It's been difficult to write about Mali. Bamako is a new experience for us in many ways. While there are the general 'African staples' that make a familiar connection between countries, the differences abound. I've yet to be enchanted, which shouldn't really influence my writing, but then, of course, there is school.
It's generally accepted that the first year at a new school is all about understanding. Understanding the curriculum, the educational philosophy, the work ethic, the rhythm of teaching and learning. There are reports to read and documents to write, there are resources to be found and protocols to decipher. And then of course, there are students. The student body of a school comes with its own set of cultural contexts to dissect and examine. While all of this is going on, there is the de-struction that must happen as well. The letting go of processes, events and understandings from "the old school." Granted, sometimes it is helpful to bring new ideas or routines but most often, these things must be designed site-specific.
The concurring need to understand the systems at a school for elite or expatriate children and the necessity of organizing oneself within the host country presents full time challenges. Language, social constructs, locating places for everyday needs. There hardly seems to be time for anything else. Add to this the fact that Bamako is mystifying me and the motivation to stay up late working on reflections of the latest move is lost in the dust kicked up by a thousand motorcycles.
The motorcycles are really the problem for me. I think. I'm not really sure, but I do know they appear to be having a profound effect on my ability to live simply. One example can be found in this short story.
A few nights ago, I decided to go out to grab something from the store- a few bottles of water and maybe a bottle of wine. A friend had recently brought a bottle of wine "from the gas station." I had been hearing about the multitude of things that could be acquired "at the gas station," everything from yogurt to solar powered lamps to wine.
So I set off determined to check this mysterious wonderland out. It's a short walk down the main road and across the round about. Five or six minutes, tops. Except when I arrived to the round about it was plagued with a million lights surging past. I don't see especially well in the dark, and have particular trouble with assessing distance- the worst kind of trouble for crossing a busy Bamako intersection.
The line of cars was endless and the stream of motorcycles daunting. I stood on the edge, waiting. I wandered down the road a bit and back up again, looking for a slowing of the current where I could safely traverse the river of traffic. I even briefly considered taking a taxi, to cross the street. Eventually I gave up and started to head back home. Defeated by a round about.
But then 2 things happened. First, it'd been a particularly rough couple of days and I was really hoping for a glass of wine. My ego probably kicked in a little bit, too- defeated by a street crossing? Really? The second and more important thing that happened is that I saw a donkey cart out there making its way around the circle. "A donkey can be out there, but I can't?" Surely I could walk faster than that donkey was going.
I turned around and made my way back. The donkey cart was impeding traffic just enough for me to make a mad dash across the first road. I walked across the empty circle lot, noticing the occasional patch of grass and a small collection of discarded plastic water bags. Crossing the street on the other side was much easier as most of the traffic was heading out to the third bridge.
I made it to the gas station, which did not have wine but did have Welch's fruit snacks - granted, a favorite of mine, but not exactly a replacement. They were selling for 1,000XOF a bag which means I didn't buy but did file away in my reserve list of possible snack sources for Mbalia in a pinch.
Of course, they might not be there the next time I go. If I go. The way back was a little more traumatizing. Again, passing over onto the center circle was fairly easy. I almost got creamed by a car that came speeding around the corner, but I managed to clear the road moments before contact. The real problem was crossing back over to my fairly quiet side road. The steady stream of cars and motos had not abated at all, and now I was stuck in the center.
I admit there is a lot of fear for me surrounding these bikes. I can't help but imagine how personal and painful getting run over by a motorcycle would be. These images do not help me muster the courage to take the plunge. I stood in that center isle for a long while, feeling frustrated, stupid and helpless. I couldn't cross the road. Seriously.
Since I am writing this post, there's no secret to how the story ends. I made it home, no motorcycle mash-up and I did not have to pass the night sleeping under the stars in the barren center island. The chicken finally crossed the road. But the huge amount of effort involved in this endeavor puts a damper on any future excursions.
It also puts a damper on personally driving. Colleagues suggest I buy a car, assuring me I will gain a new perspective and sense of liberty. Despite navigating the busy Kinshasa streets with all of their pitfalls and obstacles, I am not sure I am ready for the motos of Bamako.
It's the babies. There is tragic poetry in the way their smooth round heads peek out from the cloth that has secured them to their mother's back. Sometimes they are just a bulge in an ornately decorated scarf wrapped around their mother's head. It may be long enough to protect them from the sun and the dust, but nothing protects them from the hard earth.
My mind is scarred with images of potential accidents. Perhaps a result of too many defensive driving courses (oh, I was a demon of speed at one point in the timeline of my past) or perhaps it is the result of age and experience. The idea of a vehicle as a weapon, as a tool and a machine is one that has been well developed in me. Most people are driving with a sense of urgency and destination. They are not locked in the present moment. Their decisions are based on where they want to go and what they are hoping will happen next. No one is focused on the context of now.
The fact is I am in fear. This is not the kind of fear I can face down, not like fear of speaking in public or fear of opening oneself up to the criticism of others. I could never undo the image of an accident involving a baby. An accident of any kind is traumatic, but the roads are narrow and densely populated. I could almost believe there is often not enough speed to make accidents fatal. But it wouldn't take any amount of speed to crack open an infant skull.
I'm not exactly sure how to defeat my unease. Familiarity often plays a role in deadening our sense of anxiety. I sat outside a barber shop yesterday, just watching the flow of traffic. It was a Friday and entire streets were closed as people lined up for afternoon prayers. It was amazing to see whole blocks of people united in this act of faith, pausing their daily activities to come together in prayer. Right where they were. Afterward, a group of children lined up to get their treat from a store. They ran off with their bags of milk and something like rice pudding. Although the street was narrow, it hosted the common assortment of motos, small vans and transport trucks. I was amazed at how the children managed to find the right moment to dash across- and thought nothing of crossing back if a friend called them from the other side, or they forgot to return a borrowed hat. They watched, they waited and they took the risk. I resisted the urge to close my eyes.
For now, the motorcycle culture is a huge barrier to my ability to assimilate. Even as I witness the sense of liberty and ease it undoubtedly adds to Malian life, I cannot acquiesce. Perhaps I need to ride more myself. Or learn to drive one. Or maybe I need to be involved in public service campaigns (Allez avec ton enfant mais pas sur le moto ou Enfant a dos?--Prenez pas le moto) but it is hard to change habits. There is evidence of yearly helmet campaigns, but rumors of neck breaking Chinese fabrications are strong. Many people believe the helmet will slice into the neck, possibly severing a vein during an accident. Apparently this is perceived as a much greater risk than cracking your head on the pavement.
It's possible I will find a way to get over my fear. It's more likely I will find a way to crush it down and pretend like the dangers don't exist. Whatever the strategy, I will need to find a way to live with it until I can move on to another country, with an easier range of cultural constructs for me to navigate.
