When Culture is a Bad Word

Africa has a way of laying waste to ideas previously considered good, or fun, or interesting. There is just enough slant to the perspective of life that results in pretty much reconsidering every action that used to simply be routine or mundane.

Most often I appreciate this change and consider it another step in the lifelong journey towards being a socially conscious and conscientious person. But a little inner part of me is screaming, "Noooo, not the pumpkin too! Oh man, the pumpkin too?"

This Halloween we (I) opted out of the huge affair at school. It looked festive and scary and likely composed of all the eye of inner slug and hair of bat wing nose stuff that makes for any Halloween treat. The flyers around school were on the scary side (I'm a little wimpy when it comes to ghouls and goblins) and in the end I decided staying home and pumpkin carving would be as much Halloween as I needed in my life.

Huge costume and mask display at school- scariness galore

Coincidentally, Ousmane even came home with a perfectly round, perfectly cute little orang-ish pumpkin. (I noticed decorators at school painted their pumpkins orange; Mali gourds are a little light on pigment.)

Prepping our ash-orange pumpkin for carving

Scary child with sharp knife photo OR
 big brother carves that cute face his sister drew

The only problem is,  I've developed a bit of an addiction to pumpkin treats. Warm soup, soft bread, tangy cookies, frozen pops and ice cold smoothies have all become something of a weekly affair. We did our best to scoop out the insides of this little guy- but I know if we'd sliced and baked him, there would have been so much more.

Scooping seeds

Obligatory hand in the gunk experience

"Wearing" the pumpkin mask.

As it is, we made pumpkin seeds and snapped a few photos and set him on the shelf to watch him decompose, like all good pumpkin men must do. But I feel a twinge of something here, because it's food there, sitting on my shelf. Edible, nourishing food. But I would also be a little sad to see pumpkin carving go. Especially since we just lost Thanksgiving.

Ridiculously hard to get this photo. She just wanted
 to hide behind and wear it, like all the other masks

Decomposing among the onions and the wine,
 like all good pumpkin men must

Considering my own cultural practices is not the only time I'm faced with this dilemma. Mali's unique fight to hold on to her own traditions is something I've been confronting lately. Even my ride out to the centre where I dance is an exercise in caution. Taxi drivers are always curious about why I need to go such a distance. And when we start making our way down the dusty red village road, they wonder if I haven't lost the direction. Recently I've added drumming to my Saturday class and traveling with sticks hanging out of my bag is somewhat conspicuous.

Yesterday I was answering questions about art and dance and music and noticing a little hesitation in my responses. Cautiousness is becoming second nature slowly by slowly. Because I do have to pause and think for a minute. Is it ok to mention I am going to a cultural center? Is it ok to mention the dancing and drumming and traditional culture? Of course, I am proud to be part of such study. These are the things that drew to me to Africa. These are the things that hold me here and prevent me from leaving when I am tired and broken and wondering if I shouldn't maybe just find a nice little place where things mostly work, and people speak a language I know.

It's usually just a small glitch, and it's likely not even noticeable. But I know it's there. That moment of hesitation when I must size the driver up and down and make a split second decision. It's nothing really, and I always spill my love of traditional music and dance. I can't do anything else. But these guys, they are really fighting for their passion, for their identity.

Many Malian artists have left the northern regions in search of a place to pursue their art safely. And many Malina artists in the city have been crushed by the terror attacks that drive away tourists. But there remains a vibrant art scene- you just need to find it. Art openings and concerts have been driven underground.

A facebook page advertising events is a closed group that requires admin approval to join. One musical group offers weekly concerts at an undisclosed location- the secret being revealed only 48h in advance. Other events are invite only- because, as one boutique/cafe owner put it, "when I advertise, we get like over a hundred people. We need to keep it at about 20 or so." Celebrating the arts, low key.

I am told it is festival season, beginning now with the jazz fest. There is a huge photography exhibit in Dec and a dance fest going on. There is an interesting collection of painters who've gotten together to create and exhibit. I understand this is why everyone said I would love Mali. It is a playground of creativity. I just need to get tapped in. Secretly, of course.

