I am not quite ready to let the stories end, although it is going to take a concentrated effort to find and share. There is no doubt my experiences in Africa have taken a turn. Some of it is due to familiarity, which renders the once magical into the now understood. On the other hand, I have had a few life events that sent me inward rather than outward. Definitely the arrival of the girl has been one of those events. Going back to school is now another.
I realized that my posts over the past 10 years have created habits of writing that I am going to need to overcome. Links become citations, Google searches become academic searches. It is not so different, perhaps, but just more thorough and requiring more structure. On a positive note, I look at an assignment requiring 7-10 pages and my only problem is how I will limit my thoughts to such a short paper.
And of course, as I've already written, Bamako seems to be the quiet years for me. I have not had the opportunity to travel much nor the motivation to see many sights within the city. And now, before we know it, our African journey will take us to yet another country. A new adventure awaits, especially since I had never really planned on visiting Nigeria, and yet, in a few short months, we will be living there full time.
I am wondering what I will remember about Bamako and Malian culture. Once I find out we're leaving, there is always a slight need to pack in a bunch of sensations and experiences. I took several photos of my full studio and Drissa and I will make a short video about our painting together. It is definitely one of the highlights of being here. We both recognize that it is not an everyday opportunity to paint and create with someone on the same canvas. It's not likely to happen again soon for either of us.
There will also be the final exhibition of our work and dance performance. That will feel like a real send off. A finale of sorts.
Until then, I am buys trying to usher my students through the final months of school. Never an easy task in middle school. The students in my performing arts class were preoccupied with the school strikes happening in the city. One student worried that the strikers would show up at our school.
It's not the first time I have heard this. It happened several times in Abidjan as well. The local schools go on strike and then respond, often aggressively, when the private schools don't follow suit. It is a challenging situation to be in, for certain, but forcing schools to close by pulling students out of classes and making threats on campus doesn't seem like it will do much to further the cause.
My students were adamant that the strikers had gone to the French school and tear gas was involved. Perhaps they confused it with this, which seems to discuss parents concerned about the security situation in Bamako and the potential closure of the French school. I searched for news of something more, but was unable to find anything. Which doesn't mean it didn't happen. It just means it is not making headlines. No surprise there.
What did come up in my Google search was a wealth of stories about strikes and the possibility of 'l'année blanche,' meaning a school year wasted. Not enough time in classrooms for children to learn, not open during testing, and no advancement. Everyone will have to repeat, spending next year in the same grade they were in this year.
The articles come from as far back as 2004. These articles are from 2008 and 2017, and in the latter, the role of private schools is explicitly discussed. Many students coming from the north who have fled violence there, were taken in by the public schools for free and this has led to an imbalance of shouldering the responsibility for the advancement of the country between public and private schools. In 2019 the problems continue. Teachers are demanding better working conditions, including increased salary (or even a salary. Demanding pack pay is mentioned, suggesting that teachers are not and have not been getting paid. Housing allowance is also a point.) These are not new problems.
This post from 2012 explains the problem well. Schools take so long to get going, and then the inevitable happens- holidays, political unrest, terrorism- which requires more breaks and before you know it, the year has passed with the number of actual classes held in the single digits. Not much learning exchange takes place and those who do manage to pass, only do so because they have taken it on themselves to figure out the material. Or they have paid.
This notice from Dec 2018 is within this school year and serves to show that multiple disruptions prevent fluid and engaged learning from taking place. A fifteen day strike has been called, to occur in three phases from March to April, which seems to signal no end to the disruptions for students.
The problem, cited here and here is that the children of the government officials are often not in public schools. The end result is that the masses suffer from decisions made by the elite, who are not affected in any way. Parent associations do not seem to be stepping up to provide support either. Overall, the complicated problem, ongoing since 2016 when talks in this round first began, seems bound to continue. The damage to generations of children and the future of the country is at stake.
Meanwhile, as children worldwide protest climate change, Malian students are just hoping for the chance at an uninterrupted education.
Showing posts with label Bamako. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bamako. Show all posts
17.3.19
30.12.18
Where artists work
We've taken to organizing field trips, a colleague and I, to see places where artists work around Bamako. The Conservatoire was an interesting study in architecture. The school suffers a bit from a bad reputation around town, but the place itself is quite grand. We were surprised to see students on the grounds, though many less than could be accommodated.
A visiting couple from France were on hand to offer a workshop, which likely led to the ambiance in the visual art department. Students filled one of the well lit rooms, their drawings taped to the wall and others spilled out into the hallway, lining the corridor as they surveyed their work. The project theme was something about a city on the head. Students had imagined various hats depicting their ideas of a city. Pencil drawings were taped above current images being completed in color pastels. The final stage of the project involves turning these drawings into 3D sculptures that can actually be worn.
While it was clear this was student work, some were quite intriguing. Ideas varied from futuristic cities with cubist design to traditional Malian village scenes with a twist. One of my favorites showed a veiled desert inhabitant with a hat of elongated buildings in the Djenne mosque style.
The French teacher struck up a conversation with us about exhibit space. It seemed she had done this workshop in previous years and was once again looking for the perfect spot to showcase the final works. After the rest of our tour, I reflected on this request as somewhat curious.
The Conservatoire also includes a spacious performance building with stage and lights- surely enough room to host a beautiful exhibit of student work. There is a restaurant on campus and plenty of outdoor space to create a cafe like atmosphere. I wondered why the campus itself wouldn't be the perfect showcase choice.
Part of it may be due to the secluded location. In order to access the Conservatoire, you must pass just outside of town, up a winding hill and down a long, albeit marvelously paved, road. But as a strategy for increasing the reputation of the school and garnering public interest, I would think they would be doing everything they could to have events and highlight the place.
We must have lingered a bit too long, talking and eyeing the student work because we lost our guide here. But we were happy enough to wander around the rest of the campus peeking into doorways and generally intruding on anyone we found working. There was a department for music and some students could be heard practicing jazz or classical piano. The dance building hosted room after room of empty studios. Several students were in the main rehearsal space, accompanied by a few djembe drummers. It was all very tame and subdued. The space was built to accommodate a greater number of students and so it appeared empty despite the activities going on.
Peering out of one of the upstairs studio windows gave us a view of a group of students clustered in an outdoor gazebo, possibly painting. An administrator or two were tucked away in offices and a group of men sat under a tree in deep discussion. A teacher preparing his lessons was discovered in a drawing room filled with easels and incredible light.
The potential seemed apparent, though the reality still has a bit of catching up to do.
Our second trip to visit Abdoul, an artist and theater designer, was in stark contrast to the large buildings and open campus of the Conservatoire. Like many artists, Abdoul works out of his house, though he also mentioned a much larger space just outside the city. His neighborhood was lively and filled with children in the streets and teens huddled together outside their houses, sitting in chairs or hanging around motorcycles.
His studio was intimate, a collage of covered and open outdoor space, filled with canvases, sculptures and random theater props all in various stages of completion. There were power sanders- for making organic pigments- his current passion. And of course, the stones and bricks ready to be sanded down into painting material. There were also industrial sized buckets of acrylic paint used to bring form and light to the burlap backdrops. The technical section included computers and tablets, and wires of all sorts. He showed us various film clips, both finished and in progress, both financed and on-his own.
He is currently working on a Christian theme, a client request. But he has become enthralled by the use of gold leaf paper and monochrome palettes and imagines taking the theme further to a juxtaposition of religious ideology.
Abdoul talked about the elements of creating his art- the late night hours when the neighborhood is quiet, the effect of light to change a work completely. He even demonstrated for us using several of the stage lights he had installed along a ceiling support. A few were also laying around the ground in easy reach.
It was a place of creativity and action. A place of conversation, with low chairs, elaborately carved thrones and abstract figures that doubled as possible seating. We were there for hours listening to a summary of his work, his artistic philosophy and his current projects.
