My Travels

I travelled to Nigeria last summer, long before the recent fuel-price protests and the bomb attacks in the northern states, and was very surprised by the rapid economic growth in the cities like Lagos.

Considering the financial crisis in Europe, Nigeria hadn’t done too badly, at all!

I was there to do some research on my new children’s books.

Within a few minutes of leaving the airport I spotted many new buildings. Some were five star hotels and other shopping malls. Sadly, the shopping stalls were frequently plunged into darkness due to power failures. How do shop owners ever earn a living? I wondered. 

Still, Lagos looked a lot cleaner and calmer than in years gone by, and everyone I spoke to, had a good word to say about the governor of Lagos. 

My friend who came to pick me up from the airport told me there weren’t enough hotels for the number of visitors in the country. I couldn’t believe it, back in Europe everyone is tightening their belts; it seemed as if the tables had turned in Africa’s favour – about time too!

My friend and her family live in a newly built gated community complete with private security guards. The guards frequently slapped their foreheads in salute as soon as they saw her car approaching. 

According to Forbes Magazine, this area of Lagos (where my friend lives) is known as The Lekki Corridor, is the fastest growing area in the world. It is a stretch of land that had been reclaimed from the sea.

At 5.30 am the next day I set off for the motor park to book a ticket for the coach ride to Onitsha, 650 kilometres away!

I was traveling to Onitsha, a commercial town to see my brothers and their families – I hadn’t seen them in four years – and to take photographs for my new books.

After securing a ticket, I was elbowed in the head; the pain was unbelievable. I had bent down to pick up my bags and things when a customer behind me surged forward. He was in a rush to get a ticket.

Later all passengers were told to sit down and wait. The waiting hall, if you can call it that, was very busy. There were people everywhere; women, men and children all crowded in one place! What’s more, you could barely hear the announcer; the microphone was broken, crackling in places.

Finally, the number of my coach was called. I was very excited; I’d been waiting for a long time. But where is coach? There were at least six loading at the same time and there was no information to assist me.

I found it and was about to get on when two people wearing jackets that said ‘security,’ scanned my body and camera bag airport style. Little did I realise the terror threat in Nigeria had increased.

Finally I got on and sat two rows behind the driver’s seat.

Soon, my ears were assaulted by a ‘preacher.’ You could tell he was by the way he was dressed. He was in a clean shirt, starched and ironed within inches of its life! There were two more clues to his identity; he was openly carrying a bible and he was standing like a Channel 4 newsreader!

As if to confirm his status, he began spewing out passages from the bible, then he zoomed in, “Abraham came from an idol worshipping city; God brought him out of there,” he croaked.

His captive audience, including me had no choice but to listen, where would we get another coach at such a short notice? And where is the driver anyway? I muttered, fidgeting in my seat.

Public transport has no set time for departures, they leave when they are full.

Meanwhile, the preacher carried on talking, his voice rising, “Abraham grabbed his son and took him to the altar to sacrifice. . . Praise the Lord!”

“Alleluia!” cried the passengers enthusiastically.

A rare smile spread like water over the man’s thin face. He was beaming with pride or was it out of contempt for the poor soul?

“But God stopped him,” he said at last.

(Ifeoma Onyefulu – a trip to Lagos)

I was slowly losing my sanity; I wanted to run up and down the aisle, screaming! Thankfully, I had a window, which offered a temporary escape from the madness inside the coach.

Worst still, a plastic bowl was being passed round to passengers asking for a small donation for the preacher.

Why? What has he done for me? I said to myself, looking away again.

Finally, the driver made an announcement and our preacher quickly relayed it to us, “Listen ladies and gents, at Asba you will be trans-loaded on to another bus, but don’t worry the bus will be one of our vehicles and you’ll arrive at Onitsha safely.”

Our coach was brand new and there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it.

Many smelt a rat at once.

“Why?” asked a young no-nonsense woman, who momentarily had suspended the task of chewing gum.

“That’s right,” agreed another.

A voice from the back shouted, “We paid to go to Onitsha. Why are you trans-loading us?”

The protests died down eventually. Passengers have little rights in Nigeria.

The preacher smiled sheepishly and in a cheerful voice said, “You will be served delicious rice and ice water. And you will have air conditioner. But please don’t start complaining it’s too cold,” he warned.

Anyway at 7.20am our coach slowly rolled out of the motor park. We’d spent at least two hours there.

A minute later the preacher departed with a pocket full of money. Don’t worry he shared some of that with the driver!

With his departure came the sound of music, our driver encased in plastic panels played James Blunt’s You’re Beautiful, Marvin Gaye and many others. Occasionally he switched to a comedy sketch, which left all passengers in stitches.

