Seventy horses are lined up outside the house of Sidibe Saalou, chief of Barani. They have been arriving since sunrise, resplendent in tasselled bridles, patchwork numdahs and glorious multicoloured saddles. Their riders hail from all over Burkina Faso and Mali, and they have congregated here in Barani to celebrate their shared passion: the horse.

In Burkina Faso, riding is the tradition, love and lore of an entire nation. It is no coincidence that its coat of arms depicts a horse, that the coveted first prize of Ouagadougou’s pan-African film festival is the Etalon d’Or (Golden Stallion), that the nickname of the national football team is Les Etalons or that the most common surname is Ouedraogo (meaning stallion).

Metal chairs – 420 of them – have been arranged in an open-sided marquee facing the riders. The chairs are filling up fast with chiefs, mayors, ministers and other visiting notables. In West Africa the horse is a symbol of royalty, nobility and wealth, so Feshiba (the Festival Hippique de Barani) brings out the kings in droves. Everyone is dressed in their finest clothes – men in robes and prayer hats, women in beautiful sequined dresses and shawls.

We tourists are among those honoured with places in the shade. I am shown to a seat next to a copiously turbaned Fulani man, whose first question takes me aback: “Puccu annduda naa mobil?” (Do you know horse or do you know car?)

“Mobil,” I murmur, feeling almost ashamed to admit it. During the past 30 years, the proliferation of the motor engine across West Africa has caused a severe decline in horse numbers. Nowadays, most Fulani use the word puccu (horse) to mean motorbike, while the tautological puccu leebi (hairy horse) has been coined to refer to the animal.

A sudden volley of hunting rifles celebrates the arrival of the Bobo Dioulasso chiefs. Here they come, magnificent in boubous, spectacles, prayer hats and bling, swaggering through the clearing gunpowder smoke like pop divas through dry ice. A sea of griots (praise singers) eulogise and genealogise like mad, holding out hats and palms in earnest supplication.

At 9am, an old man appears, clad in a traditional straw and leather Fulani hat and robes of royal blue. His wrinkled face is angular but kindly. He greets the assembled crowd and walks to a high-backed wooden throne in the front row of the audience.

“Amiiru Al Haji Sidibe Saali!” cries a griot, pointing a long finger at the old man. “Al Haji Sidibe Saali, chief of Barani, revered by men, esteemed by knights, beloved of God himself!”

The chief is seated. The 400 guests of honour are comfortable. About 2,000 standing-room-only spectators have arrived from across the province, and the tree by the mosque is groaning under the weight of their children. The stage is set.

One of the 70 horses steps forward out of line, a pale-chestnut stallion with rings on its bridle and bells on its reins. The rider wears a red prayer hat and a broad-shouldered green and yellow robe, and he holds the reins lightly between finger and thumb, like a douser wielding his rods or an artist his brush. He utters a quiet command and flicks the reins lightly across his horse’s withers. The stallion bows, furls his front legs and kneels on the sand before the chief.

The highlight of the two-day festival is this reconstruction of the ancient Haaro ceremony. In the 16th century the fearsome Fulani warrior Sega Samba subjugated all the Samo farmers and Dozo hunters living in the Barani region, and insisted that they pay annual obeisance to a Fulani chief. They have been doing so ever since.

The chestnut stallion lowers his belly to the ground, followed in an arc by long neck and jewelled jowls. He lies prostrate before the throne, motionless save for the rise and fall of one glossy flank. Then his rider climbs out of the saddle and stands on top of the horse, hands on hips, jaw jutting, gaze level. If this is obeisance to the chief, I would hate to see defiance.

One by one, the riders lay their horses down before the throne. There are variations on the theme: one rider takes off his turban and waves it above his head like a football scarf; another dances a Bob Marley jig across his steed’s ribcage. It is a blacksmith from Bankass, however, who steals the show. Dressed in pristine white robes, Noumu Jor prostrates his horse, hops out of the saddle, sandwiches himself between the animal’s legs and pretends to go to sleep. The crowd goes wild.

Several horses are cavorting to the sound of the Dozo hunting rifles. One is pogoing on its hind legs, another is wheeling around like a teacup fairground ride, and yet another is balancing on top of an upturned mortar. Before long, the air is thick with dust and gunpowder smoke, pulsing with the relentless clickety-clack of a thousand ringed fingers on a hundred calabashes.

A little man in bright-orange robes is tap-dancing among the horses, distributing 10,000-franc notes like leaves while onlookers whoop in incredulity. “It’s the mayor of Ouonkoro!” my neighbour cries. “Look at him go.” With Mali only 15 miles away, many of today’s guests have come from across the border; Feshiba unites the two nations in shared appreciation of the chevalier’s art. Ouonkoro is Barani’s twin town in Mali, and right now its mayor is doing wonders for international relations.

The ceremony lasts three hours. By midday, the horses are tired of the sun’s fierce heat and the spectators’ throats are all whooped out. Horses are returned to their host families for a bucket of water and a nosebag of millet. Festival-goers retire to the mayor’s compound for a bottle of Coke and a plate of rice and chicken, prepared and served by the elegant Princess Sidibe and her team of aunts.

The organisers of Feshiba are a group of young men and women from the chief’s extended family. They have done a remarkable job here, if you take into account that Barani has none of the infrastructure usually associated with international festivals: no roads, no electricity, no running water, no clinic, no phone lines and no mobile network. This unprepossessing village has conjured up one of the most colourful and arresting spectacles in West Africa.

After siesta, the festivities will recommence. Ten thousand people will gather on the Barani plains to watch the hairy horses race. Young and old, rich and poor, beggar and chief will line up together and race bareback until the dust blots out the sun. For the past two years, the chief’s six-year-old stallion, ridden by his son Idrissa, has won the final Race of Races, and most people in Barani are hoping for a repeat performance.

Whoever wins, the village will not sleep tonight. The Jumbo truck is in town, and from dusk till dawn, thousands of villagers will strut their stuff to a heady mix of reggae, hip-hop and Jumbo Poulet stock-cube ads.

The horses will not be among them, for they have already danced enough. As a crescent moon rises, the steeds will shed their bangles, down their millet and enjoy a well-earned rest.

The 2008 Feshiba festival took place on February 29 and March 1. Dates for the 2009 festival have yet to be confirmed. Ring Mamadou Sidibe (00 226 7028 5191) to find out more or to book a place. The festival falls on a different date each year, and due to the tricky logistics of the region, it’s best to contact a specialist tour operator. Tim Best Travel (020 7591 0300, www.timbesttravel.com) can tailor-make trips throughout West Africa, with 14 nights in Mali and Burkina Faso starting at £2,900pp

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