Bamako road mysteries

We are wrapping up our final three weeks in Mali. It's been much too short of a stay, hardly time to uncover some of the more interesting mysteries of the country and the culture. But in our own small sphere there are 2 small mysteries worth giving story to.

When we first arrived, we spent a lot of time of walking. Our previous house was near the river and it made for a country walk to school, with farming fields and mango groves all around. Since we've moved, car troubles have resulted in a lot of walking to the main road. We also began a nightly walk through the neighborhood. It means getting to know your neighbors a bit (turns out there are a lot of friendly folks willing to offer a ride- walking is really the best way to get to know a place.) It also means a lot of time inspecting the earth.

Just behind the lettuce fields, a path opens up....
heartbreakingly filled with garbage

Sometimes we get to see this beautiful horse

Almost magical, if it weren't for the
depressingly real trash 

Favorite purple flowers we always stop to smell

Almost serene

While it is impossible not to feel panic and remorse about all of the garbage around, there are small pockets of beauty too. And mystery. I began noticing the "packages" around our neighborhood shortly after we began walking to school every morning. I saw them on the main road near the carrefour just before the turn off for the river. I also saw them occasionally on the intersections of the dirt roads in our immediate neighborhood. 

After a trip to Segou, when we visited the bogolan workshop, I had an idea of what they were. Our instructor had mentioned the small sacrifices made at the crossroads, and the hope that they would bring healing and prayers for those in need. When I asked a friend about the packages I was seeing everywhere, he had a slightly different interpretation. 

Rather than wishing for strong thoughts for the weak, he suspected the contents, wrapped in leaves, were meant to send curses and bad luck out into the world. He said sometimes they were left on doorsteps or in front of houses. 

Perhaps the real answer is a bit of both. Intentions are everything. Maybe a similar leaf wrap contains the ability to do harm or good, depending upon the spirit in which it was discarded. What I haven't really been able to get answers about is what exactly is inside. Or how it is prepared? Or by whom? 

I think I actually saw a table full of them as I drove past a market one day, deep in the middle of a side neighborhood as we searched for a short cut around traffic. These days I am mostly content to sit with my wonder a bit, observing without the constant need to seek answers.

I marvel at the frequency. I saw them every morning on our walk to school- someone was feeling insistent. When we began walking to the road from our current house, those packages could be seen at least once or twice a week. 

Most of the ones I saw were not still
wrapped in plastic

Intentions: for the good or the bad?

Another mystery that is likely to end with more questions than answers concerns a little patch of road, also at an intersection- a coincidence I hadn't considered until just this moment. It's on one of the main paved roads and gets a lot of traffic. There is a square hole there. I don't think it would be too much of an exaggeration to describe it as a living hole. It is a stubborn, resistant hole. It will not be tamed. 

All manner of solutions have been tried- from the obvious- just pave over it, to more creative solutions such as placing a palm leaf in it to alert drivers, to putting a board over it- for those drivers who somehow manage to miss the palm leaf, to this:

Rainy road alert

I suspect this latest addition- the tall board sticking up, was the result of recent rains which flooded many roads and would have left the dangerous, deep hole invisible to drivers. Every solution seems to work for awhile, temporary fixes for a determined hole that won't go away. It's as if each fix becomes absorbed by the hole. After only a day or two, the hole reappears, still square, still empty inside, still disrupting the roadway.

Although I am not pro-concrete, I wonder why someone doesn't just fill it with concrete (although, honestly, I think I do remember something like that happening, and the top of it bowed and curved under the pressure of the cars until one day, the hole reappeared and whatever had been used to fill and pave over it had been absorbed by the hole.) I often imagine Stephen King could wrap a good tale around the energy of this hole and maybe some creepy ill effects spreading out to the people who pass by it daily. 

On the other hand, maybe it could be a spirit of the earth, determined to break free from the confines of concrete and steel and other manmade impositions. Maybe it begins to draw in the rest of the road way, like the pull of a sinking ship, until the surrounding warehouses and big trucks are consumed.....

Just a few little mysteries of Bamako roads.