A young woman sitting next to me suddenly began to cry. I later learnt she’d just heard the news of her mother’s death. I comforted her as best as I could; my mother died four years previously.

We stopped at intervals to stretch our weary legs, which was great because it was freezing inside the coach. It was extraordinary, my camera lens was frozen. I’d foolishly placed my camera bag on the top overhead compartment where the air conditioner valve must have been situated. I couldn’t take photographs for a while.

Now and again I’d phone my elder brother to inform him of our progress from a mobile phone I had bought at the airport.

Soon the sky opened up; it was the raining season after all. Unfortunately it made the roads pretty treacherous, and the journey took twice as long.

Finally, we arrived at Asba at 6.30, and very quickly we were bundled into an old wreck they called a bus. Worst still the vehicle was full of mosquitoes! 

Now, I was really worried; of getting malaria, of the darkness, of the heavy rain, of not finding a safe taxi once we get to Onitsha, of being robbed and finally of my phone battery dying on me! Oh it was horrendous.

Miraculously I was able to make one more call to my brother before it died. At 7.30 our old battered bus finally arrived at Onitsha Motor Park. It was raining very heavily now and it was late and dangerous.

Most of the passengers disappeared with their luggage, I and one other person sat inside the ticket office. I vowed to stay put until the taxi driver sent by my brother came for me. I’d be easy picking for robbers if I didn’t!

Finally, the driver came and we climbed into his car. Like all Onitsha taxi drivers he was impatient, he didn’t want to be caught in the small traffic jam we could see in the distance and turned a sharp left. Within a matter of seconds we ended up a ditch. Actually we were half in the ditch and half stuck in the mud. The situation was hopeless. Are we going to stay here until morning? I wondered.

Suddenly, about six young men with taut muscles and ripped t-shirts surrounded our car. The driver flinched and mopped his brows.

“Do you want a push Madam?” asked one of the men, kindly.

I was about to say something when the driver hissed, “Don’t speak; please don’t, they will know you’re from England and rob you.”

I looked at the young men through the window, all innocent and harmless.

A few minutes later, the men lifted the car out of the ditch with their bare hands! It was wonderful.

Then, the silly driver decided he was going to give them very little money. I was mad. I yelled at the driver, but he didn’t care.

The men’s reaction was swift, they threatened to put the car back into the ditch and soon a big argument ensued.

“We’re at their mercy, can’t you see that?” I hissed to the driver, afraid they might hear me and rob us. “Here, give them all of this,” I added, handing him some money from my pocket.

But he was a very stubborn man. He pocketed my money and gave them a few crumpled notes from his top pocket.

I quickly wound down my window and thrust some money into an outstretched hand. Finally all was well.

(Ifeoma Onyefulu – a trip to Lagos)

At 3.am I was woken up by a rogue cockerel, then, a woman started singing religious songs. About 5.30am the engine that ground corn came alive! It was indeed a very busy morning. 

But all of a sudden everywhere fell silent; so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Soon, children everywhere began crying, “NEPA, NEPA!” NEPA is The Nigerian Electricity Power Authority.

Generator plants from every street corner responded, breaking the silence but powering the electrical machines. Sadly there is power cut every day. And at night time most homes use kerosene lamps.

It rained often while I was there. 

I noticed there was a shortage of taxies, so getting about meant a hellish ride on a motorbike.

After a week and half of taking photos and notes, it was time to head back to Lagos.

This time I took a mini bus, because it went straight to Lekki (Lagos) where my friend lives.

We were parked like sardines – it must be clearly against the rule. Several hours into our journey our bus almost rolled over on its side; a drunk had wandered on the motorway. It was a terrifying experience. But we made it safely to Lagos.

Every passenger was suggested to an aggressive search at the airport. My luggage was overturned, and everything taken out. It was horrendous. Why are passengers treated like this? Unbelievable, absolutely shocking!

(Ifeoma Onyefulu – a journey to Lagos).

I hadn’t realised the significance of my guide’s change of clothes until I rang my son in London later, and he told me the Foreign Office had issued a warning on travelling to Timbuktu, especially the desert. Apparently, some days earlier five French tourists were kidnapped. Finally, I left Timbuktu at 5am one morning, intending on going to Djenne, known for its famous mosque, ‘the largest mud construction in the world,’ according to guide books. My guide had already booked a seat for me on a vehicle leaving very early the next morning. When I eventually saw it my heart sank like a stone. It was an old 4×4 that it might not get to Douentza, where I’d catch a bus to Djenne. But what choice did I have?

At the harbour in Timbuktu there were a few cars waiting to cross. I spotted a Chinese man and then two more, milling around. What are they doing in this part of the world? I asked myself, then, I remembered the saying, ‘the Chinese are coming!’ and shut up. Anyway, we waited for a good 55 minutes for the drivers of the ferry to start work. When they did, a car boarding the ferry got stuck in the mud on the riverbank, and the Chinese men quickly rolled up their sleeves and pushed it out. Yes, the Chinese are coming, a force for good in Africa? We’ll wait and see.