It is a constant fascination of mine to learn how these artists become successful. Often a chance meeting leads to one connection or another that leads to a project. Other times an embassy will be in direct contact, requesting specific work, or a gallery owner will stop by with an idea in mind, only to discover new dimensions that were unknown before. And viola, a new project is born.
Abdoul spent several years traveling and working with some of the greats in filmmaking and art. He is accomplished and successful and feels better staying home now. He creates because he must and he is dedicated to seeing through some of his own ideas for telling the history of Mali through fiction films that allow him to use his talents for costume design and setting.
It's the struggle of artists everywhere. Finding the balance between making art of your own creation and providing others with their desire. Financing is always necessary which often means compromise.
We seemed to have come full circle- visiting an artist at this stage of his career. It was interesting to compare to our earlier visit to designer Chiek Diallo, another long time, successful artist and to remember the young students at the Conservatoire, to imagine how one might evolve in their own artistic journey to this point of confidence and conviction.
A visiting couple from France were on hand to offer a workshop, which likely led to the ambiance in the visual art department. Students filled one of the well lit rooms, their drawings taped to the wall and others spilled out into the hallway, lining the corridor as they surveyed their work. The project theme was something about a city on the head. Students had imagined various hats depicting their ideas of a city. Pencil drawings were taped above current images being completed in color pastels. The final stage of the project involves turning these drawings into 3D sculptures that can actually be worn.
While it was clear this was student work, some were quite intriguing. Ideas varied from futuristic cities with cubist design to traditional Malian village scenes with a twist. One of my favorites showed a veiled desert inhabitant with a hat of elongated buildings in the Djenne mosque style.
The French teacher struck up a conversation with us about exhibit space. It seemed she had done this workshop in previous years and was once again looking for the perfect spot to showcase the final works. After the rest of our tour, I reflected on this request as somewhat curious.
The Conservatoire also includes a spacious performance building with stage and lights- surely enough room to host a beautiful exhibit of student work. There is a restaurant on campus and plenty of outdoor space to create a cafe like atmosphere. I wondered why the campus itself wouldn't be the perfect showcase choice.
Part of it may be due to the secluded location. In order to access the Conservatoire, you must pass just outside of town, up a winding hill and down a long, albeit marvelously paved, road. But as a strategy for increasing the reputation of the school and garnering public interest, I would think they would be doing everything they could to have events and highlight the place.
We must have lingered a bit too long, talking and eyeing the student work because we lost our guide here. But we were happy enough to wander around the rest of the campus peeking into doorways and generally intruding on anyone we found working. There was a department for music and some students could be heard practicing jazz or classical piano. The dance building hosted room after room of empty studios. Several students were in the main rehearsal space, accompanied by a few djembe drummers. It was all very tame and subdued. The space was built to accommodate a greater number of students and so it appeared empty despite the activities going on.
Peering out of one of the upstairs studio windows gave us a view of a group of students clustered in an outdoor gazebo, possibly painting. An administrator or two were tucked away in offices and a group of men sat under a tree in deep discussion. A teacher preparing his lessons was discovered in a drawing room filled with easels and incredible light.
The potential seemed apparent, though the reality still has a bit of catching up to do.
Our second trip to visit Abdoul, an artist and theater designer, was in stark contrast to the large buildings and open campus of the Conservatoire. Like many artists, Abdoul works out of his house, though he also mentioned a much larger space just outside the city. His neighborhood was lively and filled with children in the streets and teens huddled together outside their houses, sitting in chairs or hanging around motorcycles.
His studio was intimate, a collage of covered and open outdoor space, filled with canvases, sculptures and random theater props all in various stages of completion. There were power sanders- for making organic pigments- his current passion. And of course, the stones and bricks ready to be sanded down into painting material. There were also industrial sized buckets of acrylic paint used to bring form and light to the burlap backdrops. The technical section included computers and tablets, and wires of all sorts. He showed us various film clips, both finished and in progress, both financed and on-his own.
He is currently working on a Christian theme, a client request. But he has become enthralled by the use of gold leaf paper and monochrome palettes and imagines taking the theme further to a juxtaposition of religious ideology.
Abdoul talked about the elements of creating his art- the late night hours when the neighborhood is quiet, the effect of light to change a work completely. He even demonstrated for us using several of the stage lights he had installed along a ceiling support. A few were also laying around the ground in easy reach.
It was a place of creativity and action. A place of conversation, with low chairs, elaborately carved thrones and abstract figures that doubled as possible seating. We were there for hours listening to a summary of his work, his artistic philosophy and his current projects.
It is a constant fascination of mine to learn how these artists become successful. Often a chance meeting leads to one connection or another that leads to a project. Other times an embassy will be in direct contact, requesting specific work, or a gallery owner will stop by with an idea in mind, only to discover new dimensions that were unknown before. And viola, a new project is born.
Abdoul spent several years traveling and working with some of the greats in filmmaking and art. He is accomplished and successful and feels better staying home now. He creates because he must and he is dedicated to seeing through some of his own ideas for telling the history of Mali through fiction films that allow him to use his talents for costume design and setting.
It's the struggle of artists everywhere. Finding the balance between making art of your own creation and providing others with their desire. Financing is always necessary which often means compromise.
We seemed to have come full circle- visiting an artist at this stage of his career. It was interesting to compare to our earlier visit to designer Chiek Diallo, another long time, successful artist and to remember the young students at the Conservatoire, to imagine how one might evolve in their own artistic journey to this point of confidence and conviction.
13.9.18
A greeting between neighbors
The house across the street from us has a clay water pot out front. It is a common sight in Mali, this clay water pot. They can be found in front of mosques, houses and little boutiques. The pot has a cover and usually sitting on top is a plastic cup or two.
Anyone who needs a drink is welcome to come and help themselves. And people do. Mali is hot. People are thirsty. The clay pot keeps the water clean and cool. It is a typical Malian gesture- this kindness in the most basic and humane way.
Just beside our house, there is a footpath that leads to the main road. On the other side of the footpath is a huge lettuce garden. We get a lot of traffic on the footpath, though I haven't quite figured out where everyone is going. Our neighborhood could be considered new; it's still very much a hybrid of half-built houses, lettuce fields and random occupants like us. While there isn't an obvious destination in sight, maybe some are just coming for the water.
There is often a collection of 'talibe boys' who pass by in the morning and evening hours (a quick google search for talibe boys reveals a wealth of information on aid projects and other social programs aimed at their wellbeing.) I have caught myself being annoyed at their begging by my car, in my driveway. As if begging outside a store is somehow better but- just don't bring it home. Ridiculous really, unless I try to justify it by noting that when I go into a store, I can purchase a little food for them but caught in my driveway I am unprepared. I have nothing to give and not giving makes me feel stingy.
I see them go across to the clay water pot and take turns drinking. I have often wished for such a pot in front of my own house. Something that says, I see you. I am keenly aware that the harshest grievance is not refusing to give, but refusing to see. Its important to be looked at, to be greeted and to feel as if you are part of the world. We don't like to do this because looking and seeing results in a sense of responsibility. It's simply not normal to see a young hungry child on the street and turn your head. But we do it. It's simply not possible to bring them all home and offer a cushy bed, or a seat at the dinner table. Sometimes, I buy bread. Or fruit. Or other snacks that we ourselves are in search of, treats. It's not too much to buy an extra box of something or a dozen rolls to share.
It's even easier to put some water outside your house. To welcome those who pass by, and support them in our journey through humanity.
One evening, I watched a group of the boys scamper up to the house, right up close to the wall. They hung around a bit after they had their drink, fooling around and laughing, being physical in that way that boys do. No one came out and shooed them away. No one gave them deep penetrating stares until they slunk their heads and left. Myself, I enjoyed their laughter and their youth. The energy of living in the moment. It contrasted sharply with an experience we'd had in America and the memory came flooding back to me.