The Mystery of the TVs, the Baby Boat People and Other Stories

People watching has long been one of my favorite sports. I can remember back to my early teens, sitting outside a grocery store waiting for the bus, watching the people. I love to wonder about their lives, where they are coming from and where they are going.  This quality makes me a definite porch person, or, until I get a porch or a balcony, a window person.

Now Nabih is not the only one who has stories to share as we walk to camp each morning. We’ve been thinking up scenarios to go with the TV People. One of our first nights here, I saw a man walking down the road with a TV, a heavy looking older model with a large, awkward bulging back. He was actually carrying it with one hand however, so it appeared slightly portable- in the loosest sense of the word portable.  He was just one of many people walking along the road that night and caught only my passing interest.  The next night however, I saw a boy carrying a similar looking TV in the opposite direction.  Maybe it was the same TV, gone off for repairs? The mystery really deepened on the third night, when I saw two men walking by, each carrying their own TV, again the same bulky model.  We’ve been keeping our eyes open for electronic repair shops in the neighborhood as we try to determine The Mystery of the TVs.

Mysteries passing below our windows are only the beginning of the perks of our new spot.  One of the reasons Abidjan made the yes list for relocation is the well-known soccer opportunities. I’d done some research about soccer training for Mohamed and had come up with ASEC Mimosas- where many of Ivory Coast’s talented players begin. Incredibly, the camp for kids, SolBeni, is just around the corner, nestled in the back of the “village” near the lagoon.  It has vast, beautiful pitches that Mohamed could barely tear his eyes from.  And if I can take a moment to indulge, the coach noticed him on the first day. Mohamed is that kind of player. While the soccer camp isn’t as strenuous as Mohamed was hoping, there is a more promising training program that he will begin soon.

I usually walk the boys over in the morning.  And that’s when I saw the Baby Boat People. Here in what’s called M’Pouto Village the housing is a mix of new buildings being constructed, apartments and shacks.  There are still a few lots full of trees and greenery. At the end of the road is a large open farming area that resembles the outskirts of a real village. I spend my time trying to enjoy the scenes around me without wondering too much about the impact of construction- good for better quality housing but not so good for the lush green environment surrounding us.

One of the roads leading to the camp is lined with “businesses” – wooden stalls that host all manner of items for sale from bags of charcoal to mangoes and oranges to shoe repair and polishing services. On our first morning walk to camp, the square wooden tables were filled with small children sitting on top. Their mothers were busy sweeping the ground beneath and around the stalls or arranging the endless buckets needed for daily routines.  I looked out across a sea of babies floating on wooden ‘boats.’ Some held as many as 4 little cuties in the bow, others hosted one or two, all were sitting fairly still amusing themselves with a plastic bowl or other small item. No one seemed concerned they might get restless or squrim about and fall off. By the time I made my return, the babies had been released to the dirt. They were happily running, playing and getting washed.  Though the timing hasn’t been right for me to encounter the Boat Babies again, it’s a sight not easily forgotten, a sight that should make it’s way into a picture book perhaps one day, when I get my balcony and I can spend hours sketching and writing away.

The perks of the neighborhood include the nearby cyber café, the market- where the women speak French, making it so much easier for me to talk to them, and the abundance of fruit sellers.  The mangoes are huge and cheap; the bananas are ripe and not too stingy.  Unlike the Kinshasa fruit, here I can almost see the vitamins and goodness bursting from the juicy pulp.  The garbage is collected and taken away- well, whatever the goats don’t get to first.  There is a small family of young goats that wander around- 7 of them. Two are still babies, two are frisky teenager types and the other three are somewhere in between.  They provide a brand of entertainment on their own.  And the people are mostly friendly.

The boys and I get some stares when we venture out to the camp or the cafe, but I am thinking that will eventually end as we become just another part of the routines.  Needing to use a public internet connection has left me realizing just how often I am used to being connected- and the different types of connecting I tend to do. There is the finding stuff out connection, when I ask questions, figure out how to do things, search recipes or read the news. While we do have TV, I prefer the interactive nature of getting my news online, where I can follow my interests and find relevant stories. I haven’t been doing much of this type of connection lately but was happy to hear Meriam has been released- and apparently rearrested?!!  I need more news in my life. Finding stuff out searching has been reduced to a bare minimum- only the most important questions warrant an internet inquiry.

