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Tanker driver Baba steeled himself for yet another perilous journey from Ivory Coast to Mali loaded up with desperately needed fuel — and fear. "You never know if you'll come back alive," he said. Even before they hit the road, the mere mention of a four-letter acronym is enough to scare Baba and his fellow drivers. The Al-Qaeda-linked group, known by its Arabic acronym JNIM, declared two months ago that no tanker would cross into Mali from any neighbouring country. Hundreds of trucks carrying goods from the Ivorian economic hub Abidjan or the Senegalese capital Dakar have since been set on fire. The JNIM's strategy of economic militancy aims to choke off Mali's capital Bamako and the ruling military junta, which seized power in back-to-back coups in 2020 and 2021. The fuel blockade has made everyday life in the west African country all but impossible. "By economically strangling the country, the JNIM is looking to win popular support by accusing the military government of incompetence," Bakary Sambe from the Dakar-based Timbuktu Institute think tank said. On top of that, Mali has a "structural problem of insecurity", he added. **media[382875]** Despite it all, dozens of tanker drivers still brave the roads, driven on by "necessity" and "patriotism", they say. AFP spoke to several along the more than 300-kilometre road between the northern Ivorian towns of Niakaramandougou and Tengrela, the last one before the Malian border. "We do it because we love our country," said Baba, whose name AFP changed out of security concerns. "We don't want Malians to be without fuel," added the 30-year-old in a Manchester United shirt. Taking a break parked up at Niakaramandougou, five hours from the border, Mamadou Diallo, 55, had a similar view. "If we die, it's for a good cause," he said. Further north at Kolia, Sidiki Dembele took a quick lunch with a colleague, their trucks lined up on the roadside, engines humming. "If the trucks stop, a whole country will be switched off," he said, between mouthfuls of rice. Two years ago, more than half of the oil products exported by Ivory Coast went to Mali. Malian trucks load up at Yamoussoukro or Abidjan and then cross the border via Tengrela or Pogo, travelling under military escort once inside Mali until their arrival in Bamako. Up to several hundred trucks can be escorted at a time, but even with the military by their side, convoys are still frequently targeted, especially on two key southern axes. "Two months ago, I saw militants burn two trucks. The drivers died. I was just behind them. Miraculously they let me through," said Moussa, 38, in an oil-stained red polo shirt. Bablen Sacko also narrowly escaped an ambush. "Apprentices died right behind us," he recalled, adding firmly: "Everyone has a role in building the country. Ours is to supply Mali with fuel. We do it out of patriotism." But their pride is mixed with bitterness over their working conditions. "No contract, no insurance, no pension. If you die, that's that. After your burial, you're forgotten," Sacko said. With monthly pay of barely 100,000 CFA francs ($175, 152 euros) and a small bonus of 50,000 CFA francs per trip, Yoro, one of the drivers, has called for a risk premium. Growing insecurity has prompted some Ivorian transport companies to halt road travel into Mali. In Boundiali, Broulaye Konate has grounded his 45-strong fleet. "I asked a driver to deliver fertiliser to Mali. He refused. The truck is still parked in Abidjan," he said. Ivorian trucker Souleymane Traore has been driving to Mali for seven years but said lately "you take to the road with fear in your heart". He recently counted 52 burnt-out tankers on his way back to Ivory Coast and another six on a further stretch of road. In response to the situation, the government signed an agreement with the drivers on Thursday, which includes provisions such as care for those injured as well as for the children of those killed. Malian Prime Minister Abdoulaye Maiga has referred to the fuel that manages to get through as "human blood", in recognition of the soldiers and drivers killed on the roads. Analyst Charlie Werb from Aldebaran Threat Consultants said he did not anticipate the fuel situation easing in the near future and said the political climate was uncertain. "I do not believe JNIM possesses the capability or intent to take Bamako at this time, though the threat it now poses to the city is unprecedented," he added.

