Birthday in Bamako

5 May 2010

Three women on my ride into Bamako stood out from the rest. They spoke with each other in a language I’d never before heard, and wore their hear in a style I’d not yet seen. I recognized this hairstyle to be that of an ethnic group originally from the border between Mauritania and Niger (Aussa). I can think of no better comparison than to say it reminded me of a groomed standard poodle. If I hadn’t been too ashamed to ask, I would’ve taken a photo of the one sitting next to me, who spoke Bambara the best of the three. The language (Aussa) sounded vaguely like that of Mali’s Peuhl/Fulani ethnic group, one which spreads all across West Africa. Muslim nomadic herders, they are the gypsies of the region.

Mamadou wrote a letter in French for our friend Bakary dit Ivo, thanking him for his visit to Kafara and inviting him to my birthday celebration. The letter was written from me, but its author was Mamadou; I only saw a draft. In fact, I received Ivo’s thank-you text last night before even reading the letter I supposedly sent him! Here’s what the text said…Bon soir, Amed. J’ai reçu la lettre. Je suis très content que Dieu nous donné tout ce que ont demandes, santé, longévité, prospérité, succès, beaucoup d’argent, et moins de problème dan les foies. Je te souhait joyeux anniversaire Lucas Mohammed, merci bey bey. Bakary dit Ivo.

I head to the Bureau yesterday afternoon to fill out the volunteer replacement form my supervisor sent me a couple weeks back, and made sure he had not only the hard copy I gave him before I left, but also an electronic copy in his inbox. Yacouba has a way to always catch me with his words, but not in a bad way. Looking over the form, he asked if I was ready to be replaced. I thought so, I said. He said okay, but that he was hoping to hear I was ready to extend, ending his sentence with n’est-ce pas? I could only smile, thinking of nothing to say, kind of like when he caught me before with this whole replacement business. I thought about what he’d said on the entire walk from the Bureau to where I would be meeting my PCV friend Peter to watch a Premier League soccer match (this caused me to get briefly lost!). Yacouba may have changed my mind with the talk of getting replaced, but for right now, I’m fairly certain his suggestion at an extension will not have similar results. On va voir, we’ll see.


7 May 2010

Even now, the next morning, I’m sitting outside Mamadou’s house still trying to come to grips with yesterday, a day which did its best to leave me mentally unstable.
I’d wanted to make my last birthday in Mali a memorable one, but perhaps I should’ve just kept my plans more realistic, translation: cheaper. It’s easier to accept this in terms of venue, because despite my never having been to the Piano Bar, where I’d originally wanted to go, hearing about it’s location and typical clientele was enough to discourage me from pursuing it. But when something as simple as getting a couple shirts tailored didn’t work out, it left me emotionally deflated and submissive to the point I didn’t care anymore about any of it. This was the second time Mamadou and I have asked a friend of his for some bazen fabric, the style Mali is famous for, only for her to bail on us at the last possible moment. Anywhere else, the fabric itself is too expensive for me to buy, let alone get pressed and tailored, leaving me to wonder how so, so many Malians own several complets of it.

