Marche Medina- Metalworks

The metal market has a big reputation. I've been hearing about it since I arrived. I finally got my chance to discover it this past week. My art class has been working with sculptor and recycle artist Kodio. He's known for making furniture out of old things- sofa bathtubs, tire chairs, even an interesting assemblage of shovels that make for a posture correcting seat.

Upcycled furniture by Kodio

Kodio and I have been working with the students to imagine a space for middle schoolers to hang out during breaks and after lunch. Somehow they lost their furniture in an overzealous attempt to help the cafeteria crew deliver hot meals on time.

I am hoping to be able to bring them a pile of stuff and have them create scultpuresque furniture pieces to fit the space of their choice. We spent the first week considering campus spots and hanging out, "feeling" the atmosphere of each one. Now that they've chosen, it's time to design.

I met Kodio at the market near his "workshop." He calls it this, but really, it is just a small space in the middle of many where a few of the guys he works with sit. They have marked their territory with a chair or two, some bars of iron, and a tarp overhead. If he has welding to do for a piece, this is where he comes. 

I followed him around the market in a daze. Everywhere I turned there was something to see. The melodic sounds of people working filled the air. Like any good market, the deeper went, the more magical it became. 

We passed men working with metal barrels. Some were cut in half, the tops and bottoms removed. They were pounding along the cuts, folding them over to smooth the sharp edges. Farther on we came to the cement storehouse where Kodio likes to pick through the scraps in search of diamonds.

A choice find

You have to know where to look

A few men sat outside, drinking tea and taking in the day. We placed our selections in a small pile and they remarked on everything we took out. I found a nice motorcycle muffler that could make a good arm rest. When I put it in the pile, there was a lot of exclaiming. I put out another one and it was promptly removed. Apparently these were parts to someone's motorcycle. I laughed and asked if there was anything else mixed in with the junk that they needed. It seemed a precarious way to store essential components.

We continued walking, my eyes filled with the treasures all around. It was better than any junk drawer or Home Depot. I was reminded of long ago days when these were the things I feared missing in Africa. Here I was surrounded by parts, all separated and stacked in piles. 

We stopped to look at an interesting assemblage of gears and gadgets. One man sat in the middle of the darkness. The ground was stained with black oil and debris. He was patiently taking the metal pipe out of each piece and laying them carefully aside. A Chinese factory in reverse. I was amazed at the methodical work pace. Every part that was usable was removed and placed into its own pile. Pile after pile lined the roadway. Things I wasn't sure anyone would ever be looking for lay stacked in abundance.

A boy went by with a collection of milk cans bound in such a way they made a neat circle. I had seen these before. Each had slit down the middle of the top. They resembled piggy banks but I just couldn't imagine there was a need for these. So many. It reminded me of the lettuce. It grows in such large quantities everywhere, but who is eating it all? Kodio assured me they were piggy banks and people bought them. Little kids all across Bamako saving up their 50 francs. 

As the market grew around us, so did the hammering and pounding of metal. Everyone seemed to be working in tandem. We came to a large covered area, the ground black but also smoking. Small fires were lit here and there. A group of guys were busy pounding the tops and bottoms of the barrels. Next to one sat an impossibly smooth bowl. This was the end product. When I looked at the piece of metal he was pounding, I couldn't imagine that it would ever reach a smooth, shiny state, despite the proof before me. 

Two other guys were pounding the same piece of metal, working in rhythm. One and then the other. Clink, clank. Clink, clank. Though deafening, the sound was pleasant. There was an energy in the air. It was jovial and, perhaps just slightly, competitive. When I remarked on this, Kodio told me the time was just right. People had recently arrived, had their breakfast and were beginning the day. I suspected in not too many hours, the effort combined with the heat would take its toll, and people would be resting. 

We kept walking. As we passed a large container truck, Kodio explained it was being filled for China. Several men were loading it with flattened pieces of metal that appeared to come from cars. While once the metal market was a source of cheap goods, now everything was being shipped off to China, where it would be recycled into new metal goods. (and likely resold at higher prices to the very people who had shipped their scrap off int he first place. Irony at its finest.) 

As we left, the guys at the metal storehouse called out to me. They were offering me some water to wash my hands, which, by that point, were a blackened mess of oil and soot. "You're going back to work. But me, I am staying to play." Kodio smiled with a twinkle in his eye. The tea drinker offered me some powdered soap and poured the water while I scrubbed my hands clean. 

There were so many photogenic scenes. Even better, I could imagine a series of paintings that would really show the drama and magical aura. It would be easy to pass the entire day here, caught up in the artistic beauty of the place. The reality of the workers is a lot less romantic. It's hot, hard labor that doesn't pay much. 

