It's hard to write about Bamako. It's hard to write anything new. It's hard to write anything real. There is a definite sense of the cliche. A definite sense that everything people say is true. I am beginning to understand there is a lot people are not saying and the interesting parts must lie somewhere in between.
There is plenty of cousin talk. Completely true. Any time you meet someone, they want to know your last name. If you don't have a Malian one, they are happy to give you one, most likely they'll try to impose Coulibaly. I stick with my own first name because it works. And it's mine.
Someone told me Toure means 'people who come from far.' There are Toure all across west Africa from Senegal to Cameroon. Everything fits- an international traveler, wandering type. Cousins of many, which leads to that fine joking Malians are known for.
Malians are really nice. Almost nice to a fault at times. I've begun to suspect there is so much positive commenting on certain things because of this extreme gentleness. It is hard to say something negative about a place where people are so agreeable.
Bazen is beautiful. There is just something majestic about this cloth and seeing people adorned in all the splendor gives a regal air to the mundane. Going to the bank, stopping at the pharmacy- everywhere people are covered in fancy cloth and exude dignity and strength. You can't get away from it.
I took a quick trip to the market yesterday to get some bazen for a few friends- travel in the future!! yay!!- but I was stunned by the prices. I still haven't bought any for myself. I've only gone bazen shopping two other times, both with visiting friends, and every time I find it difficult to wrap my mind around the prices. There is nothing cheap about it.
I asked the vendor what people did for a living- all those finely dressed people I see wandering the streets of Bamako. What the heck do they do that allows them to buy such expensive cloth? I was reminded of the sapeurs of Kin- willing to pay hundreds, even thousands of dollars to achieve a look, all the while unable to pay their rent or buy enough food for everyone in the household.
As much as rituals and traditions have frustrated me in the past, I understand that the role of costume and dress has an impact. We see this play out in the US everyday. The way you are dressed influences how others respond to you and - I suspect- influences the actions of the wearer as well.
Attitude and adornment- hand in hand. Malians are as polite as their clothing is royal.
Malian music is a thing. It's beautiful, haunting, nostalgic, delicate, sophisticated. Malian music has a distinctive tone. While I used to love it when I wasn't here, somehow now that I am in country, I find it harder to listen to. Too much nostalgia, too much lonely desert wandering. The haunting part has overtaken and the beautiful part is merely tinged around the edges.
There are a lot of positives to talk about, but in truth, the feeling in the air is different. It doesn't quite match the obvious militant style of Kin, overrun with guns and tanks and robo-cops on every corner. I hardly see police here, rarely any arms (except on the rare occasion, as this morning, when I accidentally drove by a protest rally. This is the third time I have accidentally ended up in the middle of a rally, marked by the presence of robo-cops- lots of gear, little to do. Often they are gathered in groups trying to find some shade to huddle in. Every time I have seen them, they outnumber the protesters by at least double. They look friendly but bored.)
But there is something in the air I can't quite name or describe. People who have been here "before" and "after" attribute it to the security situation, a situation that has put a damper on all things festive and cultural and creative and touristic. Because I have no "before" to compare to, I can't say for sure. But it feels like a city the day after its grand parade (worse, it could be this city- cancelling it's parade altogether, and not for the first time.) It feels like a big empty mansion the morning after the week-end party, a little messy, a little destitute but with an air of potential.
An adventure would help- a road trip to the historical, magical cities of old. Security looks dim in all directions- and I am not even privy to the incessant briefings many of the ex-pat, NGO types sit through weekly. I have no inside knowledge, no connections, no way to feel the pulse of the people. A complete outsider this go-round, a controlled swerve until I can get back to where I belong.
Which was....where again?
30.6.18
29.6.18
Controlled swerve
We're on the road again. After 4 years of relying on public transportation, we're back in the driver seat. I spent the first few weeks playing a hybrid game of taxi and personal car- Bamako routes are complicated and sometimes the best way to get somewhere is just to let someone else drive.
