It just means that our preferred stop was closed. We asked the taxi driver to continue on to another place. For some reason we ended up on the market road, which was completely blocked with traffic. We had just come from 2 hours at the printing place (a momentary power cut resulted in the machine needing to be reset- a 30 minute operation, and then trimming the pages took at least an hour and a half....oh my Africa. When the guy calls and says everything is ready, he means, everything is ready to come and be looked at and discussed and maybe have some tea over....)
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| Playing taxi while waiting for photos |
So we're stuck in unmoving traffic on the market road and the young taxi guy decides he doesn't want to do this anymore. He actually asks us to get out. Ultimately its a good thing because by walking we leave him in the dust, but really? There was no logic behind that decision since he was still stuck in the traffic.
On foot we approach first one and then another print shop. They don't appear to be print shops; they are camouflaged in between the tire shops and hardware stores. There are very few signs, just names and phone numbers painted directly on the concrete wall. A few say Imprimerie, but it's not clear if that is a current message or one left over from years past.
Because of the holiday, we are not having much luck. One guy has the machine we need, but he didn't come to work. Other shops point us toward a cyber cafe. When we arrive, they give us yet another location. We are constantly being told, "No, no just go down one block, turn left and he is there, on the right." Or, "just go up to the main road, take a left and the first right. It is there." Or, the classic, "go down one block, take a right and then ask." Ask for what? No one has a name, there are no street numbers. We explain our story over and over, telling the whole neighborhood what we are looking for.
Eventually, I make the call. One more stop and then we just go home. Mbalia has been walking around like a trooper, but I am exhausted. When we arrive to yet another nondescript concrete storefront, I am not expecting much. But the guy pulls out an old machine from under a table, tucked behind a dusty pile of tarps and odds and ends. It looks like it is going to work.
I took a seat outside, on one of the chairs that are found all over Bamako streets. It is so comfortable (the big deception is that these chairs, which appear to be threadbare and falling apart, are actually divine) and a sweet breeze comes flowing down the street. This is when I know. I understand how people can be sleeping on a street corner in the middle of the day with traffic passing and people making a fuss all around. I close my eyes and lean back and float away to a beautiful place. Everything feels wonderful, right here, on a tree lined corner, surrounded by people talking and tasking and enjoying the day.
The last bit of getting ready involved a visit from the jabidala to get some henna on our hands. We were performing the dance of revealing newly henna'd hands, after all and so we needed props.
I don't have a lot to say here- just wanted to share a few photos. But there is always a bit of reflecting when getting the henna. I think about women's beauty rituals - henna requires a longer period of immobility than nail polish, for example, and results in a much more elegant look, in my opinion. There is something exquisite about henna. Temporary body decoration. Powerful. Transformational.
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| Jabidala- mixing the henna (and a little gasoline) |
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| Taping the design |
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| Magical.... |