Despite this, the talk that the metal market may be displaced is discouraging. Many people rely on this place for their livelihood. It is much more than a day at work. There is a sense of community here that transcends the noise and dust and heat. And for us artistic types, there is plenty of inspiration.

Sacred (secret?) misison

On our way back from Segou, we took a detour from the main route in search of a marabout. Our guide and colleague is a Malian who is getting ready to move on to another position in a different country. While he kept describing the marabout as an "African fortune teller" I understand them to be more of a spiritual guide. Someone who is sensitive and aware. However you look at it, its a good idea to visit the marabout before undertaking such drastic life changes. His family (mother) likely insisted on it before his long journey. The family marabout happens to live in a village sort of on the way from Segou and so we incorporated this into our trip. (Or rather, we incorporated a trip to Segou into the visit to the marabout.)

The detour was a bit longer than we all expected I think. The road a dusty dirt road that seemed to go on and on, very little traffic and lots of open fields and expired farming tracts. Dry. We had to pass two villages before arriving at the one we were searching for. The remoteness of the villages is hard to describe.

We passed many dry fields

Red road to the village

We passed goats and sheep, which became an inside joke after having determined the difference between them (they have a surprisingly similar appearance here, the sheep devoid of the fluffy round coats we associate them with in colder climates.) We ran through the names of the US states (in alphabetical order,) named the regions of Mali and played "guess-that-country" using clues about weather and latitude/longitude (go mobile phone car games.) We still hadn't arrived.

The villages we passed were an assemblage of mud houses, lots of traditional round granaries and the usual assortment of children playing games - tree climbing, rolling tires and mucking around.  We even passed an official village playground which was a new sight for me. It was surrounded by a mud wall and shaded with a few large trees. Inside children were see-sawing, swinging, climbing and having a good time on equipment made from tree limbs and natural forms. Delightful.

Finally we arrived. The third village. We asked a few people sitting in front of their stores or workshops who were easily able to direct us to the right house. A few children ran ahead serving as extra guides. We left the cool climate of the car interior to sit under a thatched roofed stall. Some men were having tea, a few children loitered around and this magical horse ate from a nearby trough.

One of the best fed horses I have seen since arriving in Mali

The chair I was offered had a metal frame with nylon cords barely hanging on. These chairs, in this state, are a common sight, but this particular chair, under this particular shade was one of the most comfortable things I have lounged in lately.  We went in to visit the marabout one by one, each of us taking about 20 minutes or so. The rest of us sat around watching village life. Not much going on. Little chickens amused Mbalia. A few dogs wandered about and women came in and out doing chores. Some kids rode by on bikes or motorcycles. The dust stirred.

Village view from the shade

Bricks at angle make an interesting pattern on a hot afternoon

A few loitering animals pass by

The marabout himself was seated on a prayer rug on the floor of a small cement room. The walls were almost blue and there were two couches on either side of him. A small TV sat caddy corner on a dusty table and it wasn't clear if it was useable or not. A child with a round belly and runny nose wandered in and out.

Our colleague was along for translation purposes, which was necessary but also made the session less private than might have been helpful. I inquired about general things, health, relationships, the state of my future. And I reserved one question of a particular nature concerning a family member.

I watched him write squiggly lines on a piece of paper and then go back and add vertical lines here and there and here again. After some time he began to share his impressions with me. Overall, nothing too surprising, nothing too personal, and yet things that fit me exactly. He was pretty adamant that I worry too much, and even gave a cluck of his tongue and a shake of his head. His words didn't need translating. Really, he emphasized, you worry too much.

His remarks were helpful to hear, helpful to remember. He took me a bit by surprise with two particular things he mentioned, but again, it is good to keep these things in mind and perhaps I had gotten too comfortable. Too blasé about some things. Take nothing for granted.

He assigned me a few tasks- sacrifices, in a sense. We had been discussing the assigning of sacrifice. Our colleague's son kept repeating, "Oh, you just have to kill a goat or something," (actually this is a lot less severe than it sounds. Sacrificing a goat in Africa generally means you buy a goat and take it to the place where they slaughter them - with prayer, halal style- and then donate the meat to a mosque or to a family or share it at a gathering of people. Essentially, you are providing people with food.)

My sacrifices were not so dramatic. I've been tasked with offering someone 100 red and 100 white kola nuts and bringing a kilo of dates to 4 different mosques. In order to do this, I have to find the person who calls the prayer and offer them to him.

I didn't really have to think over whether I would do this or not, after all, feeding people is never a bad thing and offering gifts to the mosque can't do any harm. It can only be positive, so I set about my new quest.

