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The shoot was a last minute thing, and as of the time I climbed aboard the charter flight to Bamako I didn't actually know if I was going to Guinea via Mali, or Senegal via Mali, or Senegal via Mali and Guinea, or all of the above. In fact, I didn't know if I was going anywhere at all, as I didn't have a visa for any of the above. But then, travel in West Africa doesn't work the way it does in other places.
When we touched down in Bamako a fixer welcomed us in the arrivals hall, took our passports and ushered us into a waiting vehicle. We were taken off to lunch (without having cleared immigration…) at a nice hotel while entry requirements and other formalities were seen to.
The next step was a road journey into Guinea. One used to be able to fly, but since the recent coup in that country all air traffic must pass through the capital of Conakry, which didn't work with our timeframe. We were all set to go, but my Guinea visa hadn't come through yet... After several exasperated phonecalls on the part of the person responsible for travel arrangements my passport suddenly reappeared, complete with visa. We were ready to rock and roll.
The cramped and dusty but nonetheless enthralling streets of Bamako, alive with people, motorcycles, scooters, goats and donkey carts, soon gave onto the open road and scenery that took me back to eastern and southern Africa. The driver seemed to enjoy honing his roadcraft by brushing the tips of his wing mirrors against the shoulders of hapless cyclists and motorcyclists, even when there was room for three lorries to pass abreast, but somehow we made it to the border without bowling anyone sideways into a ditch. Whether this is due to the skill of the driver or the reflexive shoulder twitching of the cyclists I cannot be sure.
“Border” is a little too formal a word for what exists between many countries in this region. This one consisted of a few oil drums and some rope with fluttering plastic bags along its length. Passports appeared to be very much optional for all but those in expensive-looking cars, and a thriving community lives in the no-man’s-land between the two countries, happily strolling back and forth between nations as fancy strikes them. If ever there was a scene to illustrate the absurdity of drawing straight lines on a map across a patchwork of ethnic groups, tribes and even families declaring, “this is mine, that is yours”, this is it. Once again, formalities were dispensed with in absentia, though we had to be patient while the driver negotiated a wonderfully complex process of collecting stamps and showing papers before we could continue on our way.
The cumulative delays since our early morning start saw us driving well into the night, reaching the general area (in the broadest sense) of our destination about 10pm. It was at this point that we discovered that the driver did not actually know where we were going. My rusty French was pressed into service, and we began to quiz passersby. Everyone very helpfully gave us directions, however none of them led to the same place... After exploring seemingly endless kilometers of dirt road and the limits of my French, we somehow found our destination.
The shoot the next day went brilliantly, with my favourite part of it being spent in a little village along a dusty track. (I wish I could share the images, but bad things would happen if I did. It’s a long story that unfortunately I’m not at liberty to relate…) When the crowd following us around the village grew to a size that made it impossible to get a clean shot without the assistance of riot police (no, not literally!) we decided to call it a day.
The return journey the following day was uneventful, save for a yelling match with the client, a lost passport (temporarily, fortunately), a boozy lunch and a missed flight. So, overnight in Bamako it was…
In the morning the phone rang:
“You need to come downstairs right now, a car is waiting to take you to the airport!”
“Great! What airline are we on and what time is the flight?”
“Er… Um… Don’t worry, your tickets are waiting for you at the airport!” Righto.
Thereafter ensued a frantic period of sleuth work at the airport to find out what airline we were on. Finally we found someone who said, “Oh yes, I’ve seen your name…”, who kindly issued us some tickets. However, they only went as far as Abidjan. Never mind, we’d sort it out at the other end. We dashed onto the plane, together with 50kg of hand luggage, and prepared to repeat the process in an hour’s time…
When we arrived in Abidjan a couple of warm beers later, it was to discover that the computer networks of both airlines that we might possibly have been booked on were down. A long queue snaked around the departure hall, going nowhere fast. We settled into a couple of chairs and practiced the venerable art of waiting. After a couple of hours the computers came back to life, allowing us to verify which airline we were on and, better still, even leaving us enough time to catch our flight. Once again we headed for the aircraft with all of our luggage, though this time I had to reassure the security personnel that I was not going to hijack the plane armed with my reflective umbrellas.
Once aboard, we discovered that the plane was fuller than full, so a steward very kindly pulled a drinks trolley out of its hatch in the galley and stashed my camera kit in its place.
And as we touched down in Accra a little while later I was relieved not to see the aforementioned trolley careening down the aisle. The trip had certainly had its ups and downs, but that’s no reason to abuse alcohol.
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One time as I was minding my business at Suuch Solutions' offices at Avenida Hotel, a couple of young boys came by to sell some 
3:12 