While the number of those murdered during the protests- or just going to church- continues to rise, there is a feeling of strength and unity among the people. Watching the videos and hearing the news that has managed to escape RDC (a regular tactic of the regime is to cut all internet and phone lines- though there are circuitous routes) leaves me with a mixture of hope and despair. I am stunned by the amount of courage it takes to facing police, directly head on, knowing they have and will continue to raise arms against the citizens. I am elated by the courage and vision of the people singing and marching. And I mourn those who will not be here to see victory. There is no easy path to freedom.
21.1.18
Hope and Courage
The Congolese church, backed by other religious groups, called for another protest this Sunday, following the Dec. 31 protests that left seven dead and hundreds more arrested, including priests and alter boys.
While the number of those murdered during the protests- or just going to church- continues to rise, there is a feeling of strength and unity among the people. Watching the videos and hearing the news that has managed to escape RDC (a regular tactic of the regime is to cut all internet and phone lines- though there are circuitous routes) leaves me with a mixture of hope and despair. I am stunned by the amount of courage it takes to facing police, directly head on, knowing they have and will continue to raise arms against the citizens. I am elated by the courage and vision of the people singing and marching. And I mourn those who will not be here to see victory. There is no easy path to freedom.
While the number of those murdered during the protests- or just going to church- continues to rise, there is a feeling of strength and unity among the people. Watching the videos and hearing the news that has managed to escape RDC (a regular tactic of the regime is to cut all internet and phone lines- though there are circuitous routes) leaves me with a mixture of hope and despair. I am stunned by the amount of courage it takes to facing police, directly head on, knowing they have and will continue to raise arms against the citizens. I am elated by the courage and vision of the people singing and marching. And I mourn those who will not be here to see victory. There is no easy path to freedom.
Security Strike
Strike, or grève in French, is a well used tool across Africa. Teachers, taxi drivers and even doctors often go on strike to protest their poor (and many times unpaid) wages. Of all the countries I've visited, Cote d'Ivoire has had the most prolific and successful strike campaigns (although they don't make the World's Most Powerful Labor Unions list,) even their military was able to go on strike (although it's called mutiny when the military does it- they have weapons) and receive the back compensation that had been promised.
The trick to a good strike is numbers (or guns, I suppose.) I don't know much- in terms of actual facts- about the US Labor movement, but, like many Americans, I have been imbued by the legends of labor and tales of power and violence involved with the fight for worker's rights. A scan through the AFL historical timeline shows that strikers went through some intense moments and a lot of sacrifice was involved (from the Molly Macguires to the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters to the Farm Workers Committee. Martin Luther King, Jr was assassinated at a striker's meeting of sanitation workers.)
Workers' situations in Africa are not so far from many of the complaints presented by these groups. There is often little regulation for safety, and when in place, it is easily ignored. People work long hours for pay that is barely able to support themselves or their families. Often, especially when the government is responsible for the salary, they are not paid for months or years.
Shortly after I arrived in Bamako, bankers went on strike. They announced a three day strike and had nearly 90% of workers comply. Banks were closed. Period. The security guard strike these past few weeks has gone a little differently.
A search for news about the guard strike didn't turn up much. I found strikes by the Syndicate National des Travailleurs, Teacher's Strike, Transportation Strike, and the Customs and Imports Strike, all in 2017. RFI had this to say about the apparently illegal strike. The article suggests the guards want an increased risk premium of 40,000 (per month? Or just once? It's not clear to me. But it's true that, especially in this climate, they are often at the front lines of the most dangerous places.) I've heard they currently make anything from 50-70,000. I'd also heard that once the cap is reached, you never surpass it, no matter how many years you've been working for the company. This article explains it a bit better, suggesting that there was an agreement reached in the past but never respected. It also confirms the salary at 75,000 per month and states unequivocally that the guards feel they are being "treated like slaves." The 3 major points of the strike are more clearly outlined here and sound completely reasonable. This article includes some of the salaries and hours of guards in neighboring countries (much more for shorter hours.)
I had never even given thought to what happens in the case of an intruder or a theft. If there is a theft and the guard is on duty, it is surely he who bears the responsibility (and suspicion.) If an intruder is injured, again, the guard will have to deal with the consequences, apparently without the support of the company. They are unarmed men guarding the most luxurious businesses and homes in Bamako. It's dangerous work. And it's not comfortable.