We'd been out walking, my aunt, Mbalia, Nabih and I. It was early evening and we were exploring a small patch of woods behind a school across from my aunt's house. A house where she has lived for over 20 years. The woods were really just a small patch of trees between the schoolyard and a wealthy new subdivision behind it.
My aunt led the way through the cool forest path until we emerged into the open- a field of high grass stretched before us abruptly turning into the manicured back lawn of several mini-mansion houses. I stopped in my tracks. Clearly we were trespassing. I looked to my aunt for guidance and she waved me on. She'd done this before. Nabih had the same reaction emerging from the trees. He stopped short and looked at me, questioning.
Later on when we had The Talk, we discussed this moment. This moment of hesitation and the sensation of something being not quite right. Forever and always, we should listen to that moment. Even if your mom tells you to go on ahead, you should question harder. Go with your gut.
We walked skirting the edge of the lawn, trying to balance on an invisible perimeter line. Anyone in their house looking out would see three strangers walking in their previously private and somewhat secluded back yard. Or they might see a small family out enjoying the evening air. It felt weird, but not more so than being a kid and taking the short cut that ran through the neighbor's yard. Until we got to the driveways. It definitely felt too intimate there.
We were in a place we didn't belong, too close to the wealthy. One of the men had come outside and crossed over to his neighbor's garage. He was watching us and waiting for his neighbor to join him. I said good evening but he looked at me coldly, silently. I walked on a few more steps, making my way to neutral ground on the street and turned around to see how close behind Nabih was.
That's when my heart dropped. I saw with someone else's eyes. A guy with a hoodie on, clouding his face. A big guy. Walking on private property. This is how people get shot, I thought. This is it exactly. How stupid of us to have taken what seemed a harmless short cut. How careless of him to be wearing his hood up.
The guy in the driveway was whispering to his neighbor. They stood close, gesturing, clearly pointing out our path. My heart was pounding. I knew they didn't see a 13 year old child. In their eyes, he wasn't the Nabih I knew. They didn't see him as a shy, young boy with a sweet smile and gentle laugh. They would have never have guessed he still kissed his mom goodbye every morning, even in the hallways of middle school surrounded by his friends. And they likely never even thought that his hood was up because he was cold, we were all cold, not quite used to the northern chill, still missing our warm African air, cozy-ing up in our long sleeves and sweaters and hoods.
Nope. They saw a foreigner. A menace. An unknown. Dark and bulky. All their worst imaginings, direct from an American media source nearby being pumped like poisoned well water into their homes night and day, all those easy stereotypes filled their heads. They didn't say hello. No nod. No friendly, 'Where you folks coming from?' Definitely no offer of a glass of water.
It is a stark contrast that America, overflowing with such abundance everyone feels a need to hide in their house and guard their treasures with this Mali, where the little bit of nothing someone has is offered freely with a generous smile. Despite all the 'development,' I'm not convinced Americans are better off. She hasn't sold me on the dream yet.
I had to have a talk with Nabih. I explained the recent history- all the shootings of innocent kids, the bias and racism, the idea that a practical clothing choice could play on the fear of someone else's ignorance. I was a bit surprised at how much he didn't know, and sad I had to introduce him to it. Some of his innocence washed away.
I put my arm around him and enjoyed the feeling of walking down the street with my boy, realizing how it could have all gone wrong in an instant. I had to be much, much more on my toes in America. He could have been hurt- or gone.
Or the guy in the driveway could have said, "You guys get lost? Where y'all coming from?" and we could have laughed and said, "Africa," and he could have said, "Well that's a mighty long way," and then our worlds could have been opened and shared instead of that silent cold stare.
I think about it often when I see groups of kids walking down the streets in Bamako. They have their arms around each other, one leaning on the other or holding hands, journeying together. They surround me at my car, gathering in groups- in masses enough that once or twice I felt a tinge of fear. But my idea of retaliation was to sit them down and lecture them on the behaviors of begging. "If you want to get the most from people," I imagined myself saying,"don't all crowd together at their car. Give people room to breathe and send one or two preferably the youngest....." I cut off my imaginary lecture as I realized how absurd it all sounded. There are no easy answers.
We impose random things to normalize it all. A friend lines them up in order of age and begins by handing cookies to the youngest. I give out my rolls to the girls first, then the youngest boys. When they all grab and no one says thank you, I impose manners on them. As if it is going to change their prospects in life. When I give out oranges, I insist that they share, and then follow them to make sure it happens. Silly things, useless things.
But there is an exchange. No cold stares. No quiet judging of who I think they are or what they're capable of. I know they are children and they are children who are missing a lot of things I believe children should have. I can't fix that. But I can offer a smile, a small treat, an expectation that we treat each other with respect. I can say hello.
Even when they are in my driveway holding their oversized empty cans, staring at me with tired brown eyes, standing too close in their dirty, torn clothes and reaching out with too thin arms - I can still say Bonsoir, ca va? And I can really mean it. How are you, neighbor?
Anyone who needs a drink is welcome to come and help themselves. And people do. Mali is hot. People are thirsty. The clay pot keeps the water clean and cool. It is a typical Malian gesture- this kindness in the most basic and humane way.
Just beside our house, there is a footpath that leads to the main road. On the other side of the footpath is a huge lettuce garden. We get a lot of traffic on the footpath, though I haven't quite figured out where everyone is going. Our neighborhood could be considered new; it's still very much a hybrid of half-built houses, lettuce fields and random occupants like us. While there isn't an obvious destination in sight, maybe some are just coming for the water.
There is often a collection of 'talibe boys' who pass by in the morning and evening hours (a quick google search for talibe boys reveals a wealth of information on aid projects and other social programs aimed at their wellbeing.) I have caught myself being annoyed at their begging by my car, in my driveway. As if begging outside a store is somehow better but- just don't bring it home. Ridiculous really, unless I try to justify it by noting that when I go into a store, I can purchase a little food for them but caught in my driveway I am unprepared. I have nothing to give and not giving makes me feel stingy.
I see them go across to the clay water pot and take turns drinking. I have often wished for such a pot in front of my own house. Something that says, I see you. I am keenly aware that the harshest grievance is not refusing to give, but refusing to see. Its important to be looked at, to be greeted and to feel as if you are part of the world. We don't like to do this because looking and seeing results in a sense of responsibility. It's simply not normal to see a young hungry child on the street and turn your head. But we do it. It's simply not possible to bring them all home and offer a cushy bed, or a seat at the dinner table. Sometimes, I buy bread. Or fruit. Or other snacks that we ourselves are in search of, treats. It's not too much to buy an extra box of something or a dozen rolls to share.
It's even easier to put some water outside your house. To welcome those who pass by, and support them in our journey through humanity.
One evening, I watched a group of the boys scamper up to the house, right up close to the wall. They hung around a bit after they had their drink, fooling around and laughing, being physical in that way that boys do. No one came out and shooed them away. No one gave them deep penetrating stares until they slunk their heads and left. Myself, I enjoyed their laughter and their youth. The energy of living in the moment. It contrasted sharply with an experience we'd had in America and the memory came flooding back to me.
We'd been out walking, my aunt, Mbalia, Nabih and I. It was early evening and we were exploring a small patch of woods behind a school across from my aunt's house. A house where she has lived for over 20 years. The woods were really just a small patch of trees between the schoolyard and a wealthy new subdivision behind it.
My aunt led the way through the cool forest path until we emerged into the open- a field of high grass stretched before us abruptly turning into the manicured back lawn of several mini-mansion houses. I stopped in my tracks. Clearly we were trespassing. I looked to my aunt for guidance and she waved me on. She'd done this before. Nabih had the same reaction emerging from the trees. He stopped short and looked at me, questioning.
Later on when we had The Talk, we discussed this moment. This moment of hesitation and the sensation of something being not quite right. Forever and always, we should listen to that moment. Even if your mom tells you to go on ahead, you should question harder. Go with your gut.