Acquiring the goods was fairly easy.  My nounou was able to buy four packs of 1kg dates in the market. And my drum teacher agreed to go in search of the red and white kola nuts. I have a feeling I need to be the one to take care of delivery.

My drum teacher helped me to lay out a plan. Apparently each neighborhood has a mu'addhin. And my friend assured me that the mu'addhin wouldn't think it strange at all if I showed up with gifts. He would know what to do. I didn't need to explain anything.

After my dance class, I asked Makan, the proprietor of the studio (the amazing Maison des Arts, of which I have yet to share the photos- a beautiful design of architecture and decoration) if he knew where I could find the man who calls the prayer.  I'd forgotten to bring a scarf and was lamenting this while he went to see if he could send me with his wife. In the end, I didn't go with her because she was lamenting her clothes ( a modern style dress.) At least I had on a pagne, Makan observed.

We rounded a corner and walked a block and found the mu'addhin reclining on a mat under a large tree, a baby girl sitting next him. Makan offered greetings and introduced me. I handed over my package of dates and that was that. Kind of un-ceremonial, but positive.

Later that afternoon, in another neighborhood with another artist friend, I went again in search of the neighborhood mu'addhin. We waited under the shade of a tree exchanging small talk hoping to run into him on the way home from prayers. It seemed an uncertain method of encountering him and so we walked a bit and asked around. We were directed further down the main road (I say main road, but lest your vision get too grand, we are still talking dusty, red earth, donkey carts and motorcycles.)

Walking with Drissa,  walking with any artist in their neighborhood actually, is a bit like walking with a superstar. Everyone wants to say hello and it's actually quite difficult to make progress, and this is with him choosing who to stop and exchange extended greetings with. I heard him promise a few people he would be back to talk properly and a few more beckoned from the opposite side of the road, which were easier to evade. We stopped to exchange real greetings and introductions with 3 people, the most important or the ones he knows best, I assume.

Eventually we arrived. There was an older man sitting on a mat outside his home. He had on a crisp, white kufi and traditional flowing robes. A set of prayer beads lay just to the side and a stove for tea off to the back. He was much older than the first mu'addhin I had visited and a bit friendlier. He offered me blessings and we tried a little exchange, Drissa translating the Bamankan and helping me with the expected responses.

This definitely felt more ceremonial, more formal and yet friendly too. The kind of welcoming friendly you expect from a spiritual person. A relieving friendly. We said several goodbyes which left both of us grinning.

My sacred mission is not yet complete (I am not actually sure how secret it is supposed to be) but I am well on my way. Purpose is good and it's inspired all kinds of other thoughts about simple deeds I could be undertaking. This is probably the real meaning of the sacrifices. A gentle reminder that it is easy to do good work and we should probably do it more often.

Ndomo

We took a trip to Segou this past weekend and by far the highlight of the trip was a visit to Ndomo. Their website has a stunning collection of photographs of the architecture and the bogolan fabrics made there. Ndomo is a school with a fairly intense program that passes on the tradition of natural cloth dyeing. There are five classes and artist must pass through, each for 2 years. The 10 year program appears targeted at developing a knowledgeable and socially responsible citizen, not just an artist.

The first two years are about learning independence and responsibility, an exploration in how to study and be on one's own. The next two are learning traditional things about how animals live and the natural world, followed by two years about how societies are organized (and the interdependence of humans and the natural world.) Finally, there is the study of the plants and dyes and the symbols- the secret society of bogolan creators. It sounds like an amazing process.

We stopped by, without appointment, and were led to a small stage area in the back. We passed a large group of visitors sitting in a circle listening intently to their guide. The workshop we received was informative and efficient. Our guide gave us a story of how bogolan began, presented the plants and barks they use for natural dyeing, and introduced a few of the symbols used in making the designs.

We each received a little patch of cloth, already dyed in yellow plant fibers, and a small cup of clay. We were instructed to choose four symbols to put on our cloth and then we would have to try and tell a story (create a proverb) about them. (To a group of teachers, this translates as "test!" Luckily, I'd already been taking notes for the blog.)

He washed our little squares, interpreted our stories and set them in the sun to dry.  The final piece of the tour included looking at the vats where dyes are stored and heated, and the boutique, housed in traditional Malian architecture filled with handicrafts and stunning designs.

The story begins with a hunter following a deer. [The road to Segou was filled with deer scampering across the roadway, reminding me of NY highways- always look out for the last one, the littlest one who hesitated and will come jetting out at the last moment.] This hunter, who'd been wearing traditionally dyed cloth, managed to kill the deer and brought it proudly home to his family. Along the way, however, his clothes became stained from carrying the deer, who'd fallen in the mud after being shot.

