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