Panamtougouri was excited. He was secretly gathering millet straw in the field to prepare an amazing surprise for Maman. In the neighbouring dump he had found an old electric plug welded to a cable. All he had to do was twist some corn straw together to make a big star, and then wire it up. She would be so happy! To the great joy of the children, Maman had brought a similar star back from Germany at Christmas which lit up the AMPO orphanage for all fifty boys.
Panam never imagined he would be able to make the same kind of star himself, although in all his seven years he had already seen many improbable things. From the age of five, he had spent many nights on the street; he did not know his father, his Togolese mother didn’t look after him and his grandmother was too old to keep reins on him.
What a life! At night he posted himself in front of the bars of Ouagadougou, and closely observed the drinkers. The barmaids knew him well. He chose his moment… and off he would go! Everybody stopped to watch when the little fellow performed a back flip without a running start. Okay, so it wasn’t always great, but even if he didn’t quite pull it off, he was given something to eat sooner rather than later. Men would even give him some of their beer! Cartwheels, the splits, and headstands were his speciality and when he walked on his hands, people would applaud him. Everyone was in love with little Panam, with his irresistible, gap-toothed, beaming smile. The prostitutes let him sleep on their patch and even the policemen who regularly picked him up, gave him something to eat. In spite of all this, his charm had no effect on the social welfare people. Time and again they brought him to a new foster family, but he never stayed more than one night. No, Panam was a street kid. Apart from that, these people always wanted to clean him up, which didn’t suit him at all. In fact he never screamed louder than when he was put under a running tap! They all dreaded his terrible screams, so they’d just give him a quick wipe and lovingly dry his flood of tears. After a good breakfast, however, Panam would disappear. Adventure awaited him on the streets and on the streets he was his own boss, his pride preventing him from owing anything to anybody. From the age of six, he alone decided where he would go.
Since he was the smallest boy on the street, he got away with more than most. The other boys considered him to be a sort of mascot and gave him some of the takings they made from begging. He was only afraid of the older boys who took too many drugs and could be unpredictable.
One night he and a few friends had gone to sleep in the ditch just opposite the bakery where sometimes, at five in the morning, they were given any bread left over from the day before. But that night he was wakened a lot earlier in total darkness by a strange moaning. Was the older boy next to him sick? It was the dry season in Ouagadougou but the ground around him was damp – it couldn’t be water.
Panam stood up and looked round about for the other boy, but there was no longer anyone there. He could not hear the boy breathing beside him any more. He was frightened. Where should he go in the middle of the night? He quietly slipped under the bench in front of the bakery. Despite the threat of the night watchman sleeping there, it was still better than being alone. No one likes to be alone in Africa, especially at night. A deathly silence hung over the city. At last, as the sun came up – Panam had felt that the darkness of the night would last forever – he saw the bloodstains on his shirt: someone had killed the friend who had been sleeping by his side.
Panam took to his heels, throwing away his shirt – no way would he be mixed up in this! He went to find his grandmother, but she had left for the village. He spent that day in his hideout under a burnt-out car, with nothing to eat, hardly daring to move. That is where I found him in the evening, the boy who would stay with me forever.
“Maman? Look, here’s a surprise for you!” Before I could react, the plug was in the socket; there was a deafening bang and a blue flash. Panam had brought the entire orphanage to a standstill.
A Christmas star! This was indeed a perfect example of the simple intelligence, the innovative flair, and the independence of thought I have come to expect from all the children. Thank God, nothing happened to the boy. I was thrilled at what he had done, even though everyone else actually wanted to give him a good thumping, for the orphanage had to do without electricity for days and good electricians are hard to find in Burkina Faso.
