my flight, which departs from Accra on Thursday.  But as earlier illustrated, Bamako hypnotised me, and I forgot to leave.  So instead of flying to Accra, which cost a mint, I booked a flight into Lome, the Togolese capital, conveniently located on the border with Ghana.  

If I thought Bamako was hot, Holy Smokes, it was nothing compared to this place.  I can do nothing but sit in my hotel room, pressed up against the air conditioner.  I felt heat like this once before, in Brisbane, Australia, and that almost made me literally crazy.   I couldn’t help but look at all the people in the streets and wonder “how do you do it?!”  When it gets hot in New York, they call an emergency and set up cooling centers all over town for the people without air conditioning.  In Lome, it’s just a way of life.  They don’t even sweat!  I feel like some kind of wild boar.

Anyway, that’s where I am now.  Tomorrow, I’m off to Accra.  I have a flight itinerary on Wednesday which might well do me in.  I shall fly from Accra to Lagos, Nigeria, then to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, then to Johannesburg, and THEN to George, where Pieter and family will be waiting with open arms.  I’m sure I’ll be dead on my feet.  But certainly not too dead for an ice-cold Windhoek Namibian Lager! 

Mood: Nostalgic.

Health:  Whatever.  Stopped my Larium weeks ago. (sorry Kurt.  hopefully I won’t become your test subject)

Again, Sorry for photo lackage.  Loads of photo-related problems.

PS: TOTALLY UNRELATED to Africa, but check out my mom:  (no mom jokes, pls)

http://aboutstark.com/images/aboutmarch2jpg

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