The hunter's wife, who was happy about having a whole deer to feed and clothe the family, was not so happy about the stains in her husband's hunting apparel. She tried every manner of cleaning off the residue from his excursion to no avail.

Being a woman, however, she took the initiative to turn the situation to her advantage. She developed a code for telling the story of her family, giving advice and expounding wisdom. 

In the center of our circle, the guide had laid out a few bowls filled with flowers and barks. He introduced those to us after his story. He presented a small bowl of yellow flowers, the galama. He also brought several cloths of various shades of yellow, achieved by running it through the process of washing and soaking in galama waters. One wash, a light yellow, two washes, a deeper yellow and three washes, a nice mustard color.

The second bowl had bark from the wild grape vines. This was used for making brown. The bark is mixed with water and heated. A similar effect for creating various tones of brown is used- multiple washes result in deeper colors.

The plants are not just used for color however. They also have a medicinal purpose and our guide was ready to share that information as well. The galama plant is also used in treating malaria, as an antiseptic, to regulate blood pressure and for good mental health. Bark from the wild grape vines is an antibiotic and good for cough (he even supplied a prescription: heat with lemon and drink the tea for one week.)   

I took a lot of notes on the meanings of the symbols. Most of them had to do with having good character. The women developed these symbols as a form of moral education. They are about accepting responsibility for making good choices. They encourage sacrifice, social service and taking care of one's family.

There are signs about work ethic and how to be neighborly. The triangle represents the idea that a job well done deserves to be recognized and the points of three triangles (fishbones) represents the idea we need to respect the head of the family. 

Some signs continue to carry great weight, such as the X which represents a crossroads. Even in Bamako, we might see little signs of sacrifice that people have made or left behind - in order to pray for those who are sick or to help with guidance on the path to the four main points- be analytical, be social, live in service to others and stay connected to the spirits. Making this kind of sacrifice at the crossroads allows others to see it, and perhaps offer their own prayers for you, or the sick person.

An interesting sign, which may have been an influence in this bank's logo,  talks about being honest and not having debt.

There are also signs about choosing the right path ( straight lines and lines with dots or double lines, each have a significance in the the pathways that we choose to travel down) and helping with emotional and spiritual journeys (the camel's paw is related to this.)

Other animal related signs include the sacred crocodile, which is apparently common across parts of West Africa (Mali, Burkina Faso and Ghana.) The Malian version says that if you bring it food, the crocodile may accept it or he may just circle it and then go back to whatever he was doing before. If he accepts it, that means there is a solution to your problem. If he just circles it and leaves, then... well, the outlook is not so good for your problem. The sign of the crocodile is also about friendship and being neighborly.

After our introduction to the symbols, we were tasked with creating our own mini bogolan. It was a superb workshop. Although our visit may have been spontaneous, clearly the work of the center is anything but.

The final stop in our tour was the boutique, were I exercised incredible will power and self-restraint, and have been regretting it ever since. Not only was the cloth beautiful, but I regret even more not supporting the work of these artists, healers and keepers of tradition.

It merits a ride back. For the blue one. And to show my support of this incredible work.

Baskets of supplies

Mbalia making her own symbols

Our guide writing and explaining the symbols

Searching for the perfect paintbrush

Designing our fabric

Nabih, Me, Mbalia

Washing the mud off

Galama plants used for making yellow tones

The stoves for heating the wild grape bark

Around back, Nabih snaps a photo of the interior of a pot

Student meeting area and canteen 

The Blue One

Artisanal wares for sale- stunning creation after stunning creation

No space was left undone- artistic flair and design everywhere

3 Little Chairs

Designer

Bogolan symbols for teaching the workshops inside

Malian architecture is so pleasing to the senses

Outside the center

This view is visible to cars passing the route to Segou center

I never got the story behind the crevices and canyons just outside

La Colline

By far the most interesting place I travel to every week is the painting studio. Now that my studio is out of commission for the next few months, Drissa and I have been painting at his place on Saturdays.

It's not far from Sotuba- one of the few places that can actually be considered close-by- but the visual distance is vast. I start out on the paved city streets, pass the mammoth Muso Kunda, a museum with a typical Malian appearance dedicated to women. It is regal, intriguing outside but dark within and appears long deserted. (Online information says it is open Tues-Sat but I think I've heard it is closed now. Actually, this site confirms it closed in 2011 for renovations and has yet to reopen. This site suggests the area might not be safe for tourists, but that seems to be the official status quo these days.)

Eventually I arrive at a gas station on the edge of the modern world. Taking a left here leads me down dusty dirt roads through hillside villages. I make my way deeper into the neighborhood, passing children playing, men drinking tea, horses in impossibly small concrete stalls and motos- the ever present motorcyclists weaving their way around all the pedestrian traffic.

