We partied like it's 1999 (e.g. we still aren't legal)

They say it’s better to get malaria when you are still in Africa than when you return home.  The doctors can easily diagnose it and the cure is readily available for less than $10.  After the three-day course of Coartem treatment (and some pampering in a nice-ish hotel), Juan is almost as good as new.

Next up: getting to Burkina Faso.  After waiting all day at a bus station in Sevaré, we eventually found a beat-up Italian bus rescued from the 1970s to take us to Koutiala.  We had some debate over whether to go via this border town to Burkina Faso, simply because there were reports of bad roads and bandits along all three land entries from Mali…  Not reassuring.  Still, we were free from African Trails!  Arriving well into nighttime we were grateful for the taxi man who knew our hotel and only charged us double the fair price ($2 instead of $1).  Bon année, taxi dude.

As an aside, I’m firmly in the habit of saying I’m from Mexico.  Not only does this seem to make people friendlier and elicit surprise and wonder but it usually makes them assume I’ve got less money to throw around.  It’s only once that an electrician who studied Spanish ages ago asked me to speak with him (he understood none of it) and another time a guy quizzed me about the 1986 Mexico World Cup (I just nodded enthusiastically and said Mexico was tres super).  So when we rolled into Hotel La Chaumiere and introduced our Mexican selves to the proprietor, he immediately responded with a wide grin that his name was Besame.   Whether that was a reference to the song, Besame Mucho, or a sly request for Tia to kiss him we’ll never know. 

After showering off the dirt caked into our skin from the day’s travel, trying to establish with the hotel owner if there would be any dancing or singing that evening (he replied no to both), we camped out under our mosquito net to watch the Russell Crowe remake of Robin Hood.  The only good thing about that movie is that, because of its length, we actually stayed awake past midnight to ring in 2011.  Rockstars.

Joyful reunion...

Before rejoining the tour in Bamako, Mali we stocked up on duty-free candy and wine in anticipation of lots of self-medicating.  Upon rejoining we soon realized that the one thing we agreed with Farron before leaving (i.e. which visa he would do first in Bamako) had changed.  So within ten minutes of our arrival we had to make independent plans to go to the Ghanian embassy.  Gosh, it’s great to be back…

Meanwhile, Max, who had not been feeling well for the last days in Dakar, went immediately to a nearby clinic where he tested positive for a fairly severe case of malaria and was immediately hospitalized.  Since Africa can make a hypochondriac out of anyone, we began to feel inexplicably tired and achy and, after some debate, decided to assuage our paranoia and get ourselves checked out as well.  Bet you can guess the result.  Positive.  Well, mild case for me actually.  Tia (despite having stronger symptoms) turned out to be negative but the doctor believed that our malaria pills might have skewed the test.  So we’re off of alcohol for three days (why now?) and on to our new friend, Coartem.

That didn’t stop us from cruising around Bamako, though!  Motorbikes whizzed by like swarms of bees and we often felt we’d plunge into the Niger if we weren’t careful.  We paid a visit to the National Museum for a cruise among Malian artifacts, spent a night out dancing at a Russian karaoke bar where we met a particularly racist Texan, saw Tomani Diabeté (still just as good the second time) and his younger brother at Le Diplomat and haggled with a Malian woman in the frenetic vegetable market where even our poor French was of no use and we were reduced to bartering for carrots and onions using hand signals.