  Several miles later, our car began to sputter; coughing like a sick child. Then, steam rose from the bonnet, no doubt it was overheating. Our driver kept refilling the lost water. And at every stop some of the passengers would get down to say their prayers, and that meant a lengthy wait for them to come back so that we could resume our journey. My poor lungs had enough dust in it from passing cars, to fill up a large room!

Fourteen miles to Douentza, our old knackered car finally gave up the ghost. It was horrendous; we were left by the roadside to swallow more dust for hours. Our situation was a hopeless one, there were no shops or garages there, and walking to Douentza wasn’t an option. Worse still, I had a full bladder, and going in the bushes scared me. Eventually, I was forced to; all those fears about vipers and deadly insects didn’t matter anymore. At last a friend of the driver picked us up in his minibus. But he took us through people’s yards and everything; the dirt road we’d used days earlier was now flooded. And at one point we got stuck in the mud and had to push his vehicle.

  Sadly, by the time we got to Douentza it was too late to go on to Djenne, which meant I’d have to spend the night in a motel in Mopti, many miles away. Luckily I knew the town, having spent a night there already. Darkness was fast approaching and I’d been on the road since 5am. I had only a few biscuits and a small bottle of water left. I was shown an empty bus that was going to Mopti. But I went off to buy more biscuits and water instead. When I came back minutes later it had more passengers in it, so I sat on the second row.

  Just as our bus was about to leave someone pleaded with the drive to take an old woman with a broken bone to a hospital on the way. No one protested as she was gingerly carried in, in fact we all made sure she was comfortable. I gave up my seat to sit at the back and so did the others who had sat next to me; to give her more room.

Sadly, I got a seat where there was no legroom. My right knee was jammed fast against a metal object (difficult to say what it was in the dark), but it stayed that way for the entire journey. It was also very painful. However, the poor old woman was in a worst shape than I was, she moaned and groaned every time the bus went over a bump or fell into potholes. It was horrendous. At last we were in Mopti. I got off. But by now it was 7.30 pm, and everywhere was in darkness. And I couldn’t find the motel we’d stayed in a few days earlier. There were men milling around in the dark and I felt very vulnerable indeed. Then, I spotted a chemist, still open. Chemists are generally trustworthy. So, I walked in with my bags, and explained my situation. “Oh, England!” said the man behind the counter, “Manchester United!” he added. Now, I’m home and dry, I told myself. The man’s sister took me to a small hotel nearby. It was clean, quiet, and had a few cobwebs on the furniture. No tourists have come by recently, I thought to myself, setting my bags down. Still. I was very grateful for a safe place for the night. I took a shower which was on the other side of a long corridor, had some fried eggs and some chips and went straight to sleep.

  Early the next morning, I took a motor bike taxi to the bus station and boarded a coach to Djenne junction. At the junction I got down, and was directed to an old Peugeot pickup. I climbed in with the other passengers. But after a short drive we were told to get down and walk; the road ahead was completely flooded. We took off our shoes and walked across the flowing water. It was a very terrifying; at one point the strong current nearly swept me off my feet. I met a French girl, also travelling alone, and we planned to meet up for a chat later.

  I and the other passengers who came from the Djenne junction took another vehicle from the other side. And for the last part of our journey we took a ferry – much smaller than the ones in Timbuktu – and crossed into Djenne, a small town with the famous mosque.

There were lots of hawkers on the ferry, selling everything traditional from bangles to clothes. When I told them I’d come from Timbuktu, they sneered and boasted, ‘We’re not lazy like the people of Timbuktu.’ I suppose the two towns are business rivalries. It was a short ride to Djenne town. We drove past an old mud gate before stopping at the motor park. Their style of houses was different from the ones in Timbuktu; they were much bigger, with flatter roofs. I was told they were inspired by Morocco. See photograph above… I had another guide, who took me to a neat friendly hotel called Hotel Tapama. In between reading Tom Sharpe’s novel and planning out my day I watched some birds on the trees in the courtyard. Again they were very colourful. With the help of my guide I went up a roof of a tall house opposite the famous mosque to take some photographs. See photo. Luckily for me it began to rain very heavily the minute I came down. Later, I walked around the small town and took more photographs. See photo of the women’s entrance to the mosque. I shared a meal with the French traveller, who looked red and raw; mosquitoes almost ate her alive. She was staying at her guide’s house to save money, but there was no any mosquito there. I was worried she might suffer from malaria.