Forest ranger Daouda Bamba is in no doubt about who the apex predator is in Ivory Coast's Comoe National Park, ravaged by war and unrest between 2002 and 2011. "The most dangerous animal here is man," the lieutenant said, while at the head of a 10-strong patrol on the lookout for hostile intruders. Founded as a big game reserve in 1926, Comoe long ranked among Africa's most beautiful natural parks. Tourists flocked by the thousands to catch a glimpse of its elephants, lions, leopards and herds of antelope and hippopotamuses. But that status came under threat during Comoe's lost decade, when the government abandoned the park during the west African country's two civil wars, leaving its rich fauna and flora at the mercy of looters and poachers. Yet while Bamba's militia still has to guard against the threat of unscrupulous humans, Comoe has made strides towards recovering from its close brush with destruction in the years since. On a rare reporting mission to the reserve in Ivory Coast's far northeast, near the border with militant-riven Burkina Faso, an AFP team saw antelopes frolicking, clans of barking baboons and families of warthogs with snouts to the ground across its vast and nigh-on-pristine expanse. "We're seeing lots of animals. The park's getting better," said Bamba, one of 160 rangers working for the Ivorian Parks and Reserves Office (OIPR) in Comoe. "Since we upped our game in 2016, the animals have been at peace. They don't run away all the time, which means they're not being hunted anymore." **media[381929]** However, the Kalashnikov slung over Bamba's shoulder, as well as the truncheons and tear gas grenades hanging from the rangers' belts, are hints that not all is well in paradise. "When we catch intruders, it often leads to a brawl," the lieutenant said. "Three major threats hang over the park," Bamba said, namely "poaching, illegal gold mining and unlawful livestock herding". Nearby, one of his deputies tinkered with a drone, a useful tool when tasked with detecting human activity across the park's 11,500 square kilometres. Often, however, the rangers have to resort to old-school means. "Our day-to-day is spent on foot. We're on the lookout for smoke from a fire, tracks from bicycles or motorcycles, or vultures circling overhead," said Bamba. In 2024, 125 people were arrested in the park, including 105 gold diggers and 18 poachers, according to the OIPR. Raynald Gilon's voice trembled as the old bushman remembered Comoe's glory days. "We had a fabulous era here. The wildlife was magnificent," said the grizzled Belgian, who has spent half a century guarding the park. Hyenas and red hartebeest roamed its sun-baked savannahs, while Nile crocodiles and fishing eagles alike plunged into the waters of the Comoe River, which gave the park its name. Comoe welcomed "up to 6,000 to 7,000 tourists each season, most of them Europeans who arrived here by plane", he remembered. At the park's northwest point, the dusty Kafolo Safari Lodge's crumbling stone entrance and abandoned blue-bottomed swimming pool serve as a reminder of that bygone age, long left to rot. When the crisis began in 2002, the park found itself deep within territory controlled by the rebels who were fighting to overthrow then-president Laurent Gbagbo. With the rangers forced to flee, the park was left exposed to the whims of the poachers, gold diggers and farmers. "It was a massacre, a real ransacking," lamented Raynald Gilon. "Everyone was taking part in the looting, including the rebels who claimed to be protecting it!" Within a year of the war's outbreak, Unesco added the park to its list of endangered World Heritage sites. "The Comoe park nearly died," he said. 'TARGET OF GREED' When Ivory Coast's crisis ended in 2011, the new government worked to fix the damage done, pouring funds into equipping and training up guards tasked with flushing out the poachers. "All of this allows us to really monitor the park and restore peace and quiet for the wildlife," said Commander Henri Tra Bi Zah, one of the park's managers. Those efforts bore fruit. In 2017, Unesco removed Comoe from its endangered heritage site list, in a first for an African park. Three herds of elephants have been spotted, with a total of 200 individuals, while the chimpanzee has made a comeback. Although the lion and the African wild dog are both believed to be locally extinct, leopards, spotted hyenas and even the caracal cat are a common sight in Comoe. Antelopes and buffalo number by the thousands. **media[381930]** That said, those hoping to catch a glimpse of the park's rarer beasts have to venture deep into the savannah, often while braving thick swarms of biting tsetse flies, the AFP team observed. While insisting that the "biggest problem" of illegal gold mining has been "contained", Commander Tra Bi Zah warned that the park "is still the target of greed because it is brimming with resources". Nearby villagers seem to be respecting the park's boundaries. "Hand on heart we can't enter. If they catch you in there, you'll go straight to jail," said a farmer from Bambela, whose hut lies just a few metres from the edge of the savannah. The OIPR even has hopes to revive tourism to make the park "a driving force for socioeconomic development" in the Ivorian northeast. Those hopes, however, are complicated by the park's proximity to Burkina Faso, which is locked in conflict with fighters linked to Al-Qaeda or the Islamic State group. Western governments have advised against all travel to the region as a result. That said, no militant has been arrested or even spotted recently in the park, according to security sources questioned by AFP. A new hotel has sprung up in Kafolo to welcome humanitarian workers, civil engineers or even the odd foreigner passing through, its walls adorned with hunting trophies from the big game era of yore. "The park is struggling to recover from the disaster... The revival is fragile," said local deputy Abdoulaye Karim Diomande. "But the OIPR is making great strides. The future looks bright."