The children begin a chorus of "Toubabi" which is what they call foreigners here. It passes like a wave from house to house and I half expect them to have gathered in a group and be following me. There are no children behind me, but their singing is so loud I imagine Drissa can hear them on the hilltop.

I am stunned by the images I encounter. The colline, or hill, looms before me, steep and intimidating. Houses are perched at various levels zigzagging up the slope. Women carry water, children scamper along rocks jutting out and everywhere I look I see a shade of earthen beige or red.

Three girls come over the hilltop, each with a large bucket atop her head, a little sister skipping just in front of them. They are talking and giggling and eyeing me, casually making their way down the steep terrain. They are breathtakingly beautiful. The scene is so typical, stereotypically African, that for a minute I feel as if I'm trapped in the pages of a coffee table book about traditional Mali. I feel National Geographic and post-card perfect. I feel other worldly and exotic.

It passes as quickly as it came and I am back to being me, on a dusty Bamako red-dirt road. Climbing the hilltop to a half built studio. As I begin the ascent, some parts of the rock are carved conveniently into smooth steps, while other parts of the path are covered in pebbles and debris. The beauty is only marred by the black plastic floating from tree limbs and caught in the gravel. Little bits wave in the wind like pirate flags. Pieces flutter down from above, fallen parachutes that become trapped in the stones, buried remnants of modern consumerism.

A steep hillside path with river of garbage

I pass one room houses, built in a series of 3 (Drissa tells me these can get rented out for 2 or 3,000FCFA a month. A concrete room one step from homelessness.) More children come out to greet me and, as the path rises, I peer down into covered kitchen areas and sitting spaces. Women are busy with daily chores of pounding, cutting, fanning, stirring. All the preparation that goes into mealtime.

Streams of children emerge from behind boulders and underneath pieces of cloth flapping in the wind. They stand in a half salut, watching me pass and calling out toubabi, a few adventurous ones trying a bonjour.

Eventually I arrive at a collection of half built walls with a metal gate that lost it's proper hinge during last year's rainy season. Drissa removes the gate completely and welcomes me inside. Up here there is always a refreshing breeze and the sounds of the neighborhoods below merge into a cacophony of life. When the mosques begin their call to prayer, they compliment each other in a refrain of praise for Allah.

Hillside studio

I often hear the rehearsal of a traditional music group, the djembe threatening to lure me down the mountainside like an African Pied Piper. I want to follow the rhythms until I discover the source. I hear another sound, a soloist. I gaze out across the rooftops until I spy him. It is a boy standing in the doorway of his house. He is holding a green plastic jug and beating on the bottom of it with a stick. I am amazed at how the sound travels and my ability to spot him from so far away.

We spend the afternoon cloaked in the sounds of daily life. Time passes quickly as we paint and talk, sharing thoughts about everything from bad energy spirits to snippets of our past. Drissa's younger brother, Issa, often spends the day with us. He makes tea, listens to music and takes in the view. He is a poet and aspiring artist. He has the sweet, gentle manner I am finding to be typical in Mali. His presence adds a peaceful, calm energy to the creative atmosphere. Too soon it is time for me to head home. I have one last cup of tea, sweetened with mint and sugar, before heading back down the trail.

Sometimes I get a motorcycle ride to the road. I am still not used to the thrill and fear that comes from being on the bike. I see the Malian women driving, looking so calm with straight postures and fancy clothes. I am too aware of how things could go wrong in an instant and how far away medical care could be. I wonder if it is my age or my experiences that are doing me in here. Or maybe just plain common sense.

On our way out, we pass a dead donkey. His enormous carcass is laid out in the middle of the roadway. He looks unnatural, almost comical, a giant, overstuffed toy in the dirt. I wonder how long he will lay there and who will remove him. Apparently he was hit by a car. Whose car and whose donkey remains a mystery.

I am always reminded of the little patch of jungle from Kinshasa. Every day there I was grateful for the luck and privilege of living in such beauty. Every time I am in Nafadjie, I have a similar feeling- of being grateful for a truly unique experience. Life dans la colline.

Views of the neighborhoods below

Plateaus across the way

The inner walls are a playground for spray paint explorations by Issa

The way down

Cuban roots

Salsa in Bamako is of the Cuban variety. I've found my way back to class and have been enjoying learning all the strange names for dance moves I already know and quite a few I don't know. It is nice to put a little structure on things however. 

For me, salsa began with Cuban style. Cuban salsa is danced in a circle, rather than the strict line of Puerto Rican salsa. Back then, I felt like a dervish whirling across the dance floor, full of joy and ecstasy. But I didn't always feel in control and I couldn't break down what my feet were doing. 