Here are the steps to djanssa we are learning- super delicious move at the end, deceptively simple uncompromisingly beautiful.

Motorcycle madness

It's been difficult to write about Mali. Bamako is a new experience for us in many ways. While there are the general 'African staples' that make a familiar connection between countries, the differences abound. I've yet to be enchanted, which shouldn't really influence my writing, but then, of course, there is school.

 It's generally accepted that the first year at a new school is all about understanding. Understanding the curriculum, the educational philosophy, the work ethic, the rhythm of teaching and learning. There are reports to read and documents to write, there are resources to be found and protocols to decipher. And then of course, there are students. The student body of a school comes with its own set of cultural contexts to dissect and examine. While all of this is going on, there is the de-struction that must happen as well. The letting go of processes, events and understandings from "the old school." Granted, sometimes it is helpful to bring new ideas or routines but most often, these things must be designed site-specific.

The concurring need to understand the systems at a school for elite or expatriate children and the necessity of organizing oneself within the host country presents full time challenges. Language, social constructs, locating places for everyday needs. There hardly seems to be time for anything else. Add to this the fact that Bamako is mystifying me and the motivation to stay up late working on reflections of the latest move is lost in the dust kicked up by a thousand motorcycles.

The motorcycles are really the problem for me. I think. I'm not really sure, but I do know they appear to be having a profound effect on my ability to live simply. One example can be found in this short story.

A few nights ago, I decided to go out to grab something from the store- a few bottles of water and maybe a bottle of wine. A friend had recently brought a bottle of wine "from the gas station." I had been hearing about the multitude of things that could be acquired "at the gas station," everything from yogurt to solar powered lamps to wine.

So I set off determined to check this mysterious wonderland out. It's a short walk down the main road and across the round about. Five or six minutes, tops. Except when I arrived to the round about it was plagued with a million lights surging past. I don't see especially well in the dark, and have particular trouble with assessing distance- the worst kind of trouble for crossing a busy Bamako intersection.

The line of cars was endless and the stream of motorcycles daunting. I stood on the edge, waiting. I wandered down the road a bit and back up again, looking for a slowing of the current where I could safely traverse the river of traffic. I even briefly considered taking a taxi, to cross the street. Eventually I gave up and started to head back home. Defeated by a round about.

But then 2 things happened. First, it'd been a particularly rough couple of days and I was really hoping for a glass of wine. My ego probably kicked in a little bit, too- defeated by a street crossing? Really? The second and more important thing that happened is that I saw a donkey cart out there making its way around the circle. "A donkey can be out there, but I can't?" Surely I could walk faster than that donkey was going.

I turned around and made my way back. The donkey cart was impeding traffic just enough for me to make a mad dash across the first road. I walked across the empty circle lot, noticing the occasional patch of grass and a small collection of discarded plastic water bags. Crossing the street on the other side was much easier as most of the traffic was heading out to the third bridge.

I made it to the gas station, which did not have wine but did have Welch's fruit snacks - granted, a favorite of mine, but not exactly a replacement. They were selling for 1,000XOF a bag which means I didn't buy but did file away in my reserve list of possible snack sources for Mbalia in a pinch.

Of course, they might not be there the next time I go. If I go. The way back was a little more traumatizing. Again, passing over onto the center circle was fairly easy. I almost got creamed by a car that came speeding around the corner, but I managed to clear the road moments before contact. The real problem was crossing back over to my fairly quiet side road. The steady stream of cars and motos had not abated at all, and now I was stuck in the center.

I admit there is a lot of fear for me surrounding these bikes. I can't help but imagine how personal and painful getting run over by a motorcycle would be. These images do not help me muster the courage to take the plunge. I stood in that center isle for a long while, feeling frustrated, stupid and helpless. I couldn't cross the road. Seriously.