In More, the language of the Mossi people, the name Panamtougouri means “flying monster”. How often has he sought refuge in my bed, for fear of spending another night in the ditch? How many times have I had to go and fetch him at the police station, because he had taken off yet again? I had to go to the school time and time again and try to pacify his teachers. His big mouth during an argument when he was convinced he was in the right, his uncontrollable shrieks when he was being washed, I could easily pretend not to hear. I am very strict with the children. Even today, seven years on, Panam can cry big crocodile tears at will, when he hopes to get his own way, but that doesn’t work with me. I know him too well and I know for sure when he is genuinely sad. During these dramas he watches me out of the corner of his eye and when I begin to grin he just can’t contain himself and both of us fall about laughing. Everyone else just shakes their head – what’s up with those two?
When we are sad, we don’t talk at all but we always stay as close as we can to each other. Sometimes our eyes just meet and that is how we get through things together until they get better.
Over the past six years, with the exception of my trips to Germany, we were separated from each other only once by force of circumstance. Panam’s grandmother stubbornly insisted that he should go to stay in Togo with the new family into which his mother had married. No one at AMPO wanted that because there was no school for him to attend and of course no medical care. Even if there had been, the family still wouldn't have the money to pay for medicine, or at least want to pay for a child brought into the marriage. People die quickly in Africa. The grandmother, however, would not yield. She came to see us every day, secretly gave magic potions to poor Panam and would throw herself on the ground in front of me in floods of tears to make me understand that tradition demanded that it be so. We asked the head of the colonie togolaise in Burkina Faso for advice, because we did not want to make any mistakes. He too tried to persuade the old lady that it would be much better for the child to grasp the opportunity offered by AMPO, but to no avail. In the meantime, the grandmother had exerted so much pressure on the child that he had no choice but to give in to her.
I shall never forget how Panam and I packed his bags. In Burkina Faso it is not customary to show one’s sorrow; both of us gulped trying to hold back our tears until finally he was gone. Then I collapsed in tears behind the office and wept bitterly, exactly what Panam was doing in the car, as Issaka told me later. Neither of us wanted to upset the other. I had sent our tutor, Issaka Kargougou, to accompany Panam on his four-day journey so that at least one of us would be able to see the place where the child was going to live.
Issaka went on to visit another family in Togo and at the end of two weeks, he came back through Panam’s village. He found him sick, lying in front of the hut. He immediately convened a family council.
Since the family was having difficulty putting up with this demanding child in any case, everyone agreed to allow him to return to AMPO. As soon as he heard this decision and in spite of his fever, Panam rushed into his hut, reappeared immediately with his bag, took Issaka’s hand and was ready to leave: he hadn’t unpacked a single thing during the entire two weeks.
For me, it was as if AMPO had been empty all this time, in spite of the forty-nine other boys. Every day we talked about Panam, even his sworn adversaries missed him. His nit-picking was forgotten, his insults and his haughtiness; let him play truant and even if he never wants to wash, all that isn’t terribly important after all. Where is Panam – is he not one of us?
Four days later, in the middle of the night, they arrived in Ouagadougou. Issaka knocked on the front door until I woke up and when I opened the door, a little eight-year-old bundle fell weakly into my arms. At long last, my Panamtougouri had returned home. The following day he made a regal entry into AMPO, laughing casually and dismissively with a slight wave of the hand: “It was only one little trip to Togo. So what?”
However, to this day, when something goes wrong, I only have to look at him questioningly – perhaps he would prefer to return to Togo? – and without further ado he turns around and gets washed or sets off for school.
Today he is making an effort at school. His dilemma is typical of former street kids: he is intelligent, but totally unable to concentrate. From his earliest childhood, he has done only what he was interested in and that only for as long as he felt like it; then he moved on to other activities. He was entirely undisciplined, untidy, spending his days begging, sleeping, fishing, eating, and playing. Since there are between a hundred and twenty and a hundred and forty children to a typical primary school class in Burkina Faso, a great deal of patience is required to learn anything. You very rarely come first, which is precisely Panam’s goal. It's got to be him or nobody; otherwise, he quickly loses patience and runs off, just as he has always done.