Just to put it in perspective, many guards work for 12 or more hours. They sleep outside, in garages, or on cots on the side of the street. (I guess technically they aren't supposed to be sleeping, but let's face it, the hours are too long to reasonably expect someone to stay awake.) They cook their food over little charcoal stoves set in driveways or patches of dirt just outside the business or home they are guarding. My nanny gets 100,000 per month to work 6 hour days in the comfort of an inside atmosphere. She goes home to sleep at night. And apparently I am on the low side of the payment salary (hence the loss of two previous nannies who decided it was better to quit than work for my low salary.)
G4S is an international security company headquartered in London and working in Mali since 2007. They are no strangers to conflict. And it seems like they have a sufficient number of quality contracts to pay their employees a livable wage. I often make the mistake of thinking it is a respectable job. The workers have uniforms and they keep steady hours. They work for high profile organizations. It seems like a job that should be able to support a family.
The workers aren't feeling it and on December 31, many abandoned their posts. They left houses unguarded, locking doors and throwing the keys.....and some not even bothering with that. The general maintenance manager at our school expressed his surprise that some of the guards left the school in the middle of the night. "At least," he thought, "they could have waited until the daylight."
But this is the gray area of hiring a company and then expecting loyalty from the guards themselves. If you are not paying their salary direct, you can't really have an expectation of loyalty. They need to eat. The main problem with the strike was that not all guards participated. While it was nice to still see a few familiar faces, it was completely ineffective in terms of achieving the guards' main objective.
What it meant for customers, after the initial abandoning of the post, was that strangers showed up for duty. I had men I didn't know coming into my yard to "guard" the house. They didn't know who I was, who else lived or worked in the house and who should be allowed in or kept out. Some asked my name before letting me in, others just swung the door open at the site of a white woman. I have no idea how easy- or hard- it was for the nanny to get in.
While the initial strike was to last 3 days, the demands weren't meant and so it was extended. Again, the main problem here is that all of the posts were filled with new guards. (I wonder where these guards came from and what, if any, training they received. Many of the new guards have beautifully young faces. Are they even old enough to be guarding...?)
A strike can hardly be effective if there is a slew of new people just waiting to fill the shoes. There is a long history of violence associated with US unions, whether in the form of threats and harassment to employers, scabs or beatings and even murder of strikebreakers. It's serious stuff.
Which is why I was surprised to hear how some of the still working guards talked about the strike. They acknowledged that those who were striking were taking a risk, and that anything they achieved would benefit all of the workers. They also struggled with the need to feed families and manage financial obligations. In the US, there are rules and regulations about how to keep working during a strike. Other countries have a longer history of unions and, one might imagine, developed effective ways of managing the to-strike-or-not-to-strike question.
It seems clear there is a need for change. Malians deserve access to jobs that pay a fair wage, offer safe working conditions and allow them to rise out of poverty. These are the tenets most labor unions have been founded on. It is unfortunate that the security guards were unable to achieve an adequate number of unified employees to make their demands heard. Of the 1500 employees, a third of those took part in the strike. I've heard, but cannot confirm, it was announced that all those striking lost their jobs, nearly 500 people. Dismissed.
Of course, that means 500 new people are now employed. It's generally not the best outcome for a strike.
The trick to a good strike is numbers (or guns, I suppose.) I don't know much- in terms of actual facts- about the US Labor movement, but, like many Americans, I have been imbued by the legends of labor and tales of power and violence involved with the fight for worker's rights. A scan through the AFL historical timeline shows that strikers went through some intense moments and a lot of sacrifice was involved (from the Molly Macguires to the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters to the Farm Workers Committee. Martin Luther King, Jr was assassinated at a striker's meeting of sanitation workers.)
Workers' situations in Africa are not so far from many of the complaints presented by these groups. There is often little regulation for safety, and when in place, it is easily ignored. People work long hours for pay that is barely able to support themselves or their families. Often, especially when the government is responsible for the salary, they are not paid for months or years.