  There was not a great deal happening in Djenne so after two days I decided to go back to Bamako. The French girl too, had had enough and wanted out. We went to the motor park and waited for the next vehicle out of Djenne. While waiting, a man who looked like he’d had about two wives already proposed to me. Finally, we got to the junction and waited for any bus from Mopti to come by. When one finally turned up, and we got on, I discovered to my horror a charcoal fire on board the bus; the conductor was brewing coffee from a small stove about a yard from where we were sitting! And everyone seemed at ease with it. I must say people are very kind to travellers in Mali; an old man shared his roasted corn with me and another man gave me a woven fan when I was sweating from the heat.

  The driver kept us content with his selection of Reggae, and rock music. We arrived in Bamako at 7.30pm and I got a lift back to my friend’s house. My friend was relieved to see me back in one back, she hadn’t heard from me for several days. Anyway, one night as I was tucking in my mosquito net I discovered three huge holes in it and went to get some thread and a needle. But I caused a lot of panic in the household. Apparently no one is allowed to use a needle at nightfall. But what was I supposed to do; I’d be eaten alive by mosquitoes if I didn’t mend those holes? I eventually stuffed tissues in them and went to sleep feeling frustrated. Finally, it was time for me to leave Mali. And thinking I was being very considerate to my friend- who’d looked after me – the trouble of an early morning drive to the airport, I left at midnight. What I didn’t know was the horrible time I’d have there.

  Anyway, my flight to Morocco was at 6am, and a few hours at there would nothing, right? It turned out the airport was very tiny and it closed for a few hours every night. So, I was forced to spend the night outside on a bench in front of the airport. Had it had rained it would have been really terrible for me.

  I sat and watched stray dogs settling down for the night in the empty car park, fire flies dancing around in the dark and the voices of money changers as they settled down for what must have been a very long day. It seemed as if they lived there. But I must admit I felt very exposed and vulnerable. At one point I was the only woman there. Clutching my camera bag close to my chest, and prayed that I didn’t fall asleep. If my camera was stolen I’d lose all my work forever.

  Soon, the weather began to cool down, but the mosquitoes never left me alone; they finally succeeded and bite my legs, despite the repellent I’d strayed. At last the airport sprang back to life at about 3am, but I wasn’t allowed in until an hour before my flight.

The sky was looking very threatening by now; a storm was brewing in the distance. Ahmed grumbled that we’d wasted too much time buying that sheep as if it was our fault. Then, he said we might have to spend the night in the open if we missed our ferry. Apparently to get to Timbuktu you need to cross the River Niger. I began to fret.

“After all these years Timbuktu is still inaccessible,” I grumbled. Finally we got to the harbour, but the worst was yet to come. We duly lined up with the other cars and waited for the ferry to crawl up the river. All of a sudden, several soldiers arrived in their jeeps and ordered all the vehicles to move back. I quickly hid my camera. They commandeered the ferry the second it arrived to take them to Timbuktu, so everyone was left stranded. Soon, dust and debris hit me across the face as strong winds announced the coming of the storm. Ahmed warned that ferry services would now be suspended due to the bad weather. My heart sank; already mosquitoes were feasting on my flesh and a night in the open would be horrendous.

At last we boarded the last ferry only for the sky to open up. We bobbed helplessly up and down the river. Worse still, almost everywhere was in darkness. Then, a huge wall of water rose in the air like a monster and slammed into the cars, shaking us from side to side. The noise of the wind and rain drove some of us to pray, people were calling on Allah to help us. The Tuareg woman I shared a bed with began to pray loudly. I thought it was the end, too. If only my children would know what happened to me. Someone shouted, “Get out of your cars!” We got down and were drenched from head to toe. I never found out why.

  Eventually the storm died down. Then, I heard some strange cries from the water. Actually I saw something swimming very close to our ferry. “What’s that?” I asked Ahmed, thinking it was a rock. “Oh, it’s a hippo,” he said, then panicking a little bit, “For God’s sake don’t take any photos, these things are dangerous.”

I could see lots of them now getting ever closer for comfort. I wished our ferry would get a move on. I was so scared, even the mosquitoes buzzing in my ears and the threat of getting malaria later didn’t seem so bad. At long last we began to move. We arrived at 9.16pm. Our driver, fearing another storm, sped off at once. Ahmed yelled for him to slow down or we’d end up in the river.

  What I thought was the main road, was in fact a narrow bridge. It had no railings or signs to warn drivers of the dangers. And driving too fast in total darkness with only the headlights was certainly deadly. By the time we found the house I’d be staying in, the rain had picked up again. The family who would be looking after me in Timbuktu were waiting to welcome me. I had a wash under the stars that night. I was too worried about creeping crawlies to enjoy the magnificent sight. Later, lying on a mattress on the floor in the unbearable heat and with the mosquito net firmly tucked in, I began to worry about all the weird sounds around me. The next day I saw huge black beetles crawling about on the sandy floor. At first, I tried to stay calm until one crawled up my leg, and I screamed the house down. Of course everyone including a small child laughed their heads off. The beetle had reminded me of a scene in the movie The Mummy, where they crawled underneath the skin of one of the characters.