Corporal punishment is common in the schools of Burkina, the children are not hit with the hand, but with sticks, rulers and whips. We have had occasion to stitch head wounds in the past or spend several days dressing wounded backs. A typical form of punishment is for children to kneel for hours on grains of scattered rice, or wear paper donkey ears for speaking More instead of French. I once had to remove four children from a school because their teacher was intolerable.
Obviously, it isn’t easy to teach children in such large classes and it is always unfair because the shy ones cannot keep up. Added to which the kids are always fighting during playtime, because supervision is never adequate with so many children.
At the orphanage, both adults and the older children are forbidden to hit the little ones and here in Africa this is a major exception. In our staff meetings for days on end, indeed for years on end, I have had to listen to people telling me that these are African children and they need discipline and that I, as a European, couldn't possibly understand. Nevertheless, I have remained firm on this point and I have had to warn or even dismiss employees who did not adhere to my policy.
The result is that in all these eight years, only twice has there been a serious quarrel between two boys, even though we do take in some rough characters. Little by little, people are beginning to get my message, even our master carpenter.
Our daily practice shows that non-violence is the best solution and this I find gratifying. Each AMPO boy has a “brother”, a bigger boy and a little one always forming a pair to help each other. When one of them is sick, the other one sleeps beside him in the infirmary; when one gets into a scrap, the other comes and tries to sort things out.
In our experience the most important thing in a child’s life is the responsibility he assumes. A boy who has been on the streets for years will be happy to take care of a little dog, a little chicken, or a little brother. Someone has finally shown faith in him and he has to prove himself worthy of it in front of all the other children. At first, there are quite a lot of slip-ups when rules are ignored and set times disregarded, but what else can you expect from a boy who has never known a single rule in his life?
Thank God this is the country where forgiveness was born. Here, people are always ready to give advice which is heeded out of respect alone. When it comes to consideration, respect and politeness, without a doubt Burkina Faso in general is a little corner of paradise. Consideration is rooted in Mossi tradition: for centuries people fell to their knees when greeting both royalty and the elderly, and to this day many still do. All the AMPO children, even the boys, curtsey when they greet you.
In any event, in Burkina Faso greeting takes time, especially in the countryside where the whole ritual can last for several minutes. Using certain customary expressions, people will enquire about your house, farm, fields, livestock, children, wives and grandparents. Next they discuss the harvest, possible arrangements with others, travel plans. Finally, when saying goodbye, each member of the family must be addressed and many blessings are said and reciprocated for farm and fields, an absolute must. The blessings of the Mossi were the first thing I learned in their language.
Of course things are different in the city. The tone is more casual depending on the age group, but in general the elderly are still respected in the way they are spoken to. People lower their eyes, and bow their head and then after a few jokes or jibes, everyone finally gets around to talking about what’s bothering them, or what they want.
This nice form of politeness combined with an unbridled joie de vivre is certainly one of the reasons I would wish to grow old in this country. In Germany I am always shocked by the constant moaning and groaning I hear all around; in Burkina Faso, it would be unthinkable for a child to answer back. In Africa, I have seen government ministers bow when speaking to their father on their mobile phone. Here a son is expected to do what his father says, even if the son is sixty years old and the father eighty – that is the way things are in Africa.
Thus the children at AMPO generally listen to us as well as to each other and in that respect we have it easier here than in Europe. Even Panam, in spite of all his wilfulness has to give in in the end, although I have to make sure in his case that he is always the one to choose. Otherwise he feels overruled and his pride is hurt, giving rise to long discussions, but in the end he comes back to me and admits we were right. The years of giving him smiles of approval after inspecting his ears mean that he now realizes the advantages of getting washed. He even comes of his own accord to have his fingernails cut. Each morning he returns from the pump freshly washed, his socks pulled up, his teeth sparkling clean and not the slightest trace of wool from his blanket in his hair – I think it’s because he is beginning to show an interest in girls and here as always, he wants to be number one, my Panamtougouri.