Since I am writing this post, there's no secret to how the story ends. I made it home, no motorcycle mash-up and I did not have to pass the night sleeping under the stars in the barren center island. The chicken finally crossed the road. But the huge amount of effort involved in this endeavor puts a damper on any future excursions.

It also puts a damper on personally driving. Colleagues suggest I buy a car, assuring me I will gain a new perspective and sense of liberty. Despite navigating the busy Kinshasa streets with all of their pitfalls and obstacles, I am not sure I am ready for the motos of Bamako.

It's the babies.  There is tragic poetry in the way their smooth round heads peek out from the cloth that has secured them to their mother's back. Sometimes they are just a bulge in an ornately decorated scarf wrapped around their mother's head. It may be long enough to protect them from the sun and the dust, but nothing protects them from the hard earth.

My mind is scarred with images of potential accidents.  Perhaps a result of too many defensive driving courses (oh, I was a demon of speed at one point in the timeline of my past) or perhaps it is the result of age and experience. The idea of a vehicle as a weapon, as a tool and a machine is one that has been well developed in me. Most people are driving with a sense of urgency and destination. They are not locked in the present moment. Their decisions are based on where they want to go and what they are hoping will happen next. No one is focused on the context of now.

The fact is I am in fear. This is not the kind of fear I can face down, not like fear of speaking in public or fear of opening oneself up to the criticism of others. I could never undo the image of an accident involving a baby. An accident of any kind is traumatic, but the roads are narrow and densely populated. I could almost believe there is often not enough speed to make accidents fatal. But it wouldn't take any amount of speed to crack open an infant skull.

I'm not exactly sure how to defeat my unease. Familiarity often plays a role in deadening our sense of anxiety. I sat outside a barber shop yesterday, just watching the flow of traffic. It was a Friday and entire streets were closed as people lined up for afternoon prayers. It was amazing to see whole blocks of people united in this act of faith, pausing their daily activities to come together in prayer. Right where they were. Afterward, a group of children lined up to get their treat from a store. They ran off with their bags of milk and something like rice pudding. Although the street was narrow, it hosted the common assortment of motos, small vans and transport trucks. I was amazed at how the children managed to find the right moment to dash across- and thought nothing of crossing back if a friend called them from the other side, or they forgot to return a borrowed hat. They watched, they waited and they took the risk. I resisted the urge to close my eyes.

For now, the motorcycle culture is a huge barrier to my ability to assimilate. Even as I witness the sense of liberty and ease it undoubtedly adds to Malian life, I cannot acquiesce. Perhaps I need to ride more myself. Or learn to drive one. Or maybe I need to be involved in public service campaigns (Allez avec ton enfant mais pas sur le moto ou Enfant a dos?--Prenez pas le moto) but it is hard to change habits. There is evidence of yearly helmet campaigns, but rumors of neck breaking Chinese fabrications are strong. Many people believe the helmet will slice into the neck, possibly severing a vein during an accident. Apparently this is perceived as a much greater risk than cracking your head on the pavement.

It's possible I will find a way to get over my fear. It's more likely I will find a way to crush it down and pretend like the dangers don't exist. Whatever the strategy, I will need to find a way to live with it until I can move on to another country, with an easier range of cultural constructs for me to navigate. 

Surveillance

There's not much sweeter than the moments when art and life meet, shake hands and get cozy. This past weekend I went to Dakar for a dance workshop. Just this evening, I was researching for my performance arts class when I happened across this video. And just like that, I felt a circle closing. A connection being made, a community welcoming me in. Good art, or thoughtful art, has that effect. The effect of being found, or being seen. You shake your head, maybe furrow a brow, as tendrils of thought are already reaching out, searching for an image, a memory, an emotion to wrap around and take hold of. The grasp is not easily freed, and later in the night or another night, it will tug ever slightly but firmly reminding you of that- that art, that statement, that connection.