A few years studying Puerto Rican style gave me some discipline and helped me gain control. Now that I have a teacher who breaks down the steps, Cuban salsa is a lot less intimidating. My Malian teacher is a gentle young man, as so many Malians seem to be. He is quiet and sweet with a baby face (as so many faces seem to be lately. I am feeling my age here in Bamako.)    

He is a lot less demanding (though I can still hear Henri's voice telling me, head up, back straight, light hands....) While I miss the posture and the structure of Puerto Rican salsa- and Henri's strict teaching style- I am having fun feeling back to my roots. 

Taoule is a Muslim and he wears a traditional West African boubou every day, even for dancing. It is an odd mixture. This slight, mild mannered young guy in his long bazin dashiki and matching pants teaching me the Dile Que Si, the Enchufle and the Sombrero. Apparently he spent some years in France with his father, who is a dancer and musician himself. I have no idea how that turned into him studying salsa, but I guess there is time to uncover the story. 

Taoule is such a calm teacher, I am surprised when he breaks out with an advanced move. He's really great at meeting me at my level but every so often he sneaks in something fancy. It is so inconsistent with his manner that it never fails to make me smile. He understands pacing well and has been introducing more complicated steps at just the right time. I am left to wonder what his full out dancing might look like, while finding his reserve refreshing. He's not trying to impress me and I can't really tell if this is due to shyness or quiet confidence. I find it common in Malians- this gentleness that could be taken either way. It's comforting and welcoming. Friendly. I guess this is how they got their reputation. 

Mali keeps offering up strange juxtapositions of people and events. Learning Cuban salsa from a Muslim West African is certainly among the top. As I get closer to my roots, I keep finding there is more to uncover. 

Photo-Shop

The international life requires a lot less paperwork, but there are a few essential details that need looking after. Passports, visas, yellow fever vaccines. All of these documents come with an expiration date and renewal process that needs to be kept on top of. Everyone in the family is not necessarily on the same schedule, which makes it all just a tiny bit more complicated.

Each country has slightly different visa procedures also, which require more or less attention. Happily, Mali gave us 5 year visas with our first application, leading to many worry-free years ahead. Both boys' passports are about to expire, however, so we took a trip to the embassy to start the renewal process. My passport needed renewal a few months ago, which gave me a preview of how things might go in Bamako. While Abidjan was impressive with it's routines and efficiency, Bamako is proving just plain simple. Friendly and welcoming.

The American embassy is no different than any where else. I sometimes imagine there is a universal designer who has taken initiative to stage all the embassies the same. Upon walking in, you are immediately transported to the nowhere time and space, the limbo of American Embassy that could exist on any continent, in any country, in any year. Same decor featuring giant photos or paintings by obscure artists of random American landmarks, same heavy doors that require two hands to push and maybe even a hip thrust. There are the same chairs, same wall coverings and even the same child's play area table and toys. The cashier windows are identical, numbering 1-5, sometimes up to 8, and you never visit them in order. First stop, down to the cashier at 1, then back up to window 5 for dropping off papers and finally over to window 3 for ......saying goodbye? She told us when to come back and assured us that Mohamed's passport would either be done in time for him to travel, or I could just pick it up myself and he could travel with his old one, which was still valid for a few more months.

Nice. Efficient. Kind of busy, but smooth flowing. The embassy in Abidjan was so much larger and always void of people. It's another point of curiosity. The size of the embassy versus the amount of business that goes on there. I can't really figure out what goes on behind all the tempered glass and particle board corners. But I have had the opportunity to take advantage of a few citizen services such as passport renewal and reporting a birth abroad.

Most of the time, getting things done at an embassy is as easy as making an online appointment and showing up on time. There is hardly a wait and things that take weeks or months in country, often take days or weeks abroad.  In fact, the hardest part of the whole process is getting the ID photo, which doesn't happen at the embassy at all. Instead, you must first find a photo shop able to supply the all important and ever regulated identity photo.

Photo shops like these abound in Abidjan, where they are overly fond of the 'photo identite.' I remember being tickled by a pricing poster, which offered "normal" or "US format." There is not the same culture of needing a photo for everything you'd like to do or join or even observe here in Bamako. Which, while pleasant, makes getting US formatted passport photos a little challenging.

The first obstacle is the photo itself. All the photo labs (in Africa, I am going out on a limb here and I am just going to make one broad, sweeping statement about every single photo printing lab on the continent) have fallen in love with photo-shop. For some reason, they find it easier to cut out the figure and paste it onto a white background rather than hang a white sheet and take the photo right in the first place. I remember well the photo for my gym membership in which the photo-artist placed a beautiful kimono over my tank-topped shoulders. And (possibly the same) artist who gave the infant Mbalia a new lip, improving her already perfect baby pucker.