(Later…) A simple trip to the African Arts and Artisans market in the heart of Bamako turned into a experience rich with a series of coincidental fateful happenings. I’d only been to the place once before with Mamadou to buy a pair of leather sandals, but we were in and out within ten minutes. This time I wanted to walk about the market first just to see all the cool things that the area is brimming with before finally deciding on something. Turns out Mamadou and I had a perfect guide, his friend and cell phone repair place patron Moussa, the same one I went with to football academy last Saturday at Stade du 26 Mars. Why, one might ask, would Moussa be the perfect guide for a stroll through the artisan market? Turns out before the whole cell phone repairing business began, he would wander about that area selling various items, like toothpaste. Now you’d think he owned the place! I was so busy concentrating on not losing him among the throngs of people as he navigated the chaotic scene seemingly in a trance that I forgot to check out all the cool things I’d come to see! Masks, statues, animal skins drying in the sun, traditional items, and it’s all handmade. In fact, you pass by all these shops/stands/etc. and the artisan himself is most likely found sitting nearby creating more of whatever he’s selling. They’re also quick to put that work down if they notice the slightest hesitation in any potential buyer, and run over to begin marketing their handiwork. My friends and I were caught in this manner with one guy selling wood-carved masks and statues of all shapes and sizes. I’d try to describe what sorts of shapes and sizes those were, but all I remember from his shop is the only article inside he didn’t make: a figurine of the Virgin Mary. As Mamadou and I stood in the doorway, he asked me under his breath in English what I wanted there. Upon my answer, nothing, we pulled Moussa along so he could continue leading us on our truant through the maze. Almost losing Moussa on one of his sharp right-hand turns, I noticed a place in the corner of my eye that might have some interesting stuff, so I called him back before he was not only out of sight but also earshot. The two sellers proceeded to help us pick out a leather bracelet I’d been after for almost a year now, and patiently answered all the questions we had about their other various merchandise (bracelets made out of cow horn, or a necklace bursting with cowry shells, for example). We took a long detour on our way out of the market, and I paused at another place briefly to show Mamadou some crafts I thought to be made from elephant tusk. The artisan ran over to say it was bone, and then in a similar fashion as our previous acquaintances, answered all the questions we had about all his items. Moussa had the funniest inquiry for sure, asking if people would really eat with the fancy utensils he held in his hands pretending to eat ravenously. Mamadou asked specifically about a set of earrings, little pieces of bone carved into elephants, which he eventually bought to gift my mother, given their the source of my Malian last name. Sama is not only the word in Bambara for elephant, but also for a gift, appropriately enough in this case.
It was now time for us to look after the other reason the three of us went together to this area of Bamako: to develop the photos taken last Saturday during my visit to football academy practice. It’s just a short walk from the market, and we arrived just before juma’a seli, so the wait was short. Moussa was very pleased with how the photos turned out, he having taken most of them himself.
We caught a taxi just around the corner from the photo place. The driver got out to buy some dégé, a delicious yogurt drink with little bits of sorghum and sugar inside. Moussa sent Mamadou to buy some too while we waited, as he knew the place had a good reputation. Actually, he knew of the place ever since it started years ago, back during his days selling in the area, when it was just one woman selling the snack herself. Now, there are more than ten people working there, a long line of patrons, and tickets issued indicating how much you intend on purchasing. Quite the enterprise! It’s easy to understand how they were so successful, because the dégé was excellent.
On our way back across Bamako, the prayer call signaling the start of juma’a selicould be heard and soon we were cutting through streets bordered by men, hundreds of men, standing shoulder to shoulder in prayer formation in a most surreal scene, a fitting end to our foray into the arguably most bustling setting Bamako can offer giving way to the serenity and order that can only be found around 13hr00 every Friday.


8 May 2010

After the first of a couple trips to the cyber café, my phone rang with the caller id scrolling a couple handfuls of numbers from an unknown location, almost certainly another country, but not the one I’d expect calls from on my birthday, you know, the one I’m from. There was so much noise sitting outside Mamadou’s cell phone repair place, and perhaps due to the caller’s long distance connection, I could barely make out his voice. Then in complete disbelief I realized it was my friend Peter, who recently moved to Hong Kong. We hadn’t heard each other’s voice for close to two years, although we’d be keeping in contact through email and each other’s blogs, living vicariously through our similar experiences in such different places. That half an hour chat flew by, but was a most welcome surprise, definitely setting a good tone for the day.

I made a surprise call of my own to Kadia, remembering how last year she declared my birthday across town, resulting in a steady flow of her friends arriving throughout the celebration. We hadn’t talked since I visited her with my mom last December, but did our best to act as though we still kept up with how things were going, her asking me about my host family in Kafara and my confirming she was doing alright in Kalaban Koura. The call left me feeling admittedly depressed, wishing I could somehow relive the past and change its course.

Perhaps the best surprise of all was the arrival of Mamadou’s friend Kara from Sabalibougou, a far western quartier of Bamako, as we waited at Mamadou’s place for Maman. His coming on my birthday was a complete coincidence (or was it?), as I’d not mentioned the day’s significance to him. He sarcastically rejected my invitation to join us for dinner, using joking cousin-filled teasing to his defense. Maman came with gifts, a tailored shirt and a beaded necklace complete with a camel bone carved into a sharp point. During my phone conversation with my dad, Ivo arrived to complete our dinner party, and soon we split off on our way to l’Amandine. Kara, Maman, and I took a cab, reserving a table before Mamadou and Ivo arrived on Kara’s moto. I imagine we were quite the head-scratching site to the other patrons, me the white person with a group of Malians, carrying on and having a grand old time in Bambara. Maman picked out her own meal this time, without my help, a beef schwarma sandwich, while Mamadou, Ivo, and Kara each had the pavé cut of steak in a mushroom gravy. Neither Mamadou or I knew what the pavé cut of steak was, besides thick, but both decided if the word chef was involved, it must be the best. Our blind logic proved to hold true after a taste test. Myself, I settled on two skewers of Indian spiced beef kabobs. Afterwards, I took Maman inside to pick out a couple slices of cake to bring back to her aunt and younger sister. Imagine, not only buying cake on my birthday (in Mali), but doing so with someone who’d never done such a thing! Luckily, pictures had been taken at Mamadou’s place before we left, because both of us forgot about bringing the camera to dinner. Also, I’d been on a torrid search for orange juice the entire day, strangely enough, and was flabbergasted upon arriving at l’Amandine to learn somehow they hadn’t any that night. Alas, I settled for a Sprite.