Since I have been teaching performance art, I have run across several powerful pieces that I hadn't even been aware of before. Dread Scott's On the Impossibility of Freedom is one example. I plan to share the video in class as a model performance piece- one that involved planning and thought but perhaps not practice. It was a one time event. You can see how Dread's movements change within the piece, something he surely couldn't have anticipated or choreographed. Rather, they were a direct result of his thoughts as he is moving through the water. It seems apparent he has emotionally transported back in time and is responding to events as they were, as they are, as he wants them to be. His deep inner reach for power and strength is visible. He begins by walking into the water trying to protect himself, not sure, perhaps, of what to expect. By the end, he has found determination to overcome the water, to face the heavy stream and to defy it.

Browsing through his site reveals many powerful performance pieces. Money to Burn has the unique potential to reach over and connect with our students, especially when related with the story of Kemi Seba. US history or current events are not always a strong point- or the most relevant point- from many of our students' perspectives. It all seems as far away and foreign to them as we must to most of the rest of the world. (Heard any word lately on the political situation in Mali? Any idea what some of the big issues are behind recent protests....did you even know there were recent protests?)
 

Dread Scott is a great example to move us into preparation for their next series of performance pieces about social issues. But the piece by Ai Wei Wei will help us take things into an international context. And it fits in nicely with themes of technology or lack of control (terrorism) that some of the groups have been exploring already.

My trip to Dakar was filled with a million anomalies. The easiest to explain is the drone experience. The Ecole des Sables has two  main dance areas, both look out onto a scruffy grassland leading up to the lagoon. There are trees and brush and  not much in the way of a walking path (although guests are invited to venture into the savannah as long as they watch where they put their feet.)

It was our second morning there and class had been underway for at least 30 minutes. A break in the drumming revealed a loud buzzing sound. A small drone came flying in near the studio. It hovered for a bit, flew in closer and then retreated. It had our attention.

While everyone else was busy laughing and shooing it away, I was much more distracted by it. Being the only one from Bamako meant my thoughts were in a slightly different direction. Attack. I thought of all the ways that little Star-Trek destroyer could actually destroy us. I imagined it flying in and exploding. Or spewing a poison gas. Or even just marking our position while the real rebels marched in through the front door. Even as I began scoping out escape routes, I realized it was futile.

While I realized I was being maybe a bit over dramatic, I was also amazed at how quickly our responses adapt.   I've only been in Mali for a few months and I am already on high alert- even though I haven't been feeling any tension. It's there on the periphery. I was extremely uncomfortable with the buzzing drone behind me and found it difficult to turn my back. I was closest to it, but understood realistically, in the face of an attack, there would be nowhere to go.

I felt everything at once. Lack of control. Invasion of privacy. Fear. Anger. Confusion. Once the drumming started, it retreated and then fled. Or perhaps it simply ducked behind some bushes, because it returned again in minutes.

Finally it departed for good. But it left me feeling as though I'd been covered in a scummy film of grime. Who was watching? Who, in this sleepy fishing village full of abandoned beach houses and overpriced falling down villas, who would even have such a device?

After I got back to Bamako, I shared the story with a few friends. One of them sent me a playful link about bird drones. A little research revealed military bird drones are everywhere. (Even more research revealed that birds just might be the natural defense against these kinds of drones.) The drone we saw was not bird like at all. A google image search of drones didn't conjure up anything that looked quite like what I saw. A search for Star Wars ships, however, came much closer.

Who and why would someone be spying on a dance class held in the middle of nowhere on the edge of a Senegalese beach? Was it a remote controlled device....and if so, how close do you need to be to the site? What will they do with whatever video they collected? Was it an experimental run, some controller out to have fun and see what his or her drone could really do? In the end, there are no answers. All I can do is educate myself about this world of technology I previously hadn't given much thought.

The availability of drones only raises more questions. What are my rights to privacy? To not being spied on? How can you control the sky above you? Much of Africa is already filled with high security walls. What kind of defense systems will be developed to prevent invaders from the skies? How will humans respond to this phenomena, which is only likely to increase?

