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?