Shortly after I arrived in Bamako, bankers went on strike. They announced a three day strike and had nearly 90% of workers comply. Banks were closed. Period. The security guard strike these past few weeks has gone a little differently.
A search for news about the guard strike didn't turn up much. I found strikes by the Syndicate National des Travailleurs, Teacher's Strike, Transportation Strike, and the Customs and Imports Strike, all in 2017. RFI had this to say about the apparently illegal strike. The article suggests the guards want an increased risk premium of 40,000 (per month? Or just once? It's not clear to me. But it's true that, especially in this climate, they are often at the front lines of the most dangerous places.) I've heard they currently make anything from 50-70,000. I'd also heard that once the cap is reached, you never surpass it, no matter how many years you've been working for the company. This article explains it a bit better, suggesting that there was an agreement reached in the past but never respected. It also confirms the salary at 75,000 per month and states unequivocally that the guards feel they are being "treated like slaves." The 3 major points of the strike are more clearly outlined here and sound completely reasonable. This article includes some of the salaries and hours of guards in neighboring countries (much more for shorter hours.)
I had never even given thought to what happens in the case of an intruder or a theft. If there is a theft and the guard is on duty, it is surely he who bears the responsibility (and suspicion.) If an intruder is injured, again, the guard will have to deal with the consequences, apparently without the support of the company. They are unarmed men guarding the most luxurious businesses and homes in Bamako. It's dangerous work. And it's not comfortable.
Just to put it in perspective, many guards work for 12 or more hours. They sleep outside, in garages, or on cots on the side of the street. (I guess technically they aren't supposed to be sleeping, but let's face it, the hours are too long to reasonably expect someone to stay awake.) They cook their food over little charcoal stoves set in driveways or patches of dirt just outside the business or home they are guarding. My nanny gets 100,000 per month to work 6 hour days in the comfort of an inside atmosphere. She goes home to sleep at night. And apparently I am on the low side of the payment salary (hence the loss of two previous nannies who decided it was better to quit than work for my low salary.)
G4S is an international security company headquartered in London and working in Mali since 2007. They are no strangers to conflict. And it seems like they have a sufficient number of quality contracts to pay their employees a livable wage. I often make the mistake of thinking it is a respectable job. The workers have uniforms and they keep steady hours. They work for high profile organizations. It seems like a job that should be able to support a family.
The workers aren't feeling it and on December 31, many abandoned their posts. They left houses unguarded, locking doors and throwing the keys.....and some not even bothering with that. The general maintenance manager at our school expressed his surprise that some of the guards left the school in the middle of the night. "At least," he thought, "they could have waited until the daylight."
But this is the gray area of hiring a company and then expecting loyalty from the guards themselves. If you are not paying their salary direct, you can't really have an expectation of loyalty. They need to eat. The main problem with the strike was that not all guards participated. While it was nice to still see a few familiar faces, it was completely ineffective in terms of achieving the guards' main objective.
What it meant for customers, after the initial abandoning of the post, was that strangers showed up for duty. I had men I didn't know coming into my yard to "guard" the house. They didn't know who I was, who else lived or worked in the house and who should be allowed in or kept out. Some asked my name before letting me in, others just swung the door open at the site of a white woman. I have no idea how easy- or hard- it was for the nanny to get in.
While the initial strike was to last 3 days, the demands weren't meant and so it was extended. Again, the main problem here is that all of the posts were filled with new guards. (I wonder where these guards came from and what, if any, training they received. Many of the new guards have beautifully young faces. Are they even old enough to be guarding...?)
A strike can hardly be effective if there is a slew of new people just waiting to fill the shoes. There is a long history of violence associated with US unions, whether in the form of threats and harassment to employers, scabs or beatings and even murder of strikebreakers. It's serious stuff.
Which is why I was surprised to hear how some of the still working guards talked about the strike. They acknowledged that those who were striking were taking a risk, and that anything they achieved would benefit all of the workers. They also struggled with the need to feed families and manage financial obligations. In the US, there are rules and regulations about how to keep working during a strike. Other countries have a longer history of unions and, one might imagine, developed effective ways of managing the to-strike-or-not-to-strike question.