We walked skirting the edge of the lawn, trying to balance on an invisible perimeter line. Anyone in their house looking out would see three strangers walking in their previously private and somewhat secluded back yard. Or they might see a small family out enjoying the evening air. It felt weird, but not more so than being a kid and taking the short cut that ran through the neighbor's yard. Until we got to the driveways. It definitely felt too intimate there.
We were in a place we didn't belong, too close to the wealthy. One of the men had come outside and crossed over to his neighbor's garage. He was watching us and waiting for his neighbor to join him. I said good evening but he looked at me coldly, silently. I walked on a few more steps, making my way to neutral ground on the street and turned around to see how close behind Nabih was.
That's when my heart dropped. I saw with someone else's eyes. A guy with a hoodie on, clouding his face. A big guy. Walking on private property. This is how people get shot, I thought. This is it exactly. How stupid of us to have taken what seemed a harmless short cut. How careless of him to be wearing his hood up.
The guy in the driveway was whispering to his neighbor. They stood close, gesturing, clearly pointing out our path. My heart was pounding. I knew they didn't see a 13 year old child. In their eyes, he wasn't the Nabih I knew. They didn't see him as a shy, young boy with a sweet smile and gentle laugh. They would have never have guessed he still kissed his mom goodbye every morning, even in the hallways of middle school surrounded by his friends. And they likely never even thought that his hood was up because he was cold, we were all cold, not quite used to the northern chill, still missing our warm African air, cozy-ing up in our long sleeves and sweaters and hoods.
Nope. They saw a foreigner. A menace. An unknown. Dark and bulky. All their worst imaginings, direct from an American media source nearby being pumped like poisoned well water into their homes night and day, all those easy stereotypes filled their heads. They didn't say hello. No nod. No friendly, 'Where you folks coming from?' Definitely no offer of a glass of water.
It is a stark contrast that America, overflowing with such abundance everyone feels a need to hide in their house and guard their treasures with this Mali, where the little bit of nothing someone has is offered freely with a generous smile. Despite all the 'development,' I'm not convinced Americans are better off. She hasn't sold me on the dream yet.
I had to have a talk with Nabih. I explained the recent history- all the shootings of innocent kids, the bias and racism, the idea that a practical clothing choice could play on the fear of someone else's ignorance. I was a bit surprised at how much he didn't know, and sad I had to introduce him to it. Some of his innocence washed away.
I put my arm around him and enjoyed the feeling of walking down the street with my boy, realizing how it could have all gone wrong in an instant. I had to be much, much more on my toes in America. He could have been hurt- or gone.
Or the guy in the driveway could have said, "You guys get lost? Where y'all coming from?" and we could have laughed and said, "Africa," and he could have said, "Well that's a mighty long way," and then our worlds could have been opened and shared instead of that silent cold stare.
I think about it often when I see groups of kids walking down the streets in Bamako. They have their arms around each other, one leaning on the other or holding hands, journeying together. They surround me at my car, gathering in groups- in masses enough that once or twice I felt a tinge of fear. But my idea of retaliation was to sit them down and lecture them on the behaviors of begging. "If you want to get the most from people," I imagined myself saying,"don't all crowd together at their car. Give people room to breathe and send one or two preferably the youngest....." I cut off my imaginary lecture as I realized how absurd it all sounded. There are no easy answers.
We impose random things to normalize it all. A friend lines them up in order of age and begins by handing cookies to the youngest. I give out my rolls to the girls first, then the youngest boys. When they all grab and no one says thank you, I impose manners on them. As if it is going to change their prospects in life. When I give out oranges, I insist that they share, and then follow them to make sure it happens. Silly things, useless things.
But there is an exchange. No cold stares. No quiet judging of who I think they are or what they're capable of. I know they are children and they are children who are missing a lot of things I believe children should have. I can't fix that. But I can offer a smile, a small treat, an expectation that we treat each other with respect. I can say hello.
Even when they are in my driveway holding their oversized empty cans, staring at me with tired brown eyes, standing too close in their dirty, torn clothes and reaching out with too thin arms - I can still say Bonsoir, ca va? And I can really mean it. How are you, neighbor?
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.
21.1.18
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.
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.
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| 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.
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| I had to snap a photo of the glue method-Plan B in effect |
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| It started with a small group drawing |
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| Two of the long time artists |
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| An hour or so into it, things got busy |
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| The small drawing table was soon overtaken I started ushering kids to find a space on the floor |
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| 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 |
27.12.17
Secrets uncovered
Vacation has a way of warping time. I am constantly in danger of being sucked into a vortex of creativity, isolation and loneliness. I may get a lot of work done, and it is extremely satisfying, but long bouts of isolation can have a dizzying effect on the senses.
Despair finally drew me out - my pile of empty paints is nearly larger than my pile of working paints, which threatens my progress and my emotional well-being. There is nothing good about grinding to a halt in the middle of a satisfying (and potentially successful) creative stream.
So I took some initiative and contacted a local artist who has a prolific showing of work in the area. He has painted many restaurant, school and theme park murals. I friended him on FB and asked if we could meet.
This is a hit or miss approach and luckily, I struck gold. Drissa turned out to be super friendly and completely revealing. We met at Le Savana and spent the afternoon talking art. Really refreshing. Everyone has a story and Drissa is no different. We swapped histories and perspectives on art. We have a lot in common and the conversation flowed freely. I could have talked on into the night.
Eventually I let him go to work and made my way back home, promising to get together again soon, hoping to visit his atelier and suggesting a collaboration of sorts- between us and between our students.
Drissa took me to the Papeterie de l'Amitie- a potential source for acrylic paints, which, unfortunately on this day had only a few bottles of mustard gouache and some very watery purple 'tempera-acrylique.' I grabbed a card so in the future I could call to see if they'd received a shipment before heading out. We went back to the restaurant so he could teach me plan B.
In Abidjan people kept trying to get me to do things with glue, insisting the gesso I was searching for was really just glue. I even went so far as to try coating a freshly pulled canvas with it, to no avail (and no surprise, either.)
Apparently, I had the technique all wrong. Drissa assures me he paints with glue all the time. There are colored dyes available cheaply and in plenty of quantity at any quincaillerie (hardware store.) Large buckets of white interior house paint can also be used and it makes a fine gesso base coat (and is also mixed with glue and water to create a consistency for any number of surfaces.)
After a quick demo, our conversation continued - and to think, I worry about having something to say. Lately, I've had to cut things short in order to get anything done. But I enjoyed his story- I am really loving people's stories. There is a place for this collection of human narratives, even if I haven't found it yet, I sense it.
His dedication to drawing and creating art began at a young age. Although he comes from a creative family, his mother dyes fabric and works with design, Drissa experienced pressure from his father's side of the family to do less representational (and perhaps more ornate design.) Despite this, he continued with his passion, often secretly. At the age of 17, he decided to stop his pursuits in soccer and continue full time with art. He gave himself 3 years to make something of it.
His chain of events plays like a beautiful crescendo. One small break led to another bigger and better until he found himself among top name musicians and artists, painting drop backs and collaborating on projects together.
Of course, the route to success is never without set-backs. He had his share of hard times, stowing away in random market stalls to sleep and secretly drawing on neighborhood walls. He had a lost chance at love when the woman he was involved with wanted him to move to France. He didn't see a future in art there, all of his work being here, and so chose to stay. She couldn't support the climate, the heat, the dryness and chose to continue her artwork at home in France.
Drissa has traveled a bit, participated in residencies in Morocco and France. He has exhibited in Dakar and Europe, but there is an energy that keeps him coming back to his country. He's managed to buy some land, after one of his more successful exhibits abroad, and he's begun the slow process of building his own studio and exhibit space.
He works with neighborhood children when he can, when he is not traveling or preparing to show in one festival or another. He teaches them drawing and gives them a chance to experience what it's like to make art, to be creative. To express themselves.
