We've recently moved- just down the street. Actually, through the roundabout, down the road, to the left near the Aiche building and Here Construction (heray- as in the Bamanakan for happy and peaceful, only I can't get those special e's on the computer- and they aren't on the business sign either, but I am suspecting it's meant to be 'heray' and not Here.) After that it's the third right.
I had to add all that in because I am (still, forever) annoyed by the inability of the masses to give directions. We've just moved, basically down the street, and yes, I can give you directions.
Moving down the street may not sound like much of a difficulty. It might even sound better when you consider that the school took care of mostly everything. While I was at work one day, they showed up with a truck, loaded everything and carted it off to the new place. There were some odds and ends left for me, some plants and a bike and my fixtures from the studio, but the heavy lifting was done.
Sort of. It sounds good until you really try to imagine the details. A bunch of strangers move all of your stuff to a new place while you are not there. They put everything everywhere. And honestly, walking in to see all the mishmash furniture stacked in one spot does not encourage a sense of hope and renewal. There is nothing worse than taking a bunch of paint peeling dressers, falling apart end tables and faded-just-around-the-arms sofas and putting them side by side. I was overwhelmed with the shabbiness. Could this really be my life after 44 years? A collection of worn out furniture that doesn't even belong to me?
The only thing to do was separate the criminals immediately. I set about moving heavy bookcases and pushing a 2 piece china cabinet across the floor. The china cabinet was really my crowning glory- having devised a way to remove the heavy upper piece by lowering it first onto a table and then onto a set of three chairs. The chairs straddled the frame of the sliding glass doors, which the hutch had to get up and over. I somehow managed to heave the upper component back onto its base, all without dropping it to the floor and smashing the glass panels. It was a huge, though private, moment of satisfaction.
Moving with Malian men can seem pleasant at first. They are chivalrous and really want to help. They won't let you carry anything. The first time, it is fine. So surprising you have nothing to do but go with it. Every time after that is annoying. It's hard to get mad at people who are helping you. But when faced with the ridiculous- and completely inefficient- situation of standing there watching while everyone else hauls goods- it's infuriating. I can carry a small potted plant. I can carry a a medium box. I can carry a lamp. I can move a china cabinet. Leave me alone.
It becomes insulting, is what happens. And with the perceived insult comes anger. But when my car dies on the side of a dusty Bamako road, I am happy to call someone to come and change my tire. While I wait, watching. Doing nothing. So much for being angry about that Malian chivalry.