It seems clear there is a need for change. Malians deserve access to jobs that pay a fair wage, offer safe working conditions and allow them to rise out of poverty. These are the tenets most labor unions have been founded on. It is unfortunate that the security guards were unable to achieve an adequate number of unified employees to make their demands heard. Of the 1500 employees, a third of those took part in the strike. I've heard, but cannot confirm, it was announced that all those striking lost their jobs, nearly 500 people. Dismissed.
Of course, that means 500 new people are now employed. It's generally not the best outcome for a strike.
14.1.18
Bana na congo
Their clothes are too big
Or too small
Too bright
Too new or too old
They blend in with their background
Commit actions that make them stand out
Their necks are too long
Arms too skinny
With legs that can barely hold them
upright
They sink into despair
Strike poses of defiance
Hold on to a tender love for each other
That explodes into violence
They embrace the night
Sleep by day
Wander in a perpetual now
Clinging to each moment
No future, no past
Lost to their history
Our history
has no place for
this new generation
  |
The Walk to School: a photo-journey
We've taken to walking to school since our return after the long break. During the vacation, we set out for a random walk along the river and it wasn't too long before we found ourselves at the little dirt path that runs just behind the school. I realized a walk to school in the morning would help us all get some fresh air, return Nabih and I to our morning talks and develop a good habit.
It takes about 40 minutes with Mbalia walking, though Nabih and I can make it home in 30 at a brisk pace. The first day or two was a little tough for Mbalia and we actually ended up carrying her a bit. But by the end of the week, she was running nearly the entire way and I thought we might need to carry Nabih.
Like any good journey, it is easily decomposed into sections. I took a bunch of photos on our last walk of the week, highlighting some of my favorite buildings and the major landmarks we pass. The neighborhoods that line the river are a typical collection of half finished houses and surprisingly ornate castles. It's a fascinating mix, nestled in among the lettuce fields.
It takes about 40 minutes with Mbalia walking, though Nabih and I can make it home in 30 at a brisk pace. The first day or two was a little tough for Mbalia and we actually ended up carrying her a bit. But by the end of the week, she was running nearly the entire way and I thought we might need to carry Nabih.
Like any good journey, it is easily decomposed into sections. I took a bunch of photos on our last walk of the week, highlighting some of my favorite buildings and the major landmarks we pass. The neighborhoods that line the river are a typical collection of half finished houses and surprisingly ornate castles. It's a fascinating mix, nestled in among the lettuce fields.
 |
| It's still dark at 6:20 when we leave...and cold! |
 |
| A great collection of rocks for jumping
and balance walking as soon as we hit the main road |
 |
| The main road ends and we venture into the neighborhood |
 |
| It doesn't take long for the sun to come up |
 |
| The first of the built/not built combos |
 |
| One of my favorite half-builts. Beautiful form. There is a family that lives here. I imagine it is freezing at night. Difficult sleeping. |
 |
| View of the river across the road |
 |
| Next section: mini mango grove |
 |
| Mbalia always has to talk about the burnt tree stumps |
 |
| On the way home, kids are always in these
trees trying to knock down mangoes. There's usually an older woman sitting on her mat under there too. She's pretty friendly and often seems to be amused about something. |
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| Lettuce fields, always lettuce fields |
 |
| Half-built walls make great balance beams |
 |
| More unfinished houses. In the afternoon, this place
is teeming with children- all kinds of playing going on in the sand piles |
 |
| Roman ruin-esque....going up or coming down? There are frequently cows on this corner in the afternoon |
 |
| Another beautiful form. I love the roundness. A family lives here too. I imagine most of these half-builts are home to families, or 'guards.' |
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| In the middle of the unfinished...viola |
 |
| This mysterious collection of houses is always subject of discussion. The security walls take up a "city block" and there are four huge houses inside, along with a cozy looking paillotte at the junction of the buildings. What is it? Resort? Apartments? Some kind of cult meeting grounds? I've seen guards but never any other people or cars around. |
 |
| Across the road a half built wall opening up to....a lettuce field. |
 |
| This completed guard house along with security wall, mostly intact, always intrigues me |
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| This little bridge is a good sign! Almost there. |
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| The strange tall, dead tree trunk definitely a landmark |
 |
| The fisherman are usually already on the river by now |
 |
| A small path leads between the river and the farming |
 |
| Lettuce is a cheery green. There are also
carrots and other things growing here |
 |
| In the rainy season this will all be covered with river |
 |
| A turn to follow the last small path
along the wall of the school. There is a guard hut here- two soldiers with rifles sitting with a view of the river all day |
 |
| This day we saw a stray horse eating the lettuce. Pretty sure he's not supposed to be there. In fact, he gave us the eye and walked off, reluctantly, as we passed. |
 |
| These wells are usually found in the middle
of every field. There is also an intricate system of hosing that is used sometimes, though I haven't yet figured out what is used to provide the pressure to push the water through from the source |
 |
| So close now. We are along the front wall |
 |
| More soldiers with guns. Security. |
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| The front doors to school. We made it!! |
5.1.18
Atelier Yiriba
The children drifted in, climbing the steep steps in groups of twos and threes. The older girls came later, after much of the drawing and painting had begun. They freed the toddlers tied to their backs, leaving them to roam and grabbed paintbrushes.
