A blog post formed in my mind the way they often do, beginning with a feeling in response to some small experience, perhaps a vague hook or a title surfaces at some point, and then a few connections are made, linking this random experience to more common human threads of emotion.
I felt fairly prepared for my Sunday morning writing. And then I had a visitor from out of town. My friend was here for exactly one and a half days before he ventured out on his own. I returned from school to find him sitting comfortably in the house, having arrived a mere 20 minutes before.
Remembering my own harrowing experience trying to get back home, I was a bit in awe. I began to wonder if I'd imagined the communication difficulties with the taxi-men. I chalked it up to being white, being a woman. A million and ten reasons tried to surface explaining the disparity. Once he started telling me how he'd written everything down well, I recalled that it was I who wrote down the reference points, based on evidence gathered from my experiences gone wrong. Because I'd learned that the taxi drivers call all of the rondpoints in Sotuba the rondpoint Sotuba, and because I'd learned that the Shell station was a pretty reliable reference point (you can't change the name of an established business with a 6m orange and yellow sign,) I was able to make a note with references that couldn't go wrong, no matter how little French or how much Bambara. He wasn't necessarily more savvy than I, but just received better 'get home directions' than I had (or, at least this was the way I chose to frame the story.)
It was helpful to remember this last part because sometimes living in Bamako can feel like a deep trove of well-buried secrets to uncover. Everything simple seems to require days of searching and asking questions. It began a month or so after arrival. I'd been having some health issues and one of the possible remedies was to renew my packet of the pill.
Taking contraceptives was never something that was talked about in my family, along with a long list of many other non-discussed life mile-stones. It is only recently that I have realized how many women take it for reasons other than preventing childbirth. All this time I thought I was alone.
Contraceptive use in Mali seemed like another one of those sticky issues. The country in general feels a bit more conservative than other countries, but I am not really sure if I am so truly in touch. The amount of tourists that has passed through here perhaps had an effect of loosening restrictions. At this point I am probably still working on stereotypes from the media and quarter-truths.
Regardless, I do feel that Mali is a male country and going into the pharmacy didn't prove me wrong. I'd made my way down to Mohamed V, having been told it was the pharmacy to go to if all the others didn't have what you needed. I should take a minute to mention this whole adventure might have been more easily solved if I'd just gone to the doctor- but, well, the Tale of Two Clinics is a blog post I still haven't committed to paper, though it's well formed in my head. I generally avoid doctors except in the most emergency of cases and this didn't seem to be that. Besides, I hadn't visited the illustrious Mohamed V.
The pharmacy is located in the middle of the grand marche, which translates into crowded streets, difficult parking and an overwhelming number of customers inside. The routine was pretty clear- a bunch of baskets lined the counter and one had only to place their prescription in the basket in order to secure a place in line. Then, just find an unclaimed portion of floor space to step back into and wait for your name. This was great, except I had a question, not a slip of paper. Actually, I had a slip of paper, too, handwritten by myself but it required explanation, and, of course, my question.
I hung out near the counter hoping to catch someone's eye and maybe have a conversation. My first attempt didn't go well as I had reversed two of the letters in what I thought was the brand name. It was close to a girl's name, but not exactly. The woman at the counter took a look at my paper and could only focus on a girl's name. The conversation couldn't get past that.
To my horror, the school chauffeur, who'd driven me down to Mohamed V, had also come in. He had good intentions and only wanted to help, but this was definitely not a matter I wanted to share. There's no such thing as HIPPA here. I spotted a sign hanging from the ceiling that suggested there was another area for consulting so I took my question down there. The man tried his best to help me, but he was a bit stymied by the girl's name as well. I'd written Melanie instead of Meliane. In either case, I had already gone to one pharmacy where the pharmacist had been especially helpful by looking up the brand name in a book and he was able to find comparative medicines. I'd been hoping for something similar here. The blue book of pharmacists.
One man handed me off to another, supposedly more senior man who was a bit brusque- it was a busy Saturday morning. In the end, I lost my nerve to ask for exactly what I wanted, between his gruff demeanor, the chauffeur standing by and the waiting room full of men, I chose instead to just leave. Empty-handed. Great.
Back at the ranch, I did some googling. What I wanted to find was the name of the specific pill used in Bamako, if in fact, there was one. My research turned up several interesting articles by various NGO's and others studying the hows and whys of contraceptive use in Mali. Turns out many men buy the pill for their wife, although there were a number of secret pill users. I was also able to discover the name of a popular contraceptive. Armed with this new information, I set out for a pharmacy close to me- I figured if it was going to be helpful, it had to be convenient, too.
This pharmacy is just next door to a Marie Stopes, and so it seemed logical they would have something. I just wasn't speaking the right language yet. I handed the pharmacists my new slip of paper, this time written with the correct spelling of Meliane and the Malian version, Pilplan.
He came in seconds with a packet, which he offered to me saying, "Deux cents francs." I thought it wasn't possible I could have heard him right and so asked him to repeat. Sure enough, this box of contraceptive, which Trump has been trying to make ever harder for Americans to access, was 200 francs, something like 35 cents.
When I got home, I opened the box to find there was a 2 month supply inside. Which meant approximately 17 cents per month. And the 5 or so pills at the end of the pack were iron, not placebo. I had to appreciate the ingeniousness of it. Sometimes, Africa does it better.
It was such an easy transaction I wondered why it had taken so long and felt so complicated. Just like once I understood the clearest directions to get home, it seemed so obvious. Maybe not all secrets are buried so deep. Slowly, slowly Bamako is making sense. (But it's still way too dusty and hazy to breathe. I am not sure if there is any fix for that.)
