Ghislain’s favorite bar, part 1

Venture onto the side roads in Ouagadougou and you’re likely to leave both lights and pavement behind. En route to Ghislain’s favorite neighborhood bar, we bounce down a road it would’ve been difficult for a mountain goat to traverse.

At one corner, Ghislain points, saying, “That is my house.”

Unlit and hidden behind a wall, it is impossible to see the place, but he seems pleased to show it to us. He drives past it and then without warning stops half way down the block, scanning the street.

“My neighbor,” he says, “he is a bad man.” At this declaration, he promptly puts the car in reverse and proceeds to back up the 50 yards or more to the corner we just passed. “Every day we have fight. Every day, every day. I don’t want to drive over there. This way is better.”

I take it he’s not talking about having his newspaper stolen or finding the guy’s dog crapping in his yard.

“You fight? Like, fight?” I ask.

“Yes,” Ghislain says, flashing a bright smile in the unlit interior of the car.

The bar is nearby occupying a dark patch of an adjacent dirt road. To call it a “bar” is to vastly expand the definition of that word. It is more accurately a closet that sells cold beers and then permits you to sit at its couple of outdoor tables to drink it. Think adult lemonade stand.

There is no light, so we use our flashlight to gather up enough chairs for our group. Ghislain is clearly happy to have been able to bring us here. He seemed dubious when we assured him we wanted to go to his favorite place.

“But it is small, and quiet,” he warned us.

And so it is, but after departing that morning from our rooftop in Paga, having a run-in with one very unhappy bush taxi driver at the border, being harangued by a fledgling revolutionary and learning no one wants our cedis, we could not be more excited about a cold beer in a dark, quiet spot.

I take Ghislain’s advice and start with a bottle of Castel, which he assures me is the only brand that won’t give me a headache. It is so cold and I am so thirsty, I wonder for a moment if it isn’t the best beer I’ve ever had. He seems quite pleased by this.

Still, we have to try them all. Over the next couple of hours, we sample bottles of Flag, Brakina and the most peculiarly named beer I’ve ever encountered, So.b.bra (pronounced so-bay-bra). The latter two are true Burkinabé beers, So.b.bra really being the signature brew of Ouagadougou. All, of course, are lagers.

At one point, getting up to venture up the road to pee, there being no bathroom, Ghislain says, “Greg, don’t go far. There are robbers on this road.”

Thanks to a couple of big bottles of beer, and a genetically inferior bladder, I’m willing to take my chances. The girls, for their part, are forced to water the weeds behind a concrete wall across the street. Viva la Africa.

(Picture: Sitting at our first Ouaga bar, from left, Jeanne, Shawn, Maria and Ghislain)