I've conquered most of my fears about getting lost and being overtaken by motorcycles and have been, mostly happily, zooming around town. Normally, this would lead to a plethora of road stories- previously a favorite genre of mine. I don't have any. Or rather, I don't have one.
There are two horses pulling an overloaded cart straight down the middle of the road, trying to make a left hand turn. The cart driver and horses take on a technicolor glow as the background scene- an 18 wheeler truck, yellow Mercedes taxi and multiple blue Xingda motorcarts- fades into a blurred collage of shape and color. The sky turns a dark gray, threatening a rain storm any minute. I imagine an oil painting on oversize canvas.
There is really nothing unique in this scene. A drive to anywhere, on any given day, is likely to result in a similar scene. Bamako streets are a kaleidoscope of contrasting images: old donkey driven carts stacked impossibly high with grass or manure or garbage, and bold new machinery painted in bright primary colors. Crisp bazen robes covering ladies dripping with golden jewelry and dusty street kids in torn clothing carrying empty tin cans.
It all fits together, in a somewhat precarious manner. Cows munch grass and lounge on the shoulder, one with a hoof carelessly reaching into the roadway. It requires a bit of a swerve to miss, but a controlled swerve because there might be a moto on the left, trying to pass recklessly in the median and he- or she- might need to swerve a bit, a controlled swerve, to get out of the way of another big truck coming down the opposite side of the roadway, or a taxi who is swerving- just a bit, a controlled swerve- to get around a donkey cart meandering on the shoulder- the one across from the cow whose foot is in the road.
We are dancing on this road, all this controlled swerving and weaving in and out, the oversize trucks creating blind spots and the undersize motorcycles fitting into them. It's a choreography, not of precision, but of rhythm and tandem motion.
It's not just the movement- but the color. Bazen and wax prints are everywhere- fancily dressed women flying past on motorcycles, high colorful head wraps, long flowing robes of men, that blue- beautiful deep brilliant Tuareg blue of turbans protecting faces from the dust.
Everywhere there is a sight to see. There is nothing that can't or won't be carried on a motorcycle. A freshly cut cow's head, a living sheep cradled around someone's middle, tires circling the driver, children hanging on the front, the back, the middle, sometimes even driving. While I have seen things tied to motorcycles, like small bikes and packages, the most alarming is the driver who is also holding something- a large bowl tied with a cloth (someone's dinner,) a few chickens, a wooden window frame. It doesn't matter what he's holding (although I think it matters when it comes to live animals, a sudden jerk...) it's the fact that he's driving with one hand. Nothing free to grab the other handle. All of his swerving must be extra controlled. He needs to maintain super balance.
Aside from the traffic of transportation, there are the pedestrians to watch out for. Surely a group of women or children- those young boys with their restaurant sized empty tomato paste cans, the Quranic school boys who are supposed to be learning the praises of Allah but are instead sent off to beg for change in the sun, the rain, the cover of day and night- any of those groups will be on the side of the road, raising their hand in a misplaced, schoolroom gesture, trying to gain permission to cross the street.
People laugh as they cross the street. I've been observing them. Nearly everyone does it. Whether they are guided or goaded, whether they have someone holding their hand and trying to stop traffic for them or whether they are making a mad dash, they arrive on the other side laughing and shaking their heads.
It is the fear of risking your life, I realized. It's that laugh that comes from carnival rides and other trauma induced situations- in the last moments, we realize the intense severity of our actions- the consequences of a decision gone wrong, one bad calculation, and the only response is laughter. What madmen we must be and yet, what choice is there? A road must be crossed.
Those are the Bamako streets we are navigating these days, not so different from streets in rural, developing cities across the world. India, I am told, has the most unimaginably crowded streets anywhere. I think often of the rules of the road- especially for motorcycles- in the US. I cannot imagine the lines of traffic and the hours we would pass stalled on unmoving roadways if every motorcycle were to remain on the pavement only, in one lane only, one motorcycle behind another, taking up the same space as a car. It could never work.
And so I am left to point out all the things you cannot do in the US. Mohamed is studying for his learner's permit and it is a great chance to quiz him on all the differences in driving situations.