Social connection including email and Facebook is another type of connection that has really been trimmed down. When I am there, the clock is ever ticking, alerting me to just how much time I have left and it creates a harried sort of experience. Browsing Facebook and trying to update my page with posts of my thoughts and photos feels so rushed. I may get used to it, but it could take awhile.  Along with that is collecting books on my kindle. Summer is for reading, right? Something about the clock ticking makes me feel so un-relaxed, even if I can easily add another 30 minutes.

Random browsing, which I liken to reading “potato chip” books or magazines is completely banished. No time or francs for that. Following little whims and collecting bits and pieces of fascinating but useless facts does not even make the list of possible things to do (yet. Boredom may win out and have us all hanging at the café more than we currently imagine.)  

Publishing ideas to my blog is another reason for connecting. I usually try to get all my ideas down on my computer at home and then bring a USB to copy and paste from. It still requires a bit of time to read and reread, to edit and revise, to add photos and captions. I put this one higher on my list of priorities only because otherwise the words tumble around in my head, leaving my thoughts a cluttered, jumbled mess.  But the experience  has left me wondering.

When my class was studying human rights and global issues, the idea of having access to technology and internet came up- or rather was one I posed to the students as I’d read of it being proposed as a global issue. While we had some good discussions, I personally hadn’t reached any real conclusions. It’s hard to focus on the importance of internet connection when clean drinking water seems so much more important.

In the end, I don’t think the global issues are meant to compete with each other.  If there is one clear thing that comes from examining the issues, it’s the idea that they are all related, tied together so tightly it’s hard to separate one idea or issue from another. And I can see how technology fits in there. As a part of education. As a part of knowing. As a part of being part of the larger world and having the same benefits and advantages that others have.  Ben’s group focuses largely on securing and providing technology and internet access to students of all ages and that has always made sense to me and seemed like a worthwhile cause.   While I am feeling fine for now with my intermittent connection abilities, I know it won’t last. I will want more, crave more information, more understanding, more connection to the happenings of the world. And so, while I may not be able to concede a greater importance to internet connection than clean, running water, I can definitely say I am no longer clouded on the issue.  

Clear like honey

This is one of the first mysteries I encountered here, in my very backyard. I found three of these in the small 'play-house' outside our back porch. When I first found it, I'd hoped to collect more. Bamboo sheaves had turned out to be great for making small paintings on. I was full of imagining how I could turn these into sculpture or collage.

In the photo it is compact and curly. It is hard and strong. I cannot bend it or break it. I even had a bit of difficulty trying to put in the thumbtacks so that I could hang it in the window. I assumed it to be dead and long discarded from whatever tree it fell. However, it possesses life. I have witnessed it's ability to open, dependent upon the weather it seems, to a long and nearly flat state. I've asked everyone who has come within sight of my back porch if they can identify it or have ever seen such a thing before. I even ventured beyond, carrying the pod like an unknown treasure or hidden curse to the neighbor for evaluation. The neighbor who has lived here for 18 years. Nope. Never saw anything like it.

Mama Vero, equally amazed as I (you must imagine the first few events, when we were sure it was our minds deceiving us and not the actual movement of this forgotten relic) has never seen anything like this either. She was quick to point out that it must be spirited. Of course, anything foreign or not easily understood can be chalked up to spirited. But I too was wondering.

Finally, I asked Papa Josef, one of the main gardeners and safety officers for the school. He seems to be a knowledgeable man of many talents and I figured if there was an answer, he would have it. He said yes, it comes from a tree on campus and he went so far as to point one out to me. I admit to being skeptical. He does have a reputation to protect I suppose, or at least some pride. Maybe I just wanted it to be mystical. He provided detail, such as the fact that it is indeed a pod (clearly) and made up of layers. Deep inside is the life. Even now, I could open it and plant it and the seeds would grow. I am not tempted, as I much enjoy the changing design, and, while it may come from a campus tree, I have not found another. Odd, considering how the mangoes and flowery apples thump continuously to the earth below.