For years I had been trying to avoid the decision, I realized that now. And yet, I am generally known for making decisions quickly and sticking to them.
I was sitting on the beach and suddenly it all became clear. There was definitely a void in my life that I had brilliantly succeeded in ignoring. The huge waves of the Atlantic crashed ashore. I had been sitting here for three days now. What does life want from me? What do I have to offer? The palm trees rustled in the breeze like in a scene from a film.
My life was looking so good. My bookshop in Northern Germany was doing well and the various apprentices I had trained gave me reason to be proud. My son John was old enough to stand on his own two feet. There had been lots of men in my life and many good friends too. How then could I not be happy with it all? I had always had good music, great motorbikes, I could potter in my lovely garden, travel wherever I wanted and eat whatever I wanted. I couldn’t possibly wish for more. Right?
Many women had told me how envious they were of my life – for them I was emancipation personified. I didn’t worry too much about my reputation; in the course of my life I had been divorced three times and each time I had picked up the tab. Living in a small town, I had married an African and although at first this cost me a few customers, after they realized that nothing had changed, they came back. At the end of the day I had enjoyed life to the full.
But somewhere, something was missing. I had always tried to be honest and truthful to others and to myself, but I must have overlooked something. And it had to be something essential.
The next wave rolled onto the beach and I felt hopeless. Where was my joie de vivre?
I travelled to Africa for the first time in 1989. Although I had travelled extensively before, I had always given the Dark Continent a miss: too dangerous to go there alone; too complex to understand. I didn’t want to go into it.
Then one day one of the asylum seekers in our town was admitted to the psychiatric unit. At that time I was a member of the Friends of asylum seekers Association and we took turns to visit him.
He was not well. Each time we went we found him strapped to the bed or in a straight-jacket and he was getting thinner and greyer by the day. We tried to convince the doctor to consult doctors in France or Belgium, given that the cultural and traditional background of an African must be very different from that of a German. Doctors in those countries had more experience with Africans who had gone “crazy”. But she rejected any help.
In Africa, patterns of bird flight are considered to be very significant. One day the doctor brought the young man to her room on the fourth floor for a consultation. As he entered the room a flock of birds flew past the window. He rushed over trying to read from the flight pattern and the doctor, believing he wanted to jump out of the window, immediately pressed the red button. Once again the orderlies came and once again he was strapped to the bed and given sedatives – yet another misunderstanding between two cultures.
Things couldn’t go on like this. Luckily, I managed to get hold of one of his brothers on the phone, who was working in a sugar factory in the south of Burkina Faso. He was convinced that his brother could be healed by traditional medicine and that he was probably under a spell for which his tribe had an antidote. He thought I should come and fetch the traditional medicine.
What was I to do? I had just come back from a trip and had neither the time nor the money to fly to Africa. To tell the truth I didn’t want to go there either. Flying in Africa is more expensive than anywhere else in the world. Add to that the fact that my travel agent had never even heard of the capital Ouagadougou. Who on earth had ever heard such a name? Where was it supposed to be? In the Sahel?
In the meantime I had come up against so much resistance that I finally took the challenge. I bought a ticket to Banjul in The Gambia, the cheapest ticket on the market at that time, studied the map of West Africa thinking the two thousand kilometres over land to get to Banfora might well be fairly easy. Borders? With all my travel experience – no problem!
As a novice, I had no idea: I didn’t know about the war in Mali, the train bandits, the nightly attacks, the terrible accidents on overfilled minibuses travelling through the bush, the variety of serious illnesses that had to be faced without access to a doctor, the army of swindlers and petty thieves. Now I know. Trips in Africa have to be carefully planned; you never know whether you will arrive at your destination at all, not to mention when or how. Even with the best car, with two spare tires, spare canisters of diesel and water, the best compass to hand, something can always go wrong. This continent is so huge and you can easily get lost.