Perhaps his most successful story is his younger brother, who he has trained and is beginning to come into his own. We talked a lot about his experiences making art communally, something that has become more important to me lately. It's not for every artist, indeed, he talked about the competition and jealousy that can sometimes be present in the large workshops he's participated in. But there is also often an air of community and collaboration, of creative construction that contributes to personal growth.
Lucky for me, he is at that point in his career where he is open to sharing. I left the restaurant armed with secrets uncovered. Ready to try my hand at the plan B painting method and looking forward to our next exchange- a visit to his workshop, some art making with the kids and maybe a shared canvas between us. Sounds like a bright spot in the Bamako haze that has descended.
Despair finally drew me out - my pile of empty paints is nearly larger than my pile of working paints, which threatens my progress and my emotional well-being. There is nothing good about grinding to a halt in the middle of a satisfying (and potentially successful) creative stream.
So I took some initiative and contacted a local artist who has a prolific showing of work in the area. He has painted many restaurant, school and theme park murals. I friended him on FB and asked if we could meet.
This is a hit or miss approach and luckily, I struck gold. Drissa turned out to be super friendly and completely revealing. We met at Le Savana and spent the afternoon talking art. Really refreshing. Everyone has a story and Drissa is no different. We swapped histories and perspectives on art. We have a lot in common and the conversation flowed freely. I could have talked on into the night.
Eventually I let him go to work and made my way back home, promising to get together again soon, hoping to visit his atelier and suggesting a collaboration of sorts- between us and between our students.
Drissa took me to the Papeterie de l'Amitie- a potential source for acrylic paints, which, unfortunately on this day had only a few bottles of mustard gouache and some very watery purple 'tempera-acrylique.' I grabbed a card so in the future I could call to see if they'd received a shipment before heading out. We went back to the restaurant so he could teach me plan B.
In Abidjan people kept trying to get me to do things with glue, insisting the gesso I was searching for was really just glue. I even went so far as to try coating a freshly pulled canvas with it, to no avail (and no surprise, either.)
Apparently, I had the technique all wrong. Drissa assures me he paints with glue all the time. There are colored dyes available cheaply and in plenty of quantity at any quincaillerie (hardware store.) Large buckets of white interior house paint can also be used and it makes a fine gesso base coat (and is also mixed with glue and water to create a consistency for any number of surfaces.)
After a quick demo, our conversation continued - and to think, I worry about having something to say. Lately, I've had to cut things short in order to get anything done. But I enjoyed his story- I am really loving people's stories. There is a place for this collection of human narratives, even if I haven't found it yet, I sense it.
His dedication to drawing and creating art began at a young age. Although he comes from a creative family, his mother dyes fabric and works with design, Drissa experienced pressure from his father's side of the family to do less representational (and perhaps more ornate design.) Despite this, he continued with his passion, often secretly. At the age of 17, he decided to stop his pursuits in soccer and continue full time with art. He gave himself 3 years to make something of it.
His chain of events plays like a beautiful crescendo. One small break led to another bigger and better until he found himself among top name musicians and artists, painting drop backs and collaborating on projects together.
Of course, the route to success is never without set-backs. He had his share of hard times, stowing away in random market stalls to sleep and secretly drawing on neighborhood walls. He had a lost chance at love when the woman he was involved with wanted him to move to France. He didn't see a future in art there, all of his work being here, and so chose to stay. She couldn't support the climate, the heat, the dryness and chose to continue her artwork at home in France.
Drissa has traveled a bit, participated in residencies in Morocco and France. He has exhibited in Dakar and Europe, but there is an energy that keeps him coming back to his country. He's managed to buy some land, after one of his more successful exhibits abroad, and he's begun the slow process of building his own studio and exhibit space.
He works with neighborhood children when he can, when he is not traveling or preparing to show in one festival or another. He teaches them drawing and gives them a chance to experience what it's like to make art, to be creative. To express themselves.
Perhaps his most successful story is his younger brother, who he has trained and is beginning to come into his own. We talked a lot about his experiences making art communally, something that has become more important to me lately. It's not for every artist, indeed, he talked about the competition and jealousy that can sometimes be present in the large workshops he's participated in. But there is also often an air of community and collaboration, of creative construction that contributes to personal growth.
Lucky for me, he is at that point in his career where he is open to sharing. I left the restaurant armed with secrets uncovered. Ready to try my hand at the plan B painting method and looking forward to our next exchange- a visit to his workshop, some art making with the kids and maybe a shared canvas between us. Sounds like a bright spot in the Bamako haze that has descended.
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| Mixing lesson: glue, tint, house paint (optional) |
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| L'artiste Drissa (photo from his FB page) |
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| Interior of Savana, kind of a sweet spot despite the odd musical nostalgia I've been subject to every visit |
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| Newly completed mural at Savana |
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| Entrance wall of Savanna |
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| Working at night- preferred painting hours |
21.10.17
Motorcycle madness
It's been difficult to write about Mali. Bamako is a new experience for us in many ways. While there are the general 'African staples' that make a familiar connection between countries, the differences abound. I've yet to be enchanted, which shouldn't really influence my writing, but then, of course, there is school.
It's generally accepted that the first year at a new school is all about understanding. Understanding the curriculum, the educational philosophy, the work ethic, the rhythm of teaching and learning. There are reports to read and documents to write, there are resources to be found and protocols to decipher. And then of course, there are students. The student body of a school comes with its own set of cultural contexts to dissect and examine. While all of this is going on, there is the de-struction that must happen as well. The letting go of processes, events and understandings from "the old school." Granted, sometimes it is helpful to bring new ideas or routines but most often, these things must be designed site-specific.
The concurring need to understand the systems at a school for elite or expatriate children and the necessity of organizing oneself within the host country presents full time challenges. Language, social constructs, locating places for everyday needs. There hardly seems to be time for anything else. Add to this the fact that Bamako is mystifying me and the motivation to stay up late working on reflections of the latest move is lost in the dust kicked up by a thousand motorcycles.
The motorcycles are really the problem for me. I think. I'm not really sure, but I do know they appear to be having a profound effect on my ability to live simply. One example can be found in this short story.
A few nights ago, I decided to go out to grab something from the store- a few bottles of water and maybe a bottle of wine. A friend had recently brought a bottle of wine "from the gas station." I had been hearing about the multitude of things that could be acquired "at the gas station," everything from yogurt to solar powered lamps to wine.
So I set off determined to check this mysterious wonderland out. It's a short walk down the main road and across the round about. Five or six minutes, tops. Except when I arrived to the round about it was plagued with a million lights surging past. I don't see especially well in the dark, and have particular trouble with assessing distance- the worst kind of trouble for crossing a busy Bamako intersection.
The line of cars was endless and the stream of motorcycles daunting. I stood on the edge, waiting. I wandered down the road a bit and back up again, looking for a slowing of the current where I could safely traverse the river of traffic. I even briefly considered taking a taxi, to cross the street. Eventually I gave up and started to head back home. Defeated by a round about.
But then 2 things happened. First, it'd been a particularly rough couple of days and I was really hoping for a glass of wine. My ego probably kicked in a little bit, too- defeated by a street crossing? Really? The second and more important thing that happened is that I saw a donkey cart out there making its way around the circle. "A donkey can be out there, but I can't?" Surely I could walk faster than that donkey was going.
I turned around and made my way back. The donkey cart was impeding traffic just enough for me to make a mad dash across the first road. I walked across the empty circle lot, noticing the occasional patch of grass and a small collection of discarded plastic water bags. Crossing the street on the other side was much easier as most of the traffic was heading out to the third bridge.
I made it to the gas station, which did not have wine but did have Welch's fruit snacks - granted, a favorite of mine, but not exactly a replacement. They were selling for 1,000XOF a bag which means I didn't buy but did file away in my reserve list of possible snack sources for Mbalia in a pinch.