There is nothing I can do about the directions, though. While difficult in any country, directions are especially challenging here. I have had some people come right out and tell me, "No, I can't give you directions." (But you are there, right? Somehow, you arrived there? And you can't explain that?) No, no they cannot.
Lots of people mention GPS. Full disclosure, I am a little behind the times in this area. When I was in the US, my aunt was crazy about using this- a wonderful little tool that told her to "turn right here" and other helpful advice. I don't have this feature.
My girl is obsessed with maps these days- the old fashioned, hold in your hand kind, and I am happy to support this dying skill. I am all about google maps and looking things up. I don't mind staring at the big picture and trying to make visual connections between where I am and where I want to go (and where I am likely to make a wrong turn and get lost.)
Except when I type in a destination, I see only a blue line. It turns occasionally, left or right, but there is no way for me to determine where that turn happens- in real life. Which road do I take? Clicking on the details option is even less illuminating. Google doesn't know everything.
Navigating the streets of Bamako is frustrating. Only the very large highways are named, along with an occasional main road. I know the names of 4 roads here. Otherwise, there is nothing. Landmarks are surprisingly hard to come by. The side roads all seemed to be lined by the same collection of cement block houses and tin roofs.
My neighbor used to always ask me if I was good with north and south. No, I don't feel especially skilled with an internal compass. I am not even really sure how that helps. But I do tend to have a good sense of direction, though in my visual world, I think of things as up and down or left and right. And all roads seem to lead in a circle here, spitting me back out in the direction of home eventually. It makes note-taking a creative affair.
My directions for getting to the Parc National include phrases like, "turn when you see the mountain" which resulted in a little debate between Nabih and I about when, exactly, we saw the mountain and which turn we should take. There are indications to "turn at the green fruit and vegetable stand" or "turn left at the mosquito tents" and " head straight down voodoo head road," which is possibly an insensitive way to describe the road but honestly, it's the one that sticks. This is the road that has a huge table piled high with monkey skulls. I cannot imagine where the big demand for monkey heads is coming from, (soup?) and so my Western mind stubbornly reverts to cliches (though, cliches are not entirely without their merit. They were born for a reason.)
I also note architecture- "pass the Malitel and the beautiful bank" - a stunning tribute to traditional design, although this article suggests a sinister component. I am choosing to let the visual impressiveness win out over the back story. (Maybe-- I am sure I have ruined the whole effect now and all future trips past the "beautiful bank" are going to be marred by the fact that it is the headquarters of the controversial franc cfa..... another disquieting example of how components of present beauty mingle with the horrors of colonial history in everyday African scenery.)
This wikipedia article about the building mentions several bridges by name and a few roadways. The problem is no one actually calls them that. So is Martyrs Bridge the first or second bridge? I only know it is not the third bridge because that one is by my house. The other bridges are downtown, locally known as the First and Second- the order in which they were built I presume. I also remember looking on a map and someone pointing out the first bridge is actually located between the second and third (a quirky reference to CDG?)
I've been suspecting that driving around Bamako is a bit like a metaphor for living here. The best places are generally hidden and unannounced- impossible to find on any map, no sign on the door- networking is the only way to arrive. You've got to know someone....
And all of these controlled swerves- little detours that don't bring you too far out of your way, but just far enough for something interesting to happen- potentially. Or not. I'm still waiting for the Bamako magic to hit me, and getting ever more suspicious that it might just pass me by this time.
I've conquered most of my fears about getting lost and being overtaken by motorcycles and have been, mostly happily, zooming around town. Normally, this would lead to a plethora of road stories- previously a favorite genre of mine. I don't have any. Or rather, I don't have one.
There are two horses pulling an overloaded cart straight down the middle of the road, trying to make a left hand turn. The cart driver and horses take on a technicolor glow as the background scene- an 18 wheeler truck, yellow Mercedes taxi and multiple blue Xingda motorcarts- fades into a blurred collage of shape and color. The sky turns a dark gray, threatening a rain storm any minute. I imagine an oil painting on oversize canvas.
