Goodbye, Ouaga, part 2

The music is at the Jardin de L’ Amitie, which turns out to be just next door to the restaurant at which we’d had lunch earlier in the day. An open, inviting skirt of grass with tables faces a good-sized covered stage. Though the traffic can be heard on the other side of the wall, the grounds manage to give the feeling of a cool, relaxing oasis.

On stage, two men, one on acoustic guitar and one on a drum, play some understated music, the singer sounding a good deal like Louis Armstrong. Despite the fact that their version of “Let It Be” is truly inspired, I have to admit to some disappointment that what Ghislain thought I’d meant by music was the Burkinabé equivalent of a hotel lounge band.

But we were all together, and that is enough. The principal stop of our journey is nearly over, which makes the trip seem like it is nearing an end. I order a cold Castel and settle in to the adult contemporary rhythms of this West African Simon and Garfunkel, happy.

Ghislain, who I should mention had clearly “taken” a few beers earlier in the day, is eager to confirm I am comfortable. It had been important for him to give me what I’d wanted, some music, and it was important to me for him to know that I appreciated it very much.

“This is great,” I assure him.

“Yes, you like it?” he asks.

“And such a great spot.”

“OK, OK,” he nods, smiling.

I’m just getting in the swing of it when I notice that other musicians are beginning to arrive, taking up a spot offstage. They carry drums and peculiar-looking stringed instruments, one with a deep hollow body and a long neck. I keep an eye on them as we all discuss the events of the last couple of days, and how we are best to get to the border the following morning. Ghislain makes it clear he’d like us to stay another day.

“I can make a plan for you for tomorrow,” he says.

But we’re set on going, and we try to convince him and the bishop that we don’t have to have a bus, that a tro tro will do. Even in this they are committed to our comfort and try to convince us that an air conditioned bus is better.

Meanwhile more musicians arrive. Things are looking up. After ordering another beer, Ghislain speaks to the waiter, having obviously seen the musicians himself.

“Another band is going to play,” he informs us. “Diaulo music. From Mali.”

“Yes? Really?” I ask.

“From Mali.”

The eight-member band takes the stage and for the next 90 minutes they fill the air with the most incredible funky desert blues you've ever heard. This kind of music can make you do strange things. It has a insidious beat that works on you like a drug. Mix it with cold Castel beer and one might, just might, find himself being pulled on stage by the lead singer to dance.

(Picture: Me standing with my new favorite Malian singer)