One Brave Cow

I saw him dash across the street and run off down a dirt road. He was large and brown with impressive horns. He was not the black and white docile cow roaming green pastures in idyllic oil paintings. Rather, he was massive and fierce, a cow on a mission.

Seconds later, I saw a man in flowing robes, his head wrapped in cloth, running after the steer. His arm was raised, brandishing a whip, and he dodged motorcycles and sotramas in an effort to make gains on his escaping prize.

Minutes after that spectacle, I passed an overturned motorcycle, it's rider attempting to collect his pile of fallen goods and return his machine to its upright position. I suspected the cow's mad dash for freedom had played a role here.

Bamako streets are filled with rebel cows. Eid al Fitr, the holiday marking the end of Ramadan, is upon us. It's something of a cow apocalypse.  To prepare for the 2-3 days of feasting after the month long fast, beef is being chopped, piled and packed onto motorcycles. Roadsides are lined with cardboard or plastic sheeting and fresh beef stacked into heaps.

The slaughter of cows takes place anywhere, everywhere and the bodies are laid out, necks sliced open, blood gurgling and spurting onto the ground. Legs twitch and their massive chests still heave with final breaths. Men are cleaning, cutting, and washing interior organs and separating everything into ragged raw piles of cow parts.

It goes on all day and into the night. Early evening I stop by an ATM and witness two men struggling to tie a cow into the back of a motor-cart, the blue Xingda tricycle seen all over the streets of Bamako. On this day, too many of them are filled with tied up cows, kidnapped and carted off to death. It's no wonder they're revolting.

Further down the road, I see two men trying to control a cow who is giving his best effort to break free. They've tied ropes around his legs and neck and are trying to manipulate his movements marionette style. A third man comes up along the side and the cow turns on him, horns slashing through air. The man jumps back- into the roadway- and the two rope holders pull tighter. The cow is subdued and traffic winds around the trio.

Later that evening, I share the escaping cow story with my Dutch neighbor. We are poolside at a quiet hotel on the Niger River. In turn, she tells me about the legendary cows of her village in the Netherlands. Occasionally during the time of slaughter, cows escape there as well. And one cow in particular got a pretty good lead on his farmer. Another farmer, a retired farmer who had a long history with the cow and knew him well, was called in. The retired farmer managed to catch up with the cow and use their special past relationship to calm him down and convince him to return.

Of course, the cow was not slaughtered after that and was awarded special cow status. A kind of mythical, legendary king cow hero who'd managed to escape the certainty of slaughter and go on to live long and comfortably into cow old age. One brave cow who has apparently been inspiring cows world-wide to strive for their freedom, even if it means dashing across crowded city streets and overturning motorcycles. 

Shopping and Prayer

I have discovered a favorite new fabric store. Well, perhaps favorite is a strong word, but it is definitely a useful new fabric store. I have two now and I always visit them together. Lambada is what I consider a conservative store. It is the tried and true, steadfast friend you can call in the middle of the night if you need something and be certain to be helped. This store has many styles of fabric in a variety of patterns. It is orderly and neat with samples piled up in folded squares layed out across table after table. Prices for 2, 4, or 6 yards are clearly marked on small chalkboard signs. They have one of my favorite sections where the cloth is bundled in pairs. Deux temps. There you can find a bright and vibrant pattern paired with a solid color or you may find the same pattern but with the colors reversed. When checking out, you will first give your cloth (ironically- or perhaps arabically) to the man at the table sitting closest to the exit. From there you will work your way (backwards) to the lady on his right. She will issue you three copies of each receipt for each piece of fabric you have selected. You move on to the cashiers who are (first) next in the row. They will cheerfully take your money, provide change and stamp all three copies of your receipts, keeping one. Finally you  move back to the (end) beginning and show your receipts in order to collect your fabric, which is bagged and handed off. Music plays, providing a pleasant atmosphere and there is rarely a (long) wait.