"Willingly or not, we are being recorded."

Parallel settings

There are two ways to deal with the sand. One is to try and clear it away, effectively creating a small but wide hole to accommodate your feet. The other method is to try and smooth the sand into a smooth, flat area while deceiving yourself into thinking you have a solid surface to dance on. Either way, you end up with a combination of mounds and valleys that tip your center of gravity and throw you off balance. Or at least that's how it happens for me.

I've begun my study of Malian dances at a small art center just outside of town. It can take anywhere from 40 min to an hour to get to, depending on traffic. Unlike my Abidjan dance trips, which I was able to segment into interesting portions, there's really nothing interesting about the ride. Unless you count the kaleidoscope of street sights- from donkeys to cows to motorcycles and motorcycle carts, along with pedestrians and people sitting outside their storefronts.

It's a dusty ride and everything appears in hues of sienna. The million motorcycles on the streets of Bamako has resulted in a million and ten moto repair shops, which cover everything in a deep oil black. The most exciting part of the journey is the ride back, the first portion being on a moto. I am not ready to brave the paved streets on a bike, but since the dance center is nestled deep into a side village, taking a moto is really the only way to get back to the main road. From there, I hail a cab and begin the nighttime journey home. It is a mesmerizing spectacle of motorcycle lights weaving in and out of traffic and dark silhouettes flying across the road.

The dance itself is familiar, which is not necessarily an asset I am discovering. My muscle memory is strong and my body is ready to complete a familiar beginning with an anticipated ending. So, not only am I learning a new step, but I must first unlearn the old one. It is interesting to observe how the body works in this way. To feel the conflict between what I know I should do and what my muscles want to do out of habit.

This first month in Mali has left me drained. I've been ill of one sort or another and it shows in my dance. I am heavy and slow. I cannot lift from the floor and I am tired after class. My body is aching. I am hoping to conquer this soon enough, but time is ever the battle. And there's the sand. Eventually it will make me stronger, lighter, faster, but for now it is a battle of it's own.

The space itself is enjoyable. The parcel is filled with interesting rocks, reminiscent of the volcano rocks of Congo in their size and ability to generate an impression. However, the Mali rocks are large and porous, red-black with Swiss cheese type holes creating texture and intrigue. Neighborhood kids come to watch and a collection of random guys (only random in the sense that I don't know who they are or how they are connected to the center.) often float in and out, sitting in chairs near the back wall, not necessarily watching, more likely fiddling on their phones or drinking tea.

It is like a parallel universe to the Tarmac of Kintambo. A theater group practices here, too. And with the kids in and out, it's a lively place. I notice this as I move from country to country. The artists living in parallel worlds. Outdoor studios with tin covered roofs and lights strung across the interior. A space for chairs sits mostly empty until performance time.  Places of entertainment and education for the youth, who come to fulfill their curiosity.

Even the Center Francais, where I ended up one evening to watch a musical group - Kangaba Mopti, which are two towns in Mali, a fitting name as the band took us on a musical tour of languages, styles and regions- even the center Francais seems to function within the law of parallel settings. An intimate theater, featuring big names and up-and-coming artists, with a small pool of integrated dancers and musicians who can be seen hanging around networking or getting ready for their next show. I even ran across someone from the Kinshasa institute. Much like international teachers, the staff of the institute can travel from country to country as positions open up and desire calls for a new experience. And yet, the structure remains.

Intersecting circles. Patterns of existence. I see it again as the founder of Don Sen Folo takes the stage and practices his contemporary dance routine. The moves, I've come to identify as African contemporary dance, are not exactly familiar, not in the repeated sense, but there is a base that is reminiscent of other African dancers I have seen. If I am not careful, it is easy to mistake where I am. Time and place become muddled. Language has once again taken on the musical quality. I recognize words and syllables but meaning escapes me. For a moment, I feel a convergence - Guinee, Congo, Cote d'Ivoire, Mali. Places where artists create, develop and display. Synchronicity. It is beautiful.