Of course, that is all a no-go for official US passport photos. No cutting around the hair (au revoir  chop and crop hairdo with your geometric outlines and unnatural angles) no pasting onto a fake white background, no enhancing the eyes or brushing down the forehead shine. Point, shoot, and print. It's the only way.

Luckily, we have one white wall available to us and so I was able to grab a few photos with my phone first. I spent time comparing my shots with all of the examples on the US embassy website, where they also have a convenient photo cropper tool- so you can get the exact dimensions and perfectly position the head where it needs to go.

Printing is the big obstacle. The print shop I have gone to is located right in heart of Hippodrome, tucked back from the roadside of the busiest street in town. It is a small, yellow building with a faint eau d'urine that assaults the senses after walking in. It's filled with men and boys sitting on benches, a few holding old cameras, a few sitting in front of screens. Although one of the guys takes my USB and lifts the photos, I can't quite figure out what his real job is because behind the cashier desk there are two computers and two Asian men, one looking young enough to wonder whether boy might be more appropriate, who do all the fixing. They are pale with bad skin and I wonder if they ever get out into the sunshine. The seats seem molded to their bodies and the younger one has kicked his shoes off, a foot casually tucked up beneath his leg.

Their fingers fly across the keyboard as photos flash on the screen. They lighten, sharpen, crop, change closed eyes into open, bend corners and add frames all without even appearing to glance at the picture itself. They are lost in their music, each connected to headphones. I assumed the shop belongs to them, or a family member. It is a somewhat depressing, curious kind of existence.

The place is always busy. The guys are forever arranging photos of weddings or birthdays or other family occasions. I think for a moment of Enjoy Poverty, the documentary about a guy who wants the Congolese to benefit from their poverty by taking pictures of it (rather than the foreign journalists who swoop in, snap photos and then sell the misery for hundreds of dollars.) The photographers are clearly uncomfortable taking pictures of starving children near death and the big outlets refuse to buy them anyway. The documentary evoked ....a strong reaction. To say more would digress completely from the topic, leading down a wormhole of unknown dimensions. I was bothered by the film, and perhaps that was the point. But I can't quite jump on the Renzo Marten bandwagon just yet.

Back to the shop. Where they are doing a hefty and profitable business printing photos of happy occasions. I am mesmerized by the boy, who cuts out a pair of eyes from one photo and then flips through the series, to another picture where he pastes and arranges the eyes overtop closed lashes. I think it is the same person. Sometimes its not. I watch him move a lip up and then down until it is finally in position, momentarily creating a bizarre wedding day animation.

We wait for 20 minutes before I decide to put the pressure on. I stand near the desk, watching, wondering how much longer until my 2 photos appear. Just print. I inquire, I stand, I sigh. I look at the clock. I even talk to myself. Out loud. Finally I see Mohamed's face on the screen. I see the boy begin to trace around his figure and I speak to the clerk, telling him once again- no photo shopping. Just printing. Exactly as it is. I have been here before. Several times. You might think they'd know me by now. I gesture. I huff. I insist verbally and physically. Anything I can think of to get my point across. Just. Print.

It's closing in on 30 minutes and I want to leave. It would be so satisfying to gather my things and step out into the hot Malian day.  If there were any way to leave here and go somewhere else and still arrive to our appointment on time, I would.  The man at the counter tries to hurry the boy along, yelling at him to be quick. It's the first time I've heard this kind of exchange between them. It makes me wonder who is in charge after all.

The boy finally prints the photos and becomes sullen. He lets the desktop go quiet and turns to his phone. I catch a glimpse of a smooth faced Asian girl. Fantasy or friend, I can't be sure. I am not up on my Asian pop at all. I wonder why this boy is here and not in school. I wonder how these two came to be here in this photo dive tucked away in Bamako, Mali. And I imagine possibilities of what their life back home was like, if this represents the dream.

Eventually the photos are presented. I am not convinced they are American size and I forgot to bring the application page which would allow me to check. All I can remember is 2x2 which is no help in the metric system. They tell me it's 5x5 and I have to believe them. But it's apparent that I don't, not really. They want to trim the photos for me, but all I can imagine is the slow, methodical cuts that will make us later and later. I tell him no problem, I can cut them myself. Completely against protocol, I know. More white lady fit throwing.

We take our photos, as I vow never to come back. I've had one too many outbursts here. The clerk still thinks I am angry. Really, I'm just uncertain. I am frustrated that I didn't check the metric measurements and I hate how much time it's all taken. Surely there is another photo lab I can torment. Better yet, hopefully we have completed all the required paperwork for the next several years.

