The Flat

I have a collection of post ideas....there's been so much other writing in my life, it's gotten a bit hard to keep up. And then of course, after awhile, the idea begins to seem commonplace. This weekend I was faced with that new American energy of a visitor who arrived fresh from the US. I was reminded of how un-common place many of my ideas are. So easy to forget after all these years..... so here is the story of a flat tire. I know, a flat tire? you're thinking....but wait-

We were on our way to school, an unexpected ride with our upstairs neighbor. Usually she rides her bike and we walk, but on Tuesdays she gives us a lift with my drum set. I have joined her drum circle after school and it's a nice way to be with some colleagues. This may have been a Tuesday or just another random day when she was taking the car and invited us along.

We spent a little time in search of a working ATM- in Bamako this can occasionally mean visiting 5 or more machines before finding one that has an internet connection and enough cash to complete a transaction. We were finally on our way back to school when the car began the telltale rumbling and thumping of a flat.

My neighbor was pushing it to a close service station- a little too fast, I felt and I recommended perhaps we should slow down. I have always had that dread of a flat exploding, or the wheel coming off altogether. She slowed, pulled over a bit and eventually we made it to the shop. Shop might be a big word. It was actually a roadside stall. The young guy had just arrived by bike and jumped right in to repairing. He didn't say much, didn't ask any questions, just went about the job.

It began the way any normal flat tire repair would- finding a jack, loosening the lugs and removing the tire. I had gone through this process in Abidjan once, intending also to write a post about it. Not sure I ever did but I might still have the picture of the bathtub they soaked the tire in. It is often done in buckets or large tubs but this place had a bonafide bathtub.

Our Bamako tire stop didn't have the tub, but there were a bunch of other tire repair oddities around. He continued his inspection of the tire- it was easy to find the huge screw that had penetrated the rubber. I was kind of in awe of the size. And completely unable to imagine how it had gotten stuck in the tire, having a rather broad, flat end on it. He pulled out the offending metal, removed the tire from the rim and then things got weird.

There was a huge hole in the tire. Finger width at least. He pulled out some sandpaper and began to sand some parts of the inside. I could see another hole forming. The tire was clearly old and more in need of retirement than repair. Apparently these had been "new" occasion (used) tires that had just been put on the car.

After sanding things out (tires and sanding don't seem to be words that should be used together) he began mixing. The strong smell of burning tar permeated the morning air. He was mixing a glue to patch the tire with. I considered how many other tires were repaired in this way, riding down the road, another cause of the high rate of traffic accidents became clearer. He never asked if we wanted a new tire, or at least to replace this tire. He just glued it up, put it back on and sent us on our way.

This repair job cost 1000FCFA, and that was with a generous tip thrown in. I think the price he quoted was about 350FCFA (less than $1.) Oh Africa. The ingenuity is amazing, the price of poverty appalling.

He pulled out a few chairs so we could wait comfortably
I see my drum sticks, so it must have been a Tuesday

Morning commute of the bike riding hay deliverers

the bolt extracted from the tire

repair mixing table

Resistance

It always starts with the taxi drivers. Understanding the culture, getting where you need to go and keeping your finger on the tone of the people, the politics and the history. The most useful thing would be to speak Bambara. It would make them happy and it would help me get to the right destination without a lot of touring the city, which occasionally happens. We could probably also have some good conversations. Malians do seem to be pretty friendly once you break the language barrier.

I had intended to learn Bambara and even wanted to get a head start before leaving Abidjan. But something has happened. An unexpected emotion has crept in and made this new-country experience a bit different from the others. I was talking with a friend who has noticed a similar reaction.

Its the fatigue of learning a new language, discovering new rituals and meeting new people. I don't want to play the introduction game with other ex-pats (where are you from, how long have you been here, where else have you been?.....) I don't want to hear about long job titles that explain nothing. I don't want to ask questions about the hideously inflated job title and I don't want to explain myself.  It's rare that swapping stories of countries visited leads to a meaningful exchange. Mostly it feels like someone trying to impress me with tales of their egos and adventures.

Telling you where I am from is even less effective. It only leads to labels and stereotypes that don't fit anymore, if they ever did. The kind of information to be gotten by asking about my American life is bound to be misleading. And I can't explain my African experiences with any greater clarity. Can't we talk about other things than where we've been and where we think we're going?

It's the first time I have arrived somewhere with an idea of about how long I'd like to stay. And it is affecting my ability to become engaged. Sure, I want to see things, learn about the culture and dance- of course. I want to absorb the music and the dance and the art as much as possible. But I am wary about investing. Learning a language means I might end up staying longer than intended. Making connections means I might end up feeling comfortable and at home, which will make it harder to leave.

Resistance. It's like a little rough edge around everything I do. I have a very keen sense that there is a fine line for me to be walking here in Bamako. It appears to be the kind of place you don't expect to stay, but then 5 or 10 years later, you find you are still there. And I don't want to still be here in 5 years. I think.

There is great music. Stunning dance. Beautiful art. Strong traditions and interesting history to explore. There are a lot of attractive things. So why am I in such a hurry to get out of here?

It's complicated. Or maybe I am complicated.  The only thing to be certain is that dance show I saw last night was amazing. The costumes were a modern, brilliant interpretation of shiny bazin. The whole effect reminded me of a fireworks show. The grand finale when you think each explosive display is the last, only to see it followed by something more colorful with a pattern more complex and breathtaking the previous compilation.

It was a good show. I saw a few artists I know and maybe strengthened some connections. Simply put, one nice evening in Bamako. It did inspire a series of flashbacks, reminding me of so many other good shows and artists and experiences that I loved. It was impossible not be confronted with the temporality of it all. While I am reminded of the importance of living in the moment, enjoying each experience in the present, I can't help but feel a tinge of resistance.