There is really nothing unique in this scene. A drive to anywhere, on any given day, is likely to result in a similar scene. Bamako streets are a kaleidoscope of contrasting images: old donkey driven carts stacked impossibly high with grass or manure or garbage, and bold new machinery painted in bright primary colors. Crisp bazen robes covering ladies dripping with golden jewelry and dusty street kids in torn clothing carrying empty tin cans.
It all fits together, in a somewhat precarious manner. Cows munch grass and lounge on the shoulder, one with a hoof carelessly reaching into the roadway. It requires a bit of a swerve to miss, but a controlled swerve because there might be a moto on the left, trying to pass recklessly in the median and he- or she- might need to swerve a bit, a controlled swerve, to get out of the way of another big truck coming down the opposite side of the roadway, or a taxi who is swerving- just a bit, a controlled swerve- to get around a donkey cart meandering on the shoulder- the one across from the cow whose foot is in the road.
We are dancing on this road, all this controlled swerving and weaving in and out, the oversize trucks creating blind spots and the undersize motorcycles fitting into them. It's a choreography, not of precision, but of rhythm and tandem motion.
It's not just the movement- but the color. Bazen and wax prints are everywhere- fancily dressed women flying past on motorcycles, high colorful head wraps, long flowing robes of men, that blue- beautiful deep brilliant Tuareg blue of turbans protecting faces from the dust.
Everywhere there is a sight to see. There is nothing that can't or won't be carried on a motorcycle. A freshly cut cow's head, a living sheep cradled around someone's middle, tires circling the driver, children hanging on the front, the back, the middle, sometimes even driving. While I have seen things tied to motorcycles, like small bikes and packages, the most alarming is the driver who is also holding something- a large bowl tied with a cloth (someone's dinner,) a few chickens, a wooden window frame. It doesn't matter what he's holding (although I think it matters when it comes to live animals, a sudden jerk...) it's the fact that he's driving with one hand. Nothing free to grab the other handle. All of his swerving must be extra controlled. He needs to maintain super balance.
Aside from the traffic of transportation, there are the pedestrians to watch out for. Surely a group of women or children- those young boys with their restaurant sized empty tomato paste cans, the Quranic school boys who are supposed to be learning the praises of Allah but are instead sent off to beg for change in the sun, the rain, the cover of day and night- any of those groups will be on the side of the road, raising their hand in a misplaced, schoolroom gesture, trying to gain permission to cross the street.
People laugh as they cross the street. I've been observing them. Nearly everyone does it. Whether they are guided or goaded, whether they have someone holding their hand and trying to stop traffic for them or whether they are making a mad dash, they arrive on the other side laughing and shaking their heads.
It is the fear of risking your life, I realized. It's that laugh that comes from carnival rides and other trauma induced situations- in the last moments, we realize the intense severity of our actions- the consequences of a decision gone wrong, one bad calculation, and the only response is laughter. What madmen we must be and yet, what choice is there? A road must be crossed.
Those are the Bamako streets we are navigating these days, not so different from streets in rural, developing cities across the world. India, I am told, has the most unimaginably crowded streets anywhere. I think often of the rules of the road- especially for motorcycles- in the US. I cannot imagine the lines of traffic and the hours we would pass stalled on unmoving roadways if every motorcycle were to remain on the pavement only, in one lane only, one motorcycle behind another, taking up the same space as a car. It could never work.
And so I am left to point out all the things you cannot do in the US. Mohamed is studying for his learner's permit and it is a great chance to quiz him on all the differences in driving situations.
There is nothing I can do about the directions, though. While difficult in any country, directions are especially challenging here. I have had some people come right out and tell me, "No, I can't give you directions." (But you are there, right? Somehow, you arrived there? And you can't explain that?) No, no they cannot.
Lots of people mention GPS. Full disclosure, I am a little behind the times in this area. When I was in the US, my aunt was crazy about using this- a wonderful little tool that told her to "turn right here" and other helpful advice. I don't have this feature.
