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.)
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| old school |
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| where we are & where we want to go- so easy |
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.
