A secret cave

Big trucks and watermelons. Motorcycles and red dust. Flies. These are the things that I imagine when I think of Bamako. Living in the Zone Industrielle means we are inundated with big trucks. As a landlocked country, Mali is dependent on it's trucking industry to trade goods with its neighbors and get its exports to sea.

The trucks are not allowed to drive on the roads at certain hours, though I haven't yet determined what those hours hour. During early morning commutes to school they are parked along the roadside, 2 by 2 in rows of 3 or 4.

I am intrigued by their set up- wandering kindred spirits that we are. The relationship with their truck does not seem to mirror their American counterparts- who have decked out cabs, complete with sleeping quarters and kitchen sinks. Malian drivers sleep outside. Their trucks become oversized guard animals, protecting them and providing shelter. Often, they can be seen underneath the long back, stretched out on a colorful plastic mat, the large kind used for everything from prayers to picnics to sleeping under your truck.

Avoiding the mid-day sun

I find their ability to sleep, a meter or so from a busy roadway, unbelievable. I cannot imagine being able to relax enough to fall into slumber while laying out in the open with nothing but a thin sheet covering me, taxis and motorcycles rumbling by every minute. There is a deluxe camping model- it looks like a tall, rectangular tent. It's usually made from a heavy brown canvas and looks just long enough to house a narrow cot inside. A private outdoor bunk. The material appears thick enough to buffer some roadway noise, but surely it is a trade-off in heat factor.

During some- most for me- early mornings, when I was still wearing a sweater (I even recall wishing for a hat one morning, a nice fuzzy winter hat) I remember thinking how cold they must be, sleeping outside. During those times, all you can see is a person-shaped blanket. The deluxe model provides some luxury on those chilly mornings.

In heat of mid-day, you can also find drivers napping under their truck or stealing a bit of shade. Sometimes they have the low seated slanted chairs common around West Africa. Occasionally they are stretched out in a black rope hammock swaying in the breeze. And always, there is the plastic mat option. 

Friends gather and play cards, drink tea or just watch the commotion of people selling, unloading, and waiting. Ordinary activities of daily life. It seems like a great place to people watch, a secret cave from which to peer out at the unsuspecting masses. A little spot of your own amidst the busy cramped bustling of the day.

Trucks everywhere

things people say

It's hard to write about Bamako. It's hard to write anything new. It's hard to write anything real. There is a definite sense of the cliche. A definite sense that everything people say is true. I am beginning to understand there is a lot people are not saying and the interesting parts must lie somewhere in between.

There is plenty of cousin talk. Completely true. Any time you meet someone, they want to know your last name. If you don't have a Malian one, they are happy to give you one, most likely they'll try to impose Coulibaly. I stick with my own first name because it works. And it's mine.

Someone told me Toure means 'people who come from far.' There are Toure all across west Africa from Senegal to Cameroon. Everything fits- an international traveler, wandering type.  Cousins of many, which leads to that fine joking Malians are known for.

Malians are really nice. Almost nice to a fault at times. I've begun to suspect there is so much positive commenting on certain things because of this extreme gentleness. It is hard to say something negative about a place where people are so agreeable.

Bazen is beautiful. There is just something majestic about this cloth and seeing people adorned in all the splendor gives a regal air to the mundane. Going to the bank, stopping at the pharmacy- everywhere people are covered in fancy cloth and exude dignity and strength. You can't get away from it.

I took a quick trip to the market yesterday to get some bazen for a few friends- travel in the future!! yay!!- but I was stunned by the prices. I still haven't bought any for myself. I've only gone bazen shopping two other times, both with visiting friends, and every time I find it difficult to wrap my mind around the prices. There is nothing cheap about it.

I asked the vendor what people did for a living- all those finely dressed people I see wandering the streets of Bamako. What the heck do they do that allows them to buy such expensive cloth? I was reminded of the sapeurs of Kin- willing to pay hundreds, even thousands of dollars to achieve a look, all the while unable to pay their rent or buy enough food for everyone in the household.

As much as rituals and traditions have frustrated me in the past, I understand that the role of costume and dress has an impact. We see this play out in the US everyday. The way you are dressed influences how others respond to you and - I suspect- influences the actions of the wearer as well.

Attitude and adornment- hand in hand. Malians are as polite as their clothing is royal.

Malian music is a thing. It's beautiful, haunting, nostalgic, delicate, sophisticated. Malian music has a distinctive tone. While I used to love it when I wasn't here, somehow now that I am in country, I find it harder to listen to. Too much nostalgia, too much lonely desert wandering. The haunting part has overtaken and the beautiful part is merely tinged around the edges.

There are a lot of positives to talk about, but in truth, the feeling in the air is different. It doesn't quite match the obvious militant style of Kin, overrun with guns and tanks and robo-cops on every corner. I hardly see police here, rarely any arms (except on the rare occasion, as this morning, when I accidentally drove by a protest rally. This is the third time I have accidentally ended up in the middle of a rally, marked by the presence of robo-cops- lots of gear, little to do. Often they are gathered in groups trying to find some shade to huddle in. Every time I have seen them, they outnumber the protesters by at least double. They look friendly but bored.)