Oh but my guys are handsome. Growing. This will be Mohamed's last 5 year passport. He'll be 20 the next time he needs a new one. And then 30. The years pass just like that in my mind. For a minute I am stunned. I imagine the young Asian guy, fingers older, still flying across the keyboard rearranging memories into perfect moments that never existed.

Not-so-Social Profile

It's been hard to write lately. For awhile I have been wondering if the blog is done. Every so often I feel a resurgence, but it's getting longer and farther apart.

I've had the chance to drum at my first street wedding. I've begun an amazingly creative collaboration with several artists, and I've even started salsa again. My little cutie is growing up with wonderfully quirky mannerisms. My boys are growing into men and I am reveling in the twists and turns of my relationship with the older children, now young adults.

On the surface it all seems to be working out. Bamako, and Mali in general, is home to a plethora of artistic festivals- music, spoken word, dance, theatre, comedy. House painting festivals and marionette shows. Galleries and workshops. It's all here going on at an almost frantic pace. Yet somehow, everything seems in slow motion. 

I haven't quite been able to place my finger on the difference. When I remember Abidjan, I imagine sunny days and a light hearted feeling of walking and being free. I am well aware of the tendency of memories to skew themselves into a more nostalgic version of the reality that was. I recall with vivid awareness the amount of work I had to do there, extra tutoring sessions nearly every night, searching for taxis home after dark, longing for sleep and rest and the never ending sense of trying to catch up.
But it is persistent, this feeling that somehow Abidjan was lighter, easier, sunnier.

Mali is plenty hot, full of sunshine, definitely dry. Sometimes I have confused this feeling with the abundant dust in the air. I think today I might have uncovered a closer hint to what it really is.

A representative from the embassy visited the school to talk to some teachers. His message was anything but clear. Everything but complete. He talked about a profile. A profile that perhaps some of us fit- though he wasn't giving up details. He talked about a plan, a plan that had been in the works for awhile and was maybe reaching execution date, but there weren't any details. No expiration date. Just a bunch of speculation and little useful advice.

Because, while I have been doing a lot in Mali- painting up a storm, dancing with exuberance, drumming in such a consistent way that I finally see improvement, there's a lot that I am not doing. Because maybe this heaviness and pressure and unnamable thing can just be put down to security.

Security is the big uncertain in Bamako. And it is not the political uncertainty that has plagued other countries we lived in. It's not about protests against the government or even mutinies by the army. It is about all the uncontrollable variables that come from simply being a foreigner. Nothing I can change or fix or avoid. Just being me is enough to fit the profile.

It leaves me wondering all kinds of questions I haven't yet asked. Am I safer walking and going around with the kids- or does that just put them in danger? Are we better off as a group, should I surround myself with my Malian friends or should we just stay home all the time? How long can we stay locked in a house?

How safe is the house anyway? Speculation quickly turns to how trustworthy the guards are and I  quickly realize that's not even the question. No matter how friendly someone is, when faced with a choice between personal safety and safety of a practical stranger, there's no doubt how most humans will respond. If they even get the chance to respond.

In the face of arms, no one is strong enough. Not physically strong nor strong willed. No amount of nothing can stand up to an armed group. And so we wonder, shouldn't we be informing the guards to be extra vigilant? I contemplate what that means exactly, and I realize that the most vulnerable time is tea time.

When the guards are sitting outside the houses, chatting and having tea, most often the doors are open behind them. So, do we ask them to stay locked inside? This only works if the guards can't be bought- if a bunch of cash won't be effective in getting a door open. Everyone needs cash in Mali.

It only works if they don't open the peep hole or answer the door banging in the night. It only works if the thin metal holds. The most important lesson I've learned in Africa is that the durability of concrete is a fallacy. It's not as strong as I once might have thought. Not these concrete walls surrounding us, easily scaled, easily knocked out or knocked through.

The embassy guy didn't come to talk about our social profiles or our professional profiles. He couldn't even talk specifics. But he was pretty effective at scaring us all. Even those of us who have weathered many other African storms. There's a different kind of profile we all fit. It's nothing personal. It's nothing we can cover up or hide behind. He talked about unknowable, uncertain things with an air of resignation.

Because it's bound to happen- and if I don't fit the profile, then one of my colleagues does- so there's no real win, no real sense of relief. He seems to think even if it doesn't happen this time, it will happen. It's an effective way to get financing. There's no arguing with that.

Happy eve to spring vacation, for those of us who are staying. Bamako just got even smaller.

My quirky girl who loves to wear shoes on
her hands, just in case she needs to get down
on all fours and save the world like a robo-dog.