This Saturday, I arrived a bit early to repetition. (Class seems like a big word since we are only 2, sometimes 3.) The theater group was preparing for their performance the next day. A group of kids had gathered to sit in their usual place on the rocks. Despite the language barrier, I was able to grasp a sense of the humor (theater crosses barriers, too, hey? exploring concepts of being human) and drama they were portraying. Really delightful. And then the actors dispersed, leaving only one woman on stage. She began storytelling, with the traditional call and response. The children knew exactly when and  how to respond. I felt like I was witnessing a dying tradition. With nothing more than a stage of sand, the storyteller was able to transport me to a village night complete with firelight and excitement.

My taxi driver home that night seemed to agree. He'd traveled a lot (we spoke some Lingala together and reminisced about the liveliness of Kin) and suggested the traditional dances were being lost in Mali. In the north, it is due to extremists prohibiting expressive arts. Even the tradition of dancing for the field workers is no longer allowed. And in the cities, people are moving away from the traditional arts in favor of more Western styles - or abandoning the arts altogether.

Mali is a country that had a strong tourist trade. Such rich history and vibrant culture was an asset. The recent terror attacks and political uncertainty has led to a decline in the tourist industry, forcing many artists and cultural groups to take a few steps backward, to look for "day jobs" and invest their time in alternate methods of revenue.

This story is not unique to Mali, if the details may be. Congo isn't suffering from outside terrorist attacks. Their terror stems from within. The results are similar. And while it could be argued the US is currently battling a terrorist minded president, there's no doubt his fight is an economic war against the arts and culture.

Parallel settings. Similar outcomes. Perhaps there is a parallel universe where the inhabitants have recognized the power of the arts and things are working in the absolute reverse. Instead of studio shells filled with artists struggling to bring their creative efforts to fruition, communities have thriving arts centers that are the focus of evening entertainment and lively gathering places. Ideas and energy are exchanged and creativity is born. The adults serves as masters to apprentice teens while the youngest children look on and absorb. Art is not a secret tradition to be coveted and mourned as it fades into a slow death; it is a public priority and communal celebration of life. In a parallel setting, surely it exists.

It's great to be dancing again- Bamako

Theater group practicing with an audience of children

 

One of these motos will ferry me to the road after class

 Neighboring balcony usually
hosts 1 or 2 viewers from afar

Glass bottom taxi

The roads to school are filled with orange lake-sized puddles. Normally, a taxi ride would be one solution to over-coming this. Large, mud walking boots are another. I haven't yet acquired the knee-high rain gear that are prevalent here, so most mornings I opt for a taxi.

There is a particularly large puddle, stretching from one side of the road to the other, where someone- or several someones- have placed a line of rocks down the center. I've yet to capture a photo of this beautiful bridge, but it's coming.

One afternoon I had arrived at just this spot and was contemplating the journey across. The rocks are sharp and edgy with flat surfaces that shimmer in the sun. The faces are not exactly flat, and the reflecting sunlight suggested a slippery slope. I wasn't really sure I wanted to risk it. The water is a deep, rich red and I could imagine it covering my clothes, my bag, my self.

Luckily on that day, a colleague from school passed before I had to take the first steps. On another morning, however, I was passing through that same puddle in a taxi, fascinated by the shape of the rocks (regretting again my inability to capture their allure with a photo) when I felt a sudden wetness.

Like a virtual reality game gone too far, as I watched the water ebbing and flowing from the movement of the car, I felt a splash of coolness from the seat. I whipped around to inspect the source, and sure enough, I could see clear through to the road. A glass bottom boat with no glass.

Mud bridge between two puddles near our house

Kids these days

Aside from the perils of security- there are the occasional pleasures from students. A few of my conversations in the first weeks of school reminded me what amazing places international schools can be.

I spent my first high school lunch duty roaming the student lounge area trying to make small talk with kids while also giving them privacy. I am so used to roaming and talking in elementary school (where the students still love attention from teachers) that I didn't even think twice about how high school kids would react. For the most part, they humored me, engaging in quick conversation before turning back to their screens.