Of course, they might not be there the next time I go. If I go. The way back was a little more traumatizing. Again, passing over onto the center circle was fairly easy. I almost got creamed by a car that came speeding around the corner, but I managed to clear the road moments before contact. The real problem was crossing back over to my fairly quiet side road. The steady stream of cars and motos had not abated at all, and now I was stuck in the center.
I admit there is a lot of fear for me surrounding these bikes. I can't help but imagine how personal and painful getting run over by a motorcycle would be. These images do not help me muster the courage to take the plunge. I stood in that center isle for a long while, feeling frustrated, stupid and helpless. I couldn't cross the road. Seriously.
Since I am writing this post, there's no secret to how the story ends. I made it home, no motorcycle mash-up and I did not have to pass the night sleeping under the stars in the barren center island. The chicken finally crossed the road. But the huge amount of effort involved in this endeavor puts a damper on any future excursions.
It also puts a damper on personally driving. Colleagues suggest I buy a car, assuring me I will gain a new perspective and sense of liberty. Despite navigating the busy Kinshasa streets with all of their pitfalls and obstacles, I am not sure I am ready for the motos of Bamako.
It's the babies. There is tragic poetry in the way their smooth round heads peek out from the cloth that has secured them to their mother's back. Sometimes they are just a bulge in an ornately decorated scarf wrapped around their mother's head. It may be long enough to protect them from the sun and the dust, but nothing protects them from the hard earth.
My mind is scarred with images of potential accidents. Perhaps a result of too many defensive driving courses (oh, I was a demon of speed at one point in the timeline of my past) or perhaps it is the result of age and experience. The idea of a vehicle as a weapon, as a tool and a machine is one that has been well developed in me. Most people are driving with a sense of urgency and destination. They are not locked in the present moment. Their decisions are based on where they want to go and what they are hoping will happen next. No one is focused on the context of now.
The fact is I am in fear. This is not the kind of fear I can face down, not like fear of speaking in public or fear of opening oneself up to the criticism of others. I could never undo the image of an accident involving a baby. An accident of any kind is traumatic, but the roads are narrow and densely populated. I could almost believe there is often not enough speed to make accidents fatal. But it wouldn't take any amount of speed to crack open an infant skull.
I'm not exactly sure how to defeat my unease. Familiarity often plays a role in deadening our sense of anxiety. I sat outside a barber shop yesterday, just watching the flow of traffic. It was a Friday and entire streets were closed as people lined up for afternoon prayers. It was amazing to see whole blocks of people united in this act of faith, pausing their daily activities to come together in prayer. Right where they were. Afterward, a group of children lined up to get their treat from a store. They ran off with their bags of milk and something like rice pudding. Although the street was narrow, it hosted the common assortment of motos, small vans and transport trucks. I was amazed at how the children managed to find the right moment to dash across- and thought nothing of crossing back if a friend called them from the other side, or they forgot to return a borrowed hat. They watched, they waited and they took the risk. I resisted the urge to close my eyes.
For now, the motorcycle culture is a huge barrier to my ability to assimilate. Even as I witness the sense of liberty and ease it undoubtedly adds to Malian life, I cannot acquiesce. Perhaps I need to ride more myself. Or learn to drive one. Or maybe I need to be involved in public service campaigns (Allez avec ton enfant mais pas sur le moto ou Enfant a dos?--Prenez pas le moto) but it is hard to change habits. There is evidence of yearly helmet campaigns, but rumors of neck breaking Chinese fabrications are strong. Many people believe the helmet will slice into the neck, possibly severing a vein during an accident. Apparently this is perceived as a much greater risk than cracking your head on the pavement.
It's possible I will find a way to get over my fear. It's more likely I will find a way to crush it down and pretend like the dangers don't exist. Whatever the strategy, I will need to find a way to live with it until I can move on to another country, with an easier range of cultural constructs for me to navigate.
It's generally accepted that the first year at a new school is all about understanding. Understanding the curriculum, the educational philosophy, the work ethic, the rhythm of teaching and learning. There are reports to read and documents to write, there are resources to be found and protocols to decipher. And then of course, there are students. The student body of a school comes with its own set of cultural contexts to dissect and examine. While all of this is going on, there is the de-struction that must happen as well. The letting go of processes, events and understandings from "the old school." Granted, sometimes it is helpful to bring new ideas or routines but most often, these things must be designed site-specific.
The concurring need to understand the systems at a school for elite or expatriate children and the necessity of organizing oneself within the host country presents full time challenges. Language, social constructs, locating places for everyday needs. There hardly seems to be time for anything else. Add to this the fact that Bamako is mystifying me and the motivation to stay up late working on reflections of the latest move is lost in the dust kicked up by a thousand motorcycles.
The motorcycles are really the problem for me. I think. I'm not really sure, but I do know they appear to be having a profound effect on my ability to live simply. One example can be found in this short story.
A few nights ago, I decided to go out to grab something from the store- a few bottles of water and maybe a bottle of wine. A friend had recently brought a bottle of wine "from the gas station." I had been hearing about the multitude of things that could be acquired "at the gas station," everything from yogurt to solar powered lamps to wine.
So I set off determined to check this mysterious wonderland out. It's a short walk down the main road and across the round about. Five or six minutes, tops. Except when I arrived to the round about it was plagued with a million lights surging past. I don't see especially well in the dark, and have particular trouble with assessing distance- the worst kind of trouble for crossing a busy Bamako intersection.
The line of cars was endless and the stream of motorcycles daunting. I stood on the edge, waiting. I wandered down the road a bit and back up again, looking for a slowing of the current where I could safely traverse the river of traffic. I even briefly considered taking a taxi, to cross the street. Eventually I gave up and started to head back home. Defeated by a round about.
But then 2 things happened. First, it'd been a particularly rough couple of days and I was really hoping for a glass of wine. My ego probably kicked in a little bit, too- defeated by a street crossing? Really? The second and more important thing that happened is that I saw a donkey cart out there making its way around the circle. "A donkey can be out there, but I can't?" Surely I could walk faster than that donkey was going.
I turned around and made my way back. The donkey cart was impeding traffic just enough for me to make a mad dash across the first road. I walked across the empty circle lot, noticing the occasional patch of grass and a small collection of discarded plastic water bags. Crossing the street on the other side was much easier as most of the traffic was heading out to the third bridge.
I made it to the gas station, which did not have wine but did have Welch's fruit snacks - granted, a favorite of mine, but not exactly a replacement. They were selling for 1,000XOF a bag which means I didn't buy but did file away in my reserve list of possible snack sources for Mbalia in a pinch.
Of course, they might not be there the next time I go. If I go. The way back was a little more traumatizing. Again, passing over onto the center circle was fairly easy. I almost got creamed by a car that came speeding around the corner, but I managed to clear the road moments before contact. The real problem was crossing back over to my fairly quiet side road. The steady stream of cars and motos had not abated at all, and now I was stuck in the center.
I admit there is a lot of fear for me surrounding these bikes. I can't help but imagine how personal and painful getting run over by a motorcycle would be. These images do not help me muster the courage to take the plunge. I stood in that center isle for a long while, feeling frustrated, stupid and helpless. I couldn't cross the road. Seriously.
Since I am writing this post, there's no secret to how the story ends. I made it home, no motorcycle mash-up and I did not have to pass the night sleeping under the stars in the barren center island. The chicken finally crossed the road. But the huge amount of effort involved in this endeavor puts a damper on any future excursions.
It also puts a damper on personally driving. Colleagues suggest I buy a car, assuring me I will gain a new perspective and sense of liberty. Despite navigating the busy Kinshasa streets with all of their pitfalls and obstacles, I am not sure I am ready for the motos of Bamako.
It's the babies. There is tragic poetry in the way their smooth round heads peek out from the cloth that has secured them to their mother's back. Sometimes they are just a bulge in an ornately decorated scarf wrapped around their mother's head. It may be long enough to protect them from the sun and the dust, but nothing protects them from the hard earth.