A box of cardboard held the most appeal, as did another carton that appeared, containing plastic bottle caps, old pill containers and other cast-offs. The more inventive children created collages with the assemblage of materials, most often people-esque. The others were content to draw houses, paint the flag or even just cover small pieces of cardboard in whatever color was handy. One little guy even grabbed a leaf.
 |
| Driven to paint |
The children's atelier is located in her husband's family compound, atop a narrow stairway above their house there. She is busy with her work and projects around Bamako but tries to find a weekly meeting with the neighborhood children.
While the children explored the materials, we had a chance to talk. We discussed the difficulties of having structured classes and, alternatively, of having an open studio. The range in ages is both a positive aspect and a potential challenge. There are equal complications when choosing between offering a structured program with classes and the intention to teach or simply offering materials and letting kids do their own thing.
Too often, they get stuck at flags, trees, cars and houses. These are the things they are taught to draw in school. They don't have time for imagining, or even studying the art of their culture. Being there with the kids reminded me of the dilemmas I faced in Kinshasa. It pushed me to reflect on how the new centre can be organized to promote these aspects, and to consider the challenges faced with a transient population.
Even at the Atelier Yiriba the same kids don't always come back. There were plenty of new faces today. It is hard to carry a project forward when attendance is sporadic. But there are a core group of kids who've been there since the beginning, when the Atelier was organized around structured classes. It has evolved into a mixture of things now, collaborations with local artists, demonstrations, co-creating and open studio time.
It was a great reminder that small steps still bring us forward. Often, they are the only way forward.
 |
| I had to snap a photo of the glue method-Plan B in effect |
 |
| It started with a small group drawing |
 |
| Two of the long time artists |
 |
| An hour or so into it, things got busy |
 | |
| The small drawing table was soon overtaken I started ushering kids to find a space on the floor |
 |
| Posing with a mask from a previous session |
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| Painting table on the veranda |
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| Collection of works drying on the new benches |
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| A thank you photo for a gift of unexpected funds from Switzerland |
3.1.18
Market Day
Walking into the marche artisinal was a feast for the senses. Artists were scattered everywhere, working on their craft- shaping the soles of shoes, lacing up djembes, knotting cotten hammocks and, of course, pouring tea.
It was a stark contrast to the CAVA of Abidjan, with it's neat and narrow pathways and solidly constructed storefronts that resembled little village houses. To be certain, artists are always busy at work there ,too, but they have a sense of space and organization that makes it all seem contained.
The Bamako market was spilling over with cords and leather scraps, the sounds of tin hammering and drums playing, the chatter of women and the sing song calls of vendors, scents of churai and the midday meal mingling in the air. While there were neat store fronts, typical Malian architecture almost demands an imposing and artistic design and the arts market offered no less, the stores were arranged in a large square, with the center area being the communal workshop. People- generally men- had laid down tarps and nats or otherwise staked their claim to the ground, and spread out their tools. The air was alive.
We walked around the edges, gazing into stalls, responding to the never ending invitations to come and look, browse my shop, see my wares, buy-buy-buy. We weren't buying. I was looking for some raffia. And maybe some beads or cowrie shells, though usually those things are not found in the artists market but down some narrow side street where you would least be expecting it.
