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.
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| 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. |