My mind is scarred with images of potential accidents. Perhaps a result of too many defensive driving courses (oh, I was a demon of speed at one point in the timeline of my past) or perhaps it is the result of age and experience. The idea of a vehicle as a weapon, as a tool and a machine is one that has been well developed in me. Most people are driving with a sense of urgency and destination. They are not locked in the present moment. Their decisions are based on where they want to go and what they are hoping will happen next. No one is focused on the context of now.
The fact is I am in fear. This is not the kind of fear I can face down, not like fear of speaking in public or fear of opening oneself up to the criticism of others. I could never undo the image of an accident involving a baby. An accident of any kind is traumatic, but the roads are narrow and densely populated. I could almost believe there is often not enough speed to make accidents fatal. But it wouldn't take any amount of speed to crack open an infant skull.
I'm not exactly sure how to defeat my unease. Familiarity often plays a role in deadening our sense of anxiety. I sat outside a barber shop yesterday, just watching the flow of traffic. It was a Friday and entire streets were closed as people lined up for afternoon prayers. It was amazing to see whole blocks of people united in this act of faith, pausing their daily activities to come together in prayer. Right where they were. Afterward, a group of children lined up to get their treat from a store. They ran off with their bags of milk and something like rice pudding. Although the street was narrow, it hosted the common assortment of motos, small vans and transport trucks. I was amazed at how the children managed to find the right moment to dash across- and thought nothing of crossing back if a friend called them from the other side, or they forgot to return a borrowed hat. They watched, they waited and they took the risk. I resisted the urge to close my eyes.
For now, the motorcycle culture is a huge barrier to my ability to assimilate. Even as I witness the sense of liberty and ease it undoubtedly adds to Malian life, I cannot acquiesce. Perhaps I need to ride more myself. Or learn to drive one. Or maybe I need to be involved in public service campaigns (Allez avec ton enfant mais pas sur le moto ou Enfant a dos?--Prenez pas le moto) but it is hard to change habits. There is evidence of yearly helmet campaigns, but rumors of neck breaking Chinese fabrications are strong. Many people believe the helmet will slice into the neck, possibly severing a vein during an accident. Apparently this is perceived as a much greater risk than cracking your head on the pavement.
It's possible I will find a way to get over my fear. It's more likely I will find a way to crush it down and pretend like the dangers don't exist. Whatever the strategy, I will need to find a way to live with it until I can move on to another country, with an easier range of cultural constructs for me to navigate.
1.9.17
Security
Security takes up a big percentage of moving unknowns. Assessing it, understanding it, trying to get your finger on the pulse of it. Once you figure out where you live, you need to figure out how safe it is. Which can be incredibly difficult when you don't speak the language.
There are several layers to understanding security. It begins with the most personal, the security guards. As an ex-pat hosted by an organization, I am once again under the protection of school provided security. The biggest difference for me this time is that I am no longer living on a glorious spread of jungle rain forest with 30 other houses and an entire school campus. Now I just live in an apartment with one other flat upstairs. It means the security guards are much closer. Outside my kitchen window closer.
I feel watched, rather than protected. There are strange men wandering the periphery of the house at all hours. It's been almost a month and I can at least say they are friendly, but still, I don't know anything about them. Except they are there. Day and night. If I want to leave at any time, it will require disturbing them so I can get out the door. And when I come "home" I must knock, like a visitor. It feels more like their house than mine and I wonder how much time is required to tip the balance. The perpetual guest syndrome.
I don't really understand what kind of security they are providing. They are both on the elderly edge of life, or so it appears. I admit to thinking them somewhat frail. Or, in the face of terrorists, they would be frail. But then, wouldn't we all?
They are not armed, thankfully. But I am left to wonder how they have prepared and what for. It must be maddening to try and keep a watchful eye day and night- it merges too neatly into routine living.
I see it all around the half built neighborhood we live in. "Security" which really means people living in garages and sitting out front of massive houses, or house shells. They play games on their phones, chat with a neighboring security guard if they are so lucky to have a neighbor, and alternate between sitting inside the border walls alone and catching the few sights of evening foot traffic or goat herders outside.
Our neighborhood doesn't feel insecure or dangerous. But it doesn't necessarily feel safe either. It feels empty and sterile. I guess we have neighbors, but I can't imagine ever meeting them. Friendly is not the first word I would use to describe the few people I've passed in strolls around the neighborhood. The Malians aren't quick to greet me but offer quiet stares that I can't quite read.
In one brusque incident, two men were walking-clearly home dwellers and not home protectors- who overheard my English conversation with a friend. One of the men came up and introduced himself, speaking English and happy to recount his connection to the US. He extended his hand to my (male) friend and completely ignored me. No acknowledgement nod, no quick smile, nothing. I did not exist. Welcome to the neighborhood.
Bamako has that "it's a man's country" feel which isn't exactly comforting for a woman. Or maybe it's just me. I've been wondering where the sunny, warm Malians are all hiding out and what of the "friendly village atmosphere" everyone talked about. So many people are really enchanted with Bamako, I wonder what I am missing.
Of course, recent attacks around the city have left something of a desolate air (combined with the fact that apparently many restaurants close for vacation during the July-August months.) But comments from business owners are telling. One restaurant/art gallery parent told me that, although the place is well known, even on the international circuit, they've stopped doing openings. "A hundred or more people would be showing up," she said. "So I had to stop that. Now, it's just people coming and going in small groups. Word gets around from friend to friend. Kind of underground."
Most popular gathering places have made security changes. There are plenty of metal detecting wands and new double door entrances- like the bank. I don't really understand how this helps (I get it in the context of a bank-bank robber, but I don't get it in the context of restaurant-terrorist bomber.) You go in the first door which is shut behind you, leaving you enclosed in a small holding space. The second door is then opened and you enter the restaurant or hotel area. Some establishments have tried to add a bit of humor to lighten the mood (cool graffiti guys or little notes on the walls,) but it's a stark reminder of the reality. A night out could quickly turn from festive to fearful.
A few US Embassy representatives came to school to give us an update on the security situation. It was so fascinating I actually took notes. They were very candid, which was a shocking change from my last post, where all the official information from our school sounded vague and incoherent. Incorrect at times, even.
Not so Bamako. The US Embassy reps were straight up real. They told grisly stories of a policeman being chased and set on fire. They explained the phrase "Article 320" referring to the cost of a liter of gas (300fcfa) and some matches (20fcfa.) People are frustrated. Things get out of control.
They talked about ways to stay in the loop-social media being a prominent source for on the minute info. Whatsapp- suggested for "happy hour groups, attacks, you know, the important things." The security situation was described here as "a dynamic security environment." Things are liable to change any second. There's really no way to predict it and so the best thing to do is be proactive.
Don't go to places with soft security. One new restaurant was noted as having a beautiful glass entrance way- all windows and doors. The only visible security is a guy with beefy arms and tight pants. Better to stick to places that are "hard security targets" with double doors and armed guards.
One of the guys shared his survival pack with us. Things to have on hand at all times. A "Plan of Peril." He related how some of the people at the recent attack in Kangaba (a place students took a field trip to just a week or so before the incident) ran into the bush to hide. Things that came in handy: one of those portable batteries (almost bought one in Paris, but it felt like an impulse buy- now I know it would have been a safety buy.) Nothing more devastating and potentially life threatening than a low-batt signal when trying to call friends to arrange a swift pick up at an alternate rendezvous site.
Other things like a flashlight (for signaling here-I-am help when out in the middle of nowhere and the choppers are searching for you) and a warm, water proof poncho are sort of obviously helpful but not something we generally carry for a night out on the town. Money, of course, in several places, not all grouped together in one spot. And a small first aid assortment. Not just for you, but for others you might find in the field. Mosquito spray too. You might not really understand how fierce mosquitoes can be until you've had to spend an entire night battling them in some swampy undergrowth.