Timbuktu was very hot and sticky. Not surprising as it is in the north of the country. It is also an old town with lots of history and a grand mosque, which I photographed. See photo of the grand mosque, being renovated. Every day I’d walk around the small town, taking photographs for my new books. There were children everywhere playing happily, which was great! See photo. But every Friday afternoons, the children would vanish from the streets to study the Koran in Islamic schools. See photo.

  I suffered the peril of travelling alone as a single woman; I had a ‘generous’ guide used all kinds of pretext to get me to come to his house unaccompanied, of course. On one occasion he sent a child to ask me to come and see him urgently. On another, he invited me in to see a photograph of himself and Danny Glover, the American movie star who came to Timbuktu a few years earlier. The movie star was wearing loose fitting traditional clothes while my guide was dressed in Western clothes. However, I put my foot down, when his arm circled my waist; just because I showed an interest photographing the ancient manuscripts. I was very angry and frustrated and in a difficult situation.

  On a good note, I saw lots of birds, similar the ones in Bamako, and often they flew into the tiny room I shared with a young woman, I’ll call Zeniab. One day I climbed up a chair to investigate how they got in. Amazingly, what I’d thought was a window was in fact a square hole in the wall. No wonder birds, mosquitoes and everything else came in! It was too hot to sleep most nights. And I began to notice something strange about the family I was living with, they disappeared most nights, including Zeniab. I wondered where they went. But I’d wake up each morning too exhausted to ask questions. On my last day I discovered they slept on the roof, like everyone in Timbuktu when it’s hot. After completing my various projects I went to the desert. My guide this time was a man dressed in jeans and t-shirt. I met him in the market. See photo of the market in Timbuktu For our trip he changed into traditional Tuareg clothes, complete with a blue turban, which covered much of his face.

  Walking under the hot sun wasn’t easy and on top of that I hadn’t slept properly in days. Half way there I got very tired. So, he flagged down a woman on her motor bike, and after haggling over the price. I got on, and we rode to the edge of the desert. See photo of the Tuaregs going to the salt mines.

The next morning, feeling very dizzy I stepped out to look for something to eat; I hadn’t been eating properly since we left Bamako; the joys of being a vegetarian. A blinding sunshine greeted me as I walked to the reception. Fortunately I found someone who bought me some eggs, and the sad looking chef cooked them for my breakfast.

Soon another new face joined our ever changing band of travellers. She was a little girl of about 6 or 7. Here’s the photo of the beautiful girl. I wondered how far she was going. She was swiftly followed by another passenger, a teenage boy. He too would be travelling with us.

After breakfast we piled into the pickup jeep; I sat in the front seat as usual, and we sped off. Ahmed with cigarette dangling from his lips selected a tape among the pile on the dashboard. He pushed it into the cassette player and reggae music filled the car. We nodded our heads rhythmically, while Ahmed puffed away. Yeah I could feel cancer cells growing in my lungs.

The landscape was flat, flat, simply too flat. But the road was new, wide and straight, and quiet. I’d hate my car to breakdown there. On either side were shrubs, birds and the occasional houses. There of course cows and their herders (little children). After about two hours we arrived in Douentza, which is like a crossroad – you could either travel to Timbuktu from there or go straight on to Gao, another historical town.

The teenager, who’d joined us in Mopti said good bye, and taking his belongings with him disappeared into the crowd of passengers rushing off somewhere. Soon, a small group of food sellers gathered crowded our car, advertising their wares.

I went off to find a latrine. When I found one, someone kindly offered me a kettle of water for washing afterwards. I took the kettle in under the watchful eye of my benefactor. As usual I could hear birds singing sweet songs, it was great. When I came back another person, this time a man, had joined us.

After we’d all stretched our legs, fed and watered, we were ready to move. I was warned that the road ahead would be pretty bad. With several hours’ journey ahead of us, we piled back into the jeep but this time the newcomer was our driver; he’d taken over from Ahmed, so I moved to the back seat.

Soon, I found myself clutching the seat; the new driver drove like a maniac, pursued by a thousand demons. It was terrifying. We followed the beautifully tarred road for a short while before turning left. Already I could see clouds of dust rising in the air in the distance like steam. This was a typical dirt road; complete with holes and bumps, at least the air conditioner to sooth our nerves. Ahead of us was Mont Hombori, a huge mountain about 1115metres high. Here’s a photo of the mountain.