Bizou Bizou, however, is your wild cousin from out of state who shows up and whisks you off on a spontaneous beachside vacation. I met Bizou Bizou by way of an older but fabulously dressed woman in one of the food stores. I had been noticing a particular style of fabric on many Congolese that I had previously only associated with West Africa. I had not seen this type of waxed and dyed fabric anywhere. She was standing in the checkout line just ahead of me looking beautifully regal in that Guinean way. I surprised her a bit trying to get her attention but when I began the subject of the fabric, she smiled and introduced me to Bizou Bizou.

The shop is actually several storefronts long, with large doorways open to each section. There is a curtain fabric area where you can also find soft cottons with exquistie 'African motif' patterns ( cozy blankets is how I envision these fabrics being used. When I recently bought only 1 meter for a baby blanket, I was met with an odd stare. Only 1 meter? As if...) They are dreamy and beautiful and soooo expensive.

The second entrance to the store is the equivalent of a late night dance club. The music is booming from two enormous speakers posted at the entrance. Just inside, there is a pile of fabric on the floor slightly resembling those late Ocotber NY leaf piles we used to jump into as children. Women are everywhere grabbing and pawing through the cloth. (Apparently, this is the "sale rack.") A 'DJ' stands perched on a box draped in long, flowing samples and holding a microphone. Somehow, he manages to be louder than the music. His partner stands just by the entrance, decked out in an equally comedic fashion, fabric pieces hanging toga  style. To complete the scene, scraps of fabric are being cut and tossed through the air overhead. Its electric.

It is the second 'DJ' (I can't help but to think of them this way...they dance and sing and call out price reductions with talent and energy) who is the one that will bag your purchases upon exit. He has an abrupt style, grabbing  the fabric from your hands and placing it roughly in a bag along with the customary tearing of the receipt.  Although I know this is coming, it always seems to affect me in the jolting way of a carnival ride with its jerky starts and stops.

Browsing Bizou Bizou, one can find a larger variety of fabric styles, sequins, sparkles, waxed, batik, saris, and silks. Prices are not always marked and bargaining is possible. You must first locate someone to measure and cut your fabric (sold by the meter.) Once cut, the fabric may be tossed and held by the guy at the door or  brought up to the counter. The cutter will call out the number of yards and the price per yard. Somehow, it gets written on a scrap of paper.

This day, I was shopping with Ousmane in preparation for his return to Guinea and also celebration of the Eid. In addition, a new baby had entered the world, and I was hoping to find some fabric that would enfold her with African spirit. Bizou Bizou, always packed, was especially busy today. I noticed 5 or 6 women also clearly shopping for the Eid. I found it difficult to choose items for the Soumah women and wanted to rely on Ousmane for that. It became quickly clear that that was probably a mistake. He could not recall what color they liked or generally wore. I tried to remember the few days we had spent together and also photos I'd seen. I was drawn to some deep reds with shimmering flowers. As I contemplated my purchase, Ousmane noticed someone out the back door using a plastic tea kettel filled with water to wash his hands, head and feet in the manner of Muslims before prayer. "You can wait for me? I am going out to pray." I nodded as I watched him join the man outside. While my cloth was being measaured and cut, I continued to watch Ousmane move through the ablution. He washed his hands, his head and balanced precariously on one foot while trying to rinse and wash the other. I saw a hand move in and take the small plastic tea kettle from him and rinse his feet.

This is the image I carried with me up to the overcrowed and highly confusing checkout. No three receipts here. One line, one hope of maintaining your place in  line (it doesn't exactly move in the linear fashion, its more of a squiggly line in which you hope to be pulled to the cashier by sheer momentum) and finally payment to a cashier who has magically managed to receive all of your fabric and slips of paper outlining the price. I noticed very little of this as I was spiritually still back with Ousmane, just outside the door of a fabric shop, in a foreign country while a stranger washed his feet.