Their frank discussion about the state of things (Malians getting impatient with the French, frustrated with lack of progress on the terrorist front, terrorist possibilities anywhere, anytime- cannot be predicted and cannot be avoided so just always use common sense and proactive awareness skills) came in the first week of getting-to-know-you teacher back to school. It was not entirely new to me, but I was imagining the shock of my colleague who is experiencing his first trip to Africa.
Honestly, I imagine there was a bit of shock from even some of the hardened Africa lovers in the room- and the not so hardened. The most difficult thing about the terrorist attacks is that there is no "why." You cannot protect yourself by not being_____ because it's the very essence of being you that is under attack. You are not them and that is all that matters. It is random and harsh and it cannot be undone.
I have heard of some teachers who just choose not to go out. Ever. No grocery shopping, no pizza lunches, nothing. Inside, all the time. It's a difficult way to live- enshrouded in fear. But it's real. The topic has already come up in my performance arts class. One group of students put together a powerful piece they imagined would happen at a park or similar public place. One student was sitting in the middle with a mask and 4 others made a circle around him. Some of them were also wearing African masks. Two other students patrolled the area with gun-like props, holding signs saying, "We're not safe," and "Stop terrorism."
I imagined seeing this in a park, as I was strolling with Mbalia, enjoying a sunny care-free day. Yes, it would stop me. I would consider. I would be affected. Security. It's always an issue in Bamako, even when it's not.
There are several layers to understanding security. It begins with the most personal, the security guards. As an ex-pat hosted by an organization, I am once again under the protection of school provided security. The biggest difference for me this time is that I am no longer living on a glorious spread of jungle rain forest with 30 other houses and an entire school campus. Now I just live in an apartment with one other flat upstairs. It means the security guards are much closer. Outside my kitchen window closer.
I feel watched, rather than protected. There are strange men wandering the periphery of the house at all hours. It's been almost a month and I can at least say they are friendly, but still, I don't know anything about them. Except they are there. Day and night. If I want to leave at any time, it will require disturbing them so I can get out the door. And when I come "home" I must knock, like a visitor. It feels more like their house than mine and I wonder how much time is required to tip the balance. The perpetual guest syndrome.
I don't really understand what kind of security they are providing. They are both on the elderly edge of life, or so it appears. I admit to thinking them somewhat frail. Or, in the face of terrorists, they would be frail. But then, wouldn't we all?
They are not armed, thankfully. But I am left to wonder how they have prepared and what for. It must be maddening to try and keep a watchful eye day and night- it merges too neatly into routine living.
I see it all around the half built neighborhood we live in. "Security" which really means people living in garages and sitting out front of massive houses, or house shells. They play games on their phones, chat with a neighboring security guard if they are so lucky to have a neighbor, and alternate between sitting inside the border walls alone and catching the few sights of evening foot traffic or goat herders outside.
Our neighborhood doesn't feel insecure or dangerous. But it doesn't necessarily feel safe either. It feels empty and sterile. I guess we have neighbors, but I can't imagine ever meeting them. Friendly is not the first word I would use to describe the few people I've passed in strolls around the neighborhood. The Malians aren't quick to greet me but offer quiet stares that I can't quite read.
In one brusque incident, two men were walking-clearly home dwellers and not home protectors- who overheard my English conversation with a friend. One of the men came up and introduced himself, speaking English and happy to recount his connection to the US. He extended his hand to my (male) friend and completely ignored me. No acknowledgement nod, no quick smile, nothing. I did not exist. Welcome to the neighborhood.
Bamako has that "it's a man's country" feel which isn't exactly comforting for a woman. Or maybe it's just me. I've been wondering where the sunny, warm Malians are all hiding out and what of the "friendly village atmosphere" everyone talked about. So many people are really enchanted with Bamako, I wonder what I am missing.
Of course, recent attacks around the city have left something of a desolate air (combined with the fact that apparently many restaurants close for vacation during the July-August months.) But comments from business owners are telling. One restaurant/art gallery parent told me that, although the place is well known, even on the international circuit, they've stopped doing openings. "A hundred or more people would be showing up," she said. "So I had to stop that. Now, it's just people coming and going in small groups. Word gets around from friend to friend. Kind of underground."
Most popular gathering places have made security changes. There are plenty of metal detecting wands and new double door entrances- like the bank. I don't really understand how this helps (I get it in the context of a bank-bank robber, but I don't get it in the context of restaurant-terrorist bomber.) You go in the first door which is shut behind you, leaving you enclosed in a small holding space. The second door is then opened and you enter the restaurant or hotel area. Some establishments have tried to add a bit of humor to lighten the mood (cool graffiti guys or little notes on the walls,) but it's a stark reminder of the reality. A night out could quickly turn from festive to fearful.
A few US Embassy representatives came to school to give us an update on the security situation. It was so fascinating I actually took notes. They were very candid, which was a shocking change from my last post, where all the official information from our school sounded vague and incoherent. Incorrect at times, even.
Not so Bamako. The US Embassy reps were straight up real. They told grisly stories of a policeman being chased and set on fire. They explained the phrase "Article 320" referring to the cost of a liter of gas (300fcfa) and some matches (20fcfa.) People are frustrated. Things get out of control.
They talked about ways to stay in the loop-social media being a prominent source for on the minute info. Whatsapp- suggested for "happy hour groups, attacks, you know, the important things." The security situation was described here as "a dynamic security environment." Things are liable to change any second. There's really no way to predict it and so the best thing to do is be proactive.
Don't go to places with soft security. One new restaurant was noted as having a beautiful glass entrance way- all windows and doors. The only visible security is a guy with beefy arms and tight pants. Better to stick to places that are "hard security targets" with double doors and armed guards.
One of the guys shared his survival pack with us. Things to have on hand at all times. A "Plan of Peril." He related how some of the people at the recent attack in Kangaba (a place students took a field trip to just a week or so before the incident) ran into the bush to hide. Things that came in handy: one of those portable batteries (almost bought one in Paris, but it felt like an impulse buy- now I know it would have been a safety buy.) Nothing more devastating and potentially life threatening than a low-batt signal when trying to call friends to arrange a swift pick up at an alternate rendezvous site.
Other things like a flashlight (for signaling here-I-am help when out in the middle of nowhere and the choppers are searching for you) and a warm, water proof poncho are sort of obviously helpful but not something we generally carry for a night out on the town. Money, of course, in several places, not all grouped together in one spot. And a small first aid assortment. Not just for you, but for others you might find in the field. Mosquito spray too. You might not really understand how fierce mosquitoes can be until you've had to spend an entire night battling them in some swampy undergrowth.
Their frank discussion about the state of things (Malians getting impatient with the French, frustrated with lack of progress on the terrorist front, terrorist possibilities anywhere, anytime- cannot be predicted and cannot be avoided so just always use common sense and proactive awareness skills) came in the first week of getting-to-know-you teacher back to school. It was not entirely new to me, but I was imagining the shock of my colleague who is experiencing his first trip to Africa.
Honestly, I imagine there was a bit of shock from even some of the hardened Africa lovers in the room- and the not so hardened. The most difficult thing about the terrorist attacks is that there is no "why." You cannot protect yourself by not being_____ because it's the very essence of being you that is under attack. You are not them and that is all that matters. It is random and harsh and it cannot be undone.
I have heard of some teachers who just choose not to go out. Ever. No grocery shopping, no pizza lunches, nothing. Inside, all the time. It's a difficult way to live- enshrouded in fear. But it's real. The topic has already come up in my performance arts class. One group of students put together a powerful piece they imagined would happen at a park or similar public place. One student was sitting in the middle with a mask and 4 others made a circle around him. Some of them were also wearing African masks. Two other students patrolled the area with gun-like props, holding signs saying, "We're not safe," and "Stop terrorism."
I imagined seeing this in a park, as I was strolling with Mbalia, enjoying a sunny care-free day. Yes, it would stop me. I would consider. I would be affected. Security. It's always an issue in Bamako, even when it's not.
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