Everyone in my hometown warned me. My husband was against it, my son was afraid for me, I told my mother as little as possible. So I had myself pumped full of vaccines and I was on my way to Africa.
To this day I can remember the sudden feeling of loneliness at Banjul airport at two in the morning. Busses were there to take the package tourists to their beach hotels and was I supposed to go into town? In fact I was already the perfect prey for a conman, but my luck was in. Someone gave me a lift and I found myself in front of a small shady hotel, one where you pay by the hour, where the ladies of the night sat on the steps having a great laugh at my expense. There were mice scurrying around under the bed and pigeons had built a nest in the broken air conditioner. All night long girls walked up and down the hallway, knocking on doors calling out: “Fancy a bit of love, sir?” I couldn’t sleep of course, so I ended up chatting to them all night.
The next morning I saw my first African sunrise – I saw the filth and the poverty, but I also looked into happy faces and couldn’t believe the way people seemed to be enjoying life. They kindly offered to share their tea with me because I had no Gambian money. A plate of dubious-looking rice stood in front of me. After an uncertain look towards my companions, I began to eat just as heartily as my girlfriends from the night before. It did me no harm and I learned that morning that sharing is an absolutely natural, unspoken law in Africa.
Thus began my travels in what was for me an unknown continent. The colours, the charm of the people, their friendliness and their modesty made me happy. I had never been more carefree on the road. And strangely enough, the greatest difficulties somehow turned into blessings. Everything always worked out in the end – for every problem there was a solution.
I tackled this new world head-on. Africans appreciate that and are always ready to lend a hand. In the beginning, I had to get used to this way of travelling. In typical hasty European fashion I hurried every morning to the various bus stations or bus stops where the famous bush taxis took off in various directions. The price to your final destination is always a matter of negotiation. It took me days to understand that the drivers were shamelessly lying to me. “Pas de problème, yes of course, madame, we’re leaving in five minutes!” Sometimes these five minutes turned into five hours, because a bush taxi only leaves when it is full and full means overloaded. They always manage to stuff in two or three more people, a few sheep, mopeds, baskets of vegetables or bunches of bananas; all of which get shaken into place during the trip. What does time mean in Africa? There is always time as the proverb says: there is always more time on its way.
I rarely got angry, because these stops were pulsating with life and full of surprises. Everywhere there was music, beautiful colours, and enigmas. No matter what corner you drop me at here in West Africa, to this day I have never been bored. There is always so much happening and I’m right at the heart of this vibrating life.
You always come across people who want to tell you their life story. There are many funny misunderstandings to be explained about comings and goings, and you drink tea, pass around aspirin or share food. You exchange recipes, compare illnesses, discuss newspaper articles, depending on your fellow traveller, what language you are speaking and what direction you are travelling in. Everywhere I encountered friendly interest and absolute politeness.
Is this supposed to be the dangerous Africa everybody warned me about? My fellow travellers always answered my questions, were pleased at the interest I showed and thus they wanted to teach me.
Why are those four women all dressed the same? They share the same husband who had given them a bale of fabric as a gift and this is their way of expressing their togetherness as a family.
Why has the woman sitting next to me stained her hands so carefully with henna? She is on her way to a wedding celebration.
Why, among the Mossi, can a man not address his wife by her first name? It’s a matter of respect – before the wedding he may, but not afterwards. And the formal form of the second person plural is used to address one’s in-laws.
Why do the huts in this village have white stripes? To ward off the evil eye of a stranger.
Why do you have to stop the car for a minor whirlwind? Because they carry bad spells or even curses.
Why do babies all wear those little necklets? To prevent teething troubles.
Why do so many people have scars below their left eye? The flight of a night bird can bring on an incurable disease in pregnant women and children; the cut is to ward it off.