A wall of masks called to me. Not just a wall but a huge mound of masks- dusty, wooden, some broken and deteriorating. It was a bit overwhelming. The sensation that consumes me when faced with such an array is hard to describe. I am not sure if other people feel this way. It is like history has transformed into a living, breathing thing, has manifested into a physical form and arrives on the wind to envelop me. I feel covered and cloaked and infused with peacefulness. I am immediately transported into an other, a place with no name and no location. It is simultaneously today and yesterday and tomorrow. Lobi. All at once.
It's intoxicating. I spent some time staring at masks, chiwara and nimba, long antelope faces that were especially captivating and the Bwa sun masks from Burkina Faso and parts of Mali. I wasn't alone on this trip however, and so I had to curb my inclination to be lost for hours. Instead I asked about the raffia I was hoping to find.
The mask seller told me raffia is not indigenous to Mali. I wouldn't be able to find it here. It comes from Cote d'Ivoire....as so many of the products here seem to. I bought some black cord from a drum maker for a ridiculous price instead. We had an interesting exchange, the seller, his friend and I. We talked about dance and art, Conakry and Congo. We even did a little rumba right there in market place.
Congo has that effect on people. They marvel about the music and gasp at the politics. "There is always some kind of trouble there. Always a conflict." After a million of those start-too-high, end-with-a-grasp-that-holds-on-a-little-too-long handshakes, that honestly, I always thought were just for between men, we finally left the market place. I am perpetually in danger of a reckless purchase of a mask or fabric or some other not completely needed item that just seems to 'call to me,' but today was a day of discipline. No purchases, save for the black cord and some bundles of incense intended for artmaking.
Christine is leaving soon for Abidjan and we had made the market trip to pick up some bazin and get a little henna tattoo. The trip to the arts market was an afterthought. I'd been wanting henna for a while, remembering the delicate beauty it brought to my hands when I experienced it in Kinshasa. It seemed like a fitting way to ring in the new year, a little splurging on ourselves. Feeling beautiful.
We ended up sitting at a street side beauty parlor with a few other women who'd also taken a bit of their day to pamper themselves. While we waited for our turn, I watched the people of the market. I am always amazed at the beauty of humans. There are so many graceful people in the world.
I was especially captivated by women browsing through clothes. The vendor was calling out the price of her wares, singing in Bambara. She went on for so long I wondered how she could keep it up all day. It was both magical and annoying. I imagined her at home at night, gargling to soothe her sore throat.
Several elegant women caught my eye, the shape of their faces accented by headscarves, their outlined eyes and long lashes mesmerizing me. It was hard to tear my gaze away. I stopped trying and merely observed the way they shopped, choosing clothes from the pile, holding them up for an instant before deciding to toss back or drape over their arm for purchase. The clothes, mostly shirts, were 300FCFA, making it convenient to acquire multiple items at once.
One of the women came over and joined her friends, who were sitting with us, either getting henna tattoos or having their nails painted. Some just gazed at themselves in a small mirror, making beauty adjustments. It is such a foreign practice to me, this being with other women, preening. I admired the way a few of them had tied their headscarves, a look I'd attempted to achieve but hadn't really been successful at. I finally leaned over and asked one of them to show me how.
It took awhile to make my request clear and, laughing, she finally relented. Her friend kept insisting she would tie me up if I wanted, and pointed out where I could snatch up a quick headscarf for only 500FCFA. I realized that my only problem in achieving the simple but sophisticated style was the length of my scarf. Surely I could manage this at home.
My inquiry lead to more talking, and touching and general camaraderie among us. It was a nice way to pass a few hours, sitting there on the edge of the busy market road, sellers trying their best to evoke a purchase, watching the people pass by- each in their own story.
I asked the woman if I could take her picture and she immediately struck a pose and flashed a smile. Christine laughed and gently turned her head. "No, of the scarf," she said. Our new friend hung her head in dejection and acquiesced. After getting the picture I wanted, I said, "Ok, now you." And the sun turned back on. Same pose, same bright smile.