My girl is obsessed with maps these days- the old fashioned, hold in your hand kind, and I am happy to support this dying skill. I am all about google maps and looking things up. I don't mind staring at the big picture and trying to make visual connections between where I am and where I want to go (and where I am likely to make a wrong turn and get lost.)
 |
| old school |
 |
| where we are & where we want to go- so easy |
Navigating the streets of Bamako is frustrating. Only the very large highways are named, along with an occasional main road. I know the names of 4 roads here. Otherwise, there is nothing. Landmarks are surprisingly hard to come by. The side roads all seemed to be lined by the same collection of cement block houses and tin roofs.
My neighbor used to always ask me if I was good with north and south. No, I don't feel especially skilled with an internal compass. I am not even really sure how that helps. But I do tend to have a good sense of direction, though in my visual world, I think of things as up and down or left and right. And all roads seem to lead in a circle here, spitting me back out in the direction of home eventually. It makes note-taking a creative affair.
My directions for getting to the Parc National include phrases like, "turn when you see the mountain" which resulted in a little debate between Nabih and I about when, exactly, we saw the mountain and which turn we should take. There are indications to "turn at the green fruit and vegetable stand" or "turn left at the mosquito tents" and " head straight down voodoo head road," which is possibly an insensitive way to describe the road but honestly, it's the one that sticks. This is the road that has a huge table piled high with monkey skulls. I cannot imagine where the big demand for monkey heads is coming from, (soup?) and so my Western mind stubbornly reverts to cliches (though, cliches are not entirely without their merit. They were born for a reason.)
I also note architecture- "pass the Malitel and the beautiful bank" - a stunning tribute to traditional design, although this article suggests a sinister component. I am choosing to let the visual impressiveness win out over the back story. (Maybe-- I am sure I have ruined the whole effect now and all future trips past the "beautiful bank" are going to be marred by the fact that it is the headquarters of the controversial franc cfa..... another disquieting example of how components of present beauty mingle with the horrors of colonial history in everyday African scenery.)
This wikipedia article about the building mentions several bridges by name and a few roadways. The problem is no one actually calls them that. So is Martyrs Bridge the first or second bridge? I only know it is not the third bridge because that one is by my house. The other bridges are downtown, locally known as the First and Second- the order in which they were built I presume. I also remember looking on a map and someone pointing out the first bridge is actually located between the second and third (a quirky reference to CDG?)
I've been suspecting that driving around Bamako is a bit like a metaphor for living here. The best places are generally hidden and unannounced- impossible to find on any map, no sign on the door- networking is the only way to arrive. You've got to know someone....
And all of these controlled swerves- little detours that don't bring you too far out of your way, but just far enough for something interesting to happen- potentially. Or not. I'm still waiting for the Bamako magic to hit me, and getting ever more suspicious that it might just pass me by this time.
14.6.18
One Brave Cow
I saw him dash across the street and run off down a dirt road. He was large and brown with impressive horns. He was not the black and white docile cow roaming green pastures in idyllic oil paintings. Rather, he was massive and fierce, a cow on a mission.
Seconds later, I saw a man in flowing robes, his head wrapped in cloth, running after the steer. His arm was raised, brandishing a whip, and he dodged motorcycles and sotramas in an effort to make gains on his escaping prize.
Minutes after that spectacle, I passed an overturned motorcycle, it's rider attempting to collect his pile of fallen goods and return his machine to its upright position. I suspected the cow's mad dash for freedom had played a role here.
Bamako streets are filled with rebel cows. Eid al Fitr, the holiday marking the end of Ramadan, is upon us. It's something of a cow apocalypse. To prepare for the 2-3 days of feasting after the month long fast, beef is being chopped, piled and packed onto motorcycles. Roadsides are lined with cardboard or plastic sheeting and fresh beef stacked into heaps.