A new world. I was delighted – and completely shaken up! There were few tarmac roads, just sandy, uneven stretches of track riddled with potholes. You cannot drive less than seventy or eighty kilometres per hour, because you would sink into every dip in the road. If you go faster it is extremely dangerous because you can skid and it is almost impossible to brake in the sand. Since there is no other way to travel during the rainy season, most of these tracks have been elevated, leaving a two or three metre slope on either side so that, when accidents happen, cars usually roll over several times. Driving in the Sahel is a science in itself. But we always pulled through.
My luck seemed to run out when, two weeks later, I collapsed one night at a customs post between Mali and Burkina Faso. In San a petty thief had stolen what was left of my money – I was left with only travellers’ cheques and I had had a hard time finding a driver to take me to Bobo-Dioulasso across the border at night. I had a high temperature, I was feeling sick and the back of my neck was hurting – what on earth could it be? I had to get to a doctor one way or another.
To this day I still remember that night trip, as if in a dream. Somewhere in the middle of the bush we were stopped by a Malian military patrol. They surrounded the car, noisily releasing the safety catches on their Kalashnikovs. Their faces were distorted in the light of a small cigarette lighter making their scars look even deeper.
It was forbidden of course to cross the border on the back roads. But I felt absolutely no fear despite being shouted at. My temperature was so high that I was like in a dream. I mechanically held my cigarette packet out the window, more interested in the giant yellow moon that had just come up behind a field and seemed to stretch across the entire horizon. Fascinating! After exchanging some heated words the driver and the soldiers seemed to calm down, a little money changed hands and we continued on our way. Our luck was in because as I learned a few days later, there were always skirmishes on this border. Here the Africans say: “The heads of the white men are numbered.”
An hour later I collapsed at the Burkina Faso customs post.
Even before I opened my eyes I could smell petroleum and hear the cicadas. Then I saw a huge grin and white teeth gleaming in the dim light of a petroleum lamp. I was still not afraid.
It was Rayayesse, a customs officer, who had picked me up that night. He would become the best friend I ever had. He brought me to his family. His wife brewed me bitter medicine. I spent days sitting quietly with their children in the yard. A healer was called. He came and wrote mysterious words on a wooden board with ink made from a concoction of special plants which was then washed off and the mixture of ink and water was poured over my head. He spent hours counting cowrie shells in the sand, nodding slightly and muttering encouraging sounds. I felt that I was being taken seriously and well looked after. I had to drink some bitter, black liquid and douse myself with a hot herbal infusion. After several days the fever broke and I started feeling better. Rayayesse took me into town. Meningitis, the doctor said – and I was very lucky…
Lucky! Yes, my luck held. Rayayesse lent me his motorbike and I continued on my own as far as Banfora where I met the brother of the sick man in Germany. I had to wait a week for the traditional medicines – it’s true that I had learned to be patient along the way – and my plane took off from Banjul without me.
This gave me time to learn more about Africa. I experienced a new world, indeed a different planet, grateful and astonished because I only had African friends. Over the next four years, I would not get to know any Europeans during my visits. And in this way I got to know Africa from scratch.
From maize porridge to marriage rites, from the latest fashion to the art of respectful address adapted according to age group, from bargaining techniques at the market to childcare. I learned everything direct from traders, artists, housewives, bank clerks and children, especially children. They proudly took me with them all over the place, showing off their new German friend. This is how I gained insight into the most diverse families and lifestyles, learning first hand about lack of money and poverty and the art of survival in Africa.
Their openness and hospitality overwhelmed me. I would often sit sweltering in a small mud hut, chatting and someone would bring me Coke. The money it cost could feed three children for a day. Feeling ashamed, I would leave a bag of sugar or tea on the table – the only way I found to respond to such magnanimity.
I would leave feeling dissatisfied with myself and the world. What had I done to deserve my privileged position? Why could I have anything I wanted without giving it a second thought? Of course I was not rich, but life for me couldn’t be better. I had previously donated to organizations in India and in Africa, but I had not been aware of how decent people have to cope with life day in day out, how much time it takes to fetch water, gather firewood and light petroleum lamps. At home I only had to turn on a tap, turn up the heating, flick a switch.