Several times an earring seller passed by- I had to ask him eventually if he wasn't the one who had just passed by a minute ago. They were all selling the same thing and had an eerily similar way of holding them right up in my face so I had to jerk back just to breathe. "Princess, princess, buy a little something." The vendor is smooth and his words flow in a silky, clean rhythm that could rival any rap star. I smiled and shook my head. I refused a million ways before he finally moved on. "Princess, princess...." I heard him whisper to the next lady in line. I laughed at the player in him, an ardent peddler of women's jewelry.
He was not the only romeo on the streets that day. Christine attracts a lot of attention. So many marketers followed her, trying to get her to purchase bazin or shoes or even a pair of men's jeans. I have noticed some people naturally attract the sellers. Ousmane is a bit like that too. Going to the market with him means we can count on the hawkers trying to push their watches and belts and other fancy items on him. I imagine they see his beauty and sense his style and assume he likes nice things.
It can either be exhausting or amusing to watch this display of wasted energy exchange. Luckily, on this day I found it all amusing. My favorite declaration of love occurred when we were looking for a taxi to go home. We'd found a fairly small patch of calm to search amidst the chaos. Motorcycles, taxis and sotramas shared the narrow street with bicyclers, pedestrians and roaming vendors.
The roadway cleared for a second. Everything seemed to go quiet. A man zoomed by on a motorcycle only to stop short. "Vien cherie, je t'accompagnerai," he called out to Christine like a marriage proposal. He seemed to be lost in a romantic daze for a second before zooming off. In a film, a dramatic spotlight would have highlighted his declaration of longing.
"What courage," I laughed. And yet, how else could you really know if a beautiful woman might maybe just consider zooming off with you into paradise if you don't ask? Love takes risks sometimes.
It was a stark contrast to the CAVA of Abidjan, with it's neat and narrow pathways and solidly constructed storefronts that resembled little village houses. To be certain, artists are always busy at work there ,too, but they have a sense of space and organization that makes it all seem contained.
The Bamako market was spilling over with cords and leather scraps, the sounds of tin hammering and drums playing, the chatter of women and the sing song calls of vendors, scents of churai and the midday meal mingling in the air. While there were neat store fronts, typical Malian architecture almost demands an imposing and artistic design and the arts market offered no less, the stores were arranged in a large square, with the center area being the communal workshop. People- generally men- had laid down tarps and nats or otherwise staked their claim to the ground, and spread out their tools. The air was alive.
We walked around the edges, gazing into stalls, responding to the never ending invitations to come and look, browse my shop, see my wares, buy-buy-buy. We weren't buying. I was looking for some raffia. And maybe some beads or cowrie shells, though usually those things are not found in the artists market but down some narrow side street where you would least be expecting it.
A wall of masks called to me. Not just a wall but a huge mound of masks- dusty, wooden, some broken and deteriorating. It was a bit overwhelming. The sensation that consumes me when faced with such an array is hard to describe. I am not sure if other people feel this way. It is like history has transformed into a living, breathing thing, has manifested into a physical form and arrives on the wind to envelop me. I feel covered and cloaked and infused with peacefulness. I am immediately transported into an other, a place with no name and no location. It is simultaneously today and yesterday and tomorrow. Lobi. All at once.
It's intoxicating. I spent some time staring at masks, chiwara and nimba, long antelope faces that were especially captivating and the Bwa sun masks from Burkina Faso and parts of Mali. I wasn't alone on this trip however, and so I had to curb my inclination to be lost for hours. Instead I asked about the raffia I was hoping to find.
The mask seller told me raffia is not indigenous to Mali. I wouldn't be able to find it here. It comes from Cote d'Ivoire....as so many of the products here seem to. I bought some black cord from a drum maker for a ridiculous price instead. We had an interesting exchange, the seller, his friend and I. We talked about dance and art, Conakry and Congo. We even did a little rumba right there in market place.
Congo has that effect on people. They marvel about the music and gasp at the politics. "There is always some kind of trouble there. Always a conflict." After a million of those start-too-high, end-with-a-grasp-that-holds-on-a-little-too-long handshakes, that honestly, I always thought were just for between men, we finally left the market place. I am perpetually in danger of a reckless purchase of a mask or fabric or some other not completely needed item that just seems to 'call to me,' but today was a day of discipline. No purchases, save for the black cord and some bundles of incense intended for artmaking.