But there is something in the air I can't quite name or describe. People who have been here "before" and "after" attribute it to the security situation, a situation that has put a damper on all things festive and cultural and creative and touristic.  Because I have no "before" to compare to, I can't say for sure. But it feels like a city the day after its grand parade (worse, it could be this city- cancelling it's parade altogether, and not for the first time.) It feels like a big empty mansion the morning after the week-end party, a little messy, a little destitute but with an air of potential.

An adventure would help- a road trip to the historical, magical cities of old. Security looks dim in all directions- and I am not even privy to the incessant briefings many of the ex-pat, NGO types sit through weekly. I have no inside knowledge, no connections, no way to feel the pulse of the people. A complete outsider this go-round, a controlled swerve until I can get back to where I belong.

Which was....where again?

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.)

old school

where we are & where we want to go- so easy

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.

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. 

Ancestors

It's finally hot. After months of wondering if Bamako would ever live up to the warnings, I feel it. The heat radiates from the sun and back up from the earth coating everything in red orange rays. I can feel the heat inside my head, swirling around and warming my brain.

I don't mind this at all. It is comforting and energizing. I know there are plenty of people wilting, but I absorb the heat and try to hold on to it. Soon enough, the cool winds of the rainy season will be upon us. I wonder if living through the dryness will have changed me. If surviving the extreme temperatures will acclimate me and render the cooler season tolerable, welcome even.

As I made my way up the steep mountain, now an ingrained part of my weekly painting ritual, I noticed the yellow and green plastic jugs placed at intervals throughout the climb. It is the journey of water. No matter how hot I am, how tired my body or how fatigued my mind, there is always someone working harder than me. I can hardly imagine the effort involved in transporting the water up the hillside. Every week, I am in awe.

This week, even more so. News of death has a way of emphasizing the mundane. We expend so much effort in the fight to survive, and in the end none of us will conquer it. Death awaits us all.  I am disconcerted by the strength of our will. And I can't help but think that those who've passed on have finally uncovered the mystery, the great mystery of what comes after. They know if we are foolishly passing our time trying to avoid the inevitable. Perhaps we should just be embracing it.

Upon arriving to the studio, there is often a cool breeze to welcome me. And today, as I gazed across the valley to the neighboring hilltops , I noticed a swirl of dust on the horizon. I watched it grow higher and tighter, lifting into the sky before eventually dispersing. A tornado of dust rising on the heat.

I pointed it out to Drissa and we watched it speed towards the heavens. I wondered what it looked like up close and expected to see it start swerving across the earth in a path of destruction. Drissa told me people say it is a devil and wondered aloud if that's true. "No," I half-heartedly said, "there's a scientific explanation. Something about hot and cool and air convections." But even as the words left my mouth, I realized that a scientific explanation didn't negate a spiritual one. On this exceptional day, I really didn't know what to believe.

It is just now, writing this, when I looked up the word for dust tornado that I am reminded of dust devil. Our conversation comes back to me and I wonder again at the complexity and interconnectedness of language and ideas and cultures. And spirits.

Our painting session was difficult for me. I haven't felt particularly skilled with this image. Drissa has contributed far more than I and it has been a challenge for me to keep up. Mid-afternoon I found out that I missed an important conference call with Mohamed (college preparation has already begun.)

It was all going wrong but I had no choice but to continue. Art has that effect. Painting can be a painful birthing process. I took some time to watch Drissa, trying to learn from him, remembering that was one of the main reasons for undertaking this project. Once situated comfortably in the role of student, I opened my eyes. I really observed. He works like magic and it is captivating to witness.

Eventually, I decided to tackle one area that has been challenging me forever- hands. I'd spent some time trying to get the drums right,  something I am familiar with. But I decided to take a chance on really improving. And in the end, I definitely felt some progress. I really love this painting, even if I don't feel it has been an equal split of effort- or perhaps technique is the better word. Drissa and I often trade off in discussions about composition and perspective. I do have something to offer in that respect at least.

But after today, I was definitely feeling like I'd been able to invest a bit more of myself. I'd meant to do it. Painting and drumming- creating in tribute to someone who'd been there for me, if not consistently or dependably, at least occasionally and once or twice, right on time.

While I'd begun the day with a million confusing thoughts and emotions swirling in my head, as I made my way back down the mountain I felt a bit more positive and clear minded. I took in the African landscape, contemplating the mysteries between life and death. The meaning of it all.

In that vision of descent, I felt a sense of peace. Ancestors, I thought. Now I have ancestors. Maybe they are looking out for me sometimes.

It was the thought I needed to take me back home. I'd been wrestling for the past few days with news of an impending end. Confirmation came this morning that I'd lost another link to the person I used to be, the childhood me. And, while I'd had ancestors before today, I can sadly share that no one ever talked about them. I never heard their names and they never knew mine.

But now, there are at least two spirits who know me and maybe we can find a connection in death that we were never really able to achieve in life.

In Africa, the drum is a signal for everything from birth
to death and all the momentous occasions in between.
I think my dad would like it, even in progress. 

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.