They on the other hand did it all happily together – jokes were bandied back and forth across the river on wash days, singing and dancing was all part of it! When I told them we have machines in Germany to do the laundry the women burst out laughing. “What would we do with our spare time on wash days?”
There was always something to laugh about. Here chickens are cut in two to be grilled over charcoal, a delicacy that the average family can very rarely afford. When the first electric grills arrived in town and the chickens turned automatically on spits behind glass, people stood gaping with surprise and to this day they are still known as TV chickens!
Soon I learned to recognize order in the apparent chaos. I was so wrong to think that everyone was just doing his own thing. Even in the most frenetic dances, for example, there is one man who is responsible for everything. He usually plays the lunga, a small drum that can actually produce words; he tucks it under his arm and he makes it emit sounds of varied pitch that resemble phonemes, giving clear indications as to who starts what dance and when, even calling out the names of the dancers. I was astounded. So that’s how it works!
The clouds of dust against the setting sun, the wild stamping, the ululating women, the bouncing men, everything seemed to be absolutely chaotic. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I am the one in fact who fails to understand the drum, the order of things, everyone else copes perfectly well.
I was filled with profound respect. Not only had I missed the point, I’d had also very little regard for what I had seen. I was ashamed. In most cases the man calling the tune was small and insignificant, dressed in a brown robe and certainly not taking pride of place as a conductor. What a lesson in modesty Africa was for me at that time.
Although I have learned an enormous amount in terms of tolerance and acceptance in the past few years, it is far from enough. Nevertheless I realized that merely putting up with things was in fact thoughtlessness on my part – I actually couldn’t be bothered to find out. Otherwise I should have realized how small my world was, how, in spite of all my travels, I had simply stuck to my own point of view. Had I been blind?
Another wave thundered onto the beach. The palms rustled encouragingly in the breezes. I was slowly taking heart.
With the traditional medicine for the man in the psychiatric ward in Germany in a bag, I set off on my long return trip to Banjul in a bush taxi. Saying goodbye to Rayayesse and his family was heartbreaking. All of a sudden I was all alone again in this huge continent of Africa which threatened to swallow me up. I immediately understood what family means here: protection. And I had been part of it.
Back in Germany, my first visit was to our friend from Burkina Faso. He was not well. The doctor categorically refused to use African medicine in her clinic. I waited patiently for four hours outside the office of the senior consultant; I had learned patience in Africa.
“You know,” he said, “everyone here is a crazy anyway, why not try your medicine?”
Relieved, I returned to the clinic to show the extremely kind nurses how to use the teas, powders, pomades and the water drawn from African wells. And it really worked! Two weeks later the man was discharged from hospital and was able to fly home, accompanied by a German doctor who told me later that he threw out all the medicines he had brought along as soon as they were over Paris, because the patient seemed completely normal – at worst he had been suffering from an overdose of sedatives.
And that was how the story came to a satisfactory end. But I found myself back in my bookshop in Germany, wondering what had just happened to me.
I wanted to do something and I wanted to return to Africa. I knew about Rayayesse’s greatest plan. He wanted to build a school in his home village, which was situated in the middle of the bush about two hundred kilometres from the capital in the north of Burkina Faso. The name of the village was Ouendnongtenga, which roughly translated means God loves this earth. He wanted to build a primary school with three classrooms. The state would pay the teachers’ salaries as long as they had houses to live in. Until now lessons had always been given under a tree, with a few children participating on a sporadic basis.
Rayayesse himself had travelled eight kilometres every day to attend school in a neighbouring village. Few other children made the effort and in any case, few children had the money for school fees. At most one or two children from a family of six were able to go to school. The others were needed to work in the fields. This was what Rayayesse wanted to change – it was his greatest dream.