It didn’t take long before we began dancing on our seats, and rocking from side to side, up and down due to the potholes. The road got increasingly worse with every mile we covered, so I put away my pen and pad; it was too hard to write.

Ahmed free from driving now turned his full attention to the music, he played Senegalese reggae, rock music, and Elton John’s ‘I’m still standing,’ which strangely cheered me up. Had the car been equipped with CD player our journey would have been a very dull one, because CD won’t play on such bumpy roads. Thank you tape player!

After a short distance we came across what looked like a lake in the middle of the road. “Oh, my God,” I yelled. How Ahmed and the little girl laughed, throwing back their heads and enjoying my pathetic reaction! Finally, he told me it had rained heavily the night before. Judging by the cloudy sky it won’t be too long before it rains again, I told myself.

Now, was the time for the 4×4 (Quartre par Quartre as they’re called in Mali) to put the other vehicles to shame and excel. It swam across the water like a fish, while the other vehicles stalled or suffered the indignity of being pushed across by villagers, who turned their efforts into money making machines.

Several miles later the landscape changed, and became hillier. So we went up and down like a yoyo; disappearing into slopes and coming back up again. My poor tender stomach didn’t take kindly to it.

Sometimes we were the only car on the road. It was weird, you couldn’t go anywhere in London without seeing at least one car. The birds of course took full advantage of the empty road, staying put until our car came quite close to them.

The sky kept changing colours too; from light to deep blue like the sea in the Caribbean. Also, the scenery had only a few trees in it now.

From the car window I could see lakes and the occasional camels grazing beside them. Every so often I saw signs saying ‘US Aid’ before we got to each village. Soon, the sun looked like a giant orange hanging low in the distance, which meant it was about 4.30pm. We had been on the road for hours!

A few minutes later, the road turned nasty, it had potholes the size of trays you’d find in Ikea stores. And again it was very difficult to write. Thankfully Ahmed was still feeding the cassette player with dance music. Now he’d switched to Cuban music. How I wanted to dance. Still, in a way I was, thanks to the potholes.

Minutes later Ahmed abandoned his task and began talking on his mobile; gesturing madly. I began to wish he was speaking in French; at least I’d know if everything was all right.

After about ten minutes or so, the car stopped to pick up yet another passenger, whose car had broken down. He’d have to go back to Timbuktu, (still miles away) to get help. Since there was no room inside the 4×4, so the man was forced to stand at the back where he was thrown around like a sack. Soon, two men by the roadside flagged down our car. Their faces half hidden by traditional turbans and dark glasses. Worse still, they had a motor bike. Ifeoma, start saying my prayers now! I told myself.

Ahmed and the men chatted for a few minutes, then, to my horror the car drove off the road. It was following the men on the motor bike into the bushes! My whole life flashed before my eyes. You’ve been kidnapped, a voice said in my head. We drove for what seemed like a long time.

At last, I could breathe again; Ahmed grumbling in French about sloppy businessmen. So we were driving all that time in the bush just buy a sheep? Apparently the men forgot where they were grazing. Now, it was my turn to laugh.

We finally came to a stop. The men promised to find them and boasted they had the best sheep for Ahmed. The men who were nomad had wives and children. They were very kind to us and offered us water and rice.

After waiting for almost an hour, we had another passenger, a sheep. Now the sheep and the man at the back shared a space. Finally we resumed our journey. And to make up for lost time the driver took a shortcut in the bushes, and thankfully we re-joined the road.

Every morning in Bamako, Mali, I was treated to a wide range of sounds, so sweet, so delicious to the ears I smiled like a drunk all day. Give me a birdsong any time; it’s far better than an alarm clock in my opinion.

To tell you the truth, I’d never seen so many birds in one small area in my life! They seemed to appear from nowhere, congregating like flies in this tiny compound, which was full of fruit trees and shrubs.

And I’m 100% sure – though I’m not a birdwatcher – the birds were all different species; some were tiny and red with dark brown heads and others with plain colours. What’s more, they were all as bold as brass; coming so close to the door you could catch them. I suppose the free lunch of millet they had every afternoon from an unattended tray had emboldened them.

After breakfast of baguette and milky tea – as a former French colony Malians don’t usually have milk in their hot drink – I went in search of a pair of plastic sandals; ideal for trudging through the mud, and also I wanted to change some money. I didn’t have the local currency.

I took lots to photograph along the way; hoping I could use some of them in my next children’s books. Here’s a photo of a roadside.

After a short drive in a taxi we crossed a bridge, and I was dazzled by the sight of several shiny new office buildings built by the Libyan president, Col. Gaddafi. A few of his photographs hung outside the buildings, perhaps to remind everyone of his good deed. See one of those new offices below…

Moneychangers are based at the main market, tucked away in a tiny corner, between traders selling clothes and shoes, and other items. A lonely Catholic church still unchanged from when the French built it a hundred years ago, watches over everyone as they approach the market. Here are photos of the church and a mural.