One group of boys had a few t-shirts in wrapped in plastic. They had an interesting logo and seemed to be a "thing." Of course, I had to ask. "What's up with the t-shirts?" Apparently they were for sale- did I want one? "Not quite yet, " I responded," but what if I did? How do you get one?" Naturally they directed me to their website, which they'd designed and created to market their clothing line Forward. Naturally.

But it's not just in high school where they have grand ambitions. Part of my job has me helping out in the 4/5th grade during writing. As I chatted with one student about his story, we got on the topic of his future goals. "Well, I'm going to be president." No doubt there. "Of what?" I had to ask, thinking perhaps he wanted to run his own company. I clearly underestimated him.

"I haven't decided yet. America or Mali. It's a tough decision." He assured me he was qualified for either position, having been born in the US and his parents are also Malian. He figured he had a few years to decide which country he would be president of- first.

Dream big.

Security

Security takes up a big percentage of moving unknowns.  Assessing it, understanding it, trying to get your finger on the pulse of it. Once you figure out where you live, you need to figure out how safe it is. Which can be incredibly difficult when you don't speak the language.

There are several layers to understanding security. It begins with the most personal, the security guards. As an ex-pat hosted by an organization, I am once again under the protection of school provided security. The biggest difference for me this time is that I am no longer living on a glorious spread of jungle rain forest with 30 other houses and an entire school campus. Now I just live in an apartment with one other flat upstairs. It means the security guards are much closer. Outside my kitchen window closer.

I feel watched, rather than protected. There are strange men wandering the periphery of the house at all hours. It's been almost a month and I can at least say they are friendly, but still, I don't know anything about them. Except they are there. Day and night. If I want to leave at any time, it will require disturbing them so I can get out the door. And when I come "home" I must knock, like a visitor. It feels more like their house than mine and I wonder how much time is required to tip the balance. The perpetual guest syndrome.

I don't really understand what kind of security they are providing. They are both on the elderly edge of life, or so it appears.  I admit to thinking them somewhat frail. Or, in the face of terrorists, they would be frail. But then, wouldn't we all?

They are not armed, thankfully. But I am left to wonder how they have prepared and what for. It must be maddening to try and keep a watchful eye day and night- it merges too neatly into routine living.

I see it all around the half built neighborhood we live in. "Security" which really means people living in garages and sitting out front of massive houses, or house shells. They play games on their phones, chat with a neighboring security guard if they are so lucky to have a neighbor, and alternate between sitting inside the border walls alone and catching the few sights of evening foot traffic or goat herders outside.

Our neighborhood doesn't feel insecure or dangerous. But it doesn't necessarily feel safe either. It feels empty and sterile. I guess we have neighbors, but I can't imagine ever meeting them. Friendly is not the first word I would use to describe the few people I've passed in strolls around the neighborhood. The Malians aren't quick to greet me but offer quiet stares that I can't quite read.

In one brusque incident, two men were walking-clearly home dwellers and not home protectors- who overheard my English conversation with a friend. One of the men came up and introduced himself, speaking English and happy to recount his connection to the US. He extended his hand to my (male) friend and completely ignored me. No acknowledgement nod, no quick smile, nothing. I did not exist. Welcome to the neighborhood.

Bamako has that "it's a man's country" feel which isn't exactly comforting for a woman.  Or maybe it's just me. I've been wondering where the sunny, warm Malians are all hiding out and what of the "friendly village atmosphere" everyone talked about. So many people are really enchanted with Bamako, I wonder what I am missing.

Of course, recent attacks around the city have left something of a desolate air (combined with the fact that apparently many restaurants close for vacation during the July-August months.) But comments from business owners are telling. One restaurant/art gallery parent told me that, although the place is well known, even on the international circuit, they've stopped doing openings. "A hundred or more people would be showing up," she said. "So I had to stop that. Now, it's just people coming and going in small groups. Word gets around from friend to friend. Kind of underground."