The slaughter of cows takes place anywhere, everywhere and the bodies are laid out, necks sliced open, blood gurgling and spurting onto the ground. Legs twitch and their massive chests still heave with final breaths. Men are cleaning, cutting, and washing interior organs and separating everything into ragged raw piles of cow parts.
It goes on all day and into the night. Early evening I stop by an ATM and witness two men struggling to tie a cow into the back of a motor-cart, the blue Xingda tricycle seen all over the streets of Bamako. On this day, too many of them are filled with tied up cows, kidnapped and carted off to death. It's no wonder they're revolting.
Further down the road, I see two men trying to control a cow who is giving his best effort to break free. They've tied ropes around his legs and neck and are trying to manipulate his movements marionette style. A third man comes up along the side and the cow turns on him, horns slashing through air. The man jumps back- into the roadway- and the two rope holders pull tighter. The cow is subdued and traffic winds around the trio.
Later that evening, I share the escaping cow story with my Dutch neighbor. We are poolside at a quiet hotel on the Niger River. In turn, she tells me about the legendary cows of her village in the Netherlands. Occasionally during the time of slaughter, cows escape there as well. And one cow in particular got a pretty good lead on his farmer. Another farmer, a retired farmer who had a long history with the cow and knew him well, was called in. The retired farmer managed to catch up with the cow and use their special past relationship to calm him down and convince him to return.
Of course, the cow was not slaughtered after that and was awarded special cow status. A kind of mythical, legendary king cow hero who'd managed to escape the certainty of slaughter and go on to live long and comfortably into cow old age. One brave cow who has apparently been inspiring cows world-wide to strive for their freedom, even if it means dashing across crowded city streets and overturning motorcycles.
Seconds later, I saw a man in flowing robes, his head wrapped in cloth, running after the steer. His arm was raised, brandishing a whip, and he dodged motorcycles and sotramas in an effort to make gains on his escaping prize.
Minutes after that spectacle, I passed an overturned motorcycle, it's rider attempting to collect his pile of fallen goods and return his machine to its upright position. I suspected the cow's mad dash for freedom had played a role here.
Bamako streets are filled with rebel cows. Eid al Fitr, the holiday marking the end of Ramadan, is upon us. It's something of a cow apocalypse. To prepare for the 2-3 days of feasting after the month long fast, beef is being chopped, piled and packed onto motorcycles. Roadsides are lined with cardboard or plastic sheeting and fresh beef stacked into heaps.
The slaughter of cows takes place anywhere, everywhere and the bodies are laid out, necks sliced open, blood gurgling and spurting onto the ground. Legs twitch and their massive chests still heave with final breaths. Men are cleaning, cutting, and washing interior organs and separating everything into ragged raw piles of cow parts.
It goes on all day and into the night. Early evening I stop by an ATM and witness two men struggling to tie a cow into the back of a motor-cart, the blue Xingda tricycle seen all over the streets of Bamako. On this day, too many of them are filled with tied up cows, kidnapped and carted off to death. It's no wonder they're revolting.
Further down the road, I see two men trying to control a cow who is giving his best effort to break free. They've tied ropes around his legs and neck and are trying to manipulate his movements marionette style. A third man comes up along the side and the cow turns on him, horns slashing through air. The man jumps back- into the roadway- and the two rope holders pull tighter. The cow is subdued and traffic winds around the trio.
Later that evening, I share the escaping cow story with my Dutch neighbor. We are poolside at a quiet hotel on the Niger River. In turn, she tells me about the legendary cows of her village in the Netherlands. Occasionally during the time of slaughter, cows escape there as well. And one cow in particular got a pretty good lead on his farmer. Another farmer, a retired farmer who had a long history with the cow and knew him well, was called in. The retired farmer managed to catch up with the cow and use their special past relationship to calm him down and convince him to return.
Of course, the cow was not slaughtered after that and was awarded special cow status. A kind of mythical, legendary king cow hero who'd managed to escape the certainty of slaughter and go on to live long and comfortably into cow old age. One brave cow who has apparently been inspiring cows world-wide to strive for their freedom, even if it means dashing across crowded city streets and overturning motorcycles.
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