I'm contemplating other things as well. There is plenty of time to think in the Congo. Most recently a painting I've finished, mediocre at best. I can see where I’ve gone wrong, where it could be improved. But now that the canvas is full, I am faced with the dilemma of starting again in hopes of perfecting it or simply starting anew. I suppose it is what masters do, rework, rework, and rework (revise, we call it in the writing world. Something I am forever insisting and modeling for my students.) But here in the land of scarce resources it seems a sin. Of course, what good is a mediocre painting? If the subject is compelling enough, certainly it deserves to be reworked. Am I still compelled? Sometimes I think, once the work is done, what good is a painting at all?

While not the only reflection I’ve been struggling with, by far the most benign. At least I’ve found the answer to my earlier question. (No, the C.C. is not always right, or wrong.) It came by way of a power outage that led to one woman working in her doorway. Nabih and I passed on our way from the sandboxes. I stopped to say hello, as she looked so inviting, sitting at a student desk placed directly in the door to allow for maximum light. She is not one of the teachers who live on campus, and I’d made several assumptions. However, life beyond the walls remains an endless fascination so I stopped with my many questions. Turns out, this time I was the one who was all wrong.

The conversation was quite interesting, though told with her characteristic confusion. It is as if she does not want to burden the listener with too many details but finds it difficult to edit. As she speaks, she closes her eyes and makes such pauses one might think she has lost her way altogether. My experience tells me simply to wait, silently inviting and encouraging more. Slowly her story unfolds.

She spent the last 10 years in China. There came a time when many people kept repeating that they felt she should be moving on, she was needed in another place. Though these were fellow Christians, they did not know her well. Through a series of events and meetings she found herself in Congo. It seems they were not ordinary meetings but with people well placed in the government to facilitate the process of gaining a visa during a time when tensions were rising. She came with an interest in pygmies. She had met just the people who also shared this interest and steered her in the right direction. Upon arriving, she felt a need to find some work to fund her passion. The timing was such that as she approached the superintendent here, someone had broken contract, leaving a void which he was only too pleased to fill. The story goes on as she lives and works in Congo, helping the pygmies develop some kind of sustainable living. She talks about reaching a block, when she just wasn’t sure how to continue. After much prayer, the answer comes to her, “Honey.” Only the way she tells it is like this- " I kept asking, what do I do now? and he said, 'Honey.' " So clear, just like that.

It turns out, gathering honey had been an indigenous part of pygmy life, with gatherers climbing some 300 feet to capture a hive. Another chance meeting with just right person puts her in contact with a beekeeper who is willing to send a trainer to work with her and the pygmies teaching them how to bee farm.

This is not a made up story but one example of a life working exactly as it should with purpose and direction. I am entertained and inspired. How fortunate that I passed to say hello with a question poised on my lips. But part of me wonders why I continue to waiver. I speak with confidence about having patience and knowing the right thing is coming. But inside I wonder about my doubts and insecurities. I wonder about my lack of direction and whether my prayers are simply not absolute enough.

I'm hoping for some kind of answer.

I have been spending my days on this oasis, doing very little to reach out.

But I want to know- what exactly am I doing here? Or, better put, what can I do best here? Where can I find service?

Just before leaving the U.S. I felt more and more strongly that I could really only find some kind of peace and happiness through service. For a long time, I skimmed by pretending my job, with its intense emotional demands, was service enough. There is no pretense now, no excuses. I'm just stalling, waiting for a crisp clear answer. Clear like honey. My doubter's soul says, she heard it, why can't I?

It has caused me to reread some of my earlier posts. In doing so I realize I can comment with positive affirmation. The move here has been enough to quiet my soul. It seems able now to listen. Despite the stereotypical cliché that was my dream, it’s turned out to be exactly what suits me.

Now that I've relished in the dream for several months, its time to get up and start the business of living, whether or not its clear like her honey or full of little bee body parts, all viscous and cloudy like mine. They both sweeten the tea, I suppose.