Most popular gathering places have made security changes. There are plenty of metal detecting wands and new double door entrances- like the bank. I don't really understand how this helps (I get it in the context of a bank-bank robber, but I don't get it in the context of restaurant-terrorist bomber.) You go in the first door which is shut behind you, leaving you enclosed in a small holding space. The second door is then opened and you enter the restaurant or hotel area. Some establishments have tried to add a bit of humor to lighten the mood (cool graffiti guys or little notes on the walls,) but it's a stark reminder of the reality. A night out could quickly turn from festive to fearful.

A few US Embassy representatives came to school to give us an update on the security situation. It was so fascinating I actually took notes. They were very candid, which was a shocking change from my last post, where all the official information from our school sounded vague and incoherent. Incorrect at times, even.

Not so Bamako. The US Embassy reps were straight up real. They told grisly stories of a policeman being chased and set on fire. They explained the phrase  "Article 320" referring to the cost of a liter of gas (300fcfa) and some matches (20fcfa.) People are frustrated. Things get out of control.

They talked about ways to stay in the loop-social media being a prominent source for on the minute info. Whatsapp- suggested for "happy hour groups, attacks, you know, the important things." The security situation was described here as "a dynamic security environment." Things are liable to change any second. There's really no way to predict it and so the best thing to do is be proactive.

Don't go to places with soft security. One new restaurant was noted as having a beautiful glass entrance way- all windows and doors. The only visible security is a guy with beefy arms and tight pants. Better to stick to places that are "hard security targets" with double doors and armed guards.

One of the guys shared his survival pack with us. Things to have on hand at all times. A "Plan of Peril." He related how some of the people at the recent attack in Kangaba (a place students took a field trip to just a week or so before the incident) ran into the bush to hide. Things that came in handy: one of those portable batteries (almost bought one in Paris, but it felt like an impulse buy- now I know it would have been a safety buy.) Nothing more devastating and potentially life threatening than a low-batt signal when trying to call friends to arrange a swift pick up at an alternate rendezvous site.

Other things like a flashlight (for signaling here-I-am help when out in the middle of nowhere and the choppers are searching for you) and a warm, water proof poncho are sort of obviously helpful but not something we generally carry for a night out on the town. Money, of course, in several places, not all grouped together in one spot. And a small first aid assortment. Not just for you, but for others you might find in the field. Mosquito spray too. You might not really understand how fierce mosquitoes can be until you've had to spend an entire night battling them in some swampy undergrowth.

Their frank discussion about the state of things (Malians getting impatient with the French, frustrated with lack of progress on the terrorist front, terrorist possibilities anywhere, anytime- cannot be predicted and cannot be avoided so just always use common sense and proactive awareness skills) came in the first week of getting-to-know-you teacher back to school. It was not entirely new to me, but I was imagining the shock of my colleague who is experiencing his first trip to Africa.

Honestly, I imagine there was a bit of shock from even some of the hardened Africa lovers in the room- and the not so hardened. The most difficult thing about the terrorist attacks is that there is no "why." You cannot protect yourself by not being_____ because it's the very essence of being you that is under attack. You are not them and that is all that matters. It is random and harsh and it cannot be undone.

I have heard of some teachers who just choose not to go out. Ever. No grocery shopping, no pizza lunches, nothing. Inside, all the time. It's a difficult way to live- enshrouded in fear.  But it's real. The topic has already come up in my performance arts class. One group of students put together a powerful piece they imagined would happen at a park or similar public place. One student was sitting in the middle with a mask and 4 others made a circle around him. Some of them were also wearing African masks. Two other students patrolled the area with gun-like props, holding signs saying, "We're not safe," and "Stop terrorism."

I imagined seeing this in a park, as I was strolling with Mbalia, enjoying a sunny care-free day. Yes, it would stop me. I would consider. I would be affected. Security. It's always an issue in Bamako, even when it's not.