The moneychangers sat in a long line, chatting and as soon as they saw me they yelled out, “We have euros and dollars!” But my guide took me straight to a man who looked like a bank manager. He was dressed in a white robe and white cap. His office, though very small had a ceiling fan that rotated very slowly, a basic wooden desk, creaky chairs, and a display of wades of notes. He couldn’t hide his disappointment when he learnt I was only changing a small amount of money. ‘That’s very small,’ said in French and smiled sadly, waving his hand over the wades of notes in front of him, then adding, ‘Aha, you come from England, oh, England!’ I nodded lamely.

With CFA francs, the local currency, in my bag I could do my project now.

Soon, it was Ramadan, and everyone was celebrating the end of fasting with gusto; everyone wore new clothes, especially girls. A day later, I told my friend I’d like to go to Timbuktu. When she told me it would cost me about $600 to fly there, I nearly fainted. I didn’t have that kind of money, I said. But Timbuktu was about a thousand miles, she reminded me.

Eventually, she organised a ride for me. One of her colleague – for the sake of this blog I’ll call him Ahmed- had driven down from Timbuktu to celebrate the Ramadan with his family in Bamako was about to go back.

The next day at 7 am sharp I was driven to a government ministry with my packed bags, where Ahmed’s main office is. It’s a large one storey-house, no doubt built during the colonial ear. It was painted white, with a triangular roof. Malian houses have mainly flat roofs. Also, the whole house, including floors and an outside staircase was built of wood. And it creaked constantly.

After waiting for several minutes Ahmed appeared in his shinny white 4×4 pick up jeep (called Quarte par Quarte in Mali), and my heart sank into the muddy ground. He’s taken his family back with him! I thought to myself, because the car was already full of people and suitcases.

Ahmed with a cigarette in one hand, smiled broadly as if he’d known me for years. Then, he asked me to wait. And I waited and waited.

There were few workers now milling around, too early to start work, I suppose. In the meantime some brewed coffee. Malians love their coffee. Here’s a photo of traditional kettle brewing on a stove.

At noon we squeezed into the pickup and left Bamako. We still had a thousand miles to go!

The road out of Bamako was narrow and full of pot holes but the 4×4 soon took care of that! Eventually the road widened. After a long drive we stopped at Segou – a big town, bustling with life – for a meal and petrol. As a vegetarian it’s always difficult to find something to eat. Besides, I was still feeling a little weak from the bug picked up a few days earlier from eating Farini snack, so I ate plain bread and washed it down with a cup of tea and water.

I found a quiet latrine, thankfully I didn’t have to stand in a queue and wait my turn. Again there were hundreds of birds perched on nearby giant tree, singing their little hearts out.

We sped off again with a dose of Cuban music ringing from the tape player in the car.

After several miles we did a detour to drop off one of the passengers, a little girl of about eight, who’d come to Bamako where her parents lived for the Ramadan celebration.

There were people selling goods by the roadside, others on horse drawn carts followed by their dogs and of course giant ovens for roasting meat.

Suddenly, one of the tyres hissed like a viper and the car which was speeding, began to sway slightly. Eventually we came to a stop and discovered a puncture. In fact, we could even see the culprit; a huge nail, sticking out of the tyre.

While we were waiting for the tyre to be repaired I took some photographs of children playing with Les Pneus (tyres). Usually the images we see of African children are of hunger, sadness and vulnerability. I think there should be a balance.

Very quickly we ran for shelter as the sky had opened up, sending tons of water down. The rain was merciless. I feared for my bag thrown together with the others at the back of the jeep. “Ifeoma, you worry too much!” was Ahmed’s way of reassuring me. By the time we arrived in Mopti, a vibrant commercial town, I smelt like an ash tray; Ahmed had smoked nonstop in the air conditioned vehicle. I prayed I didn’t get lung cancer by the time we got to Timbuktu. We finally stopped in front of a gated property at 8pm. Another passenger, a teenage boy said, “Bon voyage!” And with his suitcase on his left shoulder, and a brief wave, he was gone. I watched as darkness embraced him.

For a while I listened to the sound of crickets, and other night creatures. But I was soon scratching my legs and arms where mosquitoes I had bitten. I had forgotten to apply the mosquito repellent. Quickly I dived into my camera bag and retrieved it. I don’t like applying it because it’s too sticky but I had no choice.

We were invited to dinner by one of Ahmed’s friend, a jolly lady with beautiful children. She told me her children spoke some English. We ate rice and some tasty sauce under the stars, with a sheep looking on.

