The line between earth and sky was lost in the haze of dust. The land flattened out as we drove across a small bridge. Large new buildings sprang up. "I'm pretty sure I've never seen any of this before. It's not this way. Honestly, I've never even been out here. We should turn around."
I'd been trying to tell the driver that our new house wasn't down this road. The problem was, I couldn't really tell him which road it was down. I had the key phrase- or at least I thought it was the key phrase- Rondpoint Sotuba. That was what they told me the rondpoint just by our house was called, conveniently located on the rue de Sotuba. Easy enough to remember.
But we arrived at a rondpoint with a large statue in the middle of it- familiar, surely, but our rondpoint was empty in the middle. Just a small circular patch of grass that occasionally hosted a homeless man who slept there inside his mosquito net tent. "It's not this one, but it's close," I'd told the driver. That's when he took off down the road, kicking up dirt and muttering to himself.
We'd argued a bit over whether that was, in fact, the rondpoint Sotuba, and his anger was coming out in his driving. The more I pointed out that this new road wasn't the way either, the more erratic his driving became. Nabih was busy asking us both to calm down- ever the voice of reason- and all I could think about was the ridiculousness of the situation. We couldn't even get home.
The behind-the-scenes facts about moving to a new country every few years is that it has the potential to make even the most mundane events horrifying. Going to the store to get a few things ends up in a high speed, road rage induced taxi ride that has us bouncing over pot holes, narrowly avoiding a swarm of motorcycles and even driving on the wrong side of the road for a few minutes. Lost. Completely. With someone who barely speaks French. And who's completely ticked off because he's wasting his gas driving around foreigners who don't even know where they live.
Welcome to Bamako. It's been a long, slow settling and I am not even sure we're there yet. As with any move, there are always the small details to arrange and as is often the case with Africa, small details take forever.
Coming to Bamako definitely felt like a far journey. Ironic, since the plane ride was only an hour and a half. The shortest plane ride possible. And yet, there was a sense of distance that is difficult to describe. A sense of being further away and cut off. Remote. The pace of time has slowed and everything feels far away and hard to get to.
Maybe it is just the newness of things. The first few weeks, and even months, are all about trying to establish a sense of direction. But this vastness is more than just within country. Even friends in other countries seem to be hard to reach. I feel hidden. Maybe it is the desert. Or the donkey driven carts that share the road with the motorcycles and cars. It adds to the illusion that time has rolled back.
We live in the Industrial Zone. It looks just like it sounds. Large trucks barreling down narrow roadways. The corner boutique of Abidjan has been replaced with the "en gros" retailer. Small stores have pallets of rice and boxes of powdered milk stacked to ceiling. There is a sense of buy now because you are on the edge of the countryside.
While the main roads are paved, a glance down any side road reveals the red earth of a village scene. It reminds me a lot of Matadi- the port town in Congo. There is a lot of unloading and shuffling of merchandise. Motorcycles swarm like bees and there is the hum of activity everywhere. Nestled in among all this, and very much unlike Matadi, is the herd of cows being shepherded by a real shepherd (with a staff and long robes to go with.) Goats graze in corrals along the roadside and horses and donkeys are almost as prevalent as the motorbikes.
Everywhere is on the edge of nowhere. If you frame it right. There are large, brand new buildings, stately in that Malian style of architecture, but their emptiness is disconcerting. It's different from the new construction of Abidjan, where you could be certain apartments and offices would be spoken for and occupied before the entire construction was complete. Here, the buildings are fit for kings, but the village is deserted.
The street kids are back, waiting outside supermarkets and vegetable stands where the wealthy might go. They carry oversized tomato paste cans (the commercial size, naturally.) I saw a group of them one morning, emerging from behind one of those monumental, empty new buildings. They were dangling their cans and running across the parking lot full of morning energy.
I tried to catch a glimpse of what was behind the building. Nestled in the back I saw a small cabin, the sides tacked with aluminum and a black tarp covering the roof. A few men were pouring tea and gathering their things. Memories of camp grounds filled my mind. Mornings feel like camping here.
It's been cold these first few weeks as well. I took an early trip to the grand marche in search of blankets, after having woken up in the middle of the night several times due to the cold. I wasn't expecting that at all really. People were quick to talk about the heat, but no one mentioned how cold it could get.
My first impressions are a strange mix of quietness and busyness- the latter mostly due to the motorcycles, appearing from everywhere and out of nowhere. It seems impossible to drive down the street without running one over. I'm told accidents are common. Everyone drives motorcycles, including women with babies tied to their backs. I can't help but think how little protection the thin cloth covering their head will provide.
I am starting to see more women (and actually, a colleague at school often mentions a shortage of men,) but my first impressions are that it's a man's country. Maybe it is also due to the motorcycles. Being on a motorcycle makes you more visible, and even though there are plenty of women driving and riding motos, the majority are men. Everywhere you turn there are gangs of men on bikes. They are not necessarily together, but it's the motorcycle effect. (Probably book material there, if someone hasn't already tackled it.)
It makes me more conscious of my clothing choice, as a woman, realizing I am in a predominantly Muslim country. No one mentioned anything about it during my informal surveys either. Not like when you talk about going to Saudi or Iraq. I spent the first few days trying to notice what other women were wearing, how conservatively they were dressed. I did see a few in jeans. But most were in pagnes or basin. Most have their hair covered, though it is just as much a part of the traditional dress as head covering. With all of the dust, it's also practical. The head covering easily serves as a mouth or face covering when riding on the back of a moto or in a moment of high wind.
I had thoughts like these swirling around in my head as I shopped one morning. I was considering how environment- physical and cultural- has the potential to affect our dress. I was pondering how much one should yield and if certain things would be seen as culturally insensitive as opposed to just being different. Just at this moment, two Chinese women walked up to the deli counter. They wore tank tops and short, tight shorts. I guessed they weren't concerned about being culturally sensitive or appropriate. I decided not to worry about my own wardrobe. All of my wraps are knee length or longer. The most revealing part of my clothes are my arms. I just can't do sleeves. I guess it will be good enough. For now most of my time is spent among Americans or other foreigners at the school anyway.
That's pretty much how I am feeling in these first few weeks. Foreign. Out of place. Not quite settled. It's enough to make you get all nostalgic for home. But then I remember there really is no place called home. This is it. Wherever I am. Home.
Reflecting on the physical home is probably best left for a whole new post. The space is different and comes with a new set of (interesting?) things to consider. We're still next to a lettuce field, however. I guess it will take more than a move across the border to change that.
I have thoughts on the sense of safety (or lack of,) the Malians themselves, the new job, the new language, and all of the other "news" that confront you in a move like this- best left for another post. My first impressions aren't positive or negative, though the inclination to compare everything to the place you just left is strong. (If only the taxi drivers could be as good as the peanut butter. Malian chauffeurs- down 1, Malian peanut butter- up 2+)
My first impressions just are.
Red, busy, dusty, slow paced, quiet. We have a new turtle. And maybe that's the best change so far.
