Lost in translation
Panorama have returned to West Africa to once again pick up the trail of migrants who are willing to risk everything for the chance of a new life in Europe.
Following on from my work in Destination Europe in September 2007 and Destination UK in January 2008, I have kept a travel log of the team's experiences.
In the coming weeks, I will be blogging about everything from the palpable emotion of a cave that was once used to process slaves being shipped to America, to the intrigue of introducing a group of small children to the myriad intricacies of satellite links, to the need to forego air conditioning for the sake of the camera.
Across the border into Burkina Faso and onwards to the capital, Ouagadougou.
Another roasting journey in the car. I always seem to end up in the middle, with nowhere to rest my head.
The border point is an orange dust track with a piece of string hanging between two sticks of wood. The guards give our luggage a good going over.
"Guns" they keep saying, "people smuggle guns through here."
Beyond the border is a dried river bed, and a small bridge where I do a quick piece to camera.
Then, there's the entry point into Burkina Faso. We are led into a small hut and invited to sit opposite the boss on a wooden bench. Our driver had forgotten his passport.
"You can't come in, you can leave your car here with these English, and go home." He spends some time examining the other passports, and then I lean over and tell him how remorseful our driver is, what a fool he has been, and how he will never be so forgetful again. The boss is good enough to let him through.
The countryside changes almost imperceptibly from rainforest to savannah. The roads are empty.
Ougadougou is dark when we arrive. There are roadside fires, chickens and goats, rattling cars and spewing trucks. The hot air is still. We have no map. We decide to flag down a taxi so that it can lead our 4X4 to the hotel. A quick survey of my colleagues reveals my 'O' level French qualifies me as the communicator.
I swagger over to the taxi and he waits for me to speak. I have a repertoire of perhaps 20 words. I just need to tell him that he should go to the hotel, and our car will follow.
"Follow" is the problem. It is not one of my 20 words.
"La voiture," I say, pointing at our vehicle "est derriere votre voiture."
He fires a hundred words at me. Sign language and mime are the only way to sort things out.
We arrive at the hotel after 11pm, and have eaten nothing all day. They agree to keep the kitchen open.
The following day we go to the bus station to film migrants gathering for the next step of the journey. I try to explain that we want to film the bus leaving for Niger, but everyone thinks I'm saying I want to catch the next bus to Niger. They keep taking me to the ticket office.
Next time, read about the challenges involved in convincing the border guards at Niger to let us in.
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