Christine is leaving soon for Abidjan and we had made the market trip to pick up some bazin and get a little henna tattoo. The trip to the arts market was an afterthought. I'd been wanting henna for a while, remembering the delicate beauty it brought to my hands when I experienced it in Kinshasa. It seemed like a fitting way to ring in the new year, a little splurging on ourselves. Feeling beautiful.
We ended up sitting at a street side beauty parlor with a few other women who'd also taken a bit of their day to pamper themselves. While we waited for our turn, I watched the people of the market. I am always amazed at the beauty of humans. There are so many graceful people in the world.
I was especially captivated by women browsing through clothes. The vendor was calling out the price of her wares, singing in Bambara. She went on for so long I wondered how she could keep it up all day. It was both magical and annoying. I imagined her at home at night, gargling to soothe her sore throat.
Several elegant women caught my eye, the shape of their faces accented by headscarves, their outlined eyes and long lashes mesmerizing me. It was hard to tear my gaze away. I stopped trying and merely observed the way they shopped, choosing clothes from the pile, holding them up for an instant before deciding to toss back or drape over their arm for purchase. The clothes, mostly shirts, were 300FCFA, making it convenient to acquire multiple items at once.
One of the women came over and joined her friends, who were sitting with us, either getting henna tattoos or having their nails painted. Some just gazed at themselves in a small mirror, making beauty adjustments. It is such a foreign practice to me, this being with other women, preening. I admired the way a few of them had tied their headscarves, a look I'd attempted to achieve but hadn't really been successful at. I finally leaned over and asked one of them to show me how.
It took awhile to make my request clear and, laughing, she finally relented. Her friend kept insisting she would tie me up if I wanted, and pointed out where I could snatch up a quick headscarf for only 500FCFA. I realized that my only problem in achieving the simple but sophisticated style was the length of my scarf. Surely I could manage this at home.
My inquiry lead to more talking, and touching and general camaraderie among us. It was a nice way to pass a few hours, sitting there on the edge of the busy market road, sellers trying their best to evoke a purchase, watching the people pass by- each in their own story.
I asked the woman if I could take her picture and she immediately struck a pose and flashed a smile. Christine laughed and gently turned her head. "No, of the scarf," she said. Our new friend hung her head in dejection and acquiesced. After getting the picture I wanted, I said, "Ok, now you." And the sun turned back on. Same pose, same bright smile.
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| Simple, elegant headscarf |
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| Beautiful humans are everywhere |
He was not the only romeo on the streets that day. Christine attracts a lot of attention. So many marketers followed her, trying to get her to purchase bazin or shoes or even a pair of men's jeans. I have noticed some people naturally attract the sellers. Ousmane is a bit like that too. Going to the market with him means we can count on the hawkers trying to push their watches and belts and other fancy items on him. I imagine they see his beauty and sense his style and assume he likes nice things.
It can either be exhausting or amusing to watch this display of wasted energy exchange. Luckily, on this day I found it all amusing. My favorite declaration of love occurred when we were looking for a taxi to go home. We'd found a fairly small patch of calm to search amidst the chaos. Motorcycles, taxis and sotramas shared the narrow street with bicyclers, pedestrians and roaming vendors.
The roadway cleared for a second. Everything seemed to go quiet. A man zoomed by on a motorcycle only to stop short. "Vien cherie, je t'accompagnerai," he called out to Christine like a marriage proposal. He seemed to be lost in a romantic daze for a second before zooming off. In a film, a dramatic spotlight would have highlighted his declaration of longing.
"What courage," I laughed. And yet, how else could you really know if a beautiful woman might maybe just consider zooming off with you into paradise if you don't ask? Love takes risks sometimes.
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| Christine and the henna artist |
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| One of the women shows off her design |
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| My turn- red only please.
Later found out this was a good decision. "Black" henna doesn't really exist and is a combination of natural henna and toxic chemicals. |
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| Simple design made up of mostly lines |
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| Road side vendors....the site of the moto proposal |
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| A lot happens street-side |
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| Twin designs |
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| More street side goods flashing by- 'window -shopping' Africa style |
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