Tired and very sleepy we booked into a small motel by the motorway. I shared a bed with another passenger, a young and quiet Tuareg lady. I had a hot shower only to step into a freezing room. Sadly, we didn’t know how to work the remote control for the blasted air conditioner. And with the receptionist vanished into the night, we were left to fend for ourselves. Luckily, there were lots of spare blankets.

My first port of call was France;

I needed a visa pretty quickly and Mali doesn’t have an embassy in London.

So, on 22nd of August 2010 I set for Victoria Station to catch the Euroline for Paris. My friend Carole had surprised me two days earlier by getting me the return ticket, very kind gesture indeed.

However, the bus terminal at Victoria Station was chaotic; in fact the one at Mopti town in Mali was more orderly (more of my Mali adventures later). Anyway, clutching my ticket as if my life depended on it, I went and sat down with the other passengers.

What I hadn’t realised was that they had all checked in. There should have been signs everywhere telling passengers what to do. I was lucky a fellow passenger told me; pointing to two long queues tucked away in a corner.

At 11 pm – almost an hour late, our coach arrived and all the passengers rushed forward, it was madness. I was shoved and pushed around like a criminal caught in a sting operation. The journey in the Channel Tunnel wasn’t great either; we were shaken and stirred like cock tails, but finally we arrived in Paris around 5.45am. Now I began to panic; it suddenly dawned on me I didn’t know Paris very well. In fact, I had only been there once many years ago. I stared at the Google map my son had printed out for me before I left London, but it might as well be in Chinese because I couldn’t read it. Worst still, my brain was telling me about a severe pain that was rising from my feet to my knees. There were not much leg room on the coach, and I knew instantly they were swollen.

Now what do I do? I had at least three hour-wait before the Consulate would open for business.

I looked round nervously, and suddenly I spotted two young passengers who spoke English and I asked them if they knew Paris very well. But they didn’t. Should I stay at the bus terminal and wait until it was daylight or drag my swollen feet along the streets of Paris to while away the time?

Finally, I shuffled up the stairs of the urine-smelly–subway at the bus terminal and fell into the first hotel I saw. By now aliens were camping in my feet; they were as hard and heavy as lead.

The man at the reception couldn’t believe I needed a room for a few hours, but he checked me in all the same. As luck would have it, he is from Mali, and was very pleased I was going to his country. At once he promised to drop me off at the Consulate at 9 am. I had a shower and climbed into bed, and at 8.30 am the phone rang.

A voice said in French would Madam be ready in 15 minutes to go to the consulate? “Oui, Monsieur!” I replied, dragging my legs off the bed. I was so happy. Even the sight of a long queue outside the Consulate didn’t dampen my spirit. Almost everyone was wearing a colourful African robe. Now why didn’t I think of wearing mine? Several minutes later it began to rain and we got wet.

Finally, I was inside the packed Consulate, which reminded me of the tube during rush hour. People were sweating and babies were doing what they do most, screaming. Luckily, it took only 15 minutes and twice the normal fee for me to get my visa.

Air Macro was late. A British woman also taking the same flight told me they were never on time. So I made myself as comfortable as I could, and waited. It eventually landed nearly two hours late! Just over three hours later we were in Casablanca. The airport was very quiet, and small: many shops had closed for the night. Luckily, there was a sad looking cafe still open; everything in there was almost sold out.

A fellow passenger kindly paid for my sandwich; he saw me frantically searching for some change in my bag, and offered to help, which was great because I was starving. It would be several hours before I caught a connecting flight to Mali, fortunately Mali is just over three-hours by air. We landed at Bamako airport, the capital of Mali at 6.45 am.

I followed the sign that said exit and to my relief Mohamed, the brother of the doctor I’d be staying with was there holding a piece of paper with my name on it. I was so pleased to see him, after all this was my first time in Mali It was very dark outside, and the air was cool and damp. Mohamed told me it had rained that morning. It was still the raining season, when temperatures were bearable.

An hour later Mohamed and I walking on the streets of Bamako, skating around muddy puddles; I had to get to an internet cafe to let my children know I’d arrived safely, or at least buy a credit and call them using Mohamed’s phone.

I took my camera bag just in case I saw something interesting, and I wasn’t disappointed. Women bike riders were everywhere, they’re pretty relaxed as they navigated the potholes and other obstacles on the road, I’d be petrified on a bike. I had only three weeks to do five projects; call me crazy or what. But I couldn’t wait to get started. The internet connection was deadly slow, but I did send my emails.

Suddenly I began to feel very tired and we went back to the house. And it was then that I saw and heard the birds.

All images by Ifeoma Onyefulu

This blog is designed to give visitors to my web site an up to date view of my travels and any work in progress.

I will post photographs and details of my journeys, workshops and just thoughts I have about my writing to share with you.

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I hope you will come along on my journey with me – I’ll be happy to have you along.

Ifeoma