I knew that I should get to work and help him. I had taken lots of photos during my travels in Africa but slide shows had always struck me as boring; so pooling my few resources I put together a multimedia presentation. During my presentations on Life in Africa through my eyes, people could look, listen, smell and feel. I always started with liberal doses of perfume from Africa, a powdery mixture of tree bark, various blossoms, musk and sandalwood. Then I would pass around an eight-metre long scarf for people to feel, made traditionally of blue and green dyed muslin, which Tuareg and Fulbe men wear twisted around their head to protect themselves against the heat and the dust, and which Europeans find picturesque. This was accompanied by the finest African music and then I showed images that are difficult to forget, pictures of an unforgettable journey.
The proper forum was already established because I had been travelling around Northern Germany for many years, visiting adult education centres and women's associations, talking about books and so I was fairly well known. The news of the presentation on Africa spread quickly and in the end I was snowed under. Two or three times a week I travelled throughout Northern Germany, sometimes to the smallest villages to speak to an audience of about a hundred people. At the end of each presentation I would ask for donations to construct a school in West Africa and people gave generously. At that time we had not yet set up the charity, there were no tax-deductible receipts for the donations – everything was based on trust.
I opened a bank account and four months later I was able to return to Africa with five thousand euros. Over the telephone Rayayesse had promised to pick me up in Ouagadougou.
I was very excited at the beginning of this second trip. Now I was going to prove whether I had merely been smitten by the whole of Africa during my first trip. Things were now getting serious.
A new wave crashed noisily onto the beach. I sighed deeply. I still failed to grasp the fascination of Africa. Just a week before I had been standing in my bookshop, mulling things over.
I was looking for a greater task which, if I were perfectly honest, had to come from me, because I was not getting any younger. What I planned on doing from now on would have to be very clear. I had amassed too many things I really didn’t need. I didn’t want to have more, but rather less. I felt saturated on the inside and on the outside. I had to step back. Was this the famous mid-life crisis? Actually I felt that my life until that point had consisted in reacting to other people. Now I wanted to cautiously explore my potential.
At home in Plön in Germany I had quickly made up my mind. I had packed a small shoulder bag, setting off the following day for Côte d'Ivoire, a country unknown to me. And now I was sitting here with no external influences, without a book, without a friend, in my self-imposed exile. I wanted to reach a decision.
Pretty patterns of shells I collected spread around me, I wiggled my toes in the sand, the breeze became fresh, memories of Africa came to mind.
During this second trip to Africa we had flown over the Sahara with good visibility for at least three hours. Every pattern in the desert sand seemed to have a mysterious meaning, as if it had been put there for my benefit. In Ouagadougou the searing heat encompassed me as soon as we touched down. It was April and the thermometer showed forty-eight degrees. I had not expected this heat, because in January the climate had been quite tolerable in the south of the country. I had of course read about the extreme temperatures, but reading about the heat and feeling it oneself are two entirely different things. Little did I know that I would freeze in Africa later on.
Rayayesse was waiting for me behind a reflecting glass door. For just a moment I saw my own face with his behind it – he was like a brother to me. The profound trust I had in him and the joy of seeing him again warmed my heart.
As he was a customs officer we got through the airport without a hitch, with five thousand euros in my pocket and a load of medicine for the village in my suitcase which they didn’t even open. All the other passengers had to wait hours at customs. Later I too would have major problems whenever he was not there – they still carried out complete body searches at that time.
He took me to a hotel, an old colonial building with rickety beds and wardrobes with doors that didn't close, but it did have a pool, which was fantastic.
That is how I saw Ouagadougou, the capital, for the first time and I found it hideous. Little did I realize that it would be home to me some day, because the country’s poverty is concentrated here and the need to act is most acute. There is a great deal of poverty in the villages as well, but people can often manage to help themselves. Women collect roots and leaves and other ingredients, and often the millet harvest will see them through the whole year. People help each other out and expectations are low. People live very modestly and make do with little.