Ghislain & the bishop

Our first mission once in Burkina Faso is to get to, of all places, the Ghanaian Embassy. Jeanne needs to secure a new visa for our return in a few days’ time. The rest of us have multiple-entry Ghanaian visas and can come and go as we damn well please.

Being at the embassy is unexpectedly comforting after the journey from the border. It is especially welcome after the taxi ride from the Ouaga station, which finds all five us and our bags crammed into without question the most battered, most beat up, ricketiest, most run-down car in all of Africa. The inside of the doors is just exposed rusting metal. The floor is all uncovered frame. What is left of the dash is largely collapsed and covered in dust. To get going a few of the driver’s friends have to push us down the road a piece before the engine catches.

Learning that the Ghanaian Embassy does not in fact take Ghanaian cedis, and none of us yet has ceefah (having dismissed the enthusiastic moneychangers at the border), Maria and I agree to go find a bank. We take everyone’s leftover Ghanaian cedis to exchange.

We soon find a bank, but learn to our surprise that despite being neighbors, Burkina wants nothing to do with our cedis. No one, it turns out, will take them. Luckily, they do accept U.S. dollars, which we change for Alice. And it does have an ATM that accepts VISA, so Shawn and I can get cash. But the others are, for the time being, ceefah-less.

Returning to the embassy, we find that our group has grown by one. Ghislain Kabore is a dark, handsome Burkinabé of about 30 with more than a passing resemblance to the actor Don Cheadle. He is the nephew of the bishop to whom Alice’s family has a connection. It is unclear how he got tasked with being our welcoming party, but by the time Maria and I return he has already been instructed to deliver us to good coffee.

Our first stop, however, is our hotel, which Ghislain has taken the liberty of arranging for us.

“This is nicer,” he says matter-of-factly, explaining why he doesn’t take us to the place we’d pointed to in our guidebook.

Stuffed into his car, he drives us down a bumpy side road in the eastern part of the city and then through a wide gate. Scattered around the large, quiet compound of sun-baked scrub grass sits an arrangement of low, concrete buildings. Called the Centre Polivalent, it was established by a local cardinal, Paul Zoungrana, and is operated by a group of resident nuns. It is small oasis hidden from the dusty chaos of the streets outside.

The rooms themselves are quite nice. They are very clean and equipped with two single beds with mosquito nets (the cardinal wanted, apparently, to discourage any shared-bed hijinks), a fan and air conditioning. The bathroom is also clean, with a nice overhead shower.

Admittedly of a miserly turn of mind, I’m still surprised at the price, about US$34. Isn’t this Burkina Faso, the third poorest nation on earth? If I can’t get a steal of a room here, where in the Ouagadougou can I?

Once we’re comfortably set up, Ghislain makes good on his promise and drives us back to the city center to a French-run patisserie. Even using the word “patisserie” has us swooning in anticipation. And Patisserie de Koloubo south of the Grand Mosquee doesn’t disappoint. We gorge ourselves on fresh pastries, baguette sandwiches and the richest, creamiest café au lait this side of Montmartre.

Full and fueled we return to meet the bishop, who is also staying at the hotel. He turns out to be a quiet, impressive man in dark-rimmed glasses and white vestments. He has about him the gravitas and bearing that I imagine coming in handy mediating some African election gone wrong or writing a line of self-help books.

Ghislain, for his part, does not strike me as the devout type. Dressed in a crisp, white shirt and black slacks, and sporting the air of someone with some money in a culture with little, there is clearly more to him than meets the eye. And then, almost on cue, he leans over to me and whispers in my ear, “I would like to take some beer.”

When I start to respond enthusiastically, greatly preferring this plan to the card game now being discussed between the girls and the bishop, he coolly turns his back to his uncle and puts a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

(Picture: Me and Ghislain)